The Shallow Bay

fic: don't you (run run run) [unb]

2018-12-24T22:51:00Z

Title: Don't You (Run Run Run)
Fandom: UNB
Pairing: Feeldog/Everyone, Feeldog/Euijin
Rating: Explicit
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 8036
Summary: The expectations that come from being the leader of eight others is a lot, even if most of those expectations are his own. Luckily, Gwangsuk has Euijin to pull the boys into order and remind him that he's more than enough for them.
Author's Note: This started as a late night “Hey twitter, what if I did this thing?” to which someone on my feed said “Ha ha, do it you coward, you won’t”. They a 100% knew that that would be the way to make me say “HOLD MY BEER”. I should have been working on one of my many WIPs, but I’m not one to turn down a challenge and a NSFW twister game seemed like a fun idea at the time.

There’s a few other minor ships you can probably read into, as well, Kijoong is lovingly tucked into bed and ignorant of everything, because sweet giggly baby doesn’t need to be dragged into this mess. As well anyone who knows me knows that I am always an advocate for vocally consenting poly relationships, and not kicking women to the curb, so Bora is mentioned. You bet your butt Euijin and her are messaging and planned this whole thing.

Title is taken from Day6's Marathon, because I am a weak ass bitch for their new comeback.

It’s Euijin who starts it. That in itself is the least surprising fact of the whole thing. He’s always been the most confidant out of them all, is always the first one to reach out and wrap himself around the other members.

So when he comes out of his dorm room and flops down on the couch beside Gwangsuk, he thinks nothing of it. It’s late, so he assumes that Euijin can’t sleep and is worried over something. It’s almost a nightly occurrence, one of the members coming to find him. He let’s them confide in him, listens to their worries, and then soothes them over as best he can. He’s their leader, for however long they have, and he’s going to look out for them all while they’re together.

“Hey,” he greets, attempting to finish his train of thought in his notebook. Euijin doesn’t respond and when Gwangsuk finally looks over at him, he’s being watched carefully. He can’t read the expression on Euijin’s face, and it sets something nervous fluttering in his chest. “What’s up? You good?”

“I’m alright.” Euijin smiles wryly, reaching out to tap him on the shoulder. “But you’re not.”

He takes the notebook and pen out of Gwangsuk’s hands, leaning over to set them carefully on the table. Gwangsuk’s fingers itch to reach for them, because there’s still so much that he has to do. Instead, he tempers the urge by clenching his fingers in the hem of his shirt and turns a bright smile to Euijin. “What are you talking about? I’m fine.”

“Fine, I’ll go first,” Euijin frowns. He twists in his seat, pulling away from Gwangsuk and bringing his legs up from the floor so that he’s facing him fully on the couch. It’s at odds with what he knows about Euijin, the distance he’s putting between them and the frown on his face. He’s always the first to initiate skinship, and he’s usually smiling, even when he’s tired or stuck on a particularly frustrating piece of choreography. “I’m worried, because one of our members stays up long past everyone else, just to make sure everything is set for the next day. He stays up, just in case someone needs him, instead of getting the sleep he needs.”

“The bags under your eyes are growing and soon you’re not going to be able to hide them with makeup. You need to sleep, Gwangsuk.” His voice offers no room for argument, and Gwangsuk has to look away from him. Euijin’s hand snaps out, grabbing him by the chin and forces him to look back at him.

“There’s so much, Euijin, and we’re only getting a few months.” The words slip out bitterly, and he cringes at how desperate they sound.

“You can’t keep looking out for all of us, and not yourself. It’s not what we want. You’re running on fumes. You know how unhappy this would make Bora noona,” Euijin soothes, dropping his hand to Gwangsuk’s shoulder and pulling him in. He goes willingly, because Euijin isn’t wrong, he is exhausted. “Looking out for eight of us is a lot more work than just looking out for four.”

“I’m not the only one who’s noticed.” He continues, running his hand through Gwangsuk’s hair. A door creaks open, and he can hear the soft sound of footsteps, but Euijin just pulls him in closer and drags his nails across his scalp. He tenses in his hold, not wanting anyone else to see him like this. “Is Kijoong asleep?”

“Yeah, he’s asleep.” The couch sinks behind him and Gwangsuk doesn’t need to look to recognizes the voice as Jun’s. Another hand settles between his shoulders and he wants nothing more than to get up and escape to his room. Euijin’s grip on him tightens, as if he knows exactly what Gwangsuk was going to try.

“Hyung,” Jun lays himself across his back, hands slipping around his waist. Euijin shifts under him, leaning back and pulling the two boys with him. They’re a tangle of limbs, but there’s a sense of comfort that comes from being completely wrapped up in someone else, and instead of fighting them, Gwangsuk let’s them both pull him in.

One of Jun’s hands slips under the hem of his shirt, fingers spreading across his stomach, while Euijin noses into the side of his neck. Gwangsuk shudders, fingers clenching in Euijin’s shirt at the contact. It’s Euijin that speaks first, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “Will you let us take care of you?”

It’s not an odd request, despite the word choice. Gwangsuk knows what Euijin is asking of him, because between the nine of them, there’s always someone who’s a few steps from breaking. He knows why it was Euijin who asked, with his unfaltering voice and firm hands. So he nods and says, “Okay.”

He can feel the smile spreading across Euijin’s face and the soft laugh that reverberates through Jun’s chest.

It’s something they talked about earlier, everyone’s limits and how the others could help. It had been similar to the conversation he’d had with Bora, back when they’d outlined their relationship.

Euijin had been the one to break the awkwardness, saying how when he was stressed, he found comfort in being close to others. Touch settled him, a statement that he’d made with a gentle shrug. That had opened the floodgates, and all the members had admitted to the things that calmed them down.

Later, when most everyone had gone to bed, Gwangsuk had stayed out on the couch, Euijin’s head in his lap as they both scrolled through their phones. Gwangsuk was the one to break the silence then, dropping his phone off to the side and looking down at Euijin. “Hyung, what kind of touch were you talking about?”

“This is good,” Euijin hummed, attention still on his phone. After a few moments, he’d stopped, laying his phone on his chest, eyebrows drawing down. “Just doing this helps, but… you and Seyong, right? I don’t know how your relationship worked, but I like being that close to others.”

Euijin knowing how close Seyong and him had been during the filming for The Unit, the lazy handjobs after a day of practicing and messy blowjobs behind bathroom doors, it made everything click. With a nod, Gwangsuk had combed his fingers through Euijin’s hair, smiling. “That’s cool. If you want, I can do that for you. I’m the same way, for touch, I mean.”

“Wouldn’t Bora noona mind?”

“Nah, she’s fine with it. As long as we talk, we’re both allowed to do our own thing.” It was easy to say, in the stillness of the room, when it was just the two of them. “You don’t have to say yes, but the offer’s there if you want it.”

Euijin didn’t say anything else, just pushed himself up and kissed Gwangsuk.

It was how it all started. With the other members catching them kissing around the dorms. The curious looks from Jun and Hansol, the loud “Hey” from Marco before he moved into their space, and Daewon cocking his head silently. So they talked, all of them. Opening up to each other and not minding the idea of being touchy in the privacy of their dorm.

It was comfortable, for whatever reason. Which makes it easier for Gwangsuk to follow Euijin’s lead here.

“Do you think they’ve finished?” Jun asks as he pushes himself up from the couch and grabs at Gwangsuk’s arm to drag him into his side. On his feet, Gwangsuk can see the look of relief on Euijin’s face, the way he’s back to smiling. He hauls himself up, hands immediately coming up to cup Gwangsuk’s face. “I’m glad you said yes,” he says, right before they’re kissing.

It’s soft, and chaste, in comparison to the way he normally licks into his mouth, and it’s over far too soon for Gwangsuk’s liking. Euijin pulls away to take both Jun’s and his hand. He stands up on his toes, and Jun gives in quickly, leaning down to let himself be kissed as well. It’s a sight that Gwangsuk will never get sick of, his members being affectionate and kind towards one another.

“Yeah, Daewon was looking after it.” Euijin finally answers Jun’s question and it seems to be enough for both of them, as they lead Gwangsuk through the dorm. He follows them, quickly fitting together everything.

“How many of the members did you get involved in this?” He asks, digging in his heels, because he’d like an answer before they end up wherever the two are leading him. They both turn to look at him, matching expressions of amusement.

It’s Jun that answers him. “Everyone. Everyone’s been worried about you. You took on a lot of responsibility and we had a team meeting about it. Kijoong’s the only one asleep right now.”

He can hear shuffling from inside the room they’ve stopped beside as he tries to work out when they had the time for an team meeting without him. The door flies open, and he belatedly realizes that it’s his room they’ve stopped in front of. Marco sticks his head out of the doorway and blinks at the three of them standing awkwardly in the middle of the hall. “Took you guys long enough, come on.”

Euijin pushes him towards the door, and he immediately notices that the members have moved everything in the room up against the wall and that the floor is covered in blankets. Daewon is laying spread out across them, Hojung and Chan pressed into his sides and scrolling through their phones. Jun pushes his way into the room and flops down beside Hansol, who has himself propped up on a pile of pillows.

Marco rolls his eyes at Gwangsuk’s hesitancy, because while they’ve done this for the members, they’ve never done it for him. They pause, and Gwangsuk turns to look at Euijin who’s watching him, silently asking if this is alright. He gives a jerky nod of his head, unable to push the words out. At his nod, Euijin takes his hand and leads him into the middle of the room, before pressing him down into the nest of blankets they’ve made.

As soon as he’s sitting, Euijin slips into his lap, hands carding through his hair as he leans in to kiss the curve of his jaw. The door creaks shut, and Marco sits down behind them, fingers settling on the curve of his hip. It’s a lot, having their attention on him, especially when Gwangsuk is so used to being the one focused on them.

Over Euijin’s shoulder, Gwangsuk can see Daewon watching them as the two boys on him tuck their phones away, before they’re getting up and shuffling over to join them. With a small noise, Gwangsuk hides his face in Euijin’s shoulder, hands settling on his hips and tightening. He’s used to them watching him while he’s dancing, but somehow he’d missed them watching him, cataloguing just how tired he was, how worn thin he was. This though, there’s no missing it. Not when Marco’s hands slip under the hem of his shirt, and lay hot and heavy on his stomach.

“We’re gonna take good care of you, hyung.” Chan says, soft and sweet. Gwangsuk refuses to look up, despite how he can feel Euijin shaking with laughter. He can’t do it, not when they’re all so close. Another hand slips in under his shirt, beside Marco’s, fingers dipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. At the same time, Euijin rocks down gently in his lap, hands tugging at his hair and tilting his head back so that Gwangsuk is gasping into the air.

“We’ll take care of you, but it’s not entirely for unselfish reasons.” Eujin sighs as he rolls his hips again, and this time Gwangsuk can see Jun pressed up along Hansol’s back, who is currently the one sliding his hand into his sweats.

They’re all close, touching him or each other. The anxiety that’s been sitting under the surface eases at that knowledge. The anxiety that they may only get seven months together, and even in that time, they’ll still be promoting their own projects. He wants everything for them, the success and an extension of their contracts so they get more time, but he suspects that the chances of that happening are slim. Seven months, it’s not a lot of time, but at least they have this.

Someone laughs and he thinks that it’s Hojung, but he can’t be sure. It breaks the hesitancy, the tense atmosphere, because Marco is immediately laughing as well as he presses his lips into the line of Gwangsuk’s shoulder. Hansol is crawling even closer to slide his hands further into Gwangsuk’s pants, until he’s finally wrapping his fingers around his cock.

Gwangsuk moans and Euijin finally climbs out of his lap, pulling off Gwangsuk’s shirt as he stands. Daewon takes Euijin’s place in his lap, hands settling overtop of Marco’s. He leans in, kissing Gwangsuk and swallowing the gasp that escapes him as Hansol moves his hand. The hand around his cock drags up the length, before Hansol swipes his thumb over the tip and drags it back down. It’s rough, with no lube to slick the way, and Gwangsuk whines into Daewon’s mouth, hands scrabbling at the other boys shirt.

“Here,” Chan breaks in. Daewon pulls away with a smile, before leaning over to kiss Chan on the cheek, Chan who has slid in beside them and was passing a bottle of lube over to Hansol. Hojung is tight beside him, shuffling awkwardly on his knees, before Marco is grabbing at the collar of his shirt to tug him into their space. Gwangsuk lets go of Daewon to catch him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into the curve of Hojung’s jaw. Daewon wraps his arms around Hojung’s waist, fingers dipping under the hem of his shirt.

“We’re the ones supposed to be looking after you,” Marco laughs and nips at the curve of his ear. Gwangsuk yelps and tries to squirm away from Marco, but Hojung is smiling, so he doesn’t try very hard. It’s warm, with Marco pressed along his back, and Hojung and Daewon at his front.

Hojung laughs, leaning forward to kiss Gwangsuk gently. He reaches up to cup his face and Gwangsuk feels Marco pull away. There’s no time to question it though, because Hojung shudders against him while pulling back to gasp. Daewon’s worked one hand into Hojung’s pants and is jerking him off slowly.

“Oh fuck,” Gwangsuk whispers, focused fully on the way Hojung throws his head back against Daewon’s shoulder as the other boy holds him against him with an arm around his waist. There’s something viscerally satisfying about watching his members being taken care of and he knows that them knowing this particular fact is Euijin’s doing.

“Daewon please,” Hojung groans, rocking forward into Daewon’s hand. Daewon smiles, before sliding off of Gwangsuk’s lap and dragging Hojung in tighter. Chan crawls his way over to them, hands finding their way onto Hojung’s hips, before drawing his pants down. Daewon curls his free hand into Chan’s hair, and Hojung keens loudly as Chan drops down to suck his cock into his mouth. Marco steps out from behind Gwangsuk, dropping down behind Daewon and pushing his hands up and under his shirt.

Hansol is quiet at Gwangsuk’s side, eyes on the other four, fingers twitching against the waistband of his sweats. Jun is smiling from where he’s resting along Hansol’s back, leaning over to press a kiss against Gwangsuk’s neck to pull his attention back to them. As soon as he’s looking at him, Jun’s eyes flick down to Hansol and Gwangsuk grins in immediate understanding.

Pulling Hansol’s hand away from his pants, Gwangsuk twines their fingers together and pushes him back into Jun. “My turn,” he mutters against his mouth, before swallowing the noise Hansol makes as he presses the heel of his palm against the front of his pants.

Jun reaches forward and pulls Hansol’s pants over his hips, giving Gwangsuk enough space to get his hand around his cock. He can feel Jun’s hand join his own as Hansol shakes apart between the two of them. He whines loudly, thrashing his head to the side and gasping for breath, the one hand not being held clutching tightly on Gwangsuk’s shoulder.

Gwangsuk sits back on his heels, looking down to see the way Jun’s hand works up the length of Hansol’s cock, thumb curving over the tip and collecting the pre-come gathered there, before sliding back down. Hansol buries his face into the curve of Jun’s neck, small little gasps leaving him and joining the moans Hojung is making from off to the side.

Looking around the room, Gwangsuk finally catches sight of Euijin curled up on the bed and watching everyone with a fond expression on his face. He winks, and he watches as Euijin’s smile grows. Working his hand free of Hansol’s, he picks up the lube that had been dropped somewhere along the way, flips open the cap and soaks his fingers. Euijin’s watching them closely, but he doesn’t look like he’s ready to come down and join them yet, so Gwangsuk focuses back on Jun and Hansol.

He likes being able to take care of others, and while that normally includes a lot more responsibility and stress, this right here is nothing but easy. They’ve all talked, they all have an understanding of each other, and Gwangsuk thrives in the trust they all have in each other.

Leaning back forward, he drops the bottle of lube and wraps his slicked hand around Hansol’s cock, fingers threading around Jun’s. It’s messy, the chill of the lube has Hansol whining and shuddering in Jun’s lap, and he can’t stop himself from thrusting up into their grip. Gwangsuk nips gently at the line of his jaw, eyes flicking over to the other four and taking in the sight of Hojung scrabbling at Chan’s shoulders as he comes with a ragged moan.

From this angle, Gwangsuk can’t see Marco, but from the way Daewon is hiding his face in Hojung’s shoulder and is shifting, he can guess that he’s worked a hand between the two boys. Chan sits up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, before kissing Hojung. Hojung shifts, dazed, between them for a moment, but soon kisses Chan back, hands wrapping around the back of his neck.

Hansol fucks up into their hands, the noises leaving his mouth increasing in volume and Jun emits a small whine that pulls Gwangsuk’s attention back to them. Hansol twists in Jun’s lap and Jun’s eyes squeeze shut as he grits his teeth. It all makes Gwangsuk aware of just how achingly hard he is. He shifts on his knees, adjusting himself, before taking his hand off of Hansol’s cock.

Moving closer into Hansol and Jun’s space, he pushes Hansol out of Jun’s lap and to the side, ignoring the boys noise of surprise. He’s quick to wrap his hand back around Hansol, who falls back against the floor and arches his back, his hand wrapping tightly around Gwangsuk’s wrist. With his free hand, he drags down Jun’s sweats, and drops down to mouth at his cock.

Both of Jun’s hands end up in his hair, a strangled noise leaving him as Gwangsuk mouths at the head of his cock, making sure to keep his hand moving over Hansol’s. He twists his wrist as he bobs his head, swallowing Jun down with ease. As soon as he finally works himself down enough to feel Jun at the back of his throat, he pauses, giving himself time to adjust. His free hand digs into the line of Jun’s trembling hips, pressing them down against the floor to keep him from bucking up.

His eyes water, but it’s not long before he’s letting up on the pressure on Jun’s hip and swallowing around him. Jun groans loudly, hips gently bumping up and Gwangsuk takes it. He catches Jun’s gaze and gives a subtle nod, before closing them to focus on the weight of Jun in his mouth and Hansol in his hand.

With a small moment of hesitation, Jun rocks his hips upward and Gwangsuk makes a pleased noise as he slides in deeper. He holds himself still, and Jun finally takes the invitation for what it is and thrusts gently into his mouth. All the while, he keeps his hand moving over Hansol’s cock, dragging his thumb over the head on every up stroke. He knows that Hansol is close, can feel it in the way he thrusts shakily upwards into his hand.

The only warning that he gets before Hansol’s nails are biting into the skin of his arm and he’s coming hot over his hand, is a choked off moan. Gwangsuk works him through it, eyes screwed shut as he focuses on swallowing around Jun and dragging his fingers up Hansol’s cock until the other boy is pulling at his hand for him to stop.

Sinking down as far as he can on Jun’s cock, Gwangsuk cracks an eye open to glance at Hansol, watching the way his chest is rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath, still clutching at Gwangsuk’s wrist. He hums around the cock in his mouth, dragging a moan from Jun’s throat and causing him to jerk forcefully enough to jostle Gwangsuk.

Hansol rolls onto his side, dropping Gwangsuk’s hand in favour of smoothing one of his hand over the back of Gwangsuk’s neck and the other through Jun’s hair. He presses himself in close, biting at the lobe of Jun’s ear. “You’re being so good for your hyungs, Jun. Can you come for us baby?”

It’s all it takes for Jun to give one last erratic thrust upwards, before he’s shuddering underneath Gwangsuk. He can hear Hansol crooning in Jun’s ear, as he swallows and pulls off of Jun’s cock with a vague grimace, before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of Jun’s knee and pulling his pants back up.

Hansol smiles over at him, before nudging Jun off to the side. They’re given enough time to settle amongst the pillows, before Hojung crawls his way over the floor and falls across the both of them with a groan. Hansol pulls at Hojung and ushers him back into his clothes, before the three settle in comfortably.

“Hyung,” Chan’s voice says softly, drawing Gwangsuk’s attention to him. With Hojung out of their midst, the three of them have adjusted themselves. Daewon has turned around and is stradling Marco’s lap, hands worked into his hair as they kiss and Chan sits by their side, with his head cocked gently. “Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” Gwangsuk’s responds, his voice sounding wrecked and fucked out. He makes his way over to them and Chan drags him in by the back of his neck. His fingers move down, before shaping themselves over the tattoo on his shoulder. From here, he can now see the way Marco has his hand wrapped around Daewon’s cock and how the other boy is grinding down into Marco’s lap.

“Together?” Chan asks, head cocked as he watches the two boys beside them.

“Yeah,” Gwangsuk says again, kissing Chan’s cheek, before stumbling up to his feet. That catches Marco’s attention, but the other boy doesn’t stop moving his hand over the length of Daewon’s cock, just smiles up questioningly at him. He shrugs, before moving to settle in at their other side, across from Chan.

Chan reaches in between the boys and pushes Marco’s hand away, earning a small whine from Daewon. Gwangsuk holds onto Daewon’s waist and slides him back enough that Chan has enough room to slid his hand under the waistband of Marco’s pants. He pushes them down the curve of his hips, before working his cock out from his briefs. As soon as he’s free and shivering under Chan’s touch, Gwangsuk settles Daewon back firmly in his lap.

The two of them wrap their hands around the boys cocks, pressing them together and watching the way both of them jerk at the contact. Daewon’s beyond words, fingers digging into Marco’s neck as the other boy swears loudly into the room. “Fuck.”

Daewon shudders in Marco’s lap, panting loudly against his neck. It’s not hard for them to see that he’s already close.

For how odd it is to get a steady rhythm going at first, Gwangsuk and Chan both find an even pace after a few messy moments. Chan’s hand follows Gwangsuk’s on the upstroke, and Gwangsuk’s follows Chan’s as they slide back down. On each upstroke, Gwangsuk twists his wrist, thumbing over the heads of the boys cocks, before chasing Chan’s hand back down them.

Daewon spills over their hands after only a few more strokes, thighs tensing around Marco and tiny mewls of noise escaping him. The noises turn into whines as Gwangsuk and Chan continue to move their hands over the boys dicks. Marco bucks up into the touch, jostling Daewon in his lap, who just shudders and claws at his shoulders from oversensitivity.

“Please, please please,” Daewon begs and that’s all it takes for Marco to come on a groan.

Daewon is quick to drop his grasp from Marco’s shoulders and push at their hands, a breathless litany of “too much, too much” leaving his lips. As soon as they let go, Daewon stumbles out of Marco’s lap, ignoring the come sticking to his thighs and stomach, in favour of pushing himself against Chan.

He pushes Chan down onto his back quickly and slides his pants and briefs down, until his cock springs free. Not giving him time to adjust, Daewon sinks down, licking at the head of his cock, before mouthing his way down the underside. Chan’s breath hitches, hands reaching out abortively, before he slaps them down against the floor and twists them into the blankets instead.

Marco pulls Gwangsuk back against him, hand palming at him through two layers of material, as he hooks his chin over his shoulder to watch the way Daewon works his way back up Chan’s cock, before swallowing him down. Gwangsuk grits his teeth, hips rolling up to press himself into Marco’s hand. It’s not enough, not with how tightly he’s wound, but he’s also not ready to come yet.

A strangled gasp escapes Chan, as he sits up, body curling over Daewon’s as the other boy sinks down as far as he can and gives a hum of noise. This time, Chan does let his hands reach out and slide into Daewon’s hair, his thighs shaking where Daewon is pinning them to the ground with his hands.

Daewon looks up through his lashes, and smiles around the cock in his mouth, before his eyes flutter closed. He presses his nose into the line of Chan’s hip, and Gwangsuk can see the way his throat is working as he swallows. Chan tugs at Daewon’s hair, urging him up and whines when he pops off, but not before giving one particularly hard suck.

“Not so deep, not so deep,” Chan gasps, fingers curling under the curve of Daewon’s jaw. “Just because tomorrow’s an off day, doesn’t mean you get to wreck your voice.”

It’s something that Gwangsuk should have called him on, not Chan, he notes before Marco is pressing the palm of his hand down harder and tearing the thought from his head. “Not your responsibility tonight.”

Daewon flushes under all the attention, before nodding his head gently in Chan’s hands. Chan’s thumbs smooth over the curve of his ears as he moves his hands back into his hair and Daewon goes back to mouthing at the head of his cock.

“You’re not doing this alone,” Marco continues, hand still pressing on and off of Gwangsuk’s dick. His free hand taps out a gentle rhythm on Gwangsuk’s thigh, keeping him centered. “You may be our leader, but we’re a team. We’re meant to help you when you need it, to look out for each other. You’re not alone in this.”

Another moan drags out of Chan’s mouth as Daewon wraps his hand around the base of his cock and sinks down to meet the curl of his fingers. Chan huffs, falling back and shuddering as Daewon moves back up his cock, before going back down. He finds a steady pace, breaking it every so often to slide his hand all the way up and smooth his thumb over the crown of his dick, right before swallowing him back down with a pleased noise.

“Fuck, okay,” Gwangsuk nods, eyes trained on the other two. He understands what Marco is saying, understands this whole thing for what it actually is. It’s a balance of give and take. It’s not one person giving and giving, shouldering everything. It’s all of them together.

Marco snorts, but the sound is lost under the noise Daewon pulls from Chan. It puts an end to whatever either of them might say next, because they can both see that Chan is close by the way he’s squirming under Daewon and tugging at his hair. His ability to form coherent sentences exchanged for a litany of “please”s.

Daewon isn’t one to tease, instead he closes his eyes and gives one kittenish lick to the head of Chan’s dick, before he sinks down with pleased noise, and hollows his cheeks.

Chan arches his back, thighs tensing up and around Daewon’s shoulders as he comes. It’s soundless, but the way his body curves is unmistakable. Daewon whines as the hands in his hair pull, but stays down, swallowing around Chan’s cock. It isn’t until Chan is letting go and pushing at him desperately, that he lets off. His chin is smeared with saliva and come, but he just smiles at Chan with fondness. “Too much?”

“Too much,” Chan agrees, body twitching as he tries to catch his breath.

Gwangsuk hisses as Marco continues to move his hand, recognizing that his pants are going to be a mess of pre-come at this point. It’s hard to focus, when all he wants to do is come. But Marco doesn’t let him, only pulls his hand away, before pushing at him so that he can get up and help Chan back into his clothes.

Gwangsuk finds himself staring over at Euijin, fingers itching to reach into his pants and jerk himself off fast and quick. Euijin smiles though, and he isn’t given a chance.

“C’mere,” Euijin finally gets off the bed and gathers Gwangsuk up into his arms. “I’ve got you.”

Someone runs a hand through his hair as they pass, but he’s past the point of keeping track of where everyone is. It’s easier to focus on the way Euijin has wrapped himself around him and is pressing soft kisses against his temple. He smooths a hand down Gwangsuk’s back, before hooking his hands under his thighs to shift him up into his lap.

Once he’s settled, Euijin sets his hands on his hips and guides Gwangsuk into rocking down as he lifts his thigh up. The contact has him hissing and pressing down harder against the thigh between his legs. “Oh fuck.”

“What do you want?” There’s a lot being offered in Euijin’s question: Do you want to get off on my thigh, or with my hand? Do you want me to blow you? Do you want me to fuck you, or do you want to fuck me? The possibilities that Euijin is offering makes Gwangsuk’s hips buck. His fingers dig into Euijin’s shoulders, holding himself steady as he rides his thigh. Despite the contact, it’s easier to think now that there’s only one set of hands on him and he has a bit of control.

“Mmm,” he leans back in Euijin’s lap, and meets his gaze. He continues to roll his hips, the hands on his waist guiding him through a languid pace. It’s not enough to get off from, but it’s enough to keep the edge there. He makes a show of biting his bottom lip and fluttering his eyelashes. “I really wanna see you come on my cock.”

“Yeah, baby, whatever you want.” Euijin grins, knowing exactly what Gwangsuk is doing. With that in mind, Gwangsuk arches his back and groans low in his throat. He hears a flurry of noise, but he keeps his attention on Euijin’s face, on the way his eyes crinkle in amusement. There’s a moment where everyone in the room seems to collectively catch their breath as Gwangsuk throws his head back and lets out a drawn out moan, as he ruts against Euijin’s thigh.

“Fuck,” he hears Marco mutter, and Daewon makes a noise of agreement. At the sound, Gwangsuk looks back at Euijin and gives him a wink, smirk on his face. Euijin starts laughing, and that’s all it takes for Gwangsuk’s loud laughter to fill the room. He rocks forward, forehead against Euijin’s shoulder and trembles with amusement.

“Are you done messing with them?” Euijin asks when he’s finally stopped shaking with laughter.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m done,” Gwangsuk huffs into his shoulder. It’s relaxed, the way Euijin bumps their cheeks together, before kissing him. It doesn’t last though, because soon Euijin is pushing him off of his lap roughly. He lays sprawled out for a minute, before he pushes himself up onto his elbows and watches as Euijin strips off his shirt.

“Where’d the lube end up?” Euijin isn’t asking anyone in particular as he stands up and unbuttoned his jeans.

“Here hyung,” Daewon answers, digging out the bottle from underneath Marco. Chan grunts as he’s jostled in Daewon’s lap, before he gets up and stumbles over to curl up against Jun’s side, who is seemingly on the edge of sleep. Euijin chuckles as he watches Chan go, before he’s going to take the bottle from Daewon’s hand. It’s hard for Gwangsuk to focus on anything but the way his jeans are riding low on his hips as he moves.

“Do you want me to, or do you want to?” Euijin turns back to face him, sliding his fingers along the waist of his jeans until they start to slip down his thighs. Gwangsuk crooks his finger in response, eyes on the line of Euijin’s cock through his briefs. He kicks his pants off the rest of the way, before he’s walking back over and dropping into Gwangsuk’s lap once again.

The bottle of lube slips from his fingers as he reaches up to cup his hands on Gwangsuk’s jaw, and this time when he kisses him it’s not the chaste kiss from earlier. Euijin bites at his bottom lip, rocking down into his lap and licking into his mouth when he gasps. He’s nothing but focus as he kisses Gwangsuk, hands falling from his jaw to settle onto his shoulders, nails digging in as he continues to grind down into his lap.

He kisses Euijin until Euijin is pliant, wet-mouthed and gasping, and then pulls back. He keeps his hands cupping Euijin's head, one on either side, loving the way he can trace Euijin's lips with his thumbs and have Euijin wrap his lips around them.

“Fuck,” Gwangsuk pulls back with a grunt, arm wrapped tight around Euijin’s waist and guiding him to keep moving. There’s always been a fluidity to the way that Euijin dances, and it translates to the way he moves here as well. He rolls his hips down, arching his back in time, and letting out a breathless moan. Gwangsuk is reminded, not for the first time, that Euijin is strikingly beautiful.

Euijin catches him staring, and leans in, breath hot on the underside of Gwangsuk’s jaw. He gently nips at the line of it, and Gwangsuk tilts his head to give him the room he’s silently demanding. “What do you want?” Euijin asks lowly, before he licks a line down the side of his neck and bites into his shoulder.

“Hyung,” it’s all the warning Gwangsuk gives him, before he’s rolling them to the side so that he’s hovering over Euijin. He taps his fingers against Euijin’s hip bone, considering. Euijin doesn’t say anything, just watches him with his pupils blown wide and waits.

After a moment, Gwangsuk looks over at the small pile of guys that have settled near the pillows, catching sight of Jun blinking over at them tiredly. “Can you pass me a pillow Jun?”

Jun huffs in response, but reaches over Hansol to grab at the corner of one of the pillows, before tossing it over their way. Gwangsuk taps at Euijin’s hips again, nudging the pillow into his side at the same time. It’s enough for Euijin to lift his hips up so that he can slide the pillow under his lower back.

As soon as he’s settled, Gwangsuk slides his fingers under the hem of Euijin’s briefs and pulls them down his legs, pressing a kiss into the inside of his thigh as he does so. The flushed length of Euijin’s cock is tempting, but Gwangsuk has a different idea for now. Hooking his arms under Euijin’s legs, he throws them over his shoulder.

Euijin’s hands slid their way into his hair, tugging gently as he sucks a mark into the soft skin of his thigh. He bites at the mark, before laving his tongue over it, and watching the way Euijin’s cock twitches at the touch. His hips twist with impatience, and Gwangsuk smiles, before lifting him up just a bit higher and pressing in. He doesn’t give Euijin time to realize what he’s about to do, before he’s licking into him.

The first flick of his tongue has Euijin whining high in his throat, a full body shudder running through him. His legs jerk, and he almost kicks him in the head as he whines high and loud. His response has Gwangsuk licking firmer, deeper, fingers spreading his cheeks so that he can press in.

It’s a mess, with spit everywhere, but Gwangsuk doesn’t mind, not when Euijin tastes like salt, heat and musk, and is making noises that shoots right down Gwangsuk’s spine. It doesn’t take long for Euijin’s moans and gasps to turn into half-sobs as he squirms in Gwangsuk’s grip. After a few minutes of working him open with his tongue, he adds a finger alongside it, working it in up to the knuckle, and drawing a sound so loud from him that Gwangsuk wouldn’t be surprised if it had woken the others who had fallen asleep.

One of Euijin’s hands slips out of his hair, and reaches down to touch himself, but Gwangsuk pauses long enough to smack his hand away. Instead of protesting, Euijin let his hand fall away to clutch at the blanket desperately as he shudders, tiny mewls of noise leaving his mouth.

Slipping his finger free, Gwangsuk pulls back long enough to fumble for the bottle of lube and for Euijin to dig his heels into his back. “Fuck, please,” Euijin gasps, desperately twisting and trying to get something. He doesn’t try to touch himself though, Gwangsuk notes as he flicks the cap of the lube bottle open. At the sound, Euijin’s legs fall open, a plea to match the words slipping from his mouth.

“I’ve got you,” Gwangsuk murmurs as he slicks his fingers up.

“Hyung, this was supposed to be about you,” Chan notes, voice just louder than Euijin’s. Gwangsuk perks up, leaning up enough to peak over the curve of Euijin’s thigh to throw a cocky grin at him.

“This is,” Gwangsuk smiles, because he loves this part. Euijin had been right, that he’d been so focused on their schedule, on making sure everyone was good that he’d lost track of himself, but this, focusing on his team in a different way, it helped. “I enjoy this part,” he confirms as he sinks two fingers into Euijin.

Euijin’s hips buck and the hand still in his hair clenches hard enough for Gwangsuk to wince, but he doesn’t stop. He twists his fingers and Euijin says his name on a breathy moan. And then again, and again, and again. Euijin’s thighs clench around Gwangsuk, feet digging into his back and bearing down onto Gwangsuk’s fingers as much as he could. He takes a third finger easily, legs spasming when Gwangsuk crooks his fingers.

“Gwangsuk,” Euijin quavers beneath him with a bitten-back mewl. Gwangsuk does it again, applying more pressure, and Euijin makes a broken sound.

He twists his fingers again, satisfied in the way Euijin arches his hips, trying to drive them deeper, but not managing to. It’s a sight, seeing Euijin flushed so prettily, cock leaking across his stomach and his needy noises filling the room. Crooking his fingers, he focuses on the way Euijin throws his head back and bites his lip, a whine rising from his chest. It makes Gwangsuk grin in satisfaction, because he knows that Euijin is trying not to beg, is trying to keep in all the needy “pleases” and grunted “hurry up”s.

On those days when Euijin was close to breaking, and was wound too tight, the easiest way to bring him back down was to push him to the edge. Gwangsuk had spent hours working Euijin over, fingering him until he was an incoherent mess and was sobbing into the sheets of the bed. Begging had become an integral part of that, had become something that he knew Gwangsuk wouldn’t listen to. Begging just made him dig his feet in further, made him draw everything out longer. Begging was something he did when he wanted Gwangsuk to take him apart and pull him back together, but tonight wasn’t about that.

“Euijin hyung,” it comes out softer than Gwangsuk intends, but Euijin’s attention still snaps up to him as Gwangsuk’s hand stills. He slides his fingers free and Euijin chokes on a sob, but he doesn’t look away, continues to hold Gwangsuk’s gaze. He hooks his hands around Euijin’s thighs, not caring that he’s smearing lube and precome down them. He slides Euijin’s legs back off his shoulder, gently lowering his hips back to rest against the pillow.

Euijin shudders, legs falling open as he watches Gwangsuk pull back long enough to get out of his pants and boxers, before he crawls forward to hover over Euijin. There’s a moment of silence, before Euijin is nodding his head gently, and wrapping his legs around Gwangsuk’s hips.

“Oh fuck,” Euijin groans as Gwangsuk presses into him with no hesitation. He clawed at Gwangsuk’s arms, fingers digging into his biceps and holding on as he sunk in until he was achingly full.

“Fuck you feel good,” Gwangsuk buries his face into the crook of Euijin;s neck, biting as the curve. He kept still, waiting for Euijin’s fingers to unlock from around his arms. As soon as his grip relaxed, Gwangsuk rolled his hips back, before fucking back into him.

“You sound so good like this,” Gwangsuk growls into Euijin’s ear after a particularly loud keen of noise. Euijin’s feet dig into the floor, back arching, as he tried to grind back against the touch, despite the weight bearing him down.

He drives into Euijin, rocking them back against the floor, and burying himself deep. They kiss, messy and uncoordinated, before Gwangsuk picks up the pace and rolled their hips together. After that, there’s no more kissing, not when both of them are panting and trying to find the best angle. Gwangsuk wraps his hand around one of Euijin’s knees, hiking his leg up high, and pushes back in, fucking the breath out of him.

“Gwangsuk, please, I need, Gwangsuk,” Euijin rambles, tangling one of his hands in Gwangsuk’s hair. Gwangsuk wraps a hand around his cock, still sticky with lube, and thumbs at the head. He bit at his collar bone, careful not to leave any marks on his skin, as his fingers dragged down and back up Euijin’s cock, matching the pace of his thrusts.

Their bodies are sweat-slick and Euijin is tight. His breath is being forced from him in ragged pants that fill the silent room and return to wrap themselves around Gwangsuk's nerves as Gwangsuk buries himself in Euijin again and again.

Euijin’s back bows, and his fingers drag across Gwangsuk’s back. He comes on a wordless moan, something that is possibly supposed to be Gwangsuk’s name, but is unintelligible in the end. His heels dug into Gwangsuk’s back, and maybe if either of them could think clearly, they would recognize that he’s going to leave bruises. He clamps down around on Gwangsuk, who ruts into him, before he’s stilling on a shout.

They laid there for a while, before Gwangsuk finally pushes himself up and slides free. Euijin winces, but a tired smile still made its way onto his face.

“Here,” Daewon calls softly, and Gwangsuk had enough time to turn and catch a package of wet wipes thrown his way.

“Thanks, angel,” he smiles softly at the other boy who grins at him, before nestling back down into Marco’s side.

Pulling one of the wipes free, he leans down to kiss Euijin, before cleaning him up. He makes sure to clean the lube smeared down his thigh, the mix of come and sweat from his stomach and between his legs.

Once the both of them are cleaned up and the wipes thrown off into the trash can against the wall, he helps Euijin pull his pants back on and his shirt. As soon as they’re both back in their clothes, Gwangsuk in fresh pair of pants, he curls up along Euijin’s side and rests his cheek against his chest.

“Do you see how well you take care of us?” Euijin smooths his hand through Gwangsuk’s hair, and gestures to the other boys in the room with them with his free hand. Gwangsuk twists to see the way Daewon and Marco have curled around each other and Marco is snoring softly. He looks to see how Hojung, Hansol, Jun and Chan have wrapped themselves up in each other. Jun’s got one hand stretched out and wrapped around Daewon’s ankle, connecting the two groups. It settles something warm in Gwangsuk’s chest.

A tiny knock on the door pulls his attention away and he pushes himself out of Euijin’s embrace to stumble over to it. He pulls it open to find Kijoong standing there, wrapped in a blanket and blinking tiredly. He makes a soft noise of discomfort and Gwangsuk pulls him in, pressing a kiss to the top of his head when the boy hunkers down into his arms.

“I woke up and I couldn’t get back to sleep,” Kijoong says quietly into Gwangsuk’s shoulder.

“It’s alright baby, you can come in.” Gwangsuk drags him into the room. He shuts the door behind them, and leads Kijoong over to Marco and Daewon’s small pile. Kijoong immediately drops down and curls in beside Marco, who wakes up long enough to mutter something to the younger boy and make sure he’s comfortable.

Gwangsuk yawns and staggers back over to Euijin, falling limply to lay across the older boys chest now that everyone is settled. Euijin’s hand slides back into Gwangsuk’s hair, fingers trailing delicately down the back of his neck, before he settles his hand heavy on the back of Gwangsuk’s shoulder. “We couldn’t have asked for a better leader. You’re more than enough for us.”

“Doesn’t feel like it sometimes,” Gwangsuk admits quietly. He feels, more than hears, the hum of noise Euijin makes.

“That’s alright, we’ll be here to remind you when you forget. Now go to sleep, we’ve got an off day tomorrow. So rest.” Euijin orders, which earns him a small chuckle in response. It sets something at ease within him, to have Euijin so adamant that he is doing more than enough for them. Gwangsuk doesn’t say anything else, just closes his eyes and lets the steady rise and fall of Euijin’s chest lull him to sleep.

[Fic] Ashes Ashes, Time To Go Down

2016-01-07T09:06:50Z

Title: Ashes Ashes, Time To Go Down
Fandom: Ajin: Demi-Human
Pairing: Kei Nagai/Kou Nakano
Rating: Explicit
Warning(s): Temporary character death, violence, gore
Word Count: 2001
Summary: If Kou hadn't asked him if he knew a way to die that felt good, they probably never would have gotten to this point. Here they are though, a little fucked up, but they're getting off just the same.

Kou sags limply in Kei’s arms, dead weight. His head hangs loosely, a direct consequence from just how deep Kei’s IBM managed to cut Kou’s throat. The skin is already trying to knit itself back together, black matter concentrating around the wound. Quickly, much too quickly for what Kei wants. They’d only just managed to stumble into the bathroom, before Kei’s IBM had dug its claws into Kou’s throat, and here Kou is, already trying to come back to life.

“You’re the one who said I could do what I wanted,” Kei states, thumb smearing blood across Kou’s cheek. His fingers slip down from Kou’s face, pressing into the gaping mess of Kou’s throat. He scissors his fingers, stopping the wound from closing around them. For a moment, he considers testing to see just how long he can keep Kou dead. If he didn’t already have an idea of what he wanted to do, he would do more than consider it.

He braces Kou against the bathtub, the tile floor below them already slick with blood. He keeps his fingers buried in Kou’s throat, and lifts his other hand to Kou’s face. He can feel the steady press of Kou trying to regenerate around his fingers, before he crooks his fingers and recreates the damage all over again.

His IBM shifts into focus, crouched down at their side. Having it so close makes Kei feel small, but knowing that it will never harm him, it’s a powerful thought. It reaches out, movements slow. It’s giving a show, reaching its clawed hand out to Kou’s face. With their connection, it always knows just what Kei wants, and right now it’s not tearing through Kou like it usually would. Its movements are precise, claws curling in against Kou’s eye.

Kei watches with calm fascination, as his IBM digs its fingers into Kou’s eye socket, and drags the mangled gore out with its claws. The mess runs down the side of Kou’s face, blood welling in his empty eye socket, before spilling over. He looks wrecked, with Kei’s fingers in his throat, and the IBM pressing its fingers in deeper.

Standing up from where he had been kneeling in the now cooled blood on the floor, Kei thumbs the button of his jeans open. His attention is focused on the way his IBM crooks its fingers, dark blood standing out starkly against its pale bandages.

Kei pulls his hand free of Kou’s throat, the skin giving way with a watery sound. He doesn’t look down to watch the wound seal itself closed now that there’s nothing in the way. Black matter particles are accumulating where the IBMs fingers are working their way deep into Kou’s brain, but the IBM isn’t giving Kou the time to regenerate, before it causes more damage.

Kou twitches after a moment, before his body goes slack again. The IBMs fingers are deep enough that he can’t regenerate around them, can’t stumble back to the living. There’s something about the control, about there being no repercussions (aside from the mess), that set Kei at ease. After everything they’ve done, Kou has not once woken up and said they needed to stop.

With a hand sticky with blood, Kei pushes down his jeans, steps out of them, and kicks them to the side. There’s a split second of indecision, of him wondering if this is really what he wants. He ignores it, because for them, for Ajin, societies rules don’t apply. They don’t have to abide by standards derived from people who want nothing more than to preserve life. They’re Ajin. They’re meant to die. They get stronger each time they do.

Kei leans in, pressing his thumb in against his IBMs probing fingers. He reaches back, slides his hand into Kou’s hair, and braces his other one the edge of the bathtub. His eyes flick over to his IBM, watching as it disintegrates. As much as Kei likes watching Kou wake up sitting on the IBMs cock, and with its claws piercing through the soft flesh of his belly, today isn’t for that.

Gripping onto Kou’s hair, he presses his cock in slowly, past the resistance of viscera. He expects Kou to jerk against him, for his hands to come up and claw at him, but his head only lolls back against Kei’s grip. There’s no choked gasp, no high whine of pain. There’s absolutely no reaction.

Kei’s hips stutter, and it’s his gasp that echos off of the bathroom walls. Kou is so pliable under his hand, and everything just gives way. He’s already sitting on the knife’s edge, and the slick warmth isn’t helping. He pants, lets himself take a moment, but then everything around his cock moves, and he’s curling forward. The hand gripping the tub's edge tightens, bracing himself as his legs wobble.

The feel of Kou’s body trying to regenerate around his fingers was nothing in comparison to this. The pressure of Kou’s brain trying to reform around his cock is so much more. The fingers he has in Kou’s hair flex, tilting his head back enough that Kei’s cock slides free.

“Fuck,” he hisses, right before his hips snap forward and he’s once again pushing past the slight resistance of Kou’s body trying to reform. Blood continues to drip down the side of Kou’s face, and stick to Kei’s thighs. It itches, where it’s starting to dry, and the smell is thick and cloying, but it doesn’t stop him from canting his hips.

He’s not going to last long, not with how worked up he is.

Another thrust and it’s almost too much. He adjusts his grip in Kou’s hair, and slides in again. Each push in has him winding tighter, until the pressure finally spills over and he goes with it.

Kei comes on a groan, pulling back enough that his come spills across the gore covering Kou’s face. His legs give out and he’s flopping down onto the floor, settled in between Kou’s legs. He starts to push himself back up, to stumble into the bathtub and start cleaning the blood off, but he stops.

He leans in, slow and tentative. It’s not something he usually is, but Kou is still regenerating back to life, and Kei doesn’t quite feel done. He rests one hand against Kou’s chest, and nips lightly at the underside of his jaw. His tongue flicks out to lick at the blood and come spattered across his face. He counts the seconds it takes until Kou twitches against him, and his chest shudders with its first try at breathing again.

At the first shudder of movement, Kei bites down harder at the curve of Kou’s jaw. He does it just to hear the way Kou grunts, and winces.

“Fuck,” Kou’s head drops forward, resting against Kei’s shoulder. He reaches up and his hands grab on tight to Kei’s shirt as he tries to orient himself. “My head fucking hurts.”

“You’re still healing,” Kei can still see the black matter around Kou’s face. It’s sticky, where Kou is pressing his face in against Kei’s neck. At this point, Kei doesn’t think that there’s a spot on either of them that hasn’t been stained red. For a moment, he wonders what the others would say if he were to leave the room without cleaning up. He thinks that they’d know it was from him killing Kou, that they’d say something about how he needs to let up on the guy. They’re all more fond of Kou, than they are of him.

“Fuck,” this time it’s not a pained groan. This time it’s drawn out, words heavy with something that isn’t pain. Kei licks a line up the side of Kou’s cheek. Blood, come, and brain. It’s fucked up, he knows it is, but Kou squirms against him, and he isn’t the only one who gets off on what they’ve been doing.

Kei drops the hand from Kou’s chest, down into his lap. Usually he tries to get Kou off before he dies, so that the he can leave the moment he’s sure Kou’s regenerated, but sometimes that isn’t the case. It’s usually easier to get Kou off after he’s regenerated. He’s always just a little bit more desperate, but Kei still prefers being able to leave him to clean up the mess.

Kou’s pants take a little bit of effort to finally work open, and it doesn’t help when Kou reaches down to help. Clumsy. Still regenerating. Kei pushes his hands out of the way, works one of his own down against Kou’s cock, and strokes him from base to tip. It stops all of Kou’s future attempts at help. Instead it has him moaning, hands clenching and unclenching against Kei’s thighs.

Kou noses at the side of his face, before he finally manages to duck in and kiss him. Kei lets him. He’ll never admit it, but he’s started to like the way Kou kisses the blood out of his mouth. Kou licks at the inside of his mouth, messier than he usually is. He’s always clumsy when Kei’s hand is on his cock, blood and precome the only thing to slick the way.

Kei twists his hand, thumbs at the head of Kou’s cock, and smirks when Kou has to pull back to groan against his cheek. He’s trembling, hips rocking up against Kei’s hand and it’s a sign that he’s close.

Kei works his hand around Kou’s cock, strokes up quick, and tight. For how long he lasted fucking into Kou, Kou is much quicker to get off. He’s still strung tight from dying, and Kei suspects that he’s started associating getting off with the smell and taste of blood.

Kou trembles against Kei, and comes with a whine. He’s out of it long enough that Kei can wipe his hand clean down the back of Kou’s shirt without him complaining about it. He usually complains for the sake of it, despite how his shirt is usually already drenched in sweat and blood.

When he comes back to himself, his eyes are clearer, and Kei can no longer see black matter around him. He looks just the same as he did before Kei’s IBM killed him, he even has the same grin spreading across his face. Kei ignores the look, stands up and stretches out the cramps that have started to work their way into his legs.

“There’s so much blood. It looks like you killed me twice,” Kou laughs when he pushes himself up from the tiled floor. Kei looks around the room, counts the bloody handprints they’ve managed to leave everywhere. He eyes the mess as he retrieves his pants and pulls them on.

“I’m going to clean up in my room,” Kei announces instead of commenting on the amount of blood on the floor. He’s already heading out of the bathroom, before he hears Kou’s shout. “You might want to clean up first, you’ve still got come on your face.” He closes the door before Kou can try to follow him out. He leaves Kou to clean up the mess.

“You’re an asshole,” he hears Kou mutter from behind the door, but it’s not an uncommon insult for him to hear.

He was right though. He passes one of Tosaki’s men on the way back to his room, and hears the offhand comment about how he needs to ease up on Kou a little. He doesn’t bother to respond, just continues on his way to his room. He’s too fascinated to stop whatever it is he has going with Kou, and Kou seems to enjoy it too much to call quits either. They’re a little bit too fucked up to care at this point.

Kei wonders what they would have been like if they hadn’t been Ajin, but the thought is pointless. They’re long past the point of being human, and he doesn’t think he’d want to go back if he had the choice.

[Fic] A Fever Inside Me

2015-11-28T07:30:50Z

Title: A Fever Inside Me
Fandom: Ajin: Demi-Human
Pairing: Kei Nagai/Kou Nakano
Rating: Explicit
Warning(s): Temporary character death, violence, gore
Word Count: 558
Summary: Bloody blow jobs are a questionable way to get off.
Author Note: Written for Day 1 of Goretober. Or in my case, the Gorefest that's gonna take longer than a month to write for.

Kou is on his back, sprawled across the floor, with Kei between his legs. His hands are digging into the carpet, his heels into the small of Kei’s back, and Kei’s sucking him off like he’s done this before. Kou jerks into a sitting position, when Kei gives a particularly hard suck, curling his body over Kei’s with a high whine. He’s almost there, but it’s not enough and he doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs.

There’s a hand around his throat soon enough, claws pricking into his skin until blood wells. He chokes, throws his head back and offers his throat to Kei’s IBM. It’s grip is hot, strong enough that he’s already struggling to inhale. He makes the mistake of looking down at Kei, who’s watching him in turn. He grins around the cock in his mouth, presses his fingers into Kou’s thigh, and sinks down further.

Kei’s hips make little abortive movements, pressing into the floor. It’s then Kou realizes that his eyes are on the hand his IBM has around his throat. He flushes at the realization, in time to have the IBM tighten its hold again. It’s almost enough, the hot mouth around his cock, and the claws tearing into the soft skin of his neck.

Kou’s hand slaps up to wrap his fingers around the IBMs wrist. His mouth is open on a silent gasp, fingers twitching as Kei wraps his tongue around his cock. He’s so close, almost there, when the IBM digs its claws in deeper. It pulls, and shreds.

Pain radiates from his throat as he tries to breath. He tries to gasp. Make some kind of noise in response to the pain. He can’t. He can only shudder as the IBM holds him in place, blood running down his chest and splashing across Kei’s face. Kei twists his hand, grazes his teeth over the head of Kou’s cock, and that’s all it takes.

Kou comes, vision blurring from bloodloss.

All Kou knows next is that Kei is sitting across from him, face carefully blank.

Kou stretches carefully, still vaguely worried that one time he’s going to regenerate different. He huffs, noting the way that the carpet is sticky with blood. Kei hadn’t even bothered to roll him out of the spot. Not that he’s surprised.

“What about you?” Kou asks instead of complaining, turning his attention back to Kei. Kei reaches across the space between them, hand only stopping, once his fingers are hovering over Kou’s lips. Kou rolls his eyes, but flicks his tongue out, wraps his lips around Kei’s fingers. He licks his fingers clean of blood and come. It’s his answer. He knows Kei jerked himself off, probably did it the moment Kou died. It’s a shame, really. They’ve been doing this thing for weeks and he still hasn’t seen what Kei looks like when he comes.

“Hmm,” Kei pushes up from the floor, pulls his fingers from Kou’s mouth, and tugs his bloodied shirt into place. As if he can erase the evidence of what they had just done. It works, because Kei is unruffled, looks like he’s just killed someone. Like he didn’t just have a cock in his mouth.

Kou flops back to the ground when Kei leaves. He sighs, and wonders how he’s going to die next time. Because there will be a next time. Kei gets off on the blood and violence, and Kou won’t deny that he’s become dependent on the pain to get off. He sighs again and wonders how the fuck he got here.

[Fic] You Could Rattle The Stars

2015-11-28T07:27:57Z

Title: You Could Rattle The Stars
Fandom: Oofuri
Pairing: Mihashi Ren/Abe Takaya
Rating: Teen
Warning(s): Temporary character death
Word Count: 2015
Summary: " “You’re more scared of them, than you are of me.” The boy states, a scowl on his face. He’s wearing a dusty yukata. There’s dirt smeared across his cheek, leaves in his hair, and Ren doesn’t know what to make of him. The boy’s expression twists into something he assumes is supposed to resemble a smile. His teeth are jagged sharp."

The one where Abe is a forest spirit, and Mihashi is the human that falls in love with him.
Author Note: Uhhhh, I can explain? I can't. I really can't. I'm so far down the rabbit hole that there's no coming back. AHHHH, Nana has drawn art for this fic and I haven't stopped screaming since! Here!

Singing. Someone is singing.

Ren can hear it from the forest. He can’t make out the words, but the low throbbing hum is distinct. It sounds like his mother’s humming, when she’s standing in the yard, hanging clothes from the line. Her voice is quiet, and he only ever hears her when he gets close. This is different. It’s deeper, impossibly louder.

He stands up, eyes on the treeline. He can’t see anything from where he is, and he’s too afraid to step closer.

Except the tone of the sound changes, and it sounds sadder. Ren takes a step forward, and then another. It isn’t until the palm of his hand is pressed against one of the trees that he realizes how close he’s gotten. Curiosity tells him to go after the noise, and find the source. His own anxiety begs him to turn around and run.

He listens to the latter instinct, but only just. It isn’t until he’s in his room, the window shut firmly, that he wonders why he wanted to step into the forest in the first place.

:: :: ::

The neighbor tells Ren stories of the ghosts that live in the forest. She tells him when he brings her a pot of soup, and she offers to share it. She’s been living alone for two years now, her husband having passed. Once a week, Ren is sent to see her, with dinner in hand. More often than not, she asks if he’ll stay, says that she wouldn’t mind the company. His mother always told him to listen to his elders, so he never declines.

She speaks about the creatures that live in the sea, that lure sailors from their boats. The wolves that live in the mountains, feeding on each other during the winter months. Then she mentions the forest spirits and Ren’s attention snaps into crystal clear focus. She must see the way he reacts, because she pauses, spoons out the soup into bowls. She passes one to Ren, takes the other for herself, and finally sits at the table. Ren can feel his pulse fluttering in his throat, trepidation making his hands sweat.

“The forest spirits are the ones you need to watch out for,” she warns. The bowl of soup in front of Ren is ignored, in favor of hearing what his neighbor has to say. “They’ll lure you in any way they can. They’re good at mimicking us, so if you hear someone calling your name from the forest, think twice before you go looking.”

:: :: ::

“Most of the stories they’ll tell you are nothing but stories.” Ren’s mother brushes her hand through his hair, getting caught in the tangles. She works them out, painlessly. Her touch is enough to calm the shaking, even if his eyes are still wet with tears.

“They’ll tell you about all those brave little boys who went into the forest, and never came back home. They’ll say they went looking for something, or did it as a test of courage.” He doesn’t tell her about how he almost stepped into the woods, following a sound he couldn’t even be sure was real. “They won’t tell you that the stories are to keep children in their beds at night. To keep them from wandering too far from home. The monsters that steal those children in their stories, they’re nothing more than the imaginings of worried mothers.”

“Even if they were true, you’re much too small for any monster to want to eat. Too many bones.” She smiles, pinching gently at elbow. He finds no comfort in what she says.

:: :: ::

He’s running, spurred on by the sound of footsteps behind him. “Kids can be mean,” His father used to say, pulling Ren into a hug. He’d usually finish it with a “but it gets better.” Ren never believed the second part, but kids can be mean, that was something he never doubted. He could feel it in the bruise forming along his ribs, aching and sore.

The kids always say that it was an accident, that they never meant it. The kids chasing behind him were liars. There were no accidents in the way they used their fists and gave chase. Kids can be mean, especially if there’s no one there to see and stop it. Ren could only hope that his father was right, that it did get better.

He stumbles, feet slipping against the soft ground. He shrieks, hands shooting out to catch himself. His face is damp with tears, and he just wants to be safe in his room. He starts to push himself up, but quickly stops.

There’s two mud covered feet in front of his nose, startling Ren enough that he jumps back with a yelp, cradling his arm to his chest. It’s throbbing, and he hopes he didn’t sprain his wrist when he fell. He looks up, seeing a boy his own age. He’s got dark brown hair, and even darker eyes. He isn’t someone from the village, isn’t someone Ren recognizes, so he allows himself a moment to check behind him.

His hands are shaking, but he can’t hear the shouts from the other boys behind him anymore. He can’t hear anything but the sound of his own frantic breathing. He waits, waits to see if anyone comes out, but no one does. His shoulders shudder, because the boys must have gotten bored, and they might leave him alone for now.

He twists back to face the other boy, only to find him crouched down and very, very close.

“You’re more scared of them, than you are of me.” The boy states, a scowl on his face. He’s wearing a dusty yukata. There’s dirt smeared across his cheek, leaves in his hair, and Ren doesn’t know what to make of him. The boy’s expression twists into something he assumes is supposed to resemble a smile. His teeth are jagged sharp.

“I don’t,” Ren starts, voice catching in his throat. He can’t push the words out, can’t speak through his nerves.

“Don’t worry,” the boy reaches out. He pats Ren’s arm, jagged nails catching in the fabric of his clothes. “Too many bones.”

Ren jerks back, stumbles up to his feet, and he runs.

:: :: ::

Ren brings a bowl of soup into the forest, following the song that seems to reverberate through the trees. He follows it like he’s been told not to. He follows it until he finds the boy perched on a stump, dragging his nails through the lines, marking how old the tree had been when it had been cut down. The moment Ren notices him, he’s already looking up, eyes sharp.

“I wanted,” the words stutter to a stop in his mouth. He tries again, “I wanted to.”

He flushes, embarrassed at his inability to say what he wants to. His eyes feel damp, but instead of yelling, the boys only watching him, waiting. Ren isn’t used to that, is used to being told to spit out what he wants to say or to stop with the noise already.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry?” The boy jumps off of the tree stump, takes a few steps forward, pauses.

“For running away,” Ren blurts. He darts forward, holds out the bowl of soup, looking everywhere, besides at the boy.

He stills when the boy takes the bowl from him, watches from the corner of his eye. The boy throws back his head. Laughes. “You’re supposed to run.”

:: :: ::

“You can call me Abe,” the boy hums around a spoonful of soup.

“Mihashi,” he immediately chirps back. Takaya narrows his eyes for a moment, before he nods slowly.

“Alright,” he shrugs. He finishes up the soup, presses the bowl back into Ren’s hands. Abe leaves, wanders back into the forest.

The song that Ren followed to find the boy in the woods, follows him back out as he makes his way home. This time though, he finds himself humming along.

:: :: ::

“You came back to apologize for running away from me, but what about the boys you were running away from first?” The question shocks Ren, has him frantically trying to think of a way to avoid answering.

“Where did you come from?” Ren shoots back. He sputters once he realizes what he’s said. He hides his face in his hands, ignores the fingers prodding at his side. Abe huffs, pulls his hands away from his face, and waits for Ren to look at him.

“Alright,” Abe says, as if it’s that easy.

He lays back down in the grass, Ren’s hands still held between his.

Alright, Ren thinks.

:: :: ::

Ren manages to hide it for months, and then years. The answer to the question he’d once been asked, about running. Back when Takaya had been Abe, and he’d been Mihashi. Except he forgets he’s hiding it, forgets he doesn’t want Takaya to know. He forgets, and he runs, runs until there’s a hand catching at his shirt and pulling him in.

He can’t see who it is through the tears, but he can smell dirt, and leaves, and he doesn’t need to see. He shudders, presses his face into Takaya’s chest.

“Sorry, Takaya.”

“No,” Ren jerks back when Takaya hisses at him. He sobs, tries to get away from the hands that are suddenly cradling his face so carefully.

“No,” Takaya repeats. “You don’t apologize. Not for this.”

His thumb gently traces over the skin of Ren’s cheek that’s red and swollen. Ren only cries harder, because now Takaya knows why he’s always running.

:: :: ::

Takaya kisses him once he’s stopped crying. He licks at Ren’s cheeks, holds him still, even when he tries to squirm away.

He doesn’t stop until Ren is laughing, pushing half heartedly at his shoulders. He smiles, something dark burning in his eyes. He pulls Ren against him, rolls them into the grass. He doesn’t let Ren ask about it.

He kisses Ren again, and again. Waits until he’s breathless. Then he’s gone, nosing at Ren’s hip.

Takaya’s name leaves his mouth on thready little gasps. Ren forgets how to breathe. He forgets to ask.

:: :: ::

“Haruna turned me,” Takaya states. It’s not what Ren expects, not when they’ve been sitting in silence for the past hour. He rolls over onto his side, watches Takaya with wide eyes, and waits. He doesn’t know how to answer, but it’s alright, because he knows he’s not expected to. “I was angry at him for it, for a very long time.”

“I get it now, though. Why he did it.” Takaya finally looks away from the sky, meets Ren’s gaze. “Loneliness can make us do stupid things.”

:: :: ::

“I’m tired,” Ren starts. Pauses.

The forest is quiet around them, and Takaya doesn’t break it. He waits, let’s Ren pick the words he wants to say.

He inhales deeply, eyes on the stars he can see through the trees. “I’m tired of running away.”

“Alright.”

:: :: ::

Takaya wipes his bloodied thumb across Ren’s cheek, eyes searching. He allows himself a moment to just look, watch the way his blood stains Ren’s lips. He never thought that he would ever feel the urge to do this, the need. After Haruno had turned him, only to leave him, he had sworn he would never turn another person.

Ren closes his eyes, sighs happily. His fingers are warm where they’re clutching at Takaya’s hips.

This is his last chance to stop, to kill this boy, and travel to the next forest. Collect another soul, and move on. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

He shakes his head, because this has already been decided. Decided back when this boy had come to say sorry for running away. This boy who sung with him was not someone he could so easily turn away. Then again, it was just as much his own desires to keep Ren with him, than it was anything else.

Takaya sings. Ren starts humming in turn, voice soft.

No more hesitation, Takaya thinks. He presses his hand flat against Ren’s chest, before he curls his fingers, lets them sink in. It doesn’t hurt, he knows that from personal experience, but he still worries. He eases his worry, puts it off to it being a fair trade.

He’s taking Ren’s heart, but he’s long since given the boy his own.

:: :: ::

Ren wakes up, with the stars still in the sky, and Takaya humming beside him. The song is familiar, soothing, when it had once been so frightening.

His hand is warm, clutched tightly in Takaya’s. There’s dirt under his cracked nails, but Takaya’s are the same, so it doesn’t matter. He squeezes his fingers, and Takaya looks down at him, smiles with something small and brittle.

“Are you scared of me yet?” Takaya asks, the fingers of his free hand plucking at Ren’s yukata.

“No,” Ren breathes, pushes himself up. He presses in against Takaya, readjusts their hands so their fingers are twined together. “I never was.”

[Fic] Another Day (Another Door)

2015-11-28T07:25:18Z

Title: Another Day (Another Door)
Fandom: Hunter x Hunter
Pairing: Gon Freecss/Killua Zoldyck
Rating: Explicit
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 5537
Summary: "Killua doesn’t say the words that collect on his tongue, doesn’t tell Gon that he missed him. He doesn't say that he forgot the sound of his voice, and how much that hurt. That sometimes while he was sitting on his bed, training his Nen, he’d glance over to tell Gon something, and he wouldn’t be there."

Five times Gon and Killua shared a bed as children, and the one time they did it when they were older.
Author Note: Please be aware that the original title for this fic is Get WRECKED Killua. So this happened. Yeah. It originally started as a 5+1 Bed Sharing fic, but then I got distracted by writing a Still-A-Virgin!Killua fic, and then I thought 'Why not both?'. I tend to like exploring characters with my first fics in a fandom, and this one is no exception. I still can't believe I managed to finish this when I was having the roughest time with writers block. As it is, I'm putting the blame for this on my twitter feed. They're all terrible instigators, who I love dearly.

When they’re a safe distance from Kukuroo Mountain, far enough away that they feel like they can finally sleep, they find a hotel. They get a single room, all that they’re willing to get with what little money they have left. After everything that they’ve been through, it’s more than enough.

“Killua?” Gon asks, dropping his bag by the door. He turns, in time to watch Killua kick off his shoes, drop his overshirt, and burrow in under the blankets on the bed. Gon can hear him mumble something in response, but it’s muffled by the pillow. Gon pads over, crouches at the side of the bed, and waits for Killua to turn over and look at him.

“Yeah?” It takes a while before Killua answers him, turning his face to look at him.

“Move over,” Gon pats the edge of the bed. Killua stares at him, not saying anything, before he finally groans and rolls over. Gon grins, before standing back up, and stripping out of his clothes. He grabs a pair of shorts, and a shirt from his bag.

He changes quickly, wanting nothing more than to climb into bed as well. The worry from the past few days is catching up with him, now that Killua is safe here, with him. He shuffles over, crawling into the bed beside Killua.

“Hey,” Killua blinks open his eyes slowly, pulling himself out of the sleep he wants to fall so deeply into. Despite the front he’d put up at home, and when they’d been making their way here, he’s tired. He aches, and he wants to do nothing more than sleep through the rest of the night. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. We’re friends, it’s what friends do.” Gon smiles, slides in a little closer. He curls up beside his best friend, just so that their shoulders are touching. It’s warm. It’s enough. He can feel Killua’s breath on his shoulder, can hear it finally even out into sleep. It’s nice to be near someone who doesn’t scare him. With Hisoka at the Hunter Exam, and Mike at the Zoldyck Estate, Gon’s still trying to figure out where he stands, but here with Killua, he knows he’s where he should be.

:: :: ::

Gon spends most of his days training on the 200th floor of Heaven’s Arena, i rooms that Killua and him earned from making their way up the floors. Their rooms are big enough that they don’t need to worry about looking for space to train elsewhere. As it is, they’re focusing on their Nen training and they just need a comfortable place to sit to do that.

They’ve spent the day practicing their Ten, at Wing-san’s insistence. It means that they spend a lot of time sitting still, which had been the true challenge at first. When they’d first started, they’d spent a lot of time trying to figure out the easiest place to do it. After a time, they’d finally settled on the bed, sitting cross legged, and across from each other. Whenever Gon starts to lose his patience with sitting around, Killua reaches out at kicks his leg, pulling him back to the task at hand.

It’s hard when his knees start to cramp from sitting with them folded, and he wants nothing more than to get up and pace the room. With a grumble, he flops back on the bed, arms spread wide, and legs sprawled out. “I’m done!”

“No you’re not. You still have to go back to your own room.” Killua unfolds himself from his spot and kicks at Gon. He knows that if he doesn’t get his friend to move now, there’s going to be no hope for moving him in the future. Gon grins, hands wrapping around Killua’s ankle and pulling him further down the bed. He yelps, hands flying up to protect himself from Gon.

His hands don’t sharpen into deadly points, not like they would if he was truly fighting to protect himself. Instead they’re curling into Gon’s shirt, trying to stop the way he’s trying to pin Killua down to the bed. Gon’s smiling down at him, arms wrapping tightly around Killua, ignoring the hands trying to push him away. “Nah, the bed’s big enough. I can stay, right Killua?”

“Why should I let you stay?” Killua pushes at Gon, words spoken into his shoulder.

“Because it’ll be fun.” Gon states, finally letting Killua go. He rolls over, flipping blankets back as he goes, until he’s nestled in amongst the pillows. He’s watching Killua closely, pulling the blanket up around him, still smiling.

“Fine,” Killua throws a pillow at Gon. He knows that it’s no use, not when Gon’s mind is set. Instead, he crawls under the covers, and tries to fall asleep. It’s easier than he expects it to be. He’s got his back to Gon, and at first he suspects that he’ll be unable to sleep, not when someone is so close and the room around them is so quiet.

It’s nothing like the Hunter Exams, when they’d been locked in the room together. He knows Gon now, trusts him to be the one standing at his back. He relaxes into the bed, and this time it isn’t exhaustion weighing him down. Instead it’s just a calm comfort, and an actual want for sleep.

“Night, Killua.” Gon’s voice is light with laughter, and joy.

Killua finds himself smiling in response, but he hides it in his pillow. He knows that it doesn’t matter, knows that Gon can read him. “Night, Gon.”

:: :: ::

It’s late when Gon finally finishes talking with Mito-san, and his Great Grandmother. They finally usher him up the stairs, when he starts to yawn. Mito-san brushes a kiss across his cheek, as she reaches to take his empty tea cup. She smiles, soft and warm, before she tells him they can talk more in the morning. He scurries over to give his Great Grandmother a hug, before finally wishing them a, “Goodnight.”

“It’s good to have you home, Gon.” His Great Grandmother says, before pushing him gently in the directions of the stairs.

He climbs them slowly, avoiding the places he knows will make the steps creak. It’s an old habit, even though he had long since learned that the easiest way to sneak out of the house was through his bedroom window. As long as he could avoid the wind chime, that was.

The futon is spread out across the bedroom floor, but Killua isn’t there. Gon looks over to his bed, finding his friend spread out on his bed. He steps over the futon, and around the edge of the bed. He’s more tired than he thought he was, and he really just wants to sleep in his own bed. He doesn’t mind that Killua’s already claimed it as his sleeping spot.

He kneels on the edge of the bed, fingers tugging at the blankets to make space. Killua cracks an eye open, but doesn’t say anything. He hadn’t meant to wake Killua, but then again, he’d probably woken up the moment Gon had started up the stairs.

Killua doesn’t say anything, just shimmies back, making room for Gon beside him. The bed is smaller than the one back in Heaven’s Arena, but he doesn’t mind the limited space. He falls into the spot that Killua made for him, pulling the blankets tight around him. Killua doesn’t turn over, just closes his eyes, and makes himself comfortable again.

:: :: ::

They’re not sure where Bisky sleeps, or if she sleeps at all. As it is, Killua and Gon have learned to sleep where they can. With their training, it’s usually wherever they sit down after they’ve finished dinner, and Bisky finally says they’re done for the night.

Neither of them has any trouble with falling asleep in the numerous uncomfortable spots: they’ve both slept in worse.

They’ve spent the day training, sparring against each other at Bisky’s insistence. She’d pushed them harder than she had the few days previous, something that the boys weren’t averse to. They were getting stronger, something that was most noticeable in watching each other. Killua was picking up speed, hitting harder, and Gon noticed. It cemented the fact that he was keeping up, hitting back just as hard, if not harder.

Gon fell back against a rock, groaning at the way his muscles stiffened. Killua thumped down beside him, a soft hiss escaping him. They were both exhausted, but that didn’t stop the matching grins they shared.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to really get a hit on you.” Killua states, stretching out his arms in front of him, before dropping them into his lap. He lets his chin sink to his chest, settling in for sleep.

“Not if I manage to get you first,” Gon throws back. He doesn’t get a response, not a verbal one at least. Instead Killua leans in against Gon, head resting on his shoulder. The first (and only) thing that Gon takes in is that he’s warm. Gon presses against him, body curving to the comfort of human touch. They fall asleep there, despite how uncomfortable the rock at their back is.

:: :: ::

“Killua,” it’s the desperation that draws Killua up into a sitting position. Gon’s there, standing beside the bed, wringing his hands and shivering.

Killua scoots over a bit and Gon crawls in beside him. The room is quiet around them, quiet enough that Killua can hear the way Gon’s breath is shuddering. He already knows what his friend is worried about, scared of. He knows, because he’s been lying awake, ‘You’re going to betray your friend’ running a worrying loop through his head.

“I wasn’t strong enough to help Kite.” Gon whispers, as Killua lays back down, facing his best friend. “I need to get stronger.”

“What if next time it’s you?” Killua freezes at the words, heart thundering in his chest. His palms are sweaty, because while he’s worrying about leaving Gon behind when things get to hard, Gon’s worrying about protecting him.

“We’re both going to get stronger, and we’re both going to finish this.” The words come out ragged, but forceful enough that he hopes Gon will believe him. Gon nods, but Killua can see that his hands are still shaking.

:: :: ::

It’s been years since Killua and Gon parted ways, years of sparse emails. So much time spent apart, when they’d once been so close, back when they’d been twelve. Gon had felt like the world, back then. He had dug his claws in, unintentionally, but regardless Killua would have followed him anywhere. When Killua took Alluka and went his own way (he’ll never admit it, but he ran), it felt like he was being split open wide.

He knew that it’d be better this way (for him, and for Gon), but it still hurt. He needed time, because he was too dependant, and Gon never apologized. Not in the way that mattered. Really, Killua hadn’t expect that he would. Gon had been clueless as to how much he meant to Killua. Gon had been so focused on revenge, and Killua had been content to let him have it. Neither of them had been thinking about how much they would both be hurt in the process. He also needed time to stop the way his hands sometimes shook when his breath caught in his lungs, and he forgot how to inhale again.

The time they spent separated was time that Killua used to figure out himself. Not Gon’s Killua, but Killua without Gon. He knows that it was good for him, could see it in the way Alluka smiled at him, but it didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt.

When he runs into Gon again, it’s on his own terms. He listens to Leorio mention that Gon left for Yorknew City, how he was on his way to find Zepile. Killua took the information, held it close, before turning to Alluka. When he told her, she smiles, and it’s the same one she’s been giving him, and he can’t help but smile back.

He had yet to take Alluka, or Nanika, to Yorknew City in the time that they’d been traveling. The possibility that he’d be recognized had always been too high. When he mentions maybe visiting, her eyes light up and he knows that she’s excited by the prospect.

They fly into Yorknew City a week later, and Alluka immediately asks for him to take her to the market. Her eyes flash black, and Nanika is nodding vigorously, hands tugging at Killua’s sleeve. It takes less than a minute for his resolve to shatter. He takes her hand, and leads her down the streets he still remembered so clearly. It doesn’t matter that it has been five years since he’d last been here.

Alluka is immediately entranced the moment they cross in front of the first stall. She reminds him of how Gon had been when they’d first come here, flitting towards the first stall and gasping in awe. She’s quick to move to the next one, pointing at things for Killua to see.

They don’t make it far, before the stalls start to close up for the night around them. He manages to make a bid on a bracelet for the girls, before the night is out, and wins it. He makes the bid while Alluka is moving onto the next booth. The glitter of blue and black catching his attention immediately, but he has to wait for his sister to walk away, before he puts the bid in.

Alluka hasn’t turned around to see where he is, before he’s back at her side, fingers brushing along the line of her shoulder, so that she knows he’s there.

“We’ll come back tomorrow and you can spend the whole day looking,” Killua offers. He turns her around, steering her in the direction that they had originally come from. She goes without argument, instead she starts to talk about all the things they might see tomorrow. She’s bright, her hands flying through the air as she chats animatedly.

When they’re outside the hotel, he ushers her over to a bench, sitting her down on it. He takes the bracelet out of his pocket and carefully puts it around her wrist. “Thank-you, both of you, for coming with me to do this.”

Alluka’s eyes flicker dark, and Nanika is looking up at him, a wobbly smile on her face. She looks back down at the bracelet that he’d put on her wrist, fingering the blue and black beads. “Thank-you, Killua,” is all the warning that he gets before she’s jumping up off the bench and wrapping her arms around him. He hugs her tight, tells her that he loves her, and repeats that he loves her, when Alluka’s the one curled into his arms.

“Alright, that’s enough. Let’s head up to our room.” He laughs, extracting himself from the hold his sister has on him. They don’t make it far, before Killua freezes, eyes on the person standing outside of the hotel. His mouth works on a greeting, but Gon hasn’t seen him yet, and he can’t bring himself to speak.

“Gon!” Alluka calls, and Gon’s head jerks in their direction. He’s carrying an armful of packages, that he almost drops as he rushes over to them. He sets them all down on the bench, and the expression on his face says that he can’t believe they’re standing there.

“Yo, Gon,” Killua smiles. His friend is looking at him with wide eyes, and it’s different from the phone calls. It’s different seeing him, seeing him look like the person that he’d been when he tried to destroy himself.

“Killua,” Gon breathes, a smile stretching across his face. He lunges forward, wrapping his arms around Killua and holding on tight. He’s laughing, and it has Killua snorting on a chuckle. “Killua, listen, I’m ready to do things differently this time.”

Killua’s breath catches in his throat, and his chest aches at the words. It’s the apology that he’s been waiting for. It sets the last bit of his anxiety at ease, because Gon has confirmed that things won’t be the same this time. They can do things differently, and this time they can do it better.

Gon is turning away from him, before he can respond, picking Alluka up in a tight hug. She’s laughing and it feels like Killua’s world is shuddering to a stop. When he had been twelve, he had fallen in love with this boy. He’d fallen into an all consuming love that almost destroyed the both of them. Now, he knows that they’ve both changed, but the feelings feel like they’re still bubbling just below the surface.

“What are you two doing in the city?” Gon asks, setting Alluka back down on her feet. The man that Killua remembers crouched over Neferpitou, a fist covered in blood, looks nothing like the person in front of him now. There isn’t anger lining his face, and his eyes aren’t cold. Instead he’s smiling, just like he had when they had first met, and his eyes are wide and wondering.

“Leorio mentioned you were coming to work with Zepile.” Answering honestly seems like the safest option. It’s worth it, to see the way Gon’s smile falls away for a moment, only to be replaced by something brighter. Killua can see the realization of ‘They’re here to see me’ cross his face, because Gon had never been good at hiding his thoughts in the past, and it’s not something he’s grown out of it.

“Can we talk?” The question isn’t what Killua expects Gon to ask him, but he nods anyways. Alluka steps in beside her brother, hand digging inside his pocket for the key to their room. She reaches up, rocking onto her toes, so that she can kiss him on the cheek, before she’s off with a wave and a soft ‘Goodbye’ from Nanika.

They’ve both heard the stories, have listened as Killua told them everything he had been through in the time he’d been with Gon. It had taken him a long time, to get to the point where he was ready to see Gon again, and they knew how important this was to him. Knowing that Gon wanted to try again as well, it has Killua following him wordlessly. He takes one of the packages from Gon’s stack, giving his hands something to do as they find their way to Gon’s room.

Killua sets the package on the desk, before settling on the edge of the bed. He’s nervous, despite himself. Gon has his back to him, is organizing the stack of things he won at the market. The line of his shoulders is tight, but Killua can see the way they sag when Gon finally sighs and turns around to face him.

“Who’s number one in your life right now?” Gon asks, and it gives Killua pause. It’s not the question he’s expecting.

“Me,” Killua answers, after a solid minute. For a time, the most important person in his life had been Gon, and then it had become Alluka and Nanika. His sister though, she had sat him down sometime during their travels, held his hands, and had told him that ‘he had to be his own most important person first’. It took Killua a long time to figure out that she meant he needed to learn to stop giving everything he was to others.

Gon grins, and it looks like that was the answer that he had wanted.

“I’m glad,” is all the warning Killua gets, before Gon’s hands are cupping his face and he’s being kissed. His reaction is instant, because Gon is the one that’s kissing him, and he can’t remember just how long he’s wanted this.

Gon presses him back into the bed, slowly, giving Killua time to get out. Instead, Killua kisses him, pulls him down the rest of the way, and wraps his legs around Gon’s waist. He’s warm, and he smells like home (summer heat, ocean breeze, Gon, Gon, Gon.).

Killua doesn’t say the words that collect on his tongue, doesn’t tell Gon that he missed him. He doesn't say that he forgot the sound of his voice and how much that hurt. That sometimes while he was sitting on his bed, training his Nen, he’d glance over to tell Gon something, and he wouldn’t be there.

“I haven’t done this before,” he says instead. It’s safer, easier, even if his face is warm at his own admittance.

Gon’s mouth falls open, fingers catching in Killua’s hair.

“I wanna,” Gon starts, kissing along the line of Killua’s neck.

“Yeah, yeah, anything’s fine.” Killua rocks his hips up into Gon, hissing at the contact.

“Do you trust me?” The question catches Killua off guard, but he nods his head jerkily in response anyways. There are few people that he trusts, but Gon is definitely one of them. Gon kisses him, his cheek, his chin, his nose, before he sits back on his haunches and strips out of his shirt.

Killua can only stare, mouth going dry. He won’t deny that he’s fantasized about this in the past, has jerked himself off with thoughts of his best friend. He doesn’t feel guilty about it, just feels calm realization settle in that this is so much better.

“You need to be naked for this, Killua.” He isn’t given any time, before Gon’s fingers are pulling up the hem of his shirt, tugging it over his head, and throwing it to the side. Gon leans down, presses words into the crook of Killua’s neck, onto his chest, and his stomach. “You need to be really, really naked.”

They’re out of their clothes quickly. Pants kicked away, and underwear thrown off the side of the bed. It’s a rush of frantic hands, and exploring mouths. Killua can feel Gon pressing against his thigh, and with the Gon is touching him, all Killua wants is a hand on his dick. Gon’s hand would be preferable, but he wouldn’t mind jacking himself off, as long as Gon’s hands kept trailing over his skin, and he kept kissing him like that.

“Okay, can you roll over?” Gon asks. Killua hesitates for a moment, but Gon’s eyes are blown wide and Killua doesn’t think that he’ll ever be able to deny this boy anything. The thought gives him pause, because he knows it isn’t the truth, not anymore. He wants this just as bad as Gon does. He isn’t sacrificing part of himself to go along with the request, and that’s why he flips onto his stomach. Killua knows that he’s been waiting for this, for Gon, because Gon has been his first for all the good things, so of course Gon is going to be his first for this as well. Pressing a kiss to the back of Killua’s neck, Gon moves down to the bottom of the bed.

His hands are hot, where they flit down Killua’s sides, fingers trailing over his ribs. They travel lower, lower, until they’re finally resting against his hips. Another kiss, this time along the ridge of his spine, and Killua sighs softly at the touch.

The pace changes quickly, as Gon’s teeth scrape over the curve of his hip, his tongue licking out to run over the mark his teeth have just made. Killua’s fingers twist in the sheets, breath heaving from his lungs, as Gon settles down behind him. Gon’s fingers dig into the hollows of his hips, pulling them up, and forcing Killua to spread his legs to accommodate Gon.

Gon’s breath his hot against him, but it’s a teasing touch compared to what he thinks is about to come. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t have to wait long. The first flick of his tongue has Killua whining high in his throat, a full body shudder running through him. Gon practically purrs behind him, just before he starts in with one long, wet lick. He continues with broad strokes, lapping at the surface, until Killua’s slick enough that he’s satisfied.

Killua’s cock is hard, but he’s too focused on trying not to shake apart under Gon’s ministrations, to wrap his hand around himself. Instead he moans, long and low, when Gon’s tongue teases at his opening. Killua’s thoughts are a jumble of too much, not enough, more, more, Gon, Gon, Gon. He’s at the point where he’s not sure if the words are spilling from his lips, or if he’s just moaning each time Gon presses his tongue against him.

“Gon,” he strangles the name, hips twitching hard in Gon’s grasp. Gon only tightens his fingers around Killua’s hips, thumbs spreading him wider, so that he can press in to kiss him, to give one hard suck, before he’s finally thrusting his tongue in.

It has Killua climbing up the bed, but Gon holds him in place, pulls him back so that he can lick into him. The stimulation is almost too much, especially with the wet sounds Gon is making while he eats him out. He speaks a litany of ‘please, please, please’ where his face is pressed into the bed. It seems that having him begging is what Gon was waiting for, because he finally shifts his grip, and one of his hands is wrapping around Killua’s cock.

It only takes one pass of Gon’s hand, before Killua’s coming with a sob. He writhes against Gon’s tongue, hips pushing back against him, before stuttering back forward into Gon’s hand. Gon doesn’t let him collect himself, doesn’t wait until Killua has stopped shaking, and has managed to catch his breath. Instead he takes his now come covered hand and slides a finger in beside his tongue.

Killua twitches at the touch, a soft whimper his only reaction to the touch. It isn’t until Gon pulls back, starts kissing along the dip of his spine, and slides a second finger in beside the first, that Killua moves against the contact. He ruts back against Gon’s hand, panting open mouthed against the sheets. The aftershocks of his orgasm are running through him, shooting up his spine, and they’re even more intense with the way Gon is sliding his fingers out, and then quickly pushing them back in.

The lube coating Gon’s fingers is cold, but against Killua’s overheated skin, the contrast makes it more intense. Gon’s working his way up Killua’s back, kissing his way along all of his scars, until he’s nipping at Killua’s ear. The movement of his fingers is slow, and methodical, but Killua can feel the heavy press of Gon’s erection against his hip. Despite the way Gon rolls his hips against Killua, he keeps a slow pace with his fingers.

“I’m so happy that you’ve never done this before,” Gon growls into his ear, voice heady. He crooks his fingers, pressing in deep, and Killua keens. His toes dig into the bed, back arching, and grinds back against the touch. It’s good. It feels like it’s on the edge of too much, with Gon’s rough fingers pressing against him, even though he’s still trembling from his orgasm. “I’m so happy that I get to be the one to do this with you.”

“Come on then, do it.” Killua comment falls off into a curse as Gon adds a third finger.

Gon lips at a particularly nasty scar on his shoulder, kissing along the white rigged line. Killua can feel him grinning
against his shoulder, but it doesn’t give him time to prepare for the way Gon’s fingers angle and massage at his prostate. He clenches down around the fingers, his dick sore and heavy with arousal. Even though he’d just come, he feels achy with the need to tip over the edge again.

Twisting his fingers, Gon works Killua open, dripping more lube around his fingers with his spare hand. He can feel the excess running down the back of his thighs, and he’s loath to admit it, but it feels sloppy and perfect. Pushing up on his elbows, he twists back as far as he can, hoping that Gon will respond to what he wants. The kiss is instantaneous, an answer to a request that he didn’t even need to vocalize.

The kiss is slow, exploring, and just what Killua wanted. Gon’s hand stills, focus shifting so that he can absorb himself in the way he’s swallowing Killua’s tiny gasps. When they break apart, it pulls a whine from Gon, “This isn’t going to work.”

Killua doesn’t have time to ask what he means, before Gon’s sliding his fingers free, and flipping him with a lube soaked hand. It smears across his side, but he doesn’t complain, not when Gon is looking down at him with a look of pure awe on his face. Killua feels himself flush, but Gon kisses him, missing his mouth on the first try, before he finally gets it right.

Killua wraps his legs around Gon’s hips, hands reaching to pull him in, so that they’re flush.

Gon slides into him slowly, until Killua is achingly full with his cock. Killua shudders as he stretches around him, nails dragging across the planes of Gon’s back. His mouth is open on a soundless noise, eyes closed tight as he adjusts. He’s glad for how long Gon spent working him open, because even with the stretching that he’d done, it still feels too tight.

He’s glad that Gon stills the moment he’s fully seated, hiding his face in Killua’s neck as he tries to compose himself. Gon fits around him well, he notices. He feels secure in the way Gon wraps around him, large, and yet so careful. Killua nuzzles into the space right beneath Gon’s ear, inhaling his scent, and licking at the line of his neck. Gon turns into the touch, wide brown eyes blinking slowly at him. “You can move, I’m alright.”

To make sure that Gon believes his words, Killua wriggles his hips as much as he can, under the weight bearing him down. The first roll of Gon’s hips is deep, and it has Killua shuddering as he sinks in. He grinds down, and Killua can definitely see the appeal of this, because the slight pain is nothing compared to the way that felt. Gon groans, his voice already sounding wrecked, and then he’s pulling back again.

He drives into Killua, rocking them back against the bed, and burying himself deep. They kiss, messy and uncoordinated, before Gon picks up the pace and rolls their hips together. After that, there’s no more kissing, not when both of them are panting, and trying to find the best angle. Gon wraps his hand around one of Killua’s knees, hikes his leg up high, and pushes back in. He fucks the breath out of him.

“Gon, please, I need, Gon,” Killua rambles, tangling one of his hands in Gon’s hair. A hand wraps around his cock, still sticky with lube, and thumbs at the head. Gon bites at his collar bone, sucking a mark into his skin, as his fingers drag down, back up, matching the pace of his thrusts.

Killua’s back bows, and his fingers drag across Gon’s back, sparking blue as they graze over his skin. He comes on a wordless moan, something that was possibly supposed to be Gon’s name, but was unintelligible in the end. His heels dig into Gon’s back, and if he could think clearly, he would recognize that he was going to leave bruises. He clamps down around Gon, who ruts into him, before he’s stilling on a shout.

Gon comes back with a cloth, which he uses to wipe away the come and the lube staining Killua’s stomach and thighs. When he’s done, he throws it into the pile of their clothes, before falling back into the bed. Now, Killua notices how small the bed seems compared to the ones they had shared as children. It’s not the bed, he thinks idly. It’s the fact that they’ve grown.

Once Gon settles, he reaches out, and pulls Killua down into his side. He twists their legs together, and is smiling while he does it.

“You’re heavy,” Killua complains, more for the sake of complaining than actually complaint. The way Gon settles over him, feels more secure than anything.

“Mmm, this way you can’t run away. Not now that I finally managed to catch up.” Gon says sleepily. He kisses Killua’s cheek, before he relaxes completely and sinks into the bed. Killua doesn’t know how to respond, because saying that he doesn’t plan on running away doesn’t seem adequate enough. Gon answers for him though, and that’s more than enough. “G’night, Killua.”

There’s still laughter and joy in his voice, just like when they’d been children. It still makes Killua smile in response. He lets himself settle into the spot Gon’s pulled him into, and it’s not only exhaustion, but calm comfort that sinks into his bones. He can feel Gon’s heartbeat, from where they’re nestled together.

They haven’t talked yet, not really. It’s alright for now though, because there will always be time in the morning.

“Night, Gon.”

[Fic] You Gotta Fire Up

2015-11-28T07:22:09Z

Title: You Gotta Fire Up
Fandom: YouTuber RPF
Pairing: Evan Fong/Jonathan Denis
Rating: Explicit
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 5058
Summary: When Evan saw him for the first time, he was pinned to a wall by a man twice his size. He’d had blood dripping down his face, soaking into the collar of his shirt, and all Evan could think was ‘fuck’.
Author Note: I'm sinning so hard

When Evan saw him for the first time, he was pinned to a wall by a man twice his size. He’d had blood dripping down his face, soaking into the collar of his shirt and all Evan could think was ‘fuck’. It had more to do with the fact that the assault was happening on his street, but a little of it had to do with the way the man was grinning despite the blood.

They were across from The House, and that was enough for Evan to assume that they were both probably drunk. That and stupid. The bouncer outside of the bar caught Evan’s eye and shrugged, distancing himself from the situation. It was enough to let Evan know that he had booted them out of the bar and left them to sort their own shit out. The bouncers knew better than to involve themselves in the business of others.

“Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Evan asked loudly, stepping over to the pair. He looked perfectly unconcerned, expression neutral and hands in his pocket like he wasn’t bothered by the situation at all. The bigger man shoved the one grinning into the wall again, his head hitting the brick, and even that didn’t stop the other man from grinning. Instead it made him laugh and that, that was something that had Evan’s attention narrowing, because who the fuck laughed like that?

“It’s none of your business,” the man snarled over his shoulder at Evan. Stupid, Evan definitely concluded.

“Ah, it really is though.” Evan scuffed his shoe against the sidewalk, with an annoyed sigh. He’d intended to go home and just sleep, after the day he’d spent with the Crew. Having to deal with this shit was not something that he even wanted to do, but he had a reputation to upkeep and this was his street.

“That’s Evan, you fucking dick.” Evan’s eyes flickered to the man pinned, meeting the bluest pair of eyes that he’d ever seen. His tongue flicked out, licking the blood from his lips and Evan could see that his teeth were pink from blood as well. He looked like a mess, but he was still smiling and that had Evan’s curiosity piqued.

“Is that supposed to mean anything to me?” The man snapped and Evan could see the way that his shoulders were tensing, preparing to slam the guys face into the wall again. It was a split second, before Evan was stepping into the mans space, and throwing a punch at the underside of his jaw. His head snapped back at the contact, stumbling back a few paces at the sheer force of the hit.

“It should. You’re on my street, and you’re causing trouble. Now, I’m going to ask you to leave,” Evan said the words slowly, calmly. He didn’t pull the gun he had holstered under his arm, or the knife in the pocket of his jeans, because sometimes the barest hint of a threat was enough. That, and when the man managed to catch himself and look towards him, the smile Evan gave him was just on this side of feral.

Evan didn’t have the man’s height, or bulk, but he didn’t need it. He knew that if the man came at him, he could easily take him. It also helped that he wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty if it came down to it. Most people could read the situation and knew that he wasn’t someone to fuck around with, and with the way the man had taken a step backwards, it showed that the man wasn’t prepared to throw his cards in.

“So, who started the fight?” Evan asked after a moment, watching the other man’s back as he quickly made his getaway. He let his shoulders slump, done with posturing. The fight had been resolved with a little dose of fear and the street was back to being quiet, which was just how he prefered it.

“Might have been me, but it was a misunderstanding. He thought I was trying to hit on his girlfriend.” Evan turned to look at the other guy, who had slid down the wall, and was now sitting on the ground. There was a cut across his forehead, and it looked like he had split his lip as well, both of which were still bleeding sluggishly.

“And were you?” Evan was smiling despite himself. The other guy was being quite honest for someone who knew who he was talking to. With the reputation he had, Evan has expected the man to push the blame onto the guy fleeing. People who caused trouble on his street had a bad habit of ending up in a bigger mess than the one they had initially caused.

“No, I was trying to hit on him,” the man’s response was quick and Evan barked out a laugh at the answer. He stuck out his hand to help the other man up off of the sidewalk, pulling him up from the ground with ease. He released the guys hand and watched as he dusted himself off, inspecting the blood soaking into his shirt. It took him a moment, but once he was done, he grinned up at Evan. “ ‘m Jonathan, by the way.”

“Alright, Jonathan, where do you live?” Evan asked, already starting back down the street, knowing that the question was an offer. If Jonathan wanted to follow him, he was more than welcome to. He’d only been a few buildings down from his apartment when his walk home had been interrupted.

“I live downtown, near the Clinic,” Jonathan responded, close behind. Evan shot a look over his shoulder, because that was clear on the other side of town.

“Why were you at The House, when there’s plenty of good bars on your side of town?” The House was a dive compared to most of the other bars in town, so why anyone would go out of there way to get a drink there was beyond Evan. Hell, the only reason Evan chose to drink at The House was because it was two doors down from his apartment.

“I wasn’t looking to drink. I was looking into a job.”

“What kind of job are you going to find in the middle of the night that’s worth getting your ass kicked by the locals?” Evan could already tell where this was heading, because there was only one job that someone would go out at night to look into.

“I heard that you were looking for a point man.” There was no hesitation in Jonathan’s answer, getting right to the point.

Evan paused in front of the door to his apartment building. He’d already decided to help stitch the other guy up, the cut on his forehead still bleeding as it was, but he guessed that he could hear him out as well. “Who told you about the job?”

“Luke told me that you were looking for someone.” That was something that had Evan pulling open the door, decision fully made.

“I’ll have to check in with my crew to see if there’s a small job that we can pull to give you a test run,” Evan was already pulling out his phone. He dug up Luke’s information first, wanting to confirm Jonathan’s story before he bothered phoning Lui. The last thing he needed was for Jonathan’s story to be made up and for him to be a cop, or from another team, looking to screw things up for Evan’s crew.

If that was the case, Evan was going to need to make another example, to remind people to leave his crew the fuck alone.

As they walked up the stairs, Evan’s hand strayed to the gun under his arm, ready to take it out if he didn’t get the response he wanted from Luke. The text from Luke came in just as they reached the third floor and Evan pulled his keys out of his pocket, instead of the Glock.

“It’s going to be a really small job, man. We can’t run a job with you for the first time and not know how you’re going to fit. So it’ll probably be some crappy gig, like a convenience store, or some shit.” Evan explained, unlocking his door and gestured for Jonathan to head inside.

“No, that sounds alright.” Jonathan grinned, wiping at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. Closing the door behind them, Evan led him through the apartment and to the bathroom, pulling out his first aid kit, while Jonathan checked the damage done to his face in the mirror. Evan knew that he was going to need stitches, but it wasn’t the worst injury he’d had to clean up. Not by a long shot. “Anyways, a small job gives me the best chance at making a good impression. Smaller jobs are harder to fuck up.”

* * * *

“You shouldn’t have said that smaller jobs were harder to fuck up, Delirious.” Evan yelled from behind the counter of the convenience store, hurling a chocolate bar to where Jonathan was crouched behind a rack of magazines.

“First of all, I didn’t know you could fuck up a job quite like this. Second, fuck you, this wasn’t my fault.” A bag of chips landed on the counter above Evan, return fire for the chocolate bar.

“Jesus christ, both of you stop your bitching and work on us getting the fuck out of here.” Tyler scolded from where he was hunched over beside Jonathan.

“I’m sorry, okay!” Nogla howled over the comms.

“Keep it down Daithi, the adults are trying to work on plan F.” Nogla had made his escape earlier and Lui had needed to take the car and go. He’d been working on getting back to pick everyone else up since. It had become increasingly harder as the amount of cops that had shown up had only been increasing.

“Guys, we’re here, you just need to make a run for it.” The announcement came with a squeal of tires from the front of the store.

“Go, I’ll lay down fire until you two make it. Wildcat, take the cash.” Evan threw the bag across the store towards Tyler, who slung it over his shoulder and inched closer to Jonathan.

Evan waited until Tyler nodded at him, before he was jumping out from behind the counter and firing his Glock out of the broken front window. He aimed at the vehicles and not at the cops, just trying to keep them crouched behind their cars long enough for Jonathan and Tyler to sprint across the street to where Lui was idling. Nogla was hanging out the window of the car, firing his own gun in turn with Evan.

When the slide on his gun locked down, Evan dropped back down behind the counter. He released the now spent magazine from his gun and leaned to the side. He risked a glance, hearing the sound of even more shots being let off. The cops were now firing back at them, which meant firing at them again wouldn’t work as a distraction a second time. The only reason that it had worked the first time was because of the initial surprise of actually being shot at.

“Calibre, I’m not going to make it. Just go, I’ll grab a car and get out of here myself.” Evan ordered over the comms, sliding a fresh magazine into his gun. There wasn’t any sense in having the crew wait for him to make a break out the front door, just to make it to the car. It put them at risk and Evan didn’t want the cause of one of them getting hurt to be him.

“Okay, okay, I got it. Don’t get fucking killed, Vanoss.” Lui swore back, his voice crackling with static. Evan could hear the squeal of tires on the cement, which would be a big enough distraction for him to run across the front of the store and into the back room. He panted, ignoring the hollow sound of shots being fired as he slammed the door behind him closed. He flicked the lock, creating another barrier between capture, and himself. He’d have a much better chance of escaping out the back than he did out the front, doing the opposite of what the rest of the crew had done.

“Fuck, Vanoss, Delirious just jumped out of the car. He’s making a run down the side alley.”

“I’ve got a plan, I’ve got a plan,” Jonathan chimed in, right after Tyler yelled across the comms.

“I don’t care what your plan is Delirious, you go and get your ass back in that car, and get the fuck out of here.” Evan snapped as he ran across the room, scrabbling at the lock on the last door between him and freedom. He could hear glass shatter from the lobby and he knew that he was running out of time.

“It’s too late, he’s gone Vanoss. We can’t go after him. We need to get out of here.”

“Alright, just go meet up with Basically and Moo, I’ll see if I can’t get the both of us out of this mess.” Evan threw the back door open, stepping outside with his gun raised. There was no one immediately yelling at him to get down on the ground, or shooting at him, so he took it as a good sign and slammed the door closed behind him.

“Over here, man,” Jonathan yelled from across the lot, head poking out of a car window. He was smiling, pleased with whatever he was doing. Evan ran, a mix of fear at how close they were to being caught, and anger at Jonathan for risking himself to make his way back here.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Evan yelled, pushing at Jonathan’s face to get him back in the car. He threw open the door as Jonathan crawled over the stick shift and into the passenger seat.

“I was saving your ass, now get in the car, and drive!” The car was running and as much as Evan wanted to be angry, all he could feel was relief. He could see where Jonathan had pulled out wires to get the car started and Evan knew that he wouldn’t have had time to do it on his own.

Evan threw the car into reverse, hit the gas and pulled out of the parking spot quickly, narrowly avoiding the other cars parked beside them. He didn’t let the car come to a stop, before he was shifting into drive and pressing down on the gas again. The car jerked, before pulling forward, heading towards the side street. He could see the back door swing open and two men ran out, guns in hand, and aiming at the car as they fled.

“Get on the phone and call Tyler. Tell him that we won’t be meeting up with them. We’re going to take these cops on a detour.” The crackle in his ear told him that the rest of the Crew had already made it out of range, which was a good sign.

Evan swung the car down the street, heading towards the front of the store, despite Jonathan’s noise of protest. He slammed on the brakes, pulled his gun and aimed for the tires of the first cruiser blocking the street. He swore under his breath as he fired off four shots, with two connections, before the cops were focused on them.

He flicked the safety on, and dropped the gun out the window, not wanting to risk the safety malfunctioning if he threw it into the back of the car. The gun wouldn’t have prints and it sure as hell wouldn’t trace back to him.

He had one foot on the clutch and a hand on the gear shift, and this time, when Jonathan yelled “Drive!”, he did.

“Now that we have their attention,” Evan grinned, drifting between the two lanes to pass the cars on the road. He could hear the blaze of sirens behind them, but it would take them a minute to get the now useless car blocking their path, out of the way. That and the cops would need to be careful of the public traffic, something that Evan wasn’t as worried about.

“There’s a parking garage on Fifth, we can ditch the car, and get a new one there. How fast can you wire another car?” They took a hard left, blowing through a yellow light, as Evan explained their next course of action. The sooner that they could switch out cars, the better it would be for them. The cops that had caught them heading out of the backlot had probably managed to catch their plates and the fact that the car was an obnoxious green, wasn’t something to their benefit.

“Quick enough,” Jonathan gripped at the dash, trying to keep himself steady as Evan took another turn.

The car didn’t quite move like Evan was used to, but he had enough control not to mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the way Jonathan was watching over the center console, checking to see if their pursuers were close. When he flopped back in his seat, he threw back his head and laughed.

It was enough to have Evan wishing that they were in one of his own cars, not in one that they had stolen for a quick getaway. Next time, he wanted Jonathan in the passenger seat of his Jaguar F-Type, where he could actually push the car and really race through the streets that the Crew ran. Because if this was the way Jonathan reacted when he was driving this car, he wanted to see the way Jonathan could appreciate a car that could keep up to them.

They needed to switch cars quickly, but luckily the parking garage was only a few streets away. The cops hadn’t managed to get back on their tail yet, and Evan was hoping that they would have enough time. Getting arrested was the last thing that he wanted to happen to them.

“Fuck your driving, man,” Jonathan shouted from the passenger seat when Evan narrowly avoided hitting a sedan in their lane.

When they came up to the parking garage, Evan turned into it quickly, driving up to the second level. He drove to the back, pulling up beside another car. He shifted into park and jumped out of the car, leaving it running. Jonathan was already working on their next vehicle, making quick work, as he was already pulling the door open.

Evan focused on taking off his gloves, mask, and jacket, while Jonathan worked. He stepped in behind Jonathan, throwing his things into the back seat of the car, and reached to pull Jonathan’s mask off while he was leaning into the car. Jonathan pressed back into him, looking up with a questioning look, face slightly red, and hair a mess.

“The best part about Fifth street is there’s no cameras.” Evan grinned, hand slapping at Jonathan’s shoulder, before he pushed himself away. “Hurry up, we need to get going.”

“Right, okay.” Jonathan turned back to the cars wiring, pulling off his own gloves as he decided his next step. Evan watched him lean back into the car, shoulders flexing as he worked. It wasn’t long before the car came purring to life in his hands and they were scrambling to get into the car and going.

They took their time, driving out of the parking garage at a reasonable pace and then sliding into traffic and keeping to the speed limit. There were police cruisers everywhere, but Evan knew that if they picked up the pace now, they would be done for. What they needed to do now, was blend into their surroundings, and hopefully not get stopped at a roadblock.

“If we’re not meeting up with the guys, where’re we going?” Jonathan finally asked, running his hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it.

“My apartment. We can store the car in the garage and Lui can come get rid of it when everythings died down a bit.” Lui had bought a garage back when they had begun their crew, a shop that he had lovingly named ‘Caliber Automotive’. It backed as a chop shop, as the crew had established a close relationship with the local car dealers to get keys cut directly from the source. It gave them a source of income, as well as a place to get rid of any cars they used on jobs.

“But with the way we lost the cops, I can drop you off anywhere you like.” The offer felt wrong on his tongue and Evan knew that he didn’t want Jonathan to take it. Instead he wanted to keep heading north until they reached his apartment, then have a beer with the man who was now officially a member of the Crew.

“Nah, man. Your apartment sounds good.” Jonathan reclined his seat, settling in for the leisurely drive. There was a smile on his face, crooked, and a high flush to his cheeks. Adrenaline from a fucked job that they had somehow managed to salvage. Evan could feel it to, in the way he itched to floor the gas, in the way his body just wanted to fuck.

“Fuck,” Evan muttered, the realization hitting him hard.

He’d spent the last two week with Jonathan, getting familiar with how he fit. He’d been surprised by just how much he actually liked the guy and he had known, even before they had started the job, that he was going to be a good fit to the Crew. And now here Evan was, wanting to pull the car over, and just kiss Jonathan right there.

* * * *

When they finally made it back to his apartment, the first thing Evan did was back a beeline for the fridge. He pulled two beers out and passed one over to Jonathan. He desperately needed a drink, he needed it more than he needed to go to the bathroom and jerk off his excess energy.

“Hey,” Jonathan set his beer down on the counter, unopened, before he pushed forward. It was all the warning that Evan had to set his own drink down, before Jonathan was in his space, and was wrapping his hand in the collar of his shirt. It took a moment for Evan to catch up, but he didn’t hesitate, because Jonathan was there, and Evan didn’t feel like he was the only one struggling to breathe.

“Didn’t want to do this for the first time, if we were drunk,” Jonathan admitted. It was all that he had time to say, as Evan was yanking him closer, and kissing him. He started soft, a barely there brush of his lips, before he was reaching up and tightening a hand in Jonathan’s hair. It didn’t take him long to nip at Jonathan’s bottom lip, and then to lick into his mouth. He wasn’t going to waste time, not when Jonathan was pressing against him, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt.

The kiss was filthy, all teeth and tongues. Jonathan rocked forward and Evan groaned at the feel of him against his hip. It was enough for Evan to wonder if they were both just looking for a fuck after a job, looking to fuck out the excess adrenalin. Despite that initial thought, Evan knew better. He’d been thinking about it since the night that he had stitched Jonathan up.

“This is better than I thought it would be,” Jonathan panted against Evan’s lips. He already sounded fucking wrecked. “and I’ve been thinking about this for two weeks now.”

“Fuck,” Evan growled, put at ease to know that Jonathan wanted this as much as he did. He pulled Jonathan’s head back so that he could move back in and kiss the underside of his jaw. The way Jonathan let him, made both of them shiver. From here, Evan could easily have killed him if he had wanted, but instead he sucked marks into his skin. It was a small amount of trust that Jonathan was giving him, and it went straight to Evan’s cock.

Jonathan’s hands moved from Evan’s hips and down to his ass, grinding the two of them together. It wasn’t nearly enough, but Evan’s stomach still tightened at each roll of his hips. He kissed a line down Jonathan’s throat, before nipping hard at his collar bone. Jonathan jerked against him, fingers digging into his skin, as a high whine escaped him.

“C'mon Evan, can we move this to the bed or something?” Jonathan rocked a leg between Evan’s thighs, aiming for some kind of contact. Evan instead backed him up against the counter and then lifted him up onto it with an ease that only came from how light Jonathan was. He took advantage of Jonathan’s surprised laugh to slip his hands underneath his shirt and lifted.

“Fuck, you look good.” The shirt was dropped to the floor, where Evan hoped the rest of their clothes would soon be as well. Luckily, Jonathan was on the same page and tugged Evan out of his own shirt, before lifting his ass off the counter enough, so that he could slip out of his jeans and underwear.

Evan reached over, tugging open a drawer impatiently, and pulling a bottle of lube out. It never hurt to be prepared and he was glad that Jonathan was too busy pulling off Evan’s belt, to ask questions about why he kept lube in the kitchen. When he had it in hand, he set them on the counter beside Jonathan, before finally giving him a hand. He made quick work of his remaining clothing, kicking his pants off to the side so he wouldn’t trip over them.

As soon as he was out of them, Evan took a hold of Jonathan’s thighs and pulled in him close. While he opened the lube and slicked up his fingers, he pressed forward, kissing Jonathan hard, so that he could swallow his moans when he slowly pressed two fingers in, knuckle deep. Jonathan writhed against him, wrapping one of his legs around Evan’s waist and pulling him that much closer, his heel digging into the small of Evan’s back.

Evan worked him open quickly, and wrapped his other hand around Jonathan’s cock. It had Jonathan breaking away from the kiss, to gasp and pant against Evan’s lips, unable to catch his breath. It wasn’t until Jonathan finally grunted, “I’m ready, I’m fucking ready. Stop teasing, you asshole.” that Evan finally crooked his fingers and gave one last stroke up Jonathan’s cock.

“Alright, alright,” Evan acknowledged. He squeezed Jonathan’s legs, not caring that he was smearing lube and precome up Jonathan’s thighs, and urged him to tighten his legs around his waist. As soon as he had done so, Evan lifted him off the counter, swinging around and pushing him back against the wall.

“Oh fuck,” Jonathan groaned as Evan pressed into him, no hesitation. He clawed at Evan’s arms, fingers digging into his bicep and holding on as Evan sunk in.

“Fuck, you feel good, Jonathan.” Evan pressed his face into the crook of Jonathan’s neck, biting at the curve, as he rolled his hips back, before fucking back into him. Jonathan’s shoulders knocked back against the wall, as well as his head, as he threw it back on a long moan.

It was rough, the way Jonathan was slammed back into the wall on each thrust, cock trapped between the two of them. He couldn’t reach down and jerk himself off, not when he was struggling to just hold on. There was also the fact that Evan couldn’t give him a hand, not when his hands were on Jonathan’s ass, holding him up and open. The contact of rubbing against their stomachs wasn’t enough, but then Evan fucked in deep, angle changing as he guided Jonathan’s hips down to meet him, and Jonathan was gone.

Evan came quickly after him, giving one final thrust, before he was collapsing down to the kitchen floor, with Jonathan a limp mess in his lap.

They sat there, Evan kissing along the line of Jonathan’s jaw, and Jonathan panting in his ear. It wasn’t until Evan shifted and the mess of Jonathan’s come on his stomach itched, that Evan finally considered actually getting up. He nudged at Jonathan, urging him up off his cock and to his feet.

“I could use a shower,” Evan said, pushing up from the floor. “Are you gonna join me?”

Jonathan blinked at him, orgasm slowed mind taking its time in picking up the offer for him to stay. When he finally got it, the smile that spread across his face was enough of an answer for Evan.

Evan cupped Jonathan’s jaw, thumb brushing against his cheek as he leaned into kiss him. This time it was softer; the press of lips slowly opening up and lazily licking into each others mouths. It was the exact opposite of everything that they’d done up to that point.

“Come on then.”

“So, am I special, or do all new Crew members get fucked up against a wall?” Jonathan asked, trailing behind Evan on shaky legs as he was led to the bathroom. It earned him a swat and laugh.

“No one said you were part of the Crew yet,” Evan teased, pulling an extra towel out of the closet as they passed it.

“Well, because I wasn’t the one to screw up the job today, I was thinking my chances were pretty good.”

Evan paused, before finally turning to face Jonathan. He really hadn’t given him an answer on if he was in or yet and he guessed that he did owe him that. “Yeah, you’re good, you’re in. Fuck, who knows, maybe we’ll rob a bank or some shit next. We might even fuck in a bed afterward too.

He wasn’t sure just where their relationship was going to go, or even how the future of the Crew looked, but he was ready for the change already and from the way Jonathan was laughing, he was right there with him.

[Fic] When I Was Sixteen (My Senses Fooled Me)

2015-01-13T09:19:42Z

Title: When I Was Sixteen (My Senses Fooled Me)
Fandom: Haikyuu!!
Pairing: Oikawa Tooru/Kageyama Tobio
Rating: Mature
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 665
Summary: Oikawa takes Kageyama's fingers into his mouth and this is how he's going to start taking Kageyama apart.
Author Note: This fic was originally titled 'DBW' or 'Dirty Bad Wrong', and it was supposed to be much much longer. This scene was cut, seeing as the other pieces of the story fit better with a future fic that I have planned out.

Oikawa’s first impression of Kageyama isn’t a favourable one. Too often can he turn, only to find Kageyama staring, watching with wide eyes and a blank expression. At first Oikawa thinks that it’s judgement, watching every move Oikawa makes and storing them away. It isn’t until later that Oikawa realizes that it’s admiration.

Kageyama might look like he’s all soft edges and vapid thoughts, but looks are deceiving. He’s abrupt and socially inept. He doesn’t know how to interact with those around him and he is nothing but a thorn in Oikawa’s side.

All it takes is to catch a glimpse of Kageyama watching him, for Oikawa to slip. And sure, those slips are nothing more than minuscule mistakes that no one else notices, but he’s sure that Kageyama does. So when Kageyama comes into the gym one morning, face flushed pink from the cold outside, he steps forward without thought.

Oikawa pushed Kageyama down to the gym floor, promptly squatting down beside him. He takes Kageyama’s hands into his own, smoothes his thumb over the knuckles of Kageyama’s fingers and checks his nails. They’re colder than Oikawa had expected, fingers red and chilled from being outside without gloves.

“You can’t practice if your fingers are this stiff. You’ll end up hurting yourself.” The words sound hollow, even to Oikawa’s own ears. An excuse, the words are nothing but a flimsy excuse. Kageyama blinks slowly, expression unchanging, but Oikawa thinks he sees a flicker of something in his eyes. It’s enough, enough of a sign that he doesn’t bother hesitating as he pulls Kageyama up from where they’d been sitting on the gym floor.

“Come on,” Oikawa lets go of Kageyama’s hand, but he knows that Kageyama will follow him. He heads off to the club room, knowing that no one will be there at this time. He waits until Kageyama is in the room with him, before he closes the door and flicks the lock.

Oikawa pushes Kageyama down into the matts on the other end of the room, bracing himself with his knees on either side of Kageyama’s. When he’s settled, he takes one of Kageyama’s hands and brings it up close to his face. Kageyama’s fingers twitch, as if they want to close around the hand holding them, before they relax. Oikawa breathes hotly on them, before he leans forward the last few inches and licks along the cold digits.

Still cold. Oikawa thinks as he wraps his lips around two of Kageyama’s fingers, tongue curling around them. He sucks on them and Kageyama jerks against him, eyes wide and wondering. Oikawa smirks around his fingers, because this is what he’s been waiting for.

He knows he has Kageyama then, with the ways his pupils are blown and his breathe heaves from his lungs. He’s watching Oikawa with rapt attention, a small whine escaping him as Oikawa pulls off of his fingers, teeth scraping their pads as he goes.

Oikawa grins, because he can feel Kageyama growing hard underneath him and that was what he had been aiming for. He leans in one last time, lapping at the palm of Kageyama’s hand, and making sure to leave his hand slick with saliva.

He slaps his hands down onto the ground on either side of him and pushes himself up, movements loose. He hums as he turns away from a confused looking Kageyama, already heading back out the club room door. He’s pleased with how this turned out. Getting up and leaving, that’s just going to have Kageyama waiting, before he finally breaks and he’ll beg. Oikawa knows this, knows it like he knows how satisfied he’s going to be when it happens.

There’s that and the fact that he knows Kageyama will most likely jerk himself off with his now spit slicked hand.

Oikawa can’t even be bothered by the knowledge that he’s fucking with a kid. He’s fueled by jealousy and desire for something that he’s not to sure of himself.

[Fic] No One's Here To Sleep

2015-01-13T09:13:46Z

Title: No One's Here To Sleep
Fandom: The Evil Within
Pairing: Sebastian Castellanos/Joseph Oda
Rating: Explicit
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 2220
Summary: There was no worry, not when Sebastian smiled at him as he passed him a plate of food. Between the two of them, they could figure it out.
Author Note: This is set pre-game.
It's basically just porn. No really, it's nothing but porn.

Sebastian’s fingers were rough against him, stiff and awkward. It wasn’t so much a clumsy attempt, but one filled with hesitation. If it were anyone else, Joseph would have flipped his partner back onto the bed, straddled them, and quickly worked himself open with lube slicked fingers. The person finally sliding a finger in, knuckle deep, was Sebastian though and that made this different.

Joseph had wanted this for far too long to quickly work himself open while Sebastian watched him. That was something to be stored away for a later time. So instead of taking the lead, he let himself relax into his partners touch, really letting himself feel the way Sebastian’s thick finger slid in deeper, it’s intrusion made easier by a liberal amount of lube.

It was slower than he would have liked, but he could feel the calluses on Sebastian’s fingers, ones built up from handling his .40 Smith & Wesson for years. He’d wondered for some time what it would feel like to have his rough hands on his skin. The reality of his touch was so much better than anything he could have ever imagined. The reality was how the hand not slowly working him open, was pressed flat against Joseph’s stomach, fingers catching across his skin and causing the muscles under his touch to flutter at the contact.

The knowledge that dangerous, highly trained, Sebastian Castellanos, was being careful with him, was enough to have him arching his back on a ragged moan, when Sebastian pushed his finger in deeper.

Joseph’s fingers tightened in the sheets around him, fingers flexing as he tried to find some kind of purchase. Then Sebastian stopped, which dragged a frustrated groan from Joseph as he flopped back down. He looked down. past the glasses slipping down his nose, to where Sebastian was crouched between his legs, a frown settling onto his face. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and waited for Sebastian to actually look away from where his finger was inside him and actually look up at him.

“You know, you don’t have to be so careful. I didn’t invite you in so that you could be careful.” Joseph said bluntly, watching for any sign that Sebastian wanted to leave. He wasn’t going to force this if his partner showed any sign that he was uncomfortable, which could be why he was so hesitant, but Seb’s expression wasn’t giving anything away.

“Mm, you’re right.” Sebastian finally said after a minute of silence. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, before he finally let his expression melt into a small smile, a smirk, if Joseph was being completely honest with himself. It was the only warning Joseph had before Sebastian was sliding his finger out and then quickly sliding two back in.

“Fuck,” Joseph gasped, falling back onto the bed with a grunt. He heard Sebastian chuckle, but he couldn’t focus on him, not when his fingers were scissoring and that was what he had wanted.

Joseph rolled his hips against the rough pace of Sebastian’s fingers, meeting the slide of two fingers with a throaty laugh. Now that Joseph had said something, there was no hesitation in Sebastian’s touch. Instead his fingers were steady, just the way Joseph liked it, while his free hand moved away his stomach and settled onto his hip, stilling them while he worked Joseph open.

“You know, I’ve thought about this. About the way your fingers would feel inside of me, of the way your cock would feel.” Joseph started, only pausing when Sebastian slid a third finger into him and brushed against the spot that had Joseph positively writhing. “I wondered if we would even make it to the bed, or if you’d just fuck me on the living room floor. I also thought about the noises you would make when I fucked you, about the sound you would make when you finally came.”

Joseph’s voice was steady as he spoke and he pushed pushed his glasses back up into place, so that he could see the way Sebastian’s expression stuttered at his words. It looked like he was fraying around the edges and that had Joseph grinning, because that was exactly what he had wanted.

He reached out towards his nightstand, grabbing the condom he had left there and held it out towards Sebastian. “Come on, I’m good.”

“Alright,” Sebastian pulled his fingers free and Joseph shivered at the loss of contact. The brief loss would be more than worth what was to come next, so he ignored it, in favour of watching Sebastian take the condom and open it. Joseph turned his attention down to Sebastian’s cock, curved up and leaking precome. He wanted to sit up and push Sebastian back, before taking him into his mouth, but he could wait. Maybe later, after they’d had time to talk about how they’d ended up on Joseph’s bed, with Sebastian rolling a condom onto his dick and lining himself up.

It felt like it had just happened, that they’d come off a case, had a beer and it had just happened. Joseph knew that wasn’t the case, knew that they were both too precise for this to have happened without thought. Joseph had been thinking about this for far too long and he was starting to realize that Sebastian had probably been doing the same.

Joseph hooked his leg around Sebastian’s hips and dragged him forward, his hand reaching out to take his shoulder and pull him down close enough that he could mouth at the line of his jaw. He nipped with teeth, before pulling away, just far enough to breathe into his ear, “I’m good. No more waiting.”

“Yeah,” Sebastian answered and it was all enough. There would be time to talk later, but for now, they were setting that aside. For now, Sebastian was guiding his dick inside of Joseph with one hand, while his other was braced on the bed beside Joseph’s head, holding himself up. The contact was enough to have Joseph gasping against Sebastian’s cheek, and that had Sebastian’s hips twitching against the slow pace he was trying to take.

“Fuck,” Sebastian hissed and that was all the warning that Joseph had before he was sliding all the way in and bottoming out. Whining at the sudden change in pace, Joseph dug his fingers into Sebastian’s back, drawing him in closer. He could feel Sebastian kissing a line down the hollow of his throat, but all he could think about was the way he suddenly felt so full.

“That was good, do it again. Please, oh fuck, just do it again.” The words were out of Joseph’s mouth, even as Sebastian started to slide back. He could feel Sebastian smiling against the curve of his shoulder as he pulled out all the way, before thrusting back in hard. He tried to roll his hips to meet his thrust, but it was hard when he wasn’t sure just what kind of pace Sebastian was going to take.

So instead of trying to meet him, he cradled Sebastian’s chin in his hand and pulled him up to kiss him. And while the initial guiding touch was gentle, the kiss was anything but. The kiss was clacking teeth and Joseph biting Sebastian’s bottom lip, before he finally licked into his mouth. He tasted like beer and the Chinese takeaway that they had got on the way back to Joseph’s apartment. They had kissed on the way to Joseph’s bedroom, but this was different, more intimate. Another connection to add to the one where they were already joined.

Joseph’s words and his touch were enough to reassure Sebastian that he was fine, that he had prepped him enough to be ready for this.

“Fuck, you feel good.” Sebastian panted against Joseph’s lips, before kissing him again. It was hard to keep that up though, especially when Sebastian fell into a rhythm, rocking his hips down hard and pulling back just as quick. Soon it had them breathing breathing each others air and gasping.

Although it was just what Joseph had wanted, it wasn’t enough, but that was something that Sebastian seemed to know. He was reaching between them without Joseph having to say anything, hand wrapping around Joseph’s cock, even as he continued to keep the pace of his thrusts.

“Fuck, Seb,” Joseph gasped, back arching and breathe stuttering out of his lungs. The contact was just what he had needed. Sebastian’s hand flicked over him, thumb tracing along the slit and smearing pre come down his length. Joseph didn’t care about the noises leaving him, all he cared for was the way Sebastian’s hand moved in time with his hips and the way it all felt.

He had no doubt that he could get off like this, that he could get off with nothing more than Sebastian’s hand on him. His body wasn’t sure if it wanted to rock up into the motion of the hand on him, or down onto the dick sliding into him, because both were good. Both were more than good. The indecision had his hips stuttering between both touches, but when he rocked up, the angle changed and Sebastian’s dick dragged along that perfect spot as he slid in and Joseph was gone.

He came with a moan, hands wrapped around the back of Sebastian’s neck as he came over his hand in hot spurts. He trembled, Sebastian’s hand working him through his orgasm, even as the pace of his thrusts sped up. There was no denying the fact that Sebastian was close, that it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.

Joseph panted wetly against Sebastian’s neck, reaching out with a shaky hand to bat away Sebastian’s hand from his cock. He knew if Sebastian continued, that it would be too much and Joseph wouldn’t be able to think. He needed to think, because he wanted to watch as Sebastian finally fell over the edge.

Wrapping both of his legs tightly around Sebastian’s hips, Joseph pulled him in and rolled his hips, taking a more guiding role. One of Sebastian’s hands was clenched into his hair, as he whispered nonsensical words into Joseph’s ear. Joseph could hear the hitch in his breath, each time he matched Sebastian’s movements. He could hear the way Sebastian groaned, when his hips finally stuttered and came to a stop.

“Fuck, Joseph,” Sebastian chuckled, collapsing against Joseph as they both shook through the aftershocks. There wasn’t anyway that Joseph could reply, so he settled for gasping a laugh in return.

Something that he had spent so much time wondering about, had actually happened. The reality of it all, well, it was so much better than anything he could have come up with, but wasn’t that the way it usually went? He wasn’t even sure how they had gotten here, but it was good, so he didn’t mind not knowing.

“We need to clean up,” Joseph finally managed, fingers tracing down the line Sebastian’s back. He felt Sebastian nod, from where his face was buried against the side of his own. Even though Sebastian had agreed, he made no attempt to move, to which Joseph responded by smacking his hand flat against his partners shoulder. “That means you need to get off of me.”

“We’ll clean up and then finish eating dinner, yeah?” Sebastian sat up, finally sliding out of Joseph, who sundered at the loss of contact. He could only nod as he pushed himself up as well and swung his legs off of the bed. He could already feel the burn in the back of his thighs, but it had been more than worth it and besides, they both had the day off tomorrow.

“I never managed to put dinner away, so it’s all still out on the counter.” Joseph agreed, standing up and walking off to the bathroom. He grabbed his pants from the floor as he went, not wanting to strut naked around his apartment, once he’d cleaned himself up.

He could hear Sebastian behind him, rummaging around the bedroom. Joseph made a note that he was going to have to empty the bin in his room in the morning, not wanting to have a used condom sitting in the trash there.

“Are you staying the rest of the night?” The reflection staring back at Joseph was a wreck, but he had expected that. His hair was a mess, and there were bite marks against his collar bone, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

“Mmm,” the sound was the only kind of answer that Joseph was going to get. He knew it was agreement though, and for now it was more enough.

He cleaned himself up, pulled on his pants and went to meet Sebastian out in the kitchen. It had all been so easy, something that he was glad for. They could talk about it over leftover Chinese food and another beer, because they did need to talk about it. Joseph didn’t want to fuck this up, not when he had been partners with Sebastian for so long.

There was no worry though, not when Sebastian smiled at him as he passed him a plate of food. Between the two of them, they could figure it all out.

[Fic] Little Beast (Assassin's Creed)

2013-06-09T06:52:39Z

Title: Little Beast
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr/Malik
Rating: Explicit
Warning(s): Some Violence
Word Count: 4100
Summary: Malik knew Altaïr was like him, someone so ingrained in blood that it sometimes seemed that that was all they were. They were predators, hunters, monsters, and other descriptors that people tended to put upon people like them. Serial Killer AU.
Author Note: Title taken from Richard Siken's 'Little Beast'. Half of this story was inspired by the line 'Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.' Fuck am I sick of looking at this fic.

All it took was a carefully placed knife to end someone’s life. Tightening your hands over soft flesh that gives way under the smallest amount of pressure. Sometimes he liked the pleasure of leaving bruises that wouldn't turn up until the body started decomposing, before he gave in to that final urge to end it all. An urge, maybe not the best word for what he felt. It was more of an itch, an itch that spread if left unattended for too long. Was it a problem? Yes, most definitely. Was it a problem he was willing to fix? No.

It had been too many years since he had started this all, too many now that he knew there was no stopping. He cocked his head at the thought, a smile twisting his expression into something feral. Of course, it wasn't as if he wanted to stop, not when the feel of a blood slicked knife in his hand felt so good.

"A pity, because if I wanted to stop, you may not be here right now." Malik mused, meeting the glassy eyed gaze of the man whose chest he was straddling. He tapped the knife against the man’s cheek, leaving a streak of blood across his face.

He paused a moment, admiring the way all the cunning had left the man’s face. Intelligence, ferocity, all the reasons Malik had picked him, were gone and in their stead, there was nothing but fear. The man had been so cold at first, full of barely contained agitation. He had been so stunning, the way his eyes had catalogued everything in the bar, but in the face of his death, the predator he had been, had been nowhere to be seen.

The calm of the kill was working its way into his bones, followed by the disappointed realization that the man he had just killed was nothing more than another terrified person. He spun his knife around his fingers, watching the way his bloody fingerprints marred the few clean places on the blade. He slid his knife into its sheath in his jean pocket, careful to slide it home. He gave himself another moment to soak in his work, before he pushed himself up and stepped over the body.

He glanced around the apartment, taking in the minimalistic room dressings and shaking his head. He wasn't sure how long it would take for the body to be found and he really didn't care. He had no need for his work to be displayed in newspapers with theories and under a name he had not chosen for himself. He didn't care to see if anyone could connect his work together. He didn’t kill for attention.

He wiped his hand down his pants, before plucking a glove from his pocket and sliding it on. He walked over to the man’s bookshelf, glad to see that he wouldn't have to substitute for a book tonight. He picked the most worn book from the shelf, gloved thumb tracing over the title with a sign of reverence. In the end, ink was so much more permanent than blood, harder to get rid of. You could burn ink, but there would always be someone willing to write the words out again.

He set the book on the table and flipped the cover open, the spine falling open with ease. He pulled a pen from his pocket, scrawling 'Safety and Peace' onto the first page in a delicate hand. He smiled at the words, his own little joke, and his own little calling card. It was symbolic to one more predator removed, safety and peace to those who the dead could no longer touch. He closed the book, before pushing it back into its spot on the shelf.

It was the last thing he felt the need to do, so he collected his things, giving a cursory glance over the apartment to make sure he had left no noticeable evidence around. He knew that one day he would be caught, but he wasn't going to make it easy for them.

"Rest in peace," Malik threw back to the corpse as he left the man’s apartment, closing the door quietly behind him.

:: ::

Twelve weeks, three days and four hours. Malik traced the words into the table with his finger, the amount of time since his last hunt. Not his last kill, but the moment he had sat down at a bar in Chicago and started looking for his target. He hadn't been lucky and had had to wait two days before someone had struck his interest, but that had been fine.

He liked the waiting, liked looking at the faces of people wandering in and trying to find someone just on this side of brutal. One saw many things when they were looking and he enjoyed cataloguing personalities that he saw. That one was shy, that one was flamboyant, that one was in hiding, ah, that one, a hunter.

Malik's interest perked at the man who walked into the bar, his movements smooth and languid. He blended in with the crowd, but Malik knew what to look for. He could see the way the man’s eyes looked over everything in the room, stopping over exits and those who looked like they could possibly pose a threat. He wasn't looking at them in fear though, only ascertaining where they were and then putting them from his mind.

He wound through the crowd of people with ease, didn't bump or jostle those around him. He moved in the same way Malik did. Malik watched him, cocking his head to the side in curiosity, wondering if maybe he had found his target.

He didn't shy away when the man turned his gaze on him, only blinked slowly and stopped tapping his fingers against the table. He wrapped his hand around his beer, ignoring the still full glass. He only ordered to keep up appearances when he was on a hunt.

When the other man looked away, Malik smiled and cast his attention down to the table. He was never sure if he had the attention of anyone who he deemed remotely interesting. In the past, having one arm had thrown people off, as had his gender though. Picking both men and women had opened doors, but you ever knew if you were going to lure someone in or just piss them off.

Sooner or later he would pull someone in and he could wait until then.

"Why come to a bar if not to drink?" Malik looked up to find the man standing beside his table. He had bright gold eyes that were watching Malik hawkishly. He had a small smirk on his face, but not one that gave way to what he was thinking.

"I come for the people," Malik responded, lips curving up into a smile. The man pulled out a chair and took seat, not waiting for an invitation. He slouched down into the chair, twisted off to the side, body open to face the bar. He was keeping track of his surroundings, even as he gave up some of his attention for Malik.

"The people?" He asked distantly, tracking the other patrons of the bar with his eyes.

"People are fascinating, Everyone is so different in their mannerisms, there's always someone doing something that's worth watching." Malik said focusing on the other man. He blocked out the rest of the bar, curious about the other man.

"Why me?" The man turned to look at him sharply, and finally Malik had all of his attention.

"You're different than anyone else in this bar tonight," Malik shrugged and grinned, all teeth. The man didn't flinch back, just met Malik's gaze with a steady one.

"Altaïr," he introduced himself, reaching across the table.

"Malik," Malik gave in turn, taking Altaïr's hand. He made a soft sound of surprise when Altaïr spun out of his seat, pulling Malik from his chair as he did so. He didn't say anything as Altaïr led him out of the bar, amused by the other man’s actions despite himself. Usually he took the lead and he had always been able to talk himself into someone’s apartment. It looked like he wouldn't need to talk Altaïr into anything though, not tonight.

Altaïr led them around a corner and slammed Malik back up against the side of a building, one hand pinning his wrist and the other on Malik's hip. He kissed him hard, all teeth and hinting at violence. Malik gave as good as he got and bit down on Altaïr's bottom lip, tongue tracing over the scar he had seen there earlier.

He was surprised at how impatient Altaïr was. His movements were rushed, almost as if he couldn't wait to get off. It reminded Malik of himself after a hunt. He usually found himself finding the closest willing participant and fucking them into the nearest surface. It worked off the excess adrenalin and gave him that final release. He's seen the same reaction to those who had had a dose of their fix and needed that extra push.

He squirmed, enough so that Altaïr pulled back to watch him with curious eyes. Malik just grinned and rolled his hips forward, earning a small groan from his companion. Yeah, this was going to be an easy one. "I do walls, I just don't do walls that are outside. Do you have a place?"

Altaïr seemed to think about it for a moment, the internal dilemma of bringing a stranger into where he was staying or not. He rocked his hips against Malik as he debated with himself and Malik gave a low throaty moan, hoping to help him make the decision quicker. It seemed to do the trick, because Altaïr dropped his wrist and fisted his hand in the hood of Malik's jacket. "Yeah, it's not far."

"Good, lead the way then," Malik nipped at the line of Altaïr's neck, pleased with himself. He was tempted to let this one fuck him, with the way he moved against Malik, all coiled muscles and focused movements. Then again, he knew he would only be disappointed afterwards. He didn't want a quick, dirty fuck, not one that would be interrupted by a kill. He liked to draw things out, liked to spend hours bruising and being bruised. With a potential kill, he wouldn't dare let things draw out.

He waited for Altaïr to turn away and start down the street, before letting his fingers brush over the blade hidden in the pocket of his jacket. He knew the weight was there, but it was comforting to feel the rough hilt of the blade.

He quickly fell into step beside Altaïr, arm brushing against the other mans as they walked. Altaïr didn't say anything and that suited Malik just fine. He didn't care for small talk, not when something he wanted was so close.

Altaïr nudged him in the direction he wanted them to go, teeth biting at the line of Malik's jaw as he led them down a new street. Malik twisted his fingers in Altaïr's belt loop, pulling them flush together in the middle of the sidewalk. He kissed him, teeth scraping over Altaïr's bottom lip, before pulling back and giving a throaty, "We're still outside."

Altaïr gave a grunt of confirmation, looping his arm around Malik's waist and pulling him down the street. He didn't pause until they were standing in front of an apartment building and even then he only stopped for a moment, before guiding Malik through the front doors. There wasn't anyone in the lobby, for which Malik was glad of. That meant that there wasn't anyone to see his face, to remember the one armed man coming in with Altaïr.

He didn't see any security camera's either, another benefit.

Altaïr walked him through the lobby, past the stairs and elevator and into the hall lined in numbered doors. The anticipation of being so close had Malik's heart thundering in his chest and his fingers twitching where they were gripping Altaïr's jeans.

He released his arm from around Malik's waist and dug into his pocket for his keys. Malik slid around behind him, hand dropping from his belt loop and tracing over the front of his jeans. He grinned as Altaïr's hips rocked back at the contact and a shudder ran through him. He had Altaïr right where he wanted him, wound up and unsuspecting.

He laughed when Altaïr finally managed to unlock the door and push it open, but it died on his lips as Altaïr grabbed him by the back of his neck and pulled him into the dark apartment. He heard the distinct clatter of keys as Altaïr dropped the somewhere on the ground.

They somehow managed to close the door behind them, before stumbling through the dark apartment. They managed to hit the couch, the coffee table and the closed bedroom door, before Altaïr finally reached blindly out against the wall to find a light switch. The light allowed Malik to orient himself with his surroundings, but it wasn't necessary, not with how sparse the apartment was. A couch, a coffee table, a bookshelf set off against the wall and the door back out.

Altaïr made annoyed noise at being ignored and reached up to grab Malik's face. He pulled his attention back to him and away from his surroundings, back to the warm heat of Altaïr's mouth on his. With Altaïr's hands on his face, guiding him as their tongues fought for dominance, he had time to reach down for his blade.

The smooth hilt was familiar in his hands,the same heavy weight that had accompanied him on so many other occasions. He smiled against Altaïr's lips, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, before pulling back. Altaïr was watching him, all predator focus and calm certainty.

"I always did love this part," Malik smiled serenely, flicking the blade around his fingers with a low chuckle. He could see the question blooming across Altaïr's face, but he didn't voice whatever question he had. Malik shifted minutely, feet sliding apart to brace himself, knowing there was always a chance Altaïr would take an opportunity to fight back or run.

Malik watched Altaïr's gaze flicker down and a calm realization filter across his face. There was no instant flare of fear or panic, something that sent a thrill through Malik. This was different, the way Altaïr shifted off from the wall and pressed into Malik, a grin spreading across his face. It all happened within a few seconds, both predators revealing their true colors to each other.

Altaïr moved quickly, one hand reaching down for the knife and the other coming up to grab at Malik's shoulder. His fingers dug in, but he didn't push Malik away as he would have expected. Instead he stepped in to Malik, even as his hand missed the quick flick of Malik's wrist, failing at disarming him.

Malik jerked his arm back, knife held firmly in his hand. He could see the way Altaïr was clenching his teeth, the way he was tensing, and Malik spun out of his grasp before he could make another attempt to grab for the blade.

Malik was light on his feet, darting in quickly to flick the blade along Altaïr's open side. The sudden clang of metal against metal was a shock that had Malik stepping back again. Altaïr was watching him curiously, a blade protruding from behind his curled hand. He watched it retract up into the sleeve of his hoodie, and wasn't that interesting.

Something twisted inside Malik, because this wasn't his usual target, this was something else entirely. He was used to seeing fear the moment he pulled out his blade, but with Altaïr he found nothing but challenge.

He barred his teeth, shifting lightly on his feet as he watched for an opening. Altaïr didn't give him one, jumping forward and swinging a punch at Malik's face. He ducked, but he didn't compensate for the fact that Altaïr would bring his other arm up, blade extended and aiming for Malik's neck. He barely had enough time to deflect the attack, and all he could do was bring his own blade up to knock Altaïr's aim upward, earning a scratch across his check.

He jerked back at the fact that he'd been hit, surprised more than anything. It was the opportunity that Altaïr needed, but it wasn't the opportunity that Malik expected him to take.

Malik swore when he was slammed back into the wall, a hand holding his jaw tightly and another knocking the knife from his hand. The hot mouth on his own was a surprise, one that had his now empty hand scrabbling for purchase on Altaïr's hoodie and pressing into the kiss.

Altaïr pulled back with a gasp, nipping at Malik's lips as he watched through lidded eyes. His fingers dug bruises into Malik's jaw, keeping him pinned and where he wanted him. There was a half smile on his lips as he surveyed his work, something primal that had Malik's hips rutting forward.

"Bed," Altaïr beckoned as he let go of Malik's jaw, turning his attention to the closed door they had found themselves pressed against earlier. He swung it open, moving into the room without hesitation and not bothering with the light. Malik followed close on his heels, watching, with the help of the light seeping through the doorway, as Altaïr unstrapped whatever contraption held the knife to his wrist and dropped it on a desk. He picked up a bottle while he was there, holding it up so that Malik could see it, before stalking forward.

"I always did love this part," Altaïr parroted Malik's words from earlier. He was smiling, something dark and exciting.

He was something that Malik had never come across before, something just like himself. It set Malik's heart thundering in his chest, at a pace he couldn't count and he was sure Altaïr could hear. It was the pace to which he lunged forward, hands tugging at cloth and throwing them, forgotten, to the floor. And yet, for his ferocity, he was the one who ended up on his hands and knees, back curving an exquisite arc that Altaïr traced with his hands.

It was his hands, shockingly gentle but sure, that opened Malik up; fingers slick and crooking so. It was his cock that nudged into Malik's body, slow and patient, in a way that belied the way his hands were now trembling against Malik's hips. It had Malik pressing the palm of his hand against the bed, pushing back for more, for harder, quicker, and rougher. For that, he earned teeth digging into his shoulder, as Altaïr's chest pressed down against his back, pressing him down; his trembling hands digging into Malik's waist and holding him still.

When Altaïr finally moved, finally fucked Malik, it was slow. It was more like a taming, bringing a wild animal to heel with a patient, but steady hand. All Malik wanted to do was twist around, to scratch his nails down Altaïr's back, to bite into his skin until he drew blood. Instead, he sunk into the hold Altaïr had on him, fingers flexing in the sheets of the bed and letting his breath fall in sync with the roll of their hips.

He gasped, groaned, and panted; words a foreign thought as he gave himself over to the pace. Time slipped away from him, the rise and fall of Altaïr's chest against his back more tangible than the seconds he could no longer count. The hand curving around over his chest, around his throat, was the anchor that pulled a choked sob from him as Altaïr continued to work him over.

He knew nothing but the roll of Altaïr's hips, the slide of his knees against the bed, bracketed in by the man he didn't know, yet knew better than anyone else. And when he finally came, it was with hands clawing at the wrist of the hand around his throat, because he could no longer tell where one body ended and the other began.

:: ::

Malik slipped out of the bed with ease, before making his way to the bathroom. He picked up his jeans as he padded across the hardwood floor, ignoring the look Altaïr sent him. He didn't care that he was being watched, he had no shame. He didn't even care that Altaïr quite possibly was wondering if he had another knife stashed away in his jeans.

He dropped his jeans onto the tiles, before stepping into the shower. He wanted to wash off before he dared putting his clothes back on, even if his clothing wasn't particularly clean. It was better than continuing to walk around naked or putting someone else's clothing on.

He closed the curtain, glad to see that he could see through it enough to make out shadows. He was curious to see if Altaïr would try killing him or what was going to happen for that matter. He knew Altaïr was like him, someone so ingrained in blood that it sometimes seemed that that was all they were. They were predators, hunters, monsters, and other descriptors that people tended to put upon people like them.

Malik had found someone like him and that in itself was interesting. Altaïr hadn't disappointed him like everyone before him. Everyone else had put up fights, reeking of fear as they fought for their fragile lives and ultimately failing. Altaïr, Altaïr had beat him, but hadn't killed him as he had won the right to.

He pushed the thought to the side, because he didn't know how Altaïr's thought process worked and he wasn't going to waste time at guessing.

He washed the sweat, blood, and come off himself; letting the heat from the water wash away the lingering tightness in his sore muscles. He smoothed his fingers over his cheek, pressing into the cut he had received the previous night. It stung, but wasn't anything he thought he needed to worry about. He finished cleaning, stepping out of the shower and toweling off with a contented sigh.

Pulling on his jeans, he walked out into the living room, glancing around the apartment and taking it all in. He hadn't missed much when he had looked around last night, except for the smaller details he was now able catalogue.

He crossed to the coffee table, where a book lay spread open upon its surface. He picked it up with a curiosity he felt no shame for. He cocked his head, the book open to a list of handwritten names, most of which were crossed out. Tamir, Abu'l, Garnier, Talal, Majd, William, Sibrand, Jubair, and Robert.

Many of the names were ones that rang through Malik's memory, names he had heard often these past months. Three of the names had not been crossed out, but he suspected another one was to be. He suspected he would soon be seeing another name splashed across headlines, another mark against a fellow killers name. He had indeed stumbled upon a predator much like himself, but oh how he could now see their differences. He held the book over his shoulder, knowing Altaïr was standing behind him, even if he had been silent as he made his way through the apartment.

"So you're the eagle, then." Malik spoke the words as a statement, because there was no doubt in his mind that he was standing in front of the man who had made headlines in all the newspapers. "The man who kills and leaves an eagle feather at all of his crimes. A little bit gaudy isn't it?"

"That was not a name I chose for myself and as for the feathers, they're symbolic more than anything." Altaïr replied, not taking the book from Malik. Malik hummed a small sound, before turning, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Symbolic, hm? Give me a pen, I'll show you what I know of symbolism." Malik turned to face Altaïr, the book held loosely in his hand. He was curious to just what he had stumbled across in the other man and he found himself wanting to dig deeper, to dig his hands deep into the other man until he knew him inside and out.

He'd never found someone like himself and from the way Altaïr was watching him, he knew he hadn't either. He curled his fingers against the book in his hand as he took a step forward, knowing that this would was going to be a very interesting story.

[Fic] Wake Up Call (Assassin's Creed)

2013-06-04T22:34:49Z

Title: Wake Up Call
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr/Malik
Rating: General
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 1300
Summary: Altaïr wakes Malik up earlier than Malik would like. Modern AU
Author Note: Alternately titled, 'Altaïr bites Malik'. This is another piece from the AU Intempestivus and I are working on.

Malik woke to fingers digging into his hips, to nails dragging against his skin. He groaned into his pillow, willing Altaïr away, because it was too early for this. It was too early for anything. The only light int he room was coming from the clock on the nightstand and if there wasn't any daylight, Malik sure as fuck wasn't getting up.

"Malik, I'm not letting you fall back asleep. Get up," Altaïr prodded from where he was perched on Malik's back. He demanded as if he had any control over getting Malik out of their bed. He gave a grunt, before burying his face into his pillow. He kicked out, but it did little considering Altaïr had his legs pinned.

Altaïr's breath was hot against the back of his neck, uncomfortably so. Malik ignored him as best he could, but the hot weight against his back wouldn't allow for that. In sleep it was easy to untangle Altaïr's limbs from his own, but awake he would have no such luck.

"I'm driving you to campus today, remember? Before that, I have to go to work and I'm not coming back here to pick your ass up." Malik squirmed under Altaïr, before settling further into the bed with a sigh of annoyance.

"I'll just take the bus."

"No, you won't. You're banned from the bus, remember? Get up, you can sleep at a table at work or something." Altaïr said, tapping his fingers against Malik's hips. He waited a minute to see if he would get a response and when he didn't get one, he bit down into the curve of Malik's neck. Malik gave a surprised yelp and flailed his arm in shock. "Get up."

"Fucking asshole," Malik snarled, attempting to turn over. Altaïr pushed up off of the bed and waited for Malik to sit up. He earned a glare for his troubles of waking him up, but that suited Altaïr just fine.

"Your bag is ready, all you need to do is shower and dress. I will drag you out of this apartment dripping if that's what it takes, Malik." Altaïr stated, crossing his arms over his chest. He waited until Malik was crawling out o the bed and making his way to the bathroom. He then waited until he heard the water running in the sink.

He wandered out into the living room, wondering what he was going to do now that Malik was up. He had expected it to take longer, but it hadn't taken much to get him out of bed. He flopped down on to the couch, hands folded in his lap. He leaned back in his seat, staring up at the ceiling as he waited for Malik to finish.

"We're leaving now, if you're going to fucking make me leave this early." He tilted his head further back at Malik's grumbling. He blinked, because Malik hadn't taken long at all. He knew how Malik liked to lounge about in the shower in the mornings, working up the energy to face the day, but he had taken no time at all this morning.

He paused, before twisting quickly up on to his knees on the couch, to face Malik. Malik glowered at him, slouching into the hoodie he was wearing and shoving his hand into the pocket. He shuffled his feet against the carpet, not uttering a word as Altaïr watched him.

Altaïr jumped over the back of the couch, a grin spreading across his face. Malik hadn't showered, had only pulled out a fresh set of clothing and Altaïr was pleased to see, clothing that belonged to him. The hoodie was one of his, a baggy white one, and the black shirt peeking out from under it was definitely one of his.

He reached up, tugging on the collar of the hoodie to pull Malik to him, so that he could kiss him. Malik grumbled against his lips, before returning the kiss with a soft sigh. Altaïr released him with a smile, giving him a peck on the lips. "Good morning, elbi."

He hopped away, reaching out for the side table beside the couch. He plucked a pin from the bowl sitting there, before returning to Malik. He took the empty sleeve of the hoodie in his hands and pinned the cuff to the shoulder, before kissing Malik on the cheek. He nudged Malik towards the front door, where his bag was waiting.

He grabbed Malik's maroon scarf from where it was hanging beside the door, wrapping it around Malik's neck. It would have been odd, seeing him leave the apartment without it.

He took Malik's bag and led him out of the apartment, and out to the van in the parking lot. He threw Malik's bag in the backseat as he took his spot in the drivers seat. He waited until Malik was situated beside him and had his seatbelt on, before turning the key over in the ignition. He had a moment of trepidation, a moment where he wanted to do nothing but turn the vehicle off, but he ignored it, in turn of throwing the van in drive.

He could see Malik tense beside him, his fingers clenched against the dashboard. It had gotten better over the past few months, their reactions to being back in a vehicle. There was the constant fear that they may crash again, but both of them were to stubborn to let that stop them. Especially now that Malik had been banned from the bus, Altaïr would have to drive him around more often than not.

Malik pressed back into his seat as Altaïr pulled out onto the road, his hand falling slack into his lap. Altaïr shot him a glance, before quickly looking back to the road and driving the fifteen minutes to work. It was a quiet fifteen minutes, with Altaïr keeping his attention on the road and Malik remaining silent beside him.

He listened for Malik's sharp exhale of breath when he finally pulled into his parking spot in front of Starbucks and turned off the van. He reached over and took Malik's hand, giving it a squeeze, before jumping out of the vehicle. He grabbed Malik's bag, before heading into the coffee shop, giving Malik time to collect himself.

He could see Connor already working behind the counter, serving the only customer in the shop. He gave a nod in acknowledgement of Altaïr, before sauntering over to the bar to make whatever drink had been ordered.

Altaïr set Malik's bag on one of the lounge chairs, before heading around the counter to grab a cup of coffee for him. He left it over with Malik's bag, before finally going to the back room to put on his apron. He checked to see if there had been any notes left by his co-workers from the previous day, but found nothing.

"Hello, Malik." He heard Connor greet from the front. It pulled him from the back, Malik coming in and speaking softly to Connor. He smiled, glad to see that Malik only looked grumpy and not shaken up. He watched as Malik wandered over to his chair, picking up his coffee and taking a drink, before digging through his bag. He pulled out the book that Altaïr had put there, before settling into the chair with an audible sigh.

Altaïr gave a chuckle, because today had gone smoothly, and he could only imagine how tomorrow was going to go when Malik knew an early wake up call was coming. He shook his head, before heading to the till to start his shift.

[Fic] Blood On My Name (Assassin's Creed)

2013-05-24T03:02:06Z

Title: Blood On My Name
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr/Malik
Rating: General
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 1700
Summary: During Altaïr's second visit to Jerusalem in his quest to gain back his status, Malik tends to his injuries.
Author Note: Written for the AO3 Auction.

The bells tolling was the only warning Malik had that something was going on within Jerusalem's walls. He tapped his quill off into the ink-pot, looking out into the antechamber of the bureau, biting his bottom lip in contemplation. He suspected who was the cause of the alarm, but he couldn't be sure, not with all the missions being run through his city.

He glanced back down at the map he had been working on, checking over the freshly inked section he had been working on. He didn't see any flaws, so he saw fit to continue working. The bells, loud as they were, were common enough that they could be ignored with ease. He did though, keep his attention on the sounds around the bells, listening for anything that sounded like guards giving chase. He didn't have the patience for the guards of Jerusalem being led right to his door.

He traced over lines on his map, streets and alleys that he had painstakingly memorized. For a time, there was nothing but the map and himself, the sounds of the bells a distant clamor that he swayed in time with.

The soft sound of feet hitting the tiled floor in the antechamber made him look up. He didn't hear the clank of armor or shouts of anger, which meant the assassin hadn't been followed in. A good sign, if there was to be one to be had.

"Jerusalem needs a new leader." Was the only greeting that he received as Altaïr strutted into the room. There was blood seeping through his robes, from the looks of it, a mix of his own as well as his enemies. Malik ignored it, instead focusing on the only words Altaïr gave of his success. So Majd Addin was indeed dead.

"So I have heard." Malik responded, tilting his head in the direction of the doorway Altaïr had come through. The bells continued to ring in the distance, each toll a reminder that blood had been spilt. A warning that there was an enemy within the walls of Jerusalem, at least, an enemy to some.

"What's this? No words of wisdom for me? Surely I have failed in some spectacular fashion." Altaïr threw back at Malik, an edge to his words. Malik returned the words with a look of annoyance, laying his hand flat on the surface of the counter in front of him.

"You performed as an assassin should, no more, no less. That you expect praise for merely doing as told however, troubles me." Malik admitted, knowing that Altaïr would be less than pleased by the statement. It was true, to say anything of it. But then, most of what Altaïr did troubled him.

"It seems everything I do troubles you." The snapped response made Malik smile ruefully. So it seemed Altaïr knew of his opinions, not that he had tried to hide them, quite the opposite actually.

"Reflect on that. But do so on your way back to Masyaf. Your work here is done." Malik waved a dismissive hand towards the exit of the bureau. He looked down at the map that he had been working on, turning his attention away from the other assassin.

He listened as Altaïr left the room, but he didn't hear him climb up the wall and out of the bureau. He had expected Altaïr to leave as soon as he could, but then, Altaïr had spent the last few days traveling amongst Jerusalem and before that, traveling from Masyaf. He sighed, remembering the blood that had soaked into Altaïr's robes and how he wouldn't treat his injuries himself.

Come tomorrow, he would ride out with them still bleeding. He wasn't one to be limited by his body, or the injuries it sustained.

Malik pulled a bowl from underneath the counter, setting it on top, before reaching for a cloth and a small bag. He opened the bag, checking to see if there was still thread and his needle. He slipped the bag into the folds of his robe, before picking up the bowl and cloth to go fill with water.

He returned from the back room, heading to the antechamber with a sigh. Altaïr was sitting with his back to him and from the looks of it, had his head tilted back and gaze up to the sky. He didn't react to Malik's entrance, just remained stiff where he was sitting.

"Remove your robes," Malik ordered as he stepped into the room. The quick snap of Altaïr turning to face him showed that he hadn't expected Malik to come in. Maybe on Altaïr's first visit he wouldn't have, but his anger had since cooled into something more manageable.

"I will tend to your wounds," Malik lifted the bowl of water against the look of suspicion Altaïr was shooting him from under the edge of the cowl. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but only just so. "If I clean your injuries, you will be out of my bureau all the more quickly."

Altaïr nodded, accepting the words. It set Malik's stomach twisting, that their friendship had turned into this toxic thing. He had lost so much in Solomon's Temple and Altaïr had been one of those things. Altaïr shrugged out of his robes, his back once again to Malik.

He wasn't as injured as Malik had first suspected, the single cut across his arm the only one he could see. The cut he saw wasn't superficial, but Altaïr acted like it wasn't there at all. Malik knew better, knew that Altaïr was as human as the rest of them, even if he didn't want to be. He felt the bite of his injuries, just like anyone else, he just chose not to show that he felt it.

Malik lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs and setting the bowl of water beside himself. He plucked the cloth from the water, before nudging Altaïr's elbow. The other man turned his head to look at Malik, who had pursed his lips and was looking down at the cloth with distaste. He turned enough to take the cloth from Malik and wrung it over the bowl, before passing it back without a word.

Malik didn't thank him, just lifted the cloth to wash away the dried blood from Altaïr's arm. He was gentle as he washed out the cut, but he didn't miss the way Altaïr's muscles trembled under his touch when he went over it. He dropped the cloth into the bowl when he had wiped the blood away, checking over the straight cut.

He tugged the small bag out from his robes that he had tucked away, reaching around Altaïr to drop it in his lap. Altaïr didn't grab his wrist as many in their order would have, only picked up the bag and opened it. He didn't react to being so exposed, at having Malik at his back. It was disconcerting, a small change to the Altaïr who had first visited him since Solomon's Temple. That Altaïr had been poised, ready to strike, while this one lacked the claws, at least here.

"You'll need to string the needle for me," Malik watched Altaïr's fingers work over the bone needle, quickly tying off the string, as he dabbed at Altaïr's cut with the edge of his robe, removing the water. Altaïr held the strung needle over his shoulder wordlessly for him when he finished. Malik took it from his hand, judging the best way to stitch the cut. He set to work quickly, ignoring Altaïr's flinch as the needle slipped through skin. He frowned at the blood seeping from the cut, but he could still see his work, so he didn't pause to wipe it down again.

"If you pull your arm while I'm working, you'll only make this worse." Malik worked on the second stitch, the edges of the cut red and aggravated under his fingers. He let the needle hang, grabbing the cloth to dab up the blood running down Altaïr's arm. He dropped the cloth into the water, giving up trying to clean up the blood before he finished his stitches.

The hemp string was already sticky with blood as he reached for the needle, but he only continued with his work. There was no point in wasting anymore time. Altaïr flinched each time the needle poked through his skin, but he kept his arm still as Malik worked. The small hisses he released with each stitch was just another sign that he wasn't enjoying the process.

Three, four, five, six, seven. Malik counted off the stitches in his head, until he finished. The sutures were loose enough that the edges of the cut weren't pressed together, just close enough that it would heal as best it could. It would scar, of that, Malik was sure. He gave a hum as he tied off his work, pleased with it. He passed Altaïr the bloodied needle to hold while he wiped down the cut one final time. Water sluiced down his arm from the overly wet cloth, but he didn't say a word.

Malik plucked the needle from Altaïr's hand, dropping it into the bowl of water with the bloodied cloth, as he stood. He would need to wash everything, but it would not be the first time, nor would it be the last. He paused, watching Altaïr pull his robes back on and tug his hood back into place. He didn't turn, didn't look at Malik, only let his gaze fall back up to the sky through the lattice work.

"You didn't need to," Altaïr spoke softly, lacking his regular, arrogant tone. It was said in the same calm tone that Malik remembered from their childhood, the one that he had once used when helping Malik with his footwork, with the way he held a blade. His hand reached up, pressing over the area his cut was.

"No, I didn't have to, but I did choose to." Malik replied after a time, as he lifted the bowl from the ground. He allowed himself a moment to watch his unmoving brother, a moment to be in his company without them slinging insults and barbs at each other.

He turned and left the room, leaving Altaïr alone again and returned back to his perch behind the counter, back to his respective place.

[Fic] Aftermath (Assassin's Creed)

2013-05-02T23:29:19Z

Title: Aftermath
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr/Malik
Rating: General
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 700
Summary: The first time Malik returns to their bed after the accident that caused him to lose his arm. AU.
Author Note: One of the scenes from an AU that Intempestivus and I have been developing. Well, one of the scenes from an AU, that has already become somewhat obsolete, possibly.

Malik was frozen in the doorway to the bedroom, hand clasping at the doorframe desperately. He was so tired and yet he couldn't bring himself to take the final steps into the room and just go to bed. In the past year, he'd been so tempted to push himself off of the couch and come back, to curl up in the familiar bed and get the full night of sleep that he hadn't been able to find in months.

He'd been so tempted, but his anger had stopped him. He couldn't bring himself to let his defenses fall and show that he missed what they had had. Altaïr had taken so much from him and some part of him had believed the separation would take something from him in turn, but he had just ended up taking something away from both of them.

"Malik?" He glanced up at the call of his name, in time to see Altaïr sitting up, his hand running through his hair. He looked wretched, but Malik suspected that he didn't look any better. He watched as Altaïr's expression screwed up into something confused and vaguely worried. The light coming in from the window slanting across his face. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," the words came out strangled against his will. He closed his eyes, dragged in a sharp breath, before stalking the rest of the way into the room. He knew Altaïr was watching him closely, but he had rightly decided to keep his tongue in check and it made it easier for Malik to sit down on the edge of the bed.

He reached out with the only hand he had left, tangling it in the blanket pooling around Altaïr's hip. He was so tired and he wanted, wanted everything back to how it had been, even if that was impossible.

Altaïr was quick in grabbing Malik's hand and reaching out with his other, to grab Malik's shirt and pull him back. He tugged until Malik was leaning back against his chest, his arm circling him and breath hot in his ear. His arm tightened, but he kept his other hand tightly wrapped around Malik's. He carefully didn't say anything, just waited.

"I'm so tired," of this, of not sleeping, of hating you, of hating myself, of missing everything we had before this whole fucking accident. Altaïr made a hum of noise, guiding him down into the nest of blankets and curling around his back. The heat of him sunk right into Malik's bones and for something he had once sniped about, he didn't mind, not tonight.

He didn't have sharp words, or mocking barbs about Altaïr's arms wrapping so tightly around him, or legs tangling in his own. He let it happen, nestling back into the embrace and closing his eyes. He was weary of keeping his distance. It wasn't something that he wanted to do anymore.

Altaïr remained silent, forehead pressing agains the back of Malik's neck. He knew that Altaïr had to be wondering about the turn of events, was probably wondering if this was just a mistake that he would regret in the morning, if they would go back to their separate sleeping arrangements come the next night. And Malik left him to wonder, because he wasn't sure himself.

It felt nice, being back, but he wasn't sure if he could allow himself this. Maybe, come tomorrow, he would regret it, but wrapped up as tightly as he was, he doubted that. He wanted it back, the ease that they had had with each other, the bickering that wasn't full of utter loathing.

He pushed away the thought, relaxing back into the embrace. He closed his eyes, leaving the questions for the morning. He wasn't ready to analyze everything, he just wanted to let himself fall asleep to the sound of Altaïr breathing behind him, to the feel of lips pressing a smile into the line of his shoulder.

He squeezed the hand holding his, giving a tug and rolling over just enough to be off his side and on his stomach. Altaïr settled against his back, weight pressing him into the bed and for once, he welcomed it. "G'night, Altaïr."

"Sleep well, Malik." Altaïr replied on a sigh after a moment. It was enough for him to fall asleep after so many sleepless nights; having Altaïr at his back, having the familiarity of their bed, to not be sleeping out on the couch as he had been. It was enough to have something back.

AO3 Auction

2013-04-19T03:52:00Z

I signed up for the AO3 Auction with the gentle push of a few friends. I've been in a really good place with my writing this past month, that the thought of signing up didn't uterly terrify me. So, I gave in and decided to throw my name into the alread amazing Author List.

For all those interested, my page is here. I'm offering for a few fandoms, but really, I will write for any fandom that I've been involved in in the past. I'm looking forward to the upcoming weeks and seeing what I end up being prompted with. It will be interesting to see.

[Fic] Playing At Chase (Assassin's Creed)

2013-04-17T21:24:33Z

Title: Playing At Chase
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr/Malik
Rating: General
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Dumb Journeyman shenanigans.
Author Note: What am I even doing anymore? I have no idea.

Malik leapt off the edge of the building, trusting himself to make it across the space between the buildings and land on the next roof. There was never a doubt in his mind that he wouldn't make it, not with the wind under his robes and the sun beating down on him. There was nothing like the feeling of kicking off the edge of a roof and soaring.

He made contact with the opposite roof, feet hitting with a dull noise. He bent his legs to absorb the shock of landing, before sprinting across and leaping to the next building. Movement on the building parallel to the one he was on had him jumping down into the alley instead of onto the next roof as he had originally planned.

He hit dirt, twisted on his toes and raced down the alley. He took a sharp right at the mouth of the alley, surprising the group of people loitering there. He took down the street, before darting down the next alley, trying not to disrupt the crowd more than he already had. He didn't know how much longer he had before he was caught, but he could put up a good chase until then. He knew every street and every alleyway and that was his only advantage.

The flutter of wings from the rooftop above him had him picking up his speed, keeping under the line of the overhang of the roof. He knew that the moment he hit the open street again, it would be over. He couldn't stop, more for the fact that it would be admitting defeat and he didn't have that in him.

If there was a crowd in the street, he had a chance of escaping, but he knew the chances of that were slim. The district that they were running through had many empty streets and the one that they were about to head into was generally devoid of people during this time of day.

Malik pushed out into the street and immediately cursed his luck at the lack of people. He didn't pause though, only braced himself for what he knew was to come. He caught sight of a shadow on the ground that didn't belong to him and tried to twist to the side as fast as he could. A hand caught his shoulder and the weight of another body pushed him off balance and sent him tumbling to the ground. He grunted as he hit the dirt, hand coming up to protect his face and to take the brunt of the weight pushing him down. His arm gave out under the weight of the body settling atop of his, small stones digging into the palm of his hand and into his cheek.

"That was longer then you usually last," Altaïr purred into his ear, hand pinning his shoulder. Malik cursed again, but didn't bother trying to push himself up. He knew that he wouldn't be able to throw Altaïr off, not with the way the other man had himself thrown over Malik's back.

Altaïr shifted his hand off of Malik's shoulder and to the ground, lifting himself enough that Malik could turn under him. He brushed at his face with his hand, scowling up at his friend, rival, enemy; there wasn't a single word for what they were.

"Was it necessary to land on me?" Malik snapped, pressing his hand to Altaïr's chest and pushing. Altaïr compensated by sinking down, cowl dipping over his face. Malik dropped his hand with a hiss, recognizing that Altaïr wasn't going to give him the benefit of an easy escape. He tensed, working out a way to push Altaïr off and giving himself enough time to get back on to his feet.

Altaïr braced himself, before diving down to kiss Malik. It was harsh, their teeth clacking together and instantly biting. There was nothing gentle about it and Malik jerked his head back, only to have fingers curl into his hair and pull him back. The beak of Altaïr's cowl brushed across his forehead as they licked into each others mouths, breath hot and quick.

Malik's hand twisted into Altaïr's robes as his other hand pressed into his waist, fingers hopefully leaving bruises into his skin past the material. The hand in his hair tightened, guiding him to where Altaïr wanted him, his head tilted back enough to make access to his neck easy. Altaïr growled, leaving Malik's lips to drag his teeth along the tense line of his neck. Teeth dug in, sharp and if Malik guessed right, probably drawing blood.

He jerked, spitting acidic curses and fighting against the hold Altaïr had on him. Altaïr let go with his teeth, tongue dragging over the marks he'd left. He smirked down at Malik, before diving in again, lips hovering centimeters away from his ear. "Tomorrow, you will try again. Tomorrow, you will do better."

Altaïr got to his feet quickly, spinning in a tight circle, to face the building he had previously jumped off of. He sprinted forward, fingers digging into the loose bricks as he raced up to the roof again. He didn't look back, only started off in the direction of the keep.

Malik sat up, brushing dirt and rocks from his robes, before pulling his cowl back over his face. He was up just as quickly as Altaïr, although, he climbed hand over hand up another building. He had a different path to follow on his way back. He suspected Altaïr would find him again, once they'd both returned and cleaned from the days game of seeking each other out in the town. And even if he didn't, Malik knew he would see him tomorrow, where they would once again push themselves to exhaustion as they challenged each other to be better, to tighten their skills.

[Fic] It's Gonna Haunt You So (Assassin's Creed)

2013-04-03T18:11:11Z

Title: It's Gonna Haunt You So
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr/Malik
Rating: General
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 1065
Summary: Altaïr interrupts Malik from his work, but for the two of them, it's never as simple as that. There's always something itching under the surface, ready to turn into a battle of wills.
Author Note: Titled taken from Marion Harris' 'After You've Gone', which I listened to on repeat while writing this, because there is nothing quite like listening to a song that sounds like it's being played straight from a record player. Once again, still practicing with these characters, so this is just more character interactions.

Malik's quill stuttered over the parchment spread across his desk, fingers instantly clenching to compensate for the way his fingers slipped over it. He lifted it, careful not to smudge the lines of his map any more than he already had. He tapped the quill off in the inkpot, not sure if he would need to prepare for any more possible accidents. Then again, with the way things worked in his life, the inkpot would end up completely spilled across his half-finished map.

"Altaïr," Malik greeted with a sigh. He set the quill down on the table, but didn't turn to face the man he was sure was behind him. He hadn't heard him enter his offices, but between Malik's attention being consumed by his map and Altaïr's predilection to sneaking around, he wasn't surprised.

"Usually you are more attentive, brother." Altaïr's breath was hot on the back of his neck, much closer than he had thought. Malik only gave him a hum of response, before picking his quill up again. He didn't feel the need to lash out at Altaïr's words, not like he once would have. The amused tone to the statement didn't grate as it once had, not now that he knew it wasn't meant as criticism.

"How long have you been at work?" Altaïr asked, reaching around Malik to smooth his fingers over an unmarked corner of the parchment. Malik had to fight the instinctive urge to slap his fingers away. Instead he retraced over the line that he had mangled when he realized that he was no longer alone. "This is a new map, not one that you've previously worked on."

"Have you become observant on all papers upon which I lay lines now, Altaïr?" Malik asked, his voice laced with a defensive bite. He had indeed started the map at the beginning of the day and had already spent long hours filling the blank canvas with what he knew. Long hours spent without break, with only moments to roll his wrist and massage the cramping muscles.

"You have spent all day in the confines of this room, without food and without rest. Call an end to your day and join me for dinner. It is unhealthy to go all day as you have." Altaïr coaxed, fingers reaching from the paper and plucking the quill from Malik's hand. He seemed ignorant of the way Malik stiffened at his words, a curl of anger twisting its way through him.

"Unhealthy is it?" Malik breathed his voice brittle even to his own ears. He let Altaïr take the quill from him, his body hot against Malik's back as he leaned in to lay the quill on the desk.

Altaïr made a noncommittal noise, a sign that he was indeed aware of Malik's rising fury.

"So you would say that one going without rest, without food, without water for a long period of time is unhealthy? Why then, do you prescribe the opposite to yourself, Altaïr?" Malik demanded, new words for an old argument between them. It seemed unfair that Altaïr was allowed to pull him away from his studies, but he was not in turn granted the right to pull Altaïr away from that damned apple of his.

No, Malik was not allowed to spend an entire day on his own tasks, but Altaïr was allowed to spend days, or weeks, working with that cursed object of his. The worst thing that could happen to Malik was a sore wrist and a strong desire for sleep. Altaïr himself had suffered so much more; delirium, malnourishment, and nightmares. Malik feared that it could only get worse that his symptoms could only progress the more time he spent in company with the piece of Eden.

Altaïr covered Malik's hand with his own, fingers wrapping around the fist his hand had clenched into. The sigh Altaïr released ruffled the hair at the back of Malik's neck, a warm flare of heat.

"That is different, for you, it will always be different." Altaïr attempted and if his words were to make sense, they did not. Malik pulled his hand out from under Altaïr's and turned to face him. This close, he could see his eyes, hardened by resolve, under the edge of his cowl.

"I have spent longer periods of time than this at work. The price I pay is minimal to the one that you, yourself pay. It is not different." Malik hissed.

"You spend so much time at work, then return for sleep. Except you then fall into a sleep that is then haunted by ghosts that are not yours to bear. It is different, because you are worth more than these horrors you face at night, of the agony they cause you. They cannot have you, Malik."

"Give me the peace of mind that you are alright, Malik. Come out of this room, without words about the decisions I make. I am trying, brother, let that be all that you ask of me." The plea rattled Malik, enough so, that he didn't have the words to respond. "I do not want to rehash this argument, not today."

Malik pursed his lips, keeping his biting retort to himself. He was tired of the argument himself, tired of the way his thoughts on it were ignored. There was only so long one could run at a wall, until they finally needed to admit defeat and find another way. His fingers latched onto Altaïr's robes, twisting in the fabric as he steadied himself.

"The next time I try to pull you away from your own work, you listen, that is the only way I will go with you." Malik gritted out, holding Altaïr's gaze. He wouldn't take anything less, if this was what it would come down to. He didn't have other options, not anymore. Not when his arguments had run dry and words couldn't take hold. Altaïr was too thick headed for his own good.

Altaïr didn't say anything for a long while, his lips curling down into a frown. He exhaled loudly, a small sound of defeat. "If that is what it takes to keep you rested."

"Then go and I shall follow, Altaïr." Malik released his grip on Altaïr's robe, stretching his sore fingers out. He watched as Altaïr turned and left the room on heavy footsteps, ones that Malik followed without hesitation.

[Fic] A Little Faith (Assassin's Creed)

2013-03-25T19:42:16Z

Title: A Little Faith
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr/Malik, vague
Rating: General
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 1050
Summary: Leaving him with a newborn, doesn't seem like an ideal option to Malik, but Altaïr has to disagree with him on that thought.
Author Note: Huh, well writing this was a bit of a surprise. I'm still working on getting back into the groove of writing, as I'm still rusty from how I'm used to writing or how my words come out, but I'm getting there. As for this? I really have no idea.

Malik wasn't sure how he ended up holding the chortling newborn, he thought that it may have had something to do with the midwives rushing to get back to their mistress. It was a rush in which they had not realized that he was not the most capable person for the duty that they had tasked him. There were much more capable people, but as Malik looked around the hall, there were none to be found.

He pursed his lips, more for the fact that he had been so trapped amongst his own thoughts that he had failed to notice anyone leave the hall. He could normally keep excellent track of the people moving around in his surroundings, but this time he had not. He looked down at the babe in his arm and let his frown melt away on a sigh.

There was nothing to be done for it, but to find an appropriate spot to sit and wait. He settled back against the wall, sliding down to sit crossed legged on the ground. The child cooed up at him, a surprising change from the wails one normally heard from newborns.

It set an ache in his chest, one that was not to be ignored, no matter how much he wished. He hadn't held a child since his youth, since he had held Kadar. It was uncomfortable, remembering back to a time when everything seemed perfect, when he had been whole.

He was always struck by the memories, by the longing when he least expected them. He had for a time wondered if he would ever be able to look back fondly and not miss everything that he had lost, but he had long since given up on that thought. He would always miss what he had lost. The pain would fade in the years, leaving only a dull ache, as it did now, but it would never go away completely.

He was struck by the fact that he couldn't do anything but wait, wait for someone to come and take the child from him. He was lacking in what it would take to care of the child until he was relieved of it. He had nothing to offer like he had for Kadar, not a hand to pull the cloth tighter around the babe, or even soothe it if he started to cry. He curled his fingers into the wrap holding the child, making sure there was no chance of slipping. "You have ended up with an unfortunate uncle."

"I wouldn't agree with such a statement," Malik didn't look up, not sure how to react to such words. He frowned down at the child in his arm, ignoring the fact that Altaïr was now crouching down beside him, his robes pooling against the floor. He reached out a hand, fingers tracing over his child's cheek with a lingering gentleness that Malik once would have believed Altaïr incapable of.

"How is Maria?" Malik asked, choosing not to respond to Altaïr's words. He knew that the only reason he had been left with the child in the first place was that the midwives had needed all hands for Maria. It meant that something had gone wrong or at least, they feared that something had. He hoped that nothing had befallen the woman, that the midwives rushing about were only doing so as a precaution.

"Mmm, she is well, exhausted, but well." Altaïr answered, hand curling in the blanket at the child's shoulder. He didn't make a move to take his child from Malik's hold, which was surprising in itself, enough so that Malik turned to finally look over at Altaïr. There was a small smile on his face, not his usual smirk, but something softer. His other arm was resting on his knee, a clear sign that he had no intentions of taking his child from Malik's grip.

"His name is Darim," Altaïr continued, not giving a chance to allow Malik to admit how relieved the news of Maria being fine made him. He pushed on and Malik knew that Maria was truly well. Everything was fine.

Malik looked back down at Darim, unable to take the unfamiliar softness on Altaïr's face. He didn't say a word, not knowing just what he was expected to say. Biting words and heated arguments were not what the situation asked for and it left Malik floundering. It was an odd precipice that they were on, a moment of change.

"You will make an excellent uncle, brother. There is no other that I would wish to have around as he grows up." Altaïr admitted, relaxed and truthful with the words he was speaking. They'd come so far and the child was a sign of what they had gained amongst all that they had lost.

"We will see," Malik gave a slight shake of his head. He was unsure of what help he would be in raising the child, as Altaïr had asked him the moment Maria's pregnancy had become apparent.

"You have more knowledge about children then I do, Malik. You will be more help than you expect yourself to be. I am uncertain of my own job as father, but I have faith in everyone." Altaïr stated, words that pulled a noise of amusement from Malik.

"How long have you been working on such words? They do not sound like words the son of none would speak." Malik let his eyes flicker back to Altaïr, his lips quirking slightly upwards. He could see Altaïr's own smile turning into a familiar smirk, pleased with himself for bringing them back to common ground.

"Much longer than it would have taken you," he replied lowly. He lifted his hand from his knee, bringing it up to the back of Malik's neck and pulling him close, so as that Altaïr could rest his forehead against Malik's temple. His fingers, so roughened by the fine edges of blades, were careful against his child's cheek and the skin of Malik's neck. He blew out a breath, hot against Malik's own cheek.

"I do, have faith that is." Altaïr finished and Malik found himself nodding to the words. He would take Altaïr's faith, new as it was. It was all they had to work with, but it would do.

Fin

Fic: Giving In [Assassin's Creed]

2013-03-14T05:35:48Z

Title: Giving In
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr/Malik
Rating: General
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 616 (sob, so short)
Summary: They've spent their lives in a constant state of flux and they've somehow ended up here. And Malik can't ignore the hand on his throat, the way the fingers splay over the skin, like they belong there.
Author Note: This is admittedly short, it's not my usual length, but as with learning new characters, I've given myself the freedom to practice. I'm looking forward to writing these two and maybe, I'll do them justice. I honestly hate writing stories that have no length to them, but, considering the year long writer's block I had been dealing with, I've decided short pieces are better than nothing at all.

Malik can't ignore the hand on his throat, the way the fingers splay over the skin, like they belong there. He can't ignore it, because you're never supposed to give an assassin your throat and here he is, with ones hand on his. There's a thumb tracing down the line of his trachea, smoothing upwards and then down again. He jerks with each movement, eyes locked on the ones hovering above him, his breath hitching.

One too many times has he seen someone felled by a well-placed hit to their throat, a blade to the unprotected skin or the twist that led to a broken neck. He knows the dangers of exposing oneself. It's taking all of his restraint to not twist, to remove his arm out from between the leg pinning it to the side of his body and escape out from under the man holding him down. There's no reason for the fear fluttering in his chest, because this is Altaïr, not some stranger. This is someone that he's come to trust.

He's not the child he once was, of brash decisions and reckless plans. He's not the child that Malik thought he would never forgive, someone who had upended his world without a second thought. There had been a time that Malik had wondered if Altaïr would ever regret the decisions he made that had cost them all so much, or if he would continue on as if it mattered not. That had been a time that had come and gone, because Malik had seen him pay in blood and scars, in lives he hadn't expected to take and the ones he had protected. It had solidified the fact that Altaïr had changed, that he was someone new.

It was what kept him from attempting to escape, because after the time it had taken to get on some kind of even ground with Altaïr, he had found it. It wasn't in where he normally would have sought even footing, because when they had been novices together, he had looked for it in trying to be on the same level as Altaïr. He had wanted to find his way out of Altaïr's shadow, to match him in speed and strength. He had since accepted that that would never be, not with the loss of his arm and not with who Altaïr was.

Malik twitched when Altaïr's other hand traced over the line of his collar bone, so slow and patient. He was waiting, had been and would continue to do so. Another gentle slide of Altaïr's thumb had the breath shuddering out of Malik as he slumped back onto the ground. It was giving in, letting himself relax, letting himself close his eyes and not fight it. He didn't have it in him to do it anymore, to fight and fight and fight.

Another slide of Altaïr's thumb down the line of his throat and he didn't twitch away this time. He knew that Altaïr was smiling, had known him long enough to know the way his face would change from that look of patience, to something new. The look of patience was something that had started to become ever present with Altaïr, a look that shocked Malik as much as it put him at ease.

Altaïr slid his knee to the side, releasing Malik's arm as much as settling his weight across Malik's hips. He didn't move his arm though, only kept it at his side and blinked open his eyes, meeting the ones looking down at him, the ones waiting. Altaïr leaned in; resting his forehead against Malik's as if it was that easy. Malik sighed and wondered if maybe it was.

End

Fic: From Cabinet 6, Drawer 3 [Inception]

2012-11-12T05:15:11Z

Title: From Cabinet 6, Drawer 3
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 1857
Summary: There is a house in London. There is nothing special about this house, nothing that would make it stand out to the passing eye. It's deceptive, easily hiding away the memories of the lives of two international criminals. There's a house in London, but maybe it's not just a house. Maybe it's a home too.
Author Note: A prompt fill for this prompt. It was written in an experimental writing style, as is everything I write here. It was an experiment and one that reminded me how much I missed writing.

There was a two story house, somewhere in London. There wasn't anything special about the area where the house was, there wasn't anything exceptional about the house itself and there was nothing remarkable about the rooms within that house.

The house was a two story, red bricked townhouse. It was surrounded by a wrought iron fence and assorted shrubbery. The small lawn was well manicured, the shrubs trimmed neatly. It was very plain, a house that passing eyes would glance over and forget in the next instance.

There are stories that linger within the house, stories that start only four years previous. The stories follow the lives of two men, follow a story that started when they opened the front door and realized that it was possible for them to make a home. Four years wasn't long, but it was enough time for them to leave their trace.

The first memory is stained into the cement ground of the garage, the first instant that everything went wrong.

Underneath the layer of oil and dirt are the bloodstains of a man shot down. The man had been five foot eleven, slicked back brown hair and a simple black suit. He had broken in the side door, gun held between his steady hands. He had been unprepared for the whip thin man with the crowbar; a man protecting the safety of his home. There was a pause from both men, a moment of recognition, just before the crowbar swung out again.

Two guns went off that night, two bullets cutting through the air and finding home in the soft skin of their targets. The first to be shot fell with a surprised grunt, crowbar slipping from his slack hands. The other collapsed shortly after, dead before he hit the ground. Blood pooled outwards, sinking into the ground, later to be washed away with bleach soaked rags.

One of the pools was disrupted, leading a path out of the garage and through the main hallway. It wove down the hall, black against the hardwood flooring. It pooled again in the middle of the living room, seeping from between fingers and cloth.

There are whispered words in the living room, desperate pleas curling into the empty air. 'Don’t leave me. It's not that bad, you've survived worse. I need to grab the kit, just keep your hands pressed down. Oh Christ, I need to go grab it. You just- fucking keep breathing.’

Upwards the trail goes, spiraling up the stairs on heavy footsteps and panting breath. It passed closed door, through a hall with no landmarks, aside from a handful of paintings on the walls; three Francis Bacon’s, a Monet, and an Escher. It followed on the heels of a desperate man, to a bathroom, where everything blurred in his panic to get back to his partner.

The story spun off, branching off in many directions that tapered out into the world, but always ending back within the house. The trails flew off to Paris, São Paulo, and Milan; they branched off to Toronto and New York, to Chicago and Osaka.

They always came back to the house, two wandering souls pulled by invisible strings. Their need to leave, to go out into the world was unexplainable. They would leave with nothing and find themselves with a vague sense that there was something that they were missing. And so they returned home, time and time again, sometimes after days and sometimes after months.

Sometimes the returns were quiet, the two missing each other by only hours. Other times they fell perfectly in sync, returning within minutes of each other. Sometimes the returns were messy; a three month separation ended in the living room, where one wrong push into a wall resulted in a shattered picture frame upon the floor. Separations and meetings, and separations again. It was the work of two criminals leaving their marks upon the face of the world, and on the floors and on the walls of their home.

There was a scratch along the banister leading upstairs, from a lamp thrown in anger. It was a reminder, how when someone cared, they’d yell and cry, not sit in quiet devastation. There had been fear and anger, a growled ‘and what if you hadn’t come back?’ A life without the other was always a large possibility, one that was sometimes hard to handle.

And there had been an attempt of consoling as the two men stood at the foot of the stairs. A murmured ‘shh, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. I only got hit once and it was only a graze.'

‘You son of a bitch, you got shot.’ There was the squeak of shoes on the floor and then the smaller of the two men was heading upstairs on heavy feet. He didn’t hesitate, just walks down the hall of closed doors and paintings. It wasn’t the first time that the rooms had rung with hollered words, following footsteps and then whispered apologies. Apologies pressed into the smooth line of a collar bone, into the scar of a bullet wound and the curve of a hip.

And the apologies continued into the morning; in the humming of a song from a long time ago, continued to a newspaper laid flat on the dining room table, a cup of coffee sitting beside it. The table was something that had scuffed the floors, scratched lines into the hardwood when it was pushed three inches to the right and then two to the left.

It was moved once to the rock of hips and scramble of hands, then the stumble of a man in a mad dash out of the house, a plane ticket in his pocket.

It was the small details that made this home what it was. From the unfortunate bend in the towel rack, where slippery hands had reached for something to hold on to as breathy moans filled the air, to the hole in the bedroom wall, the only reminder of a gun going off at a false alarm of an intruder.

There was a safe in the closet, filled with a single silver case; the most precious item the two men owned. An item picked up from a long time past that neither would give up; even though they hadn't touched the case since they found their house. It was put away with reverent hands, hidden and locked away. There was also the floorboards in the office that pull up, where handfuls of papers resided. The space was filled with passports, birth certificates and ID’s. Some were forged by a meticulous hand, while others contain nothing but truth. And like the silver case, they remained untouched, but only because they'd been long forgotten.

But when the two men left, only four years after they made this place their home, they remembered and they emptied those secret places. They pulled the papers out from the floor, ran fingers over the scratches in the walls and traced hands over the sheets of the bed. They counted the pictures hanging in the halls under their breath and stood over bleached out blood stains. It was the memories and familiarity that gave them pause. It wasn’t something that they could take with them, the markings that reminded. They were things that they needed to leave behind.

When they’re finally gone, they leave it all behind; the familiarity and the majority of their things. What they leave behind wasn't who they were and what they were to each other and that was the important bit.

What they leave behind are the scratches in the walls, the scuffs on the floor, the cupboards filled with food and the cabinets filled with memories from a life before this. There was nothing that they needed to take with them, wanted to take with them. The memories packed away were ones that they could easily find again. There was no one else that could find them here, so there was no need to hide them further.

The cabinets were behind the closed door of the office, lined up against the wall. The first one had folders filled with sheets of papers covered in black blocks of text one only saw on classified information. The information that could be deciphered read about a time spent in the military, a job gone wrong, and a stolen piece of technology. There was mention of a man shot down, who’s team continued in search of the thief, but returned empty handed and to find no body.

The second cabinet had detailed pictures of building plans, of city streets and mazes. Each drawer held more plans, each different and signed by a different hand. The top drawer was dedicated to a single man, who carefully signed all of his designs ‘Cobb’.

Another cabinet, the third, is filled with journals, organized by date from the bottom drawer up. The first one had the name ‘Delancy’ etched onto the front page, the notes filling it sparse. There was an almost questioning tone to it, one that lacked confidence. It had the earliest date underneath the name. And in the top drawer, there was a handful of books, seven to be exact, with the name ‘Rosenthal’ written on the cover of each. There was more confidence in those books, a confidence that spoke of years of practice, of someone comfortable in the work they did.

The forth cabinet in, there was nothing but folders filled with pictures and personalities. There are pages of information on each person, basic information leading into more personal information. Each folder spanned the life of a single person, explored their personality and mannerisms. Each folder had its own person, some that had actually been and others who had come from the mind of a brilliant man.

The fifth was the one filled to the breaking point with the small details that made up their lives. From the moment they met, to the moment they swept each other up in themselves. There was details on how they stole from the government and then left on a whirl of lies and underground contacts. There were papers on the years they spent together and the time they spent apart. There were many words spent on the friends they met along the way and the ones they lost. There were even pages on the jobs that changed their lives as well. It was all in there, organized in an intricate labelling system that only one man understood.

The most important cabinet, the sixth cabinet, was all but empty. The top two drawers held nothing, but the third one, that was the one that had a single sheet of paper. It was flipped upside down, the words hidden until someone had the need to finally take a look. And after four years, curiosity finally begged the two men to do so. The paper had two words written on it in the neat scrawl from the journals in the third cabinet.

The paper simply read 'Wake Up'.

End

Fic: Eight Assorted Drabbles [Thor]

2012-07-12T07:20:24Z

Title: Assorted Drabbles
Fandom: Thor
Rating: PG
Warning(s): There is mpreg in the second to last drabble
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Assorted drabbles from periods of Thor and Loki's lives
Author Note: There is a single person that I can blame this on. Intempestivus as the internet knows her, or my lovely inspiring fannish friend, is the cause of it all. I don't normally like to talk to people, but I'm constantly texting her and harassing her and she actually doesn't seem to mind. We spend a lot of time fangirling about Loki and his relationship with everyone in his life and that results in me drabbling at her and her drawing at me. It's a relationship wrought with lots of can'ting, flailing, mutual complimenting and key board smashing.

Most of these are at prompts or head canon’s she mentioned, so some are light and fun, while others are a bit darker.

(Thor and Loki’s kitchen adventure)

"If you run, I'll keep mamma distracted." Loki whispers as the brother peaks over the counter, eyeing the object of their fascination. Thor gives him a nudge, but nodding his head enthusiastically.

"Deal," Thor says back. Loki nods his own head, before running out into the middle of the kitchen to grab his mother’s skirts. He presses his face into them; giggling and tugging until she bends down to bury her hands in his hair.

"Mamma, Thor and I were in the garden. They told us we aren't supposed to play out there. Why?" Loki asks as he tugs on her skirts again. She smiles down at him and Loki watches from the corner of his eye as Thor runs through the kitchen. “We always play there. Why today? Where else are we supposed to catch the bugs?"

Before she can answer, Thor goes racing out of the kitchen with their prize. Loki laughs and lets go of her skirt, before he follows his brother, thundering through the house on quick feet.

He finds Thor sitting on his bedroom floor, holding the prized cookie jar above his head.

(Loki gets lost on a family outing)

Thor reached back, grabbing for his brother as the shine of the shop ahead of him caught his attention. "Brother, look!" He whispered excitedly as he twisted, searching for Loki. It took him seconds to take in that while Loki had been behind him mere minutes ago, he was no longer there.

Thor glanced at the rest of their party, watching them continue on without notice. He was turning around and rushing back the way they had come without hesitation. He knew his brother well and whenever they were on an outing such as this, Loki always remained at his side.

It wasn't what he expected to find; Loki pressed back against a wall, face buried in his hands and shoulders shaking. The full body quiver shot right through Thor, because that was not right. "Brother, are you alright?"

Loki's hands dropped and he stared in surprise at Thor. His cheeks were wet, color staining his face red. His eyes were wide and terrified and it spurred Thor into motion again.

He moved forward, pulling his brother to him quickly, wrapping himself tightly around him and asking just what was bothering Loki so.

"You were gone, everyone was gone." Loki's voice was reed thin, pressed as it was into Thor's shoulder. His fingers clutched at Thor's clothes, pulling them down until they had sunk to the ground.

The world was large around them, a place that would pull a child apart and not care. Thor knew this, just as he knew the weight of his brother in his arms. There would be a time when they wouldn't have to worry about the world, when they were older, but for now they were to stick together to fend it off.

"I will never let you fall behind again, brother." Thor murmured into his hair, tightening his grip around his brother’s slimmer frame. He cared nothing for the looks they were receiving from passing travelers, only that Loki was still shaking in his arms.

"Shh, do you hear me? Never again." He held on until the shivers running through Loki's body died off, until their family found them huddled against a wall and begged them to get up and join them again.

And even then, Thor clutched at Loki's hand as they traveled, holding into him and making sure he wasn't left behind again.

(Loki waits for Thor to return from an evening with his friends)

Thor smiles when he finds Loki sitting on a bench outside of his room. He picks up the lamp at his brother’s feet, putting it out before setting it down on the bench.

Loki's emitting small sighs in each exhale, completely relaxed and it causes Thor's smile to grow. He bends down at his brother’s side, slipping an arm under his legs and the other under his arm and behind his back.

Loki feels too light as Thor stands, far to light for his liking. Loki twitches in his arms, and Thor knows that he won't make it to Loki’s room without him waking up. So he walks the few steps to his own room, pushes open the door and slips in quietly.

He lays his brother down on his bed, slipping his shoes off and shrugging him out of his jacket. He strips out of his own clothes, before climbing in beside him, curling around his brother’s slimmer frame and musing over the fact that they haven't slept like this since they were children.

"Good night, brother." Thor whispers and falls asleep easier than he has in months. He falls asleep with the thought that he will take Loki with him next time.

(Thor is angry and Loki is there to calm him)

Thor couldn't remember a time that he'd been so furious. Having Odin tell him no, that he was going about it all wrong was the last thing that he had needed to wrap up his day. He stormed through the halls, heading in the opposite direction of his room. He didn't need to be alone with his thoughts now.

He pushed open the door to a room without a knock, bursting through them with barely contained rage. His eyes scanned the room, falling in his brother, who was perched in a chair with a book in his hand.

Loki closed his book in time with Thor closing the door and stood without a word. He waved a hand at his bed, knowing Thor would listen to the silent demand to sit, even with his anger. He sat and Loki curled up behind him.

Loki's hands were in his hair, raking through it and barely catching on knots. He kept silent and Loki went about removing the tangles and dragging his nails over his scalp. As the time passed, Thor found himself leaning back into his brothers touch, relaxing and letting his anger leave him.

"There," Loki stated quietly, his long fingers finishing off a braid at Thor's temple. He leaned in against Thor, resting his forehead between his shoulders with a sigh. It was comforting, having him behind him and allowing him to get over his stress. "Do you want to tell me about what happened?"

"No, this is good." Thor admitted, knowing that it was better to let it go and focus on other things. "Tell me about your day; it is better than telling you about mine."

And Loki told him about his day.

(Thor finds Loki after a fight)

Loki treaded through the halls on silent feet, darting from shadow to shadow. He didn't want anyone to see his shame, in the form of a bruise over his eye. The split lip and blood trailing down his chin wasn't something he ever wanted to admit to.

"Brother?" Loki stiffened, twisting when his name was called. It was an instant response; he wasn't one to ignore Thor when he called. He flinched away immediately when Thor reached for him, anger and confusion slipping over his face.

"Brother, leave me be. This doesn't concern you." Loki hissed, turning away and starting down the hall again. He yelped when an arm encircled him, pulling him back against his brother’s chest.

"You don't have to tell me, but you are going to allow me to clean your wounds." Thor breathed in his ears, before starting to drag him towards his room.

"Fine," Loki whispered. He allowed Thor to bring him back to his room and clean his wounds. Thor let him keep his pride and fight his own battles, but he was there to help clean up the mess.

(Thor has a plan for Loki’s birthday... or teenage Loki)

"Stop fidgeting," Thor stilled Loki's hands where they were plucking at the fur lining of his cloak. Without the heat of battle running through him, Thor was burrowed into his own cloak, and that should have been a sign that Loki should feel the cold, but all he felt was confusion and a sliver of fear.

"All will be fine, have faith." Thor soothed his brother, earning himself a scowl of annoyance. Loki made a sound of disgust, before starting to walk.

He didn't feel the cold, but he kept the cloak draped over his shoulders for show. It wouldn't do to be strolling around in what would be seen as underdressed for an Asgardian in such a cold place. "We wouldn't be in this situation, verging on exile if you hadn't said anything to father. He could have remained blissfully ignorant, but you can't resist a chance to tell a good story. We could have kept that prank between the two of us, but no. The mighty Thor needed to impress the women who already flock to his side."

Thor shook his head as he followed Loki, listening to his brother rant. There was no anger in the words, no contempt. They sounded dull, picked as an act instead of chosen to wound. His brother wasn't angry and it set Thor at ease.

Loki was just a bit pissy, but Thor was used to it by now.

"Now we're out here, away from our home, by ourselves. Have you thought about where we might sleep? Have you thought about food? I don't see anything that we could possibly hunt and eat. Do you?"

Thor walked silently behind Loki, until his younger brother stopped ranting. He took one large step forward, pulling Loki's gangly frame against his side.

"Are you ready for me to explain? Did you wish to spend your sixteenth day of birth at home? Did you want to be expected to drink and fuck? That is not who you are, despite what the whispers of lying mongrels say." Thor smiled as Loki stared at him, expression open and surprised.

"I am not a dumb ox as you sometimes like to call me. There is shelter and food ahead of us, along with books to keep you amused. We may live out the punishment in comfort and avoid partaking in celebrations that you hate so much." Thor finished after a moment.

"I still think you're as dumb as an ox. Even if this is a rare occasion of actual thought." Loki's expression returned back to his scowl, slipping out from under Thor's arm. He stalked forward, a gruff 'thank-you' catching on the wind.

(Loki tells Thor he’s with child for the first time)

Loki rested a hand on the swell of his stomach, blinking owlishly at his reflection. He couldn't believe that this was happening, that he was with child and he couldn't tell anyone. There were some things that were not spoken of, mistakes that were to be rectified when they became apparent. This is exactly what they would call a mistake, even if it didn't feel as such.

He had known for a while, had kept silent and tried to think of a way around it all. The thought of terminating sickened him, caused shivers of horror to trail down his neck. Both options were unappealing, if only for what he would be put through if he continued to carry the child.

"You have gotten us into a precarious position, little one." Loki whispered, turning away from the mirror. He was at the point where soon he would not be able to hide the curve of his belly beneath cloth.

A knock on his door spurred him into pulling on a dark robe, loosely tying it. This was what he was dreading, what was pulling his problems into focus. He went to the door, pulling it open and looking at his brother.

"You called for me, brother?" Thor asked with a smile, slipping into the room when Loki moved from the doorway. He closed the door behind him, expression slipping.

"I have news." Loki nodded, going to sit on the foot of his bed. He wrung his hands, staring at the wall. Thor didn't say a word, just stood by the door and waited for his brother to speak.

"I am with child and I have no wish to give him up." He said in a rush, staring down at his lap. The shame of being in such a position made him flush. He had no idea how his brother would react or what to expect from any of this.

He cringed when the room remained silent, curling his shoulders in defensively. This, he realized, could have gone better.

"Is that really what you wish?" Thor finally asked, taking a seat beside Loki. At Loki's nod, he pulled his brother into his side, resting his chin atop his head. Loki felt a sigh escape Thor, before an arm tightened around him. "I look forward to meeting your child. Now stop dwelling in your misery, this is something to celebrate."

"You are with child! I am to be an uncle!" Loki buried his face in Thor's neck and shuddered. This was, this was better than anything he could have hoped for.

(Loki and Angrboða’s first meeting)

Loki cradled a knife in his hand, crouched low and poised to strike. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, judging the distance and his chances of striking down the animal grazing in the field before him. Practice is all it was, seeing if he could use the set of long silver knives his brother gifted him on his day of birth.

He had needed to leave his home, his pretty gilded cage and leaving with the excuse of hunting had sufficed.

He tensed, ready to spring forward and hopefully bring down the animal, when a blur of motion latched on to its back. Loki could do nothing but gape at what could only be a Jötnar woman wrapping her slender hands around the creature’s neck.

His hand fell slack at his side as he watched her croon in the creature’s ear, even as ice danced from her fingers and to the flesh her hands gripped. Her expression was soft, whispering into the animals ears as it collapsed below her and took its dying breathe.

"It seems we are hunting the same prey, Asgardian Prince. You must be swifter next time." The woman spoke up, unwrapping her hands from the creature’s neck and looking in Loki's direction. He stood and started forward, shoving his knife into the pocket of his cloak.

"You're far from home," Loki responded, stopping a handful of feet away from her. Her dark eyes watched him closely, framed by the markings whorling across her skin. She wiped her hands on the material tied around her waist, before pulling herself up to her full height.

"That is the point of hunting, is it not?" She lifted a slim shoulder in question, her mouth quirking in amusement. From what he could tell, there was no expectation of battle, no fear and it was liberating after all the stories Odin had told them. It felt right. "I am Angrboða and who might you be, princeling?"

The slight sound of mocking in the question did nothing to spur his anger like it would have if an Asgardian had asked. It was different, not full of venom and spite. "Loki."

"Loki," she rolled the name off of her tongue and it caused his insides to flutter. It felt right, spilling from her lips. "Well my princeling, did you come to hunt or to chatter, because night will be upon us before we can catch sufficient game."

"After your lead," Loki could help but smile, inclining his head.

"In that case," Angrboða turned on her heels and leapt into the forest, Loki tight on her heels.

Fic: Villains Don't Have Happy Endings [BBC's Sherlock]

2012-06-13T23:17:45Z

Title: Villains Don't Have Happy Endings
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Rating: PG
Warning(s): Minor character death, suicide,
Word Count: 5029
Summary: Jim never did see it coming, but that was the point, wasn't it? They would play their games, watching the tension build until they gave it one last parting kiss and watched it shatter apart. That was the fun; the tense, trembling moment before the climax.
Author Note: For the Sherlock Reverse Bang picture by creepylicious Thank-you to my beta angelichomicde and to my stunning friend Intempestivus, who held my hand and kept telling me that I could do this. This story is something that was highly inspired by limbo, a place near and dear to my heart that comes out in everything I write apparently. I'm not one for linear plots, or standard ideas. I generally go for what you're about to read, a bunch of scenes thrown together, hopefully making sense in the end. This is all that I have to offer and I hope that it's worthy of the art I wrote for.

Sometimes you get a story that wants to be told, but it fights you the entire time. This story did exactly that. It was a struggle to get anything past the first scene out. I spent months writing, scrapping and then rewriting again. It was an endless loop of frustration, but coming into the last moments of the SRBB, I knew that I didn't want to let myself down again. So I wrote and I wrote. This story is not my favourite piece and I doubt it will ever earn a place in my heart. What it is, is me showing myself that I can do this, that I can ignore my writers block and struggle under the words that give me such a hard time. I can accomplish something and that's something even better than love.

Villains Don't Have Happy Endings...

Jim lies down with the birds. It wasn't poetic symbolism or anything of the sorts. He’d never had time for poetry and he wasn’t going to start with it now. Well, he had had time, but it always seemed like an incredible bore. He knew how to use his tongue and that had been all the use for words that he had needed in life.

No, Jim lies down with the birds, in a field that stretches out until you can see nothing but grass. He lies down in the middle of it all and the birds come to him. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe, he didn’t even think.

Hours pass and the birds must think that he was no threat to them, because they circle down from the pale blue sky, landing silently in the grass around him. Hundreds of the dark creatures, raspy caws and beady black eyes. The movement brings him back to himself, sucking in air like a drowning man.

He remained still for the most part, lets the rise and fall of his chest be the only sign of his wakefulness, because it sure isn’t life. The whirl of his thoughts is background noise, a low contented hum and no, that’s not right.

His head should be spinning, filled with noise and chaos and ideas; the way that it's always been. But it’s not; it’s filled with nothing but the awareness of his surroundings. Quiet, quiet and he can't remember a time that it's been this silent in his head, can't fathom when or where or what would bring this on.

He twisted his head to the side, looking at one of the birds that had landed right beside him. A rather large carrion crow from what he could tell. The bird watched him in turn, glossy black feathers ruffling in interest. It was large, it's wings tucked in, but it's body tense and ready to take flight.

Jim stretched out a hand, reaching for the bird, for no other reason than it all seemed so wrong. There was the briefest touch of feathers beneath the palm of his hand, but it all fell away before he could fully register it.

:: :: :: ::

James was sitting at the kitchen table, his hands folded in front of him as he watched his mother. She was perched on a stool across from him, her expression carefully blank as she studied him in turn. It was silent and James doesn't think that the house has been like this before. There was always noise, so much noise. His mother constantly speaking, never keeping her thoughts to herself, or his father muttering hatefully as he moved through the house.

There was none of it though. Nothing but the sound of the fridge humming and that was easily tuned out. It was as if she were waiting for something to break, for him to crumble and ask her just why she had called him down from his room in the middle of the night. He kept his mouth shut and continued to watch her with nothing showing on his face, because he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of watching him crack. She no longer had the power to make him break under her steely gaze, had lost it years ago.

He kept his questions to himself, even though his curiosity was scratching him up on the inside, begging him to open his mouth and ask. He could survive the mental wounds that his patience sometimes provoked, but the humiliation of losing to his mother was something that he would not afford.

He kept his mouth shut, ignoring the urge to speak, his thumb nail digging into the soft skin of his finger. He could keep the curiosity at bay, wait until the perfect moment to strike. He had learned from the best, had even became better than the best. And he watched his mother slip, watched her tremble and finally parted her lips to speak. She wasn’t as good as he was, not any more.

“You have to see,” she informed him and that wasn't nearly enough information to go on. He didn't move, waiting to see what she would do and knowing that his impassive state will only serve to aggravate her. She was just like him, never willing to lose, not after the buildup that caused their hearts to shudder in their chests.

They played their games, watching the tension build until they gave it one last parting kiss and watched it shatter apart. That was the fun; the tense, trembling moment before the climax.

“This was never something you would have seen coming, not as you are now. This is my last parting gift to you, my darling little boy.” She reached out a hand across the table and cupped his cheek. It wasn't a caring touch, but one that quieted the voices in his head so that she could finish. She smiled, sharp biting edges, as her thumb traced the line of his cheek.

She pulled back, smile on her face as she lifted something from her lap. It glittered under the kitchen light, silver and beautiful. James had seen it before, tucked away deep in a drawer, something that he wasn’t supposed to find.

She was right though, he never did expect this. The lift of a gun to her still smiling mouth and he wondered what it tasted like against her tongue. He never expected the pull of a trigger and the sharp sound that echoed around the sparse kitchen. He never expected the hole in his mother’s head as she fell back off her chair and to the hardwood floor. He never expected her blood to seep into the cracks of the wood, a stain that nothing would ever be able to remove.

He never did see it coming, but that was the point, wasn't it?

:: :: :: ::

The bird disintegrated underneath his hand as if it hadn't been there in the first place. It sunk into the ground, leaving no evidence and Jim wondered if he wasn't just imagining it all. This could all have been some figment of his imagination, of the turmoils of his mind and he wouldn't be the wiser.

He dug his fingers into the dirt where the bird had been, pressing them into the soft ground. Maybe he expected more from the earth, because when he pulled them free, he found himself disappointed with the outcome.

He gave up and looked upwards and the sky was so blue, so devoid of life; that was until he sat up and disturbed the birds. He wiped the dirt from his hand on his pant leg, flexing his fingers, before pushing himself up with a grunt at the slight effort that it took.

The birds took flight in surprise, afraid of the sudden, alien movement among them. The noise they made, with each flap of wings and brash caw crashed through his thoughts. He watched them take flight, let the noise wash over him, let it take him under.

:: :: :: ::

James watched from the crowds, cheering along with them and smiling. It had only been a week since he had put his mother in the ground, a few tossed flowers and a handful of dirt, before they locked her in her muddy prison.

It had been a small affair, lilies and white roses. He wasn't sure why his father had chosen those particular flowers, but James was sure that it had been to spite his mother's memory more than anything. Their neighbors had attended, along with two of his mother's co-workers. Seren Moriarty had never been well liked, but that was the way she had liked it when she had been alive.

Now here he was, standing beside a bunch of people who just didn't get it. His mother had understood it all, but now she was gone and she had labelled him the boy whose own mother hadn't loved him. He didn't deny that, because for everything his mother had been, she hadn't loved him. She was incapable of such things, just as he was. There had been a mutual respect between them, understanding that they were both meant for more, but this world, this stupid world held them back.

There wasn't a place here for true brilliance, because no one could keep up. No one was willing to try, to check to see if they were right. The constant 'you're wrong', 'you don't know what you're talking about' was what had really pushed his mother to shoot herself in the head. There was only so many times that you could scream 'check the answers, you'll see that I'm right!' before it drove you to the edge.

She shot herself to show him, to show him that this is what she had been driven to. That a bullet to the head had been the only way to avoid the insulting lack of intelligence in the world. That was why he had been allowed to watch, because he understood, he knew the cold dark creep of knowledge that made its way up their spines.

And he watched as the crowd choked in horror and froze in fear. And down Carl Power's went. The boy who had led the pack after James, when his mother had passed. The boy who never thought for a second that James' tears were lies and that he really just wanted to feel them punch quicker, kick harder. It had proven to James that he could survive, that he could prove them all wrong. That he could surpass his mother and show the world that they still had so far to go.

And he hid his smile behind his hands, watching through splayed fingers, a laugh tucked away deep in his throat as the other boy sunk down, with nothing anyone could do to save him. Because this was James' game and he didn't make mistakes.

:: :: :: ::

Jim pushed himself up into a crouch, working up the strength to stand. It took a moment, but he got it, standing and looking up at the sky. This place was too quiet, too devoid of life and distractions. He needed something to hold onto, to remind him that this wasn't everything, because the quiet can pull you under and leave you floundering.

He stood, tugging at the collar of his shirt and twitching his shoulders against the rough fabric touching the back of his neck. It clung to his skin, pulling away only after a tug and leaving him feeling disgusting. He touched the back of his neck, finger nails dragging across his sticky skin and coming away bloodied.

He picked the blood out from under his nail with his teeth, tacky copper against his tongue. It was a taste that he was familiar with and it told him that it really was blood. He wasn't sure what had caused it, but by the way his shirt clung to his back, there had been a lot of it.

And nothing hurt, so he wasn't sure if the blood was even his. His head spun, because that was relevant information, it wasn't something that he should have forgotten. By the way the taste of blood clung to the back of his mouth, he suspected that it was his own, but he just couldn't be sure.

:: :: :: ::

Jim reared forward, throwing his fist against a jaw and he knowing that it had to have fucking hurt the other man. He could see it in the way the man jerked back, reorienting himself, and then in the way he curled his shoulders inwards and swung out. He didn't miss, the crack of ribs sending the air rushing from Jim's lungs.

He danced back, ignoring the fire racing up his side. He's had worse injuries in his life.

"The fuck, mate." The man followed Jim's movement, taking another swing and trying to gain ground. Jim twisted, avoiding getting hit in the other side. He spun on nimble feet, darting out of the way with a humming breath.

He kept careful track of the other man’s expression, waiting for the precise moment when he focused fully on Jim, ignoring everything else. Jim grinned and fell still, a deceptive moment, because the other man took the bait and lunged forward. He caught Jim around the throat, pushing him back against a wall, pressing and pinning him.

"Do you usually go punching strangers or am I special?" The man hissed, his arm pressing harder against Jim's throat. His lip was split, blood dripping down his chin and collecting on Jim's shirt.

"Oh Sebastian, you're special, so very special." Jim choked out and felt the arm against his neck slacken enough that he could suck in a deep breath. He grinned, sharp teeth and a flick of tongue. He could feel a laugh bubbling in his throat, but he had something to say before he could release it. "I have an open position and you would fit perfectly. A job for a moral-less man and a quick draw with a gun."

There was a pause, a moment of silence, before the man spoke again. "What kind of job?" And Jim laughed and laughed.

:: :: :: ::

Jim bit his lip, teeth scraping across them as he stared at his fingers. The slight sheen of saliva, and remainders of flecked blood and dirt left behind. He reached behind him again, fingers running up through his hair and then back down his neck. He could feel the blood on his skin and this time he didn't bother looking at his hand when he pulled it away.

He was already moving on to other things, losing himself in the nothingness around him. He closed his eyes and pictured London in his head. He could see it, the place he would raze to the ground if he so desired it. He'd thought about it, striking a match and watching London fall, but it would have been to easy.

'Jim's got a match for every city. He's struck some, threw others away and even given a few to people. London though, he keeps hers in 'is pocket. He holds her closest, because she's gonna burn the hottest and he wants to save her for last. He's savin' her for when he's backed into a corner or bored and needs some remindin' of who he is. He'll burn this whole world to the ground and London'll be the one left, because she'll never be his home, but she'll always be his chess board.'

Sebastian, always thinking that he knew Jim, guessing and calculating, but not nearly as well as the man he liked to study. That though, was something that Sebastian had always been right about. Tea, jammy dodgers and jumpers. Back alley gun deals, black market trades and money exchanging dirtied hands. The city had two sides and Jim knew them both.

He wanted her back, because this desolate wasteland filled with birds and grass was what he would call hell. It wasn't what he wanted, would never be what he wanted.

:: :: :: ::

Jim shrugged his shoulders, tugging his arms and then letting them slump again. He sighed, his head lolling backwards until he was staring at the ceiling. He tapped his fingers against the back of his chair, waiting and hoping that something happened soon. He didn't know how much time had passed, but by the way his wrists burned, he knew that it had been a while.

The ropes were tight, tying him to the chair in the dank room. It smelled of oil and Jim wondered how many people had been kept here before him. There was a faint taste of blood on his tongue and it made him smile, because this was much more interesting than the week he originally had planned.

"Are you going to be cooperative?" A thick voice pulled his gaze down, until he was looking at a stick of a man. He was dressed in a nondescript black suit, that sagged from his shoulders. He looked the role of low life criminal, well, at least the ones they always depicted in film.

"No, I'm not. Are you going to untie me?" Jim asked, watching as the other man stalked forward. 'James, Patrick, Stuart.' Jim went through the names in his head as he waited for what was going to happen.

"Not for a while, we have a lot to discuss, Mr. Moriarty. The bindings will remain until I have what I want or I no longer have need of keeping you restrained." The man's name was eluding him, a piece of unimportant information that he'd dropped soon after learning it. He wasn't a man that Jim had met before, but he liked to know who was doing business in his city. 'Stefan, Selim, Sam.' The names warmed in his head and he knew that he was getting close.

"I'll scream," Jim knew the rules to these kinds of things, knew the words a victim would say and the pleas they would make. He knew what to say and when; he had always found it amusing how predictably these meetings could go. He lost the grin with a clack of teeth, relaxing back into the chair and ignoring the growing stiffness in his shoulders.

"That is of no matter." And really, how could people be so predictable? He had been hoping for something a little more original, but this man was living up to cheesy television standards. Jim kicked out his feet, crossing them at the ankles and knew that this wasn't nearly as exciting as he had initially hoped. The man was tensing ever so slightly, thrown off by just how at ease Jim was in the situation.

"Oh Samuel, I was hoping for something more along the lines of 'I was planning on it', or even a 'Let's see how loud you can get then, hm?'." Jim let the slight accent in the other man's speech slip off his tongue, liking the way it fell from his lips. "I shouldn't expect these things though, not from a man like you. I just get so helplessly excited that one of you might yet surprise me, but then you always disappoint. Have you ever thought of trying to come up with your own lines? The recycled television ones are getting boring."

"I thought that this could be some fun, but you know what, it really isn't. Hiding Sebastian's guns and making him go find them is more fun than this. He makes these stupid faces and it's easier to look at then yours." Jim cocked his head to the side, not a single emotion playing across his face.

Samuel stalked forward, his foul breath falling over Jim's face and his bony fingers digging into his neck. This man really was nothing, just some low level crime leader who thought that if he took down the whispered name of Moriarty, he might earn standing. Jim knew this, because Samuel hadn't been the first and as always, he wouldn't be the last.

A name whispered in nothing but fear was one that was coveted in their world. It was easily earned, or in Jim's case it had been. Not so many had the luxury of being brilliant and able to organize anything they set their mind to. Some had money, some had family footsteps to follow, but Jim came from nothing. He was a ghost that came from nowhere and that was what they feared. They feared a name that had no proper origin in their world. They feared the stories that were associated to the name, the tales of what it had been involved in.

And at the top of that name sat Jim, someone who made no sense and only did it because it was fun. Not many knew the king of the name, the ringleader, but those who did always attempted to take him down. Cut off the head of the snake and you killed the body, that was what they were all taught. It wasn't true in Jim's case, but they had a hard enough time trying to kill him that they didn't need to know that just yet.

"I'm done now," Jim snapped before Samuel could get out another word. It was quick, the door to the room being kicked open and Samuel being gunned down. For how fast it happened, it could have been mere seconds or a minute. If Jim had had the decency or patience to pay attention, he would have known the exact amount of time it took, but he really didn't care.

"I thought that it could be interesting, but Sebastian, he was so dull. He called me Mr. Moriarty. Out of everything he could have chosen, he had to call me Mr. Moriarty." Jim watched the puddle of blood spreading out beneath Samuel, spilling from a hole in the center of his forehead. "Perfect as always, but you took too long."

"Lukas took a wrong turn, ended up headin' the wrong way for a bit, before I noticed." Sebastian sauntered into the room, shoving his pistol into the back of his pants as he went to untie Jim. The ropes quickly fell away under his deft fingers, finally giving Jim the room to move his arms. He rolled his wrists, working his circulation back into them with a sigh of annoyance. "You haven't been here that long, time just passes faster in that head of yours."

Jim kicked Sebastian in the shin when he came to stand in front of him, hard enough to earn a hissed breath, but no reprimand. "You still took too long for my liking. Do we need to fire Lukas?"

"His first offense, so we don't need to kill him. We'll keep his bullet for the next mistake he makes. He's the one who made you eggs when I was in Moscow, you liked him." Sebastian rolled his eyes and pulled Jim from the chair, not caring that he was stepping in the pool of blood.

It wasn't Sebastian's sense of mercy that had him defending Lukas, because he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in the boys head if he so much as said anything out of line. He said the same thing whenever Jim suggested firing someone, because he said these kinds of things often enough that if Sebastian listened every time, Jim would have no one working under him. Except for Sebastian, but he didn't count.

"Fine, be that way." Jim pouted as he stretched and started out of the room, expecting Sebastian to clean up the room. "And I didn't like him, he just made good eggs. There's a difference!"

:: :: :: ::

Jim fully took in the area surrounding him; the dirt beneath his feet, the bird in the sky above and the utter lack of anything real. That was what was digging its claws into the back of his mind, what was trying to pull forgotten memories forth and bring everything clamoring down around him. There was nothing and it pushed him into motion, into realization.

It wasn't real.

The thrum of thoughts grew quickly until his head was pounding with it, splitting open and spilling forth. His hands clutched at his head, attempting to hold it all in, keep it together.

This world was so terribly wrong, too quiet, forgotten and empty. There were the birds and grass, but it wasn't London. Filthy disgusting, ready to burn London. That was where he had last been, standing above her and thinking that it was ‘all too fucking easy’.

You’re me, I’m you. It was so easy. I am the key, so good of you to notice. You never did see this one coming, for all the brains in your head, did you? Thought you had a plan, nah, time to come up with a new one. Oops, too late! Take five steps, because this is the last act. Take your bow as I have taken mine. We both know how this is going to end, at least until we start again. We’re both too smart for to let this be it.

He had been moving too fast, knowing what was to come, the smooth feel of metal in his hand. That had been it, hadn't it? The moment it all fell together and left him scrambling at the scattered thoughts. His moment to say 'This is what the world does to people like us. It doesn't understand that we are right, that we understand more than it does. It tells us that we're wrong, freaks and the sooner you learn that this world is not worthy of your help, the better.'

Sherlock, he had done it for Sherlock. Just as his mother had done for him when he had been nothing but a child. A gun and a fall. The final act.

That had been real, something that he had orchestrated. That was where he should be, not here. There was still so much to be done.

And the world trembled beneath his feet, the birds voices turning to screams. The world fell apart around him, grass bleeding into industrial thoughts and the sky falling in sharp pieces.

And when he opened his eyes, the field was filled with discarded remains, shards of glass and twisting pieces of metal. It was a destroyed landscape, torn apart by the unraveling seams of his mind. Jim tugged at his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp, because he couldn't stay here. It was too disjointed, too lost within memories and half formed thoughts.

He was caught and he didn’t know how to escape. He had thought that the moment he pulled the trigger that it would all have disappeared, but it hadn’t. There was still the constant noise and he’s still moving too fast for anyone to keep up to, for anyone to want to keep up. He sneered at the thought, dropping his hands to his side.

He inhaled deeply, pushing the slight panic growing in the back of his mind down, because he was better than that. The panic and agony was what had worn his mother down and he was not her. No matter how similar their paths had been, he was better than that.

He felt his breath hitch on the exhale and his hands spasmed at his side. The roar of his thoughts grew as his body betrayed him. He closed his eyes and collapsed to his knees as his hands scrabbled at his throat. Whatever this was, it wasn't lasting either and that was alright with Jim.

:: :: :: ::

Jim came alive on a choke, clawing at the air in front of him and pushing back blankets. He writhed where he lay on a bed, trying to escape his confines; stuck within thoughts of glass, metal and flesh. He pulled free, his hands finding their way to his face and pulling at tape.

The uncomfortable feel of something tracing down his throat gave him a start, but he didn't panic, immediately knowing what it was. A warm hand touched his, pushing it away from the tube in his mouth and back down onto the bed.

They removed the tape and then pulled the tube gently out on Jim's exhale. The minute it was free, his hand was back up at his face, covering his mouth as he took his first breath on a spluttered cough. It froze in his lungs, stretched them and pulled them tight on the quick exhale. His heart was thundering in his chest, competing with the speed that the machine by his side, was beeping at.

“Welcome back,” Jim turns his head, following the voice that flowed over the sound of a man blathering away on the television across the room. Sebastian stood there, an endotracheal tube in his hand. He dropped it to the floor, not caring where it landed. He was going for relaxed, but Jim could see the tense lines in his shoulders and the way his eyes were narrowed.

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but only a rasping sound escaped him. His mouth twisted in distaste, because now would have been a really good time to tell Moran to fuck off and get him a glass of water. Instead, Moran only smirks and quirked an eyebrow. “The Doc said not to bother, that you’d have a tough time speaking for a bit. Don’t strain yourself, you can tell me about your deathly experience later.”

“You’ve been gone for a while and a lot's changed. Not really though. It's been a bit, but not long. Would have been long for you though, always moving too fast. You ready for me to catch you up, because I’m only gonna do this once.” Moran drawled, not phrasing it as a question, but a statement. He was one of the few that never waited, that always took that first step and launched into it.

Jim relaxed back into the bed, breathing and listening to Sebastian. He listed off everything that had happened, from the insignificant, to the big. He pulled up a newspaper headlined with 'Consulting Detective; Fraud', showing Jim that it had all gone to plan while he had been asleep, dead, gone, whatever the state that he had been in.

He listed off what had happened in his own business, how they had disassembled the main crime rings that they ran. He explained which branches had been given new resources and just how far they now reached. And it truly showed Jim that he had been right, even without him, it would run and never stop.

The water could wait, because the information was more important to Jim. He's being told just where he can start and where his attention would be best held. Where the next game could happen and the first strings that would supply the fun. He smiled, letting Sebastian’s voice drown out the constant noise in his head, lets Sebastian fill it with new information, losing the unimportant.

And Moriarty organizes the all the new information between shards of glass and twisted metal pieces.

Until They Do.

Drive By Post

2012-04-04T04:32:11Z

Hi dears!

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Fault of my own! I’m terrible at getting around to updating my journal, even if it were just me blathering on and on about nothing of importance. We’ll do a mass song and dance now then, shall we? I’ll regale you with tales of the excitement (good and bad) in my life. Here we go.

My father had another heart attack, due to the stints that the doctors put in last time. He had to go in for heart surgery again and this time they put in medicated stints instead of metal ones. It means that he won’t have to worry about the stints being rejected, closing up or in simple text, not working. At the same time though, my grandmother’s boyfriend had a major heart attack. He had to have his heart replaced and so far, he’s doing okay. For a few weeks it was a bit touch and go, but it’s looking up for him now.

And this week, I slipped at work. I fell hard and because I was carrying glass dishes, I couldn’t brace my fall. I ended up landing on my knee. The floor is this solid stone kind, which meant that I bruised my knee really good. I managed another hour at work, helping customers and such, because I thought it would be okay, just a minor bruise that I needed to walk off. Well, an hour later, I had to sit, because I couldn’t straighten my knee anymore. It took forever to call someone in to cover the last two hours of my shift, because I couldn’t do anything and the girl I was working with is still in training. I’ve been on crutches the last three days and the swelling has finally gone down, but I’m worried. I have to work Thursday and I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage a whole shift of standing.

In other news, I’m finally writing, in small amounts. I’ve signed up for the Sherlock Reverse Bang, where I claimed a Moriarty-centric picture. I’m looking forward to the challenge, because I write better under a deadline. It stirs my mind and I always manage to write enormous amounts after such a thing. I’m hoping that it all goes well in that regards.

I’m so sorry for my lack of comments on your journals! I’m such a terrible lurker. I feel out of sorts commenting, because my habit is to read and then scamper off to my quiet little part of the internet. Although I’m a bit quiet here, I am obnoxiously active on twitter. I’m there all day, constantly updating and replying to others.

I hope to be updating with something a little more substantial soon. I’m hoping to have something up this week if time allows.

Meme snagged from: twilightthief

1. Go to page 7 of your most recent WiP

2. Count seven lines down

3. Copy and paste the next seven lines of text.

1. A Well of Echoes/Inception crossover (My shameless excuse to write an artisan Arthur.)

The commotion starts when Arthur’s hunched over his desk, one hand on the pliance hanging from his neck and the other wrapped around a piece of crystalline quartz. The crystal was the size of his fist, carefully shaped into a twenty-four faceted hedron. It glitters under the light, but that light is nothing compared to what he can see.

Arthur can see brilliant lights, dancing colors in the crystal, around it. He can see the crystals aura, the power in its core. He grits his teeth as he twists the lights in his mind’s eye, his grip tightening on his pliance. All it takes it one jerk and everything clicks into place, twisting in a perfect arc.

2. You Could Call It Fate a BBC Sherlock fic (Just a play thing where I toy with possibilities in timelines where John dies, Sherlock never meets John and how they effect eachothers lives.)

There is a path that their lives could have taken, many paths that they could have walked. It’s not something that they think about often, it’s just a stray thought that maybe passes through their heads. Sherlock will allow himself a handful of seconds to muse over the idea, which is usually spurred on when someone mentions the idea of ‘fate’. And in turn, John will think ‘that could have gone differently’ and then ponder how different it all could have been if he hadn’t met Sherlock. It’s always something that he spares only a moment to, because he doesn’t want to know how it could have been.

And this is how it could have been...

3. A prompt fill where Moriarty didn’t die in Sherlock. (The challenge was to never use his many names)

He crouches down now, dipping his fingers into the now cool puddle of blood. He twists his head, changing the angle of his view, as if he’ll find something new if he looks at it in just a certain way. By now, he’s memorized the pattern and it’s only his sick fascination that keeps him on this roof.

“Do you think they would have more similarities if I jumped too? Do you think that they would be similar, or would the patterns still be to unique? The possibility is tempting.” He asks questions that he doesn’t want answered with simple words. He wants to turn and jump, to take the fall and then get up again, if only so he can see how the spray of his brains across the pavement would compare to Sherlock’s.

Current WIP's and Excerpts [Inception & Sherlock]

2012-02-13T09:55:19Z

I am one of those people who will work on seven or eight different stories at a time. It will take me forever to write them all, but it’s something that I have always done. I’ve never plotted out a story, never planned anything and this leads to a mish mash of ideas. So I’ve learned to just write what feels natural and sometimes that means starting a whole new story. It’s the way my brain works and if I stop doing things this way, my thoughts get mangled and confused.

So, for the past few months, I’ve been working my way through these pieces. Of course, work is keeping my hands tied and not allowing me much time to write, but they will all be finished sooner or later. So, here we go!

Just putting this here, because I always work better knowing I’ve made some kind of promise to write them. Doing this feels exactly like that.

Inception

~~Inception Big Bang~~
The Diva AU

Remember when I said I was going to write a story where Arthur was a diva and Eames was an Illustre? Well, that is actually a WIP. I do have words for it. Of course, it’s twin counterpart, the one where Eames is the diva and Arthur is the Illustre, is still only in my head.

The Amnesia Case

Arthur suffers from amnesia. Nothing more and nothing less. Well, alright, dream sharing will always be involved, but that’s what Inception is all about, right?

‘Arthur J. Davidson
Born December 3, 1981
Los Angeles, California’

House In London

This is the one where I realized I’m not allowed to go on the kink meme while drunk. I saw this prompt ‘There is a house in London. It's not just a house, but a home’ and knew that I would need to write the shit out of that, so I started ‘From Cabinet 12, Drawer 6’.

BBC’s Sherlock

Make Me Bleed

Basically, this is the one where Sherlock and John fuck it out. I dare you to try coming up with a better idea than that when you get inspired by a meltingly sexy song.

The Multiple Ways It Could Have Been

I wanted to try something new and about the time I was thinking this, someone said ‘It could have been different’. Being me, I latched onto that and this idea took over my brain. So, I fell in love with the idea of what could have happened in Sherlock. What if John had died under the Afghani sun? What if they never met? How many routes could Sherlock’s life have taken? As of yet, I’m still working on how to put all these scenes in my head down in print, but I know clearly how these scenes will be.

There’s also a Heavy Rain/Sherlock crossover happening, but I’ve got nothing written that I like yet. So yeah, update there on what I’m working on. Ta!

Fic: Open Your Eyes [Arthur/Ariadne]

2011-10-13T05:40:04Z

Title: Open Your Eyes
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Ariadne
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 1200
Summary: Nothing needs to be said in the early mornings where touch is enough.
Author Note: If you're from my flist, I suggest that you turn back. This is not Arthur/Eames. This happened because while writing my Big Bang, Ariadne and Arthur had an interaction. This interaction made a fellow A/E shipper have a panic attack, because apparently it was very 'shippy'. It wasn't. There was a discussion between us about true ships. I may not enjoy a ship, but I don't go about hating it. I understand that people like different things and that's okay with me. This is basically me saying, I can ship whoever I damn well please and even if I don't ship them, I can still write them. So... yeah. This is what happens when people try to disuade me with their opinions.

Ariadne woke to gentle finger’s ghosting over her hip and her thigh. They traced upwards, skimming across her waist, before coming to a stop at her lower back. They pressed in, a light pressure that was followed by a warm breath brushing across the side of her face.

She blinked open her eyes, morning light shining in from the window and falling across the bed. A smile curved its way onto her face, an answering grin settling itself on Arthur’s face. He leaned in, lips settling on her forehead, his lips slightly chilled.

Her eyes fluttered closed as he kissed the bridge of her nose, before his lips pressed against each of her eye lids, the barest whisper of touch. He laid a kiss against her cheek, her chin, the corner of her lips, before she raised a hand quickly, her finger stopping him from leaning in to claim her mouth. She opened her eyes, meeting his amused gaze.

Her hand slid from his lips, across his cheek, until her fingers were brushing through his curling hair. She pulled back slowly, rolling out of the bed and treading to the adjoining bathroom. She listened to the creak of the bed as she brushed her teeth, sure that Arthur had already brushed his own before waking her.

She rinsed her mouth, washed her toothbrush, before dropping it in the cup on the counter. She paused, her fingers reaching out to wrap around the chess piece sitting so innocently beside the sink. It told her exactly what she needed to know, that this was reality and that Arthur really was waiting for her in their bed. She set it down, the soft clink of metal on marble not sharp enough to break the morning’s calmness.

She stepped out into the doorway, stopping to admire the man stretched across the bed, a curl of heat sliding through her body. Arthur tilted his head to look at her, back arched, with one arm curled underneath his pillow and the other dancing across his cock. His lips lifted fondly, a call that she couldn’t ignore.

She moved forward quickly, sliding back into the bed and settling into his side. He rolled off his back and into her, until he had her pressed back into the sheets, his thigh between her own and his hands on either side of her head. His eyes were warm as he gazed down at her, seeming to say there you are.

She surged upwards, lips finding his own finally. His breath was cool against her lips and had her opening to him. His hand came up to cradle the back of her neck, holding her still as his tongue traced the shape of her bottom lip. She gave a soft sigh when his tongue flicked over her own, repeating a dance that they had taught each other.

He lowered her back down to the bed, his hand curved around her shoulder, giving a squeeze before it danced down her side. The movement of his hand was slow, but determined, finally coming to a stop at her thigh. He lifted her leg, letting her follow through with the movement to wrap it around his lean waist.

And then his hand was back, interlacing his fingers with her own, against the sheets as he pressed in. He pulled back from her lips, letting out a long breath. Ariadne arched upwards, pushing into him with a small moan. It was perfect the way he fit against her, all sharp angles meeting soft curves in a perfect balance. Her hand tightened around his as she kept her eyes on his face, watching the way his eye brows drew together in concentration.

She huffed out a quiet laugh, her free hand lifting up to smooth away the lines as she settled back against the bed. His expression relaxed and he placed a kiss to the palm of her hand, before sliding between their bodies and hooking itself to rest on his shoulder. Her nails dug teasingly into his skin, telling him to move.

He leaned forward, lips finding their home on her jaw line as he pushed in all the way, before pulling out, movements slow and calculated. Her nails dug in deeper, earning a quick nip of teeth against her skin, but he thrust back in, hips rolling in one smooth movement. Her breath hitched and that was all it took for his control to melt away. It was all it took to remind him that he didn’t need to be perfect for her.

A quiet groan escaped him as he pulled back, before pushing in again, her legs pulling him in on each move. She tilted her head back, exposing her neck fully to Arthur, her back lifting to press into him with each slide of skin. Her eyes fell shut on a moan as his speed increased, spurred on by her limbs tightening around him and bringing him closer.

He panted for breath as he moved against her, pressing open mouthed kisses to the side of her neck. She turned her face towards his, a mewl of sound pulling his attention back to her lips. And then he was kissing her again, tongue tangling with her own as his hips snapped forward. He swallowed her delicate cries as she climaxed, muscles trembling around him.

He quickened his movements, leading her through it with short, deep strokes. It didn’t take much before he was following her, coming with a drawn out moan. Her legs tightened around his waist, before the slid away, falling to the bed. Her arm fell from his shoulder, wrapping around the arm supporting him above her.

As she caught her breath, she watched him blink open his eyes, his expression warm and satisfied. He bent down to give her a quick kiss on the tip of her nose, before he was pulling out and collapsing beside her. His hand fell from hers, but remained in contact with her skin, by pulling her in close. She shivered in his arms, body treading the line between relaxed and orgasm. She buried her nose in the crook of his neck, tangling their legs together.

Arthur enfolded her in his arms, fingers tracing patterns across her lower back as the morning light fell across them. He rested his chin on the crown of her head, sleep tugging at them. He was in awe that he had the ability to wake up with Ariadne in his arms, a creature that baffled and intrigued him. Her knowledge and imagination always blew him away, the way she seemed to dance with creativity.

She was the balance to him, tugging at him to try new things, to believe in something he never would have expected to be his. He pressed a smile into her hair, in awe that he had the ability to wake up with her in his arms, but amazed to know that he could fall asleep and she would still be there when the dream ended.

Fin

Master Lists

2011-09-07T03:39:48Z

To be edited...

Fic: Room of Angels [Arthur/Eames]

2011-08-08T06:49:20Z

Title: Room of Angels
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Character death.
Word Count: 3300
Summary: The mind has many rooms, filled with memories and dreams. Sometimes it opens these rooms in an attempt to prepare and heal.
Originally Posted: ae_match week 1
Author Note: So, I'm not very happy with this fic, but I guess we can't always be completely happy with anything we create ourselves, or I know I can't at least. Reposting here, because I like to keep track of my work. My only post to the ae_match.

Special thanks to lathaina who beta'd the first half this fic. She also let me bounce ideas off of her. Thank you dove for your time! Then to heavenly_rain and five_of_five who helped me figure out what being sedated felt like. You two got me past my writer's block! I have all the love in the world for these girls.

Eames was laughing as he took Arthur’s hands in his own, pulling the slimmer man close. He rocked back and forth slightly, tugging Arthur into following the movement. Arthur frowned, but let Eames lead him in a dance across the living room of their apartment. “What are you doing?”

“We’re dancing Arthur. Now just move,” Eames murmured into his ear, his voice a familiar bur. He was grinning, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Arthur couldn’t restrain his answering smile, showing white teeth and dimples. They were open to each other, more so than they were to anyone else.

It had been easy for Arthur to open up to Eames in the beginning, even more so when he had realized that maybe they could have a working relationship. It had taken much longer for Eames to be comfortable being himself around Arthur, to accept a relationship, but in the end he had welcomed it.

“There we go,” Eames sighed as he moved across the room. They glided across the floor, bare feet silent against the warm timber. Eames was dressed in a light blue dress shirt, open at the collar.

They didn’t say a word, content to just dance in the morning sunlight filtering in from the living room window. After three years; one of casual fucking, one of figuring everything out and another of this, they had grown accustomed to each other. Of course they still had their moments of snarled anger and hissed disagreements. Their fights would last a handful of day, but they were spaced by moments of complete understanding; moments where Eames was a mix of everyone he had ever been and Arthur wasn't focused on a job.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

Arthur sighed, relaxing into Eames’ sure grasp, his forehead nested in Eames’ shoulder. His right hand slid out of Eames’ and traced upwards from his arm to his shoulder. His other hand remained tight around Eames’ as they continued to move. Eames’ free hand palmed his hip.

His finger’s glided under the collar of Eames’ shirt, finger tips skirting over his skin. He closed his eyes as his fingers smoothed over puckered flesh. The scar from a gunshot wound when he had been working a job in Panama.

His fingers dipped lower, down a pectoral and skimming over ribs; fingers easily finding the long raised line of a scar that spanned the length between his ribs and hip; a knife wound from a night of gambling in Pattaya.

Arthur knew the story of every scar on Eames’ body. They had spent afternoons learning each other’s bodies, answering whispered questions, because the moment had been too delicate for them to speak normally. Eames’ assortment of scars told a lifelong story of being a criminal.

Arthur had always found beauty in Eames’ body, because it told the story of a man who had self-preservation down to a fine art, who wasn’t afraid to name names, who in an instant could turn on you. It spoke of things that Eames would never admit too; his gambling addiction, his need for challenging jobs and his thrill for danger. It told the story of a ruthless man.

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open when his fingers passed over Eames’ stomach and touched something warm and wet. He came to a stop and lifted his face from the crook of Eames’ neck.

Everything was blurred and it took Eames raising his hand to wipe the tears from his face for Arthur to realize that he was crying. His chest hurt and the pain was growing exponentially, but he ignored it. “I can’t remember how I got here, Eames.”

“I know,” Eames admitted as he freed his other hand from Arthur’s grasp and lifted both of them to cup Arthur’s face. He leaned forward, resting their foreheads together, but Arthur flinched away. It wasn’t real. Eames sighed, releasing Arthur.

Arthur kept a hand on Eames’ stomach, not willing to see what was coating his fingers. There was no doubt in his mind as to what it was.

“You need to wake up,” Eames stated. Arthur gasped, the pain in his chest having reached a level that he could no longer ignore. He closed his eyes and tried to figure out why he was dreaming. He didn’t protest against the press of cold steel to his temple, only leaned into the chilled touch.

A shot.

::: ::: :::

His eyes flew open. He coughed, spluttering for air, hands flying up to cover his mouth. There was a tube in his mouth and he felt a wave of panic, before hands were prying his off of the tube and pulling it out.

He blinked under the bright lights, trying to see where he was, who all these people were and what was going on. A face hovered over his, half covered by a light blue mask. A doctor, Arthur recognized.

He focused on the man’s face, fingers flexing and chest throbbing in pain. He took shallow breaths, before he pushed himself up into a sitting position. It caused the doctor to jerk back in surprise. He cursed, fighting for air as his limbs trembled with exhaustion and agony. The voices’ in the room grew louder, alongside the wailing of one of the machines in the room.

One of the nurses jumped forward, settling her hands on his shoulders and then attempting to push him back down. Arthur pushed her back, the intense urge to flee digging its claws into him. He gritted his teeth as the movement caused a wave of pain to rush through his system.

He made a grab for his pocket, reaching for his die, but hands were on him, too many to push away. They forced him back down on the stretcher and pinned him there. He thrashed slightly against the people holding him down, but everything was reaching too high a level for him to fight effectively. The sounds were getting louder, the pain becoming more intense and the fear that he couldn’t tell if this was a dream was reaching an insurmountable level.

He gasped for breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he tried to work past his growing confusion. He felt a pinch in his arm and then slowly everything began to fall away. Warmth bled through his system, a mix of soothing and uncomfortable. His fingers began to tingle and he opened his eyes in an attempt to gain some kind of control.

“The results are back doctor Shipman.” He heard someone say, but it was hard to focus on the soft voice. He blinked, but it was a struggle to open his eyes again, so he let them stay shut. “He has high doses of somnacin in his system. It’s dangerous to put him out right now. It’s some new compound, one of the street mixtures. It’s not breaking down in his system at the right speed; its breaking down much too slowly.”

“It’s more dangerous to have him awake. He’ll have to survive the corners of his mind until tomorrow.” The response was the last that Arthur heard before he let go. He tumbled back into the oblivion of his mind, a world created of memories and things he knew.

::: ::: :::

“Do you remember that time in Cinque Terre?” Eames asked as he carded his fingers through Arthur’s hair. Arthur blinked slowly, twisting slightly so that he was on his back, looking up at Eames. They were sprawled across a bed, Arthur’s head in Eames lap and Eames leaning back against the wall. Arthur quirked a brow, but Eames only smiled in response.

“How could I forget?” Arthur asked, a returning smile slipping onto his face. He stretched, languid. The sunlight filtered in from the bedroom window, cutting across the bed and heating the rumpled white sheets they lay on. “We’d just finished the Marino job in Milan.”

“And the mark woke up as we were packing the PASIV,” Eames continued. He breathed a light chuckle, fingers keeping up their constant movement through Arthur’s loose hair. Arthur laughed, because that job truly had been a giant cock up.

“So you pulled a gun on him and told him that if he so much as moved, you wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him.” Arthur gave a slight shake of his head. Luckily for them, Eames had made it look like they had been robbing the man. Their architect hadn’t had any idea how to play his part and had bolted straight away, leaving Arthur and Eames to clean up the mess.

“You got a lovely pair of cufflinks out of it.” Eames hummed, reminding Arthur of a perfectly satisfied cat. He traced his fingers through his hair one last time, before guiding them down the side of Arthur’s face and coming to a stop at the corner of his lips.

“We got out of their quickly, but we knew that taking off on foot would be useless. We could already hear the sirens, so we raced to the train. You bought tickets to the first place out of there, Cinque Terre.” Arthur recalled, Eames’ fingers sliding over his lips, tracing them as he spoke.

“We ended up in Riomaggorie, in the middle of the tourist season. It took us an hour to find a place to stay. That woman at the bed and breakfast didn’t know what to make of us; two men in suits willing to share a room with a single bed.” Eames continued on fondly, fingers moving from Arthur’s lips to trace up his cheek.

“There was no way that we would be found there. Or we pretended at least, because it was really lovely there.” Eames supplied before Arthur could speak the next part. Arthur shifted again, settling in for Eames to finish the shared memory. He could listen to him speak for hours, his soft voice soothing in a way that he had never found anything else to be. “We spent the first day in bed, because everyone needs a break from running.”

“One of the couples in the room over mentioned a quaint trail. How could we resist something so intriguing and completely different than what we were used to?” Eames asked, not expecting an answer to the question. Arthur knew his part well and answered instead with a name.

“The Via dell’Amore,” Arthur spoke the words like a lovers name.

“The pathway from Riomaggorie to Monarola,” Eames’ smile softened. “That was the job that made us realize we were something more than casual fucks. You were the first one to break and ask what the hell we were doing. The one who turned whatever we had been doing, into this.”

“God, how are you real?” Arthur breathed, completely in love with this single man. Eames’ hand froze, where it had been tracing circles on his temples. His grey eyes darkened and his smile shattered. It took the sunlight stained room and comforting warmth of his partner with it.

::: ::: :::

“-for now. The surgery went well and we managed to remove the fragments of the bullet from his chest. It’s a miracle that he survived at all.” The hushed voice grated through Arthur’s system, wrong in comparison to the voice that had filled his dreams. He shuddered, feeling the urge to cover his ears and tune it out.

He could feel the darkness tugging at him, begging him to once again fall into its embrace. He struggled against it, because it seemed like he needed to do it. He gave a light hiss as he twisted in the bed, his chest flaring in a numbed agony.

“Out of the four of them, he’s the only one that...” the familiar voice trailed off. Dom, Arthur recognized after a moment. His voice was thick though, wrong. It sounded deeper, worn and rattled.

“Yes,” the first voice responded to the unfinished question. It was all Arthur heard before he was being pulled back down into a place where he could no longer tell what was a dream, what was a memory and what was reality.

::: ::: :::

“New York, London, Toronto, Tokyo, Paris, Los Angeles, Milan, Prague, São Paulo and Osaka,” Eames listed off as he leaned back in his chair. He lifted his cup of black tea to his lips, which did little to hide his growing smile.

They were sitting outside a small cafe, the afternoon sun warm against their skin. Eames’ tea, Arthur’s vanilla latte and an assortment of baking covered the table.

“All the places that we’ve worked jobs together,” Arthur said immediately. Eames brushes his foot up Arthur’s ankle, the contact welcomed by the other man. Arthur’s finger’s danced across the lip of his coffee cup, expectantly waiting for Eames to explain why he had brought up the list of jobs.

“Do you know which one was my favourite?” Eames asked, causing Arthur to bark out a laugh. That hadn’t been what he was expecting.

“I don’t know your favourite, but mine is easily Tokyo.” Arthur smile grew at the memory. Even if it hadn’t been the perfect job, even if Eames and him had been at each other’s throats, it had been the beginning of it all.

“Tokyo was mine too,” Eames agreed before putting his tea cup back down on its glass saucer. “I can still hear Mal yelling at us, while Cobb pretended that his wife wasn’t having a breakdown over our behaviour. ‘You two are acting like children; non, you are worse than children! You are not allowed to step foot in this building, until you two have resolved whatever problems you have with each other. Now go!’.”

“We were both stunned that she had yelled at us that we went without a word. We ended up in some alley, when you threw the first punch. Beating the shit out of each other was just what we had needed. I can’t remember how we ended up fucking, but it was much better than the fighting.” Eames traced his toe up Arthur’s ankle and under his slacks. Arthur had a moment to wonder why he wasn’t wearing his shoes, but he put it out of his mind. The touch was comforting.

“I never hated you, you know.” Arthur looked down at his latte, the words a low rasp. He cleared his throat, a rueful smile making its way onto his face. He glanced up at Eames, trying again. “After three years, I never told you that I didn’t hate you. I don’t think that I could ever hate you, I just found you frustrating as all hell.”

“I know. You never needed to tell me. I knew the instant you smiled at me the first time.” Eames’ smile softened as he stood up. He leaned across the table and brushed his lips across Arthur’s forehead. “I always knew, love.”

And the world faded.

::: ::: :::

Arthur’s eyes fluttered open, this time lacking the sluggish feel of the sedative. His mind felt surprisingly clear, quietly figuring out what had happened in the last while. He remembered how he had gotten here, remembered the doctor hovering over him when he had first woken in the hospital.

“Arthur?” He glanced over to find Dom sitting in a chair. He looked weary, pained and older. The lines in his face seemed more prominent and it looked like he hadn’t slept in days. A smile fell into place on his face, but it looked like it would break in an instant.

“Hey,” Arthur rasped. He raised his hand to scrub down his face, wiping away the remnants of the dream. He dropped his hand back down onto the bed and pushed himself up, ignoring the slight twinge in his chest.

He’d been shot.

“Shit, we were sold out,” he whispered emotionlessly. He leaned back against the wall and turned to face Dom again. He didn’t want to think about the job, not now at least. There was nothing he could do about it while he was in the hospital. What mattered was the rest of the team. “There were four of us. Eames was our forger.”

“I know,” Dom nodded and his expression seemed to freeze. Arthur noted the tightening of his knuckles and the ways his lips drew tight. What Dom couldn’t hide was the sudden flare of emotion in his eyes. It was the same look he got when someone mentioned Mal, just more controlled.

Arthur tensed and it felt like the breath had been punched from his lungs. Dom didn’t need to say anything, because Arthur knew. He had always known, subconsciously at least. He opened his mouth to say something, anything at all, but all that escaped was a small gasp. And still Dom remained silent, because he knew... he knew how it felt to be cracked wide open.

“How?” Arthur managed past the lump growing in his throat. He jerked his gaze away from Dom, focusing on the white wall ahead of him.

“Two shots to the stomach,” Dom supplied after a moment’s hesitation. It was something Arthur had known though, he remembered dragging his fingers across Eames’ stomach in the dream and the wet that his finger’s had encountered.

His hands were shaking, even as the rest of him was still. On some level he had prepared himself for the news, but preparing had nothing on the reality of the situation.

“There was so much that I never told him,” Arthur finally whispered. The words echoed quietly in the room, harmonizing with the beeps keeping track of his heart rate.

He felt the brush of finger’s against his shoulder, a vague memory of nights spent with Eames and the handful of recent dreams. It was the comfort his body craved, but not one that it would ever receive again. It tore a snarled “fuck!” from him.

He had a right to lose control, after everything he had been through; he deserved to lose control now. He gasped for breath, his chest tight and eyes stinging. He leaned forward, ignoring the pain in his chest that was a mix of mental and physical. Already he could feel the burn of guilt cutting its way to his core, the litany of ‘I should have know, I should have know.’ playing through his head, like a torturous symphony.

Beside him, Dom said nothing, Dom didn’t move.

And Arthur remembered the time right after Mal died that Dom threw a punch at him. He remembered how he took it, before wrapping the other man in his arms, because they were family, they were like brothers. But now, Dom was all shuttered emotions and all Arthur wanted to see is some sign that he actually cared.

He felt the brush of finger’s over his lips and cheeks, then over his neck; the ghost of a touch.

And that was the reason he had never left Dom’s side when he had been haunted by Mal’s shade, even though Eames had told him not to. In that time though, they hadn’t meant anything to each other and Arthur hadn’t taken his advice to heart. He had known that if anyone had ever wormed their way into his life and they died, his mind would probably do the same thing.

It was some twisted way to preserve, some twisted way to never let go.

He felt the tears dripping down his face, but this time there was no one to wipe them away. There was no one to pull him close and comfort him. This time there was no one to put a gun to his head and wake him. And he wouldn’t try to wake himself up, because he knew that this was no dream. And he knew Eames wouldn’t have agreed with the idea of ending this pain.

There had been so much left unsaid, but maybe they had heard each other anyways.