#Chapter: [Unhidden]

[dapooh]

Before the vows were ever spoken, there was a moment — quiet, tense, inevitable.

Traditions flicker like shadows in sunlight—half-truths dressed as duty. A conversation disguised as permission stirs old customs awake, while distant laughter and unspoken questions echo down the palace halls. Between duty and defiance, someone opens a door—and someone else steps through it, breathless. Not everything that shifts is loud.

In a world of power, legacy, and silent expectations, Utahime and Gojo enter a contract marriage- two opposites bound not by love, but by necessity. She's poised, scarred, and cautious. He’s powerful, playful, and hiding more loneliness than he lets on. Within the cold grandeur of the Gojo estate, where every step is watched and tradition rules, a delicate shift begins. Through quiet mornings, stolen glances, and gardens that whisper of belonging, two guarded souls slowly begin to unravel the walls around their hearts.

The Night the Paper Burned

The room was quiet, save for the faint rustling of silk and the soft creak of wood as the paper doors slid closed behind them. A warm amber glow from the lantern lit the traditional tatami mat floor. Shadows danced on the wall—two figures in pristine ceremonial wear, bound not by love, but a contract.

Gojo stood by the low lacquered table, loosening the stiff collar of his white montsuki, the family crest embroidered proudly on his back. His silver hair, barely tamed for the ceremony, had begun to fall messily over his forehead again.

Across the room, Utahime sat silently, back straight, the long sleeves of her uchikake crimson and gold; folded over her lap.The embroidered cranes at the hem shimmered faintly in the warm lamplight. She hadn’t changed out of it yet, but she moved when Gojo closed the door behind them with a soft click.

The ceremony was over, but the air between them still held a formality more rigid than their silk robes.Utahime walked slowly toward the dressing table at the far end of the room, the soft rustle of her clothing the only sound between them. She didn’t glance back at Gojo. Her posture was measured, as always — not guarded, but never loose. The mirror on the table caught her face as she sat down, framed by the dim light, her features composed like a portrait. Her fingers moved to remove the ornate hairpin holding her bun in place.

Gojo turned to her with a lazy grin. “Come on, don’t act like you weren’t a little flattered. You looked like a royal painting—very tragic and composed. The scar even gave you a touch of...dramatic flair.”

Her eyes flicked to him—sharper now. 

Gojo raised his eyebrows. “Wow. Not even a soft ‘thank you’ for the compliment? You wound me, Oksama.”

Utahime’s lips pressed into a line. The title was still strange in her ears.

Gojo cleared his throat, stretching his arms lazily. “Well… this is awkward.”

Her reply was dry. “You know, you don’t have to keep talking just because there’s silence.”

“Oof,” he chuckled. “Already attacking the groom? At least wait till I commit a crime.”

“You already did. You dragged me into this circus.” She turned to face him, her scar catching a slash of light—bold and unhidden, like her words.

Gojo didn’t flinch. Instead, he flopped onto his oversized bed, arms wide, looking absurdly at ease in his montsuki haori hakama . “Come on, Utahime. You made your choice. Cold feet now?”

“I didn’t say I regret it,” she said sharply. “But don’t pretend this is normal.”

“I’d never.” He looked at the ceiling with a sigh, then tilted his head toward her. “But hey, you looked really beautiful today. Just saying.”

Utahime looked away, swallowing. “You don’t need to say that.”

“I didn’t say it for you,” he smiled. “I said it because it’s true.”

She stood, smoothing her robe, and walked to the window, pushing it slightly open. Cool night air brushed against her face. For a while, she said nothing.

Then softly, almost to the night, “I agreed to this, but it doesn’t mean I’m...comfortable. With any of it.”

Gojo's voice dropped, sincere for once. “I know.”

She turned halfway, not quite facing him. “Do you? You joke all the time. You keep it light so you won’t have to acknowledge anything deeper.”

Gojo tilted his head. “Yeah. That’s sort of my specialty.”

A pause. She folded her hands in front of her. They stood in silence for a moment. The distant murmur of servants padding outside filtered through the thin door, too faint to fill the tension between them.

Utahime walked to the sleek marble counter and poured herself a glass of water, her back to him. “I won’t be a burden. You’ll have your space. I expect the same.”

“You think I’m worried about that?” Gojo leaned back on his elbows, watching her.

“No,” she said without looking. “I think you don’t worry at all.”

He smiled at that. “Touché.”

She turned, glass still in hand, her gaze direct. “I don’t know what kind of marriage you imagined, Gojo. But I’m not going to play house. This is a contract. You asked for something. I gave it. That’s all.”

Gojo’s smile faltered—just a little. “Understood. No rose petals and pillow fights.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he said quietly. “I didn’t marry you to make your life harder. I just needed someone real. Not someone who sees my name and thinks of inheritance.”

Utahime’s expression softened ever so slightly, her voice dipping. “I don’t know what kind of man you are yet, Gojo. But I’ll keep my word.”

“And I’ll keep mine,” he said, nodding. “No touching. No overstepping. And if at any point you want out…”

“I won’t run from something I said yes to,” she cut in.

Gojo studied her for a long moment. His voice dropped low. “You know, for someone who doesn’t want love… you sure carry a lot of loneliness.”

Her fingers tightened around the glass. She didn’t answer.

“…I’ll take the couch,” he said after a beat, rising to grab a pillow from the bed.

Gojo had just arranged the couch cushions with the enthusiasm of a kid building a fort when he heard her voice again.

"We should… get it done."

His hand froze mid-fluff.

“…Get what done?” he asked, eyebrows raised, turning toward her.

She didn’t meet his eyes. “The… consummation.”

He scratched the back of his neck, standing awkwardly. “You mean tonight?”

“Yes.” Her tone was clipped. Controlled. “The agreement. Your family expects an heir.

Gojo blinked. Hard. “Oh.”

Silence.

“I thought it’d be you who brought it up first,” she said, finally glancing at him. “You don’t seem the type to shy away.”

Gojo opened his mouth, then closed it again, his usual smirk faltering. “Yeah, well… I'm many types, apparently.”

She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, facing away from him. Her fingers tugged lightly at the edge of the sheet. “It’s fine if you want to refuse.”

“Refuse?” he blinked again. “Why would I—? No! No refusal here, I just… wasn’t expecting it from you tonight. Not that I’m complaining. I mean—God, shut up, Gojo—”

She turned, startled by his own muttered scolding. He looked sheepish. “This isn’t how I imagined it would go. Then again, nothing about this is normal.”

“No,” she admitted softly.

A stretch of quiet passed before he walked over, slow and careful, and sat beside her on the bed. Not touching. Just close enough to feel her presence.

She sighed, frustrated—at him, at herself. “Because this is not how I pictured my first time.”

His head turned toward her so fast she could hear the shift in the sheets.

“You haven’t?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Gojo blinked again. He let out a low whistle- “Mine too, actually.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Everyone thinks I’m some wild party guy because of the glasses and the hair. But surprise—turns out, saving yourself for a contract marriage is just peak Gojo behavior.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. You think I’m the type to just hand this glorious body to anyone?” He smirked, then paused, noticing her face.

The heat in her cheeks was unmistakable now. She was so still, it was as if she had turned into stone.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re so weird.”

He smiled. “I know.”

A silence fell between them again. Not heavy. Just uncertain.

He peeked at her. “That scar… has nothing to do with it, right?”

She stiffened. His voice softened.

“I mean, if it did , then everyone else is just stupid. Because it doesn’t take anything away. At all.”

“I didn’t ask for compliments.”

“Yeah, well, tough. They’re free tonight.”

She inhaled, slow and shaky. “I thought it would be mechanical. Just… something to tick off.”

Gojo didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice was uncharacteristically serious.

“I don’t want it like that. Not with you looking like you’re preparing for battle.”

She looked down at her hands.

He reached out, carefully, like testing water—then gently brushed the back of his fingers against hers.

“Let’s… just try something else,” he said. “Like… maybe lying down? Facing the same direction? Breathing?”

“That’s your solution?”

“Baby steps.” He stood, holding out his hand. “Come on, warrior bride.”

She rolled her eyes but slipped her hand into his. His palm was warm. Comfortably rough.

They settled into bed, facing each other with far too much stiffness for two people who’d just gotten married. After a few seconds, Gojo raised a brow.

“We’re literally lying here like wooden planks. It’s a crime.”

“You said baby steps.”

“I didn’t know your steps were for toddlers.”

That earned a small laugh. Then, slowly, Utahime shifted closer. Her forehead rested gently against his chest, and his arm curled around her like instinct.

The moment was quiet. Fragile. Real.

Her hand clutched his shirt just a little.

“We don’t have to rush,” he said, more to himself than her. “But if we’re going to be each other’s home for a while… I want it to be warm. Not just signed.”

Gojo’s arm draped around her cautiously, her back against his chest as she turned around. The room was quiet save for their synchronized breathing. He was warm. She smelled faintly of jasmine and parchment—clean and comforting.

His voice rumbled softly. “Let’s get used to this first. The closeness. The breathing.

“I don’t know how to get used to this.”

“Me neither,” he whispered into her hair.

Her shoulders relaxed. “Just… don’t joke all the time. Let me breathe.”

“No jokes,” he agreed. “Only breathing. And maybe a compliment or two when you least expect it.”

She huffed, but he felt the small smile she didn’t let him see.

They stayed like that—entangled, not in passion, but in something quieter. Warmer. More patient.

For the first time since the wedding, it didn’t feel like a contract. It felt like a promise.

The night passed gently. No fireworks. No grand declarations.

Whew, that got a little softer than I expected… 👀

 If you’d like to see more of Gojo and Utahime fumbling through marriage, teasing their way into actual feelings —hit that link it'll take you directly to my fic...there's definitely more chapters !!!!!

[cosmiccrushes]

A Sea Of Crows

Rook x Lucanis || 5.5k words

summary: Lucanis Dellamorte and Rook de Riva meet under the most unusual circumstances. But what's not unusual is the friendship, and eventually more, they find together.

notes: I have half a mind to keep writing this Rook (my og mage Crow Rook) and Lucanis into a longer form fic (maybe a series?) I do have a whole backstory planned for her that I think could be fun to explore but ahhh idk

UPDATE! I am going to keep writing this as a multi chapter fic. It's going to include Lucanis personal quests, main datv plot points I wanna cover, and eventually my named Rook's backstory as an Antivan Crow

also humongous shoutout to @ datvtranscripts on tumblr for their incredible work cataloging datv dialogue, massively helpful for this fanfic writer <3

~~~

CH 1: A Crow Underwater

Lucanis snaps the neck of the last Venatori cultist, letting their body thump to the stone at his feet. Spite’s wings dissipate at his back. 

Someone speaks behind him, voice lilting in an almost playful manner. “I’m guessing you’re the reason we’re here.” 

He turns to the two individuals who are entirely out of place in this underwater prison cell. Their unexpected arrival provided him with just the distraction he needed to burst from the crystal the Venatori had come to him in and dispatch them. He studies the new arrivals through narrowed eyes. One, a dwarf and the other, a Dalish elf, judging by the tattoos feathering around their eyes. 

“Who are you? Who sent you?” His voice is gruff with disuse. A year locked away with nothing but a demon for a conversation companion would do that. 

It's the elf who speaks again. “My name’s Rook. House de Riva. I’m here to bring you home. She’s Harding,” the elf jerks their head towards the dwarf whose hands tighten on her crossbow. 

A fellow Crow? House de Riva. That makes them one of Viago’s. Has his grandmother sent them to retrieve him? The day's surprises continue for Lucanis. “House de Riva. You're a Crow.” 

“Last time I checked.” The elf peers over their shoulder at an ominous groan from the prison’s walls. It appears the sounds of clashing Venatori and demons that Lucanis heard echoing through the Ossuary have resulted in a bit of structural damage. “We need to escape. Then we can talk.” The Crow, Rook, says, bringing their attention back to him. “I’m here to help. I’m breaking you out of here.” 

“Only one of you’s a Crow?” Lucanis is baffled by this situation.  

“And you’re possessed by a demon.” They sound curious, not judgemental, as their eyes trace the empty space around him where Spite's wings had been moments ago. 

“It's complicated.” Lucanis supposes he should get used to people looking at him like he's an abomination. Only, this Rook…doesn't. Their gaze stays open and curious. Their partner's discomfort goes unhidden. But if Rook is alarmed by the presence of a demon-possessed assassin, they don't show it.

“Caterina promised us a mage-killer if we broke you out of here.” Rook says mildly. 

“I can still work.” 

“Good. Because I’m pretty sure more Venatori are on their way. We have to get moving.” 

“Rook…” The dwarf looks to the Crow, her mouth pulled taught with wariness. “He's possessed.”

“It's fine, Harding.”

“Rook-” Harding tries again.

“I said I can work.” Lucanis bites out. 

Harding glares at him. “And I’ll listen to whatever she says,” she gestures with her crossbow at Rook. “But I don’t trust him.” The last bit she addresses towards the elf. 

“Understood.” Rook nods. “And we can discuss that later. Right now, I’d really prefer not drowning at the bottom of the sea.”  

“I can’t leave yet. The Venatori have a vial of my blood. I cannot leave it in their hands.” He notes the staff at Rook’s back, marking her as a mage. She will understand better than any the gravity of a mage who owns your blood. 

“Okay.” 

“And I had a contract when I was captured. One of my targets is here. Calivan.” Lucanis locks eyes with Rook. “You know what that means. Crows don’t break contracts.”

“All right. We'll help,” she agrees easily. “But in return, I want help killing some things.” 

“I’ll owe you.” Lucanis vows, noting the vagueness in her request. But a contract is a contract. Whatever things need killing, Lucanis would oblige. And if Caterina had sent her for a deal, Lucanis would never refuse. 

“I’m sure we’ll owe each other before this is all over.” She pulls blades from her own belt, tossing them to Lucanis. “Let’s go. So, first order of business?”

“Blood first, then my target. Calivan. The prison warden.” Rook immediately takes the lead as they exit his prison cell. Lucanis follows and this provides him with a chance to study his mysterious Crow rescuer.

She's a wisp of a woman. Lucanis does not mean this derisively- he himself is of small stature and it serves him well as an assassin. But he has entire inches on her. She must make deadly use of that in their line of work. As they slink through the corridors of the Ossuary, Lucanis observes the fluid lightness of her steps and knows he’s right. A target would never hear her coming. Her long, silvery blonde hair falls over her shoulders in two, tightly woven braids.

“Where do we find them? Calivan?” 

“In the tower. There’s a bridge.” 

“Not anymore,” Rook replies and Lucanis wonders just how bad of a state the Ossuary has fallen into. “We’ll have to find another way across.” 

A flurry of motion ahead of them as Venatori mages descend upon them in the chamber outside of his former cell. Lucanis refuses to even harbor thoughts that they will not escape this watery hell. He will not go back to that cell now that he is free, even if he must die instead.  

“Good. Mages. My specialty.” Lucanis is so eager to have a blade back in his hand, to cause pain to the Venatori that Rook and Harding are barely needed in this fight. Spite lends his wings and Lucanis stretches his muscles for the first time in a year. He gets the distinct impression that Rook is deliberately hanging back– whether to study his abilities or to offer him a bit of vengeance, he is unsure. 

Rummaging through the pockets of the slain Venatori, Rook raises a key, her triumphant smile spreading wide. “All right! One of them has a key. Must be my lucky day.” 

Lucanis raises an eyebrow. “You have an odd idea of luck.” He glances pointedly at their surroundings. 

Rook shrugs. “Well, I’m not dead yet. Neither are you. And actually, given the circumstances, that probably makes your luck better than mine.” She winks at him. Lucanis is suddenly very aware that these are the first true conversations he’s had with anyone in months. He’s not quite sure he’s doing it right. Is it possible to forget how to talk to people? 

They move forward through the Ossuary. Lucanis wonders how his grandmother finally found his location and why it was this particular Crow she sent to retrieve him. Not a Crow from House Dellamorte. Not a Crow he had even met before, as far as he could remember. And despite the brevity of their acquaintance, Rook imparted a feeling that she was not easily forgotten.  

“So, the Crows sent a mage to free their mage-killer?” 

“No. They sent their best.”

“Did they?” Lucanis is genuinely curious how things may have changed within the Crows during his absence. Who has risen in the ranks, who has fallen. Had his cousin, Illario, moved closer to First Talon?

Rook raises one eyebrow at him, the other scrunching with what must be amusement as her lips curl up at the edges. “No. They sent who needed you and who came looking at exactly the right time. Although I am good.” She winks at him yet again. Lucanis searches his memory trying to recall what it means when people wink at you.   

“Why were you looking for me?”

“Two blighted elven gods have broken free of their Fade prison and want to blight the whole bloody world. You're the Demon of Vyrantium. You're the mage-killer. Hopefully god-killer is in there somewhere too.”

“Blighted gods?” Lucanis must have heard her wrong.

“Yeah. I know, it's a lot. Just what the elven people need.” There’s a hard edge pressing against her words. “So about your target?”

“Calivan. The warden of the Ossuary. He oversees everything here.” 

“Where do we find him?” The dwarf– Harding– asks. 

“He’ll be in the most fortified part of the Ossuary, but first, we have to find where they’re keeping my blood. I cannot touch Calivan until it’s dealt with.” 

Their conversation is interrupted when they enter a new chamber and a swarm of Venatori pop into existence around them. Even as they fight, Harding keeps one eye trained on him, her distrust evident. Still, she is deadly with her bow– her arrows do not miss. 

And Rook– Rook is an artist, raising her staff like a brush against canvas. She paints death over the Venatori and effortlessly falls into step beside him, no longer holding back. Perhaps Lucanis has grown poetic during his isolation. Or maybe, he is simply moved by the welcome familiarity of fighting alongside another Crow. It has been too long since he had a taste of home. Regardless, it is apparent that Rook wasn't being overly braggadocious about being good. She wields her magic with all of the finesse and grace expected of a Crow.

They proceed. Striking down Venatori as they go. Rook pauses when they move through a chamber that served as a workshop for Zara’s tormented creations. She examines the evidence strewn across tables, a strained expression on her face. “Wait… Were they torturing demons? How? Why?”

“They didn’t all start out as demons. Zara made sure they ended up that way.” Lucanis states bluntly. The blood stains would explain his point well enough.  

“Zara?” Rook hasn’t looked away from the workbenches. 

“Zara Renata. There might be a higher-ranking Venatori somewhere, but I don’t know of one. This place is all her.”

Rook stares solemnly at the tables a moment longer. The stillest Lucanis has seen her yet, like the suddenly smooth surface of a lake that normally ripples with currents. Abruptly, she turns her attention to the Venatori crystals blocking their path. She smashes them, her mouth set in a harsh line, her eyes gleaming with a stony anger. A dam broken, an undulating eddy of motion as she cuts through the Ossuary. 

“Corpses possessed by demons. Watch out.” Harding warns, nodding to the undead shambling up the path ahead. 

“Zara Renata’s work. This place exists just for her to make new, worse kinds of demons.” 

“I think I’d very much like to meet this Zara. Show her some of my work.” Rook watches the undead as they take a diverging path around. Attention snapping away as she states, “Venatori ahead.” 

“Mine.” Lucanis steps up, determined to take his pay in blood today. Rook makes space for him. More blood mages crawl out of their rat holes behind them. “Mierda. These guys. Let me hit him first, then you can take him down.”   

“With pleasure,” Rook hums beside him. They fall into sync again, Lucanis’ pulse racing with the adrenaline of long overdue kills. 

Rook steps over the corpses of the dead Venatori and Harding quickens her pace to walk alongside Rook. “Rook. You sure about this? Abominations…” Harding's tone conveys her feelings on abominations. 

“We made a deal with the Crows to bring him back. And don't forget that it's gods we're up against.” 

“Right. Well, abominations never end well. Just remember I warned you.” 

Rook doesn't respond. Lucanis grits his teeth at the way they discuss him as if he's not here. One thing he can say he knows about Rook now though, is that she will complete her contracts– regardless of what she finds on the other end of it. 

The ground shakes beneath them and a macing creak echoes through the Ossuary, stopping them in their tracks. 

“I don’t like this!” Harding exclaims. 

Rook has her arms held out at her sides, steadying her feet. “Can’t say I’m a fan either.” 

Lucanis watches a stream of water trickle down a wall. “We may not have much time.” 

They reach a chasm where a bridge must have once been. Rook stares frustratedly at the open air they need to cross. “Damn it, there’s no path through here.”  

I. Can make. A path. From the Fade. The demon speaks in Lucanis’ head. 

“What?” Lucanis forgets that speaking out loud will draw attention. 

Let. Me. Pull from the Fade. 

“What are you-” NOW, Spite yells. “Fine.” 

“What is it?” Rook asks, considering him with a softness in her eyes.

“He says he can get us across.” 

“Who is ‘he’?” Rook leans slightly to the side to peer around Lucanis, eyes flicking back to him in question. 

“The demon. He says there’s something here. Something he can grab hold of in the Fade. It’s close.” 

“By all means.” Rook waves her hand and stands aside, looking distinctly unmoved by the fact that Lucanis has just confirmed speaking to a demon inside his head. 

Lucanis allows Spite just enough rein to reach out. He’s shocked when the demon’s magic manifests an entire chunk of stone as a makeshift bridge for them. 

“Wow.” The awe in Rook’s voice mirrors his own. “The demon pulled all of that from the Fade?”

“I’m as surprised as you.” Lucanis tries not to think too much about all the demon could do if left unchecked.

They enter another workshop area where Venatori mages and demons brawl. 

“They’re fighting? But the Venatori made all these monsters, didn’t they?” Harding asks. 

“Blood mages. They never learn. Zara can summon all the demons she wants, but they don’t have to obey her.” 

“And it doesn't look like they plan to,” Rook quips before plunging into the fray. 

The ghost of a smile flutters across Lucanis' lips before he charges after her. 

Rook rolls her head side to side, stretching out her neck after the last blood mage– the Fabricator, Lucanis recalls their moniker– drops to the ground, lifeless. “What did Zara want all these undead for?”

“Nothing. Those are the failures.” So many failures. Lucanis' stomach turns at the innocent life lost within these damp halls. He may not be innocent, but he lost life here too. 

“If those are the failures, what does success look like?” Rook questions. 

“She took the ‘best’ results out a few days ago. But some of the demons she created are still here.” 

“Calivan. You said he’s the one in charge?” Rook pauses her exit from the room to look back at him. 

Lucanis shakes his head. “No. He’s a lackey. He runs this place for a powerful magister. He was my target a year ago. Now we both want him dead.” Again, Lucanis feels compelled not to hide what he is now. It almost feels like he's challenging her. This Rook says she needs him to fight elven gods, says she's here to bring him home. But what home could a demon-possessed assassin hope to have? The fighting he could do, but he would have her clear about what exactly it is she's bringing back to Treviso.

“‘We’” meaning…?” Rook trails off expectantly. 

“Demons don’t forgive.” 

Rook’s eyes roam over him. “Neither do Crows.” She pivots, resuming her quick, sure pace. 

They draw nearer the chamber with Lucanis’ blood vial. “We're getting close.” 

“How are we supposed to find this thing?” Harding asks him. 

“I know it’s here. We can smell it.” The thing lurking within him has heightened his senses. 

Entering into an expansive room, Lucanis identifies that the vial of his blood is locked behind a Venatori crystal ward. He informs Rook. 

“If I never see another Venatori crystal…” Rook says darkly. She immediately begins to wind through the room, smashing crystals with a swipe of her staff. Lucanis gets the impression that she is not a very patient person. He imagines that it has probably earned her reprimand in House de Riva. No Talon would allow actions borne of recklessness, but especially Viago.    

In the center of the room are more tables strewn with corpses. 

“Look at what's left of these people… they were tortured. What a terrible way to die.” Harding shakes her head. 

“Very few people survive Calivan’s ‘rehabilitation.’” 

“You did.” Rook says simply. 

Lucanis peeks at her, but she continues her prowl around the room, hunting for crystals.

Rook smashes the last crystal warding the room. She sweeps out a hand in a grand gesture to Lucanis, bowing slightly at her waist. There is a mischief about her that again has Lucanis' lips twitching on the hint of a smile, such a strange feeling after a year of only horrors.

Lucanis’ eyes lock onto the blood vial at the far end of the chamber. “There. That’s the one. It has to be.”

Rook’s graceful steps lead her to the container. Lucanis joins her. She looks at him, shrugs, then shatters the vial with her magic. “All right then, that’s done. Now for our contract.” Lucanis doesn’t miss the way she says ‘our’ contract. Since she appeared before him, she has been fully committed to assisting him. She hasn’t questioned his motives or monitored him out of the corner of her eye like Harding does. Is she reckless? Or has he simply earned her trust so easily because he is a fellow Crow? And not just any Crow. Lucanis is well aware of the weighty pull associated with the House of the First Talon, House Dellamorte. 

Lucanis guides them through the Ossuary’s halls to its heart– where he believes the warden to keep office. His fingers itch to put a blade through Calivan’s heart. They reach a lift, filing inside. 

Harding again voices her concerns in a low, warning tone. “Rook…” The two must know each other well for Harding need not say more to express her thoughts to Rook.

“It’s us against gods Harding-”

Lucanis doesn’t particularly want to hear what Rook will say next so he interrupts. “I am right here, you know.” 

“It’s fine. We can talk about something else.” Rook shoots a pointed glance at Harding. “What’s Caterina like?”    

Lucanis is surprised by the question, even more surprised that he doesn’t know how to answer it. “After so long in this pit… I barely remember.” 

“You’ve been down here for a year?” Rook cranes her neck to speak to him behind her. Her braids slide against her leathers. 

“Mmm,” Lucanis grunts in response. What else is there to say?

“Is there anything we need to know about Calivan?” Harding asks. 

“You want to hear about his torture methods or something else? We didn’t chat.” 

“He might be turning those torture methods on us very soon, so,” Rook’s shoulders shrug noncommittally. She doesn’t rise to Lucanis’ spiteful bait tossed at Harding, though Harding glowers at him.  

The lift stutters to a halt and they are emptied into a cavernous room. 

A voice echoes across the space as they step fully inside. 

“Ugh, this was entirely unnecessary. Zara and her little jests. ‘He’s already the Demon of Vyrantium! Won't this be ironic?’” The man scoffs. “Hilarious. And now look at the mess you’ve made of my facility. She always leaves me to clean up.” 

“So this is Calivan.” Rook sounds unimpressed. 

“He is.” Lucanis confirms. “The target I was sent for a year ago. A Crow never abandons a contract.” His fingers tighten around his blade, well, Rook’s blade. He looks forward to reuniting with some of his own.  

Rook calls out. “Calivan! We’ll help you with the clean up. I think we’ll start by taking out the trash.” A vicious smile twists her lips and then she strikes.

Lucanis falls into the rhythm of the fight. A dawning awareness crests over him that if he is to continue working with Rook, he may have to get used to racing into battle after her. He might be more disgruntled about it if she didn’t wield herself so masterfully. 

Lucanis ignores the savage jabs Calivan attempts to distract him with. What words could hurt him more than the horror of having a demon possession forced upon him? 

Rook, on the other hand, grows increasingly annoyed with Calivan’s incessant insults– despite none of them being directed at her. Upon realizing the need to destroy the barrier protecting Calivan and beginning their coordinated efforts to do so, the prison warden screams at Lucanis, “You will return to your chains!” 

Rook snarls as she toils to bring down the barrier. “Ma halam! You will return to dust!” 

Calivan’s barrier falls and his enraged shouts summon a flood of demons to the chamber. Rook meets Calivan’s rage blow for blow. And despite Harding’s obvious misgivings about him, she too fights fiercely. When a Pride demon stands before them, they do not falter. 

Calivan’s desperation grows as he weakens and their group gains ground. “No! I will not be defeated!” 

“Sorry! We took a vote-” Rook snaps between swings of her staff. “-decided you die today! I’m sure you understand. Being an arrogant prick and all!” Spite guffaws against his skull and a grim satisfaction grips Lucanis. He’s never been particularly crafty with his words and finds that he relishes Rook’s lashing tongue. 

With a final blast of Rook’s magic and Lucanis’ blade through his chest, Calivan is no more. 

Lucanis releases a long held breath as he stands over his contract. “The Crows send their regards.” 

Rook breathes deeply beside him, tucking her staff at her back. “So, we got your target.” 

“Yes. The job’s done.” Lucanis has waited so long to say that. 

Beside him, Spite inhales. Smells like blood. Ashes. Not done. Not yet. 

Lucanis grinds his teeth, staring hard at the demonic manifestation. He must not hear Rook attempting to get his attention.  

“Lucanis… Are you all right? Lucanis? What are you looking at?”

When Lucanis finally registers Rook’s question, he turns to her. She is watching him, head tilted inquisitively at an angle. 

Careful. They know. We’re not right.

Lucanis looks back to Spite, then at Rook. “You cannot see him. I wondered.” So, the disturbing likeness of Lucanis that the demon manifested as was only visible to him it seemed. Mierda. Was that a gift or a curse? 

Rook’s head is still tilted at him. Her eyes shift from Lucanis to the vacant air beside him where Spite stands hidden from her sight. But she doesn’t look afraid nor concerned. “We clearly have things to discuss. Somewhere else.”

Harding nods vigorously. 

“Agreed. I think…it’s time I got some air.” Lucanis feels a nervous thrill run through him at the thought. 

Rook offers him a small smile. “Agreed. A Crow underwater… “ A shiver runs through her. “No thank you. I’m ready to get out of this place.” 

Lucanis returns her smile, the muscles in his cheeks twitching. He cannot recall the last time he used them. “Imagine how I feel.” 

***

The boat glides through the canals of Treviso. Lucanis' heart is in his throat as his city unfolds around him. He had been so close this whole time… He looks back to the rest of the boat's occupants and discovers Rook already watching him.

She smiles, gentle and friendly. “Welcome home.” 

The first warmth Lucanis has felt since being locked in the Ossuary floods through him. Home. 

They climb the steps to the Canatori diamond and he knows from the tense set of Rook's shoulders that he's not alone in sensing something is wrong. Rook glances at him, eyes tight with worry. He gives her a sharp nod. 

Teia’s voice reaches his ears first. “Maker…” 

Lucanis steps into a mess of a room. Broken furniture, strewn papers. Viago notices them first.

“Lucanis?” The Fifth Talon’s eyes flick over him and then to Rook at his side. Viago's clenched fists relax. 

“What happened here?” Lucanis has never seen the Diamond so disheveled. 

Illario slams his fist on a table. “A message. From Zara Renata.” His anger softens as he adds, “I can't believe it. You're home.” 

Lucanis can't reconcile Illario's former words. “Zara… Her people got this close?” 

“The woman who runs the prison?” Rook looks up at him for confirmation. 

“The Venatori witch who captured me.” 

“Revenge for the breakout, maybe?” The skepticism in Rook's tone matches Lucanis' own. How could Zara have moved so quickly? 

“Where's Caterina?” Lucanis searches the faces in the room, but finds his grandmother's missing. His stomach roils with apprehension.  

“She's…” Teia bows her head, her voice thick with emotion.

Viago steps up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulder. “The Venatori got her in the confusion.” 

“I get one of you back, only to lose the other.” Illario sighs.

His grandmother… the mighty, unshakeable First Talon… no, it could not be. 

Rook's tender voice at his elbow grounds him. “Lucanis… I'm so sorry.” 

Lucanis is grateful for her simple words, spoken with earnestness. Her presence also reminds him of Caterina's last request of him. “I need to work.” 

“Are you sure?” Concern squeezes Teia’s eyes. “You should take some time.” 

“I don't need time– I need a target,” Lucanis says harshly. 

His cousin addresses him. “You just got here, and already you want to leave again?” 

Lucanis meets Illario's eyes, willing his brethren to understand. “Caterina gave me a contract. I'm not breaking the last deal she ever made. And I owe Rook. Once that's done… I'll come home.” If his home would still have him, when they learned what he has become.

“I'll return him in one piece.” Rook tells Illario. She sounds as though she wholeheartedly believes it, that she will act as a protector to the, now literal, Demon of Vyrantium. This Crow is a peculiar one. 

“Thank you.” Illario inclines his head towards Rook. Then says to Lucanis, “Cousin, when you find Zara, I want– I need– to be there.” 

Viago interjects. “We’re under attack. Antaam on one side and now Venatori on the other? Forget revenge, we need you-” 

Teia stops him with firm words. “No, Viago. Zara came for us here. She took Caterina from my house. You find her and cut her heart out, Lucanis. VI and I will hold down the fort.” 

“I'll give her your regards, Teia.” 

Teia lifts her chin. “For Caterina.” A chorus of “for Caterina” sounds around the room. Teia's eyes drop to Rook. “And you be careful. Or this one-” A nod towards Viago. “-will lose his head over revenge, whether he admits it or not.” 

Viago huffs but doesn't deny Teia's words. “Do not make a mess of this contract,” he throws at Rook. 

Rook rolls her eyes at the Fifth Talon. Lucanis’ eyes widen at the sight and he waits for Viago’s reprimand but it never comes. “Yes, Viago.” Rook’s tone borders on disrespectful, but still Viago does not react. Lucanis stares between the Fifth Talon and Rook in confusion. 

Viago scowls at Rook momentarily, then directs his frown at Lucanis. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something to him. Instead he glares at Rook one more time, his mouth clamping shut in a hard line before shaking his head and walking away. Teia smiles at Rook before following Viago.

Lucanis very much wants to ask Rook what vital piece of information he’s missing that allowed her to walk away from that interaction unscathed, but Rook’s already moving away. “Let’s go. It’s time for you to meet everyone else.”   

*** 

Lucanis isn’t sure what to make of the Lighthouse. The eluvians were a fascinating bit of magic and the Crossroads were downright bizarre. There’s a confounding peace about the Lighthouse, but Lucanis does not trust a place borne of the Fade. Spite is far less wary, seemingly comforted by the closeness of the Fade– if a demon could even be comforted.

Lucanis’ introductions to the rest of Rook’s team had been made and he had, predictably, been met with skeptical looks and guarded expressions. Bellara– the Veil Jumper and ancient elven artifact expert– seems the least distrusting of him. Her and Neve– a Shadow Dragon detective from Minrathous– sit at the large dining table behind him discussing his possession. Lucanis leans against the fireplace mantel, staring into the crackling flames. 

“They’re the same thing. Mostly. Kind of.” Bellara is explaining. 

“Except one will manipulate you. Or kill you. Or both.” Neve replies. 

“But how do you get rid of them?” Lucanis attempts to not sound as frustrated as he feels.  

“Um…” Bellara’s hands flutter against the table. Lucanis suspects he already knows the only answer the Veil Jumper will be knowledgeable of. He’d come to the same conclusion himself while locked in the depths of the Ossuary.  

“What’s everyone talking about?” Rook draws his attention– and the demon’s, he notes with interest– as she enters the dining hall. 

“Spite.” Lucanis answers through clenched teeth. 

“The demon in Lucanis.” Neve clarifies. “When a person gets possessed, the demon usually takes control.” 

“And they turn into a monster. The spirit just…molds them. However they want.” Bellara adds. 

“I’ve heard of abominations being cured by killing the demon in the Fade. That’s not a sure bet, though.” Spite bristles at Neve’s words. 

“Well, there’s one way. But it’s..well…we’d have to, um…” Bellara stammers nervously. 

“You’d have to kill me.” Lucanis finishes. 

“There’s got to be another way. That can’t be the only solution.” Rook’s hands come to rest on her hips and an unyielding glint sparks in her eye. She looks as if she dares the world to disagree with her declaration. “Can’t we reason with Spite, maybe? Persuade it to leave?” Spite perks up at Rook’s question.

Lucanis gapes at the Crow mage who wants to have a chat with a demon. “Talk doesn’t work on Spite.” As the words leave his lips, Lucanis beholds with horror Spite manifesting beside Rook. He has never had to deal with the reality of Spite around other people and fear freezes him in place. 

Spite leers at Rook, a scathing smile on his face. She won’t hurt you. How sweet. The demon’s derision drips through his sentence like honey, sticking unpleasantly to Lucanis’ skin. 

No. Not sweet, dangerous. Lucanis stares into the determination solidified in Rook’s eyes. Very dangerous. If this partnership is to work, he needs Rook to be willing to stop him. Spite moves to Lucanis’ side and he tears his gaze away from Rook in relief. 

I want to talk to them. Spite demands. Lucanis ignores the demon. 

Bellara goes on. “Before we do, well, that. Let’s think this through some more. There has to be a solution.” 

“I have people in Minrathous I can ask, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” 

Rook nods at Neve. “All right. So what’s next?” Rook asks the room at large. 

Spite growls in frustration. Let me talk to them! I want. To. Talk. To Rook! Spite lashes out in Lucanis’ mind and his head cracks to the side. He feels blood wet his nose and he grunts in pain. 

“Lucanis!” Bellara exclaims as she and Neve spring out of their seats. 

Lucanis holds up a hand to them. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.” 

Rook’s fists are curled at her sides. “Don’t pretend this is all right. It wouldn’t be fine if another person did it.” 

She’s angry for him, Lucanis registers. He softens at this. “No, but there’s nothing I can do about it. If it were another person, I could solve this with a knife.” 

“Why did he do that?” She asks. 

Lucanis will absolutely not tell her that the demon wishes to speak with her. His skin crawls at the familiar way Spite said Rook’s name. The demon has never said anyone's name before, not even Lucanis’. “Throwing a tantrum when he doesn’t get his way.”

“Perhaps he needs to learn what happens to Crows who throw tantrums,” she threatens. 

Lucanis smiles. “I would prefer not to relive those lessons.” Rook’s closed fists loosen. “Just… give me a minute. He’ll get bored once everyone leaves.” 

Rook’s eyes jump back and forth between his own. “I don’t like leaving you alone with a demon. I…” 

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Lucanis reassures her, though he’s not sure it’s entirely true. 

“Lucanis..” 

“Please.” He needs to get her– and everyone else– away from Spite until the demon calms down. 

Rook nods and gathers the others to leave.

As the door to the dining hall falls shut behind them, Lucanis addresses Spite. “You’re not speaking to any of them so forget about it.” 

Rook. Wanted to. Talk. To me!

There’s her name again. It grates on Lucanis’ nerves. “Yes. To ask you to leave.” Lucanis spits. 

Spite hisses, but falls silent. Lucanis closes his eyes, the fire in the hearth warming his eyelids. It’s true. Rook had thought to reason with a demon on his behalf. Lucanis sighs, peeling his weary eyes open. He heads towards a door at the back of the dining hall, opening it to find a long, narrow pantry. Oddly, a cot is already tucked into the far corner. Lucanis sinks onto it, letting his head rest against the stone wall at his back.

Rook will have questions for him eventually. But for now, he soaks in the fact that she respected his request, that she trusted him enough to leave him alone. He mulls over his own questions of what that could mean for a man who has truly become a demon.  

~~~

Next → CH 2: Questions & Coffee

[notablenotions]

Ma-Chapter 1

Radzig watched from the stone-framed arch of the great hall, arms folded across his chest. His gaze fell upon Hans Capon striding across the courtyard, radiating the smug joy of a man freshly wed. Likely a good wedding night, or something less… innocent. Radzig didn’t care. Hans’s marriage was Hanush’s concern — a political knot tied neatly with noble fingers. What mattered to Radzig was the alliance it cemented, the power it secured.

What unsettled him — though he’d never admit it aloud — was the boy trailing after Hans like a loyal hound.

Henry.

His son.

Her's.

I wouldn’t trail after another like that. Radzig thought coldly, and then paused, the corner of his lip twitching at the hypocrisy. He had followed once, hadn’t he? Long ago, in a different life, when fire burned in his veins and bloodshed felt like glory.

Unlike Capon, born swaddled in silks, Radzig’s lineage had given him only a name and a rusted coat of arms. Nobility in name — peasantry in all else. His father, a man more suited for a plough than a sword, left him one gift: skill at arms. Radzig sharpened that skill into a blade and aimed it at the throat of fortune.

He had once been wild, reckless — no title, no coin. Just ambition. Banditry was not beneath him, for it brought wealth, power, men who hungered for more. He’d carved a path through the lawless lands, a scourge of minor lords, a storm gathering under a black banner. Hanush had noticed. A fourth son himself, clawing for recognition. Together, they struck at fate’s throat.

But blood draws blood.

Lords who’d ignored him grew nervous. They hired sell-swords — ruthless bastards, well-paid and well-armed. The battle was swift and merciless. Radzig alone survived, a specter among corpses. His arms laden with stolen loot, he stumbled through forest and field, desperate, hunted.

Then… the gods smiled.

A cart creaked along the road, its driver cloaked and small. A young man? No. Even from his vantage, he saw her curves beneath the ill-fitting garb. A woman. Alone.

Radzig leapt from his perch, raising his hands in feigned surrender. A humble soldier, separated from his garrison. His voice was honeyed steel.

“Good lady,” he said, bowing slightly, “I’ve lost my way. A noble creature such as yourself must have been sent by God Himself.”

Words came easily then. Women often bent beneath his charm, entranced by his sharp tongue and rough grace. He’d meant to rob her. Kill her, if needed. He was not above slaying a maid to survive.

But then he saw her face — unhidden now by the flimsy disguise of a male farmhand. As she lifted her chin, the brim of her weatherworn hat tipped back, and for the first time, the veil was torn away.

Radzig stopped.

Time seemed to stretch thin, suspended like a sword poised mid-swing.

Her face — sun-kissed, yet smooth as fine silk — held a natural grace no courtly lady could mimic. Her lips, full and blushed like a rose bathed in morning dew, curved not in shyness, but in quiet challenge. High cheekbones framed a face neither soft nor hardened — it was the face of a woman who had lived, and yet refused to be bowed by the weight of life. Her eyes — God, those eyes — dark as storm-touched velvet, stared back at him with the calm precision of a hawk circling prey. Yet there was more — an elusive spark, ungraspable, like the glint of steel just before it strikes.

And Radzig — who measured men in threats and allies, who saw the world in paths and outcomes — lost all sense of the map.

His thoughts, sharp as blades, dulled in that instant. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t strategy. It was… something else. Something raw, dangerous. The poets — damn them — might call it love at first sight. He’d have laughed at the idea.

He didn’t laugh now.

Then she spoke — her voice like a knife wrapped in velvet.

“Well,” she said, cocking an eyebrow, arms folding across her chest. “You’re certainly something. But not what you claim.”

Radzig blinked, lips parting, ready to launch his practiced tale of being lost, of needing aid. But she wasn’t done.

“Soldier? Please. A soldier walks like he’s tethered to orders. You move like a wolf — loose, looking for a kill, or worse, coin. Your clothes? Fine, but worn where a sword would hang — no garrison posts their best in half-torn leather. And that charming little bow? That’s the bow of a man who thinks he can take what he wants with a smile.”

Her tone held no fear. No trembling. Only amusement and confidence, woven together like steel and silk.

Radzig — for once — was at a loss. He hadn’t misjudged. He’d underestimated. She’d seen right through him, with sharpness that rivaled any blade he’d crossed.

“And yet,” she added, stepping down from the cart, closing the distance between them without flinching, “you come to me all humble, hands raised like a repentant saint, expecting me to swoon or yield.”

Her eyes narrowed, glinting with something dangerous. “Tell me, wolf, do you often hunt women on lonely roads? Or did you simply think I’d be easier prey than the men you crossed?”

Radzig felt his heart pound — not from fear, but something far more volatile. Respect. Intrigue. Desire, yes, but sharpened by something deeper. She wasn’t prey. She was a mirror — a reflection of everything he fought to bury. Strength. Independence. Cunning.

And against all reason, he laughed. A low, rumbling sound, torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

“You’re wasted on farm work,” he said, the mask falling away for just a breath. “You see too much.”

She tilted her head, a sly smile playing at her lips.

“And you talk too much. If you want to rob me, get on with it. But I warn you — I bite.”

He should have robbed her. He should have taken what he needed and disappeared into the woods, forgotten her like the rest.

But Radzig Kobyla, bandit, swordsman, noble-born rogue — had just met the one person he couldn’t forget.

Not then.

Not ever.

---

“How do you bite with no teeth?” Radzig gestured lazily to his sword, then to her empty belt, smirking at her lack of one.

Christ. What a clumsy retort. The words stumbled from his mouth before he could catch them — rare for him. She’d unsettled him, and he hated it. He tilted his head, sharpening the smirk into a baring of teeth, like a wolf showing fangs. Something’s in the air.

Thick. Unyielding. Carnal.

She felt it too. He could tell — a flicker of her eyes to his lips, a subtle catch in her breath. It burned between them, searing. He wasn’t a man to miss chances.

He stepped in close, hand threading through her hair, grabbing the back of her head and claiming her lips in a desperate, searing kiss. It was everything — fire, hunger, chaos. His blood sang, and if she struck him down now, God strike him, he’d die happy.

He didn’t mean to get stabbed.

But the pain hit — sharp, slicing into his side like fire. He gasped, breaking away from her lips with a grunt, eyes dropping to the needle-point dagger embedded between the seams of his leather. Precision. Damn her.

He collapsed, vision blurring. The world spun and blackened, but sound still reached him — mocking, chaotic.

A rustle. Heavy footsteps. A groan, low and rasped like a drunk waking from sin. “Fuck, can’t a man of the Lord rest?”

More noises. Steps growing closer.

Then her voice — a melody of mockery, sweet and lethal.

“Godwin, we wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t been bedding the old Lord’s wife, you lecherous bastard.”

Radzig couldn’t see. But he heard everything — the rummaging of hands, the jingle of his coin taken, his pride stripped. Fair play. He’d have done the same.

“Fuck, Anna… he’s a fucking lord.”

Anna.

The name echoed in his mind, rolling on his tongue like a whispered prayer.

---

He jolted awake, warmth pressing against his back — a fire crackling nearby, the cart beside him. He lay on a makeshift bed, pain dull in his side but fading. A shadow loomed over him.

An older man — robes of a priest, face flushed and reeking of alcohol. Thick, heady. He made Hanush seem like a monk.

“Good, you’re awake,” the man slurred. “Now — which house you from, lad?”

Radzig stared, mind still spinning, tongue dry. All he could say was, “Anna…”

The man cleared his throat. “Odd name for a lad.” He grinned wide. “I’m Father Godwin. My travel companion and I found you hurt on the road. Thought we’d look after you. Kind souls, aren’t we?"

Radzig almost laughed. A priest lying through his teeth — a divine comedy.

He glanced toward the voice that still rang in his ears.

“He had some good stuff, Godwin,” Anna said, stomping over, hands brimming with the contents of his pockets, coin gleaming. “Should fetch enough to get us to Prague.”

There she was — no elegance, no pretense. Just raw, uncut beauty wrapped in ragged strength. Radiant. Enrapturing.

“Ah, the wolf rises,” she said, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Told you I bite.”

Radzig’s gaze fell to the stolen coin in her hands.

“Consider this our fee for saving your life,” she added, chin high, daring him.

He smirked, pushing himself up with a wince, limping toward her. “Ah, my fair lady,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk, “you saved me indeed… though I find your point moot, given it was you who nearly sent me to God’s door.”

She didn’t flinch, eyes narrowing as he cornered her. Close now, close enough to feel her breath.

He lowered his voice, letting it brush against her like silk and steel. “Careful. You’re playing with wolves, love.”

She smiled — not sweet, but sharp. Defiant. Unyielding.

“Perhaps I should’ve handed you to God, milord,” she said, voice honeyed with venom. “After all… what good is a nurse if she starves first?”

Radzig grinned. Pain and all, God help him, he was going to enjoy this.

---

Giving Ma the story she deserves! I'm still sick and stuck in bed 🤕 so here's another drabble.

[lw77]

Diet Pepsi 💈 (LSxMV)

Chapter 2. - Hunter?

“What’s wrong, Angel? I think you know I’m not interested in either,” Max says, a cheeky smile pulling at his lips.

Logan’s head is bent over the order sheet his dad had left him to figure out, because in his Father’s words he “needs to know more than how to scan items in the store.” Still in disbelief over his Father, because Logan stocks the chips all the time. That’s two things he does in the store. 

He hears the shop door jingle, thinking it’s his dad back from accepting their stock delivery. Frustrated, he whines, “This looks like a multiplication chart with words, Dad! How am I supposed to order anything?” His tone stretches into tantrum territory; he might as well have stomped his foot and crossed his arms.

“Why don’t you pout too, son? I figured it out, and you will too,” his dad replies as he walks in. But as Logan looks up, he realises it’s not just his dad who has entered— Max is behind him.

Max’s bright blue eyes lock onto Logan’s, and he can see the amusement swimming in them. Logan straightens up, flushed, clearly aware that Max has overheard his mini tantrum. He watches as Max heads to the fridge for a drink, his gaze trailing from Max’s broad shoulders in that tight white shirt down to the taper of his waist. But before he can let his gaze wander lower, his dad steps in front of him, waving his hand from side to side to catch his attention.

Startled, Logan exclaims, “Jesus, Dad! Give a guy a warning.” His dad deadpans, “I did, son. You just seemed to be else where,” unsubtly hooking a thumb back to indicate where Max stands.

“Yeah, OK. I’ll figure it out, whatever,” Logan mutters, flustered at being caught checking out Max by his dad.

“I think it’s not just the ordering you need to figure out, son,” his dad says, subtly eyeing both Logan and Max, who is still choosing a beverage. Amusement laces his dad’s voice as he comments on Logan’s plight.

“Stop it, please” Logan hisses in alarm, trying to keep his voice low.

His dad just laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just saying, son, sometimes you have to ride the bull by the horns,” he adds, the last part louder than Logan would like.

"That's not even how the saying goes," Logan whines.

"Oh, I know how the saying goes. I just thought this was more fitting to your situation," his dad replies plainly, as an explanation.

Yeah, Logan would rather get rammed by an actual bull than hear his dad give him any more dating advice or try to play wingman.

Cringing inwardly, Logan looks up, silently praying, *Please, God, if you can hear me, save me. I promise I’ll go to confession more often, and I won’t even bully Oscar for being a math geek anymore.* God must’ve had a needy child to answer because Max is approaching the register. Meanwhile, his dad unhelpfully lingers to the side of the counter, clearly enjoying the view of Max and his own beet-red son.

Logan shoots his dad a look. His dad’s expression is one of unhidden glee, but thankfully, he turns to busy himself straightening some candy bars—still in clear view of the two but less obvious.

“H–Hi, will that be all for today?” Logan asks, pulling himself up by his customer service bootstraps. *Eat your heart out, Dad .*

Max looks at him, eyes squinting as if he knows just how flustered Logan is. Logan tries to focus on the cross necklace peeking out from Max’s white tee, glinting and inviting.

“Yes, Angel.”

The nickname makes Logan’s whole body flush with heat, and his eyes snap up to meet Max’s. He quickly glances at his dad, who ducks down as Logan catches him snickering.

Logan scans the bottle and turns the reader toward Max.  His tongue feels thick as Max holds his gaze.“O–ok, w–well that’s good, here’s your t–total. Would you li-like your receipt?” he finally stutters out.

“No thanks, keep it. See you at lunch, Angel.” Max’s blue eyes twinkle warmly as he winks and waves goodbye to Logan’s dad, who is now openly watching.

When the door closes behind Max, his dad smirks. “Well, that’s one way to grab the horns, son. Can’t lie, didn’t think you had it in you. I thought we’d have to renovate your bedroom to get that boy in there.”

“Oh my god,” Logan groans. “Aren’t you supposed to want to save my innocence?” He’s mortified that even his parents are so aware of his blatant attraction.

“I think that went out the window when we saw your clothes from College, Logan. I mean, you might as well have worn assless chaps, son. Your mom worried someone had vandalised your clothes,” his dad says, barely holding back his laughter. Logan looks at him in shock, mouth agape at his dad’s relentless teasing.

__________________________

He hears Danny’s croon of “Logie boy! I have a present for you” all the way from the back room. As he heads out to the cash register, he spots Danny standing there with a relaxed Alex by his side. Upon seeing him, Danny wiggles his fingers in a “ta-da” motion toward Alex.

“Wow. You shouldn’t have,” Logan says dryly, squinting and raising an eyebrow in mock scrutiny. “Actually, I think I already have this model. Are you sure the contracting isn’t just a front for your stealing, Danny?” he calmly asks, making Danny guffaw in surprise at Logan’s humor, while Alex quietly laughs, familiar with his best friend’s wit when he’s coherent.

“Anyways, how’s your first day, Alex? Any hot milfs on the trail yet?” Logan asks, leaning his forearms on the counter.

“How come you never ask me if I have any milfs on the trail, Logan? I’m hurt! Is it because I’m Australian?” Danny replies, one hand on his hip and the other over his heart.

Logan ignores Danny, prompting a squawk of indignation that draws the rest of their crew to the register.

Continuing Danny’s train of thought, George chimes in, “Yeah, Logan, is it because I love the Queen? Is that why you won’t ask me about any of my milfs or dilfs?”

Charles adds, “Is it because I’m not actually French, little Logan? I’ll have you know that hasn’t been a problem.”

And it continued, until Carlos finishes his argument, and Logan groans in disbelief, holding his face in his hands muttering a muffled, “You guys are ridiculous.”

Raising his head, Logan realizes no one else is trying to make their case for being a milf or dilf hunter. He sees Max in front of him, eyebrow quirked.

“What’s wrong, Angel? I think you know I’m not interested in either,” Max says, a cheeky smile pulling at his lips.

“Ye-Yeah. Uh-huh,” Logan sighs, feeling like liquid fire wherever Max’s gaze trails.

Max’s eyes are warm, like they were this morning, but there’s something else there as he drinks in Logan’s obvious blush and bright eyes.

Their staring is interrupted by Danny’s sudden clap. Logan turns toward the loud man as he declares, “Oh yes! Logie boy, tomorrow is Alex’s official welcome party. So pack your swimmers and party pants—we’re going out on the lake, then back to our lake house for a little party. Nothing crazy, of course,” Danny adds, though his unconvincing tone makes some of the crew laugh at his obvious lie.

Logan glances at Alex, who just shrugs as if he doesn’t know much either. “Sure, is Oscar coming too?” he asks Alex.

“Yeah, he sa—” Alex starts, but is loudly interrupted by Danny. “Hey, Logie Boy, you may have an issue with us Aussies, but they’re always welcome at my parties!” He wags his finger accusingly.

Rolling his eyes, Logan replies, “Sure,” in mock exasperation.

He turns back to Max, realising the man never looked away during the whole interaction; his gaze is firmly fixed on Logan. The heat rushes to Logan’s cheeks again.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow, Angel?” Max asks calmly, as if he’s not claiming Logan in front of his whole crew, or staring him down with that bone-melting gaze.

Logan’s tongue feels too big, and his mind is blissfully cottony. “Ye-yes, I’ll, uh, see you,” he nods, trying to affirm it to himself.

“Can’t wait, Angel,” Max says before leaving, with some of the crew following him out, all flashing Logan a mock salute.

His best friend is the last to leave, making a crude motion with his hands. Logan flips him off and mouthing an annoyed “ alboner"

Oh god, he's going to see Max wet and half-naked tomorrow. Oh my god, he will be wet and half-naked tomorrow too.

Chapter 1 - Angel

Chapter 3 - Sunburn

[itsluckylolita]

Saviour of Dragons | CHAPTER EIGHT

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

A/N: She’s Baaaackkkk!! That’s right folks and with a completely revamped blog and new fanfiction! You can read the first chapter of my newest story about Benjicot Blackwood right now if u wanna <33 anyways, enjoy the long awaited next installment of Saviour of Dragons!!!

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You are completely fucked.

That’s all Y/n thought to herself as she and Morghul landed, followed closely by the young Prince and her other two dragons.

“My Prince, I can explain — ” She began as they dismounted, Jacaerys’ expression one which mixed shock, excitement, and betrayal upon his face. Vermax took to the skies along with Morghul, Rhaelys and Veraxes, the four dragons circling each other in the sky.

“Explain? That you’re a — a Dragonrider? The rider of the three wild dragons?” Jacaerys breathed, running a hand through his brown locks.

“I do not know how it has happened but these dragons have bonded with me, my Prince, through no effort of my own. It has only happened recently, I swear it by the old gods and the new.” The white lies she threw into the statement came out so smoothly she believed them herself. Technically it was not an effort on her part, it was an effort by the gods. Y/n noticed the way Jacaerys’ face changed, his hands falling limp to his sides.

“And you are a woman. Is there anything you have not lied about?” He scoffed and that was when Y/n realized she was exposed, curves unhidden by bindings and face bare to the elements.

“Does my mother know about this? About any of this?” Jacaerys asked through clenched teeth.

“The Princess knows that I am a woman but…not of my dragons.”

“Your dragons? Your — I — I am at a loss for words. Who are you? And do not lie — My patience runs thin.” Jacaerys approached her with purposeful steps, and suddenly she felt very small without her dragons and armour.

“I am Y/n Cargyll, my prince, a sworn knight to Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Nightwolf, and…and rider of Morghul.” Her newest title felt foreign on her tongue. She was a dragon rider.

“Morghul…that is the black one?” Jacaerys’ gaze lifted up, regarding the dragons which flew overhead.

“Yes, your highness, my she-dragon. Rhaelys is the second, she has scales coloured purple. Veraxes, he is the dragonling with golden scales.”

“Dragonling? Those three are almost larger than Vermax, how old are they?” Jacaerys prodded, returning his dark eyes to Y/n.

“Perhaps a month old, my Prince, I cannot say for certain.” She lied about the latter, she did know for certain, they were exactly a month old.

“I said do not lie.” Jacaerys growled, rounding on Y/n. She stood strong, sharing the same air with the eldest Velaryon as his nose rested inches from her own.

“I am not lying, I — I do not know of how dragons age, I assumed they matured faster than other creatures.” Y/n swallowed.

“I suppose I should expect you to be ignorant to the way of dragons.” Jacaerys stepped back, holding the bridge of his nose.

“They are at least eighteen if they are the same size as Vermax.”

“Then it is as you say, they are eighteen. I found them as I…” Jacaerys looked back at her, “…as I was patrolling. They were near the Dragonmont, perhaps they have evaded detection all these years while living with the other wild dragons.”

“That is not entirely unbelievable, either way we must tell my mother and step-father.” Jacaerys whistled, Vermax slowly gliding back down to where his rider was.

“You will do well to obey my words.” He mounted his dragon, looking at Y/n expectantly. She called for Morghul, the she-dragon landing before her and allowing the girl to mount.

“Follow me!” Jacaerys called, willing Vermax to fly. Y/n did the same, and when she took off Rhaelys and Veraxes followed. All four dragons sailed towards a large cave entrance which also led to an entrance to Dragonstone, as Y/n would come to find out when they landed. Keepers calmed Vermax as Jacaerys dismounted but Morghul refused their handling, whining and snapping at anyone who got too close. Rhaelys and Veraxes landed further away, hooking their claws into the cave walls and staying out of human reach.

“Henujagon zirȳla sagon, issa brōzare ao hen!”  Leave her, she is warning you! Y/n shouted, the Keepers stepping back in surprise, whether it was from her command or her sudden High Valyrian. The Nightwolf dismounted, joining Jacaerys and his rapid steps.

“You know High Valyrian?” He questioned as they walked through silent halls.

“Partially, It is a language which interests me.”

“That command did not sound like someone who partially knows High Valyrian.” He teased, and for a moment Y/n saw the boy behind the anger he had for her deceit.

“Or perhaps you do not know Valyrian as well as you think you do, my prince.” Jacaerys shot her a warning glare, Y/n sealing her mouth shut for the rest of their journey. They soon arrived at the council chamber, bursting in without so much as a knock.

“Jacaerys, what is the meaning of this?” Rhaenyra asked, turning away from her councilmen. Her eyes briefly flicked towards Y/n, noting her casual cloth and obvious sex.

“I know who rides one of the three wild dragons…and who is bonded with all three of them.” Jacaerys looked back at Y/n expectantly, and Rhaenyra’s eyes widened.

“Y/n?” Rhaenyra faltered, her hand unconsciously going to cover her yet-to-be-seen bump.

“My Princess…” Y/n’s mouth was suddenly dry as all eyes were on her, including the eyes of Rhaenyra’s most trusted council.

“It is I who rides the black she-dragon, who I have given the name of Morghul. It is also I who — who has bonded with the other two, a second she-dragon with lilac scales titled Rhaelys and a male named Veraxes who bares gold scales.” The tension was so electric Y/n was sure her heart would stop and she would be dead all over again.

“Please forgive me, your highness, but I have only found myself recently in this position. I know not why the gods have chosen me but I can assure you I shall only ever use this gift to serve you and your family.” Y/n dropped to one knee, lowering her head as a form of submission.

“You…are my family.” Y/n’s head snapped back up at that, Rhaenyra looking at her with awe.

“Leave.” Rhaenyra commanded, and her men eagerly fled from the chamber along with the knights who were posted, the door closing behind them and leaving only the princess, her son, and Y/n in the room. Rhaenyra walked towards Y/n as she spoke, an odd softness to her tone.

“The blood of the dragon must run through you for you to bond with a dragon, there is no other explanation. Rise.” Y/n slowly stood, looking from Jacaerys to Rhaenyra.

“Look at me, my child.” It was then that she grabbed Y/n’s face, looking deep within her eyes. Rhaenyra’s eyes squinted slightly, and as Y/n stood looking at her she truly appreciated her beauty for the first time. Y/n also felt a deep sadness, a sympathy for the tragedy which could befall such a fair lady.

“I see it, within your eyes. They carry a familiar fire, the fire of a dragonseed. You have proven yourself time and time again to be a loyal servant, and now I see it is because the gods know where your loyalties lie, with your family.” Y/n didn't know what to say, this version of Rhaenyra was nothing like how Y/n thought she would be. She was…forgiving, and kind and understanding — less cruel.

“I…you are not angry?” Y/n gasped, very quickly losing her ability to properly breathe.

“Of course not, child. You cannot help your parentage…‘tis not your fault.” Rhaenyra chuckled.

“Those dragons, mother, they must be Vermax’s age. Ser Cargyll suggested that they might have been unseen until recently.” Jacaerys added, Rhaenyra’s hand leaving from Y/n’s face as she turned to her son.

“‘Tis a good theory.” Rhaenyra hummed, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Y/n, we have much we must discuss, but at a later date. You are relieved of your duties for today, go and rest. You shall need it.” Rhaenyra nodded towards Y/n and Jacaerys before leaving, seeming to be on a mission of her own.

“That went well, you should consider yourself lucky.” Jacaerys came up beside Y/n, his hands clasped behind his back in contrast to his mothers.

“I consider myself the luckiest woman in the kingdoms.” Y/n huffed.

“She is right, you know, about you being a bastard.” Y/n twisted her face at the crudeness of his comment, looking towards the prince.

“I never noticed until now, but your eyes are violet, not blue. A deep, barely disturbed violet, but a vibrant colour nonetheless.” That was why her eyes were different in this universe. She was a bastard, a Targaryen bastard.

“My father will not be happy if he hears of this.” Y/n laughed hollowly.

“Your father has never met you. He could be any Targaryen dead or alive, Cargyll…or perhaps I should call you Waters?” Jacaerys nudged her with his elbow, grinning from ear to ear.

“If you do, you should expect your tongue to also find itself cut off into the waters.” She threatened in jest. After a short time of back and forth with the prince Y/n made her way to her chambers, soaking in a long bath to get the grime of her first dragon ride off of her and also reckon with the fact that she was actually a Targaryen.

Perhaps the gods did not hate her.

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Taglist (request to be added!):

@bananzaa

[fujimusume]

My Detailed Recap of Thunderbolt Fantasy: The Final Chapter

Hello everyone! It has now been nearly two weeks since Thunderbolt Fantasy: The Final Chapter was released in Japan and Taiwan. Now that I have been seeing more and more Japanese and Taiwanese fans post fanart, commentary, etc. for the movie with untagged or unhidden spoilers, I have decided to post my super-long recap of the movie! After I first watched it on February 21st, I wanted to scream about it to someone, and it just so happened that my friend @tbfantashiba also wanted to be spoiled, so I gave them a blow-by-blow recap that took me several hours to finish. (It was indeed long, but we also got sidetracked every now and then with comments and such!)

Also, having watched the movie a few more times since then (as of this writing, I have watched it five times now), I have made corrections to the original information I relayed to my friend.

I should warn you that when I said that this recap is super long, I am not kidding; it's around 5.6k words long. But in case you want to read it, here it is!

The hint for the password is: What is Shang Bu Huan's art name? (2 words only—no "the", all lowercase, no space in between)

Feel free to share this link! All I ask is to not repost it without credit, and especially not to pass it off as your own work 🙏🏻 It took me so long to work on this 😭

I hope this will make things a bit easier for Thunderbolt Fantasy fans outside of Japan and Taiwan who have no way of watching the movie anytime soon. Happy reading, and if you manage to read my recap until the end, thank you!

[littlepeakydevil]

Part 1: These Devilish Intentions

Chapter 8: Dancing with the Devil

Warnings: Smut and past sexual assault.

Prev Chapter • Series • Part 1 • Next Chapter

“Ha! I win!” Lily set her cards down on the table, leaning back smugly. Tommy snorted, the amusement for once unhidden in his eyes as he scooped up her cards and dealt another hand.

The celebrations at the Garrison were in full swing, laughter and the clinking of glasses thundering throughout the pub. Even Polly seemed to be enjoying herself, her serious features relaxed into a laugh as she listened to John ramble drunkenly. At one point, Arthur leapt up onto the bar, glass of whiskey sloshing. 

“To the Red Demon!” he bellowed out, swaying so dangerously on his feet Lily was worried he would fall. Around him, the other Blinders shouted out in agreement, raising their glasses. Scrunching down into her seat, her cheeks burned at the sudden attention.

She was just beginning to grow rather tired, the noise from the party starting to get to her, when Tommy took her gently by the arm and shepherded her into the snug, where it was quieter and more secluded from the drunk shouting and shattering of glasses. They busied themselves playing hand after hand of cards, sipping on glasses of whiskey and talking.

A glance through the half open door greeted her with the sight of John sitting in a booth, head in his hands. Polly was rubbing at his back while he cried, clutching a photograph to his chest.

“Is John alright?”

Tommy glanced over his shoulder at his brother and sighed. “Yeah. That just happens sometimes when he’s drunk. It’ll pass. Polly’s got him.”

“What’s he crying about?”

“Martha, probably.”

“His dead wife?”

“Yeah.”

“What was she like?”

He hesitated a moment. “She was nice. A whole hell of a lot sweeter than the rest of us. She and John met while they were in school. When we were kids all he’d go on about was wanting to settle down with her. I think he was more invested in their wedding preparations than she was.”

“I suppose that’s rather sweet. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“You don’t ever want to get married?” There was no judgment in his voice, just quiet curiosity.

“Nah,” she rubbed at the back of her neck. “Don’t think that I’m cut out for it, to be honest with you. I’d rather be riding horses and getting shot at than spend the rest of my life staying at home, cleaning the house, cooking meals, taking care of children. I wouldn’t be much good at any of it anyway. Too restless, I suppose. Bored easily. At school I could never sit still; got my ass beat by the nuns several times for fidgeting.”

“You were engaged.”

“Not like I had much choice in the matter,” she sniffed. “You know I never once lied about how I felt regarding the whole thing. Never gave any indication that I was going to go through with it. I think that Matthew thought he could mold me into what he wanted me to be. He wants what he can’t have. When I rejected him, it only made him more convinced that he had to have me.”

“None of it was your fault.”

“I know that.” Her scars ached, mind swimming, uncertain if she wanted to keep talking about it or not. Her eyes narrowed at the cards he had played out onto the table. “If I find out later that you’ve been letting me win I’ll be furious.” 

The smirk he gave her in response revealed just the beginnings of a dimple in his cheeks. Eyes falling back to her cards, she attempted to hide a yawn behind her hand.

“You tired?” 

“Yeah,” she rubbed her eyes. He examined her for a moment before setting his cards down and standing.

“Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t want to finish the game?” Even as she spoke she set her own cards down, standing to get her coat.

“Nah. It was a shitty hand anyway.”

Giggling, she pulled her cap on and followed him towards the front doors. “Won’t they notice that we’ve left?”

Tommy glanced over the gaggle of drunken men in the pub. “I’m pretty sure that they wouldn’t notice if the fucking pope walked in, love.”

The moment they stepped outside, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to shield her from the chill in the air as they began to walk. 

The card game had been a welcome distraction from the unending stress weighing on her mind since reading her father’s letters. A jitteriness had settled into her bones that had her jumping at shadows, head swiveling at the smallest of sounds. But having Tommy close helped. Nothing could truly touch her so long as he was nearby. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Tired.”

“You’ve done well,” he said after a moment. Lily hummed. 

“I’m glad to know that my work has been of satisfaction.”  

Tommy chuckled, scratching at his nose. She could have sworn that he moved closer to her, so that their sides were almost brushing. Growing quiet, she glanced down at her feet.

“Your brothers are going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.”

“Maybe. Arthur will be alright. John’s the one who will have to go home to four rowdy children.”

“When the hell did John find the time to have four kids anyway?” 

“Fuck if I know. But you know what it’s like. When you’re young and in love.” He wrinkled his nose. “He and Martha were terrible. We could hardly leave them alone for two seconds and they’d be fucking against the nearest horizontal surface.”

Lily laughed quietly, shaking her head. “I guess I wouldn't know.” 

Tommy’s head snapped around to look at her incredulously. “Never?”

She shrugged a little helplessly. Tommy seemed to be utterly stunned. 

“You’ve never fucked anyone before?”

Her cheeks burned as she blushed. “Well, there was Matthew and his friends in the alley–”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Then I guess not.” She suddenly felt very self-conscious. “It was all but impossible, with my dad almost always around, looking over my shoulder…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

She shot him a grateful look. But now that the box had been opened she seemed unable to stop the words from pouring out. “Even after he left for France, I swear I could always feel his presence around me. His eyes watching me for any signs of…indecency. Even miles away, the thought of his rage if he ever found out terrified me. Kept me from misbehaving too much while he was away.”

“I guess I always thought of you as a troublemaker.”

“Oh, I got into trouble,” she smirked, “just not the kind where I wound up on my back.” Her shoulders tensed at a clatter from a nearby alley, but a glance in that direction revealed the sound to have been caused by a simple drunk. “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“You ever know what it was like to be young and in love?” There was a long silence. “Tommy?”

“Before France. Her parents didn’t like me, so we would sneak out to the canal to be together,” he coughed, looking down at his shoes. “Her name was Greta.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died. Consumption.” It was clear from his voice that he didn’t want to discuss it much further.

“I’m sorry.” There wasn’t much else she could think to say. Tommy grunted in response. Teeth pulling at her bottom lip, she weighed in her mind whether or not to continue with the topic. “What about Lizzie?”

Tommy’s brow furrowed, genuine confusion crossing his features. “What about her?”

Lily shrugged. “Well, I didn’t know if maybe…”

“Lizzie’s just a whore, Lily,” Tommy said simply, brow still furrowed, like the idea that the tall woman could be anything more had never even crossed his mind.

Lily opened her mouth to respond, but closed it. They had reached the door to her flat. Pulling her keys from her pocket, she hesitated a moment after sliding them into the door. The cool air made her shiver. Tommy frowned, reaching out to rub his hands up and down her arms.

“You should get inside.” 

“Do you want to come up?” The question passed her lips before she had much time to think about it. He raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you were tired.”

She shrugged non-committedly. Something twitched in his face, mind clearly working behind his eyes.

“If you want me to.”

Nodding, she pushed the door open and led him upstairs to her little room, shedding her hat and jacket to hang them on the hooks near the door, Tommy following her movements. She hoped that he wouldn’t notice the way that her hands trembled. He had been in her flat before; but there was something different in the air between them this time.

“It’s strange to think of myself as I was then. Before everything happened.”

“What do you mean?”

Shoulders shrugging, she reached out to absentmindedly straighten a painting on the wall.

“I had all these plans and ideas for what I was going to do with my life. After my dad and brother were sent to France, I got a job as a stable girl. I was making my own money. I was beginning to consider the possibility that I could someday leave. Start to actually live my life on my own terms. There’s a part of me that wishes my father didn’t come back,” she swallowed hard around the confession, but carried on, “I was so hopeful…and then he came back and he pushed Matthew onto me and tore it all to pieces.” A sudden feeling of fury washed over her. Fury over the shame and fear that those two men had burdened her with. 

Tommy reached out a hand, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. His thumb traced over her bottom lip as she gazed up at him.

“The idea of living…excited me. I miss feeling like that.”

The breath that left Tommy’s lungs shuddered, eyes fixed on her lips. 

“Sometimes I feel like they ruined me.” She didn’t even mean her chastity; that had never been something that she held much value for. Instead she spoke of her mind, broken and twisted. Or her body, marred by scars that still ached from time to time with phantom pain.   

Tommy shook his head, the hand not caressing her face going to her waist. “That’s not true.”

“I know. Or…most of the time I do, anyway. Sometimes I still hear the things that they said to me, echoing in my head.”  

She may not be interested in the prospect of marriage, but that didn’t mean that she wanted to spend the rest of her life alone. Under her father’s roof there’d been no chance at any sort of promiscuous behavior, but she’d often dreamed of the day she would escape his influence and would finally have the chance or gorge herself on the pleasures life had to offer.

Fuck them for what they had done to her.

She wanted so badly to silence their voices. To quash the feeling, however fleeting, of disgust when she looked at her scarred body in the mirror.  

“What do they tell you?” Tommy pulled her closer to him, until their chests were brushing.

“They say I’m dirtied. That I’m worthless. That no one will ever want me.”

He was shaking his head, hand stroking her face. She moved a fraction closer to him, his warmth all around her, palms planted flat against his chest.

“They couldn’t be more wrong.”

“I don’t want to listen to them anymore.” Foreheads brushing, he all but nuzzled against her, hand smoothing along her back. “You make me feel safe.”

“Good.” 

All she did was tilt her head ever so slightly upwards, and their lips brushed against each other. Tommy kissed her softly, the hand on her back holding her close while the one on her face moved to cradle the back of her head. Lily’s own hands fisted in the front of his shirt, pulling him down more urgently to her. Practically purring at her eagerness, his head tilted to deepen their kisses. He didn’t seem to be put off by her clumsy and inexperienced movements, only cradling her closer. 

Hands moving from where they clutched at his shirt, she grasped the front of his suit jacket, shoving it off of his shoulders to the floor. Tommy groaned, stroking her jaw while her arms wound around his neck. Their noses bumped but that didn’t stop them, kisses still soft but growing more fevered and hungry. Her head spun as his lips moved from hers to press along her cheek and jaw, tickling over her neck, ghosting over the shell of her ear. 

“Lily…Lily, are you sure? I need you to tell me that you’re sure.” The sound of his baritone, so close to her ear, sent a shudder of warmth down her spine. When had he removed her waistcoat? She didn't even notice until the heat from his palms seeped through the thin material of her shirt.

“Yes,” she tangled her fingers in his hair, thighs clenching together at the growl that rumbled in his chest when her nails scratched over his scalp. “Yes, I’m sure.”

His hands slid from where they’d been resting against her ribs to her ass, lifting her up onto his hips and carrying her the short distance to the bed, laying her down slowly against the pillows. He straightened long enough to remove his waistcoat and the layers beneath it. Redness flared in her cheeks as she allowed herself a moment to admire him, all strong muscle and soft, freckled skin. A tattoo encircling his left pec. She was aware that she was all but drooling, but couldn’t bring herself to care much, even when he noticed her ogling and shot her a cocky smirk. Hands reaching out to him desperately, she drew him back to her, so that his body was hovering over hers.

“Shut up,” she grumbled, kissing him again. Tommy chuckled against her lips, bed creaking as he situated himself into a more comfortable position on top of her. Growling again when she dug her nails into his back. When his fingers brushed along the buttons of her shirt she stiffened, a stab of anxiety fluttering over her at the thought of someone else seeing her scars. Tommy pulled back to look at her, still close enough for his long lashes to tickle her cheeks.

“Still okay?”

Looking into his eyes helped to ground her, the light blue nearly engulfed by the darkness of his pupils. She was alright; she was safe. Tommy wouldn’t hurt her. She forced herself to swallow her fear and ignore the beginning chant of cruel voices in her head.

“Yeah.”

The first button popped open. Tommy’s head dipped to press a kiss to the newly revealed skin, slowly opening each button of her shirt.

“Don’t listen to them,” he murmured, lips caressing over a scar that ran from the bottom of her breast over her ribcage. “You listen to me,” another kiss was pressed to a small patch of raised skin near her belly button. “You’re beautiful. I want you.”

She sat up slightly so he could push her shirt fully off her shoulders and toss it to the floor, her own fingers undoing her bra and shedding that as well. Large hands squeezing her breasts, his mouth returned to devour hers, kisses growing more and more urgent. Hips dropping into hers, he rolled them forward, bulge rubbing against her. A startled moan exploded from her lips at the movement, hands scabbling at his shoulders, hips rising in a silent plea for a repeat of the motion. Tommy seemed all too happy to oblige, humping forward against her again with a groan.

“Fuck. Okay,” he fumbled with her belt, undoing her trousers as he began to kiss down her body again. Breath shuddered in her lungs as his tongue swiped over one of her nipples. “Lift your hips for me, love,” he mumbled into her skin. Hips raising, she helped him to pull off and kick away her trousers and remaining undergarments, fighting the urge to hide beneath the covers at being fully exposed to him. Frowning, she pouted when he didn’t return to hovering above her, instead resituating her legs, hooking her thighs over his shoulders.

“What are you–ohhhhhh,” she let out a sound she had never heard herself make before, head falling back against the pillows. A hand clenched in Tommy’s hair. He snickered, hands stroking her thighs, swiping his tongue over her clit again. With quick, careful movements, he began to work her over with his tongue while she moaned and tried to pull him even closer. A whine left her lips when he drew back, eyes batting up at her innocently, temptingly.

“Why’d you stop?” she slurred, the hand clenched in his hair moving to cup his cheek, thumb rubbing along his slick lips. Leaning into her touch like a cat, Tommy’s features twitched, affection clear as day on his face.

“Can I put my fingers inside of you?”

She wasn’t sure if her flushed cheeks were a result of being flustered or aroused at the question, barely managing a small nod.

“Yes.”

His head dipped back down again, and Lily sighed in ecstasy, in relief, as he pressed his lips back to her clit. One hand continued to cradle her thigh while the other slid between her legs.

“Gentle,” she gasped out, another bout of nerves hitting her, though with his mouth between her legs it was hard to pay them much mind. Nodding, he pulled back, nuzzling at a scar on her inner thigh.

“I’m going to be so gentle with you, love,” he promised. She shivered as a single thick finger sank into her, crooking while he resumed his ministrations with his tongue. Moans continued to bubble from her throat, head tilted back with one hand grasped at Tommy’s hair, the other fisting in the sheets beneath her. Her voice raised an octave when he added a second finger, pumping faster.

“Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,” she choked out. He just purred in answer, the vibrations doing wonderful things to her clit. Back arching, she all but wailed as she came, thighs clenching around his head.

Lapping at her until she was pushing his head away from overstimulation, Tommy wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looking incredibly pleased with himself as he crawled back up her body to kiss her. She could taste the remaining tang of herself on his lips, arms looping around his shoulders. For a moment, his hands cupped her cheeks before falling down to undo his trousers, kicking them off along with his undergarments.

Chancing a glance down, her eyes widened in a way she had to imagine was at least somewhat comical. Jesus fucking Christ, how the hell was that going to fit inside her?

Tommy’s thumb rubbed her cheek, quietly demanding her attention.

“Do you want to stop?”

She was shaking her head before he even finished the question, pulling him back down for another kiss. “No.”

His eyes examined hers shrewdly, nodding and reaching down to stroke himself. She squeaked when in one sudden movement he rolled them so that she was on top of him, thighs straddling his hips, both of them shuddering when his erection brushed against her entrance.

“Tommy, I don’t know what I’m doing–”

“It’s okay,” he said as he lined himself up, rising so that he could wrap an arm around her waist, kissing her cheek. “I’ll help you.”

She anchored herself on his powerful shoulders, his cock kissing her entrance but not penetrating yet. Tommy rested his forehead against hers, arms wrapping fully around her. He kissed her nose.

“We stop whenever you want to.”

Nodding, a shuddering gasp left her lips as slowly, carefully, he began to push inside her.

He felt even bigger than he looked, stretching her so wide she thought that he might split her in two. But Tommy held her cradled tightly to him, kisses planted on her neck. She was wet enough from his previous actions that he glided into her easily. And every time he felt her starting to tense he stopped, rubbing circles into her back and nuzzling at her until she relaxed.

“Fuck, so tight,” he groaned once he was fully seated within her, head falling to rest on her shoulder for a moment before lifting it to check on her. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” she shook her head and he stretched up to kiss her. When she shifted her hips, ever so slightly, he growled and she giggled, earning herself a playful pinch to the hip. Arms wrapping around his neck, hands clinging to his shoulders, she gave an experimental bounce, and felt more than she heard his moan from where his face was pressed against her neck, rewarding her with a tiny, answering thrust.

“Yeah, like that,” he breathed out, hands planted firmly on her waist to help support her as they started to move. Lily’s brow furrowed with concentration, focusing on trying to keep her balance and the tempo of their thrusts.

“Go slow,” Tommy kissed her temple. “You’re doing good,” his breath caught a bit at the end of his sentence, her movements beginning to grow more confident. The pace remained slow, but the thrusts were growing harder, more needy. Tommy lifted his head so that he could watch her face, and the look in his eyes nearly knocked her off balance. Those blue orbs were unmistakably aroused, but there was something else, a staggering softness, a near adoration, that left her stunned. She brushed away some of his dark fringe that had fallen into his eyes, his lashes fluttering at the movement, face leaning into her touch.

Pressing her chest more fully against his, she sighed as she rubbed her hands along his torso, feeling the muscles ripple beneath her fingers. His cock twitched when she traced over that tattoo surrounding his pec, ghosting over his nipple with her thumb. A vulnerability shivered across his face as he watched her appraise him.

“Is it okay that it’s me?”

Her eyes darted back to him in shock at the sudden…unsurety in his voice. Like he expected her to say no.

A ridiculous thought. She had never wanted anyone as much as she wanted him.

The need to comfort, to reassure spread over her heart. A want to soothe the eternally sad look in his eyes. Tightening her arms around him, she kissed him as softly as she knew how.

“I wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.”

His entire face softened, features relaxing. The thrusts that had ceased at his question picked back up again. Hips bucking with more urgency while he cradled her face and kissed her like he was suffocating and she was air. 

“I’m going to make you feel so good, love,” he promised. Moans were already leaving her lips as they began to fuck in earnest, bedframe creaking. With his arms around her he helped to lift and lower her onto his cock, their skin slapping together, bodies entangling.  

“Tommy,” she gasped out. “Fuck. So big, so big.” That massive cock rubbed against a patch of nerves inside her that made her moan and babble wantonly. All it took was a few more well aimed strokes, and she was clawing at his back, all nervousness or self-consciousness gone. She started riding him with abandon, his hips rolling up to meet her every thrust.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck,” Tommy’s hands were all over her, groping greedily at her breasts, palming at her back. “Can I touch your hair?”

The question took her by surprise for a moment. But of course. Of course he had noticed her aversion to having her hair tugged.

“No pulling,” she said and he nodded, hand sliding up her back and into her hair, just letting the strands pass through his fingers without yanking. Lily sighed, head tipping backwards into his palm. He suddenly readjusted her slightly in his lap, and she wasn’t sure what exactly he did, but on the next forward snap of his hips she was howling with pleasure.

“Lily,” the way he said her name, with such utter reverence, had a shudder going through her, his thumb rubbing at her clit.

“Please,” she didn’t even know what she was asking him for.

“I know, I know,” he began to kiss her again, greedily swallowing each of her moans. She was so close…so close…

He put a little more pressure on her clit and she was done for, crying out his name as she clamped down hard on his cock, trembling through her orgasm. Tommy clutched her tightly to him.

“That’s my girl. That’s my girl. Come here.” He squeezed her to his chest, fucking her through it, thrusts slow and so deep she was sure she could feel him in her belly. His cock was beginning to throb, pulsing with every deep plunge into her. A final, impossibly deep thrust home and he let out a massive growling moan, holding himself in place, his cock twitching and then throbbing powerfully. The sudden wave of warmth as his load pumped into her made Lily answer with a moan of her own. Tommy’s head drooped to rest against her shoulder, body relaxing against hers as he orgasmed.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, still clinging to each other tightly and panting. Tommy stroked Lily’s hair, nuzzling at her shoulder before finally shifting, pulling out of her and maneuvering them both so that they were laying on their sides under the covers. She cuddled up to his chest, his skin so warm she doubted that she even really needed the blankets to keep the chill away when she was pressed up against him the way she was. Wrapping an arm around her, Tommy hugged her close, kissing her forehead.

“Are you okay?” he asked, curling around her as he got comfortable in the bed.

“Yeah,” she slipped an arm around his waist, head resting against his pecs, the smattering of hair on his chest tickling her cheek. “Thank you.”

“You really don’t have to thank me, love,” he chuckled, brushing some hair out of her face, expression unbearably soft when he looked at her.

“What?”

“I think you might be the most beautiful person that I’ve ever seen.”

She let out an undignified squeak and buried her burning face into his chest. “Stop making me blush.”

He laughed, chest vibrating with the sound, hand falling from her face to join the other around her. His cheek rested against the top of her head. She squeezed the arm she had looped around him.

“I’m glad that I have you.”

Leaning his head down, he kissed her with a softness that made her want to cry. A chuckle escaped him when they parted and she promptly yawned. 

“Go to sleep, love.”

“You’ll still be here?”

Pulling her even closer, he tangled her legs with his.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Prev Chapter • Series • Part 1 • Next Chapter

[kvysvdilla]

𝑩𝑬𝒀𝑶𝑵𝑫 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑷𝑶𝑻𝑳𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻

idol/Jk x supermodel/reader -Aria Jeong-

GENRE: Romance | Fluff | Celebrity life

Chapter 04

Aria steps into the elevator beside Jungkook, the hum of soft instrumental music filling the air. She watches as he presses the button for the 14th floor. The golden number lights up, and the elevator begins its smooth ascent.

“Level 14?” Aria asks, tilting her head curiously. “Fancy number.”

Jungkook chuckles, his lips curling into a small smile. “Yeah, they rented out the whole floor just for me.”

Her brows lift in surprise. “The whole floor? You don’t like neighbors?”

He leans casually against the elevator wall, one hand tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. “It’s more about privacy. Only my manager and room service have access to the floor. Less…chaos.”

Aria grins, crossing her arms. “So, I’m the exception? Maybe I’m lucky.”

Jungkook glances at her, his smile widening. “Maybe you are.”

The elevator dings, and the doors glide open to reveal the lavishly quiet corridor of the 14th floor. The carpet is plush underfoot, the lighting warm and inviting. Aria steps out first, taking in the silence that seems almost surreal.

“This feels…exclusive,” she murmurs, her voice low as they walk down the hallway.

Jungkook smirks, pulling out a sleek keycard from his pocket. “It is.”

They stop in front of a door marked 1407. He swipes the card, the lock beeping softly before the door clicks open. He pushes it ajar, revealing the spacious suite beyond. The room is minimalist yet elegant, with a massive floor-to-ceiling window offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline.

Aria whistles softly. “This is next level. No wonder you don’t want neighbors.”

Jungkook steps inside, leaving the door open for her. “It’s not as fun as it looks. Gets lonely sometimes.”

As Aria steps into the room, Jungkook gestures toward the sleek vanity table near the mirror. “You can put your stuff there,” he says casually, his voice warm but calm.

“Thanks,” she replies, heading over to the table. She shrugs off her jacket, revealing her grey hoodie, then places her bag down. Carefully, she takes off her cap, letting her hair fall freely, and finally removes her black sunglasses, exposing her bare face.

Jungkook, now seated at the edge of the bed, finds himself unable to look away. Her natural features, unhidden by makeup, feel disarmingly honest and raw. There’s something about her simplicity that strikes him.

Noticing his lingering gaze, Aria chuckles softly. She turns and starts walking toward the couch, but as she passes by the bed, she pauses in front of him. Leaning in slightly, she softly boops his nose with her pointy finger.

“You’re staring,” she teases, her voice light and playful before she continues her walk and gracefully sits on the couch beside the bed.

Jungkook blinks, snapping out of his daze. He nervously chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Can’t help it. You’re even prettier with no makeup on.”

Aria smirks, raising an eyebrow as she leans back into the couch. “So, what you’re saying is… I look bad with makeup on?”

His eyes widen in panic, and he waves his hands quickly, shaking his head. “No! No, that’s not what I meant!” he exclaims, his voice rising slightly in embarrassment.

She lets out a laugh, clearly enjoying his flustered reaction. “Relax, I’m just messing with you,” she says, leaning forward on the couch with an amused grin. “You’re too easy to tease.”

Jungkook exhales with a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“And yet, you let me in here,” she shoots back with a smirk, their playful banter filling the air as the city lights flicker through the large windows.

Jungkook leans back slightly on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on the mattress behind him. He watches Aria as she gets comfortable on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her.

“You’ve got a dangerous sense of humor,” he says with a small laugh, his tone softer now.

Aria tilts her head, giving him a faux-innocent smile. “It’s not my fault you’re so easy to fluster. I thought golden maknaes could handle a little teasing.”

Jungkook scoffs lightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, I can handle it. You’re just…unexpected.”

“Unexpected how?” Aria asks, raising an eyebrow as she grabs a throw pillow and hugs it against her chest.

He pauses for a moment, his gaze lingering on her, as if searching for the right words. “I don’t know. You’re confident, quick-witted… but you’ve got this softer side too. It’s… different.”

Her teasing smile falters just a little, replaced by something gentler. She tugs at the corner of the pillow absentmindedly. “Different in a good way, I hope.”

Jungkook nods immediately, sitting up straight. “Yeah, in a good way.”

There’s a brief silence, the kind that feels heavy yet comfortable at the same time. The hum of the air conditioner fills the space as they both take a moment to process the words exchanged.

Breaking the stillness, Aria chuckles lightly and leans back against the couch. “You know, I was kind of expecting this room to be a chaotic mess. Clothes everywhere, snacks on the floor…”

Jungkook laughs, his shoulders shaking slightly. “What kind of impression did you have of me?”

She shrugs, grinning. “Just saying, you’ve got this… boy-next-door thing going on. I figured you’d be a bit of a whirlwind.”

“Well,” he says, gesturing to the spotless room, “now you know I’m a neat freak. I hate clutter.”

“Duly noted,” she replies with a smirk. Then, after a beat, she asks, “So… what does a global superstar like you do to relax in a place like this? Play video games? Watch Netflix?”

He chuckles, pointing toward the large TV mounted on the wall. “Both, actually. I’ve got a gaming console set up and a pretty long Netflix watchlist.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Impressive. What’s on the watchlist?”

“Mostly action and thrillers. Oh, and some rom-coms,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin.

“Rom-coms?” Aria says, feigning shock. “The tough, mysterious Jungkook watches romantic comedies? I’m learning so much about you tonight.”

He laughs, throwing a pillow from the bed in her direction. She catches it effortlessly, grinning at his playful attack.

“Don’t act so surprised,” he retorts. “They’re funny, okay?”

She tosses the pillow back onto the bed, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, maybe next time you can show me your favorite one.”

Jungkook leans forward, resting his arms on his knees as he looks at her. “Next time, huh?”

“Maybe,” she says with a small smile, her tone teasing but laced with something genuine.

The room feels warmer now, the earlier awkwardness replaced by a growing sense of comfort. The city lights outside continue to twinkle, as if reflecting the unspoken possibilities in the air between them.

Aria continues to gaze at the glittering city through the glass wall, completely unaware of Jungkook’s quiet movements. When he sits down beside her, she still doesn’t notice, her focus on the mesmerizing view.

Jungkook leans back slightly, resting his arm casually along the backrest of the couch. For a moment, he just watches her, taking in the way the lights from outside illuminate her features.

“You really like the view, huh?” he asks, his voice soft but carrying a touch of mischief.

Startled, Aria turns to him, her wide eyes betraying her surprise. “You’re too quiet,” she mutters, chuckling nervously. “I didn’t even hear you sit down.”

Jungkook grins, leaning closer, his voice dropping slightly. “Maybe I didn’t want you to.”

She raises an eyebrow at his playful tone but quickly returns her gaze to the city. “Well, congratulations—you nearly gave me a heart attack.”

For a moment, silence falls between them, but Jungkook doesn’t look away from her. He shifts slightly closer, his arm resting on the back of the couch now hovering just behind her.

Then, without warning, he leans in—just enough to close the space between them—and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers graze her skin lightly, leaving a spark in their wake.

Aria freezes, her breath hitching as her cheeks grow warm. She turns to him, her wide eyes meeting his. “What… was that?” she stammers, caught completely off guard.

Jungkook leans back slightly, his expression unreadable but his lips curving into a subtle smirk. “It was bothering me,” he says simply, his voice calm but his eyes holding something deeper.

She blinks, her face growing hotter by the second. “You could’ve just… said something,” she mutters, trying to play it cool, though the blush creeping up her neck betrays her.

“I could’ve,” he says, his gaze not leaving hers. “But this was more fun.”

Aria lets out a nervous laugh, breaking eye contact as she looks back at the city view. She hugs the throw pillow closer to her chest in an attempt to ground herself. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Jungkook chuckles, his tone teasing. “You say that a lot.”

“Well, you keep proving me right,” she quips, though her voice wavers slightly, still flustered by his boldness.

He watches her for a moment longer, his smirk softening into a genuine smile. “Maybe I just like seeing you blush.”

She whips her head back toward him, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t get used to it,” she warns, though her pink cheeks tell a different story.

Jungkook laughs again, leaning back comfortably against the couch. “Too late.”

The playful tension lingers between them, electrifying the air as they both try to settle their racing hearts.

Jungkook leans back into the couch, his arm draped casually on the backrest behind Aria. He turns to her after a moment, noticing her slightly tired expression.

“You hungry?” he asks softly. “You’ve been asleep for a while—you probably need to eat something.”

Aria stretches a little and nods. “Yeah, I could eat. I think I’m a little tired still.”

He pulls out his phone, unlocking it as he speaks. “Let’s order something. I’m sure some places are still open at this hour.”

“What are you thinking?” she asks, leaning closer to see his screen. Without realizing it, her shoulder brushes against his.

Jungkook stiffens slightly at the unexpected contact, but he hides his nerves by scrolling through the app. “How about pizza?” he suggests.

Aria’s eyes light up as she tilts her head to look closer at the screen. “Pizza sounds perfect. Let’s go classic—pepperoni and cheese.”

He chuckles softly, nodding. “Good choice. Can’t go wrong with a classic.”

She naturally scoots even closer, their shoulders now pressed together as she peers at his phone. Jungkook can feel his heartbeat quicken, but he keeps his cool, his voice steady as he asks, “Should we get a large? Maybe with some soda?”

“Definitely,” she replies, glancing up at him briefly with a smile before turning back to the screen. “And don’t forget some extra cheese.”

“Got it. Large classic pepperoni and cheese pizza, extra cheese, and soda.” He finalizes the order, swiping to confirm it. “It should be here in about 25 minutes.”

Aria leans back into the couch, grinning. “You’re a pro at this.”

Jungkook smirks, placing his phone on the side table. “What can I say? I’m good at feeding people.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “Well, thanks. I’m starving, so you just saved me.”

“Anytime,” he replies, glancing at her briefly. The closeness between them lingers as they both settle back into the couch, waiting for the food to arrive.

Jungkook leans back against the couch, his arm still resting on the backrest behind Aria as they wait for their pizza to arrive. After a moment of silence, he turns to her.

“Big day tomorrow huh?,” he says, breaking the quiet.

Aria looks at him, her brows raised in curiosity. “How are you feeling about it?”

Jungkook chuckles softly, running a hand through his hair. “A little nervous, to be honest. Even after all these years, the pressure never really goes away.”

Aria tilts her head, her expression thoughtful. “You’ve done this so many times, though. Isn’t it easier now?”

“In some ways, yeah,” he admits, his gaze shifting to her. “But at the same time, it gets harder. The expectations just keep growing, you know? And you want to outdo yourself every time.”

Aria nods, leaning in slightly without realizing it. “Makes sense. But you always manage to blow everyone away. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Jungkook smiles at her encouragement, his shoulders relaxing. “Thanks. What about you? First time attending, right?”

She laughs lightly. “Yeah, first time ever. I’m more nervous about not tripping on the carpet or doing something embarrassing.”

“You’ll be fine,” Jungkook reassures her with a grin. “Just be yourself. Everyone’s going to love you.”

“Easy for you to say,” she teases. “You’ve got years of experience. I’m just hoping not to accidentally photobomb someone famous.”

He laughs at that, his eyes crinkling. “Hey, if it happens, it’ll make headlines. ‘Aria Steals Spotlight with Accidental Photobomb.’”

She rolls her eyes, grinning. “Great, that’s exactly the kind of fame I want.”

As they talk, they both unconsciously scoot closer, their movements subtle but natural. Jungkook leans in slightly, while Aria shifts toward him to match his energy.

“So, what are you wearing tomorrow?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Aria smirks, crossing her arms. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would, actually,” he counters with a playful grin. “I need to mentally prepare for how you’re going to steal all the attention.”

She chuckles, her gaze softening. “It’s nothing too crazy. Just a dress. Simple but elegant.”

“Sounds perfect,” Jungkook says, his voice softer now. “You’ll look amazing.”

Then, as Aria glances at him, she suddenly feels a spark of courage. With a small exhale, she smiles shyly and says, “I… actually need to admit something.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow in curiosity, his voice low. “What is it?”

Aria pauses for a second, gathering her thoughts before she finally blurts out, “I’m a big fan of yours, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen in surprise, his mouth parting slightly in disbelief. “Wait… seriously?”

“Yeah,” she says with a sheepish grin. “I’ve been a fan of you for a long time. It’s just… it’s crazy to actually be sitting here talking to you. You’ve been one of my biggest inspirations for so long.”

Jungkook laughs softly, leaning in a bit closer, their faces now only inches apart. “Well, in that case I’m glad you did because you know… I’ve actually been admiring you for years too,” Jungkook says, his voice soft but steady.

Aria blinks, taken aback by his words. Her eyebrows furrow in surprise. “What?”

He chuckles lightly, “I mean, it sounds cheesy, but it’s true. Ever since I saw you on social media for the first time, I couldn’t stop thinking about how amazing you were. You’ve always had this… presence. It’s hard to ignore.”

Aria stares at him, her mind struggling to process what he’s just said. “You’re serious?” she says slowly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Jungkook replies, his eyes meeting hers again. This time, there’s no hesitation. “I’ve admired you for a long time. You’re not just talented, you’re so down-to-earth, and I’ve always thought you had something special.”

A blush creeps up Aria’s neck, her heart skipping a beat at his honesty. She shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to say next. “l don’t even know what to say…”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jungkook reassures her, his smile soft and genuine. “I just wanted you to know. I’m glad I’m finally getting to spend time with you.”

She laughs nervously, looking down at her hands. “This is a lot to take in… but I’m glad too.”

Jungkook leans back against the couch, glancing out the window at the city lights below. “It’s crazy, right? Two people who’ve admired each other for years, and now here we are.”

Aria lets out a small sigh, her heart still racing. “Yeah, it is crazy…”

The phone in the room suddenly rings, breaking the silence. He picks up the receiver and greets the person on the other end with a casual tone.

“Hello?”

Jungkook nods, even though the person on the other end can’t see him. “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up the phone and turns to Aria with a smile. “That’s our food. They’ve left it outside the door.”

Aria looks over at him, already starting to get up from the couch. “Oh, I can go get it. Don’t worry about it.”

But before she can stand, Jungkook quickly holds up a hand, stopping her. “No, no. It’s fine. Let me get it.” He grins playfully, a hint of teasing in his voice. “You just sit here and be pretty.”

Aria raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a smile. “Be pretty, huh?” She sits back down on the couch, crossing her arms with a teasing look.

Jungkook chuckles, standing up from the couch, giving her a wink as he makes his way toward the door.

As he walks to the door, Aria watches him with a soft smile, her eyes following his every move. She can’t help but feel a little warmth in her chest as he takes charge of the situation. He grabs the box and closes the door behind him before making his way back to the couch, where Aria is still seated.

He places the pizza down on the table in front of her, sitting back down on the couch beside her. “There you go,” he says with a satisfied smile. “You didn’t have to move an inch, and now we get to enjoy our food.”

Aria laughs lightly, looking at the pizza. “Well, if you insist on treating me like a princess, I’m not going to argue.” She takes a slice of pizza, her eyes still on him. “You’re too kind.”

Jungkook grins, his eyes glinting with a playful light. “You're a princess to me. So, anything for you, princess." Aria laugh loudly because of his statement.

Jungkook and Aria sit comfortably on the couch, each holding a slice of pizza, the warm, cheesy goodness filling the air. They both take a bite, savoring the taste.

“So,” Jungkook starts, his voice casual but his eyes locked on her, “What time are you planning on heading back?”

Jungkook leans back slightly, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Or… do you wanna stay the night here?” He gives her a wink, taking another bite of pizza, his gaze never leaving hers.

Aria’s lips curl into a smile, matching his playful tone. Without missing a beat, she counters, “Is that an offer for me to stay here?”

Jungkook’s eyes light up with amusement, his heart beating a little faster as he sets the pizza down on the table. He leans in just a little, lowering his voice slightly as he speaks. “I’d be the happiest man in the world if you stayed. Honestly.”

Aria lets out a small laugh, shaking her head as if she can’t believe his audacity. But she’s secretly flattered by his words.

Just as they share the lighthearted moment, he notices a small crumb at the corner of her lips. His gaze softens, and without thinking, he reaches out, brushing his thumb gently across her skin, wiping the crumb away.

He licks his finger afterward, his eyes still focused on her. “You know,” he says softly, his voice low but sincere, “I really want you to stay over with me."

Aria freezes for a moment, feeling the warmth of his gaze and the tenderness in his actions. Her heart skips a beat, and she feels a mix of emotions swirling inside her. She hesitates for just a second before she nods her head softly.

“I’ll stay,” she says quietly, her voice tender but firm. “I’ll stay the night, if that’s really okay with you.”

Jungkook’s heart swells at her words, a soft smile curling on his lips as he meets her gaze. “Of course it is. I’m really happy you’re staying.”

"But I have to wake up before 9am to head back to my place. Is that okay?" she ask him softly as he just nodded to her while take a big bite of the pizza.

The tension in the room fades as they both relax into the moment.

After finishing their pizza, Jungkook and Aria set the empty box and the cans of soda to the side. The atmosphere is comfortable, and the air is filled with the quiet hum of the room. Aria stretches slightly, feeling the effects of the late hour beginning to settle in.

She turns to him and, with a soft chuckle, asks, “Hey, do you have a hotel toothbrush I can borrow? I came here unprepared.”

Jungkook looks at her for a moment, his smile soft and understanding. “Of course,” he says, standing up from the couch. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

He leads her toward the bathroom, his movements calm and easy. Once inside, he opens the drawer and retrieves a new toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, and a fresh towel. He hands them to her with a gentle smile. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Jungkook,” she says, taking the items from him, her fingers brushing against his for a brief second.

He grins, his eyes twinkling with affection. “You’re always welcome, princess.” With that, he ruffles her hair playfully before turning to walk out of the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him.

Aria stands there for a moment, her cheeks flushed from the exchange. She can’t help but smile to herself as she looks into the mirror, feeling a warmth spreading through her chest. She takes a deep breath and begins washing her face, splashing water to refresh herself. Afterward, she brushes her teeth, preparing for the night ahead. It’s already 1:13 AM, and she knows she’ll need rest soon.

Once she’s finished, she walks out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed and more relaxed. The light in the room is dimmed, creating a cozy atmosphere. Jungkook is lying on the bed, he already change his black hoodie into an oversized black shirt with his back against the pillows, scrolling through his phone with an ease that only he seems to have. The soft glow from the lamp makes him look even more handsome, almost ethereal in the dim lighting. His tattoos are more visible in this setting, and his smooth hair and lip ring make him look effortlessly cool.

So boyfriend-able she thought to herself.

Aria can’t help but stare, caught off guard by how attractive he looks, feeling a flutter in her chest.

That’s when Jungkook glances up from his phone and, with a playful grin, says, “You’re staring.”

Aria blushes, realizing she’s been caught. She laughs softly and quickly responds, “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.” She then walks over to the wardrobe beside the bathroom door and hangs the towel.

As she turns back toward him, Jungkook pats the space beside him on the bed, his gaze warm and inviting. “You can come lay down next to me,” he says, a playful tone in his voice.

Aria raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “I thought I was taking the couch.”

Jungkook chuckles softly, his expression softening as he looks at her. “Well, the couch is nice and all, but it’s a lot cozier here.” He pats the space again. “Come on, just for tonight.”

As Aria settles beside Jungkook, she tucks herself under the comforter, pulling it up to her chin for warmth. The soft fabric envelopes her, creating a cocoon of comfort around her as she turns her body facing him.

Jungkook gently turns towards her too so that she’s facing his chest, their bodies now close. Her head resting just under his chin. Her eyes are heavy with the need for sleep, but she can’t help the comfort she feels being this close to him.

Jungkook looks down at her, his hand gently brushing her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear as he speaks softly, “Are you coming to the rehearsal tomorrow morning?”

Aria yawns, her eyes half-closed. “Yeah… I’ll go with Claire,” she mumbles, her voice thick with exhaustion.

He smiles tenderly, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says quietly, his voice low and soothing.

She nods, her eyelids fluttering as her heavy eyes threaten to close completely. Jungkook chuckles softly, the sound warm and comforting in the quiet room. He reaches out, his fingers gently caressing her cheek, the gesture sweet and affectionate.

“Go to sleep,” he whispers. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

Aria smiles faintly, feeling a sense of peace wash over her. “Goodnight, Jungkook,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, but full of warmth.

He leans down slightly, brushing his lips near her forehead. “Sleep well, Aria,” he replies softly, his voice full of care.

As Aria drifts off to sleep, her body nestled comfortably beneath the soft comforter, Jungkook quietly shifts his attention to his phone. His fingers glide over the screen, carefully setting an alarm for 8:00 AM. He wants to make sure Aria wakes up on time for the rehearsal, but he doesn’t want to disturb her peaceful slumber.

After confirming the alarm is set, he places the phone down on the nightstand beside the bed. He looks over at her, her face relaxed in sleep, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He can’t help but feel a sense of warmth in his chest, watching her rest so peacefully next to him.

Jungkook gently adjusts the blanket, making sure she’s tucked in well, before settling back down. He watches her for a moment longer, then closes his eyes, allowing the quiet calm of the night to wrap around him. The sound of Aria’s steady breathing and the soft hum of the hotel room lull him into a deep, peaceful sleep as well.

The alarm is set, and all he wants now is for her to sleep well and have a restful night, knowing the next day will bring a busy but exciting morning.

Chapter 05 --- Back to Series Masterlist

[sassylegshayne]

marry me, idiot. - chapter seven

the finale!! I hope y'all enjoy it! 2.4k words.

series masterlist

It had become normal to wake up tangled in Spencer's arms, his soft snores rumbling his chest lightly. Craig would often curl up at the end of the bed, on Spencer's side.

It was relaxing, usually. When you find yourself waking up just before your alarm was set to ring, it felt like your nerves were on fire. You wanted to melt into the mattress and disappear, acting as if this had never happened.

As Spencer shifts, his arm slung around your hips now pulled you closer, a soft murr leaving his lips. You couldn't help but bite your lip, smiling softly down at him.

After a moment, a large grin spreads across the man's face before his eyes open, landing on yours, sending your heart aflutter. Your cheeks heat up as a nervous laugh bubbled out of you.

"Good morning.." Spencer spoke softly. reaching out his hand to cup your cheek gently, your worries melting away as you lean into his touch.

"I know it'd be kinda last minute but... if you wanna back out, get it." Spencer chuckled softly as you press your forehead to his, his blue eyes scanning yours.

"I'm all your's, no refunds." You grin, placing a soft peck to his lips before slipping from the sheets, much to Spencer's dismay.

The two of you make quick work of attempting to wake yourselves up before running out on a quick errand, before heading toward your chapel.

Erin had managed to snag a cheesey shotgun- wedding chapel, and with help from some of the cast and crew, it would be ready for you ceremony in a few hours.

You and Spencer had been tasked with the chairs, Jackie delegating tasks left and right with a bright smile, her enthusiasm radiating off of her.

You finish wrapping another bow, tying the knot gently when you feel a shoulder bump into yours, finding your.. Spencer squatting beside you. A small giggle escapes you as you watch his eyes search over your face.

"Can I help you?" You ask playfully, the brunettes cheeks burning bright red as his eyes fall on yours.

"I..." He trails off as your head snaps up, Jackie quickly seating herself on the chair behind Spencer, your cheeks now lit up as bright pink as the bows in your hand.

"Ya know, wish you guys were actually getting married." The woman huffs, pouting as she looked between the two of you. It feels like your heart's stopped beating, but it's the only thing you can hear in your ears Damn Jackie.

"Yeah, good one." Spencer barked out a laugh as he stood quickly, looking as pale as a ghost as he scurried off, leaving you in a fit of giggles.

You finished up the last of the chairs, working diligently on whatever tasks you were given until Kiana found you in a flurry, ushering you off to get ready. You'd opted for a simple outfit, knowing the Spencer had done the same.

You quickly got ready before heading back toward the chapel area, the room now filled with your guests. Your heart fluttered as tears threatened to spill from your eyes, all of your friends moving about the room as they took their seats, the cameras and mics all set in place. It was so weirdly perfect.

You're pulled from your thoughts as Ki gently takes your hand, giving you a squeeze. "You excited?"

She was always quick to sense things out, yours nerves unhidden to her. You gulped, putting on a bright grin as you nodded.

"Of course I am.. have you seen.." You trail off, brows furrowing as it dawns on you that Spencer wasn't in the room. Your heart drops to your stomach, your mind fearing the worst as you turn to your best friend beside you. Kiana gives you a soft smile, nodding her head.

As if on cue, Spencer rounds the corner with a mic pack in his hand, your nerves crashing away in an instant.

"Hey, pretty.. you okay?" Spencer asked softly, the bright smile he had when he first saw you quickly turned to worry as he saw the concern on your face.

"Yeah, I thought you got cold feet." You chuckled softly, Kiana trying her best to suppress her grin, her heart soaring at the love between the two of you.

"T'm gonna go do some finishing touches if you two wanna.. get those on." Ki grinned, nodding to the mics before she took off, leaving you two alone for a final moment.

You link your arm with Spencer's, guiding him towards the back with you before you step out into the hall. As the door closes, all of the chatter becomes a soft murmur as you turn to him, a grin spread across his face to match yours.

"So," Spencer begins as you turn your back to him, allowing him to clip the pack onto the back of your dress. "You really think l'd get cold feet?"

You let out a shaky chuckle, playfully rolling your eyes. A shiver runs up your spine as Spencer gently presses his lips to your shoulder before placing his hands on your hips, spinning you slowly.

Spencer digs into his pocket, pulling out the wedding rings you had picked out. The video called for gauty, fake rings, but for the real marriage, you'd decided on matching bands.

You couldn't help but giggle with excitement as you slip the ring into your bra for hiding, planning to exchange it for the faux ones later on.

You look back to Spencer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, wishing to stay in this moment forever. You slowly lean in, your lips brushing his gently before the turning of the door handle has you jumping back.

Spencer steps aside, his cheeks burning as Shayne poked his head out, offering the pair of you a soft smile.

"We're all set up whenever you two are ready..." He trailed off, quickly shooting a thumbs up before disappearing behind the closed door once again.

You take Spencer's mic wordlessly, slowly stepping around him as you clip it to his waistband, trailing the cord under his shirt before you step away.

As soon as your foot hits the tile, Spencer is wrapping his hand with yours, spinning you back into his arms before pressing his lips firmly to yours.

You pull back slowly, wiping your lipstick from his lips with a smile that sets his heart ablaze.

"C'mon," You nod to him as you wander off, tugging the door open. "Marry me, idiot."

Spencer took a deep breath, unable to hold back his smiles any longer, trailing after you. Erin quickly positions Spencer up at the altar in front of Jackie, everyone else already seated or behind the cameras.

You give him a small wave, the small ring on your finger catching the light as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, fidgeting with your band he had hidden.

This was an absolute mess of a wedding; it's perfect for the video, but realistically, who else would want this but the two of you?

And in the midst of all this chaos, you stand just down the isle, and all he wants to do is kiss you. Spencer can't find it in himself to try and focus on anything but the view of you before him.

The soft playing of Josh's piano is the first thing to pull him from his thoughts, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face. The crowd in front of him erupts into cheers as a camera pans to you.

Spencer still can't tare his eyes away as you playfully wander down the isle, finally greeting him with a grin to match, offering your hands to him.

You try your best to steady your shaky hands as Spencer takes your, a nervous laugh leaving him, causing your own to escape.

'Shush." Jackie chastises the two of you playfully, her minister costume not helping the laughter for the pair of you, or the crowd.

"I, Jacklyn Uweh, have been brought here today before al of y'all to ordain the matrimony between the Spencer Agnew and the Y/N L/N." Jackie called out dramatically, the crowd cheering once more.

"Now, since I'm not legally able to bind these two together, I'll just let them say their pieces." Jackie laughed as she steps aside, leaving you and Spencer alone together.

Spencer quickly fumbles around, reaching into his pocket as he grabs a piece of paper, setting aside the approved roasting 'vows' Erin had handed him earlier.

You glance behind the camera, seeing confusing open Erin and Kiana's face, worry setting in slowly.

You glance behind the camera, seeing confusing open Erin and Kiana's face, worry setting in slowly.

Spencer tugs at your hand once more, pulling your attention back to him. He smiles softly as his eyes scan over your face, a sigh escaping his lips.

"Uh, I would be the aforementioned Spencer, and I have some words I'd like to say to my future wife here, if you'd let me." He jokes, looking out to the crowd for the first time. Everyone seemed invested, but no one had a clue what he was about to say.

"Y/N," Spencer turns to you, glancing down to the paper held in his shaky hands. "You're my best friend but you're about to become my favorite tax break."

You chuckled softly, chewing your lip as your heart races, the laughter of the others around seeming to disappear as he spoke.

"When I sat down to write this, I realized that I have a lot that I want to say." Spencer chuckled nervously, nudging his glasses up on his nose before stuffing the paper back into his pocket, lacing his hands with yours.

"I don't know how to say all of it, but I know that I love you, Y/N. I don't know when it started, but I know it's not gonna end."

"I don't know what made me fall in love with you, or when, but I feel like it's just the most natural thing for me." Spencer grinned, a few tears escaping him as he blinked them away, your hands gripping his tightly.

"Basically, I don't know much, but I know that you're my best friend, you make me the happiest man in the world, and I love you, Y/N."

You let out a small laugh through your tears and sniffles, your trembling hands quickly taking the paper of your's that Spencer passed you.

You refrained from looking around the room, wanting to get your words out before taking in everyone's reactions.

"Spencer, you're my best friend, too." You laugh softly, biting your lip as the man before you rolls iis eyes playfully.

"I wanted to make sure to get that out of the way first, but I digress." You grin, glancing from his blue eyes to your handwriting.

"I tried to think about how long I've loved you but.. I really don't know, either." You blink away a few tears, feeling them drop onto your hands.

"I know there was some point where I realized that I wanted you in my life, I want you forever." You chew your lip, your heartbeat thudding in your ears. "I loved you, even before I realized it."

"I just know that it feels like I'll love you forever. I want to spend the rest of my life watching you fight with Craig."

"I'm so glad I get to marry you." Spencer tugs you gently closer, your toes tapping together as you laugh softly, your nerves bubbling inside of you. "I love you."

A deafening cheer erupts across the room, the silence from moments before is long forgotten. The two of you are quickly wrapped up in familiar arms, Kiana a crying mess as she holds the two of you tightly.

"What the fuck?" She yells out quickly, squeezing you tightly as the questions begin flooding in, the confusion and excitement buzzing throughout the room.

"Okay, we can explain.." Spencer speaks after a few moments, Kiana slowly stepping aside as you grin up at the man beside you.

"Kiss the bride first!" Kimmy squeals out from behind the camera, flailing her arms as your eyes fall upon her and Erin, tear streamed faces and grins greeting you back.

Your head quickly snaps to Spencer, your heart fluttering again. It felt like you fell a little more in love with the man each time you laid eyes on him.

Spencer took in every detail of your face, wanting to commit every part of this moment to his memory forever. He slowly cupped your cheek, you hand wrapping gently around his hand as you pressed your forehead together. You could almost cut the tension with a knife; it seemed like everyone was on the edge of their seats. Your first public kiss would seal your marriage.

You couldn't take it any longer, moving your hands to cup Spencer's cheeks as you crash your lips into his, melting into his touch as the cheers sounding again.

"It's just a prank, bro!" Spencer calls out, pointing out to the camera with one hand, snaking the other around your hip as he tugs you into his side, your cheeks bright red as you take in the state of all your friends around you.

"Spencer fucked up and got us into this situation where it seemed like we were getting married, which would've been funny, except for the fact that Rhett and Link believed it." You began, the attention of everyone making you blush again as you nodded to your bosses before you.

"Okay, well.." Spencer began, his defense dying on his tongue as he glances at you smiling beside him. "Then we decided we would make a series of it, right, pretend we're actually getting married and fool the fans and our bosses, right?"He gestured out to everyone, murmurs of agreement echoing around.

"Well, big surprise, we are in love with each other and decided we might as well get married.." You finish off, a timid grin on your face as Spencer squeezes you gently. "We went and filled out the paper work at the courthouse this morning, so."

"Oh my god!" Courtney squealed out, another wave of shock hitting your friends. Everything seemed to finally click, the roar of cheers getting impossibly louder as the two of your are engulfed into a massive group hug.

This was the perfect mess, Spencer had fucked up in the best way possible. One dumb idea led him here, attempting to slip on your wedding rings as you're squished between more people than you could count.

It's all you've ever wanted.

[fall0utmind]

Medical leak AU pt 7

It's 11pm, have 5k words of whump from Vale's POV.

Chapter 7 - Vale's Interlude - A03

Parts 1-6 on the #medical leak au tag

Usual TW apply (suicide, abusing pain meds - no graphic details)

LMK what you think

Ever since the news broke, Valentino had been overwhelmed by a myriad of confusing feelings.

He first heard whispers in the paddock on Friday morning. He was walking past some journalists and had noticed the excited murmuring that usually accompanied big news. It wasn’t until he heard Marquez’s name that he stopped, pretending to be busy so he could eavesdrop.

Although he liked to pretend Marc was no longer important, he could not deny his interest in the man. Marc had ruined his untarnished career; it was only normal to feel such intense rage whenever he was reminded of the man. It was the reason he still spoke about him, he needed the world to understand the injustice, to feel his hatred. Because that was what this was all about. Hatred. He knew the boys would call him obsessed, but really, he was just getting a better idea of the enemy, for Pecco’s sake. He scoffed when he figured out what the journalists were talking about, the apparent breaking news– yeah, as if. He continued walking, amused by the idea. It was preposterous, all Marc wanted was to beat Valentino, to take his records. He wouldn’t have given up on that. The one thing Marc loved more than anything else was winning. He shook his head; Marc was never so weak.

It wasn’t till later, when he sat watching the press conference, that a sliver of doubt crept in.

He considered himself an expert in Marc. The way he calculated every action, how he performed every expression. Everything was a persona with him. But after the first question, it all crumbled. He watched pure fear cross Marc’s face before he could school it. The press constantly brought up 2015, it usually made Valentino feel slightly vindicative, the way Marc always had to paste on his media smile. This time, though, he only experienced a creeping sense of dread. Marc was trying to get them to move on from the topic, with limited success. Valentino observed the way Pecco was staring at Marc, concern and bemusement unhidden in his countenance. It made Vale frown. The atmosphere in the press room was tense, even through the screen.  

It only got worse.

Marc was staring into the distance, looking at something off-camera, his expression alarmed. The next question was worse, shaking Marc out of his daze. He watched in fascination as Marc’s façade fell apart, sweat glistening on his brow, his face carefully blank to the casual observer. Valentino flinched when his name was mentioned, and his stomach dropped at the sentence that was uttered.

Marc? Suicide? No way. No, that wasn’t possible.

Valentino was clenching and unclenching his fists, his brow furrowed as he intently stared at the screen. He thought he might be having a heart attack.

Jesus.

He was fixated on Marc’s face; Valentino saw the horror dawn on his face as understanding settled and felt his own nausea rising in response. He watched as the Marc on-screen flitted his eyes to the other riders on stage, he followed the younger man’s gaze. Pecco looked wrecked, fear shining in his eyes. The others didn’t look much better. The silence was deathly; Marc was frozen in place – a rabbit in headlights.

Valentino blinked. Marc shot out of his seat, sending it clattering to the floor. He watched in horrifying confusion as Marc fled. There was a second of quiet before the media room exploded. The three remaining riders looked bemused, staring after where Marc had bolted, before they too rose to their feet, trailing out of the room in a daze. Valentino had to close his eyes for a second. This could not be happening. Seriously. This had to be some elaborate joke, a media ploy from Marc’s team. He simply could not believe that happy, carefree Marc had done this. He settled slightly, yes, of course. It had to be false. Marc would never give up, no matter how bad it had gotten.

*

Thoughts of Marc were still on his mind when he found Pecco later. He wondered what had happened and why Marc had reacted in that way. A part of him thought this must have been some elaborate ploy to gain sympathy.

Pecco was sitting despondently on the settee in his motorhome, deep in thought. Vale once more cursed Marc Marquez, of course, Marc couldn’t just leave Valentino alone, he had to fuck with his students too. Anger rose within him; he shoved it down. Right now, he had to focus on Pecco. He sat down, their knee knocking as he did so, and sighed quietly.

“Are you okay?”, he asked.

“Ah, I do not know. Cazzo, that was hard to watch”, Pecco replied.

Valentino cocked an eyebrow, there was more anxiety in Pecco’s voice than he had anticipated. He had hoped that it wouldn’t have affected his student as much, Marc was clearly fine, wasn’t he? He said as much to the other man, who scowled in response.

“You’re joking, Vale. You should have seen him after, he was a mess, throwing up in the toilets, almost crying. It was horrible”, Pecco snarled. It raised Vale’s hackles, Pecco didn’t know Marc the way that he did.

Marc was a manipulator; he changed that narrative to suit himself. He would do anything to win, including betraying people he claimed to love. He got people on his side by any means. The way he’d convinced Ducati to hire him for next year still baffles Vale. Sure, he was a good rider, but putting him in red was a bad move, stupid if you asked Vale. Marc was dangerous, and unpredictable. Ducati was Italy’s pride, and they had gone and put enemy number one on their bike. Valentino’s frustration had nothing to do with his title record and his own failure on the Ducati machine.

Nothing at all.

Valentino tried not to consider it too hard, how much he thought of Marc. In his weaker moments, he allowed himself to reminisce on what could have been. He hated to admit his former soft spot for Marc, the way the younger looked at him as if he had hung the moon and the stars. At his worst, he let himself imagine sharp cheekbones and pink lips, of loud laughter and warm brown eyes. Marc should always be smiling; even going through tragedy, he smiled. The thought of him in pain made him shudder. But he was not in pain, because it was a lie. It was abhorrent to think of it as the truth. It could not be. It went against the very fabric of the universe. It was a bit like this: he hated Marc Marquez, and Marc Marquez was a smug bastard who was always infuriatingly happy. These were two facts that he clung to desperately.

He turned back to Pecco, who had gone stiff beside him. Valentino had heard that Alex Marquez had swept Marc back to their motorhome after the press conference, he tried not to think too hard about that. Clearly, it had shaken Pecco, and Vale didn’t like that one bit. He settled a hand on the younger’s back, ignoring his own thoughts for a minute.

“Pecco, you cannot let this get to you”, he said. “Let Marquez deal with his stuff, it will blow over soon enough.”

Pecco did not look settled by his answer, but Vale did not have anything else to say, instead, he changed the conversation into a practice debrief, easier territory for them both.

If only he had been correct.

*

Marc got pole position in qualifying. It made Valentino grit his teeth in frustration, wondering how the hell the Spaniard was beating the others on a year-old bike. He had been watching Marc carefully in his box, noting his slightly subdued manner. It made an unnamed emotion swell within him. He pushed it down. His stomach soured when he caught sight of Andrea Dovizioso in the Gresini garage, looking at Marc with unconcealed fondness. He was all over the Spaniard, the two of them laughing together like children. Surely nothing was that funny. The ugly feeling only grew when they walked past whilst Vale and Pecco were chatting in the paddock, the older whispering to Marc. Valentino couldn’t help but stare, as he always did when it came to Marc.

Valentino didn’t notice the man until it was too late. He watched it happen in slow motion- the cruel words and Marc’s heart-breaking reaction. The ‘fan’ was brutal, viciously attacking Marc. It was hard to watch the way his face broke, his eyes going shiny with tears. Valentino’s world stopped at the hurt he saw. By the time his brain came back online, Pecco had gone, stalking over to the incident. He followed closely, grimacing as Pecco began to shout at the man. Marc was being dragged away by Dovi,  Vale tried to shove down the misplaced discomfort at seeing the two together, it almost felt akin to jealousy. But that was impossible. He had nothing to be jealous of.

(Nothing).

He re-focussed on the way that security was hauling the man away from them and towards the exit. Valentino tugged Pecco’s sleeve, wanting to escape from the public as soon as possible. He swallowed down the feelings which threatened to rise at what he had just witnessed.

“Come on, let’s go, it’s not worth it”, he sighed, pausing briefly before continuing, “you are upset, it is not worth staying and watching, we will make sure he never comes back. I promise.”

Pecco relented. His face was distraught, his anguish clear. By the time they reached the Ducati motorhome, Pecco had fully retreated into himself and asked to be left alone. Valentino accepted the request despite his concern. He did not really want to abandon the younger man but felt he had no choice after he had almost screwed up that morning.

Being alone gave him time to think, as uncomfortable as it was. He was surprised by the venom that had laced the man’s voice as he spoke to Marc, it made Valentino wonder if that was usually how people addressed him. He could understand Marc’s reaction to such horrible words, and Pecco had always been a kind-hearted person. Dovi’s intentions were still unclear to Vale. He let his thoughts drift back to Marc- his sad eyes and blank face. It couldn’t be easy to be hated so viciously. To make matters worse, a quick look on social media told him that a lot of people had said similar things. He thought back to his interview this morning, where he had suggested that they disregard thinking about Marc’s life from 10 years ago. It was, after all, pointless. The past was the past. Clearly, he was alone in his views. He pointedly did not lament the fact that Sepang and his 10th were a decade ago too, because that was different. He closed his eyes, pushing away the mental image of Marc’s shattered face.

Instead, he focussed on his anger. The way Marc had practically fallen in Dovi’s arms as if he was anything but a lone wolf, an outsider in the paddock. He had heard whisperings in the paddock that Dani Pedrosa and Jorge Lorenzo were in Gresini today too. It seemed like Marc was inviting all the retired riders to watch. He did not analyse the feelings too much, but let the indignation rise within him. Marc’s stupid games were affecting Pecco, it was unfair. Vale frowned at the thought, it would not do, he would have to tell Marc to cut it out. Make sure that Marc knew that Valentino knew the truth.

It wasn’t too difficult to catch Marc before the sprint. The younger had, predictably, taken the quiet route through the motorhomes to get to the garages. What was more unexpected was the tense fight that occurred. Valentino had expected to call Marc out and be met with annoyance and maybe an admittance of guilt. He had not anticipated the stone-cold fury in Marc’s voice, nor his own rising emotions, made worse when he spotted Dovizioso’s stupid jumper. He tried to keep his temper under control but the thought of Marc lying to the media, making everyone feel bad, only to be doing that, with Andrea of all people, left a sour taste in his mouth. He was meaner than he intended to be and was met with blazing anger from Marc. There was startling hurt in his voice. It was only once Marc had turned on his heel and stalked away that Valentino realised that the younger had had tears in his eyes and that he had sounded scarily like he was telling the truth. He watched him leave as regret welled up inside of him.

Merda

*

When Marc crashed out of the sprint race, the guilt and regret increased tenfold. His heart had stopped when Marc had collided with the ground, nausea rising when he did not move after. He could not stop thinking about the look on the younger’s face as he had called him an attention seeker. It hurt too much. Suddenly, ten years of anger seemed irrelevant. To make it worse, now people were talking about more leaks, something about Marc and painkillers. Valentino wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. He was beginning to question why Marc would do this to himself.

Afterwards, Valentino tuned into the stream of the media pen, not wanting to go down in person. Pecco had won the race, and Marc had gotten back to his feet, scoring no points but alive. Valentino could only watch in horrified fascination as the press continued to hound Marc. He had never seen it so bad. The way the journalists watched Marc like they were hunting prey made him shiver. He didn’t think he had ever seen Marc look so ruffled. A distant voice told him that this was his fault. The aftermath of Sepang flashed through his head, he steadfastly ignored it. It was not his fault the media had broken into Marc’s house. He had not caused the fallout or the hatred, if Marc had not ruined his title chances, there would have been no issues. Valentino scowled at the thoughts.

His momentary distraction ended when Marc once more stalked out mid-interview. It left Vale feeling slightly dumbfounded. Why would Marc keep having such strong reactions to the news if it was planned? As much as he hated to admit it, his theory was beginning to show cracks, splintering at the edge. He chose not to consider the other feelings that came alongside that revelation. Instead, he turned off his phone, hoping the boys would provide some distraction when they came back.

The boys came pouring into his motorhome an hour later, after their celebrations and debrief, as was usual for the academy on a race weekend. Luca and Bez were first, talking between themselves about the race, making Valentino smile with their rehashing of the events. When Franky entered, he was complaining about how long his debrief had lasted, making Valentino grin as he reminisced. Long debriefs were always painstakingly boring. Pecco and Cele eventually stumbled in half an hour later, the older still buzzing from his win. Vale tried to let his awkwardness from earlier show as a round of cheers sounded. He congratulated Pecco warmly, and let happiness fill him at the sight of Pecco’s beaming smile in return. Things would be okay.

Valentino drifted in and out of the conversation after that, his thoughts elsewhere. He nodded at appropriate times and tried to look interested whilst his mind whirled. It was inevitable, really, that someone would bring up Marquez eventually.

 “Did you see Marquez’s crash?”, Bez asked.  

It prompted a round of affirmative hums from the others. Luca flicked his eyes over to Valentino, his eyebrows furrowed.

Pecco looked contemplative before he responded, “I am worried, he would not look at me on the grid. Then he crashed. He was distracted. I think the media are being too harsh. And the fans. They are being cruel. The things being said...”

He trailed off, deep in thought. Luca bumped their shoulders together, smiling gently when Pecco met his eyes. Valentino had the distinctive feeling that he was missing something.

“Did you hear about what happened in the press pen?”, Cele asked.

Pecco frowned at him, tilting his head to signal that he should continue.

“Apparently, he froze up completely when they asked him about the pain medication. Aleix and a few others basically carried him out. I saw it happen; I’ve never seen him like that before. It was horrible”.

His eyes flashed to Valentino as he spoke the last bit as if he feared being chastised. It made him feel distinctly uncomfortable, was he really so obsessed with Marc that his boys were afraid to mention him?

Bez looked on in confusion. He turned to Cele,

“What do you mean pain medication?” he asked. “I haven’t really looked at any of the articles, I thought it was bullshit? Or some kind of a joke”.

Pecco huffed slightly, scowling at Bez as he did so. The younger touched his arm in apology, and yet again Valentino felt out of the loop.

It was Luca who pulled out his phone, bringing up one of the many articles which covered the news.

“Here”, he said. “Yesterday his medical records were leaked to the press. There were a whole bunch of appointments and hospital visits documented. The main bit was at the end of 2015 and onwards. He had been to A&E twice, there was a lot about suicide attempts and Alex saving his life. Apparently, he had tried to overdose, it's unclear what happened the second time. His heart stopped I think.”

Valentino blanched. Luca grimaced slightly before continuing.

“From there, there was a whole bunch of stuff about his mental instability and risk. It looked pretty bad, even as a non-medical professional. Then today, more of it was leaked, this time about his crash in 2020. Apparently, he was abusing the painkillers prescribed to him. He would race through agony, causing more issues with his arm, and then just take a load of painkillers after to mask it. Again, Alex ended up getting him help. No wonder they are so close. I think there was a lot of concern about him using the pain as a form of self-harm or something, then it was so bad he just kept taking medication.”

Pecco spoke up then, his voice strained, “I just don’t understand how no one noticed. One of the most prominent drivers on the grid and no one noticed his declining mental health or his use of painkillers. It’s ridiculous.”

Valentino was barely listening, transfixed instead by Luca’s words. He took the phone out of Luca’s hand without asking, staring down at the article. There, in black and white, were pages and pages of clinical medical records for Marc Márquez Alentà. Valentino felt a bit sick. He couldn’t stop reading. There were blocks of gruesome detail about his A&E visits. The medical terms flew past Valentino, but he got the gist. It was bad. Page after page after page of horrific detail about every bit of pain Marc had gone through across the past decade. His eyes glanced over words, his mind conjuring the images to life. He could see 22-year-old Marc’s face, heartbroken and desolate in Sepang, and then blank afterwards. Fuck. How had he not noticed?

He wanted to stop. He couldn’t. Panic was rising inside him; he clamped it down. It was a lie. A lie. This couldn’t be true. He tore his eyes away. It swelled within him. He was going to be sick. He was losing it. Marc. He had missed it, how had he not seen it back then? The thought of his Marc like that broke him. The thought of him being the cause made him choke. He squeezed his eyes shut. Where was this coming from? Why did he care?

Vale spoke without thinking, his mind a million miles away.

“Why would he do that?”, he asked. Luca shot him a sympathetic look. Valentino had a suspicion that his face was betraying his emotional turmoil.

He choked over his next words.

“It’s not true. It can’t be true. Marc wouldn’t do this. Marc loves winning. He couldn’t win if he was 6 feet under. No. No. It must be a lie.”

Valentino knew he was now ranting like a madman. The boys were staring at him with wide eyes full of fear. He felt like he was going crazy and yet he continued.

“Why would be so selfish? Why would he do something like that? He was so young. He had so much to live for. What about his family? His brother. It’s not fair. It’s so selfish. I hate him. Bastard.”

Valentino was on the brink of tears, clutching at his hair. He didn’t notice the way Pecco’s eyes had turned hard and cold. He didn’t see the way Bez had frozen, clutching Pecco’s arm. The others were silent, shocked at his words.

Valentino looked up. He met Pecco’s eyes.

The younger man stood and stiffly walked to the door. He opened it and looked back towards Vale.

“You do not get to say things like that when you were part of the cause. Don’t you dare call him selfish. You are the bastard here”, he whispered, his words scalding. Before Valentino could respond, he was gone. Bez leapt out of his chair to follow, slamming the door behind him.

Valentino shot Luca a questioning look. His younger brother sighed,

“You are so obtuse, Vale. His sister also went through similar. She almost died. He is hurting seeing Marc this way too.”

Vale found himself full of outrage. How was he meant to know? Of course, he felt bad for Pecco, but this was Marc they were talking about. He said as much to Luca, who just shook his head, looking angrier than Vale had seen him in a long time.

“You need to wake up Valentino.”, he said.

“You do not hate Marc; you are obsessed with him. Yes, you were angry, but that was a decade ago. Surely you are over it by now. If I were you, I would consider what all your feelings about Marc really mean. Before you fuck it up even more.”

With that, the rest of the boys filed out of the motorhome, leaving Vale to stew in his anger and his guilt. He did not want to think about what Luca had meant about Marc. Instead, he would find Pecco and apologise, it was, after all, unfair to bring the boys into it. It was not his finest moment; Marc had always had that effect on him. He scowled at the thought. No one had ever been like Marc, he doubted anyone ever would. For Valentino, Marc was like a drug, inherently bad but at the same time addictive. A strange paradox for someone he hated.

Vale locked the door of the motorhome behind him as he headed out to find Pecco. The wave of anger had receded, and the guilt came crashing back down, threatening to drown him. He had to make it right.

Pecco wasn’t in his own motorhome; the lights were off as he went past, the door unanswered. He tried the Ducati garage but still had no luck. The staff had not seen him since earlier, after the sprint. Bez’s motorhome was similarly empty. He was running out of ideas and worry was beginning to engulf him.

One last idea struck him, and he walked slowly toward Marc’s motorhome, the lights were on. As he approached, the dread he felt threatened to engulf him. It was like a premonition. A war between guilt and anger was waging inside him. He heard Luca’s voice, followed by Bez’s, and the fury took hold. He threw the door open; it hit the wall with a resounding bang. He took in the scene before him, the remorse souring in his stomach, turning to resentment.

“What the fuck is going on?”

*

In hindsight, he could have handled it better. He had seen red. The thought of his boys running to Marc. Then he saw Marc on top of Dovi and Lorenzo.

He lost himself.

It wasn’t until Marc addressed him directly that he felt like he could breathe again. He returned to his body. The more Marc spoke, the more his fury faded to irrelevance. But then Valentino had spoken without conscious thought, once more putting his foot in it.

The realisation had taken his breath away. Marc had been crying. Marc had been vulnerable; he hated being perceived as weak. Marc was angry, no, he was furious. Marc had just had his deepest secrets announced to the world. He was receiving more hate than Valentino had ever seen.

He hadn’t been lying.

Why the fuck did Vale ever think he had been lying? The evidence had been right in front of him, but it had been too scary to really look at. Valentino hadn’t wanted to admit what he had done. He realised what Luca had meant then. He didn’t hate Marc. Yes, he had been angry about his tenth world championship slipping through his fingers. Yes, he had partially blamed Marc. But alongside the hurt, the anger, the pain, was pure devotion. He had lost the championship and blamed it on the nearest person to save his ego. Although Marc had done wrong, he had never deserved this. Sure, Valentino still thought he was dangerous, pushing the bike to stupid limits. But Marc would never hurt anyone on purpose. It was like falling 50 feet and hitting the ground, the realisation crashing into him. He was jealous of Dovi, that he got the Marc that smiled and laughed, the Marc that Vale used to have. Before everything had gone to shit. Valentino thought that maybe he had loved Marc for 11 years and that somewhere in his head, love had become confused with hate. He had never hated someone like he hated Marc; he had never loved someone like he loved Marc. It was all-consuming. He was obsessed. He thought about him all the time. He was always angry, scared, and jealous when it came to Marc. He couldn’t pretend he was ambivalent, not when he consumed every waking thought. Not when he still went on podcasts to talk about the younger man. Every insight was like a punch to the stomach.

He thought Marc was stupidly pretty, with his cheekbones, his bronze skin, his wide eyes and plush lips. He wanted Marc next to him, under him, above him. He wanted to kiss the stupid, smug smirk he always wore on his face; he wanted to kiss away his tears. Valentino wanted to bring Marc breakfast in bed, make him laugh, and make love to him. He wanted Marc on his track again, taking off his helmet after with wild eyes and messed up hair. He wanted to fuck him on every surface of his house, in every position. He wanted Marc in every way that he could have him.

Oh god, he loved Marc and all he had done was fuck up his life for a decade.

Valentino panicked.

He scrambled, pleading with Marc, distantly aware of the horror on everyone’s faces. He had been kicked out. Marc had shouted at him, and then Alex had shouted at him. Pecco left and Luca was disappointed.

He deserved it all. If he could take all of Marc’s pain, he would. Instead, Valentino was left with a yawning pit of desperation and want, devastation and pain. His anger was gone.

He thinks about the way the younger man used to look at him. He thinks about the adoration that he had brushed off as hero worship. He had broken Marc’s heart. The look on his face in that press conference. The way Marc would look away during Vale’s jokes about them together. He had assumed it was awkwardness, now it seemed like someone had hit too close to the truth. Now, Marc barely glanced at him, brushing off every comment Vale made to the media in a desperate hope for a sliver of attention. It destroyed them both.

Standing there, outside the motorhome, Valentino realises just how much he has fucked up. He isn’t sure there is any coming back from this. Certainly not with the way Dovi and Marc look at each other. But damn it, he will try. He will spend the rest of his life on his knees grovelling if he has to. He has spent too long with his vision clouded by misplaced anger. It had taken him 11 years to work out his love for Marquez, he would spend the rest of his life loving him, and every day trying to prove it to him. Even if it killed him.

[huramuna]

blue - shera & aemond.

“May I see?”  Shera shook her head vehemently. “You can’t.” “Please.” She made a noise of disagreement, pressing her face further to her shoulder. She didn’t, however, account for the visibility of the scar on her throat, jagged and raised against the soft flesh of her neck. She felt one of Aemond’s fingers trace it, across slowly, then upward. His hand went to her chin and he turned her face towards him. And she let him. She didn’t have much energy to stop him, anyhow.  His touch was soft, which surprised her greatly– she thought him unhewn and rough in all places– but this was something reminiscent of how he used to touch her as children. He was always gentle with her before. Her face was turned to him completely now, unveiled, unhidden– she braced herself for the look of humor or pity on his face, her heart stopped beating for a moment, her breaths caught in her chest. Brushing an errant hair aside, he traced the scar over her eye. It wasn’t an entirely clean cut, like he had guessed, jutting out into two diverging lines, like branches of a tree going downward. His violet eye, the hue hardly visible from how large his pupil was, was trained on her blind one. The milky blue, her own pupil long gone. The edges of his lips curled into something akin to wonder. There wasn’t a look of pity and it didn’t seem like he was about to make another poor jest about her face– he just looked, as if to study it, to commit it to memory. “Blue?” he murmured. “How curious.”

art by me, 2hrs on procreate. an excerpt from chapter 7 of banshee's lament.

[sunshinegirl29]

Postcards - Chapter 1.

Pairing: Spencer X Fem!reader

Rating: M

Warnings: None so far.

The run down: Running is all you know; from your dying mother, from your childhood, from the past - but the past can't catch up with you. Can it?

Slow burn, reluctant colleagues, suspicious frenemies to lovers 🤔

Chapter 1 – Growing Pains.

You study the form while you wait, leg bouncing against the sticky underside of the table.  No matter the outcome, this has to be over.  The shaking letter is factual and to the point.  A long sigh. You place the envelope back on the desk, before reaching over the files to roll the rich blue fountain pen between your fingers. 

A door clicks, finally.  The familiar heavy tread of Sherrif Miller; “Hello again” he huffs, clutches the ridged back of his office chair and sits down.  You notice his metal foot drags more these days, after all this time he’s never told you how it happened and you don’t ask.  You don’t look up from the broken skin on the corner of your fingers, though you know he’ll be wearing the same sullen frown, his exasperation unhidden. You wonder if he thinks you’re making it up.

“My statement. Is that all you need?” You sigh, looking him in the eye. He shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, blanching slightly.  He doesn’t respect you, typical older generation male, feels out of control in his life and within his team so he dismisses you.  A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth and Miller stands, leg creaking as he rises quicker than you thought he would at his age.

“Yes, that’s all. I’ll leave it with the rest—” You were going to protest, for the third time this month but it falls flat with the rest of Millers’ sentence.

“Hi there, I’m sad we have to meet again under these circumstances.”  You step from foot to foot, wiping both hands on your jeans.  Mason Cook is classically handsome, dark hair and light eyes; he’s the type of man who’s charming, but brooding at the same time.  From the amount of time you’ve spent at this station, you’ve seen plenty of his female colleagues fall over themselves to impress him, frankly it’s quite embarrassing but you can see the appeal.

“It’s okay Mason, Miller here was just telling me how you’re all going to put your time and resources into finding this weirdo. Right Miller?” 

You hear the scrawling of Miller’s pen stop, you definitely hit a nerve.  Mason watches as usual, he knows you’re enjoying bating his useless boss and wipes a large hand over his beard to cover his own tilted grin.

“That’s enough.” He snaps, “Cook, don’t you have work to do? We have weirdo to find and you’re my resource.”    You nod.  A subtle glance at your watch; 7:15am, you were late.

_

“Second day on the job and you’re already late?”

SSA Derek Morgan croons when he talks. He can’t help it.  It’s lead plenty of women straight to bed but right now it reminds you that a useless errand to the Sherrif’s office made you late for the most important job you’ve landed in years.

“Bite me Morgan” His laugh fades as you rush past, dipping into the roundtable room.

No one’s here.   This must be what hazing feels like?

You understand men like Morgan, women usually fall into three categories; two separate categories that had their own rules.  The first box was untouchable. These women were untouchable in every sense of the word. They usually either belonged to someone else, or meant something to him.   Garcia fell into that category, you’d deduced – they’d shamelessly flirt and are the only reason BAU’s HR department were in business.  She would always reside in the Untouchable box, regardless of how much Penelope wanted out of that particular category.  Jennifer Jaureu also belonged in that box, but in a different way.  She was Will’s – it started and ended there.  He had eyes of course; she was attractive but he loved her like family.  Then there was Elle.  She had started out in the fuckable box, but getting shot and killing Lee had shifted her into the untouchable box pretty quickly after that.  He’d dated enough women to know to stay away from that kind of trauma, besides he’d loved her like family too.  

Then there’d been you.  After months of training together, you were quite sure you now hovered between the fuckable and untouchable box.  There was something powerfully arousing knowing that the person that had your life in their hands daily, could take it instantly.  If he knew, you’d be banished to the untouchable box instantly.  

Anyway, you let him have his win. 

“You told me it was urgent. You lie!” It spurts out in a laugh, breaking the silence.

“Sorry babydoll! I’m just messin’ with you! Welcome to the team!” he pats you on the back and helps pick up the files and folders that your whirlwind entrance scattered around the small room.

You settle down in a chair opposite the door, a strategic position; able to see for potential threats and a planned exit route for any emergencies. Perfect.   It’s not long before Agent Rossi takes a seat beside you.  He gives a short good morning and a reassuring pat on the shoulder in support of your second real day on the job – it goes a long way in settling simmering nerves.

Morgan sits down, a ghost of a smirk still on his lips as he sips a third cup of steaming coffee.  He tries to hide it but you’re trained to observe, not being able to miss the roving way his eyes study you across the table.  It’s insane how an expert profiler doesn’t realise you see right through it, but maybe, you smirk back, he does and just doesn’t care?  

Garcia totters in, bright and giddy, the breath of fresh air in the stifling room.  She’s passing cups of coffee in ludicrous mugs to each person when JJ and Aaron file in together; their presence hushes the deep conversation you’re having with Rossi, leaving the intricate details of Bobby Fisher’s chess strategy dead in the water.  

“Okay, Good Morning, let’s get started.” He looks determinedly everywhere but you. JJ interrupts your thoughts with a manilla folder. 

“Three girls have gone missing and been later found murdered over the last 6 months in a semi-rural area of Georgia.”  Your heart lurches, desperate to free itself from your chest.  You take a few deep breaths, calming it into submission.   “Alison Sinclar, Cassidy Williams and Joslyn Cooper were all in their late teens to early twenties when they each went missing.”  JJ pauses, allowing Garcia to pull up pictures of each girl in a row. 

“Allison Sinclar a Senior at Georgia High School had Spring Break with her family in Senoia Georgia. She disappeared after leaving a house party at a friend’s and never returned.  She’d been strangled and posed.  She was found on the edge of farmland a few days later.” JJ blanches at the crime scene photos, turning quickly to hand out some physical copies to an empty chair.

 “Oh my! How are you all not in so much therapy?!” Garcia holds a cherry octopus’ mug in her field of vision, shielding from the unnecessarily gruesome death.

“Any evidence of sexual assault?” Emily asks. 

“Yes, extensively.” JJ nods, her voice unwavering.

Allison was someone’s child, but to this killer she had been nothing but a means to an end, a way to get off and dispose in favour of the next prize.  

The board flickered, to Garcia’s irritation and you take the time to observe the rest of the group;

  Emily Prentiss was no longer the new kid on the team, she’d taken you under her wing in the weeks leading up to your first day and you’d taken to texting her a few times a week for late night advice and tips to assimilate.  She’d been helpful but somewhat reserved in giving any personal details about herself; smart girl.  Morgan was debating the Sexual Predator angle with Aaron, who still wasn’t looking at you.  Then there was the case of the strange empty chair.

“There!” Penelope chimes “You can bow to the technical Goddess!” 

“Cassidy Williams.” Hotch cuts her off with the smallest hint of joviality “Cassidy was seventeen, she had been in and out of foster homes, in Georgia.  She was found in a wooded area on the edge of town, also strangled and posed like Allison”    

This one was a carbon copy of the first.  Her body wilted over at the waist, manipulated into a vulgar position.  A strange sensation washed over you, leaving you shivering uncomfortably.

This was enough for Garcia.  She stood abruptly, coffee splashing onto the files in the additional space at the table.  “No. Nope. I’ll be in my bat-cave if you need me.  God, I need my therapist on speed dial!!” 

Aaron nods, giving her arm a small squeeze before she leaves.  He’s never done that to you. It evokes an unpleasant sensation in your gut. 

This time he looks at you it’s short lived, if you weren’t paying attention you’d have missed it.  But he knows better. 

“Joslyn Cooper, twenty-two and the most recent death.  Hers prompted the Georgia Police Department to request our assistance on the case.  She was” JJ takes a visible breath, “Also posed but her heart was removed.” 

“Oh my god.” Whistled Rossi even a seasoned agent like him wasn’t immune to this particular horror. 

A chorus of disgust rippled around the room, it starts a debate about the significance of the heart in mythology and religion but you could only focus on the posing, something about it seemed vaguely familiar.

“Hey Sugar? Are you okay?” Morgan’s wave came into focus and you shake your head involuntarily.  It looked like he was enjoying your distraction, the toothy grin snuck onto his face and you replied in kind.

“Yeah.” You scoff, “It’s a rough one for the first case.” You placate him with the ghost of the truth and run your fingers jokingly over the sparse hair on his head on your way out the door.

A sudden motion stops you.  A flicker of movement that turns into a touch of your arm, it guides you discreetly away from your colleagues who grab go bags with muscle memory.  You’re very familiar with the huffing breath and deep frown of Aaron Hotchner.

“Aaron, don’t do this.” You say slowly and wish this wasn’t going to turn into a passive aggressive lecture.

“They don’t know.” Aaron said and you watch his chin tilt. He looks over you with a serious gaze that sits comfortably on his brow.  The one that Hayley always talked about.

It was horrifying how little they knew.  He was their boss and they knew nothing about him. It felt like a slap in the face, another reminder of how insignificant you were – or maybe it was a classic reflection of how you felt about yourself, deep down. 

“You don’t have to tell me how much they don’t know Aaron.” From your position on a spare desk in a shadowed corner of the Bullpen you scowl up at him, “They didn’t even bat an eyelid, not even Garica who has all your files!?”

Aaron breathes heavily, tongue moistening his cracked lips.  “There’s aspects of my life I want to keep private.”  It’s flat and unemotional, as you expect. “The anonymity will help you here and it keeps you safe.”   You muse for a second, chewing on his words – they’re sour and shame tinged but the faint sweetness of comfort lingers on your tongue.

“Safe.” It comes out harsher than it needed to be and you can see his regret fade back into the comfortable frown you’re so accustomed to.

Aaron sighs, grabs a briefcase from the desk and turns his back to you.

“Let’s get going. Wheels up in 30.”

Greetings from Sharpsburg!

12.06.02    

Hi you!

  I know we live three towns over and I could just pick up the phone, but this is a romantic notion I picked up from that raunchy book I found in Mama’s dresser!  Hopefully Miss Cain will let you come here tomorrow; Daddy’s going to pick up my uncle Kellen from the airport but after you should come for dinner.  I hope Mr Hartman will get this to you before then.

Love, Elizabeth.

A violent breeze calls you back, you’re not sure what happened on the drive to the airstrip but vaguely remember Jennifer���s mouth moving and something about meeting another member of the team on the plane. 

“Why do I only get to travel with you guys once or twice a year?”  Penelope gasps, hurriedly shuffling past you.  She smiles eagerly at a man you don’t recognise; he passes her a coffee in a hot pink mug that she takes gratefully. 

“Oh!” Garcia backpaddles, hands in the air.  You know she doesn’t mean any harm, but instinctually step backwards.  The cool silver of your watch clamps painfully against your wrist where she grabs it, leading you towards him.  Penelope introduces you and moves off to sit by Derek; they smile at each other like scheming children.

He’s tall and gawky, obviously flustered by the change in staffing, his previously relaxed demeanour shifts into awkward, a tight smile.

“Dr Spencer Reid nice to meet you.”  You reply in kind, glad he doesn’t extend a hand. 

You study him while he excuses himself and strides over, settling in opposite Rossi.  Dr Reid is the type of man that goes home alone to vintage first addition books, and the sound of a dripping tap he’s not there enough to be bothered to fix.  His day specific shirts are neatly folded into certain drawers, where his real wool coats hang in seasonal order.  Jennifer had mentioned his eidetic memory, which might be the least interesting thing about him.  He’s older than you, by several years at least, but still baby faced enough that the cops on cases don’t take him as seriously as the others despite his title.

“Okay, let’s get started.”  Aaron gestures and you sit down.

“All three girls have similar victimology, features and body types. He’s definitely got a type.” Your sentence trails off in a sigh without obvious reason and you’re suddenly aware of the faint hum of the jet, the only sound.  “They could be a surrogate for someone in his life, past or present someone who’d wronged him in some perceived way?”  You continue, ignoring the awkward feeling settling in your gut. 

“Yeah, looks like it but what’s with the posing?” Emily hums, looking over the photos one by one.  She doesn’t seem to flinch at the brutality of the crimes, but you can’t judge her.

“It’s interesting, the posing.” Reid states, flicking back and forth over each photo. “It’s as if he’s humiliating them—” 

“It’s dehumanizing.” You accidently cut him off, blurting out your thoughts.

 Reid is the smartest person in the room and everyone knows it, the way his eyebrows shoot into his brown curls says all you need to know on his feelings about being interrupted.

“Sorry, go ahead.” You wince.

“The manner of death is personal, intimate.  They mean something to him, dehumanized after death, no remorse.”  Each word packs a punch, the slight condescending lilt makes your blood boil. 

A minute of oppressive silence follows, something tells you they all know Reid isn’t used to being spoken over.  It’s amusing really, but ruffling feathers on your second day on the job wasn’t how you wanted this to go, so you sigh in resignation and nod, accepting his deduction.

“There’s no discernible MO but according to the M.E Report all girls were extensively sexually assaulted and all in the same manner. Which could help.” Aaron notes, frowning again.

“The unsub crosses socioeconomic backgrounds; Allison Sinclar lived in a rural but wealthy area of Georgia, her father is a retired Georgia Police Sherrif and her mother an English Tutor.”  Derek gestures to the files in your lap. 

“Cassidy’s parents are in the wind?  She’d been bouncing in and out of foster homes for years before her death. If their backgrounds mean something to him, it means he’s had enough time and space to watch them.” It’s aggravating, the seemingly random way this unsub kills young girls, but that doesn’t explain why your hands shake and the pen slips from sweaty palms. 

  It’s like magic, the way he catches it with dextrous fingers. Spencer’s eyes flick to yours for a breath and he nods tightly once again, handing it back without a word.

“That’s true. Good work.” Aaron catches your eye and nods with a tenderness you’ve not seen from anyone since your mother died, the feeling that bubbles up forces your gaze back down.

“When we land, I want you and Reid to go to the medical examiner’s office.” If Aaron wanted you to start this job with confidence, he was definitely going the wrong way about it. You flash pleading eyes at Derek who surprisingly is already watching, or rather smirking at what must be a very distasteful expression.

  Aaron continues, oblivious or unphased; “Emily and I will go to lease with the family, Rossi and Morgan, I’d like you to go to the most recent crime scene. Garcia with JJ set up at the Station, Sherrif Anderson will meet you there.”

“Brace yourself.”

Before you can question Rossi’s order the jet tips, scattering chess pieces all over along with the last dredges of your abandoned coffee.

>

Greetings from Sharpsburg!

26/09/05

Hi you!

I know in my last letter, I said I’d give up this romantic notion!  But it’s just not me.  It’s been different around here the last few months.  Mama’s sick again and Daddy’s working more on the new barn and...

Anyway, I hope Miss Cain will let you come over again soon. I’ve been… 

Love, Elizabeth.

The medical examiner’s office is tucked away in the back of an archaic local hospital.  The instruments lay neatly, shining eerily in the clinical glow.  This part of the job was always the hardest; seeing people’s loved ones, naked on a freezing table just to be dissected and stored away.  It was irrational. You knew this was a very necessary part of the job to eventually catch the unsub and put the victims to rest, but how the two girls laid out like this was just undignified.

“I’m so sorry Agents, I just stepped out for some air.”

She’s not what you expect.  British. Two grey strips of hair frame her face, the rest sleek and brown poured down her back in a glossy ponytail.  She looks about four years your senior, a jagged scar dresses her milky white false left eye.  She carries on around the room, passes a manila folder to Reid and expertly dons a protective gown. 

“I’m Doctor Annabel Clayton.  My parents and I knew the first girl Alison and her parents. They had trouble conceiving so they adopted.” Clayton sighs, looking you in the eye.  A shiver runs down your spine again, making an unwelcomed home in your gut.

“Cause of Death?” Reid asks and you frown, unsure why he had to ask.  Maybe it was just obvious to you? 

“The main cause of death was strangulation.”

“Look at the bruising pattern.” The ever-well-mannered Dr Reid cuts in curiously, squinting at the bruising.  “He did it by hand.”  

“However.”  Dr Clayton slaps down the sheet, covering the young girl’s modesty.  She didn’t look like the type of woman who was used to being talked over in her own office.  “She has some internal bleeding that would have caused her death if he’d not chosen, well, the other.”  She looked sad in a wistful dreamy way, as if a ghost. A small-town purgatory. 

“The other, Cassidy.  She was also manually strangled and sexually assaulted in the same manner.”  Finger shaped bruises bloomed angrily on her grey thighs.  They give way to more, a trail of violence ending at her neck.  The uncharacteristic prickle of tears threatens but are obediently blinked back.

“They could be sisters...” You sigh, in fact you could all be sisters.

Clayton moves on to the last girl, her brooding expression darkening.

“For obvious reasons, I’ll be keeping this poor sweetheart covered from here.”  She strokes Joslyn’s hair.  “She’s still a young girl after all, she’d want to look her best.”

“This is the worst I’ve seen in my career, especially in this area.  Her cause of death wasn’t manual strangulation.” She quips and Reid strides to your side.  The accidental intimacy of it makes your breath catch.  He smells homely, the warming aroma of old books and black coffee, you can’t help but lean into it.  

“Do you want me to carry on?”  That’ll do it. Clayton’s British lilt is like ice water, it’s embarrassing.  You’re leaning into a man you barely know and are frankly not sure you even like?

“Of course, sorry I wasn’t paying attention.”  You stammer, stepping toward the teen girls ghostly face and chest. 

“She was found posed, like Cassidy.  She was leant over a tree stump with the rope around her neck. It was hung from a tree.” 

The picture she passes around is from a distance.  The rope is tied to a gnarled tree, snaking down to bind her wrists, the other hooked over her head and knotted to a taller branch.

“The unsub must be at least six foot to attempt this alone.  Unless they have a partner.” The possibility is frightening, one unsub is hard enough but two?  Say goodbye to sleep for the next few weeks.  

“Okay Agents. I need to get these girls back to their beds.”

You pause for a reply, but looking back catch Reid rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand, as if shielding them from the overly bright strip light.

“You okay there?” 

His jaw is tight, your eyes linger on the way the action accentuates the sharp corner.

“Just a headache. Let’s go.”

> 

The familiar stickiness of the Georgian heat prickles at your back dampening the linen of your shirt, it sticks to your forearms as you roll up the sleeves.  Being back here felt much like the oppressive midday sun, inescapable and suffocating. 

“How was the ME?”  Emily asks, but Reid strides past you toward a waiting Rossi.  She frowns as they disappear into the precinct together, talking animatedly about something you can’t quite hear.

“She’s interesting for sure.” You breathe, skilfully ignoring the vibration from your cell in the back pocket of your pants.

The precinct was mayhem bustling with cops that looked a little too old to be in the field but hated their wives and children too much to retire just yet.  They scramble to sit in rickety office chairs as Aaron and Rossi start to present, you wonder if they’d take your suggestions on board.

As Aaron starts to give a preliminary profile you hear words like previous history of abuse, 18 to 25, local, abandonment issues and surrogate, but you can focus on nothing but the manic buzzing of your phone again.  You’ve changed the number three times in the last 9 months and every time this son of a bitch still manages to find it. You’re seriously debating asking Garcia for help but then reconsider, it’s for the best, keeping them at an arms-length.

As the officers begin to buzz around you, taking calls from the tip line and preparing to interview locals you discreetly slip your cell out and glance at the seven new messages illuminating the screen.

12:24pm – Mason Cook.

Hey bug,

Miller said they’ve had no luck tracing the calls you’ve been having, sorry. I did try. Also, the girl from the coffee shop didn’t recognise the sketch.  I know I keep saying, but I’m sorry. Hope you’re back soon, I’ll leave the key in the normal place.

12:45pm – Unknown

I told you. I’m not going anywhere. It’s about time you paid for taking it all away from me.

[writingjourney]

WIP Whenever

@ramblingoak and @ghostchems tagged me to share a WIP and because I know it's been ages and I'm super behind here's a piece from Chapter 12 of IKNBS. Also the fic hit 666 kudos on Ao3 and I think that's a good reason to share this today ♡

The pasta is still lukewarm. Eating semi cold spaghetti two days in a row is not very glamorous but you’re pretty sure you’ve never eaten with quite as much enthusiasm and hunger. Copia himself bolts down the pasta like he hasn’t seen food in a few days. He looks relaxed now, a sort of post-coital glow in his mismatched eyes that never really stray from your body, a hunger not directed at his food, adoration that is unhidden, visible in every glance. You think that this is the closest to real heart eyes a human can offer and it gives you butterflies that make it hard to swallow your food.

His red zip-up hoodie is draped over your shoulders, the only item of clothing on your body. You sit on the mattress right next to where Copia is leaning against the wall in just his briefs, eating straight from the take away containers with wooden forks and paper napkins. His make-up is smudged, traces of it on the pillows, on the sheets, on you. He looks beautiful in the fading light, darkness slowly creeping in through the windows and deepening the lines on his face. With the long hours of the night stretched out before you like a calm expanse of sea, the only visible shores far off in the distance, you feel utterly at peace. So much time to spend with him, uninterrupted, time to worship in the only way you now know.

“You look beautiful,” he says, setting his empty paper box aside, “wearing my clothes.” A smirk, his eyes shimmering with lust and mischief. “Or nothing at all.”

You smile into your next fork of pasta. “You have to give me a few minutes after eating.”

“Who said I want to do anything, cara? Can I not compliment you with no ulterior motives?” When he sees your hidden grin, the raised brows, he chuckles. “You are right, there is no moment in which I don’t want you. Don’t need you.” A deep breath, his head falling back into the pillow that’s propped up behind his back. “But I can be patient.”

As if to disprove his statement, his bare hand reaches out to touch your thigh, squeezing the flesh and tracing its soft stretch marks all the way up to where it meets your hip. You shiver against his touch, goosebumps forming underneath his fingertips. He chuckles, repeating the ever same movement, stroking your skin until it stops tickling as much and becomes a steady, reassuring gesture. So focused on his touch, he barely takes notice of you still eating, wrapping the last few spaghetti around the wooden tines.

“Copia,” you say.

“Hm?” He looks up, squeezing your thigh once more. “Are you done yet?”

“What about being patient?”

“I want my dessert.”

You sigh dreamily, swallowing the last bite of pasta. “I love dessert. I wish we had some.”

“Oh yes, you do, eh? Macarons and croissants.”

“Mhm.” You close the empty box, scooting closer to him. “I was never allowed to have it as a child.” 

“What else do you like?” he asks. “Real desserts?”

It seems like the talk of food has distracted him momentarily from touching you. You decide to crawl over him to get rid of your empty container, but he still grabs your hips the moment you’ve set it down, pulling you against his chest and rolling you over until he’s towering above you. A short gasp leaves your lips, his weight and warm body so solidly caging you in.

“So?” he asks, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Most things,” you reply, shivering when his lips brush the tender spot below your ear. “Tiramisu.”

“Oh, really? You like Italian, eh?”

“I like Italians, yes. I like one Italian especially.”

He chuckles, looking at you with his love-struck eyes, the green shimmering so delicately in the soft moonlight that is now making its way into the studio. The first kiss is soft, a moan fluttering from your throat as his tongue licks along your lips. The next kiss is more demanding. He presses in hard until you open for him, his tongue teasing yours with no haste.

“Mhm so sweet,” he whispers. “My baby tastes so good. Better than all the pasta and desserts.” You can’t help but giggle and he hums in delight, pressing more kisses to your neck, your shoulder, down the column of your throat where he lingers, licking along the line of your clavicle until you shudder. “Do you know that I am addicted? I could taste you forever.” He gives a throaty chuckle. “Perhaps I will.”

tagging: @xfilesinamajor @copias-sewer-rat @kissingghouls @gothdaddyissues (if you want to and have something to share ♡)

[strawberriesinmoominvalley]

After Max saves Arthur from their abusive pack and never returns, Charles and Lando escape with the goal of finding them. But when they are only reunited with Arthur, it becomes clear that Max has been caught within the abusive pack once more. There is an obvious solution to this: destroy the pack once and for all.

Charles can’t afford to lose anyone else he loves. Lando doesn’t know how to trust alphas. Alex wants his and George’s second chance to work. George wants everyone to be safe. Oscar doesn’t know how to cope with the responsibility he’s been forced into. No one knows how to deal with the loss of Max; everyone wants Max back.

Long story short, this is easier said than done.

“Is your Max our Max?” Lando asked, Oscar’s unhidden confused expression matching exactly how Lando felt. “Max from the Alpine pack? I assume so.” Oscar seemed to look at Lando with dawning comprehension. “Though I wouldn’t have known if Arthur hadn’t said.”

[mjonthetrack]

the queen’s choice

Chapter 211 — The Stillness Before the Fire

The candlelight had melted low, a soft golden puddle flickering against silk and skin. Their breaths had slowed, though their hearts hadn’t.

Amélie lay half-draped over him, her cheek pressed to the firm curve of his shoulder, her lips ghosting along his skin as if she was still convincing herself he was real. Her leg, bare and warm, rested between his, her fingers tracing lazy spirals on his chest.

And Alastair—gods, Alastair was quiet.

Not because he had nothing to say, but because he was full of everything. Like the moment was too fragile to be disturbed with something as crude as sound.

He’d been remade.

Molecule by molecule. Shatter by shatter.

And now, lying there with her body still humming against his and the taste of her still on his lips, he felt it all.

“I don’t want to move,” he murmured finally, voice low and hoarse with reverence. “I don’t want to leave this bed, this moment, this…” He turned slightly, meeting her eyes with something deep, unhidden. “You.”

She smiled sleepily, her lashes low, though the sharpness in her gaze never dulled. “We cannot lie here forever, mon roi.”

He reached up and tucked a lock of her wild curls behind her ear, letting his thumb brush the shell of it gently. “Let me pretend. Just for a little longer. Let me hold you like this, without strategy or blood or crowns.”

Her mouth quirked. “You speak like a man who has tasted something rare.”

“I have,” he said, voice soft. “I’ve tasted the truth. Of who I am. What I come from. And I’ve tasted you, Amélie.” His eyes dropped briefly to the curve of her mouth, his fingers trailing down to rest against the small of her back. “I will never forget the way this night felt.”

She hummed, shifting to settle more snugly into his side. “Good. You will need it. There will come days when they strip us of dignity, when the world turns their pitchforks and pens against our love. But we will have this. I will have you.”

They lapsed into a silence that wasn’t empty. It was full—of meaning, of promises that didn’t need to be spoken.

He glanced over at the slowly dying candle. “You said he’ll arrive tomorrow.”

“Yes.” Her voice turned thoughtful. “He rides with a small guard. Swore his loyalty in ink and blood. You will see his eyes and know he is yours.”

“Will he recognize me?” Alastair asked, not with bitterness, but with a strange, aching curiosity.

“He will,” she said simply. “And you, him. You carry his face, even when you try to bury it.”

A silence settled again, heavier now, more contemplative.

Amélie curled her fingers against his jaw. “You should sleep, mon cœur. We rise soon. And your father awaits.”

“I will,” he said quietly. “But only if you stay right here.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t pull away.

She simply nodded, whispering into his skin like a lullaby.

“Then here I will stay.”

Chapter 212 — Dressing the Storm

The morning sun spilled gold across the tent, gentle at first—like the world itself was reluctant to disturb the wreckage of love that lay tangled in the furs.

Alastair hadn’t stirred once through the night.

Not even when she slipped from beneath the sheets.

Not when she carefully reached for her garments.

Not when she donned the bone-white trousers stitched with gold embroidery—stitched by Madame Delacroix herself to match her old royal garb.

Not even when she slid on her violet riding coat, tailored to perfection, the gleaming crest of France shining on the high collar—its silver thread catching the light like a brand upon her bloodline.

Amélie stood in front of the mirror, securing her sword at her hip. The scabbard was kissed with sapphires, her signet ring resting powerfully on her gloved finger, her golden earrings catching the light as she tilted her head just slightly. She looked like the ghost of monarchy past—reborn, reckless, and ruinous.

She lifted her cup of warm tea—jasmine and lemon balm—and sipped.

Behind her, the bed groaned with lazy movement.

She didn’t turn immediately.

Instead, she stared at herself. The crownless queen. The war bride of rebellion.

“You slept like a rock, my love,” she called out, her voice amused but not without bite. “I cannot imagine why.”

She finally turned, gaze sweeping over him. The furs lay draped over his hips, his curls mussed from sleep and satisfaction, the bruises of her affection along his throat like stolen jewelry.

He blinked groggily at her, his voice a slow rasp. “What time is it?”

She moved toward the table, setting down her tea. “Time to rise, petit lion. Come, drink—eat a little. We must look like power itself when your father arrives. I want my heart full... and on stable legs.”

Alastair scrubbed a hand over his face, slowly pushing himself upright, letting the sheet pool at his waist. His eyes trailed over her as he sat there—half-awake, half in awe.

“You look like vengeance,” he muttered.

She arched a brow. “Good. Vengeance tastes best when it is beautiful.”

He groaned low, grabbing the cup she passed him. “You woke up ready to fight God.”

“I wake up ready to fight kings,” she corrected, sharp grin tugging at her mouth as she tossed a piece of bread to him. “And now that I have you beside me... I may just win.”

He took a slow sip from his cup, eyes locked on her figure as she stepped toward the tent’s opening.

Her back to him, her words fell like velvet swords.

“Eat, Alastair. Soon you meet the man whose name beats in your blood.”

Chapter 213: Adrien René de Saignon

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but it was impossible not to.

Hooves—precise, deliberate, the gait of a man born into command—slowed just outside the tent. Alastair froze, mid-lace on his trousers, still half-disheveled from the night before. His shirt hung open, the scent of Amélie still clinging to his chest, and his fingers trembled slightly at the sound of the voice that followed.

Deep. Smooth. French. Like velvet dragged through gravel.

“Ma reine, je suis venu aussi vite que j’ai pu. Où est Adrien? Où est mon fils?”

He blinked. That name. Adrien.

The air knocked out of him wasn’t from a blade or a bullet—but from that single word that had never belonged to him. Not until now. Not until it was said like a prayer, like a plea.

And Amélie—his Amélie, who had gutted and rebuilt him with the same bloody hands—hummed, casual and amused, from just beyond the canvas wall, sipping tea like she hadn’t just shattered the entire foundation of who he was.

“Ton fils s’habille de sa nuit de coucher avec sa reine, Adrien René de Saignon, il t’attend.”

The blood drained from his face. Adrien René de Saignon. It echoed, ancient and foreign, yet bone-deep familiar. A name that tasted of limestone palaces and war-scarred vineyards. A name that belonged to him. Always had. Just never spoken.

Then came the steps.

Hurried. Steady. Purposeful.

The tent flap rustled and opened—and there he stood.

The man looked as if God had chiseled Alastair’s reflection into older stone. Same height. Same broadness. Same eyes, save that the years had written heavier poetry into the lines around his. He had a beard streaked with gray and a ducal sash crossed neatly over a tailored military coat. He looked like he had survived hell. And now, he looked like he had just seen a ghost.

His lips parted. No words. Just the choked sound of a man breaking at the altar of hope.

And then—he surged forward.

Alastair barely had a chance to react before strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a crush of velvet, metal, and grief. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not until he felt it.

The wetness. The shaking breath. His father—his father—was sobbing.

“Mon fils… mon cher Adrien René… j’ai imploré sa miséricorde, j’ai prié pour qu’elle ne m’éloigne pas de toi…”The words were breathless, running like a dam that had been held for decades. “Elle m’a écrit, il y a cinq ans, que tu étais mort. J’ai pleuré mon fils disparu. J’ai enterré un souvenir sous un vieil arbre de ma propriété…”

Alastair’s heart stopped.

She told him he was dead.

He tried to breathe, but it caught. The man—his father—clutched the back of his head and stroked it like one would a lost child finally found. His voice trembled with awe and heartbreak in equal measure.

“Quand cet ange là-bas a envoyé ses oiseaux vers moi… et ils m’ont dit que tu étais vivant, que tu voyageais avec la dauphine bannie… Je suis venu aussi vite que j’ai pu. Elle a changé ton nom, même ton nom français. Elle m’a volé à l’aveugle. Mon fils, je t’aime…”

That broke him.

Alastair—no, Adrien—clenched his fists into the back of the Duke’s coat. His throat burned. His face pressed into the crook of the man’s neck, and his voice finally tore free.

“Why—why didn’t you come for me?” It came out hoarse, broken, from a place he hadn’t dared let speak since he was a child. “Why did you let her do this? Why did you let her raise me like I was an accident? A half-truth?”

His father pulled back just enough to look at him, both hands cupping his face. He was crying openly, without shame.

“I tried, Adrien. I did. I tried everything—courts, diplomacy, threats. Your mother was—” his voice cracked, “—she was more powerful than anyone knew. She used the King’s slipping mind as leverage. She buried every letter I sent. She told the world you were an orphan she had claimed for the crown. And then, she told me you were dead.”

Alastair staggered back a step. His legs nearly gave.

He had buried that part of himself so deep, so hidden behind English titles and cold expectations. And now—his name, his origin, his father—they’d all been returned to him in a matter of days. Amélie had ripped it out of the vault, cleaned the blood off, and placed it in his hands.

“Adrien René de Saignon…” he repeated, tasting it aloud for the first time.

His father smiled, a wet, crooked thing.

“It suits you, mon fils.”

There was so much more to ask—how they’d met, what had been said in those secret letters, what kind of man his father was outside of desperation and grief—but it all came second to this singular truth blooming in his chest like a flame: He was not alone.

He looked up—his Amélie standing just outside the tent, arms crossed, watching with the satisfied calm of a queen who had just secured her heir, her lion, her bloodline.

He would kneel for her a thousand more times.

But for now, he reached for the Duke—his father—and hugged him again.

Tighter. Like a boy. Like a man reborn.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m alive. And I’m ready.”

And somewhere, in the quiet between battle horns, the throne of France shifted—knowing its rightful son had finally come home.

Chapter 214 – “You Are French, Adrien” From Adrien’s (Alastair's) Perspective

He hadn’t known what to expect when the tent flap fell closed again. Maybe silence. Maybe tension. Maybe a thousand years of things left unsaid clawing at the air.

But what he got—what came instead—was everything he’d ever wanted and nothing he was ready for.

His father held him like he had never been let go. Arms locked around him with the strength of years wasted, fingers gripping the back of his coat like if he let go now, Adrien would vanish into dust. And Adrien… Adrien was crying. Not the quiet, composed tears he had once allowed himself in private. No. These were the broken sobs of a son who had been denied his name, his blood, his truth—and finally, finally, was being given it all back.

He pressed his face into the man’s shoulder, fists curling in his father’s robes like a boy. His body shook from the release of it. “I didn’t know,” he choked. “I didn’t know you were real.”

The Duke’s voice came gentle, velvet wrapped in steel. “Mon fils, mon cher Adrien René…” He spoke the name like it was holy. Like it was music. “I prayed for you. I begged her to let me near. I wrote letters she never let reach your hands. I was told you died, mon cœur. I buried a stone under the tree in Saignon and wept for a child I thought lost.”

Adrien gasped again, clinging tighter. “She stole you from me.”

“She did,” the Duke whispered, stroking his son’s head with a trembling hand. “But you are not lost, mon fils. You are found. You are home.”

Adrien’s throat burned. There was something rising in him, violent and urgent—disgust for the years he lived with a stranger’s name. For the boy groomed to smile and serve, to bow to the English crown while his mother puppeteered everything behind the curtain.

“I don’t want it anymore,” he rasped suddenly, almost viciously. “That name. Alastair. It’s not mine. It was never mine.”

The Duke’s arms tightened around him. “Then you do not need it. You are Adrien René de Saignon. My son. Say it. Say it aloud.”

His voice broke around it. “Adrien… René… de Saignon.”

The name felt like thunder in his chest. Like lightning in his spine. He could feel himself shifting inside, aligning. Becoming.

And then—her.

He hadn’t seen her since that moment outside the tent. Hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed her until her voice filled the room again, soft and grounding, a balm to the rawness of him.

“You are French, Adrien.” Amélie. His Amélie. Standing tall, her silhouette framed by candlelight, eyes gentle with something only he ever seemed to be given. Her voice melted the air between them. “If you want your name, it is yours, my love.”

His breath caught. His chest heaved.

He turned toward her slowly, still curled into his father’s arms but looking—really looking—at the woman who had given him all this.

“My love…” he whispered, barely able to form words past the swell in his throat.

She crossed the space without hesitation, kneeling beside him. Her palm found his back, stroking up in slow, soothing circles. She didn’t try to stop the tears. She didn’t flinch from the shaking. She simply held him there, between the two people who saw him wholly.

The Duke rested his forehead against Adrien’s hair. “You are not the half-son of England. You are not their ornament. You are my heir. The blood of Saignon burns in you, mon lion.”

And Amélie added, softly, “And your name is holy in my mouth. Adrien.”

He exhaled sharply. A new kind of breath. A new kind of life.

The English mask had shattered.

He wasn’t a prince in waiting.

He was a lion reborn. Adrien René de Saignon.

And by the time the moon crept higher above the horizon, the world had shifted beneath his feet.

He was no longer the Queen’s pawn.

He was his father’s son.

He was her King.

Chapter 215 — “Angel of Darkness” Adrien's Perspective

He had barely dried his face. The wet still clung to his lashes, and the salt hadn’t even finished burning its path down his jaw when it happened.

One second, the tent was quiet, sacred in the hush that always follows devastation. His father—no, his father—had sat beside him, their hands still locked like Adrien was a boy again, or perhaps for the first time, finally allowed to be one. And then…

He turned. The wind shifted.

And his father stood with the kind of breathless energy only the broken who have been made whole again seem to possess. He pivoted on his heel, moving toward Amélie who stood watching them, one brow raised, a glass of something no doubt too bold for morning still perched in her hand. She’d looked radiant—regal even in her relaxed stance—just moments before she was suddenly no longer grounded at all.

The man had lifted her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing. And twirled her.

Adrien blinked, genuinely unsure of what he was seeing. The Dauphine. His queen. The woman who had snapped a noble’s wrist for brushing against her sleeve too familiarly at the last masquerade. His woman.

She was airborne, her long curls whipping behind her, her body arching like she might swat the air itself—and laughing.

A sound he had never quite heard from her before. Not the amused, sharp chuff she gave when she made men cry, nor the low chuckle she gave when plotting something criminal under candlelight. This was bright. Unchecked. Free.

Her head dropped back, and she let out a scandalously girlish shriek of delight as she wriggled in the older man’s arms, her legs kicking just enough to make her seem more mischief than majesty.

“Put me down you oaf before people paint me to be sweet!” she gasped between peals of laughter, her hand swatting his father’s shoulder.

Adrien stood rooted, stunned. He hadn’t realized he’d taken a step forward until he felt his bare foot press into the edge of the rug.

His father, for his part, bellowed with joy.

“You angel of darkness!” the man roared, lifting her higher in a final flourish before finally—grudgingly—setting her back on her feet. “I owe you my life! You brought me my son, I had nothing of worth without him—nothing! And you, my Queen, you delivered me to him!”

His voice cracked at the edges, raw with emotion, still visibly overwhelmed.

Adrien saw it all from behind—his father’s back shaking slightly, Amélie’s hands momentarily on his arms as she caught her balance. But it was her face when she turned to him that did something fatal to his chest.

She was smiling.

And not in the smug, I-own-your-spine way. No—this smile was real. A real, rare thing. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted in the aftermath of laughter, her eyes glowing with mischief and warmth.

God, she was beautiful.

“You… laughed,” Adrien said dumbly.

She quirked a brow, smoothing her curls back into place. “You looked like you might faint from it.”

“I nearly did,” he muttered, approaching, his eyes flicking from her to his father.

His father, still beaming, nodded toward Amélie with an air of worship. “She told me the truth—your truth. She hunted for me, sent coded letters. Said the Queen lied. She did more than your own blood did, my son.”

Adrien's gaze flickered to her again—his queen, his flame, his storm in silk and steel. She met his look steadily.

“You didn’t laugh when we won our first skirmish,” he muttered.

“No.”

“Didn’t laugh when I said I’d take your name.”

“I remember.”

“Didn’t laugh even when Madame Delacroix slipped in the mud and cursed in five languages.”

A ghost of her smile reappeared, sly now.

He stepped closer, his voice lowering, reverent. “So what does it mean that you laughed for him?”

Amélie reached out slowly, her hand brushing the side of his jaw, still wet from where he’d wept. “It means the war brought something back to me, too.”

Adrien swallowed hard.

His father, sensing something sacred forming between them, stepped back with a knowing nod. “I will leave you two. I will prepare my blade for the bastard child that calls himself a king.”

Amélie didn’t break her stare from Adrien. “He will need to fight more than just one. He will face bloodline and blade.”

Adrien nodded once, solemnly. “And what if I faint again?”

She leaned in, her lips brushing his cheek. “Then I’ll laugh again.”

He smiled then. A little broken. A little whole. And in the silence that followed, Adrien René de Saignon—formerly known as Alastair—allowed himself to believe, truly believe, that he had been given back his name, his father… and his home.

And she had given it all.

Chapter 216

Adrien’s hand hovered near her cheek, trembling like he was afraid if he touched her, she’d vanish into that light-hearted laughter again. That laugh. Mon Dieu. He hadn’t even known her voice could sound like that. For weeks, it had been commands and clipped orders, venom-tipped wit and silken seduction—but that laugh? That was sunlight breaking through stormclouds.

She looked up at him now, her curls still bouncing from the twirl the Duke had surprised her with, her cheeks pink and breath catching as she cradled her wine against her hip. Her lips were still parted, caught in the tail end of her grin when she tilted her head and asked softly, almost cautiously:

“What’s changed? Adrien… you look at me with a gaze I’ve never received before.”

He didn’t answer right away.

He simply stepped closer. Close enough that the candlelight caught the shadow of his jaw, still taut from earlier tears. Close enough that her breath hitched—not from power this time, but from wonder. His hands found her waist, gently anchoring her to the earth. His voice, low and raw, rasped into the space between them.

“You gave me something no kingdom, no title, no battlefield ever could.”

His thumb traced the edge of her belt where her sword hung—her crown wasn’t gold, it was steel and blood and grit. And he worshipped it.

“You gave me truth, Amélie.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, reverent, not hungry. “You gave me my name.” He swallowed thickly. “Not Alastair, not the pretty son of a queen who used me like a card in her hand. Adrien. My father’s son. Your lion. Yours.”

Amélie’s brows knit faintly, her jaw tightening like she wasn’t used to being seen like this—like her soft was something sacred, not dangerous.

Adrien leaned in, forehead pressing gently to hers. “That gaze you’ve never seen? It’s because I’ve never had the eyes to see you clearly until now.” His voice cracked. “You’ve always looked like salvation, but now—now you are it.”

She pulled back half an inch, her expression unreadable. Her breath danced across his lips. “You’re not afraid of what I’ve done?”

He huffed something like a scoff, nose brushing hers. “You made a country kneel while you bled. I fear for those who try to stand against you, not for myself beside you.”

Her lips quirked, unsure.

But then he smiled—a soft, wicked, utterly smitten thing. “I love you, Amélie. I would kneel for you every day if it meant hearing you laugh like that again. I’d tear down Versailles brick by brick just to see your smile stay a second longer.”

Her throat bobbed. Her hand cupped his chest—over his heart, his real name etched there now. Her mouth found his jaw with quiet reverence, trailing to his ear.

“Mon roi,” she whispered, her voice cracking now. “You’ve always belonged to me… but now I believe you want to.”

He nodded into her temple. “And I always will.”

Chapter 217

It was the way she looked at him.

Not with power or strategy or even heat—but with quiet certainty. Like she knew him now. Like all the war cries and bedsheets and crowns meant nothing in comparison to this one moment where nothing demanded from them except truth.

Adrien couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think past the thunder of his pulse. Her fingers rested just above his heart like they’d always belonged there, as if they were carved to fit the curve of him. She’d named him. Saved him. Unveiled him.

So when he kissed her—he meant it.

And not like before.

This wasn’t the feral desperation that had lived in the stolen shadows of their previous nights. This was cathedral-worthy. This was the kind of kiss poets dreamed about and kings wrote into policy. His hands came up slowly—one framing her jaw, thumb caressing the corner of her lips like they were scripture; the other slid to the back of her neck, grounding them both.

He tilted her head with reverence. Their mouths met in a silence so loud it silenced everything else—time, pain, history. Just her. Just him. And a soul-deep press of lips that felt like they had waited lifetimes.

And she melted into him.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, her body leaning into his until there was no space between their heartbeats. The kiss deepened, languid and all-consuming, like drinking the first sip of water after a desert.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Adrien didn’t speak for a long time. He just held her close, forehead resting against hers, eyes half-lidded but clearer than they’d ever been.

Then, softly. Hoarsely.

“I want to marry you.”

She blinked.

His hand moved to cradle her face again, thumbing her cheek. “Not because of my mother, not for a throne, or to prove anything to anyone—” he swallowed. “I want to marry you because there is no version of this world, war-torn or rebuilt, where I could stand without you.”

He searched her eyes. The heat, the wildness—they were still there. But now… now there was something gentler flickering behind her lashes.

He laughed, breath shaky. “I don’t have a ring. Not yet. Not one worthy. But if we survive the fires of ascension… if we burn the old world down and build something better…”

He sank to one knee, slowly, reverently, right there in the privacy of her royal tent with candlelight catching on the edge of her armor.

“I will find the rarest, finest band and ask you again, before all your people, before all the gods they pray to.” His voice was deep, rich with emotion. “But now, in the quiet, I ask as the man who loves you—not the prince, not the duke’s son, not Adrien the heir—just me. Just your lion.”

Amélie stared at him. For once, silent. Her lips parted, and she shook her head faintly—not in denial, but disbelief.

Then her hands moved fast—grabbing his shirt, yanking him up, and kissing him like she was sealing the pact with blood and breath. The kiss was brutal, reverent, consuming.

When they broke again, her voice was ragged.

“You idiot,” she whispered. “You just declared war on every tradition in Europe and made me cry before battle.”

He smiled through his own tears, touching his forehead to hers. “You didn’t say no.”

“No?” she breathed. “Adrien… I’ll wear your name before I ever wear another crown.”

Then—crescendo.

She pushed him backward, gently but firmly, onto the cot behind them, lips never leaving his. As he landed, she straddled him with a war queen’s command and a woman’s raw devotion.

“But first,” she whispered against his lips, “let us make love like tomorrow is not promised.”

And they did.

Chapter 218

It was a rhythm born of truth.

The kind of cadence that didn’t rush or fumble—it understood. Adrien moved within her like he finally belonged in his body, in his name, in her. Each roll of his hips was a thank you. Each moan from her lips, a reward.

Amélie was beneath him, but she wasn’t submitting.

She met him with strength, with fire, with the kind of fierce softness that made men renounce kingdoms. Her thighs wrapped around him tightly, anchoring him to her like she would never let him fall again.

Their bodies rocked together in an unspoken language—slow, deep strokes that dragged every ounce of tension from his spine. He was buried in her and undone by her all at once. The candles flickered wildly as if trying to keep up with the heat between them.

He looked down at her—and that’s when he saw it.

The smile.

Not the smirk she wore to mask feelings. Not the teasing curl she used when taunting generals or controlling conversations.

A real smile. Bright. Open. Honest.

And behind it—tears.

Adrien froze, his breath hitching as her fingertips came up to brush along his jaw. She was smiling through the tears, her lips parting as if the words were aching to get free.

And then they came.

“Yes,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion as her hips arched to meet his next thrust. “I’ll marry you, Adrien.”

His breath caught, eyes locked to hers.

“In every lifetime…” her hands moved up, cupping his face, her thumbs brushing the corners of his eyes now slick with tears of his own. “I will marry you.”

The world cracked open.

He surged forward, kissing her like the vow had just undone him. His thrusts stuttered before building again—more purposeful, deeper, richer. His name on her lips didn’t sound like a man. It sounded like home.

“You ruin me,” he choked out against her mouth.

“Then let me ruin you every night, Adrien René de Saignon.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down until they were chest to chest, skin flush and slick and trembling.

The rhythm built again—harder now. Faster. But not to rush—to claim. Their gasps mingled, his hands gripping her hips as hers clawed into his back. She wasn’t letting go. Neither was he.

And as she began to quake beneath him, her lips trembling against his shoulder, he buried his face in her neck and let the swell take them both—into something bigger than pleasure.

Into promise.

Chapter 219

The world outside was chaos, but inside the tent, time slowed to a breath. Their bodies still hummed with the aftershocks, heat curling around them like a protective cloak. Adrien lay beside Amélie, her head resting against his chest, every rise and fall of her breath syncing with the steady thump of his heart.

He could still feel the weight of her in his arms—the promise they’d just made lingering like a sacred secret.

She lifted her eyes to his, cheeks flushed, hair a wild halo on the pillow. “Adrien,” she whispered, voice soft like a prayer, “tell me... do you believe this? Us, everything changing, and yet this—this feels right.”

His fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, the kind of touch that said I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

“I do,” he said low, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You gave me my name back. My truth. You didn’t just change my world, you rebuilt it. And now... now I want to build everything with you.”

Her lips parted in a small, hopeful smile, and her fingers curled around his hand. “I was afraid, Adrien. Afraid that this life, this fight, would tear us apart before we even began.”

He shifted closer, pressing his forehead against hers. “It’s not fear anymore. It’s faith. I have faith in us. In you.” His voice cracked just a little, raw and real. “Whatever storms come, whatever battles we face—I’m not scared if I’m with you.”

Amélie’s eyes shimmered with tears, and she squeezed his hand, grounding them both. “You’re my home now. Not some faraway throne or forgotten name. You.”

He smiled, heart swelling. “And you’re my queen. My light. I don’t care about crowns or titles—just this. Just us.”

Their breaths mingled, the quiet peace folding them into a world where nothing else mattered but the steady beat of two hearts finally, finally aligned.

[chickensoup-4-mysoul]

herculean (drrr x f!reader) - chapter 15

Chapter 15 - Heart to Heart

synopsis: you go to visit anri after the yellow scarves attack, determine to extend a lifeline to your suffering friend.

word count: 5,501

warnings: mild 'gore' bc shizuo got shot

"what i learned i rejected but i believe again i will suffer the consequences of this inquisition if i jump in this fountain, will i be forgiven?,, forgiven - alanis morisette

The Dollar’s forum was inaccessible. 

Last night’s storm had continued well into the morning. It had been so dark when you woke up that you had initially thought that it was still nighttime. However, you soon found out that you had slept well into the day.

You eagerly went to check the forum, wanting to recount the previous night's events with a clearer mind. However, when you opened the link, you were met with an error message. At first, you assumed it was a mistake, re-typing the link again. And again. And again. Unease began to overtake you as you texted Erika, asking if she was having the same problem.

ERIKA You missed it? The leader completely disbanded the Dollars. They shut down the website and everything!

For a moment, you could only stare at the text, finding the information to be so unbelievable that you assumed it to be a prank. You knew, however, that Erika wasn’t the type to pull a random joke like this. 

ME No way! Did they have anything to say as to why???

ERIKA Little to nothing. People were talking about the spike in Yellow Scarves attacks and then the website suddenly disappeared!

Right as people were starting to band together like they never had before...why now? Did the leader not want that? Was the Dollars created with malicious intentions, and disbanded because its members went against them? It wasn’t like the gang was your only way of life. You barely knew anyone else that was apart of it, and the ones you did know were found by happenstance. Heck, getting involved in such affairs had even jeopardized your life. If it was truly an evil force from the start, maybe it was for the best that it was gone for good. 

That’s not what it was about to become, though. No matter what the leader wanted—did it even matter? How many times had they even come forward. Had they ever even issued a command to be followed? All on its own, the gang was about to become such a positive force; one that even the Yellow Scarves couldn’t stifle. 

Hours later, as you walked through the city, you were still mourning the gang—possibly one of the most important parts of Ikebukuro, and you had been a part of it.

As you waded through deepening puddles, you found yourself bowing your head, tipping your umbrella to shadow your face. The streets were relatively clear, but that didn’t mean that certain gang members weren’t hiding in the shadows. You were ashamed of your own paranoid behavior. A different, prideful part of you wanted to walk around freely, unhidden and uncovered. It was that part of you that kept you from dressing more conservatively than you normally did. Now, though, the cautious part of you deeply regretted throwing on the funky button-up that adorned your frame. 

Among the dreary scheme of dull tones, the seemingly manageable colors of your shirt seemed so much brighter—and much less inconspicuous. You did your best to brush the anxiety aside, considering the taxing journey to be worth it if it meant being there for your friend.

CELTY I brought Anri to stay at my place for a bit, if you’d like to come visit. I feel like she could use you by her side right now.

The message radiated such a tenderness that warmed your heart. You told Celty that you would try and wait out the rain, then hurry over the first chance you got. You waited for quite some time, but even after a long while, the rain didn’t seem to be letting up. It seemed like you would have to face the showers if you were going to see your friend at a reasonable hour.

“Woah! You’re completely soaked!”

“Nice to see you too, Shinra.”

Said doctor moves to the side to allow you into the apartment. He offers you a towel, lamenting how cold you must be. “No, I’m fine. A towel would be nice though,” you smile at the doctor, who goes off to grab you one. Your eyes follow his form before you notice the people occupying the couch. A warmth washes over you, bringing a smile to your face. “Hey, ladies.”

Celty waves to you, gesturing for you to come over. As you approach, you laugh at the controllers in their hands and the video game console on the table in front of them. You don’t sit quite yet, wanting to avoid getting the seats wet. 

“Hey! I thought you were gonna wait until the rain stopped.” Shinra appears beside you and hands you a towel, which you gratefully accept. You finally sit on the couch perpendicular to theirs. Anri, who sits on the side closest to you, regards you with a friendly smile. You can’t help but note how it doesn’t meet her eyes. “I was, but it didn’t look like it was going to clear up anytime soon,” you pause to look out the window, where the rain was beating against the glass in earnest. “Figured that I should get over here before it got even darker than it already was. With everything going on, it doesn’t hurt to be safe.”

Anri’s entire body seems to tense up at your words and you immediately wish you had an undo button. She was probably still shaken up about the previous night. You put a hand over hers in an attempt to comfort her. “But I’m sure it’ll all be over soon.” It obviously doesn’t help. Her eyes are glued to her lap and she no longer even tries to smile. You and Mika were right. Something was bothering her—and it had only gotten worse. You look at Celty, eyes questioning, prying to see if she noticed the same things that you did.

However, Celty doesn’t gratify you with an answer. Instead, her shoulders drop as if she’s sighing, at a loss for words.To your confusion, she stands, making her way to the hallway and taking Shinra to leave with her.

“Please, talk to her.”

She shows you the message quickly, as if she was trying to avoid Anri’s gaze. Shinra doesn’t seem to take whatever hint Celty gives him, loudly asking why he has to leave with her and even insisting that he stay. A ribbon of black mist appears and wraps around Shinra’s head, covering his mouth. Celty practically drags him into the hall, most likely pulling him into a separate room. You can’t help but laugh at the departure.

“Y’know, for such an unlikely pair, they work pretty well together,” you jest, turning to Anri for some sort of response. She simply nods, eyes focused on the spot where Celty had just been. Tough crowd. You brush it off, gesturing to the paused screen on the TV. “You gonna continue?” 

Anri shakes her head. “It’s in multiplayer mode, so I can’t play by myself.”

You hum, before pulling yourself to your feet. You move to sit beside Anri, grabbing the controller that Celty had discarded. “I can help you out, then! I’m not much of a gamer, but you can just show me the ropes!”

Anri stares at the controller laying limply in her hands. “I don’t think that I can.” Your brows furrowed at her answer. God, what had Celty left you with? You wanted so badly to cheer her up, but you had no idea how if she was in this deep.

“Oh!” A lightbulb goes off in your head as you suddenly remember something. You reach into your bag that sat on the floor at your feet. “I almost forgot...I brought you a little something!”

“(Y/N), you didn’t have to…”

“Oh please, like it’s any trouble to get a gift for my friend. It’s long overdue, anyway.” You finally find what you’re looking for, gently encasing it in your fist and turning back to her. Your fingers open, presenting the small object resting in your palm. 

The earrings were a hoop shape, candy red and a little on the chunkier side. What was most notable about them, however, were the clasps attaching them to the base board. “They’re clip-ons!” you beam. Anri examines the jewelry with owlish eyes. At least she didn’t seem too uninterested. Taking her attention as a sign of interest, you unclasp one of the earrings, holding out towards her. “May I…?”

Her eyes switch between the earring and your face, full of both caution and curiosity. Finally, she nods. You’re relieved that she’s willing to give it a chance. Your fingers brush the side of her face as you clasp the earring to her earlobe. You make sure that she’s comfortable, asking if it was too tight or if anything was hurting her. After she confirms that everything felt fine, you help her put on the other one. You lean back to get a good look at her and grin at your handiwork. 

Reaching into your bag once more, you pull out a compact mirror and hand it to her. “Just as I suspected,” you say smugly, watching as she inspects her own reflection. “Super cute.”

Your heart rejoices at the sight of her smile, a genuine, thoughtless smile. “I really like them...thank you, (Y/N),” she says, handing the mirror back to you. You help her take them off, making sure to show her how to get them to clasp and unclasp, before you return them to the base board. In the few moments of silent movement, her smile fades again, returning to a thin line.

“I ran into a friend of yours, yesterday,” you fill the silence with mindless chatter. Her eyebrows raise at the statement. “Mika Harima. You’ve talked to me about her, right?” Anri doesn’t look too happy at the mention of the name, avoiding your gaze.

“Y-yes, we used to be friends, but we don’t hang around each other much, anymore,” she explains, toying with the clasp on one of the earrings. She could break them if she kept messing with them like that—but you could always just get her a new pair. It’s going to be hard to say what you want to say next—but you couldn’t hold back anymore. 

“Well, we stopped and talked for a while. She recognized me, probably saw me hanging around at the school at some point.” Anri nods so you assume that she’s still listening. “And...well—we actually talked a little bit about you, Anri.” She looks up at you again, visibly put off by the revelation. Still, she says nothing, imploring you to continue.

“I know you two don’t talk much anymore, but she’s been keeping an eye on you, Anri, and she’s worried about you. She probably didn’t want me to tell you exactly like this, but...but I’ve noticed the same things and we both have the same question, so…”

Your eyes bore into hers, taking in the different emotions swimming through them. Sadness, apprehension, fear…

“Anri, has something been bothering y—“

“No!” She stands so abruptly that you wonder if she’s dizzy afterwards. Her chest heaves from the sudden burst in energy, body overridden with anxiety. You’re surprisingly calm, never leaving your spot on the couch. Her defensiveness only confirmed your suspicions—and allowed other ones to grow.

“I don’t know if you think that I’d be angry with you, or that I would judge you, or maybe that I just might not be able to help.” Your voice is level and comforting, trying to coax her little by little. “Maybe that last part might even be true...but I would never judge you, Anri, and as long as it’s you...I could try and understand. Whatever you think might anger me, I promise you, I have too much faith in you to let one little thing turn me against you.”

Anri doesn’t respond. Her clench fists rest at her sides, quivering along with the rest of her body. You need to help her. It might require some prying, and you may have to be forceful, but she needs help.

“All of those Slashers, the ones that attacked me in my apartment, they were just previous victims who survived their attacks. Something was making them act against their own will, and they became Slashers themselves,” you start, taking in how she flinches at the mention of the Slasher. You smile at her, trying to convey that you harbored no ill feelings towards her. “After that night that they invaded my apartment, and you ended up in the hospital, all that seemed to come to a stop, didn’t it?” 

“I had the theory that, somehow, the Slasher brainwashed its victims by attacking them—by cutting them. Seemed like a pretty solid theory...but there were some holes in it.” You would think there was an earthquake, the way that Anri was shaking. She’s starting to pull away, backing up into the table. You finally stand, to her apparent horror. Her distress was most definitely your fault, and you felt terrible, but it was all going to settle out. “I only know two people that have gotten attacked by the Slasher, but showed no side effects afterwards—other than a couple of scars. One of them was Shizuo Heiwajima. To some extent, it’s understandable...the guy’s kind of a superhuman, afterall. The other one, though…”

Her arm flinches away from yours as you go to take her hand. You don’t relent, though, catching it and encasing her hand with two of your own. “Was my friend, Anri. At first, I had nothing to think of it. All of the slasher attacks had stopped. I went days without seeing any crazed men or women brandishing sharp weapons. It was the end of it all, that’s why nothing happened to you....But I noticed something strange, last night.”

“Do you really want to know the truth? About what I am?”

You had momentarily forgotten about it. How the Yellow Scarves had the two of you cornered...and how calm and collected Anri had been. It wasn’t until Horada had revealed that they had attacked a few of their own members that she looked truly helpless. “I’d know those red eyes anywhere...but whatever you could have done, it wouldn’t have helped, right? Those guys that you ‘turned against them’...they couldn’t have helped, huh?”

“Well, we did a little something special to those guys you turned against us. We beat the shit out of ‘em!”

Her eyes were overflowing now, a dam that collected rivers for years and has finally cracked open. You pull her into your arms, embracing her. Her shoulders don’t shake and she heaves no sobs, she just lets you hold her as the floodgates empty themselves.

Kanra : You know the Headless Rider? Kanra: Apparently, it teamed up with the Slasher--and together they attacked the Yellow Scarves at their secret hideout!

“They saw you and Celty at the Yellow Scarves hideout, and that’s why the Yellow Scarves were after you, and Masaomi…”

"What the hell are you doing?? Were you spying on us? Is that why you came there?? Tell me, Anri..."

“He thought you had betrayed him...but that wasn’t it, was it? The gang wars, the Yellow Scarves attacks...you think it’s your fault. You wanted to make things right, somehow.”

Kanra: Both the Yellow Scarves and the Dollars have people that got hit! Kanra: And each side is completely convinced that the other group is behind it all!

You finally release Anri, placing your hands on her shoulders and pulling back to look at her. Her eyes are lined with tears, but there’s no more tension. As much as she may have dreaded this moment, it was like a huge release to her. “That last part, I have no evidence or indication for it...but I trust you, Anri.”

It had all come together so slowly, the main retardant being your own denial. You had greatly underestimated Anri, labeling her as a timid, ordinary school girl in the middle of a chaotic city. It was foolish of you to assume that she herself wasn’t one of the things that made Ikebukuro so special. 

“(Y/N).... I...I promise that all of those people—it wasn’t—“

“I’m sure there is some sort of long, convoluted explanation for all of it. We can get to that, later. For now...you don’t have to hide anything from me. I’m here for you, okay?” Anri raises her hand to her eyes, rubbing the tears away. You watch her patiently. As she meets your gaze again, there’s a newfound resolve in her expression. She nods, a small smile decorating her features. It wasn’t an answer to all of her problems...but it was reassurance. Masaomi lashed out on her and Mikado probably isn’t any the wiser. Everything Anri was going through, she’s been dealing with it all alone. 

But not anymore.

“Yesterday, when those guys were chasing me...so many people were helping me. Complete strangers were going to so much trouble because of me,” Anri recounts. The two of you had returned to your positions on the couch, and Anri took the opportunity to finally express some of the thoughts that were bothering her. You can’t hold back your chuckle, causing Anri to eye you with confusion.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh, but…” Your grin widens, “Those strangers? Those were members of the Dollars.” The girl gapes, brows furrowing at the revelation. It’s an unbelievable idea, you know, but she knew you had no reason to lie.

“The Dollars?? But...why would they…” 

“Some sort of heroic streak, I guess. Someone saw you getting cornered, and then there were people looking out for you all over the city!”

“How do you know all of this…?” Your eyebrows raise at the question as you realize how much you’ve exposed yourself. It had come to you so freely that you hadn’t even thought to censor your own words. Drinking in Anri’s egging expression, you fall into a fit of laughter. “Because I’m a member of the Dollars, of course! You’re not the only one with skeletons in the closet, y’know?” You honestly didn’t know how you expected her to react. Even then, her small smile was a bit of a surprise to you. Perhaps it was comforting for her to know that everyone had things about themselves that they chose to hide.

It felt like a barrier had broken between you too. Sitting beside each other, failing miserably at the video game that Shinra and Celty had, you thought about the first time the two of you had hung out like this. When you and Anri sat in the dark, on an air mattress in Erika’s apartment. You both knew so little about each other, yet there was still an openness, one that had been disappearing over time. You hoped that, now that she’s shared this secret with you, that openness would start to return.

Shinra and Celty returned after a bit, joining you and Anri in front of the television. At the fault of Shinra, it became apparent to you that the two of them may have listened in on your conversation. They must have known about Anri before even you had. It made sense, since Celty was with Anri the night that she was spotted at the Yellow Scarves hideout. It was reassuring to you, knowing that someone else was there for her when you weren’t able to be.

With the consistency of a dreary sky, it’s difficult to tell how much time you’re spending in the apartment. You have no complaints, though. Celty and Shinra continue to be such a lively pair and it’s heartening to watch Anri get a giggle out of their antics. You also learn, with great pleasure, that Celty is not a very good sport when it comes to video games. With practice, you get pretty good at the game, yourself, finally being able to keep up with Celty and Shinra. Anri is content to hand over the controller and watch from the sidelines. Through the dark overcast, rays of sunset orange shine into the apartment, insistent on making themselves known.

The moisture clinging to your clothes is long-gone. Combined with the cup of tea you’re enjoying with Anri, you find yourself feeling especially content. The two of you sit beside a window that does very little to illuminate the room. Rain raps against the window, enacting an assault on the cool glass. It’s heavy and unrelenting. So much chaos swirling within those clouds, constantly overflowing and sending excess raining down at a mile per minute. Even so, you find a strange sense of serenity in the sound.  The peace is disturbed by a movement across from you. Anri stands, setting down her half empty cup of tea.

“I’m going to go talk to Celty,” she says. She trails off, fiddling with her own fingers. When she makes no effort to move, you start to get what she’s hinting at. “I’ll come with you.” Anri seems to relax at this, allowing you to follow her to Celty’s office. Her and Shinra are there, together, looking at something on the computer. As you enter, you swear you catch a glimpse of an error screen, before it quickly disappears. A notepad window appears in its place.

“What’s up, you two?”

“I was wondering if we could talk for a bit?”

When you said that you could get an explanation from Anri later, you were thinking a different day, or even week. Unbeknownst to you, it would only be a mere couple of hours later. You’re thankful that she’s just as comfortable telling you as she is with telling Celty. You don’t quite understand everything, but it comes to you the more she explains everything to both of you. The Slasher that was responsible for all of those attacks people saw on the news, was a different Slasher. In fact, it wasn’t correct to call Anri a 'Slasher' at all. Moreso, the word that both she and Celty kept using was “Saika”. At the sound of the name, your ears perked. Like the Saika from the chatroom?  

The most that Anri was doing with her ‘Saika’ was using it to get in contact with some Yellow Scarves, who had already been victims of the previous Slasher. Whatever power that the Slasher had on them before, was Anri’s now. She was getting them to stop the Yellow Scarves attacks from the inside. You could see how that only stoked more flames between the gangs, seeing as the Yellow Scarves went on to intensify their attacks against the Dollars. 

Anri describes what she saw when she snuck into the Yellow Scarves’ hideout. It was crowds of people, gathered around a sort of stage. He sat far in the back of the stage, almost unnoticeable, but he was there. Masaomi wasn’t just another member of the Yellow Scarves, but the leader. Your heart constricts in your chest. Was this really all his doing? Could your friend really be responsible for such violent acts? You had noticed his change in demeanor, ever since the night you had been with him and Mikado at Russia’s Sushi—but the whirlwind in behavior he had exhibited the night before was all it took to see that he could be spiraling out of control. He was bearing a great weight on his shoulders, that much was certain.

The three had become greatly estranged because of misunderstandings and miscommunication. Despite their admittedly extraordinary lives, these lives still intertwined and these kids became great friends. They deserved to keep that, no matter what their pasts were.

“First, we need to put an end to this gang war.”

Celty was right. Intentional or not, reciprocal or not, it was tearing these kids apart. Anri agrees, a sense of determination visibly overtaking her. Your chest swells with pride at her strength. “In order to do that, we have to talk to Mikado.” Your eyebrows shoot up at the words. What does Mikado have to do with this? Anri verbalizes your question, which Celty only returns with a vague response. She explains that him and Anri have something in common, and that he was was most likely keeping it from her because of her importance to him. You’re head began to swirl with all sorts of possible explanations, but nothing really stuck. Your mind was open to anything, but the idea of Mikado getting involved in a gang war was just a bit far-fetched to you.

Deciding that it wasn’t her explanation to give, Celty decides to go retrieve the boy herself. It’s such a quick decision that leaves you registering just how important it must have been. She types a message to Shinra. “I promise...you can trust me, I swear!” he says, smiling easily at her.

“Celty,” Anri says as the woman stands to leave. “I’m done. I don’t want to run anymore.” Celty stares at her for a moment, and in her own special, headless way, she nods. A short moment after she’s out the door, you hear that familiar horse’s whinny in the distance. She’s off. Shinra, noting the coolness of your tea cups, cheerily announces that he’ll make more. You and Anri sit together quietly as the doctor tinkers away in the kitchen.

“(Y/N).” Anri speaks up. You hum, imploring her to continue with whatever it is she wants to say. However, even after gaining your attention, she hesitates. That determination still lingers in her eyes, but she’s clearly holding back. “What’s up, Anri?” you press. 

“...Why did Masaomi say that...about you and Izaya Orihara?”

You almost choke on the lukewarm tea you’re nursing. Her voice is low, but you still peek at Shinra in fear that he had overheard. His back is to the two of you and he’s completely still, frozen in place. You dread that your suspicions are confirmed, until he continues moving, carrying on like nothing happened. Perhaps he hadn’t heard over the clinking of pots and pans. You focus back on Anri, who stares at you expectantly. Her eyebrows are knitted together in an expression that you can’t quite place. Was it concern? or fear? Of Izaya Orihara, or you?

“W-well….he wasn’t lying. I did go to visit him,” you murmur, taking extra care to keep your voice down. You can’t keep your eyes from flickering in Shinra’s direction. “He’s helping me with something.” She doesn’t seem at all satisfied with that answer, gaze flickering back to her lap. Her face is contemplative, as if she’s choosing her next words carefully. “That man...I’ve learned things about him. He’s not a good person. I-I know you probably have a good reason, but I don’t want him to hurt anyone else close to me.”

‘Anyone else’? Your heart drops at her words. It’s not like you were naive enough to think that Izaya had never gotten caught up in shady business, but to mess with the life of a teenage girl? Was he really sick enough to do something like that? Mixed emotions swirled in your chest. Anyone that does such horrible things is not alright with you. Despite that...you couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear.

“Do you remember what I told you, about losing my memory?” you start. She nods earnestly. “I was a hypocrite, telling you not to worry about the past. The truth is...I worry about it all the time, Anri. My entire upbringing...it disappeared. I know little to nothing about myself —and I’ve tried everything I could to change that! But it’s so hard for some reason.” You realize that you’ve lost yourself in your own words, even forgetting to keep your voice down. Shinra doesn’t look any the wiser, and from what you learned earlier, you would know if he was eavesdropping. Despite this, you lower your voice again. “I’ll be careful, I promise—but I just need this one little thing . Then I’ll be done.”

Anri opens her mouth to respond, when two hands holding teacups appear in front of each of you. Shinra addresses you both with a smile, setting the cups down in front of you and taking your old ones. You thank him, immediately grabbing the new cup and taking a large sip. “Whew, I never get tired of a good cup of tea! I think I’ve become a bit of a chaiphile,” you jest, very obviously trying to change subjects. As you take another long drink, you notice Shinra’s eyes on you. His gaze is glued to you, and while the smile is still present on his face, something about it is off-putting to you.

The brief silence is interrupted by a doorbell. Shinra loudly answers, going to greet whoever it is. Was Celty back with Mikado already? Looks like she could move pretty fast. The silence that follows the door opening momentarily gratifies the impression. However, Shinra’s distressed exclamations immediately peaked your concern. “Goodness gracious! What happened to you??”

“Isn’t it obvious?” A masculine voice answers him. Is that….? “I was shot.” 

You’re on your feet before you can even register it, hurrying to the foyer with Anri in tow. The voices of Shinra and the other person are muffled less and less as you approach the door. To your horror, your suspicions are confirmed when you open it. Anri gasps behind you, just as shocked by the sight.

“Shizuo!” You gape at the man before you. Shizuo stood in all his glory, lax as ever—besides the fact that he was bleeding profusely from his leg and side. He continued to walk forward, only stopping when the sound of your voice alerted him of your presence. “Hey,” he greets you nonchalantly. You and Anri move aside as Shinra ushers Shizuo to the couch. He sits him down where you had left your damp towel a while ago. 

As Shinra leaves to go get his supplies, you go to sit back down. Anri, however, doesn’t move from her spot. She can barely look at Shizuo in his state, so she probably doesn’t feel comfortable sitting near him either. Still averting her gaze from the man, she whispers for you to go ahead. Shinra returns, setting down the tray of supplies and immediately getting to work. Sitting beside Shizuo, you have a front row seat to the gruesome spectacle. Shizuo gives a simple, detached explanation of how he had ended up like this. The way he described it, suddenly being on the ground and not even realizing right away that he was shot, this wasn’t all that traumatizing to him. As you wondered how he wasn’t feeling any pain, you didn’t comprehend that you had been staring directly at his wounds. Even as they were prodded open and bled by Shinra’s tools, you weren’t a bit more fazed than the doctor himself.

“What an idiot, right?” Shinra teases. Shizuo darkens at this, immediately threatening the poor man’s life. In a flash, Shinra is bundled up on the coffee table, apologizing vigorously. You huff humorously at the display. What an interesting relationship…

“Just hurry and fix me up already, so I can find those guys and kill ‘em!” He used the word ‘kill’ so liberally, yet he’d never killed anyone before--not even all of the Slashers that attacked him. “Both the ones who did it, and the asshole who ordered it--Masaomi Kida is a dead man!”

You could practically hear the scratch of a record. Anri immediately locks eyes with you, both of you feeling the same whirlwind of emotions. Suddenly, you don’t take Shizuo’s threats as frivolously as before. Masaomi...ordered someone to shoot Shizuo? Did you believe that he would do that? Sure, he had definitely changed recently, but to try and take someone out like that? There had to be something wrong.

“Shizuo--” You go to say something, anything that could sway the man’s anger, convince him that there was some sort of misunderstanding--because it had to be . However, you’re words are cut short as Anri bolts out of the room. “Anri!” you shout, running after her. Just as you reach the entrance to the foyer, her form disappears out the front door. You’re frozen for a moment, mind jumbled in a frenzy. 

“I’m going after her.” You say finally, grabbing the bag that you had left beside the couch. Shinra already has a phone in his hands, saying that he’ll call Celty. You nod hastily, practically flying towards the door. Subconsciously, you brush a hand over Shizuo’s shoulder. “Get well soon, Shizuo,” you murmur.

In such a short time, she couldn't have gotten far. As you reach the bottom of the apartment building stairs, your eyes frantically search for the girl--but no luck. Acting in a panic, you pick a random direction and start running. It was hard to calm the alarms going off in your head. There was no telling what she was about to do, but judging by what you two just heard, and what she had just talked to you about, it wasn’t anything safe. 

Anri, what on earth are you doing??