#It's like the story of life and the story of death!!

[lil-lemon-snails]

"I can't ignore what's under dancefloor boards, The rhythm of my heart a dead-as-disco beat, But I still move my feet, to slip out of this groove, I'm free" ~ 2econd 2ight 2eer, Will Wood, The Normal Album

I have been plagued with visions of LDR Sun every time I listen to this song and I NEEDED to get this out of my system @spadillelicious when do we get to smooch the boy pLEASE

v textless version and close ups under cut!! v

[cressidagrey]

Lightning in a Bottle - Chapter 1

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was actually pretty much useless. The only thing she wanted was to be somebody's first choice for once in her life.

Also known as: Azriel's shadows decide that if he doesn't treat his mate right... they'll just do it for him.

Warnings: 

Elain Bashing, Low Self Esteem, Magical Orthodontry...

(I should probably mention that my thoughts about plastic surgery/any kind of cosmetic enhancement are pretty much that as long as the person who has it done likes the result, it does not matter if anybody else thinks they needed it.

It’s their body, their choice and if they think they look prettier with a new nose/straighter teeth/fuller lips, good for them.

For myself, I love what braces did for my teeth and what one of those heatless curler things currently does for my hair lol)

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

It was bad. 

Eira shouldn’t have expected any differently. 

Maybe it had been the promise of mail-order catalogues that had made her think that maybe this time she wasn’t going to want to die halfway through her biannual week of torture…

But there was nothing the shadows could do, short of giving her pain potions that rendered her unconscious and plying her with soup. 

She let them. 

She was too weak to protest, in too much pain…feeling like a baby bird that needed them to slowly spoon broth in her mouth so that she only needed to swallow. 

But at least they were there. They didn’t leave her alone. Regardless of when she woke up…at what time of day or night…they were there. 

Ready with pain potions and armed with soup, and when she just needed something to get her mind off the pain, they told her stories. 

Little fables of Illyria and Prythian…children’s stories. 

Maybe one day she could tell the same stories to Nyx. 

It took 4 days… halfway through that week, when there was a knock at her door. 

Elain, the shadows whispered into her ear and she held back a groan. 

She didn’t want to deal with her sister. 

“Come in!” she called nonetheless and only then realised that she still had the key in the lock. The shadows swarmed out to turn it and then disappeared, scurrying underneath her desk. 

She forced herself to sit up, wondering how much of a mess she looked…probably like death warmed over twice, but to be completely honest…she wasn’t pretty on a good day, so what did it matter? 

Becoming Fae had somehow perfected the faces of her sisters. They still looked like themselves, but the cauldron had seemingly made them much more symmetrical, their limbs longer, their ears pointed…and for Elain, the cauldron…it had turned her from beautiful into otherworldly gorgeousness. 

For Eira…it had made her ears pointy. 

No, wait that wasn’t true…Her hair was seemingly even more unmanageable than it ever had been as a human…and her teeth…the less was said about that was better. 

She had already been self-conscious about them as a human. As a fae, surrounded by ridiculously attractive people every day, it was…something else entirely. 

“Good Morning,” Eira said quietly. Elain stared at her, surprise etched on her face. 

“Have you really spent the few days moping in your bed?” she asked, judgment clear in her voice. Eira wanted to bristle. Hadn’t Elain done the exact same thing when she had first been made? And Elain hadn’t had the excuse of a cycle for it. 

“Yes, Elain,” she said back quietly. “It’s….It’s that time of the year,” she mumbled, looking at everything but her sister. If Elain couldn’t even smell the thick cloying scent of blood that was clinging to Eira, she couldn’t help her. 

Elain just harrumphed.  “Look, I do realise that I may have been needlessly harsh,” she said, crossing her arms. Somehow managing to sound gracious even now.“But you do need to realise, Eira, that that is never going to go anywhere.” 

Eira blinked. Twice. 

Somebody put her heart into a vice and crushed it. 

Of all the things she had expected Elain to say…this wasn’t it. 

“Azriel is completely disinterested,” Elain continued. “And it would be better for you if you finally realised that.” 

“What does it matter to you?” Eira finally managed to bring out, her voice thankfully not shaking…And still….she sounded…weak. That’s what she sounded like. 

“I want you to be happy. And thirsting after a male that will never return your affections you won’t do that,” Elain said with a roll of her eyes. “He’s not going to change his mind, Eira.”

Eira flinched at Elain’s words. She couldn’t help it. 

Even when she knew…she knew her sister was right. She knew that…

“You should just stop your pathetic attempts of flirting with him. All you manage is to make him uncomfortable,” Elain continued with a roll of her eyes. 

Pathetic attempts of flirting? What did Elain even mean? Her nervous ramblings? Her stolen glances? The way her heart skipped a beat when she got to see him? 

She had never asked him out…on a date or anything else…she had never even mentioned courting in his near vicinity. She had done nothing, said nothing to Azriel that made her feelings obvious to him. 

It was all just…

“There are plenty of fish in the sea…” Elain said with a sigh. “You’ll find somebody else one day,” Elain told her, sounding some mixture between pitying and bored, as she turned to go. “Do you want me to ask Feyre to send Madja?”

“No, thank you. I have pain potions,”  Eira whispered, and Elain turned on her heel, marching back out of her room. 

Eira listened to her sister leave…she buried her face in her pillows.  

“Would you lock the door, please?” She whispered. 

Nobody else. Just her.

Why shouldn’t Elain once again stab her in the same wound…why not?  Why…

And then…somehow it was like somebody flipped a switch. 

She turned angry. Angry at Elain, at her twin sister. Who hid behind this veil of sisterly worry and only used it to hurt Eira?

She was so…she was so…She was so angry. 

She never was angry.  But right now it was swelling beneath her skin and she wanted…she wanted… Not revenge. Not really. 

She made Azriel uncomfortable with what? With nervous ramblings and stolen glances? 

Fine. She would stop that. She would stop all of that. 

She wouldn’t even talk to him again, so he wouldn’t be uncomfortable. She would ignore him. She would be icily polite and that was that. 

And she would find herself a husband and have all the babies she wanted and that would be that. She would find herself…somebody else. Somebody who wanted her.  Somebody for whom she wasn’t annoying…who she didn’t make uncomfortable.

Somebody for herself. 

Something for herself. 

She would fill her room with stupid trinkets she bought herself because nobody else would do it for her. She would buy pretty dresses that tried to mask that she wasn’t as pretty as her sisters. She would do all of that. 

And what her sisters thought about any of that…well, she didn’t fucking care. Not anymore. 

She wasn’t the only one angry. The shadows were hissing, spitting, swirling menacingly, nearly filling the whole room…and she wasn’t scared. That didn’t even cross her mind.

How dares she? The shadows hissed. She owed you an apology, not…not this.

Maybe for the first time in her life, Eira Archeron wanted to be utterly and completely selfish. 

Nobody was going to put her first. Not if she didn’t do it herself. 

“I’ll be buying myself something horribly expensive,” she finally said, her voice shaking. 

Do it, the shadows said, amusement bleeding into their voice, still angrily swirling, coming to wrap around her wrists. Buy whatever you want.

They dropped a catalogue next to her hands, and Eira reached out to take it with shaky hands. 

Whatever she wanted. 

The problem was only, she had no idea what she wanted. 

Maybe a new dress? Maybe some jewellery…like a necklace? Or a bracelet? 

A ring?

Like the rings her sisters had? Given to them by their mates, who loved them? 

Feyre’s Sapphire? The Ruby that encircled Nesta’s finger since her mating ceremony? 

Or maybe Elain’s ring…gold and diamond, looking like the rays of the sun, so fitting for the future wife of the heir to the Day Court. 

No. No jewellery. 

These godforsaken pearl earrings had been enough. 

Something Eira wanted. Something Eira needed. 

Eira could use a new pair of shoes. She already had brought her old ones to the cobbler thrice. Maybe…that wasn’t a ridiculous request after all…

She opened the catalogue, paging through it until she found the shoe section. She stared at the little pictures accompanying them. Humans hadn’t yet figured out how to do print in full colour, but the drawings on this page were brightly colourful. Clearly not a problem here in Prythian. 

She quickly slipped over the pages that had silk slippers and pretty heels on them. That wasn’t practical to run after Nyx with, right? Then she found a page with practical leather shoes… decisively female, a small heel…they weren’t that dissimilar to human fashion. 

She examined them closer. “Laces or Buckle? What do you think?” she asked the shadows. The ones with shoelaces were cheaper…but if she bought one with the buckles, she could also change them out, buy extra buckles…swap them with a crystal-embellished buckle or silver for gold…

All of that was possible. 

The ones with the buckles! The shadows said quickly. 

“They are pretty, aren’t they?” Eira commented and marked the page by folding down one corner as she turned the page. 

Definitely one contender. 

She couldn’t remember ever having done anything similar before. 

When she had still been human, as a child her mother had reigned over her wardrobe with an iron fist. They had never been allowed to pick out anything. 

And then later…after they had lost their fortune…well, picking out anything involved turning around every clipped copper coin. 

She had never been able to just…leisurely look at things and find the pretty and think about buying them…without even really looking at the price tag attached to them. 

Eira flipped back to the shoes, the tip of her finger tracing the writing…she had always been atrocious at reading. The letter tended to change their position, and it hadn’t changed as a Fae either. and she could never tell that to anybody, because the one time she had, her finger had been violently rapped by a wooden ruler and that had been that. 

If she just took her time…carefully…it worked. Just took her longer. She found the price attached to the shoes, knowing that even without the shadows, she could afford them. 

She had stashed away money in the chest at the foot of her bed after all. Not a lot but…enough for the shoes. 

Eira paged through more of the catalogue…oohing and awwing over dresses, where the shadows tried to talk her into buying herself a ballgown much to her amusement, though in the end, they agreed on a pretty blue-grey dress with billowing sleeves cuffed at her wrist…

Eira would never feel comfortable in the Night Court fashion of cropped tops and pants…she would much rather be covered up completely. But that dress…that looked quite pretty. 

She turned to the next page, and the next after that, trawling her way through skirts and cardigans and shirt waists…

And then Eira found the fabric section, biting her lip. Any time she had gone to a fabric shop in Velaris, it had been to buy fabric for a gift for her sisters. Never for herself. She didn’t need anything. 

That’s pretty, the shadows whispered in her ear, seemingly solidifying to point out a specific cotton print on that page. 

She wondered how they even saw anything. They didn’t have eyes. But then magic seemed to be the answer to nearly everything in Prythian. 

It was pretty. A ditsy little floral print…white ground, green leaves…It was pretty. So was a white cotton gauze with little dots…that was the one that she considered seriously. The price was good…she could use a new dress for her birthday…

She marked that page as well, flipping over to the next…and there it was. 

It was an advertisement that caught her eye, and she was nearly flicking to the next page as she caught the word teeth. 

“Faes can fix teeth?“ she asked weakly, as she read that advertisement, a promise about cosmetic procedures…like full lashes and eyebrows and…perfect teeth. 

Perfect teeth. 

“Could they fix mine?” she asked, desperation bleeding into her voice. 

Her teeth were…well, her greatest insecurity on a good day. They were…fine. It wasn’t painful at least. It was just that her two front teeth were too big for her face…which made her look like…

What’s wrong with your teeth? Do they hurt you? You’ll need a healer for that, the shadows said immediately, worriedly. 

“They are too big. Just the two front teeth. I look like a rabbit,”  she admitted in a whisper. Or a mole rat. Her mother had preferred the latter. 

Everything else could be fixed one way or another…but nothing could be fixed for her teeth. 

When she had been a child she had still hoped that she would grow into them, but that had never happened. 

And not even the cauldron had thought it would be prudent to fix them. Leaving her with them…still standing out starkly. 

They were the reason why she never smiled widely, why she made sure to talk with her lips pulled over them…why she didn’t wear bright lipstick. 

A few dozen things that she didn’t do because of them. 

You do not look like a rabbit, the shadows disagreed with a snort…and then after a moment:  Do they bother you?

They asked that like it was a near foreign thing…like…

“My mother used to…She used to tell me that…” She tried to bring the words over her lips but she choked on them. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t…

Once you feel better, you can go and have them changed to however you want to look, the shadows told her softly. Do they truly bother you that much?

“I know that I won’t ever be the beautiful one. But…if…If I could just feel…just feel pretty…just once,” she whispered, staring at that advertisement. 

If they could just fix her teeth… 

As soon as you feel better, the shadows promised her. But that’s not ridiculously expensive. Neither is one single pair of shoes, that dress….or a few yards of that fabric. Nearly teasing. 

But it was nice teasing. Sweet teasing. Teasing that did nothing but make a small smile appear on her face. 

“I could always buy more fabric,” she gave back, biting her lip and the shadows tugged at her fingers in response. 

But if magic could fix her teeth…maybe it could also fix her hair. 

A light brown mess on her head that never did what she wanted it to do… 

“Is there something for my hair as well?” she asked hesitantly, and the shadows flipped through her catalogue until it brought her to a page with hair care supplies. 

There are potions you can use…enchanted brushes too, they told her. You’ll want something for naturally curly hair.  

They didn’t need to tell Eira that twice. 

The morning she stopped bleeding she was out on the streets of Velaris as soon as the sun rose…dropping off the dresses she had hemmed, and picking up her newest commissions and then walking to that shop that promised her perfect teeth. 

It was a woman, a female, her age who looked up from the magazine she was reading, took one look at her, asked for a handful of gold coins…gave her a mirror in her hand and then drily said: “Just say stop when they have the size you want.”

And that was that. 

Eira could have wept with her gratitude. 

Her teeth looked perfect. Just like she had so often hoped they would look. 

The same could be said about her hair after one bath with her new potions and a run-through with her enchanted brush. 

Unmanageable frizzy hair that never looked like she wanted it to look? 

With magic no more. Thick, perfect, glossy curls fell over her shoulders in fat ringlets. 

To say that she was in a good mood after that…It was the understatement of a dozen centuries at least. 

Eira was ecstatic. 

She loved it. She felt…she felt so pretty. For once. 

“Good Morning!” she chirped as she entered the dining room. Not even the sight of Elain pouring over her wedding binders could put a dent in her happiness that morning. 

“Good Morning,” Elain responded, staring at her like she had gone mad but Eira didn’t care, as she poured herself a cup of tea, took a slice of toast, smeared jam all over it... 

“It’s a beautiful day outside, isn’t it?” she asked brightly, as she took a bite, chewed, swallowed…

Elain stared at her. 

“Eira…what did you do with your teeth?” her sister asked her, staring at her. 

“I got them fixed! Isn’t that great? Magic can do that!” she enthused. They were perfect! They looked just like she wanted them to look!

It was like thunder pulled over Elain’s expression. “You can’t be serious!” she snapped. “What were you thinking?!”

“That I got my teeth fixed?”  Eira gave back questioningly. What did it even matter to Elain? Couldn’t she just be happy? Eira was so fucking happy about her choice. 

“This doesn’t change things, Eira!” Elain said harshly. “It’s still never going to go anywhere!”

She opened her mouth to respond, but she was beaten to it. 

“What is never going to go anywhere?” Feyre’s voice came from the doorway as she entered, Nyx on her hips, staring around the room…waving chubby little arms in Eira’s direction that made her smile at him brightly. 

“Eira’s little crush on Azriel,” Elain said evenly. “He’s completely disinterested. and she has gone and gotten her teeth fixed in some hare-brained attempt to…”

“What does it matter to you?” Eira interrupted her. This had nothing to do with…him. This had been for her. Because she was the one her teeth bothered, long before she had ever even met him.  “They aren’t your teeth.” 

Feyre stared at her and Eira smiled brightly, showing all her teeth…something she would have never done before. But now she did. 

“Your teeth were fine before,” Feyre told her, staring at her like she couldn’t quite believe that Eira had gone and done this.  

“My teeth were too big for my mouth,” Eira disagreed. And really, she didn’t understand why she even needed to defend herself on this. “The last time I checked I was allowed to do with my body whatever I wanted,” she murmured under her breath. 

And this…this was harmless. This was just fixing her teeth. It didn’t hurt anybody. Not her, not anybody else…

Feyre didn’t seem convinced. “How much money did you spend on this?” her sister asked her, a sharpness sinking into her voice and Eira crossed her arms. 

“Not a single coin that belongs to you or your mate,” she gave back, her voice cold. “I spend my money, money I earned, on something that I wanted.” 

She was allowed to want things. Whatever she wanted, the shadows had promised her and they had kept that promise. 

“Did you do this because of Azriel?” Feyre asked, softening slightly. “Eira, that’s not going to work.”

She knew that. 

“My whole life does not revolve around other people,” Eira said calmly, meeting her sister's gaze. “I wanted it.”

“He’s still not going to be interested in you,” Elain snorted. 

Once again. Hitting that one weak spot her sister had sussed out.��

People always thought that Elain was oh-so-sweet. What they forgot was that even the most beautiful, most fragrant rose had its thorns. 

She said nothing. Didn’t flinch away. Didn’t say anything. 

“It’s true,” Feyre said with a sigh, actually agreeing with Elain. “I have wanted to talk to you about that, Eira…” her sister said, visibly uncomfortable. “Could you at least try to get over him? It’s…it would be better for…this court.”

Of course, it would be. This court. 

Because that’s what mattered, right? That’s what mattered to the High Lady. 

That the court was functional. That the spymaster wasn’t uncomfortable…that her sister wasn’t having a ridiculous puppy crush on another member of this court.  

And what was Eira supposed to say to this? 

What was she supposed to say to that? 

Eira’s feelings didn’t really matter anyway. They were nothing but an inconvenience. 

“I am sorry,” she said, her voice quiet, staring at her hands so that she didn’t need to look at two of her sisters…so they wouldn’t see the tears gathering in her eyes. “I’ll make sure that my feelings won’t inconvenience anybody else ever again.”

“That’s not…” Feyre started, but Eira shook her head.

“I understand,” she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth, all her appetite gone, as she stood to go back to her room. 

[felassan]

New today on DA:TV from Game Informer:

"As part of the character creation process for Dragon Age: The Veilguard, players will have to select both a class for their player-controlled Rook and a faction. After customizing much of your Rook's body, including things like a Qunari's horn type and material, for example, with the hundreds of options available in Veilguard, it will be time to pick said class.  There are three classes to choose from: Rogue, Mage, and Warrior. As the names suggest, each features a unique combat system and plays differently as a result. Though you’ll be performing things like light and heavy attacks using the same buttons, what those attacks do varies based on your class. For example, a sword-and-shield Warrior can hip-fire or aim their shield to throw it like Captain America, whereas a Mage can use that same button to throw out magical ranged attacks – read more about the combat of Veilguard in Game Informer's exclusive feature here. Plus, as you spec out these classes and unlock their individual specializations, the differences will only grow even more stark.  - The Rogue has access to three specializations. The Duelist is the fastest of the three, with two blades for rapid strikes; the Saboteur uses tricks and traps; and the Veil Ranger is purely range, sniping enemies from afar with a bow. - The Mage can utilize necromancy with the Death Caller specialization; Evokers wield fire, ice, and lightning; and the Spellblade uses magic-infused melee attacks. - The Warrior can become a Reaper, which uses night blades to steal life and risk death to gain unnatural abilities; a Slayer, a simple but strong two-handed weapons expert; or the Champion, a tactical defense fighter. While these specializations don't matter upfront – you class into them via the skill trees you progress through the game – it's nice to see the potential of each class before you choose it.  For the penultimate step of the character creator, at least during the demo BioWare shows me, players select a faction. The Grey Wardens return, joined by other returning favorites and new additions like the Antivan Crows, the Mourn Watch, the Shadow Dragons, the pirate-themed Lords of Fortune, which is what I chose in my demo for the current Game Informer cover story, and the Veil Jumpers. Each faction has unique casual wear, which is worn in specific cutscenes when the character isn't donning armor, and three unique traits. The Lords of Fortune, for example, gain additional reputation with this particular faction, have increased damage versus mercenaries, and perform takedowns on enemies with slightly less effort. Veilguard game director Corinne Busche says this faction selection, which ties into your character's backstory, determines who your Rook was before, how they met Varric, why they travel with Varric instead of their faction, and more. "The message of The Veilguard is you're not saving the world on your own – you need your companions, but you also need these factions, these other groups in the world," creative director John Epler tells me. "You help them, they help you now.""

"He says BioWare wanted to avoid the trope of needing to gather 200 random resources or objects before helping you save the world. Instead, the team aimed to create factions that want to help you but have realistic challenges and problems in front of them so that narratively, it makes sense why you help them in return for their help when the time comes.  "Gameplay-wise – each of our classes has a specialization, and each of them is tied to a faction," Epler continues. "But beyond that, each faction has a [companion] as well as [people we're calling agents, ancillarily] who exist as the faces of these factions. We didn't want to just say, 'Here's the Grey Wardens, go deal with them.' We wanted characters within that faction who are sympathetic, who you can see and become the face of the faction, so that even if there are moments where the faction as a whole may be on the outs with you, these characters are still with you; they've still got your back."  If you find yourself unhappy with your lineage or your class, you can change them using the Mirror of Transformation, found in the main Veilguard hub, The Lighthouse. You can also change your Rook's visual appearance there, too.""

Update: the article has been updated with the following Editor's Note -

"[Editor's Note: This article previously stated players can change their physical appearance, class, lineage, and identity using the Mirror of Transformation. That is incorrect as class, lineage, and identity are locked after you first select those. The article has been updated to reflect that, and Game Informer apologizes for any confusion this mistake may have caused.]"

[source]

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART TWO

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, kidnapping, 141 are mean pirates, brief mentions of gore/death previous part

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

The time you spent in the brig was frigid and isolating. Despite it being summer, the cold gusts of the sea had crept in through the thin cracks of the wooden ship, rising goosebumps on your skin and sending shivers wracking through your body. You were in no attire to accommodate the chill, only dressed in your barest of summer garments, thin and dirtied from the poverty your village lived in.

Silence became your new friend, while also your enemy. As much as you were one to appreciate the quiet of the world, the waves crashing along the sides of the ship were far too loud, taunting you with a grim reminder that you were lost at sea with no home to return to.

Your home was burned down to ash, surely with no survivors, given the state of havoc you’d returned to when Ghost told you to fetch your things. Your home didn’t treat you kindly, but it was still the place you’d grown up in and planned on dying peacefully. Now, you were a prisoner to pirates, ones only told about in silly fairy tales.

The stories of pirates had scared you when you were a young child. The elders had grouped together all children on summer nights such as this one, feeding them useless fables of the dangerous men and women that ruled the seas. They were ruthless, showing no remorse for the ones they tormented, uncaring of the bloodshed they splattered along native lands of the innocent.

That’s all they were when you were a child. Stories. Only meant to keep the youth away from the seas as not to witness them fall in and succumb to a painful death of drowning.

Now, though, it was your cruel reality. A nightmare. The pirates from those tales had been plucked straight out of the book and planted right into your life, erupting it into living hell.

Nobody had come to check on you after Ghost left you locked up in the cell. It had been hours since, the only telltale sign being the peek of sunlight poking through the small brig window and illuminating the room enough to shower you in a faint glow. There was nothing but a cot in the cell, the lower deck bare of anything useful.

Your escape would be fruitless. You’d thought about squeezing through the tiny window, but even if you managed, where would that leave you? Captured in the waves of the sea until you’d sink to the bottom in exhaustion.

You had to play it smart. Staying awake for hours alone had left you with plenty of rapid thoughts, some irrational. The best thing you’d decided in the end was to play along, gain their trust, and fulfill your role. As much as a part of you wished you were dead, it would be betraying your village, betraying Mary.

They needed to be caught. These pirates needed to pay for their crimes.

Gain their trust. Get off of the ship. Inform the nearest guard station.

When daylight fully broke, the sound of a creaky door caught your attention. More sunlight poured through the open doorway from the top of the stairs, showcasing one of the pirates. This time, it wasn’t Ghost, but instead, the one who had tossed you over their shoulder like a weak sack of potatoes.

Gaz said nothing as he descended down the stairs. In his hand was a steaming bowl, swirling around him like an ominous mist. His eyes locked on to yours, hardened from years of thievery and slaughter. There wasn’t an ounce of kindness in them, nor indication that he was anything besides a sailing machine designed to follow Captain’s orders.

You watched keenly as he approached your cell. He stood over you like a brewing storm cloud, shadowing you from the stretch of light behind him.

For a moment, the two of you sat there frozen. You, terrified and cautious. Him, off putting and brooding.

Breaking the tension, his free hand scrambled for the keys latched on to the loops on his trousers, inserting one of the keys into the lock. He paused, eyeing you as a warning not to pull a brainless move. When he was satisfied you wouldn’t dare, he tugged the cell door open before stepping inside.

“Here,” he muttered, crouching down to place the bowl of food in front of you. Upon further inspection, you realized it was porridge. Bland and colorless.

You had no appetite after the horrors you’d seen. The sight of food had your stomach twisting, filling with rotten bile that begged to escape you and paint the floor beneath you.

Brimming with rage and seethe, you did the first thing that came to mind. Your hands picked up the bowl, carefully guiding it up to your mouth in attempts to seem starved. Gaz watched carefully, face set in firm lines that bristled a resentful itch inside of you.

With a turn of your hands, you tossed the porridge directly at Gaz, coating him in the piping liquid, chunks of vegetable that had been carelessly tossed in for flavor slipping down his front. His shirt and trousers were drenched, staining with the lifeless meal.

His face morphed into one of surprise before quickly shifting course. Instead, he was angry, eyebrows pulling taut, scowl curling on his lips. His eyes darkened impossibly more, filling the warm pupils with a menacing black.

“You fuckin’ wench,” he hissed, standing from his crouch to angrily swipe at the food that littered his clothing. It fell to the floor in a mushy mess right in front of you. Due to his aggression, a few stray chunks splattered back on to you in retaliation.

Realizing what you’d done, you tensed up, shuffling back from your place on the floor until your back hit the splintering walls of the ship. Gaz let out a roaring groan in irritation, sending a daggering glare your way.

“You are not hungry?” he asked tauntingly. He stepped out of the cell, slamming the door shut and locking it up tight. “Starve then. You will learn soon enough.”

Watching with widened eyes, he left the brig, grumbling angry curses to himself. When he shut the doors of your escape, you were met with sickening silence once again. The sound of waves taunted you, whispering insults in your ears for being such a stupid girl.

The pact you’d made with yourself was already in ruin. Befriending the pirates would be a difficult task if you couldn’t swallow down your enmity, and now you’d gone and made a foe.

Nobody returned to your cell for the rest of the day. It was punishment, that much you could figure out. Your stomach grumbled with desperate pleas, yet you could do nothing but wallow in your own acrimony for the remainder of the night.

When morning rose, you were awakened by the sound of the door once again. The light was blinding as it invaded the room, temporarily blocking your view of the person who’d stepped inside. When your eyes adjusted, you were faced with another pirate, the one who had held Mary down while you pleaded with him to release her.

Gaz stood beside him, arms crossed to appear larger. His face was unreadable, but you could feel the tease of resentment fluttering in his eyes.

“Not goin’ to toss yer breakfast on me, are ye?” the other snickered, eliciting a glare from Gaz. The pirate stepped forward, unlocking your cell and slipping inside. This time, he held the stale porridge while Gaz remained a pace behind him. “I know yer starvin’, so don’t be a prude. Eat up, aye?”

He set the bowl in front of you, just as Gaz had done. Remaining crouched in front of you, he made a gesture of his head towards the steaming meal, a toothy grin on his face.

You knew better than to feel relieved at the kindness. He was a pirate, just as the others, and he was cruel and unruly. Though, thinking back on your plan, his youthfulness may be a much easier one to befriend.

“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly with a respectful bow of your head. You reached for the bowl, gathering it in both hands. Gaz and the other studied you, seemingly waiting for a repeat of dirty laundry. It never came, though, and you lifted the wood spoon to your lips, swallowing down the first bite.

Just as you thought, it was bitter. How one could even make porridge bitter, you were unsure, but your stomach made no protest to the grainy oats. In fact, it was rather appealing, having been starved for two days.

“Take it ye like it, then?” the one pirate hummed, cocking his head at the display. “Get used to it, birdie. It’ll be yer meal for majority of yer time here.” He shot you another grin, resembling a mangy cat.

The reminder of your permanent stay was a difficult one, but your plan played over in your head. You wanted to go home, though it was no more, and you wanted your freedom back. Neither would be possible if you didn’t show kindness in return.

“What’s your name?” you questioned, making a poor attempt at conversation.

“Soap,” he introduced proudly. You didn’t mean to, but the name made you snort, triggering a light cough from the porridge you’d been in the middle of swallowing down.

“Soap is an… interesting name,” you grimaced. Soap didn’t seem to mind the back-handedness, only keeping that signature grin that was beginning to grow a bit hard on the eyes.

“Aye, got the name from bein’ a bit too rowdy. Price wanted to wash my mouth out.” His own words had him cackling, loud and boisterous in the cramped brig. Gaz had no reaction, opting for the hardened look that was practically piercing into you like thousands of knives. “What’s yer name, birdie? Got to learn who our new medic is.”

You wanted to remind him that you weren’t a medic. Not a professional one, anyway. You knew the bare minimum of proper medical etiquette and your medicines Ghost had told you to bring with were simply experimental mixtures. But you also knew that he wouldn’t listen nor care.

“The village called me dove,” you explained, swallowing down more porridge. It was warm in your mouth, coating your throat with gooey goodness. “Though, I don’t think it was much out of kindness.”

Soap hummed in acknowledgement, shooting a lopsided smile and a nod of his head. “Not quite a pirate name, dove, but it’ll do.”

“I’m not a pirate,” you defended with a frown.

“Ye are now,” he reckoned mindlessly, shrugging a lazy shoulder. Soap stood from his position, straightening up next to Gaz. “I’ll give ye some advice to be a part of this crew, dove. It’s not nice to throw porridge at a poor lad like Gaz.” Soap clapped Gaz on his shoulder, earning a scowl, which he ignored.

Your eyes shifted from Soap to Gaz, taking in the pure annoyance radiating off of him in waves. It was undeniable, practically filling the room’s atmosphere with black mist.

“I apologize,” you forced out, though that bitter part of you denied it. You wouldn’t feel sorry for these pirates. After all, they didn’t feel bad for the innocent lives they ruined.

Gaz’s nose twitched at your faux remorse, staring at you for a beat too long before turning away. He made no move to talk to you, but it wasn’t a blatant refusal of your apology. Perhaps he was just a tough nut to crack with a soft sweetness on the inside, even for a pirate.

The two men left you alone in the brig once again, only returning to give you meals as needed. It was terribly lonely the more the weeks went on with no move to release you from your cell. It was as if none of them trusted you, despite them being the ones to kidnap you. They burned down your home, slaughtered your people, and yet, wouldn’t allow you a chance to taste a sliver of freedom.

It was agonizing to wait, but you kept up your facade as much as you could, dripping with poisoned honey every time Gaz or Soap entered the brig with means to feed you.

Price or Ghost hadn’t made an entrance to see you. For the most part, you were grateful for it. In just the couple of weeks Soap and Gaz had been feeding you, they were warming up to you, slow and steady — Soap more than the other.

Gaz still had his reservations about you. He was reclusive, always standing on guard as if the shadows in the wall were prepared to attack at any given moment. It was better than before, where he had treated you like a burdening dog who he couldn’t rid himself of, but the progress was dwindling.

Soap was much more gracious. While he was obnoxious, he was much more welcoming company. You had no desire to truly befriend these pirates, but if any were to be the most tolerable, it was Soap.

Price and Ghost, though, were a mystery. Their absence made crucial falters in your meticulous plotting. You wanted out of the cell so you may roam the creaky decks of the ship, but the dream simply wouldn’t be possible without their trust.

It wasn’t until the fourth week of your imprisonment that the storyline had shifted. Rather than Soap bringing you your meal for the night, it was the Captain himself, standing tall and brute in front of your barred enclosure.

Unease rattled through your bones at his sudden appearance. You weren’t expecting him, nor were you prepared to face the very man who had slain your village with the help of his men.

He observed you like a lab rat, studying every movement like a variable in his experiment. It was prodding and exposing, leaving you sitting in your cell with a heavy lump in your throat.

“Soap tells me you’re warmin’ up to him,” he claimed, breaking the thick silence that smothered the air. He paced back and forth in front of your cell, eyes focused in on you. “Figured I’d properly introduce myself, seein’ as we’ll be spendin’ a lot of time together.”

You swallowed the rock in your throat, unmoving from your position on the floor. It was far from comfortable, but the cot was worn and dirty, so the floor became your only friend in the midst of all your dispair.

“I see,” you managed, clearing your throat. Price continued his relentless pacing, hands crossed behind his back in a formal manner. Ironic, really, considering his ruthless occupation.

“Dove, was it?” he asked. You nodded wearily. “A shame, really. Doves are lovely things, beautiful creatures made up of the purest white. Yet your village had called you it in ridicule. Or so I heard.”

Price was a man that spoke in riddles. He spouted conversation in the form of poetry, only tainting its beauty when angered. It was both unnerving and intriguing for a pirate. He wasn’t dirtied like you’d heard in childhood tales.

“I suppose they did,” you agreed with a small frown. The anxious pit in your stomach only grew, triggering alarm bells telling you that this man was an enigma. He wasn’t to be trusted.

“And why is that?” Price questioned. He ceased his pacing to face you properly, and you wished he’d return to it. His stature was that of a behemoth, overpowering and menacing, much like Ghost had been.

“Why did they call me dove?” you responded in confusion.

“Why did they ridicule you,” he corrected.

The statement made you pause. You hadn’t really thought about your townspeople dumbing you down to a mere crazy girl with too much ambition. You were the talk of the village within your age group as well as the occasional elder who tsked at you for never marrying.

The relationship between you and your people was one of complexity. While you loved them as your own, they battered you every chance they had. Hell, even Lucius himself had outed you to a group of pirates without care in the world. The very man who had spent countless months in attempts to make you a pretty village wife had sent you to your early grave to save his own ass.

“They thought I was different,” you explained woefully. “It is not normal for a woman to partake in medicine, let alone education. Doves are beautiful, yes, but they’re also adventurous. It is a dangerous conviction to be compared to as a woman.”

Price cocked his head to the side, filling the air with silence. You weren’t sure why you felt the need to explain yourself to a dingy villain such as him, but you feared that if you weren’t honest in your conversation, he’d be able to sniff out your deception from miles away.

“Who has told you it is not normal?” Price asked, and once again, he had stumped you.

“It is not a difficult thing to digest, Captain. Women do not involve themselves in ambition.”

“They quite do,” he retorted. You stared up at him through the bars, your own head cocking. You didn’t trust his word, but a shriveled piece of you was curious. “Sure, it is not acceptable in certain places, but it is quite popular.”

You blinked at him, before staring at the wooden floor, pondering.

You had been expecting the Captain to treat you with hostility, to throw nasty words your way with the excuse of being a pirate. That was what you had been told in adolescence, how dirty they could be, but he was calm.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Price said. He leaned forward to rest his forearms on the bars of your cell, standing over you with only that barrier separating you. “I am not a cruel man. You may think differently, and for that, I do not care. But I will say that I believe you will have a much better life upon my ship.”

His words were a mix of sweet venom being spat at you. While they could be perceived as kind, there was an underlying message, one you couldn’t decipher.

“You burned down my village and killed my people. You kidnapped me to be your medic on your ship,” you defended, unable to hold back the taste of lingering resentment.

You had nearly forgotten why you were there with Soap and Gaz visiting to shift your mind elsewhere. You almost dismissed your own plan of escape. Price had reminded you without realizing, and now, your heart felt heavy once again.

“Ah, yes. The people that willingly sacrificed their own in effort to save themselves,” Price mused mockingly. The words stung. “Yes, we took you against your will. I will admit that. But your people treated you far worse.”

“You do not know a thing, Captain,” you spat.

Price cocked his head once more, resting his forehead on the forearms that lay upon your cell. “Aye, I do not,” he admitted. “But I know a bird with clipped wings when I see one. Perhaps you’ll be grateful when you learn to accept things as they are.”

You wanted to retort, wanted to get the last word in, but he was right. You barely knew the Captain and yet, he had read you like a novel, flipping through your pages and memorizing them from one single look through.

It felt dehumanizing. He was cruel and vicious, as were his men. They were nowhere near saviors, yet he spoke to you as if he was. It sickened you to the core, but there was no denying his brutal honesty.

Price offered you a lazy smile before standing straight, arms falling to his sides. “I suggest gettin’ used to your new life. You’ve got no home to return to anyway.”

He retreated from your cell as if he hadn’t slapped you in the face with a dose of reality. His boots were heavy and aggravating as they trudged up the stairs towards the upper deck, where he promptly shut the door on you, leaving you alone once again.

Your escape plan was falling into shambles before it had even began to fester. 

[buddielifers]

THIS IS TRUELY THE BEST 6 MINUTE EXPLAINATION OF EDDIE’S QUEERNESS I HAVE EVER SEEN!!

This part is truely the most incredible explaination in the video ⬇️👏:

“In all of Eddie’s romantic relationships he has consistantly faced challenges with communication often rushing into them and feeling pressured by others expectations even when he was dating he felt like he had to perform[…] however all of these relationships and problems they have, none have been a problem with his relationship with Buck; Buck who Eddie trusts more than anyone else with his son and himself; who Eddie has no problems communicating his emotions to and gets to be vulnerable with; who has been a co-parent with Eddie which was confirmed by Ryan and Oliver themselves; who Eddie took time to change his will and choose Buck as Christopher’s legal guardian even when he has family in case of his death; who he sacrificed his safety to save when Buck was struck by lightening; whose relationship has been paralleled by all of the other relationships in the show. A relationship build on trust, vulnerability and mutual support qualities absent in his previous romances and who Eddie loves to his core. Some might say the writers may not acknowledge his queerness however when the start of the season happened with Buck coming out first it was Eddie who was considered to kiss Tommy and come out when they were writing the story so the writers acknowledge that there is evidence and scenes in the show to pinpoint to Eddie being queer [….] and another thing people might say about Eddie coming out is ‘he was married and had a kid so it wouldn’t make sense’ season 1 on the show already tackled this story with Michael, Athena’a ex-husband, who in his later life came out as gay when he was married to Athena and had two children with her. There is no time limit when someone realizes they might be queer as we saw there with Michael and Buck, who in his 30s just now realized he is bisexual. Having a character like Eddie come out as queer would be an amazing representation for many people and embracing a queer narrative not only adds depth to his character but also provides meaningful representation for the audience navigating similar journeys of self discovery, identity, relationships and personal growth”

PLEASE WATCH THE WHOLE VIDEO!!

[skyahri]

Remember P3 |SatoSugu X Reader| HC

Part Two

A/N: Sorry it took so long! I was planning the story out and then I got this weird block and ugh. Enjoy!

- - - - -

Suguru sighs at the sight before him. You're passed out at your desk, contorted in an odd way that's sure to have your back hurting in the morning. There's empty cans of Redbull and worked through notebooks strewn about the area.

He should've known better than to fall asleep first. It's just past five am. He isn't sure how long you had stayed up after he eventually dosed off around midnight.

You had a habit of ignoring your basic needs and often relied on the people around you to set you straight, a quality he found both tragic and charming. Right now, he was just glad it was Saturday, so you didn't have to deal with the consequences during class.

He slides one arm under your awkwardly bent knees and the other under your back, tilting you towards him so you can fall into his broad chest. You hardly stir, and he has a passive thought about how easy it would be for a curse to catch you off guard right now.

His eyes wander briefly to the journals on your desk. He's a rational man, but surely anyone would be tempted to look, right? His future, his life, maybe even his death, hastily scribbled down in glittery purple gel ink right in front of him.

This could be his only opportunity to see what no one aside from you ever has. His only shot before they're sealed away in the school's catacombs, never to be seen by another again.

"Don't."

His destructive train of thought is quickly shut down with just one word. He swallows nervously, embarrassed to have been caught pondering something stupid. He peeks down at you. Your eyes are still closed, but your hand is resting on his chest, almost like a subtle warning of sorts.

He shifts you slightly, readjusting his grip to hold you more steady. You lull your head against him and breathe in his scent. He's wearing the same cologne he's had since your first year, the same one you could still smell on him after his death.

"You're awake, yet you let me carry you to bed like a child."

He's teasing you, trying to break the stiff atmosphere he's unintentionally created. You aren't sure if he was playing off his own behavior, or if he had sensed a change in yours, but you were grateful for it either way.

"I'm letting you take care of me. There's a difference."

He puffs a bit of air through his nose and turns around. He carries you over to your bed and sets you down, tucking you in under the covers before moving away. Despite the tight feeling in your chest, you allow him to leave without protest.

Maybe you should've asked him to stay, then you wouldn't be here, staring at your clock as the sun hits your face, only a power nap's worth of sleep in your system.

You feel heavy. Your body is stressed and rigid, yet your mind is going a mile a minute. There's only a month until the assimilation and you haven't a clue where to start to fix it, not to mention every other dire event that's sure to happen in the next decade.

You groan, rolling over and sitting up on the edge of the bed. You smack your hands on your face desperately trying to rid yourself of the exhaustion. It was going to be a long day.

- - - - -

Despite how the day started (or did yesterday even end?), today was rather nice. You have the day off to rest, giving you the opportunity to enjoy the nice weather. The incoming sunset is soft, painting the walls of the school a nice orange color and making the view a little more surreal.

The courtyard has always been one of your favorite places. You're lying underneath the giant tree, head in Geto's lap, and legs across Gojo. You're still tired and the boys are arguing, but neither are enough to ruin an otherwise perfect moment.

You wish Shoko were here right now, but even she's sent out to assist on missions from time to time. You know she'd be leaning over you, clicking away on her phone, scolding you for your 'unsightly public display of affection'.

"Picking a grass starter is stupid. They have the most weaknesses."

"Maybe if you learned to appreciate the game instead of only using attack moves, you'd realize grass has its advantages."

"Support moves are for chumps. Ain't that right, princess?"

"I don't know, Satoru, Treecko is pretty cute."

He scoffs and places his hand over his chest to feign heartbreak. You and Suguru laugh, bumping your fists together and poking fun at the other.

Satoru, in the height of his hissy fit, pinches your thigh. You jolt and pout at him. You reach up and steal his glasses away, putting them on and enjoying the break from the bits of sunlight that peek through the leaves.

"You tag team me and steal my shades? You owe me a future question."

"Ask away."

Honestly, he wasn't expecting you to agree to his absurd request. For the almost two years he's known you, he's begged and pleaded for you to share your dreams with him. It's all he asks for when the holidays come around and you always deny him.

He shares a look with Geto, who's looking back at him just as awestruck. You aren't looking at their faces, but you know there's a silent conversation happening between them, probably trying to figure out the best use of their only wish.

Satoru finally clears his throat and sits a little straighter. His suddenly mature demeanor piques your interest.

"What do I look like?"

Suddenly the interest is gone. Suguru punches his shoulder making him yelp. You pinch your eyebrows together, flick up the glasses, and stare straight into his eyes.

"You're a fucking idiot."

Despite the disappointment (or is it relief?) you feel, you give him what he wants. You sit up just enough to reach his face, placing your hands on his cheeks and pulling him down to place a chaste kiss on his forehead. Suguru swears he can see residual twinkles left on his friend's skin at the contact.

"What was that?"

"I showed him my memories. It's an extension of my gift."

You lay back down and watch as Satoru's eyes light up. You were careful not to reveal anything about your relationship with him, choosing to show some friendlier, more subtle tidbits. Unfortunately, though, not much can get past Satoru on the rare occasion he actually applies himself.

"I'm wearing a wedding ring."

It's a statement, not a question, and you're positive that it was intentional on his part. You curse yourself under your breath and rack your brain for a way to get yourself out of this predicament.

"Yes."

"So I'm married? To who?"

"Too bad you wasted your question. Guess you'll have to wait and find out like the rest of us."

You can feel your pulse racing, the blood roaring in your ears as you're struck with the grief of your past.

You can't tell him the history behind that ring. There's no doubt in your mind that he knows who wears the other ring(s?)- it's obvious given the strange dynamic he shares with you and Suguru.

But it's not that simple and you can't find it in yourself to crush any shred of hope he has about living a normal life.

You can't tell him that you'd gotten married in a courthouse at nineteen years old so you could take shared guardianship of Megumi and Tsumiki. You can't tell him the rings you wore were damn near symbolic, something you kept on as a front for his clan and to keep some sort of normalcy for the little ones.

You can't tell him how nontraditional your relationship is. That you shared a bed more often than you slept alone, but there were no I-love-you's even if the feelings were there. That with Suguru gone, neither of you felt complete, even when it was Sunday night and you were sitting at a full table with your kids, laughing and joking like the weight wasn't there.

He doesn't need to know that he doesn't get the normal life he's most likely envisioning, because you're going to do your best to change it. He deserves to have a wife, not whatever mixing pot of sex and longing that held you two together through the thick.

You're thankful for Satoru's glasses that conceal the tears you're trying to blink away. Suguru sets his hand on your chest, right over your heart. His touch is warm and calming. He's always in tune with himself and extends that pleasure to you and the white-haired dork lost in thought beside you.

"Why don't we go inside and watch a movie? It's getting dark and it's supposed to rain soon."

Satoru is very melodramatic- always has been and always will be. You've grown accustomed to the odd way he chooses to deal with feelings- pretending they don't exist and smothering the situation with a bright smile and some sweets.

But Suguru? Suguru was never like that. He's an open book, willing to have difficult conversations at the drop of a hat. He balanced you and Satoru out nicely, encouraging the pair of you to at least attempt to cope with your troubles instead of bottling them up.

Which is why it's so easy to allow your walls to crumble in his hold after just a single touch. It's so easy to curl into him and allow him to mother you relentlessly. To fall back into the same routine you haven't known for years. To relish in the feeling of finally feeling whole again.

He offers you his hand and helps you to your feet. He gently brushes the grass off of your backside and you hear a smack. A quick glance behind you tells you it was Geto slapping away Satoru's opportunistic hand from copping a feel under your skirt.

You laugh and tug the boys closer to you, wrapping your arms around their waists and leading them inside. Your cheerful mood has returned and nothing is going to strip it away- not even the two losers swatting at each other behind your back.

Taglist: @wannapizzamymindposts @sadunicorns11 @reiluvr

[stellayuta]

Love on The Grid - Formula 1 AU! Yuta Okkotsu - Pt 5 (FINALE)

Your likes, comments and reblogs really encourage me to write more! So do interact with this post and let me know your thoughts 💙

PART 1 ||| PART 2 ||| PART 3 ||| PART 4 ||| PART 5

synopsis: One-night stands were nothing but a necessary painkiller for your inability to cross paths with true love. Your most recent find at a Vegas Club was no different. He was boring, obedient, SLOW! You leave him high and hanging hoping you'd never see him again until you find yourself gawking at a supersized billboard of him on a Vegas highway with the title 'LEGEND RETURNS TO VEGAS'.

content: 18+ only. Formula one driver! Yuta x f! reader, all sorts of sexy stuff (fingering, oral, orgasm denial), swearing, angsty elements, cheating and discussion of mental health <3 WARNING! Always use protection!

word count: 10k

a/n: part 5 and the final part! For the purpose of this story, Last race of the season takes place in Japan, not Abu Dhabi.

"Y/N..." A voice tries to break your rigid concentration. "Listen, Y/N..."

"What!" you snap finally, turning to face your anxious coworker. You look away from your monitor to find one of the timid interns holding her laptop shakily, mortified at your outburst. You clear your throat and quickly readjust your computer glasses.

"I'm sorry about that, I was just going through some of the client meeting notes." You clarify, pointing at your screen. "What's wrong?"

"No, I just wanted to make sure the tickets were booked right. I've never traveled out of the county. And this is such a big deal as an intern, I-I want to make sure I do everything right!" she blurts out, making you give her a small, nostalgic smile. You remember when you were an intern - tiny, timid, clueless. When you moved out of your small town, you left behind all the things that restricted or haunted you. Now your new job is flashier than ever, in the heart of a metropolitan city, buzzing with people and possibilities and with a promotion on the horizon. It had been a year, and you don't even remember Megumi's face anymore. You had no hard feelings and not even a single second of your time left to give to him anymore.

It was hard at first of course, but encouragement and support from your friends and a lot of self-work soon helped you find balance and self-satisfaction in life. You were at your healthiest at this point. Away from turmoil and away from self-doubt.

"Y/N, did you listen?" the intern looked at you nervously, derailing your train of thought yet again.

"Come again, sorry."

"The other Manager has recommended your name to accompany me at the Tech Summit, with two other interns. He said you'll be able to manage us properly. They've already booked your tickets."

You almost choke on the coffee you're sipping.

"What? Who the hell gave them-" you begin to roar but then looking at the poor girl cower in fear, you sit back down.

"No, no. I'm not mad at you."

You were mad because this was the weekend of the last race. The decider match.

Of course, it had been a year, you had metamorphosized, moved on. But you never forgot the race that got you on the edge of your seat back in Vegas. And neither did you forget the man who drove you crazy with lust. Not even for a single day. His business card was still hidden underneath your phone cover, creaseless. You had never dared to look at his number.

Now, you cheered him on as a fan. Following his races, rooting for him. Every now and then, your heart would ache - but you were happy for him. The only connection you had with him was through your device screen.

After a disappointing end to his last season, you had a lot of guilt. He clearly looked a bit weary, insomnia ridden for sure. Not willing to talk during interviews, keeping a low profile. He had gathered a lot of negative press because of this, people on social media sending him death threats, cyber bullying him, picking apart anything he said or did. It broke you to see him that way and there were many times you wanted to reach out - comfort him. But you knew it wasn't right.

You weren't ready then and he definitely didn't need a reminder that you happened to him. And now, it's too late for any of that.

Yuta maintained his aggressive, dominant racing style that he cultivated over the last year compared to the calm, calculative run he had during the years prior. It was a shock to the grid, but newer fans were very fond of the new beast that the track had birthed. He spoke less, remained polite and stayed out of trouble - focusing everything on winning races.

Fan interaction was the least of his concerns right now because Geto's team, Red Bull - had come up with massive and effective updates making the fight for the title a challenging yet thrilling one. They wanted to continue their laurels from last year and secure Geto his second win. They were closely tailed by Gojo and Geto's teammate, Mahito.

Geto and Yuta were currently tied in the standings. The final match was to take place on Sunday. The decider. Yuta and Geto's home race. And you would now miss it because that stupid manager can't be bothered to move his ass.

"I have plans. I can't make it." you flatly tell the intern who merely frowns. She was probably prepared to get a rejection from me because she is ready with her rebuttal. "The manager said you had committed a few weekends this summer. He just picked this one based on that."

"I'll talk to him." you reply, shaking your head and pinching your throbbing temple. With great responsibilities, come great migraines.

"Where is the summit anyway?" you ask, already typing out a message for her manager.

"Oh, It's in Japan. I'm quite excited, it's a beautiful country."

Japan?

You backspace the entire message.

"Never mind, I'm coming." You leave your laptop open as the split window flashes with a formula one ad - "Decider Race in Suzuka, Japan. Join the Fun, December this Year!"

"Let me meet up with your supervisors and talk more."

*****

The immigration at Japan's Nagoya International Airport, with three kids tailing you, hiding behind you like puppies is a bit of hassle with the language barrier and everything, but you persist regardless.

It's rather comfortably cool but not bitingly cold, even for December, owing to Suzuka's more southern location - compared to Tokyo. There is no sign of snowfall as you witnessed from the airplane while it descended. It would be good conditions for the race - a bit dry perhaps. And of course, the summit, the main attraction!

The interns, though a bit overwhelmed by the new environment, are starting to show signs of excitement as well. Their initial shyness is giving way to curiosity, their eyes wide with wonder at the sights and sounds of the bustling airport. You smile, knowing that this experience will be a memorable adventure for them too.

You are finally able to catch a shuttle to the hotel you're staying at - a five star one (courtesy of your company) and are finally able to relax, staring out the foggy window at the organized and clean Japanese streets, and the people, dressed in plain, formal clothes walking to work perhaps. You almost get lost in the mundanity of it all until the interns alert you that the hotel is here.

You all get down with all your luggage and gawk at the premier hotel building with its cream granite exterior, European design and tall pillars. It looked a bit out of place in the minimalistic spread of Suzuka. There is already a line at the receptionist's desk when you near it, making you sigh.

"Ah foo-" you turn to face your interns. "Can one of you hold the place while I sit somewhere?" The interns hesitantly, but definitively shake their head to say No. Kids, they grow up fast.

You stand in line for what feels like an hour but is only a few minutes until you hear an entourage approach you with their shiny, expensive luggage and matching clothes.

"We have VIP access, let us cut." one of them, a suited and no-nonsense woman tells you. You raise a brow at her, staring at her chapping red lips and burgundy jacket.

"Like hell. Cut after us, we're going first." You tell them flatly.

"Listen, we don't have time for this so please just comply..." the woman tries to negotiate but you don't want to budge.

"I don't have time either." you raise your hand.

"Let me handle this..." A man steps in front of the woman, towering over both of you. He is completely covered head to toe in a red beanie, red track suit and dark glasses with a black face-mask. Before he can say anything though, he simply looks at you and your interns.

"Y/N?" He removes his glasses to show a pair of cerulean eyes that you immediately match with a snowy head and a flashy personality in your brain.

"No way..." you clasp at your mouth. "Gojo Satoru?" you exclaim, confusing the parade of staff, probably Ferrari staff behind him.

"Next!" the receptionist bellows before you two can talk further and you make haste, finishing up the formalities, grabbing the keycard and returning to talk to Gojo, followed by your heard of puppies who look at Gojo skeptically. Of course they would, if a flashy, red man showed up.

"I'm- Where the hell have you been? You just disappeared!" He says and you open your mouth to defend yourself but he clearly has more to say.

"Yuta was distraught! What the hell happened between the two of you anyway! He won't talk to Geto, well they are kind of on weird terms now anyway. But he won't even talk to me!"

Hearing Yuta's name makes you immediately divert your eyes.

"H-How has he been?" you ask, softly.

"Well he was in a mood last season. We were all afraid he'd run us over with his Merc." Gojo admits, recalling some eerie memory of Yuta. "Well, specifically he was angry. But wouldn't talk about it. He got reprimanded by the management of course and started to focus his anger on the races instead." He tells you.

"I mean, he was always a beast on the track, a once in a generation talent. But now, he's simply incomparable. The only races he lost out on this season were ones where he pushed the car so hard, the engine or the mechanism went off."

Internally, you are happy that Yuta seems to be doing well. But somewhere, you feel a pang of discomfort. This isn't the Yuta you know. Or any of his peers know.

"Give me your number by the way..." Gojo asks, excitedly, removing his phone, also bright red. Human Ferrari he is, for sure.

"What for?"

"To leak on the internet..."

"Gojo..."

"What to hang out of course. And I have something to send to you." He says, forcing you to divulge your number which you do, with a grimace. What could go wrong anyway.

"Oh, and I don't know if you're still on talking terms with Yuta but, he's on floor 5 of this hotel, meet him if you want-" Gojo tells you and your heart skips a beat. You sneak a glance at your keycard and feel your throat go dry. You are on floor 5 as well. Before you can say anything else though, the Ferraris are on their way.

"Make sure you are free tomorrow! It's race day!" He says, without turning as their entourage enters the glass elevators.

"How do you know him, Y/N, he was quite hot..." One of the interns tugs at your elbow.

"Was he a former sweetheart?" The other intern grins at you.

"Hell no!" you snap. "That's a professional formula one racer. Watch ESPN a bit more, kids." you say, pulling them along with you to floor 5. You hope and pray with all your might that you don't run into Yuta at any point. Only when you send them off to their suites and enter your own, you finally take a huge breath of relief.

You thought you were over Yuta as well. That you could look at him and interact with him as fan. Maybe that was the case, given you'd never see run into him again. You cover your reddening face with your hands as you slump down to the ground and go into memory mode. It all comes back to you all of a sudden. His height, his dark hair, his large, innocent eyes, his firm, toned body and careful hands. His calming voice and his cozy demeanor. The more you think about him, the soggier your panties feel. You cannot afford to get out of this hotel room and run into him. You have no idea what you will do to him if you see him. Plus, what if he has a girlfriend now? Control yourself, Y/N. Show maturity.

You suck in a harsh breath and get off the carpeted floor, instead removing your laptop from your bag and checking emails to distract yourself. An ad keeps popping up in the corner of your screen though - about the Decider Race in Suzuka. And after all your attempts to ignore it, you finally click on it, annoyed.

You go through the seats and the prices. Even the cheapest, general admission ticket you can find sells for a fortune, making you gasp at the numbers. Great. This gives you a solid reason to NOT go. Now you can use it as an excuse to convince your brain that you are not losing out on an opportunity.

You shut the tab and continue looking at your agenda for tomorrow, smiling and humming to yourself in relief. That is until you hear your phone buzz to life, beside your laptop.

You check it to see a few messages from an unknown number.

"Helloooo!!!"

"Gojo here. Satoru Gojo. Handsomest driver on the grid. Ferrari's muse and face."

"You are already 20 seconds late at replying. Be quicker!"

You cringe at the string of messages and send him a thumbs up emoji as a reply, snickering menacingly when he sends another string of complaints. You wonder if Gojo too has a queue of women waiting for him to notice them. In that case, has he been influencing Yuta too?

You shut the thought down immediately. You're a fan. You remind yourself.

"Look what I got for you. Thank me later."

*Attached File*

Did he send you a trojan virus? nope. It's worse.

You open up the PDF file to find a ticket of some sort. Only it's the paddock VIP ticket for the race tomorrow. You'll be in Ferrari's stands.

You type out a long, long, long message. One full of swears and reprimands. But you backspace all of it and instead hit the call button.

"Ah, hi. Did you see-"

"WHAT'S THE MEANING OF THIS GOJO SATORU!" you shriek into the phone receiver earning a yelp from Gojo.

"It's a once in a lifetime opportunity, Y/N. You can't say no."

"But-"

"I've already paid."

"....."

"Oh, come on. Cheer for me. Come. You'll have fun!"

You are too angry to answer, and you simply cut the call. After your five minutes of anger subsides, anxiety takes its place. So, this is it. You get to see Yuta demolish the track live. Maybe this will be the last time ever. Maybe it's a good thing.

You decide to not think too much about it and just sleep on it instead. And sleep comes fairly easy, after your day-long air travel and the nervousness that maybe Yuta is hugging his blankets with his muscular arms, right next door. You picture those arms around your waist for a second and reminisce his deep blue eyes as you fall asleep, a bit bothered and surely wet.

*****

The next morning, you wake up before the sun even has a chance to show its face. You take a cold shower and prepare everything for the day to come. The Tech Summit will be a crucial stage to showcase your company and you, and your interns have to do a good job. As soon as the clock strikes 7, you go knocking on their doors to wake them up by force.

"Rise and shine, children! We've got some serious networking ahead of us!" you announce with infectious enthusiasm. Suddenly, the volume of your voice strikes you, and a wave of panic sweeps over you at the thought of waking Yuta. The mere idea of him hearing your voice and peeking out from one of the doors sends a shiver down your spine. With your heart racing, you quickly inform the interns that you're heading to the reception area. Without missing a beat, you make your escape, your high heels tapping a rhythm masked by the plush carpet that blankets the entire floor, each step a silent testament to your urgency.

The ground floor lobby of the hotel in the morning is a serene yet bustling oasis of activity. Sunlight streams in through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm, golden glow across the polished marble floors. The air is filled with a subtle blend of fresh coffee and the delicious aroma of breakfast from the lavish dining court, north of the lobby. Plush, modern sofas and armchairs are arranged in cozy clusters, inviting guests to sit and relax.You were too busy with Gojo to notice any of this, last evening. 

As you walk around amongst the many hotel guests who are going about their way, enthralled, you take a seat in one of the sofas. You even see familiar colors, worn by some of the people in groups. You see the full teals of Aston Martin, the pinks of Alpine, the orange of McLaren. Looks like the entire grid is housed in this hotel. You gulp as you try to keep an eye out for any sight of black and subtle teal of Mercedes. 

Instead, you feel a shifting of feet beside you and find a group of dark blue and red clad people looking rather grave and sitting on adjacent sofas, in a close huddle. It doesn’t take too long to recognize long, sleek hair half tied up and half down. His snake-like eyes scan the huddle, as if he’s commanding them. You don’t forget the aura of Geto Suguru. A pale guy, with wild matted and blue hair sits beside him, with a manic expression on his face, like he’s his lap dog. This must be Mahito. They seem to be having some sort of serious conversation with their team. You can’t help but listen in, keeping your eyes on the ground. 

“So what are we going to do about Strategy A?” one of the Red Bull engineers asks Geto, in a low voice, looking around to see if any of the teams are paying attention.

“Act normal, Garner.” Geto tells him, smiling sweetly but darkly. “Don’t act suspicious and no one will notice.”

“We are to proceed with Strategy B. We don’t attack the rest of the grid today. We will only focus on the Mercedes duo.” Geto states.

“That was the plan all along.” The Red Bull staff interjects. “What are you saying?”

“Well your plan was for me to defend against Okkotsu and Mahito to defend against Merc number 2, Inumaki.” Geto begins as the team leans in closer to pay attention. Mahito seems strangely excited to get a mention from Geto.

“My plan is that we leave Inumaki alone. He’s of no consequence to us. He’ll be too busy defending against the Ferraris.” Geto continues and your brows furrow. What is he on to?

“I am sitting on the pole. And Okkotsu is second. The best way to go about it is to get Mahito to play on the offensive. Okkotsu gets rash and risky when faced with competition or close tailers. It is likely Mahito and Okkotsu will take each other out.”

Your eyes widen as you hear this. 

“And Inumaki has the slower car. Ferrari’s engineers wouldn’t anticipate number 2 and 3 being knocked out. They are more prepared for a podium finish, not the top finish. This will ensure that Red Bull will go home with the Driver’s Championship trophy.” Geto concludes his idea and the Red Bull team immediately begin discussing its feasibility. From the sound of it, most of them seem on board. Mahito seems to be the most excited, willing to give anything for Geto to get his second title.

The absurdity of the ongoing discussion is enough for you to look up and find yourself directly looking into Geto Suguru’s skeptical eyes. Your nostrils flare and a sweat breaks out atop your forehead at the thought of being caught. He narrows his eyes at you but dismisses you as a fan. He doesn’t recognize you. 

Thank GOODNESS.

You smile at him and quickly move away from their group of sofas. As fast as you can. So they are going to use Yuta’s driving style against him today. Which is fine. They are willing to crash into him to take him out as well. This is all a pre-planned, premeditated attempt to injure, or…you gulp… murder.

You lean against one of the reception desks to gather yourself for a minute. The lobby’s morning hustle now feels like a surreal backdrop to the chilling plot you’ve just overheard. The hum of conversations, the clinking of breakfast dishes, and the soft footsteps of guests blend into a muted buzz as your mind races. You need to warn Yuta, but how? 

Your interns show up soon, their bright, eager faces a stark contrast to the dark conversation you just overheard. They’re ready to go for the summit, unaware of the dangerous game being plotted in the corner of the lobby. As they approach, you take a deep breath, plaster on a smile, and try to push the sinister revelations to the back of your mind. You don’t see the Mercedes team anywhere in the lobby anyway, so you take your leave for the moment, feeling a tightness in your chest.

While the task at hand is crucial, you are more than confident that you can handle it flawlessly. The Tech Summit is being held at one of the corporate headquarters in the city area, a sleek skyscraper with reflective glass windows that glisten in the morning sun. As you step into the spacious lobby, you are greeted by an impressive display of innovation: booths showcasing various avenues in computing. Executives in sharp suits mingle with tech enthusiasts, the air buzzing with excitement and possibility.

Once you are in, you send off your beaming and well-prepared interns to talk to some big shots, their enthusiasm palpable as they approach various booths and networking clusters. You retire to a quiet corner, checking your phone and brainstorming for your next move. It's only a few hours until the race in Suzuka, Japan, a pivotal event in the Formula One calendar. The summit’s focus on the intersection of technology and sports is evident, with several companies proudly displaying their investments in Formula One.

Tech giants are pouring millions into F1, not just for branding but for the practical applications of cutting-edge technology in car performance, data analytics, and real-time communication systems. The fusion of high-speed racing and high-tech innovation is a perfect synergy, driving advancements that benefit both the automotive and tech industries.

However, the tension from earlier this morning lingers. Despite the engaging presentations and lively discussions around you, the clandestine conversation you overheard refuses to leave your mind. The race in Suzuka today is more than just a sporting event—it’s a battleground where the stakes are life and death, a thought that chills you as you consider Geto’s ruthless strategy.

You open your phone to find a few messages from Gojo and it makes a bulb go off in your head.

“Come to the hotel lobby at around 4PM. I’ll send someone to pick you up. I’m at the track right now.” He has texted. You read the message and pull out Yuta’s card from your phone cover. You don’t waste time and call him right away. A woman receives your call on the other end.

“Hello! Is Yuta free?” you ask, desperately but you can tell from the woman’s silence that it is not the case.

“He won’t be free until after the race. I’m sorry.”

‘I-it’s fine.” you laugh nervously, keeping the phone.

That idea was a bust.

Before you can think more, you are pulled in by one of your interns to help you out with a heated discussion they are having with a company representative on use cases of Artificial Intelligence. The rest of the morning and afternoon goes this way, with your hands full of discussions and debates with Men in Tech, mistaking you for one of the interns until you sigh and show them your badge of ‘Director of Software Engineering’, before obliterating them during the ‘discussions’ with a curt smile.

You don’t think about the race until after you have exited the premises of the Summit along with your pumped up interns who are waxing lyrical about you. They won’t stop talking even on the cab ride back home.

“That was amazing Y/N. You saved our necks.”

“Just be confident and patient till they give you a moment to strike.” you tell them wearily. 

Probably a strategy Mahito will be using today. 

“Do we go out today for drinks? How about it?” The interns begin discussing among themselves while I tune them out, shaking my leg in agitation.

“Y/N, want to join us?” one of them asks you eagerly and politely reject their invitation.

“I have plans today.”

“What plans?” The male intern asks, curious. The other two also lean in to listen.

“I am going to watch a Formula One Race, it’s in Suzuka.” You tell them and their eyes go all sparkly before they begin smirking at you.

“It’s the hot driver guy isn’t it. He invited you? That’s awesome Y/N! Looks like he’s interested!” This makes you scoff. “He’s just a friend. He’s not the one I have eyes for anyway.”

“Oooo, so there is someone you have eyes for!” they chime together. “Who is it?” 

An image instantly pops into your head. One of him hovering over you as you moaned out his name. You smile to yourself and dismiss the interns’ questions, making all of them pout.

As you enter the hotel lobby, a stark contrast from its earlier bustling atmosphere greets you. The lively chatter and movement have dissipated, leaving behind an eerie quiet that amplifies the grandeur of the space. The reception area, usually a hub of activity, is now manned by a solitary staff member who nods politely as you pass.

Heading towards the elevator, a wave of unease washes over you, chilling your hands. Should you attempt to find Yuta by knocking on every door on the fifth floor? No, that would likely result in being ejected from the hotel.

Entering your room with a frustrated grunt, you slam the door shut behind you. Another cold shower helps clear your mind, though your appetite remains nonexistent. Stomach growling, you mechanically brush your teeth and change out of your morning pant suit into a comfortable ensemble: a red sweater, blue jeans, and sneakers. The choice of red is a nod to Ferrari, aligning with your plans for the day.

Feeling more at ease in casual attire, you pause to gather your thoughts. It’s 3:45 PM. You should head out now. You grab your phone, keys and wallets and walk out of the suite, impatiently trotting towards the elevator. You turn the corner just in time to see it close. Maybe you are hallucinating but you barely spot a glint of black and teal behind the doors as they swiftly close.

You stop dead in your tracks for merely a moment before you sprint towards the elevator. But that one is gone now. You press the down button for the second one and tap your foot on the ground, waiting for it to arrive desperately. 

When it takes you down to the ground floor, you come out, wildly looking around to see the familiar colors again. When you finally see them, your words all drown in your feelings as you see the black and teal clad man get into the back of a car, giving the driver a quick nod and a short smile. 

It was from fairly far away that you saw him, but you were certain. It was Yuta.

You have to hold yourself upright as you nearly begin hyperventilating and the receptionist has to come and check on you.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m fine.” you assure him, as he makes you sit on one of the sofas. You watch intently through the glass windows as Yuta’s car zooms past. That was your chance! If only you had come out two minutes earlier and weren’t drifting away in your fantasies.

You had to focus now. You can’t afford to have your legs turn to jelly or your head spin out of control anymore.

When the person meant to pick you up arrived, donning a red jacket and black pants, you were completely calm and composed — now willing to think clearly about what to do next.

The drive to the Suzuka Circuit is rather short for obvious reasons. The hotel had been picked to be accessible from the circuit. The car your driver has brought along isn’t a Ferrari, unfortunately.

Arriving at Suzuka Circuit as the evening settles in, the atmosphere is electric with anticipation. The sprawling complex is illuminated by bright floodlights, casting long shadows across the paddock and grandstands. The air buzzes with the hum of engines from nearby practice sessions and the excited chatter of fans who have gathered from around the world to witness the fight for domination between Red Bull and Mercedes.

The paddock itself is a hive of activity. Teams in their distinctive colors, now suited up in their race-suits, bustle about, mechanics fine-tuning the cars under the watchful eyes of engineers. Media personnel dart between interviews, capturing the pre-race fervor and probing for insights. Paparazzi lurk at every corner, their cameras flashing intermittently as they seek shots of drivers and celebrities who have shown up to support the drivers/take pictures for social media.You stare at the whole spread, starry eyed and very much in awe. It feels surreal as the world around you moves at 2x speed.

The cars themselves are a spectacle to behold. The sleek, aerodynamic designs gleam under the lights, adorned with sponsor logos and intricate details. Each team’s car reflects their engineering prowess and commitment to performance excellence, poised to navigate the demanding twists and turns of Suzuka Circuit. You want to go ahead and take a closer look but the Ferrari guy who is guiding you around stops you from doing so until later.

“You can see Ferrari’s car later.” he tells you reassuringly but you frown at him.

You spot Mercedes, clad in their silvery-black-teal livery, standing out with their meticulous preparations, but you maintain a straight face. Red Bull, in their vibrant blue and red, exude confidence and determination as you narrow your eyes at them. 

You are finally taken to Ferrari’s section — an attractive mix of red and gold flying in the stands and the air. The fans add to the vibrant tapestry of the evening. Dressed in team colors, they wave flags and banners, eagerly awaiting autographs and selfies with their favorite drivers. The scent of food from vendors mixes with the exhaust fumes, creating a unique blend that signifies race day excitement.

“Oh, look. There’s Mr. Gojo!” your guide cheers excitedly pointing to a separated section where two shiny, red cars sit in all their glory, surrounded by an army of mechanics and staff, also dressed in red. Seated in one of Ferrari's cars, a familiar figure catches your eye. He sits in the cockpit, helmet off, his tousled white hair catching the light as he adjusts his gloves with practiced ease. Spotting you amidst the crowd, Gojo flashes a brilliant smile and waves enthusiastically from the cockpit.

“Excited?” He tries to yell out over the crowd as you near him and his team. You nod and smile at his engineers before cornering him. 

“Did you see Yuta?” you ask Gojo.

“Busy day man. Haven’t really kept an eye out for him. Why won’t you go talk to him? Mercedes is right over there!” He says, pointing a gloved finger at the black and teal team.

“Won’t allow her… strategic secrets can’t be spilled.” Your guide tells you and Gojo, who seems to be unaware.

“Gojo, there’s something I need to tell you…” you begin, your unwavering eyes grabbing Gojo’s full attention as he puts on a serious face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-It’s about Geto Suguru.”

“Suguru?” Gojo asks, his voice softening by a note. “What’s up with him?”

“Their team. They’re planning a dangerous strategy.” you say, only to get a few stares from the engineering team over at Ferrari. Gojo narrows his eyes at you, the cerulean blue piercing through you.

“And how do you know about this strategy?”

“I overheard. They’re going to make Yuta crash out.”

“Y/N.” Gojo calls out your name, and for the first time in his life, he sounds serious as hell. “Are you accusing Suguru of conspiracy? You know it’s illegal and could cost him his license.”

“But that’s what I heard!” you try to reason but Gojo doesn’t want to hear any of it.

“Suguru has known us since we were young. He would not do such a thing. And I suggest you don’t say this to anyone, not without evidence. Especially to Yuta, he won’t take kindly to it.” Gojo warns you. You hesitate on your spot before your Ferrari guide has to pull you away from the cars.

“Okay, that’s about it.” He says, dragging you away. “We can’t meddle with his concentration right before the race. Talk with him later, Miss Y/N.”

“B-but, I wasn’t done.” you complain, feeling a sting of pain in your elbow where the man grips you. “Hey, let me go!” 

“Listen! I just don’t want you confusing our drivers!” He finally snaps, spitting out at you.

“Their mental state is important! You can’t just say these things to them and bother them right before a crucial race!” he roars as I cringe in the slight flame of fear I feel inside him.

Everyone is way too busy in their chatter and taking photos of cars and drivers to notice what’s happening so you will have to struggle out of this on your own. 

You try to break free from his grip but in vain. 

“Let them get onto the track. I’ll let you go then.” He tells you, calmly.

“Are you holding me hostage right now? I said I understand, let me go!” you yelp, going for another twist of your arm to break free but the man has an iron grip. You begin panicking again now until you see another arm appear from the corner of your eye and hold on to the guide’s arm. 

The arm, covered in silvery black, padded material of a race suit. When you look at his face, your breath nearly stops. He doesn’t make eye contact with you, he barely seems to have noticed you. His penetrating gaze is fixed on your guide and he has him trapped in place.

“What’s the problem here?” He asks, in a rough low voice.

“N-Nothing, I was just escorting her away. Nothing wrong here, Mr. Okkotsu.” the guide stutters away, intimidated by Yuta.

Yuta looks the same, yet noticeably different at the same time. His once doe-like, innocent eyes now are half-lidded and uninterested, hiding secrets and carrying unknown burdens. He barely wants to smile, his lips stuck in a straight, firm line unwilling to curve. His jaw seems a bit more defined now, seemingly as he appears to look slightly manlier, and a lot more unapproachable. He has noticeable purple shadows under his eyes now and an eerily heavy aura.

“Do you not know how to behave with a woman? Leave her at once.” He says, grimly. When the guide finally lets me go and scurries away, Yuta finally looks at me, “Please, take—” but before he can finish his sentences, his lips freeze and his pupils dilate. You yourself let out a small gasp before his name exits your mouth in the sweetest voice possible. “Yuta…”

Yuta stands still for a while, his gaze not moving from you. You see his lips quiver and the muscles in his jaw ripple as he wordlessly takes his leave, moving quickly through the people, running away from you.

Not wanting to let him go to the race like that, you follow him. You follow him into a unisex restroom, closing and locking the door behind you as you find him fidgeting with the tap and the paper towels, unwilling to look at you or the mirror. The dim, dirty lights of the place only highlight his somber features as you frown at him.

You stand next to him until he is forced to acknowledge your presence. 

“H-how have you been, Y/N?” he asks, in a shaky voice.

Good? Better? I haven’t moved on from you? What do you tell him?

The stench and claustrophobia of this restroom doesn’t help the situation at all.

“I’ve been doing better, Yuta. How have you been?” you ask, tenderly. He still won’t look at you.

“I’ve been the same really. Just working hard. Racing. Boring stuff. Haha.” He laughs nervously, licking his lips, keeping his eyes down. 

“Yuta, if you don’t want to see me right now or talk to me. Tell me.” You say, with concern. “I don’t want to spoil your mood before the race.” 

“Not at all. A racer can’t let things like this affect him.” He laughs nervously yet again. “How come you’re here? Gojo invite you or something?”

“He did. That’s besides the point.” You say, getting back to business. “I wanted to meet you to tell you something.”

“Why? Do you want to get laid again? Did Megumi cheat on you again?” He interrupts. “We have all the time after the race, why don’t you excuse me now.” He furrows his brows.

“No, that’s not—”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.” He confesses. “But, Y/N. I don’t know if I can actually handle seeing your face right now. Because you haunt my waking hours and my nightmares every single day.” He continues.

“I never stopped thinking about how you left me that day. I was begging you to stop. You don’t love me, right? Heck, I haven’t even been able to look at a woman after that. Then let me suffer in peace.” Hearing all of that breaks your heart but you have no right to console him.  

“Is there anything left to say Y/N? Do you want to tell me how much you don’t love me?” he asks bitterly now, finally looking into your eyes. Dark blue, not somber anymore but teary. Vulnerable. Evidently, very much in love with you, after all those months apart.

“Well then, the race is going to start soon, I should —”

Before he can finish though, you grab his suit and pull him down to kiss him. Euphoria spreads through your mind and body, a soothing calm coating your entire being as you feel his lips mingle with yours. He doesn’t resist — he too is a victim of his own yearning. 

The two of you grab a hold of each other's hair and deepen the kiss. You entirely mess up his perfectly combed hair until it falls to the front of his forehead, brushing against yours. The two of you don’t even surface for a breath of air and keep kissing until it’s physically impossible and you have to separate — your face red, and your lips swollen. Both of you panting.

You swipe your thumb on his plump bottom lip, staring at it as you speak to him. 

“Did you get your answer now?”

Yuta seems to be in a daze though, completely bowled over by your bold attempt.

“Listen carefully, Yuta.” you tell him. “The raging maniac I’ve been seeing on the track this past year. That’s not you. You have to play it smart and smooth today, do you understand?”

“Y/N…” he chants, running a hand through your hair and pinching your cheek. “If I don’t drive dominantly, I won’t win.”

“Okkotsu Yuta, if you have ever loved me, promise me you will not drive rashly today.” you tell him clearly, with an air of finality in your voice and he stares at you.

“I’ll do what’s best at that moment, Y/N. Don’t worry about it.”

“No! You have to promise me!” 

“Okay, okay!” he says, giving up, separating from you and opening up the restroom door. “Race starts in a few. I’m going for real now.”

“Please, Yuta. Be careful.” you repeat, tearing up now. “There’s so much I want to say to you later.”

“I’ll see you later with the trophy in hand, that’s a promise.” Yuta states. And for the first time in what seems like an eternity, he brings out the smile he always flashed earlier. Your Yuta’s heart-warming, genuine smile.

The two of you leave the restroom at last and he would not let you go back to the Ferrari zone. Instead, making you sit with his black and silver army of curious Mercedes folk. They all look at you like you’re some kind of shiny toy and it makes you blush and hide behind Yuta.

“Take care of her. Don’t scare her, I will know.” Yuta warns them, taking your hand and leading you to one of the fancy pavilions reserved for staff and their guests. They hand you a pair of headphones and make you sit with some of the women who happen to be the WAGs of the crew and the drivers. You have the pleasure of joining Inumaki’s hot as hell girlfriend who is wearing a silken top and an elegant black skirt along with a heart-winning smile. And there you are with your Ferrari sweater.

[Music recommendation, damn even the color of the audio track goes with the story:]

Yuta runs off quickly after that to hop into his car and have a final conversation with his engineers before he and his teammate Inumaki are called off to join the starting order for the formation lap. From your vantage point, you watch as the sleek, powerful machines take their positions. The sight of Yuta in his Mercedes, with his intense focus and determination, fills you with a mixture of pride and anxiety. 

As the formation lap begins, the cars glide gracefully around the track, their engines producing a symphony of power. The tension builds with every passing moment, the crowd’s anticipation reaching a fever pitch. You grip the edge of your seat, your heart racing in sync with the machines on the track. After a few minutes, the cars begin lining up in order again and the crowd goes silent — with Geto and Yuta making up the front line and an eager Mahito right on Yuta’s tail.

The race is about to begin, and you can only hope that Yuta will deliver on his promise. You press your palms together in anticipation and pray for Yuta to be safe.

They show the faces of all twenty drivers in a promotional video running over on the giant screens. You spot Yuta just as they announce the beginning of the race.

The five red lights come to life one by one with a beep and at the next beat of your heart, they go off, the car engines revving to life and the crowd going ballistic with cheer as Geto crosses Yuta and Yuta rapidly shifts to the side, going tire to tire with Geto’s Red Bull, sliding past him by a minimal margin and taking lead of the race as the fans erupt into cheer. You find yourself standing up and pumping your fists in the air. 

The cars follow the leading duo, creeping along behind them in quick succession.

“That's Good there Yuta. Keep pushing." You here a robotic voice in your ears. Probably Yuta's engineer.

“Copy that." You hear Yuta's voice and blush. Inumaki’s girlfriend eyeing you and grinning.

As the first lap comes to an end and continues into the second lap, there's a buzz of conversation going on in the room. The engineers and staff moving around, barking at each other and some glued to the gigantic screens.

“The car's doing well. Good job guys." Yuta sends out a message.

You overhear two of the engineers discussing among themselves that Yuta was being chattier and nicer than usual today and you smirk internally.

As the second lap progresses through the team witnesses a strange change in positions. Geto slows down ever so slightly to let Mahito’s car pass. There is a bit of commotion going on inside the room, curious discussions about Red Bull’s strategy taking place but you are aware what's going to happen as Mahito's slithering car inches closer to Yuta and activates its DRS.

“No!" You yell out and the entire room turns to look at you.

“Yuta! He needs to get out of the way! He-" 

But before the engineers can register what you're saying or what's happening on the track you see Mahito’s car touch Yuta's from the behind, Yuta intercepting this and narrowly avoiding being tossed in the air. He does get pushed off the track though and into the grass until he gains control and slowly makes his way back onto the track. Now in 7th place.

You are the only one who breathes a sigh of relief because you're the only one who is aware of what went down behind the scenes. There is an uproar in the room now, a lot of them cursing out Mahito and Red Bull to no end. 

One of them finds the time to connect with Yuta on the Radio and ask if he's fine.

“Yeah, I'm alright guys." He reassures everyone. “Pushed far behind though. That seemed pretty deliberate. Put that up for review please." His voice breaks through the radio.

The crowd collectively gasps as they now see Geto swap places with Mahito and regain his position as the leader.

“Yuta. We can salvage this. Stick to the first strategy. Try to be aggressive.” The engineer instructs Yuta.

"Copy, that. At least until I gain P3" Yuta replies, making the engineers exchange  panicked glances.

You see Yuta in action on the big screen and now understand what people have been saying about his feral driving. You witness as he pushes the car to its absolute limit, overtaking two cars — an Aston Martin and Itadori’s Ferrari in one go at one of the fast corners, leaving them startled in his dirty air. He's now racing at P4, after Inumaki lets him pass as per team orders.

“Oh my god, he's up with Gojo now." Inumaki's girlfriend squeaks, holding your hand with an iron grip,making you break out into a sweat two.

Gojo’s Ferrari and Yuta’s Merc go head on, battling each other, getting into each other's way. Gojo is as unpredictable as Yuta is ferocious.

The two of them swap positions a good four times until Yuta is able to zoom past him in a dramatic show, in one of the wider corners, right into the straights.

He's now P3. And the only competition he has in front of him are the red bulls.

“You're in podium position right now. Second place is ensured. Don't do anything stupid." The engineer warns Yuta.

The room doesn't hear back from Yuta for a while until all of you witness his aggressive drive turn to a more smooth one for the first time in over a year.

"Copy that. I've a promise to keep.”

The crowd, the crew, the engineers, the photographers, the journalists, the WAGs and you. All of you watch as time stills, Yuta moving like a stream of water, smooth and direct, inching close to Mahito's car. 

They enter the DRS zone and the Mercedes’ flap flips open to let in the air stream. 

Yuta slips to the side staying just a tad bit behind Mahito whose intent now seems to push Yuta off the track for good if he attacks. 

Mahito who was expecting and anticipating Yuta to fault, for him to aggressively move past keeps waiting as they keep driving on the straight with DRS on.

It isn't until Mahito keeps straight, too drowned in his confusion to notice Yuta speed up right as they turned into a corner. 

Without warning, right as the DRS zone ends Yuta hits the throttle and speeds out of Mahito's reach, making the crowd go crazy.

In that moment, everyone on the track and in the stands is rooting for Yuta. They are waiting with bated breathes as the last lap approaches and Yuta's car creeps closer to Geto’s Red Bull.

The engineers have nothing to say now, they too, watch on in awe.

Your hands clasp over your mouth, as you watch without blinking as they enter the last corners.

Call it luck.

Talent and hard work can take you very far. But the harder you work, the better your luck is. And in those final seconds, Yuta happened to have newer, more seasoned tyres compared to Geto's more worn ones owing to an earlier pit stop. Maybe your prayers worked.

And that was it for Red Bull.

Yuta pushes the car and rockets out of the corner, zooming towards the finish line as the checkered flag waves the declaration of victory for him. Leaving the red bull, the ferraris, everyone who ever doubted him in the dust of the track.

He pumps his fists out of the cockpit, screaming profanity into the radio.

“FUCKKK YESSSS!!!!" 

“LET'S GO BABY!!! LET'S FUCKING GOOO AAAAHHHH!!!" 

He pulls his car aside while the others pass and returns to the track to do some celebratory donuts with his car, the steam from his tyres enveloping the car.

It's like a festival in Mercedes' operations room. Everyone is hugging each, patting each others’ back, crying. Inumaki's girlfriend is mumbling to herself, still holding your hand.

And you?

You are in utter shock. Absolutely unable to form sentences.

One of the engineers has to shake you awake.

“Okkotsu has done it! He's done it! Not just that, Inumaki came in third! We've won both titles! Mercedes has done it!" 

"H-huh?” You choke out, tearing up.

"Don't you want to see him? He's coming in right now!” the team exclaims, crowding at the door, aching to get out and meet their winner.

Out in the paddock, the teams have arrived to welcome their hard-fought warriors. The various colors stand together in unison waiting beside the tracks, separated from the drivers by the chain fence.

You see a line of women waiting by, standing out from the teams thanks to their eye-catching, elegant attires. They looked like supermodels — tall, magazine cover beauties. They must be the WAGs. 

You suddenly feel very conscious about your sweater and jeans. Just a year ago, you too had the most exquisite outfit possible, completely ruined by Yuta on his Lambo.

The drivers show up one by one as the paddock welcomes them. There is an impressive cheer for the arrival of Gojo Satoru, P4. He winks at the WAGs as they appear totally distracted from their own racer boyfriends but he doesn't stay for long.

He meets up midway with a dejected looking Geto and takes him away to some place you can't quite see.

Looks like they want to have a talk.

If the cheer for Gojo was something, it's nothing compared to the deafening roar championship winner, Yuta receives as soon as his Mercedes pulls in.

He jumps out of the car, removes his gloves, helmet and fireproof and comes running straight towards your lot, jumping onto them as they screech, hoisting him up in the air and ferally rubbing his hair.

“Well done, boy!" 

“Well done!" They chant.

When they finally let go and you're able to see Yuta. You don't see any sign of the depressed ghost of a man you saw earlier. This was the Yuta you knew and loved. Happy, shining bright, eyes full of life.

He wipes the sweat of his forehead as he approaches you and grabs you by the waist to pick you up and twirl you around.

He presses his sweaty nose to yours, his dark eyes twinkling.

“We did it, baby. I kept my promise." He laughs between words. 

"Now then,” he smiles at me giddily, walking away from the team with me still in his arms.

"What did you want to say to me earlier?”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Telling you just how much I love you will take more than a few minutes, Yuta." You kiss his nose.

“More than a few hot nights." You kiss his forehead.

“And more than a lifetime." You say, finally leaving a kiss on his lips.

“I love you, Okkotsu Yuta." 

You press your foreheads together, as a quick paparazzo clicks a picture of the two of you.

{{fin.}}

a/n: thank you everyone for reading! I was able to power through the chapters and put everything out quickly. Hope you guys enjoyed the tale of Racer Yuta!

----> BONUS<----

You hold the headboard of your bed for support as you grin down at a very engaged Yuta, lost in your juicy womanhood, holding onto your thighs for dear life as you sit on his face. His enthusiasm as he suckles and bites your sensitive zones drives you crazy and you come all over his face for what seems the tenth time in the past three days. He just refuses to let you go whenever he visits you in your city. You have to nearly always put in an extra sick day to cater to his and your needs. The two of you look out onto a bustling city from your high-rise condo. You wonder how many people know that a world-class, champion racing driver is eating your brains out right above their heads. The thought makes you giggle shamelessly.

"Yuta, stop, already." you urge him, laughing between words, pulling at his hair to get him to stop.

"Nope, I can't." he admits, looking up at you, with lust filled eyes. "I only get so many days with you. Need to make the most of this time."

You roll your eyes at him, getting off of him, making him whine loudly.

"Patience, lover-boy." you tease him, turning around to sit on his abs. His abdominal muscles are so well defined that even merely sitting on them sends chills up your wussy.

"Time to give my mini some love." you say, smiling at the bulge forming in Yuta's sweatpants. You uncover it to see his valiant dick stand tall, after being ignored by both you and Yuta for so long.

"It got prettier from last time." you pout at it, examining it as you stroke it with love. It pulls out the prettiest groans out of Yuta.

"Y/N, you saw it yesterday." he complains. "When you said you wanted to bounce on it."

"Well, Yuta. You can't just eat me out for all of eternity. Your dick has needs." you shut him up and take him in your mouth, savoring its thickness. It's just like the first time you ever took him in your mouth. You run and tongue up and down his length as Yuta grabs a hold of your ass, holding on till he's moaning.

You lick at his slit, playing around with the pre-cum he's leaking. His cock is so violent, it beats around inside of your mouth, and you silence it by pushing it to the back of your throat, where it sits snugly.

Your nose pushes into Yuta's balls as you let your throat do the rest of the work and soon enough, Yuta is coming inside your mouth with a monstrous groan, leaving you with plenty of fluid to play around with.

When you finally pull off, mouth full of cum, you see that there is still some life in his dick. You turn out to face him and now sit on his dick, grinding back and forth till he becomes hard again.

Your cheeks stay swollen with loads of his cum and Yuta stares at your face in disbelief.

"You really my cum don't you?"

and you nod fervently.

"Swallow it."

You shake your head.

"God, Y/N.." he closes his eyes, leaning back and letting you ride him, feeling his dick prod at your insides, its outline clearly showing through your abdomen.

"Ah..." he moans out, finding a rhythm he likes and the two of you roll your hips together. You want to moan out so bad but your cum sits in your mouth, marinating. You want to make a mess out of it on Yuta's abs and lick it all off.

How you've waited so long to do so many things to Yuta.

Only, your moment gets interrupted by a rogue phone call. From your phone.

"Buh, ish ma day ff!" you say, your mouth full and unable to speak coherently.

Yuta picks up the call and sticks it between his shoulder and an ear, while grabbing and controlling your hips with both his hands. His messy black hair falls on his sweaty forehead and his lashes brush his cheeks as he talks to the caller in his fucked out voice.

"Who's this?"

"Y/N, oh, she's busy."

"Are we fucking? Seriously, Satoru? Nunya business!"

Gojo Satoru!? The shock at his question makes you accidentally swallow the cum and you almost cry out.

"Uh-huh. Cool, bye." Yuta says, eyeing your reaction and closing his eyes.

"Oh no, I swallowed it!" you complain to Yuta and he's barely listening, chasing his orgasm. Soon enough, the grip on your waist tightens and he's coming inside of you this time. His neck stretching back and his adam's apple bobbing in his wide throat.

When he finally regains his composure, he looks back at you to reply.

"You swallowed. Finally! Good job!"

"Yuta!" you pout.

"Aw, baby..." Yuta teases you. "There's always room to do more." he sees, pinching your perky nipples.

"Your interns ask about you, Gojo told me. He takes them to races, VIP passes whenever he's free. He's made them into Ferrari fans, alas." Yuta tells you.

"Ahem. They were promoted to full time employees after the feedback from the Summit." you correct him. "Plus, they know I'm fucking you every chance I get. That's what I'm up to." you say, sliding off his dick and falling into his arms, allowing him to continue playing with your tender breasts.

"You're all packed up for this weekend's Monaco Grand Prix, right? We leave in two days." Yuta reminds you, biting your lower lip and bursting into a smile.

"Of course, I'm looking forward to it." you tell him. The two of you stare at each other, drowning in each other's passion until you realize something.

"Oops almost forgot. I love you, Yuta."

Yuta blushes pink when he hears it. "You say that every ten minutes."

"Isn't that what I told you..." you remind him.

"I'm saying it every day." You place a tender kiss on his lips.

"Forever."

[essektheylyss]

I was talking to @captainofthetidesbreath last night about how nonjudgmental the Midst narrators are to their characters, how genuinely sympathetic they are even to the most monstrous of occupants of their world, and that really bore out with Weepe's demise.

The Midst cosmos are, above all, harsh. The very fabric of the universe would destroy you in a moment if you let it, which means life is at every moment a struggle for survival. It is very easy in those circumstances to become something harsh and hardened in response—like the mirrorhawks, creating razor sharp exoskeletons as a defense, or the Trust, building fortresses of civilizations and still finding themselves at the mercy of weather and human whim. Lark, creating borders around herself with both demeanor and distance. Phineas and the company, with mirrored armor and weapons of mica. Weepe himself, severing ties and bonds the moment the opportunity strikes before someone else can do the same to him.

It is, above all, tiring to live like that. Even once a person chooses to push through that, life does not get easier. In fact, it is more tiring to go on. Rest can be found or made, as many of the residents of Stationary Hill have done, as Phineas and Spahr intend to do, but there is no guarantee that it will last—and it probably won't, even now. The universe and everyone in it still has their own conflicting wills, and those conflicts will rise again.

While there is judgment from the other characters—Saskia in particular, and the townspeople on her behalf—there is no judgment in the narrative for Weepe. Of course he's exhausted. He was thoroughly and horrifically punished once, without rest, and what reprieve the Mothers offered him after was never something he could see as a respite.

This isn't to say that Midst posits death as the solution. Phineas goes off in search of rest, alive and in many ways optimistic, no longer naively so. Lark's rest comes in the form of no longer fearing the Trust, even as it is unclear what form she now takes. It acknowledges as well that Weepe's life did not need to come to this, but at the same time, he chooses his rest—because he failed to conceptualize the second chance he was given as such. He pitied himself before anyone else did, and that is the source of his ruin, in the end.

And the narrative itself, in its lack of judgment, weeps for him. When there is no one to mourn Moc Weepe, the story mourns him; in a way, the story is his eulogy, as much as it is Phineas's balanced ledger and Lark's testimony, at last.

[small-but-oho]

EDIT: Since this kinda broke containment: THESE ARE MY PERSONAL FEELINGS. If you agree, let me know and we can connect! :D If you disagree, that's awesome. Keep doing your thing. I do not want to tell anybody that the way they enjoy g/t is wrong.

I think I've cracked the code of why the overwhelming amount of g/t fl/uff (censored so it doesn't show up in its tag) makes me uncomfortable: there just are no stakes.

Like, to me, g/t stories need to have a power imbalance. That's the whole readon for the trope to exist. Just like bd$m or v0re or, fuck, even just boss/employee stories, the inheirent difference in power - literal or social - is the whole point of it.

And, no offense, but all the posts about friendship and r0mance between tiny and giant just... play that down? Maybe it's because the trope has been done to death and back (we're all in its fandom after all), and people just wanna skip to the part that is new in their story. Nothing wrong with that, I'm not trying to police what people are writing. I'm mostry just airing out my own thoughts here.

But that also kinda takes out the tension? I've once read a comparison online, that in real life, two people clearly communicating their problems is good and healthy, but in a story, it takes out the stakes. Stories usually need points of tension building up the closer we get to the climax, with a big finish, and a drop in tension towards the end.

And this may just be me bitching, but I remember a time when the g/t tag was full of fearplay and looming and angst, where evil giants were as plentiful as sand in the desert. And now that's almost a rare trope. A lot of people I follow who used to post lots of angst, now primarily only post fl♡ff, which, again, do as you want. I'm just wondering why this shift occurred.

To me personally, g/t is a good way to explore these feelings, of feeling small, weak, at the mercy of a being so much bigger than me. Bad things need to happen to the tiny, because it's somewhat of a stress release. And if you've read this far, thanks and please don't block me.

[kafkasmeow]

1 ꗃ A FAMILIAR TUNE

imagine! 7.2k words worth of slow-burn ─ dan heng x reader ─ second pov fem! reader ─ angst and fluff ─ father! jing yuan (strictly platonic) ─ i treated the reader more as an oc, i do apologise for that.

summery ─ leaving home was one of the hardest choices you’ve ever had to make, yet how could you stay when the life you lived could only ever bring you sadness and superficiality? 

aka dan heng x reader with mommy and daddy issues

disclaimer ─ this story may hold sensitive subjects such as mentioned death, neglect and the baggage that comes with it, mental illness, violence, harassment and talks of infertility. it has a very long introduction (my bad lol), a rather steamy end and takes inspiration from the original story line so be careful of spoilers and it was inspired by head-canons written here by @lyomeii , please go show some love. remember that this is a work of fiction and any names and characters written are my imagination alone. enjoy <3

taglist ─ @can-i-go-to-sleep-please ─ @can-i-stay-awake

There was a time when things felt easier, when the sun seemed to shine brighter despite the overwhelming shadow that was always cast on your family. You used to love the deep smell of green tea that enveloped the parlour each time the two of you took residence in it, and the wind that would swirl it around the whole of the office all while you laughed without a single care at the way it tugged your translucent shawl and hair. 

Jing Yuan adored that sound more than anything, it filled his heart with the warmest of contents yet the cruelest of longings. He would sip quietly on the tea you’d brewed for him and pretend to enjoy the frivolous moment with his eyes closed, but you both knew that when you looked away, another story would be told completely. 

Perhaps in reality, the sun never shined brighter than it seemed to and it was never easier to stomach. You were just too naive, too young to notice the thin cords bringing you and your father closer, and too ignorant to see the way they were slowly beginning to rip under the pressure. 

To the public eye, your father loved you more than anything in the world, that was no news to anyone atop the Xianzhou Luofu. You’ve always worn the most expensive silks to have ever been created, with the richest of accessories and jewels. Whenever a new Hanfu dress would reach your hands, he would parade you on the busiest streets himself, making sure everyone and their mothers would talk about it by noon the next day. 

He made sure you always had the most able and knowledgeable professors at your call, and if you ever needed anything, all you’d have to do is ask to whomever was closest to you at the very moment, and it would be fulfilled within seconds. Sometimes you didn’t know if the servants did it out of admiration for your father or obligation.

Jing Yuan made sure you never needed or wanted for more. Materially, that is. 

And things were bound to change as you grew, especially as he cruelly presented you to the scrutiny of high society. 

You quickly grew to understand that it was his way of apologising, like a crow that would chip away at your skin then bring you trinkets of appreciation. When you sat and listened to some woman criticise that your dress was too frivolous for the event, too out of fashion for society and that none of your jewels matched, he did not do much but smile and pat your shoulder. 

“Little [Y/n] will learn from your kind advice.” He assured her, but you barely held in a snort of frustration. When the other women joined in, when they begun pulling at your hair to adjust it, when they hit your hands with their fans as you purred tea for not angling your elbows right, when they shamed you as the hall hollered with laughter, he watched and smiled, so you took a deep breath and smiled back to everyone around you too.

Later that very evening he found you with tears running on your cheeks, a box of red and gold velvet in his hands. Your father did not speak, nor did he show much emotion on his face and it angered you. You wished to yell, to protest for the fact that he had not jumped to your defence, but as you opened the box, all protests died on your lips and the tears stilled, hands shaking at the most beautiful jade hair pin you’ve ever seen.

But his gifts stopped making up for his emotional absence around the third time it happened. 

And you knew they all watched you like a hawk. Every move you’d make before the higher ups would be analysed on a scale of “good enough” or “weak” by none other than your father’s so called friends, while every single gesture before the public was like pulling needles off your skin. Yesterday you wore your Hanfu scandalously low on your cleavage, today you didn’t say thank you when the guard accompanying you opened up your parasol, tomorrow you won’t hold your tea cup quite right and so on. 

Usually it was easy to ignore.

But that was before the daughters of the noblest of houses would begin to alienate you for shallow reasons, and before the sons of each commissioner would size you up as nothing but easy stock to win over, an easy marriage in the pocket, or so they thought. 

It was easy for them to have the audacity to criticise you to your face or try to win you over, after all, you were nothing but a spoiled brat who’s never heard no for as long as she’s lived. Surely, you’ve never faced a single hardship, so the public felt righteous enough to scold you into it while for those within you were noting but a charity case. 

So you tried to learn all you could, so you’d never feel as less in front of others ever again. Since the very evening of your debut, you insisted on having a book under your arm, a needle in your hand, a sword at your hip, or a qin in your lap while tea cups simmered on a table. It felt easier to overlook the loneliness when you did. You found that after a certain age, it felt comforting even to worry about making it in time to granny Hua’s qin lessons while leaving the swordplay hall behind, rather than sit pretty in a room and wait all day for your father to finish his duties as a general. There was no more room at social events for rude interventions, and no more room in your mid for uncomfortable questions to ask while doing so, really.  

But you couldn’t avoid them for an eternity, that was for sure. And neither could Jing Yuan, for even in tranquil moments when peace had the taste of green tea and the smell of fresh air after rain, your twinkling eyes were still a carbon copy of how hers were. 

In the better of these days, your father would pretend to laugh at a joke you made, while you pretended to be satisfied with his reaction. You’d move a piece on the xiangqi board with elegant hands and chatted about the latest passage you read in a philosophy book, and he hummed in agreement while placing his own piece down. A cleverly crafted strategy to his own defeat, one that you felt content with following despite the fragile shame that came with it. 

It was a play you both excelled at most, after all.

At the worst of it all, you can’t understand his harsh voice as he yells “That is enough, [Y/n]!” while slamming his tea cup on the table. The whole room would shake at his warning, but your hunger for answers was much stronger than any fear, so you really can’t understand his fury when you yell back “Father! It is not!” He look at you with sorrow in his heart and his eyes were twisted by a pain you’d never understand, as he could only see her in you. 

“I will not have this conversation with you!” He’d warn again, but you took it as an invitation to push even further. “I don’t know the first thing about my mother, Jing Yuan! Her name? Never heard of it. Her face? Never seen it. Do you not think it is cruel, father?” Hot tears streamed on your perfect porcelain cheeks, smearing the red eyeliner you had painted on. “No one ever speaks about her to me, everyone refuses to. But they all look at me like I’m some kind of…” Your voice trailed off with hard puffs and sobs. “Like I’m some kind of…” 

His own chest puffed and the sight of you felt like a stab to his heart. You couldn’t get your words out, you didn’t need to really. People constantly looked at you in one of two ways, no matter how perfectly you’ve learned to craft your smiles, or how good your tea brewing had became, you were either a charity case they’d pity, or a spoiled brat that knew none of what the real world would offer.

 But despite all of his anger, he was still your father, and as much as he loved to punish himself trough you, he still held back the need of snapping the heads off all of their shoulders. He would reach for the back of your neck with his hand, bringing you into his chest in a half hug. “You are enough. Never forget that.” He’d kiss the crown of your head and inhale the floral smell of your hair. It grounded him, even as you screamed into his chest and pushed him away, his grip stayed firm until you’d shed your last tear and you cried your last sob. 

Because despite of how much you hated to admit it, you were living and breathing for his approval, which you seemed to never ever gain.

Unbeknownst to you, everything about you was just like her. Your face, your hair, even the way you wore your Hanfu  a little out of place with the shawl falling all over the floor when you walked, or your mannerism as you spoke with a tiny accent on your tongue, it was all her and nothing of his except the mole under your left eye. You’ve never met her, he tried to reason. You’ve never seen her or heard of her deeds. Your mother has been an enigma to you ever since you could remember things, and yet the world punished him with her perfect copy in you when he tried to push her memory away the most. 

It felt bittersweet. To the outside eye, general Jing Yuan adored his daughter more than anything else in the world. But underneath the jewellery, there were unaddressed feelings, each pearl you wore for people on the Central Starskiff Heaven to see was a tear unshed, each new dress was a silent apology they’d never hear, each loving promenade you’d have with your father was there to hide for the public a question you asked when the cord was too tensed. One of these days it would snap in half, you were sure of it. 

So who could blame you when it all overflowed? When you could no longer smile in the face of those who envied you and when your father’s emotional absence felt like a hallow painting of what should have really been? When the dresses and the jewels weren’t smothering the pain any longer?

You felt it daily, building up, pressing down, tugging at your smiles until they became frowns and empty stares, and your ever growing depression was evident for anyone that roamed the gardens outside your window at night, as your qin carried into the world the saddest tune your heart feared to voice. And this time, not even a Hanfu made out of golden thread would ease your pain. 

“So, say you, general,” 

Your father hummed back to the woman before him as he placed his piece down on the board. Another noble nodded in agreement with his choice behind him. You saw them all from where you were sitting, fingers strumming the qin in a delicate tune for the whole room to enjoy, while gin purred from flasks and laughter echoed somewhere in the back. It wasn’t like you to agree partaking in parties like these, but how could you turn Jing Yuan down when he asked you to serenade him at the event?

“I would say you’d want to keep your daughter closest to you, am I not right?” The wicked tone in the noble’s voice made you shiver underneath the silver shawl that draped off your shoulders. “Quite so I fear, why is that?” 

“Well, I hoped to reach you when I first heard the news, but I was quite busy, yous see?” The woman, an esteemed elder of the Artisanship Commission, hid her face behind what was possibly the most obnoxious fan you’ve ever seen, and your fingers became stiff on the metal strings of your trusted instrument. “Pardon me?” The general stilled his movements on the xiangqi pieces while the chattering went quiet. Nothing but your trembling notes filled the air.

“You know, I wished to give you my deepest condolences the moment I heard. For your daughter’s… unfortunate situation, that is.” Confused, Jing Yuan tilts his head to where you stood, only to be met with the same questions on your face that you desperately tried to drown as you played your melody. He chuckled awkwardly, then, and returned his attention on the game. “I fear I don’t know what you’re going on about, ma’am.”

“Ah… You know, the fact that your daughter is unable to bear children has quite saddened us all. I was looking forward to sending my son as a potential suitor!” 

If eyes could kill, you would be sure that the place where the woman stood would have become scorched dust. An involuntary scoff left your lips loud enough to draw attention, but you pretended to be engrossed with tuning your qin before beginning to play another piece for the hall. 

“And where have you heard such news, I wonder?” But she held no fear in her eyes. 

“Well, for one, everyone in high society talks about it! You see, your daughter is already past the age of accepting suitors yet has never even been seen with a man, so people assume. That being said I personally was told so by a doctor that works under you, your grace.” 

‘Lies’, you told yourself, but it was not enough to cool the blush you had on your cheeks from embarrassment, no matter how much you have been shamed by the public eye, nothing could compare to this very moment now. 

“Is that so,” Your father trailed off, then placed his piece on the xiangqi board. “Well, from what I know, your son is welcome to send in his suitor application, for my daughter is more than healthy and cared for. In fact, now that I think about it,” But you didn’t wish to hear any more. 

With a sudden move, you jumped from your seat to your feet and rushed to gather the qin underneath its silk cloth. The commotion drew attention to you, and so murmurs begun filling your ears which only fed your ever growing shame. “Please excuse me.” You voiced as you bowed deeply to the room of lords and nobles, then picked up your instrument and hurried to the exit with a strained “Please enjoy the rest of your evening.” 

And you hoped that would be the last you’ve heard of it all, but as fate wanted it, that was far from how things would play. 

“Father! This is ridiculous!” You protested. For all reason and purposes, it really was. 

Not even a full day after what happened, he invited you to serve tea with him in the parlour. You found it odd, as he never requested your presence on Tuesday afternoons, but did not complain as you stepped into the room with haste. 

He took his time finding the courage to face you, and when he understood he would not be able to deliver the news to you with a straight face, he pushed a stack of paper to you without even meeting your eyes. There, in red ink, was your fate sealed by a simple signature. An agreement that had been made without your knowledge or permission, and a wound that would become the reason for the demise of cord that held your family together.

Marriage certificate. 

No one knows what was truly discussed that night in the evening, but what was known was that you’ve fled with tears in your eyes and anger on your face. And for better or for worse, that would become the last time anyone on the Xianzhou Luofu had seen you under the identity of the general’s daughter, for you found no more room in your heart for the pain that followed with it.

“You know, when you put it like that, I do think that green works best with coral!” March eagerly nodded her head, while Dan Heng took his time analysing Himeko’s theory. You and welt only listened to the conversation with one ear, while the other was being filled with questions over questions from Stelle. 

“I don’t believe that’s a wise move.” You chirped as Welt placed the piece down, and you followed with a quick movement that gained you his general. He groaned and pushed his glasses up away while massaging the bridge of his nose. Stelle wowed and wood at your victory, and March leaned from her seat across the express’ parlour with a “really?” look in her eyes. 

“You lost again, M. Yang?” 

“I swear I’m good at this game.” And you chuckled while placing the pieces back into their pouch. “Used is a keyword.” March continued to tease while everyone watched your movements, which, weirdly, felt more calming than before your time on the express. In truth, it was because they never snickered underneath their palms and never cherry picked your posture until you’d get it wrong. 

That being said, you could only care for one person’s eyes alone, and his stare felt like electricity on the back of your neck. 

“How did you learn to play like this, anyways? You’re like a mad genius at these.” Stelle intervened, and you couldn’t help but shiver as your father’s knowing eyes came into your mind. “Ah…” was all that escaped your lips, before you cured your pained expression in a calm and lovely smile. “My father taught me how to play. He always made it so I would win, though. Therefore, for the longest time I believed I was quite bad at it too.” 

Your voice felt like crystal in the quiet room, so quiet and soft to the ear that it was more akin to a melody than a spoken sentence. You never truly talked about your home, never about your family of your past, which is exactly why your friends turned to you with a cocktail of shocked expressions. Despite how polite and proper you always were, whenever someone asked about it, you would have the coldest glare thrown their way, sure, involuntarily, but scary nonetheless, and with time the crew learned to not ask about a past you so much wished to hide.

Despite that, they never judged you for any of it, not even when your friendship has been tried over and over by your cold heart. You were never outright rude per se, but distant hit the nail in the head best. When Himeko would extend an invitation to a “coffee party” for the crew as an example, you refused with a polite smile that felt ripped out of etiquette teaching picture books, saying you prefer tea instead. 

She feared you’d be left out, you feared being the centre of attention. 

“I believe I’ll head in for the day.” You spoke after finishing to arrange the xiangqi pieces on the board. March left out an “Oh…” and you could hear the sad face in her voice. Amongst the others, she was the saddest when you chose to sit the Xianzhou Luofu out, as ever since your addition to the crew, you never turned down an adventure. You explained that your bones hurt from the cold of Jarilo-VI and that you needed a rest, and with Stelle at their side, you were sure they would have no problems getting trough this one trail-blazing adventure. Sure, it was a bit of a shock for Himeko and Welt, but to March? It was a tragedy. Her new bestie leaving her behind? She swore the world would end.

“Please, have a safe journey and a swift return.” 

You nodded your head their way before picking up the xiangqi game and reaching for the door. Your fingers grazed the digital pad just in time to hear Dan Heng’s voice behind you. “I will do the same, didn’t quite finish storing the data bank after Jarilo-VI.” 

And so you ended up side by side, walking trough the corridors of the Express. However, as you stepped past his make-shift room, you found his steps synced with yours still and, confused, you turned to face him and painted one of your signature smiles. Fake but pretty all the same. 

“Can I help you, Dan Heng?”

It was exactly that cold yet perfect, more-like-a-painting-than-an-actual-human attitude that made Dan Heng distrust you from the moment you stepped on the Express. You left everything to speculation in a way in which even your clothes were a mass of black and colourless, without any culture behind or any story at all to tell. Always in a bland attire with no accessories at all. March made fun of you for being so tasteless, but he saw past the appearance.  He saw past the way you acted and into the way you wilded your swords like cranes flying in the wind, the way you prepared and steeped tea, and the way you handled xiangqi and go pieces like a native only could.

He peered into your eyes in a way that made you unravel before him without a single word, and he knew it was to hide a side of you that you’ve hidden deeply to the rest. But not quite to him.

And while he was trying to get over a sense of danger in you, fed by your secrecy, you found peace in his presence. Unbeknownst  to him, he was the one thing that reminded you of home and the good in it despite it all. If your memories were filled with torment and loneliness, he was the smell of freshly baked red bean sticky rice cakes in the market, or the sound of wind chimes in the summer rain. He was all of the little things you wanted to push away but found comfort in, and you didn’t know if you loved it or hated him for it.

“Yes, actually.” He nodded. “I find I can’t sleep as of late and I wanted to try one of your calming brews.” You frowned at his words but gave in without asking much, which he greatly appreciated. “Very well, please join me for some tea tonight, then.” And silence settled between you two as you lead him to your cabin with unease rolling off your shoulders. 

Your room was much like your clothes. Simple and colourless besides the coffer next to your bed, which was unmistakably made with the mastery of a Xianzhou artisanship. But if he noticed it, he didn’t speak on it at all, nor about the low table in the middle of the room that was in the same style, or… well really about anything. You appreciated that most. Even when you settled on the table a traditional set of cups, a clear tea spreading the most enchanting and calming aroma from them, he did not speak a single word.

As he drank, his eyes rested on your covered qin that sat atop your bed, and he did not need to speak for you to understand his intentions. You sat down quietly on the covers, revealing the  simple instrument like a truth you’d usually hide from. And he couldn’t help but watch you with sadness in his heart as you tuned the strings with shaky hands ‘till crystal clear notes echoed trough the room. 

You took a heavy inhale and looked upon the dark ebony wood as if greeting an old friend before propping it on your lap, but couldn’t handle to meet Dan Heng’s eyes. At least not when he stared at you as if he knew every single secret you feared to tell. 

As you raised your hands in the air, getting ready to pull at the string, his own palm engulfed your exposed skin in an unspoken plea, and you couldn’t help but give into his warmth. He pulled gently until your face was buried into his shoulder and his other arm was in your hair, and you didn’t even notice it when silent tears begun to stain the fabric of his coat. He didn’t protest nor ever addressed it, and you preferred the feeling of his body against yours to the coldness of his eyes on a normal day. 

As such, you spent the evening together afterwords. Him silently sipping on the calming tea as the sorrowful yet comforting sound of the qin filled your bedroom, until there were no more tears to shed and the pot on the table had gone cold. 

No one wanted to admit it, but it had to be said. Something changed between you and Dan Heng from then on and the first one to notice it was none other than March. 

They were getting ready to leave the express when she stated it for the whole crew to hear. 

“Is it me or are the two of you like, in love or something now?” She arched one of her eyebrows while her lips rested in a scowl. Now, don’t get her wrong she was more than happy for you two if it was the case, but what she could not stand for was the two of you ditching the adventure to enjoy a date over tea and qin music again. 

“March, what kind of nonsense are you onto again?” You huffed with cherry red ears, while Dan Heng choked on the water he was previously drinking. All she could do was wave her hand while saying “yeah yeah,” over and over with a bored face before they set out on their way, but not before Welt pinned the two of you down with a knowing look.

The express stilled with their absence, reinforced by Pom-Pom who claimed to have some cleaning to do somewhere in the Express and Himeko who had some paperwork to finish. The parlour felt almost empty, despite Dan Heng’s presence right next to you. He still held his fist over his mouth as if preparing to cough, cheeks dusted pink and eyes on the starry sky before you, but he didn’t say a word about what happened. And something in you told you to follow his lead. 

You ate quietly at the sticky rice cake you tried your hand baking, and although the taste was very different from what you remembered, it was still as good as ever. With a tissue all crumpled up in your hand, you resulted to watching the sky along side your new friend, eyeing the stars one by one as they passed by. Yet you found your eyes sliding lower and lower from the window to the man before you, who you found already watching you with wide eyes. As if caught in headlights, he stammered out an incoherent string of words but did not move his gaze, not even as his body leaned to yours until his hand grazed your chin. 

You shuddered at his icy touch, but did not dare to move, not even as his fingertips reached for your lips. He gently wiped your lips then brought his thumb to his own mouth, licking off the excess red bean cream from the cake, and you were absolutely sure your face would explode from how hot it get in that very moment. “You had a bit,” He started, but his mouth closed shut when he noticed the dazed stare in your eyes. “Oh aeons, I didn’t make you uncomfortable, did I?” His voice shook and his own ears turned scarlet red, only now realising what he has done. You shook your head, head turning  so you could focus on the floor as if the tiles below your feet were now the best sight you have ever seen. “Ah, not at all! I was just surprised, ‘tis all.” Your sweaty palm gripped the tissue tighter. “Would you like some?” And Dan Heng looked at the half eaten cake you extended to him with an expression you’ve ever seen him give March or Stelle. He stared at the cake in his hands with a wholehearted fondness. “Yeah.” Was all he could manage to whisper back.

And somewhere in the back, you swore you heard Himeko giggle to herself. 

The same evening, you would hear three soft knocks on your door in the dead of night. There, in the hallway, with a sweat filled forehead and uneasy complexion, stood Dan Heng, and you would be a fool not to extend a hand to him when he begged for help with his tired eyes. 

“Quit hiding!” The criminal’s voice rang trough your head like a broken mantra. “Your true form… reveal it!” Dan Heng did his best to dodge the maniac attacks, all while you and Yanqing stood in an awkward stalemate in the middle of the platform.

Your blade screeched against Yanqing’s, but it was like fighting fire with fire, simply useless. No matter how lowkey you’ve been upon reaching the Xianzhou, he needed one singular look to know exactly who you were, even underneath the mask that covered the lower half of your face.

“You, little..” You trailed off with effort. Despite his usual sense of justice, that you’ve always commanded, his attacks felt awfully biased as he strikes your blade repeatedly with his icy ones. His technique felt as familiar as home did, her teaching seeping in his bones trough and trough, but so did  your father’s into yours, which you’ve had much more time to perfect than the little lapdog did. 

“Move, you idiot!” And with one harsh push of your blade, the young boy was off his feet, giving you enough time to reach Blade before he could get any damage done on Dan Heng. You yelled with each strike you struggled to par, until his crazy red eyes widened in glee and his sword flew from his hands and right by your chin. The sound of your friend’s cry in agony and the blade tearing trough skin and bone made you pause, and horror struck you as you refused to turn around and to even acknowledge what had happened. “You!” Was all you could let out, sword still pointed straight to Blade’s neck.

“I have news for you.” He laughed, and you took a step back. You would lie if you said your insides didn’t churn with fear, even as he was left completely disarmed before you.

“Behind you… Is none other,” The sound of water engulfed your ears as your head snapped back. “Than the traitor of the Xianzhou. A criminal, forever banished!” Your eyes widened as the barrier around Dan Heng rippled, leaving a water-made dragon to escape with rage all over its face. It roared and turned in the air, coiling until it fell right back to where it came from, and when light and wind filled the platform, you couldn’t help but shield your form with your arms. 

“The High Elder of the Vidyadhara… Imbibitor Lunae.” 

The hold on your sword weakened. You shuddered as the man you grew so attached to revealed himself before you in a form you’ve recognised from your father’s tales. Long silky hair and cold green eyes, horns and tail and lotus flowers and everything that made the Vidyadhara so revered. You could hardly believe your eyes. With a weak step forward, you pulled at the mask to reveal your strained expression, sword falling to your side numbly. 

“You really believed that the Stellaron Hunters were the only ones to infiltrate the Xianzhou?” 

Cold air begun pulling at your hair, and you shook off your stupor when Yanqing begun summoning his ice swords. Your body acted before your mind did at the new threat and your sword was back up within seconds, posture ready for a clash. 

“A wanted criminal, a banished person and a deserter. In this case, I will bring all three of you to justice!” 

The fight ended before it could even begin properly. Yanqing was strong, but Jingliu’s teaching could only get him so far against the three of you. Blade begun striking without mercy, taunting you and Dan Heng for holding back. “What’s wrong, your grace? Scared to harm the boy?” The criminal laughed as you sent only one out of the spirit swords you summoned towards Yanqing. Flashes of electricity begun shining trough your hair with anger, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do more. Not  even when Dan Heng delivered the final strike with a silent apology. 

Yanqing’s knees begun to buckle just as Kafka yelled “All of you, listen to me - stop!” 

You couldn’t help but stumble back, swords falling out of existence as Dan Heng’s feet stepped back on the floor and Blade’s weapon vanished before your eyes. “Well, Bladie? Are you satisfied?” She mused and he only hummed in response. 

“…What did you do?” Dan Heng called after a moment of silence. “Just clearing the stage for the grand entrance. Can’t have the four of you misbehaving in front of the Luofu’s hotshot general.” Your shoulders stiffened as a familiar laughter filled the platform. All heads turned towards the sight, yet you stayed rooted on your feet, back turned and head shaking in denial. “No, not like this.” You whispered. 

“Jing Yuan,” Blade huffed. “General!” Yanqing followed. 

The man stared at the sighed before him with a knowing smile just as you got the courage to turn and face him. If he felt anything upon the sight of you, he did not show it. “Many years have passed since the three of you have departed the Xianzhou, and yet the circumstances of your return appear to be equally unhappy. If you still thought of me as a friend,” His eyes went straight to yours, unspoken words weighting you down as you found it harder and harder to breathe. ‘As family’ was what he wished to say, yet he held back. “You should’ve forewarned me.” 

“My task is complete.” Was all the blade said. “Mhm. That it is.” Your father laughed in return. “Thank you for assisting the Xianzhou in this small matter. Take this person away, I will pretend I didn’t see anything this time.” He stated harshly despite Yanqing’s protest. Jing Yuan then stared at Dan Heng as the two Stellaron Hunters made their way to the boat at the edge of the platform. “It has been a long time, old friend.” But your friend answered harshly. “I’m not him.” 

“Mh. I’m sorry. You cannot leave yet, however. Your astral express friends are still waiting for you in Scalegorge Waterscape. Shall we go and see them together? And you…” The moment you have been trying to prepare yourself for most had arrived, and your father’s smile died on his lips as his eyes analysed your face. 

“I missed you terribly, my sweet flower.” Dan Heng stiffened next to you, but his hand fingertips grazed yours in protectiveness, to which you could only respond by accepting his palm into yours. The familiar nickname brought tears into your eyes, and despite the coldness of his face, your father’s voice felt like a familiar little tune you new by heart. Like a warm hug when you needed it most. How you wished you could’ve just forgotten it all and jumped into his chest, just like how you did when you were nothing but a sprout on two legs. 

“That being said, we will continue this conversation later. I’m afraid your friends might be in trouble, you see.”

You didn’t know how time had passed so fast, more like a blur than anything, truthfully. Your eyes were opened wide on the platform between the Xianzhou and Scalegorge Waterscape, blade in hand and senses aware as you parred each of the attacks your way. Then you blinked, and when you reopened them, a familiar sight greeted you. 

Three cups of steaming green tea on a low rise table, a board of xiangqi and pieces of go scattered all over the table. A sacred silence engulfed the room, besides the occasional sound of the chess pieces falling into place, and none of you could bring yourselves to shatter it just yet. 

Dan Heng watched you play with patience while occasionally bringing the cup to his lips, now back into the form you grew so familiar with. You hated to admit it, but his presence comforted you. It gave you the strength to hold yourself together in a situation in which you would have certainly shattered if alone, and your father’s keen eye did not glass over that fact. 

You sighed peacefully when your chariot was finally occupied in the middle of the palace, on your father’s side, in a perfect centroid checkmate. The man before you leaned back and sighed, a puzzled expression on his face. “You just had to go and get better than me at this game, did you not?” But you didn’t answer. You still didn’t know what to say, really. Were you feeling guilty for deserting your spot as a cloud knight? For leaving your father behind? Or for bailing on your responsibilities as his daughter? Well, no not quite, so apologising for it felt…strained and forced. But one thing felt real as your eyes met his and Dan Heng’s hand reached for yours across the table. You missed him terribly just as much. 

“Every single day that passes shapes you more and more like her.” He added. “I wish you could’ve been by my side for them all.” 

“Jing Yuan…” You whispered back, but he didn’t let you finish. “If your mother was here with us today, I assure you, my sweet flower, that things would have been so different.” For a moment, you could hear nothing but your heart beating against your chest.

“You are just like her. And I truly mean it. Your face, your personality, darn it all even the way you speak. And, as your father, I wish I could’ve offered you a better life.” 

“You did all you could.” Funny how even now, you were the one to reach with a warm heart, how you were the one to comfort and forgive, even when his heart couldn’t yield. 

“Not quite. I was foolish and believed that a firm hand would prepare you for the cruelty of the world. I failed to see, no. I failed to change when I saw that it was harming you more than anything.” You let out a sigh you’ve held in for a very long time and closed your eyes, a last attempt at holding in the tears you wished so disparately to shed. 

“I love you, father. Nothing will ever change that. However,” Despite how your hand shook in Dan Heng’s, your voice stood firm, and as you opened your eyes, both men shivered at their determination. “An apology, no matter how needed, will never make up for what has been. If this is your way of asking me to stay, I fear I’ve made my choice.” 

But his ever knowing smile was back on his lips, and his laughter caught you off guard. Your fingers tightened on Dan Heng’s fingertips, who had stayed quiet as you and your father voiced what both of you ever feared to before. 

“You see, that was not my intention. That being said, if you ever did wish to return, there will always be room for you into my arms, my darling flower.” And you only nodded back, lips slightly parted in surprise. 

“We should head out.” Dan Heng whispered to you after the tea had been finished and the conversation ended. He tapped the skin of your palm with gentle fingers, a quiet way of asking for your attention. His eyes were stricken with tiredness, and you doubted that yours were any better, excusing the puffiness brought by your tears. 

“Ah yes, I forgot!” The general mused. “There is no need to return to that hotel for the night. I asked for your room to be prepared, for you and your lover here. So you could rest comfortably before leaving.” The moment could be best described by a broken record being pulled abruptly from its recorder and screeching in your head. You eyed Dan Heng who refused to meet your gaze and who’s ears became scarlet red once more. “Father!” You protested. “He- He’s not-”

“Save it, [Y/n]. At least invite me if you do ever get married.” 

“Dad!” Shame engulfed you as you pushed Dan Heng out of the room all while the sound of Jing Yuan’s laughter taunted you from behind the doors of the seat of Devine Foresight. You couldn’t help but whisper muffled apologies into your hand that tried to shield your burning face from anyone that would watch, which in truth was as effective as searching for a needle in a haystack. 

What you didn’t expect was for Dan Heng’s hand to find yours and move it away, revealing cherry red cheeks that matched his own. He cleared his voice before leaning in just enough for his breath to fan over your ear as your back met the closed doors behind you. “I would not mind if I was.” He whispered before his velvet soft lips rested against the exposed skin of the back of your palm. You were sure your knees would’ve given in if it wasn’t for his arm that hooked around your waist, bringing you so close to him you shuddered. 

“I really would not mind it.” 

Later that evening, as his teeth grazed your exposed skin before kissing it with sweet words of praise, as your hands intertwined and your bodies became one under the silk sheets of your bed, you could tell that your heart began singing a familiar tune. With each kiss from Dan Heng’s, a new feeling invaded your senses. You were home. Here with him, in this very moment. You were home in his arms. 

And you wouldn’t changed it for anything else. 

Yes, not even as March yells “I fucking knew it!” the next morning, for the whole of Xianzhou Luofu to hear, upon seeing your neck caked in love marks you had no means of hiding and your hand held tightly by Dan Heng, who only smiled back to everyone as you buried your face into his chest with shame. 

[miley1442111]

reams and reactions (part 1)- r.cameron

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a/n: HELLO! welcome to my new obx series, don't worry, if you follow me for cm or anything else I'll still be posting that, but i've just been on a obx binge recently so i cooked this story up in my head.

tropes: childhood bestfriends to lovers, enemies to lovers

pairing: rafe cameron x fem! reader (use of Y/n, and the nickname Bunny/ bun (but i promise not in a weird way there's a story to it i swear it's not just one of those weird smut things))

summary: how you and rafe fell apart, then finally meet again.

warnings: drugs, drug use, drinking, parental and sibling death, kissing, crying, violence, fighting, cursing, guys being creepy, misogyny, asshole dude. (i think that's it?)

not entirely proofread

2k+ words

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When Rafe was 5 years old, he ran with you in the garden of Tannyhill, chasing you in a game of tag. When he finally caught up to you, you both fell to the ground, limbs tangled in the way only friends did, giggling the way only friends do, and he pressed the sweetest kiss to your cheek. 

When Rafe was 8, he came sobbing at your doorstep, on the verge of throwing up. He’d run all the way there. His mom was dead. He didn’t know what else to do. Besides his mother, you were the only person you’d ever been there for him like that, showing him that emotions were ok, and normal. When he felt you hugging him, and crying with him, he knew he would be with you forever. That he would stick with you through anything. 

When Rafe was 10, he came back to your house after a particularly long day (aka you had no classes together) and you two sat on your couch with your family surrounding you, Romeo and Juliet on the screen. He felt himself blush when your sister made the joke that he was like your Romeo, since your dads didn’t get on. Though you both adamantly denied it, a few minutes later he felt your hand holding his under the blanket, your matching friendship bracelet brushing off each other's skin. He was smitten. A smile landed swiftly on both of your faces. 

When Rafe was 13, he watched as you walked down the aisle of his father’s second marriage, a bunch of flowers in hand. He thought you looked beautiful, you were so beautiful. The pale blue dress Rose had picked and, of course, white roses in your hand. You shot him a small smile, one he responded to by blowing you a kiss. You laughed it off and went to stand where you were meant to. Rafe’s eyes were glued to you through the entire ceremony, almost forgetting to give his dad the rings. After the ceremony, you two ran off, away from Tannyhill. You went to your ‘little cove’ as you’d call it. It was a tiny beach just beside your house, but it led into the most magnificent field full of wildflowers, insects, and tall grass. It was beautiful. You and Rafe spent the whole night there, joking and talking. Then he finally mustered up the courage to kiss you. You kissed him back, but you’d both never speak about it again, too scared to mess up your incredible decade of friendship. 

When Rafe was 15, he saw you for the last time. Three months earlier you had come to him, sobbing about the fact that you were moving to California of all places. More than a day's drive away. 42 hour drive. He promised you, no, swore to you that you’d keep in touch, that you’d be there for each other even with the distance. 

He was wrong. After a few months, he’d stopped texting back, stopped calling back, stopped being there for you. And he never saw you again. 

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Rafe woke up with a banging headache and an uncontrollable urge to vomit but swallowed it back and took the glass of water that remained on his bedside table for days at a time. Today was going to be shit. It was the 28th of July, the day you left him, and the day his world got turned upside down. This day was always hard. He was reminded of everything he’d messed up in life. What was he now? A drug addicted, drunk, piece of shit. He was barely getting by in college and he’d already had to repeat a year twice. Often, he’d go to your little cove and sit, thinking about what you were doing now. Were you a teacher, like you’d wanted to be as a kid? Were you an artist? He remembered how good you were at sketching. Were you even alive and he’d missed the funeral? What did you look like? What colour was your hair? Did you think about him?

Everything was too loud in his mind. He grabbed a beer, and set on his way. The cove was in full bloom, a sea of colours under the boiling sun. He sat in his usual spot, the spot where you two had kissed. You two had these small chairs that Rafe barely fit in then, and definitely didn’t fit in now, so he sat beside them. What time was it? Was the sun going down? He searched in his pocket for his phone, only to find it dead.

“Excuse me?” He turned to see a girl shouting from across the field. 

“Yeah?” he called back, feeling rather inconvenienced by the whole ordeal. 

“Do the Cameron’s still live in Tannyhill?” She asked. 

“Yeah, why?”

“Just an old friend, thanks!” 

And she walked off. He tried to remember her physical features as best he could, but ultimately forgot them in his pursuit of washing his troubles away with the beer in his hand. 

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“Y/n? Is that you?!” Sarah squealed as she leant out the window of the Twinkie. 

“Sarah?” You practically ran into the road to meet her. The car was stopped at a stop-light, and she pulled you in to properly greet you. 

“Oh my god! It is so good to see you!” She smiled. Despite you and Rafe’s falling out, you’d stayed in touch with Sarah, even though you were a little older than her. You even followed Wheezie on instagram and texted back and forth sometimes. But Rafe… static. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I’m here to teach, I just finished my 2nd year of college and I’m doing my work experience here!” You explained, as she pulled away from the hug. 

“So you’re going to be here, like for the whole year?”

“Not just the whole year, I’m moving back once I'm done with my exams,” you explained. “I’m doing this programme that means I can work from here and do college from here, I’m so fucking sick of California.”

Both Sarah and Kiara squealed with excitement, and the three boys cheered. You’d been friends with the pogues, being a sort of pogue-kook hybrid. 

Kiara pulled you in for a hug, then Pope, then Jj, then John B gave your hand a squeeze instead, since he was busy driving. 

“So you’re back for good?” Kie asked. 

“I’m back for as long as you’ll have me,” you smiled. 

“We have to celebrate tonight!” Jj cheered.

“There’s a party down at Figure 8, I’m sure Y/n’s kook heritage will get us in,” Pope shrugged and you all agreed. 

You spent the rest of the afternoon hanging around the pogues and Sarah and got ready at Kiara’s place for the party. Her parents welcomed you back with open arms, and then asked the dreaded question of ‘how are your parents?’

Your parents had been dead for 3 years. They’d died in an accident, and you’d been alone since then. 

“They’re good,” you lied. “Working hard back in California.”

That satisfied them, and they stopped asking. 

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

The Figure 8 party was just how you remembered them to be. Loud, drunk, and almost too much. Even though you had been 14 at the time, Rafe had convinced you to come to one, since he was friends with some older kooks who wanted him there. Halfway through you told him you were going home, and instead of just waving you off, he brought you to your little cove, and sat with you for a couple hours. After that he brought you back to his house, and you had a sleepover.

When you’d asked him why he did that, he’d just shrugged and said ‘I prefer being around you.’

God, you could’ve married that man. You were supposed to, if your diary ‘ideal life’ had gone to plan. 

Step One: Start dating Rafe

Step Two: Become highschool sweethearts and make it through college (even if it's long distance) and become a teacher! 

Step Three: Work as a teacher and live on the mainland for a few years, have Rafe propose in the little cove, say yes, obviously and start wedding planning. 

Step Four: Have the wedding at Tannyhill, move into a house on Figure 8 and start having kids, we’ll have 4 or 5 (Rafe wants 7 kids????? 4 or 5 is pushing it buddy), and live a long happy life as a teacher with Rafe and our family. 

Step Five: Die happy. 

Ok, it wasn’t exactly inspired, but come on, you were 13. 

You noticed what looked like a grown version of Topper in the crowd and when he turned and saw you, a smile grew on his face. He ran over and scooped you up in a hug.

“Bun! You’re back!”

Bun was the nickname you were given as a kid because well, you liked bunnies. You had two as a kid, and for a year, you wouldn’t respond to someone unless they called you bun. It was ridiculous, but people obliged all the same. You'd never regretted anything more in your life in that moment.

“Hey Topper,” you smiled. 

“Have you seen Rafe yet?” he asked.

“No, not yet,” you smiled slightly faltered, but you kept the smile up for good appearances. When you’d gone to Tannyhill yesterday, only Ward, Rose, and Wheezie were in, so your anxiety around seeing Rafe had grown. One day, he’d just stopped replying. Not one reason, not one apology. Nothing. One part of you wanted to say he didn’t even deserve to see you, and another missed her best friend/ supposed love of her life. “Is he around?”

“He is, but he’s high as shit,” Topper laughed. Rafe Cameron? Rafe Cameron was getting high?

“Rafe is high?”

“Oh yeah, he’s totally into all that shit now,” he laughed and you noticed the dilated pupils, the white residue on his nose, the red, irritated skin of his nose. He was high too. “It’s good shit too, you want some?”

“I’m good, just point me in Rafe’s direction,” you nodded, deeply uncomfortable with the drugs around. You’d grown up with a brother who did drugs, who’d died from drugs at the young age of 17. You didn’t want anything to do with drugs, but here you were, being led into one of the Figure 8 mansions to be led to Rafe Cameron, selling, and doing drugs. 

“Gentleman, I present to you, the Princess of Figure 8, making her great return, Bunny!” he cheered as all eyes turned to you. The group of boys cheered, getting up to give you a group hug. Rafe stayed seated. 

“How’s life on the mainland Bun?How was Cali?” Kelce asked, sitting down beside you as you joined the circle, trying to ignore the cocaine on the table. 

“It’s fine, but I’m back in the Outer Banks for good now,” you smiled as another round of cheers rippled through the group. 

“We’re finally good enough for you again?” Topper joked. “What’s brought you back home huh? Aside from the strapping young men?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m teaching here Top, I'm in my third year of college.”

“Shit no way, you’re a teacher?” Ryan, a sleeze you remembered from school. He was always the creepy guy, trying to look up girls' skirts and play kiss-tag at the ripe old age of 12. “You're way too sexy to be a teacher. You should be a pornstar or something.”

You felt bile rise in your stomach as a handful of the boys laughed at the joke. 

“That’s not funny,” Kelce defended. “Fuck off asshole.”

“What? You and I both have eyes and we can both see her tits. Too bad Cameron has dibs.”

You froze and looked to Rafe who was looking at you through hooded eyes. 

The silence was awkward, and you knew it was time to take your leave, even though you hadn’t said a word to Rafe, so you said your goodbyes and left in search of the pogues. 

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

“Gentleman, I present to you, the Princess of Figure 8, making her great return, Bunny!” Topper announced as all eyes turned to you. 

Holy fucking shit. You were gorgeous, and it was you. Rafe’s Y/n. Rafe’s Bun. He was shocked to see you in the Outer Banks again, let alone in person again. You were here. In front of him. Then he realised, you were here. Here, where there was cocaine on the table, and he was the one selling it. Here, where there were about three guys looking at you like you were a piece of meat. Here, where he sat at the top of the table, stoned out of his mind. 

“How’s life on the mainland Bun? How was Cali?” Kelce asked, sitting down beside you as you joined the circle. Rafe could see you trying to ignore the table, staring directly at Kelce, all your attention on him. He couldn’t help but feel jealous. You were his best friend before you were anyone else’s friend. He’d known you better than anyone. And here he was, silent as he watched you talk to everyone else. 

“It’s fine, but I’m back in the Outer Banks for good now.” 

His heart almost stopped. Back in the Outer Banks, for good. 

“We’re finally good enough for you again?” Topper joked. “What’s brought you back home huh? Aside from the strapping young men?”

You rolled your eyes at him, but Rafe could tell it was playful. God, his life was so fun when you had been in it. Impromptu boat rides and trips to the mainland, spending hours just talking and laughing about nothing and everything all at the same time. He missed it. He missed you.“I’m teaching here Top, I'm in my third year of college.”

“Shit no way, you’re a teacher?” Ryan. Rafe often wondered why he even kept him around. He could feel the awful comment coming, but he knew he couldn’t stop it. “You're way too sexy to be a teacher. You should be a pornstar or something.”

Rafe felt the anger boil in his blood the second he said it. Ryan should’ve known better than to talk about you like that.

“That’s not funny,” Kelce defended, beating Rafe to it. “Fuck off asshole.”

“What? You and I both have eyes and we can both see her tits. Too bad Cameron has dibs.”

Rafe stared back at you as you truly looked at him for the first time that night. He couldn’t tell how you felt, something he didn’t like. Ever since you two were kids, he could always tell how you were feeling, what you were thinking. He could always anticipate what you needed. He didn’t know now and it scared him. He just looked back into your beautiful eyes, allowing himself to be lost in the fact that you were here in front of him. 

The silence was awkward and he knew it, so he didn’t protest when you took your leave, even if he wanted to. He spoke when he knew you were out of ear and eyeshot, he didn't need you know what he was about to do.

“Ryan?” he scoffed. “You have ten seconds.”

“Until what?” Ryan chuckled. 

Rafe counted down the seconds in his head, Topper and Kelce became more and more uneasy as the seconds went by. 

Rafe didn’t even give warning, he just got up, grabbed a nearby beer bottle, and smashed it over his head. Nobody dared to stop him, not even when he started punching Ryan, promising to kill him if he ever spoke about you like that again. 

People knew not to fuck with Rafe and, even after all these years, you were an extension of Rafe. Too bad Ryan forgot that.

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

obx masterlist :)

navigation for my blog :) (criminal minds, obx, the bear, marvel, top gun, the hunger games, challengers :)

[lenievi]

My fave spones fics

It's spones day!, so I decided to finally publish this extremely subjective short list I wrote years ago (hence no new fics). If a link doesn't work, put it through a wayback machine.

---

TOS McCoy/Spock romance, friendship, anything in between

A Man of Integrity by Jane Carnall. M. 18k. A mirror ‘verse story. Spock didn’t mind meld with McCoy, but kept him for long enough that the rest left without him. Will McCoy get back home? Written in 1989. (ao3)

Blue Under the Colourless Sky by vail-kagami (LJ). T. 4k. This. was. so. good. And melancholic. And bittersweet. And saying more would spoil it. (death is discussed)

Catharsis by babel. E. 40k+ still WIP. This is all I ever wanted from a McCoy/Spock fic. Follows season 1 of TOS. What if Spock and McCoy had an arrangement.

Coming Through in Waves by Cirth. T. 6k. “Spock dislikes doctors.” This was just lovely. A great character study from Spock’s POV. Includes room sharing and bathroom sharing. 

Deepening of the Spirit by lynndyre. G. 1k. A short fic set after the last film. Sweet and warm, finally getting together after all those years.

Distances series by berlynn_wohl. G-E. 54k. The first story is pre-slash and can be read as a standalone mission fic. A nice series spanning years. Written in 2007.

Down The Long Corridors Of Air by Thistlerose. T. 7k. This is another fic that demonstrates quite well what I like in the pairing. “A circle has no end. Spock and McCoy over the years.” Spoilers up to ST VII. Written in 2009.

Further Study Needed by J. Rosemary Moss. G. 2k. Cute pre-canon fic. McCoy tries to teach Spock how to flirt. Pre-slash. Written in 2008.

My Little Town by Phoenix. M. 8k. Post-movies. McCoy’s mother dies, and McCoy goes back to Earth to sell the old house. Spock accompanies him. A bit sad, melancholic story where the two of them finally stop avoiding what’s between them.

something bright, traveling fast by lupinely. G. 7k. “After fal-tor-pan, Spock considers existence.“ Movie-era, really lovely.

Spock of Baker Street by K. V. Wylie. M. 18k. Crossover with Doctor Who. The Guardian of Forever “kidnaps” Spock and McCoy, and throws them into late 19th century Britain. They meet a guy named Arthur, and live at Baker Street. And investigate a murder. Established relationship.

Teshuvah by K. V. Wylie. PG. 20k. A reincarnation AU - i.e. McCoy gets to relive his life again.

The Secrets of Pine Cones by K. V. Wylie. PG. 9k. Movie-era. Married Mc/S. McCoy is observing Ramadan, and this year, after many years spend together, Spock stays at home and keeps him company for the first time. A very lovely fic, written from Spock’s POV.

Through A Glass, Darkly by Jane Carnall. M. 67k. mirror ‘verse. pon farr. mind bond. Written in 1988. (on ao3: prime spones part and the mirror spones 3-parter)

AOS McCoy/Spock

This Must Be The Place by therev. M. 38k. Spock learns that Spock Prime and his Leonard McCoy were in a relationship, and... This was one of the first mc/s fics I read, and it’s still among my favourites. It also showed me that aos!mccoy/spock could work. The mood is a bit melancholic (and perhaps a bit slice-of-life-ish), it’s set post-Beyond, and it has Joanna.

---

also older spones fics recs (i.e. written before the reboot)

[phoenixcatch7]

Honestly I'd really like to see a mxtx3 story where wwx and xl work with Sqq to reveal sqq's true backstory and the system to lbh.

I mean, think about it!! One of the biggest problems with scum villain is how even though they get together, unlike the other couples bingqiu is still left with all these huge secrets that massively affect them both. Lbh is left believing he married his mercurial abuser, that his suffering passed some sort of indefinable test that proved him worthy of basic rights. That Sqq threw him in the abyss of his own volition. That Sqq was really sacrificing his life and not faking his death with intent to survive.

Sqq is left knowing all these things but unable to act on them, unable to tell his husband about his own past, unable to explain his actions, never able to fully let his guard down because he's supposed to be shen qingqiu. He can't even tell his own husband his original name!! If he could have, he would have, even if only in the extras!

But can you imagine???

A meeting of bingqiu, wangxian, Hualian, for whatever reason, and as the three (actual) protagonists chat and gossip and get to know each other, as they talk, Sqq is at ease enough to slip up and finds out he can talk about the system to anyone from outside pidw! Not just sqh!! Maybe not completely, but he can mention some, and the other two, concerned for their new friend, are clever enough to tease the rest out. They're horrified. Sqq is resigned but freshly hopeful.

And so begins Mission: Save Sqq's Marriage!

(Sqq would very much like to contend the title but he is out voted.)

I'd just love to see the three of them (with unquestioning aid from their husbands) get up to hijinks and face existential horrors on a quest to help bingqiu get the closure they need. And moshang too, I guess XD.

It'd also be very, very funny to have them all in the middle of the latest traumatic and/or mortifying scene look around at the other two like 'hey, aren't you supposed to be freaking out now? This is normally the part people start screaming' and the other two are like 'I mean I guess?? We've got things to do though' like kings of unflappable repression right there.

(and lbh and lwj having vinegar-offs while hc is sighing dreamily watching his husband make semi decent friends for once)

Like there's a bunch of crossovers but none really scratch that itch, you know? The main characters of all 3 mxtx?? There's so much potential for Truly Unhinged Shenanigans!! Wangxian visiting pidws wife plot filled world and disappearing into the wilderness for a full week, coming back with every single piece of clothing they brought ruined. Hualian go visit mdzs and and no one believes xl is a diety and hc chomping at the bit to kill them for the injustice. Bingqiu going to tgcf and lbh getting mistaken for a calamity, or Sqq falling into the one wife plot kidnapping or something intended for a diety.

But seriously imagine Sqq complaining about something and wwx and xl immediately going 'that's not right! You deserve better!!' and Sqq is like 'no it's fine I'm used to it' and the other two slam their fists on the table like 'no!!! If [husband] was forced to keep that kind of secret I'd hate it!! You two deserve to be properly happy!! Let us help! We can fix this!' and start working with zeal and vigor while Sqq trails along embarrassed half heartedly muttering 'it's not that bad >:/'.

And when it works (presumably some clever loophole they stumbled on) and bingqiu are tearfully kissing they share a low five without looking. Or that one meme where the person getting kissed holds their hand back and their wingman enthusiastically high fives it but there's two wingmen XD!

I don't knowww but it'd be such a good premise! Ripe for character interactions!! Fluff! Crack! Angst! Daytrips and pouring their hearts out to people who'd really understand! Xl wwx and Sqq bestie team up! Meeting moshang! Wwx info dumping about his monster index categorisation to an enthralled Sqq! Xl and Sqq bemoaning etiquette while wwx laughs at them! Xl and wwx having intense discussions about morality and righteousness! All three of them laughing at how oblivious they were about their husbands, each trying to one the other two for Dumb Moments They Should Have Realised (Sqq wins by horrifying the other two)!

Forget cross country kidnappings and being locked in a room! Where is my protagonist trio getting into trouble on a self imposed mission to help their friend! Let their magnetism for insanity shine!!

[songsofadelaide]

In 2006, you entered Tokyo Jujutsu High with nothing but the clothes on your back. A cursed spirit wreaked havoc in your home and awakened your spirit sight and cursed technique— and mopping up the scene were two high schoolers from an unknown school who became your classmates soon enough.

Your situation was confusing enough as it is, but long story short, your newly awakened "powers" meant you had to leave your life behind and begin a new one as a jujutsu sorcerer. Seeing as you had nowhere else to go anyway, you relented and allowed yourself to be led away, like a girl from nowhere headed nowhere.

Except it wasn't nowhere, and you found yourself a home— with people just like you. Satoru, Suguru, Shoko— and also Kento and Yu. They were once strangers who soon became your only family.

Yet it still gave you chills when you think about what it was exactly you were fighting. Sometimes, you could hear what they were saying, with voices that sounded so human yet also unearthly.

You started taking things more seriously when you realised there was no more turning back for you. You undertook missions with only one goal in mind: to continue staying alive. When you were partnered with Suguru one time, you didn't hesitate to leave him behind when things got nasty. Surprisingly, he didn't fault you for that and even understood just how terrified you truly were by the whole ordeal.

In one instance, you fell unconscious, only for you to realise in that mid-death sequence that it was Suguru who fished you out of the rubble of your home and breathed life back into your lungs. He was a tender youth, and you could even call him old-fashioned, but he took his assignments just as seriously as you did and even made sure you were always all right with things.

"Do the cursed spirits still scare you?" "No... Not as much. I think it's because you're always around..."

Suguru likened you to a feral cat that got lost in the woods, only to return to a different kind of civilisation where everything wanted to hurt it all over again. Out of all your classmates and schoolmates, he was most understanding with you, to the point where Satoru was incredibly jealous, for the lack of a better word.

"Just how long are you planning on keeping up that helpless girl act of yours?" "Don't speak to her that way, Satoru. You've seen what she's been through."

When you called him by his first name by accident— because Satoru called him by his first name all the time— he told you it was fine, and that you could keep calling him by whatever name you were comfortable with.

"If it's fine with you, I'll call you by your name, too."

You were more than fine with that. In fact, Suguru made you feel all warm and stupid and fuzzy that it almost felt moronic of you to be around him. It was your mistake asking Shoko for a check-up because she did nothing more but aggravate the strangeness you felt whenever Suguru was around.

"You aren't sick. You feel that way because you like him, you idiot."

He didn't blame you either when you kissed him that one night, overcome with so much affection he had a hard time pondering from where it came. He joked about having successfully tamed a wild cat, but you reminded him once more how human you were when you pressed your chest against his and stole the rest of his quip from his lips once more.

The first time you went out with Suguru after that hazy kiss, you could hardly hear his voice because of how loud your heart pounded in your chest. He was the perfect gentleman— or so he attempted to be— and was incredibly attentive to you and your needs. Why he gladly played house with you was beyond your comprehension, but you didn't mind staying so blissfully ignorant in this bubble that caged you both.

Suguru was kind. Nothing but kind. And he was exceptionally kind to you, even though he thought you were nothing more than a feral cat he managed to domesticate.

Your kiss reminded him of the sweetness of a colourful hard candy when he was little— fragrant and cloying— perhaps a bit too sickeningly saccharine for his tastes, but it was far better than the flavour of the curses he had to ingest. He'd kiss you again to remember better days— again and again and again until both of your lips were sore, until he's had his fill, until he's had enough— enough of your sweetness and enough of you. Then he'd tell you to drink a glass of water like nothing happened.

When the disillusionment occurred— the Star Plasma Vessel was killed and Yu died in a miscalculation— the light in his kind eyes had died out, and no amount of knocking on his door will arouse him, let alone let you in.

Suguru left for a mission one day and never returned. He visited his friends one by one until it was only you left that he had yet to meet. You said that you'd follow him to the ends of the earth, fuck the system and fuck society.

He felt like he was leaving his pet cat to fend for itself.

"If you leave, there's no going back for you."

Where you went didn't matter that much anymore as long as he was there. It never mattered to you at all. It only started to matter when Suguru said he would love to have you with him.

"I can live with that. I only need you."

Satoru did not take your escape kindly. He said that you were just as poisoned as Suguru. Your only mistake was trying to fight back— against the young god that Satoru was. You supposed it was your feral cat instincts that told you to engage.

He did not finish you off but instead turned you over to his teacher, who would find something to do with you one of these days.

Suguru waited for you until nightfall, and he concluded that you bailed and probably had cold feet. Like always, he never blamed you. You would be a fugitive like him, after all, after working so hard for the roof over your head. It only hurt him a little, especially when you told him that you only needed him and nothing else.

What could have possibly changed your mind?

He didn't mull over it any longer. Wild cats like you will always find ways to survive, after all.

"I guess I'll have to leave that kitty behind."

In 2018, "Suguru" finds you among the school's collection of oddities. Only it wasn't him, but a stranger with his face. He coos over you, holding you close to his person— as though it was truly him— and he remarks how this body remembers "this vengeful spirit".

He remembers— in fragments— breathing life back into you long ago, and how you orbited him as though he was a celestial body. Your face occupied much of his thoughts— back when those thoughts were still truly his.

He consumes you, and his body is overcome by the memory of a fragrant, cloying flavour that runs his mouth dry.

"Ah," the impostor remarks. "So that's what it was."

"Suguru" summons you in the thick of battle, and his opponents are fraught with terror at the sight of his most favoured curse— a menacing feral cat that lives only by his commands, that lives only for him.

"You never changed your mind after all."

[starsstuddedsky]

Needles and Knives

red hood!jeno x doctor!reader

...

“Don’t you dare die,” you say, gripping the scalpel.

“Already did that,” Jeno mutters, eyes fluttering. “Didn’t agree with me.”

...

summary: Jeno’s plans never included you yet somehow you worm your way into his life. Being a vigilante isn’t easy - but neither is loving one.

genre: angst except i can’t stop them from making jokes so like fun angst. little bits of fluff here and there

warnings: gore, mentions of death, violence, cursing

wc: 16k

a/n: dc fans i am so sorry. my knowledge of these characters comes from wikipedia. medical workers i am so sorry. the medicine in this is NOT accurate. if ur neither maybe you can fully enjoy this fic. i hope you do :) this is as proofread as its going to get..... as always i appreciate any sort of feedback you can give. i hope this story leaves you as delusional about jeno as i am <3

Not for the first time, you open the door to your apartment to find a man covered in blood on your couch. At least he managed to keep it off the floors this time. 

You can just see the back of his head from the doorway, black hair sticking up from where he slouches on the couch. The head seems to be intact, which is a bit of a relief—being a surgical intern means you’ve become numb to gore, but not fully immune to the nastiness of patching up a tear in his scalp. 

“Still alive?” You ask as you kick off your shoes. Your feet ache from standing for the past eight hours. 

Jeno huffs a humorless laugh. “More or less.” He twists to look at you, holding up a very sad looking plant. “Which is more than I can say for this poor thing.” 

You drop your bag behind the couch and cross to stand in front of him, his head swiveling to follow you. He sets the dead succulents down on the side table. The tuft of white that hangs over his forehead bounces with the movement, stark against the rest of his black hair. 

 His shirt is already off, discarded to the side. At work, you’ve become just as numb to bodies as you have to gore. You haven’t quite managed that with Jeno despite seeing him shirtless on the regular since he seems to find himself covered in blood on your couch at least once a week. Still, you can’t really be blamed for being a little flustered when he looks like… Well, that. He’s got more abs than ribs and broad shoulders that give way to thick arms of pure muscle. But you can never truly ogle because he inevitably is covered in too much blood for you to ignore. 

“I think I just popped the stitches,” he says, referring to the wound on his stomach that is once again bleeding. “No new shit. I think.” 

“I don’t think that’s actually any better,” you say. “You know we usually tell patients to refrain from strenuous activity after they’ve been stitched up.” You retrieve the medical bag you definitely don’t keep stocked from the supply closet at Gotham City Hospital. 

“They usually get pain meds, too,” Jeno grumbles, even though he’s never once complained about the actual pain of being stitched back together. 

You kneel in front of him, focusing on what was once a deep gash. He showed up with it a couple days ago, spewing more blood than he physically should be able to produce. It’s already half healed, though the new stitches will still help. 

“They usually aren’t getting blood on my couch either,” you say. “We can do this all day.” 

Jeno doesn’t answer, staying quiet long enough for you to peek at him and make sure he hasn’t passed out from some injury you don’t know about. Instead you find his dark eyes, filled with an intensity that wasn’t there when you were children. You still find it hard to believe the kid that walked with you to school every day for three years has grown up into this—all hard lines and guarded expressions. Every time you look into those eyes you are reminded how little you know about him. 

Here’s what you do know: Jeno and his family disappeared when you were twelve. Vanished in the middle of the school year, leaving the house next to yours half full of their belongings in the flight. And then you didn’t see him for another twelve years, long enough for you to graduate high school, and then college, and then med school. Long enough for you to get a prestigious internship in the surgical program at Gotham City Hospital, which had you moving three states over into an apartment you had to rent without even doing a walkthrough. It’s this apartment—the one that he sits in now—that brought Jeno back to you. Again, he’s become the boy next door, though you still can’t reconcile your memories of the little boy with this man, who never smiles. You barely recognized him. But he recognized you, and even though he didn’t seem all that interested in having friends, he found out you were a med student and just happened to need stitches. And then he needed help with a broken wrist. And then a black eye. And then, and then. 

It didn’t take you long to figure out he’s Red Hood, one of the newer vigilantes of Gotham City. Or, more accurately, it didn’t take you long to figure out he’s a vigilante. It did take a while to figure out Red Hood, but his eyes eventually gave it away. One look told you he’s cold on the inside. One look told you he’s a killer. 

(Plus you’ve seen the now-iconic leather jacket hanging in his entryway.) 

But though you can’t call his eyes warm now, they aren’t cold either. He regards you with a softness you’ve never seen before, or maybe just never noticed. You duck your head and turn back to the stitches. 

“If you pull these again, you’ll be sewing them up yourself,” you mutter. 

“Well, how else am I supposed to see you?” Jeno asks. “You only ever make time for me when I’m bleeding.” Despite his earlier complaints, he doesn’t flinch as you begin the sutures. In fact, he doesn’t show any sign that he’s even noticed. 

You roll your eyes. “That's because I took an oath. Something about saving lives, and something about ‘no matter how much I want to take a hot shower and pass out for the next twelve hours, I’m legally obligated to keep my weird neighbor alive when he shows up begging for help.’” 

“Who said anything about begging?” 

You pause, needle in hand. “I can leave you like this, you know. You can finish it yourself if you really want to.” And you know he can. You’ve seen the scars. So many scars, which tell the story he hasn’t told you: the oldest on his forearm, perfectly straight, the result of a real surgery; the thick ones on his back that look like they were never stitched up; the cut on his arm that looks like it tore through muscle yet was carefully stitched up; the scar on the back of his neck that looks like it should have broken his neck; and the angry red scar on his left knee that he said he stitched up himself a couple months before you moved in next door. 

You open your mouth to tell him he’s really on his own now, but Jeno says, “I guess I can beg.” 

You pause, then say. “That’s just terrible.” You have to look away so you continue the stitches. “You can do way better than that.” 

“Oh, YN, great saver of lives,” Jeno says, “please do me the great honor of stitching me up. Again.” 

You hum. “Better but still room for improvement.” 

“I would die without you. I would get on my knees if I could. Please, please, do not stop stitching me up.” 

You grin at him and almost get a smile back, his eyes truly warm. You take it as a win—or at least a vast improvement from how he was two months ago. You finish the stitches, sitting up straight. 

“I don’t suppose you’ll sit still long enough to let these actually heal, will you?” Not that you know how long that is. You noticed a while back that most of his injuries heal far faster than they should. He shouldn’t need to come to you for minor injuries yet he does, over and over again. It doesn’t make any sense, but as long as he keeps showing up on your couch, you’ll keep taking care of him. 

Jeno looks at you like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should. Maybe this is it. He’ll finally tell you exactly how he gets his scars. How he became the Red Hood. 

Instead, he says, “Nah, probably not.” 

You sit back on the couch beside him, sighing. “I watched a seven hour surgery today, and you know what I learned?” 

“Hm?” He turns, cheek resting on the couch. For a moment you see the boy again, cast in gold from the afternoon sunlight. You can just picture his smile, the way his whole face melts into a gooey happiness. You blink and he’s gone. 

“Surgeons are dicks,” you blurt out, forgetting what you were going to say. “They never want to believe patients, and I get it, sometimes they’re annoying and think they know best, but this girl came in three months ago complaining about pain and Dr. Park called her a junkie. She came back in today and collapsed in the waiting room because he never actually examined her. 

“She was having a heart attack, and if he just listened the first time, it might have been salvageable, but the second one ripped her heart to shreds. Dr. Nakamoto said he’d never seen someone survive a heart that looked like that.” 

“But she did survive?” Jeno asks. 

“Yeah,” you say. “For now. She needs a heart transplant, though, so it’s a waiting game.” 

He nods. 

“I don’t get why Dr. Park or any of the other doctors couldn’t run a simple EKG. It’s not difficult and it would have saved her life but they took one look at her and assumed she was a junkie,” you say, “and I can’t even complain about it because Dr. Lee will just say some shit like ‘medical decisions are more difficult than you think’ because that’s easier than actually checking if his surgical team gives a shit about their patients beyond death rates.” 

You sigh. “The worst part is, they aren’t even bad doctors. They know the medicine, and the procedures they can do—it’s really incredible. I don’t know, sometimes I worry you can only be good at medicine or good with patients, and it’s impossible to be both.” 

“You really think that?” 

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “I’m just tired.” 

Jeno nods, letting silence settle between you. It’s far too comfortable to just sit with him like this, a peaceful solidarity you’ve only ever felt with him. You won’t give it meaning, won’t think about it any more than another afternoon on the couch together. That’s all this is. 

“I should take a shower,” you say. 

“I should get back to my place,” Jeno says. Neither of you move. 

.

.

Lee Jeno doesn’t consider himself to be consumed with rage, despite what the headlines say. Yeah, the mask is intense, but he doesn’t use it to incite fear among all those who look upon his face. He just needed to keep his face hidden from Bruce (and, as much as it pains him to admit Bruce might be right about anything, he can’t deny that keeping his identity hidden is ultimately the right move). 

He tosses the magazine on his desk. He’s got to stop reading the tabloids. They’re rotting his brain. But somehow they’re the only reliable source on the current crop of Joker’s little worshippers. Jeno still can’t believe it took him six months to realize the ads were calling for new recruits to the cult. 

He feels the pit of anger, deep in his stomach, writhing at the thought of that man. Revenge would be too kind. Jeno will take him down, no matter what. 

Maybe he’s a little consumed with rage. 

But he can’t ignore the recent distractions. He’s spent the past week sitting behind the computer doing whatever investigative work he can, any excuse to avoid pulling the stitches again. You really didn’t seem like you were joking about making him do it next time, and it was a bitch to stitch up his knee on his own. The angle alone would make his ribs pretty much impossible. 

Jeno sighs, tapping on his keyboard to bring the computer to life. Three monitors light up, the far left screen featuring the feeds of all the security cameras that show the apartment building that he very legally tapped into. The far right screen shows three different news feeds, local to Gotham, national news, and an international broadcast, volume off, subtitles on. The middle screen remains blank, ready for him to pull up whatever information he needs. 

Hunt Joker. Get revenge. 

It was simple when he first got his memories back. Those were his only goals. But then he had to train, become a better fighter, establish some sort of half-life in the city–which meant figuring out how to pay rent, which meant figuring out which billionaires he could reasonably steal from without them noticing. He admits it’s foolish to have Wayne Enterprises on the top of the list, but the bastard owes him. 

Six months passed by before he finally set this place and a couple other safe houses up. And then another six passed, and Jeno is still no closer to revenge. He is supposed to be better than before, but all he’s done is steal some lunch money from people too rich to notice and take down a couple men who liked to pick on the weak. He hates that he did more in tights than he’s done becoming Red Hood. 

He let his life become too simple. Day after day of hunting criminals and keeping them from hurting anyone ever again. It was freeing, no debriefings with idiots that would tell him that he should have acted differently—should have acted with more mercy. He makes his own decisions and no one is there to judge him. It’s proof he never needed anyone, even if hunting Joker is taking a little longer than it would if he had Wayne Enterprise resources. 

And then you showed up. 

He leans back in the chair, the joint squeaking. Jeno still doesn’t know what to make of you popping back into his life. He hasn’t been the kid you knew for so long he almost forgot about him. That kid died the day his parents yanked him out of school and moved to Gotham city. His parents worked back breaking shifts in one of the factories, while Jeno lasted a month in school before he realized he could stop going and no one would care. He learned how to survive Gotham quickly, and pretty soon he thrived. He barely even noticed when his parents died. 

You bring back memories of suburbs and eating ice cream before it could melt onto his hand. He remembers this one time you were walking back home after school and you tripped and skinned your knee. There was so much blood, Jeno freaked out and thought he’d have to carry you (which he definitely couldn’t do back then), but you just stood up and gritted your teeth and walked all the way back. It didn’t surprise him at all to find out you’re a doctor now, not when you were always so hardcore. 

It came in handy pretty quick, too, though he’ll at least admit to himself that his powers probably won’t let him die. It just turned into a routine for him, a nice way to end his day (though his work “day” generally ends at dawn). 

But nice is for a boy that doesn’t exist, not for the justice he seeks. He can’t keep pretending to be someone he isn’t, and someone as smart as you can’t keep pretending to believe his lies. He focuses on the security feed, watching a dark sedan roll past. 

He can keep avoiding you. It would be easy to clear out of here, especially when you spend most of your time at the hospital anyways. He could do it now—you’re in the middle of one of those endless shifts where you sleep in the hospital. You complain so much about being exhausted that he doubts you’d notice that he left, at least for a month. You’re not friends with him, Jeno doesn’t have friends. You just took an oath to save lives, and he forced you to save him. You wouldn’t even miss him. 

But even as he contemplates it, he knows he can’t do it to you again. Even if all you are is the person that patches him up every other night, you deserve some explanation. A goodbye. 

Rain begins to fall, slow at first, then a steady patter, the gentle wind strong enough to send the rain against the window. 

He hears the truck engine rattling down the street before it finally comes into view on the top left camera. Strange, the bottom right camera covers the opposite side of the street but shows nothing. He keeps an eye on the truck, which rattles by, frowning at the bottom right screen. 

Not just an empty street. Though the sky is dark in the background, the pavement and sidewalk are still dry. Jeno curses, getting to his feet and grabbing his belt. He loads the pistols, clipping on the extra ammo to his belt alongside the gadgets while keeping an eye on the other cameras, trying to see if he missed anything else. Two more screens play on a loop, the transition more obvious with the rain. He pulls on the mask, grateful he made it waterproof. His jacket is last, riddled with holes he never had the time to sew back together. He keeps his knife in his right hand, checking the cameras a final time—all showing empty loops—before ducking out the window onto the fire escape. 

The jacket is thick enough to keep the rain from actually soaking him, but the cold seeps through. It brings an ache to his bones, an empty feeling like his body doesn’t quite belong to him. He presses a hand to his heart, the pressure bringing a new ache that reminds his body his heart still beats. 

He jumps the rest of the way down from the fire escape, landing in a puddle of water that splashes beneath his boots, sending water up to his knees. He needs eyes on the situation. Ideally he’d go to the roof, but there’s too much daylight to be out in the open like that, turning him into a sitting duck. He opts for the alleyways instead, looping around the back of the building to where he can see the street without being seen. Whatever is going on, he needs to drive the action away from his place. 

He scans the road, settling on the dark sedan parked in front of the corner store. It wasn’t on the security camera feed when he left, and as he watches, two tall men with dark hoods pulled over their heads slip out of the back seat. They approach the apartment building with the confidence of residents, though Jeno can tell from here they don’t. He memorized his neighbors a long time ago, but even if he hadn’t, Jeno has seen enough gangs to know bruisers when he sees them. 

But who do they belong to? Who knows where Jeno lives? The people he’s been skimming from? He hasn’t been stealing enough to warrant this kind of a response. No, his life as Jeno couldn’t have attracted these men. 

So it’s Red Hood? Anyone that knows about Red Hood should know better than to send two goons that could be taken out this easily. Jeno switches the knife to his left hand and pulls out a pistol, turning off the safety and cocking the hammer. 

Before he can squeeze the trigger, he senses something, the rain behind him falling on something other than pavement. He drops to the ground and rolls until his back is against the wall and a dumpster protects his front. A bullet buries itself into the pavement where he had been standing a moment ago. 

He moves again, vaulting over the dumpster, catching the man holding a pistol at the end of the alley by surprise. Still in the air, Jeno squeezes the trigger, hitting the man in the stomach. He lands on his feet and crosses the alley in two quick strides to kick the man as he falls. His hood falls off as he lands on his back, revealing an assuming face. Like the other men, Jeno has never seen him before. 

Jeno kicks the gun out of his hand and snatches it from the pavement, slipping it into one of the extra holsters on his belt. He glances between the front of the building and the back. The two goons out front had to have heard the noise, which means he doesn’t have much time before they make it to the alley. But he’s got no idea what might be around the other corner. 

He crosses back to the dumpster, keeping an eye on the man behind him as he waits. The man at the other end groans but doesn’t call out for his buddies. Rain overflows from the gutters, falling in spurts rather than droplets. Thirty seconds pass and Jeno only hears the rain. Are they waiting for him? Circling around to trap him between them? 

He adjusts his grip on the knife in his left hand, holding it so that the blade is nearest to his pinky finger, his thumb wrapped around the bottom of the base. He keeps the blade facing out, stepping to the front of the apartment building. Instinct guides him to the left, giving him enough time to block the bat with his right arm, sending a shock up his shoulder. 

He steps closer, letting the man—one of the goons from before—pull the bat back for another swing. Jeno swings the knife up, catching the man’s jacket but missing blood. He drops the knife and twists, turning so that the man is behind him and ducking to catch the arm still swinging the bat and flip the man over using his momentum and the bigger man’s weight. He hits the pavement hard, sending water splashing all over Jeno.  

The second man catches up from the other end of the alley, firing wild shots that don’t come close to hitting him but force Jeno to step back. Jeno pulls a throwing star from his belt, sending it cutting through the air to knock the gun out of the man’s hand. With his right hand, he takes a shot at the man struggling to get off the ground, catching him in the back. He falls again and this time he doesn’t move. 

The second man charges out of the alley, the throwing star gone from his hand, though it still drips blood. He has a crowbar in his other hand, like these guys want to be stereotypical goons. He moves about as well as the other man, all power and zero agility. Jeno dodges him easily, letting him take a couple swings before he shoots him in the head. The man drops a couple steps away from his buddy. 

Jeno glances around but the dark sedan has left. No one else ventures out to investigate—probably because Jeno still holds a gun. He retrieves his knife and the throwing star, going back to the first man that he shot who still groans at the end of the alley. Blood mixes with the iridescent swirls of run off, red overtaking the blended greens and purples. 

He kneels on his chest. Rain falls on the back of his mask“Who sent you?” 

The man gurgles a laugh. “What’s it to you?” 

Jeno pushes his knee a little harder. “I asked you a question.” 

“Fuck you,” the man says. He tries to spit but the mix of blood and saliva ends up splattering on his own face. The man suddenly turns, moving with more strength than Jeno expected. At the same time that Jeno points his gun at the man’s head, the man pulls a gun from inside his coat, pressing it straight into Jeno’s stomach. Neither of them hesitate to pull the trigger. 

.

.

Caution tape is up in the alley next to your apartment, but the rain seems to have washed away any sign of the crimes committed. It pounds into your head relentlessly, soaking you through your coat. 

Though you’ve been living here less than a year, Gotham’s reputation has held true. Working in the hospital has given you even more experience with the diversity of types of people the city attracts—good, bad, and everything in between. You even worked on a guy who apparently turned out to be a Batman villain a few months ago. 

Between working at the hospital and living in the city in general, you’ve gotten used to dissociating crime scenes with the sense that you’re actually in danger. Besides, you live next door to a vigilante. Who are you to say this is even a crime scene?

You don’t think anything of it until you open your apartment door and catch the unfortunately familiar scent of blood. Wind and rain crash through the open window, pulling your stumbling feet forward to find the source of the blood. 

Jeno didn’t make it to the couch this time. He lies just inside the windowsill, barely sitting up with his back against the wall. One hand clutches his stomach, red blood spilling over the black shirt. His head hangs low, hair soaked by that rain that still falls on him through the open window. The red mask sits in his other hand.

For a scary moment, he doesn’t move. 

You drop your bag, rushing to him. You can’t stop your voice from shaking. “Jeno?” 

He groans when you shake his arm. “Ow.” 

You curse as you slam the window shut and lay him out on his side, keeping his hand over the wound until you can get a better gauge on what it is. “What the hell did you do to yourself?” 

He doesn’t answer, only groaning as you try to reach your medical bag while keeping pressure on the wound. You finally get it to the ground, pulling out the scissors and slicing through the shirt so that you can see the wound—a gaping hole framed by bullet fragments  where his stomach should be. 

“Fuck.” He needs a hospital, a surgeon that’s done more than assist on an appendectomy, but you can’t bring yourself to dial 911. It would bring too many questions on Jeno, who has clearly avoided hospitals for a reason. And he came to you. He trusts you, even if you don’t trust yourself. You have to save him, if only because you’re the only option. 

 You set out the equipment, spraying them with alcohol to sterilize them and get ready to cut. 

“Don’t you dare die,” you say, gripping the scalpel. 

“Already did that,” Jeno mutters, eyes fluttering. “Didn’t agree with me.” 

You gape at him but he seems to have slipped back into unconsciousness. You force yourself to look back at the bullet hole. You can only yell at him if he’s alive, so you push away the thoughts and get to work, replacing any insecurity with arrogant belief that you know what you’re doing.

.

.

Death is nothing like falling asleep. For one thing, it fucking hurts. Jeno supposes the method might have played a factor. He used to think getting shot point blank might be better than being beaten for hours and then blown up (he now has the experience to decidedly answer that question: marginally better). But death itself. It hurts. 

And resurrection? All the pain of death with none of the peaceful end. Jeno remembers crawling out of the ground, forcing his muscles to work even though his body still suffered from the wounds that killed him. 

But it was the pain that forced him to keep moving, the pain that still fuels him now, a never ending ache deep inside that no time will heal. 

Joker may have held the bat, but Batman didn’t stop him. He never stopped him. Jeno remembers the look on his face, the shadowed glimpse of it that he could see. He remembers dying, hearing the Joker cackle, and Batman calling out to him—calling him Robin. 

He remembers the pain. Pain he can live with. Pain makes him who he is. He can’t let go of the pain, not when it is all that he is. 

But the pain ebbs away when you’re around. And for the life of him he can’t convince himself that it’s a bad thing.  

.

.

You manage to get Jeno into your bed after you finish patching him up—which was six grueling hours of pulling bullet fragments from the hole and praying he didn’t bleed out. No one should have been able to survive the amount of blood that seeped out of him but by some miracle (though maybe it’s a curse), his heart keeps pumping. 

He woke up just long enough to let you sling an arm under his shoulders and half carry him into the bed. You spent the entire time praying he wouldn’t pull apart the stitches and bleed out for real, but it seems like luck was finally on your side. 

You should get up. You should clean up the blood, or at least wash it from your hands. You can only find the energy to drag your armchair next to the bed and sit beside him. His chest rises and falls with even breaths. 

Still alive, for now. 

He mumbles again, voice too low to make out any words. His eyes flutter but remain closed. Does a man like him dream? 

“What happened to you?” Your voice cracks. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t show any sign that he can hear you. “You disappear for weeks at a time. You rarely show up when you aren’t bleeding. But you never talk about it, and you don’t smile anymore. I don’t think I know you anymore. I don’t know if I ever did.” 

You managed to hold back your tears, push all the emotions away to keep him alive but they come flooding back now. Tears spill over as you watch him breathe. 

“Your heart keeps beating but are you really alive?” You ask. 

He doesn’t answer. 

.

.

You moved to Gotham in August. The heat was so bad that crime rates were down–making it miserable to carry box after box up two flights of stairs since the building didn't have an elevator. You’d only been here twice before, both times on school trips, never on your own. 

But your friends all live back in your college town, and your parents were busy dealing with a lawsuit against your neighbor for the mailbox war, so you were stuck moving on your own—which wasn’t all that terrible since the apartment came half furnished. Still, you had to figure out a way to get a mattress up the stairs, along with a car full of clothes and all the rest of your belongings. Between the heat and the prospect of stairs, you weren’t exactly stoked about living in the city. 

Two trips had you wheezing for air, leaning outside your door to catch your breath. The door to the apartment next to yours swung open. You hoped someone wasn’t already complaining about the noise you were making. Instead a tall, broad shouldered man stepped out, wearing a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants. 

He turned around, revealing cold eyes and a face that looked like it spent most of its time frowning. But behind it all something familiar called to you, buried deep behind the bitter front. You remembered a boy who cried because he stubbed his toes, a boy who would fight you to make a wish on every dandelion that lined the sidewalk on the walk home. 

He froze, a tiny frown in his brow. “YN?” 

“Jeno?” 

You set down the tote, stepping around it to get a better look at him. Your eyes jumped between his, trying to decipher the hardness behind them. Though it had been over ten years, you still thought of the sweet boy who lived next door often, always wondering what happened to him. 

It seemed that the years had not been kind to him. Though he grew taller and filled out considerably, he had an emptiness behind his eyes, the kind that comes from too much hurt. He looked like it had been years since he last smiled. He barely seemed to react to you, guarding every expression as if you could be some sort of threat. 

“You’re taller,” you finally said. 

“It has been a while,” he said. 

“I think ten years qualifies as more than a while,” you said. 

He just nodded. “You’ve moved here?” 

“Just today,” you said, gesturing to the boxes. 

“You’re on your own?” 

You shrugged. “My parents are bringing a load later in the week, so it’s really not that much stuff.” You paused but Jeno didn’t run away, so you figured it was safe to ask, “How long have you been living here?” 

“In Gotham since I left.” He pauses, eyes flicking between yours. For a moment you think he’ll tell you everything. Then he says, “Here specifically, only about six months.” 

You should have asked. Maybe it would have made things simpler, maybe you wouldn’t be dancing between fantasy and reality, balancing a tedious act of ignorance. 

Instead you asked him if he’d help you move your mattress and what the pizza delivery situation was like. 

.

.

Jeno wakes up sometime in the middle of the night. You snap awake from your dozing as he shifts. 

“Sit still,” you say. “I don’t think I can put you back together if you fall apart this time.” 

Jeno blinks. Even in the darkness you can see eyes are still glazed over in confusion. 

“You were shot,” you explain. “Point blank from the looks of it.” 

“Ah,” he says. His soft voice carries in the quiet hours of the night. “That’s what hurts.” 

“Never make me do that again.” Your voice shakes despite your best attempts to steady it. The tears from earlier try to weasel their way back out of your eyes. “You should have died.” 

He reaches out, except he really must be feeling weak because his hand barely makes it to the edge of the bed before it hangs limp. 

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t want to get shot.” 

You blink back the tears as anger courses its way through you. “I don’t think anybody gets shot on purpose,” you snap. 

He tries to snort but it ends up sounding like a short exhale through his nose. “Fair enough.” 

“I’m not a good enough doctor for all of this,” you say. “This isn’t a hospital. I don’t have sterile equipment, or a blood bank, or an extra set of hands, I mean, if anything worse happens, you could be in real danger and there’s nothing I could do about it, and I can’t—” You pause, taking a deep breath. “I don’t like when I have to admit I can’t do something, but with you, it feels like that’s all I can do.” 

“You saved my life,” he says. “It doesn’t really feel like you couldn’t do it.” 

“It was a pretty fucking close call,” you say. “Gunshot wounds aren’t particularly easy, and you had to go and get shot in the stomach.” 

He shifts, hand running over his torso beneath the blanket. “I didn't pop the stitches, though,” he says. “I gotta get some points for that.” 

You glare at him, though he probably can’t see it in the darkness. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to be serious.” 

“So am I,” he says, “it was not easy. I sat still for two full days. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve done that?” 

Ask. Get a real answer from him. Stop shying away from who he really is. You have to talk about it. 

“Well, get used to it,” you say. “You’re staying in this bed. I don’t care if I have to tie you down.” 

Jeno actually smiles. It’s been far too long since you’ve seen that smile, softening the hard lines and curling his face into something sweet. “I could be into that,” he jokes. 

And maybe it’s because there are blood stains on your shirt that will never come out and you haven’t slept in about thirty hours and you came far too close to losing the only person you really care about, but you laugh. “Just shut up and get some rest.” 

“You should rest too,” Jeno says. “You look terrible.” 

“Yeah, well it’s your fault,” you say. 

He pauses then says, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Well, don’t apologize.” You sniffle. “It’s harder to be mad at you.” 

He smiles again, and you can’t even pretend to be mad at him anymore. It’s too hard on your heart, which has been through far too much for any more lies. You smile back at him. 

.

.

After a day, Jeno can walk around on his own. You called out sick from work, despite his insistence that he’d be fine on his own. He had to bribe you to convince you to sleep on the couch, since you would barely let him go to the bathroom, let alone move back to his own room. He won’t complain too much, though. He forgot how nice it is to wake up to someone. 

He sways on his feet, holding a hand up to stop you from helping him. He forces even breaths, determined to make it to the couch without any help. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you repeat for the thousandth time. 

“I told you I’m fine,” he grunts. Two more steps and he’s there. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the way his entire lower half screams at him. One more step. 

He collapses onto the couch more than anything, but he makes it. He lets himself slouch a little, head resting against the back of the couch. How many times has he sat here like this? So many hours spent waiting for you, watching the sun inch across the room. But most of the time it’s been like this—you at the opposite end, always a cushion separating him from you. 

The fake wooden floor is stained deep red, pooled around where he laid while you worked on him. He wonders what would have happened if you weren’t there. When he first came back he thought he was invincible, and his healing has saved him from a lot–but he’s never truly put it to the test. Could he have survived without you? 

His mask still sits where he pulled it off underneath the windowsill. He peeks at you from the corner of his eyes, your head turned towards it. Say something. 

You stare at the mask, clearing your throat. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for that shitty costume,” you say. “You don’t even have armor.” 

“YN,” Jeno says but you refuse to look at him. 

“Seriously, walking around dressed like a vigilante is going to get you killed.” 

“YN. You know it’s not a costume.” 

“What, you made it yourself? That’s even worse, I mean, it’s one thing to dress up like these guys but trying to be one of them, that’s just plain stupid. I can’t believe—”

Jeno shifts to the center cushion and wraps his fingers gently around your wrist, forcing you to look at him. “I am one of them.” 

He lets go of your wrist and watches you process the words, trying to figure out any other meaning. Your eyes dart between his, panicked and desperate. For whatever reason, you don’t want to admit it, and it’s been fine. But Jeno is tired of feeling like he’s lying to you. 

“I know,” you finally say, sighing and looking away again. He hates that it feels like he’s let you down. But he won’t apologize for who he is. 

“Why didn’t you ever ask about what happened after I left?” He asks. 

You’re quiet for a long moment. “I think I was afraid. It didn’t take long to realize what you were—or at least that you were wrapped up in something twisted—and then it was obvious whatever happened to you here wasn’t good, and I wasn’t sure if I should know that.” 

Jeno nods, gaze traveling to the window. He can see some scattered rooftops, mostly shorter residential buildings of the area. Farther in the distance, skyscrapers stick out. He’s spent more years in this city than not, grown to love it like family. But unlike family, the city doesn’t love him back. It’s not capable of it. No matter how much of his blood lines the streets, Jeno will only ever be one of millions that call the city home. 

Yes, what happened to him here wasn’t good. But it wasn’t all bad, and it’s not over yet. He won’t give up on the city just because of the past. 

And there’s you now. He has these moments where his heart beats so hard it feels like his chest will burst in the good way. He no longer ceases to exist when he isn’t fighting. Jeno worms his way back into reality, not separate from Red Hood, but no longer overshadowed by him. 

“I’ve had a lot of time to think these past couple weeks,” Jeno says. “Time to figure out what I want. For the longest time, it was revenge. It didn’t matter how I got it, how many people had to die. I would avenge myself no matter what. 

“And then you came into my life, and I would catch myself wondering what would have happened if I could have stayed back then, how different my life would be. I even wondered what would happen if I took off the mask, permanently. 

“But this is all I know how to be, and, I think even when I get my revenge, I won’t be able to leave this life behind.” He pauses, tilting his head away from the window and waiting until you meet his eyes.  “I don’t want to die again. I don't want to live this miserable half life where all I think about is getting back at the people who wronged me. I want to live, and when I’m with you, I feel alive.” 

You stare at him, eyes adorably wide. Maybe he's been a little too good at keeping his feelings hidden. It’s alright. He can wait for you to work it all out. It’s not like he’s got anywhere to be. 

“I like being with you,” he says. “I like who I am when I’m around you, and I like you. I mean, you’re stubborn and you always have to have the last word.” He smiles at your bewildered eyes. “But you care so much, not just about me, or your patients, but about everyone, and everything.

“Like your little houseplants that keep dying no matter what you do. I mean, it’s hilarious that you can save my life but you can’t keep a succulent alive. Or the way you talk about the street cats, and even the rats. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had sympathy for the cockroaches.” He finally manages to cut the rambling off. For a long moment you’re too quiet, and he begins to feel the inklings of fear worming its way up his stomach. 

“I don’t know about that,” you finally say, voice soft. “I think they might be radioactive here.” 

He waits but you don’t say anything else. He knows he shouldn’t ask, that he already has his answer. Still, he can’t help it. “That’s all you have to say?” 

Your eyes slide to the floor. “I… I don’t know.” 

“You feel something,” he says, reaching a tentative hand out to rest on top of yours. You freeze beneath him, eyes darting between his hand and his eyes like you can’t decide which you’re scared of more. 

“Tell me I’m not crazy,” he pleads. “Tell me you feel at least a fraction of the way I do.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep breath. “I do care about you,” you begin slowly, “I care about you too much. You have this life, and I know you need it, and I want you to have everything that you want, I just don’t think I can be a part of it when it inevitably destroys you.” 

He squeezes your hand. “It won’t destroy me,” he says, “I won’t let it.” 

“You died.” Your voice shakes. “I don’t think I could handle that.” 

“I won’t let that happen again!” Jeno says. “Things are different now, I’m not the same person I was when I died.” 

He won’t die again. He’s sure of it, not just because he’s learned from his mistakes but because he has something else to live for now. He has more than the family that pushed him to be more than he could, he has his own life, goals outside of revenge. But grounding it all is you, the first person he thinks of, always. He won’t die when it would hurt you this much. 

“Even if you could promise that, it’s not enough.” You look away from him. “I don’t want to die either, and it seems like that’s inevitable around people like you. The loved ones always die first.” 

He opens his mouth to say he would never let that happen but the words die in his throat. He can’t guarantee that, and one look at you proves even if he could it wouldn’t matter. It’s not enough. 

“I think I love you,” he whispers. 

You smile sadly. “I think I love you too. I wish it was that simple.” 

He sighs, resting his head against the couch cushion. “I don’t suppose supreme embarrassment is a good enough reason to let me go back to my own apartment, is it?” 

He watches you purse your lips out of the corner of his eye. He pretends not to see the tears threatening to spill over. 

“I have to go back to work,” you say, voice steady. “I suppose sleeping in your own bed won’t be a problem.” You turn stern. “As long as you swear you’ll actually rest.” 

Jeno winces. “I don’t think I can do anything else.” 

“And yet you will,” you say. Jeno knows it’s worthless to argue, especially when he really can’t promise he won’t do anything. He goes where he’s needed. 

But until then, he’s perfectly happy to wallow in the embarrassment of getting shot and shot down. 

.

.

(please enjoy a brief interlude until i figure out how to fix thing shitshow)

The city always smells cleaner after a good storm. You enjoy walking to work, though the piercing wail of sirens makes it harder to appreciate the way the city almost smells like spring. Green has returned, sprouts of grass and early flowers blooming. You can walk and breathe and pretend like your heart isn’t dragging along behind you. 

Jeno haunts you. You dared to check on him before leaving and found he has reverted back to the one word answers and solemn expressions, a shadow of a person. He barely even looks at you, and you can’t even blame him. You’ve done more than break his heart; you can bear the consequences of doing so. 

Because it doesn’t really matter. He will keep getting hurt and you will keep patching him up. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that. 

Even if you can’t stop dreaming about him. 

An ambulance wails past, turning into the hospital. You try your best to push the Jeno thoughts away, preparing yourself for the inevitably grueling day. You push open the doors, the security guards now familiar. You smile at them, the movement of the muscles feeling foreign, and take the elevators to the fourth floor, heading to the locker room for the surgical interns. 

You’ve barely changed into your scrubs when Jaemin appears. 

“Wow,” he says, biting into an apple. “You look terrible.” 

You glare at him. “You look worse. How long have you been here?” 

He shrugs. “I got a whole six hours of sleep in an on-call room, so I’m actually doing great. You, on the other hand, look like you spent the two days fighting guys who wear pinstripe suits and call their henchmen goons.” He eyes you for a moment. “And you lost.” 

“That’s pretty much how I feel,” you say. “Though I still think you act like the criminals in this city are cartoon villains.” 

“The aquarium was attacked by a crocodile-man last week and the guy that stopped him cosplays as a bat,” Jaemin says. “I don’t know how you take any of this seriously.” 

It helps when you have a melodramatic version of the bat guy bleeding out on your couch every other week, you think. 

“I don’t know, being afraid for my life helps,” you say. 

“Oh the crocodile guy just wanted to free his people,” Jaemin waves his hand. “He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.” 

“His name is Killer Croc.” 

“Semantics,” Jaemin says. “But seriously, you’re okay? Nothing happened?”  

You shrug. “I just haven’t gotten enough sleep, I’ll be fine. Why are you acting so weird?” 

“You haven’t heard?” Jaemin asks. “Dr. Moon and Dr. Jung were both attacked three days ago. Dr. Jung is in the ICU and Dr. Moon is still missing.” 

“What happened?” 

“Police don’t really know yet,” Jaemin says, “but it’s connected. These big guys in suits with these weird black hoods were seen around both of their places before the attacks. They found Jaehyun in his apartment, beaten pretty bad, he’s been in a coma ever since.” 

“Wow,” you say. You’ve worked with both of them quite a bit. You spent a week learning about skin grafts with Dr. Moon, a star plastic surgeon. Jaehyun gave you an extra shower curtain when you mentioned you tore yours when a cockroach crawled up your shower brain while you were in it. They’re both good, nice people, not the type to get involved in trouble—definitely not trouble like this. 

“Is Jaehyun going to be okay?” 

Jaemin purses his lips and shrugs. “Still not sure. He had some pretty serious injuries, most of which were patched up but apparently he had some bad head trauma. They called in the Lee Taemin from Central.” 

“You didn’t shit your pants meeting your hero?” 

“YN,” Jaemin says sharply, “a good friend of mine was in the hospital, and the best neurosurgeon in the country, the guy I will one day convince to be my mentor, was called in to save his life. Of course I was shitting my pants.” 

“Did you get to meet him?” 

“I thought it would be weird to introduce myself to him, but I did happen to visit Jaehyun while he stopped by, and happened to mention I wanted to pursue neuro when he asked.” 

“And?” 

“And he said it was a smart decision. Or said only the smartest thrive. He’s very confusing.” 

“So basically you’re obsessed?” 

“Yep.” 

You lean against the metal lockers, letting the cold press against the back of your neck. You think about Jaehyun, hooked up to machines with a whole team of doctors, including a star doctor, all working to keep him alive. How long will it be before that’s Jeno, except no machines, no team, just you? How long before you won’t be enough? 

.

.

Jeno has discovered all there is to know about his ceiling. There’s eleven cracks, tiny fissures in the paint that’s at least ten years old. The color is off white, not cream, though in the corner above the door, they did a touch up with a paint that has slightly more blue. He can tell what time it is from the angle of the light coming through the window. 

He’s beginning to run out of things to learn. 

He misses you, so much. He wonders what your ceiling looks like, if it’s got its own little galaxy of cracks. He misses sitting on your couch, knowing that he’d see you soon. 

 He can’t remember the last time he got out of bed, and he can’t even blame it on the gunshot wound. He's not fully recovered, but he doesn’t need to lay in bed all day. He should be up and moving, keeping himself in shape, or at least hunting down the guys who attacked him. All he managed to do was set up an alert with the license plate of the car he saw, feeding it through all the security cameras he could get access to. 

But otherwise he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling. 

Getting this dejected over a rejection makes him feel like a teenager—not that he ever went through this during his teenage years. He can put on the mask and be Red Hood, but Jeno? He doesn’t know how to be Jeno alone, he doesn’t want to learn. He had his parents when he was younger, then Bruce, and Dick, and the family that began to grow among them. Despite all he used to whine, he’s never truly been alone. 

Will he be alone now? Will Jeno even exist without the people around him to keep him going? Or will he truly become Red Hood, letting the man behind the mask cease to exist. 

He knows what Bruce would say. The mask can’t exist without the man. But Bruce is the reason he put a mask on in the first place. He can philosophize all day long, it’s his fault Jeno ever died. He doesn’t have to listen to the man’s words. 

Jeno rests his hand over the wound. He hardly feels the ridge where the stitches are. He wonders how the wound will scar. 

It doesn’t make any sense but even though his body heals unnaturally fast, the scars remain. It’s like his body remembers dying and wants to remind him—even though he came back once and he’s stronger than ever before—he’s still human. 

And there’s nothing more human than a broken heart. He should be grateful it’s only metaphorical. 

Jeno sighs. The worst part is he knows how dramatic he’s being. But it’s only been 28 hours. He can allow himself a little bit of time for the dramatics. Bruce takes like a month off when a civilian dies under his watch. 

He pulls his blanket closer, wondering if it’s too far to put on some music—something loud, maybe. 

Instead he hears a ding, a notification from his computer. He sits up a little too fast, feeling a tug on his stitches, though they don’t fall apart. 

He can’t spare too much thought to them, not when his screen lights up with feed from a security camera, zoomed in to show the license plate of a dark sedan, the numbers he remembers. It rolls past, camera shifting down the block as Jeno drops into his chair, typing rapidly until the screen zooms out. The larger screen reveals the sedan is one of many, traveling in a line together. 

He sets up the second monitor to plot their movements across the city, a bright red line tracing the few turns they take. 

The windows of each car are tinted, concealing those within. But, with his previous encounter, it’s safe to assume there’s plenty of hired muscle in the six cars. It could be anywhere between fifteen and thirty men, headed this way. 

He watches them draw closer, tapping his finger on the desk. They caught him by surprise last time. On a good day, he wouldn’t sweat odds this bad, but it’s not a good day. He can still feel his insides healing. 

It’ll be a tough fight, but he’s planned for this. He’ll rig the place, take down as many as he can and get to one of the other safe houses. 

The Jeno that lived here will disappear. And it will be for the best. 

He changes into his suit, moving as fast as he can without hurting himself. He stuffs as many weapons as he can into his pockets, his belt weighing extra heavy around his waist. 

Then he gets to work on the bomb. A smaller explosive, more of a popper than a true bomb, but enough to take out his computer and all of the evidence he’s left behind here. 

He wonders if the police will come. Will they question you? Surely someone has noticed he spends a lot of time with you. You’d never give him up, but would you defend him? Would you go on television, tell the world Red Hood is just a man? You’d look good on television. 

You wouldn’t though. You wouldn’t say a word, not to the cops, not to anyone. 

He’s really going to miss you. 

He checks the map. Still five blocks away. Except… The cameras first picked up the sedans in the upper east part of the city, by the Sprang River. They mostly traveled west from there, they’re still north of him. 

They stop at a light, just two blocks away. He watches, waiting for them to turn. 

The sedans roll straight ahead, passing the apartment. He frowns, staring at the screen but the cars keep going, one block, two, and then they pull to a stop. 

Jeno curses, grabbing the keys to his bike. It was never about him. 

.

.

The sun peeks through the windows of the hospital, the only sign time passes. The setting sun casts the parking lot in gold, making even the ugliest cars shine. You pause to peek outside, for once not in a rush. You have to scrub in with Dr. Qian in twenty minutes, but until then, you have a rare moment of freedom. 

Because you’re standing at the window, you see the exact moment the cars pull up. They form a line, like a row of beetles, stopping in front of the entrance, blocking the parked cars. As soon as they roll to a stop, the doors fly open, men streaming out all wearing black hoods. They line up in front of the car closest to the entrance, whose doors had remained closed since stopping. The driver exits first, another hooded man, though considerably smaller than the rest. He opens the door to the backseat, head bowed low. 

The man in the backseat takes his time. Pale hands peek out of the carefully fitted suit, the only open skin you can see. He steps out from the car and the line of men bend into sharp bows. He closes the door and you finally get a full look at him: from the suit to his shoes, he wears all black, but most striking is the black mask that covers his face. It melts into his suit, keeping every inch of his skin hidden save for his hands. 

He must say something, because the men straighten and vanish from your view, streaming into the hospital. 

Is it too late to alert security? There has to be twenty men, and with how Jaehyun looks, you doubt they’ll be able to hold them off. 911, then? It’ll take the cops forever to respond, and it’s too late. They’re already here. 

You could call him. He’d come. 

Despite all your instincts screaming at you to hide, you turn around. The lobby is packed with the final rush of visitors, and 9-to-5 staff getting ready to leave for the day. It’ll be safer to pack in with them than be caught on your own, and maybe you can warn security before mass panic breaks out. You rush down the hall to the large open space in the front of the hospital. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but everything feels too normal. A father holds his child’s hand as they walk to the bathroom. A nurse whispers furiously into her phone. An elderly couple hold hands, clipboards to the side of them. You scan the small crowd, looking for a security guard. 

Instead you find a brute of a man, black hood tipping back as he raises a gun above his head and fires it a couple times. 

“Everybody quiet!” He growls. “On the ground!” 

You drop into a squat, hands automatically coming above your head as screams echo. Someone yanks on your coat, knocking you off balance. Your heart nearly stops but it’s just Jaemin pulling you to sit beside him with a wall at your back instead of the open hallway. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. You slide into a seated position, back against the wall. Jaemin crouches next to you, keeping one hand on the wheelchair of the patient he must have been with before all of this. You peek at him and recognize him as Yoon Jeonghan, the guy that got hit by a truck while biking. He looks like he’s trying to decide if he’s included in the “on the ground” order. 

The goons pick on a couple people, shoving them to the ground. 

“Hands above your heads!” One of them orders, pointing his gun at random. You raise your hands again, Jaemin following more reluctantly. 

Ten minutes pass as goons escort people from all over the hospital, the lobby quickly becoming packed. Half the patients are in wheelchairs, clinging to IV drips while the doctors and nurses glare at the men. Finally, it seems they have collected everybody, and a quiet tension falls over the room. 

Then the man in the black mask strolls in. 

“What’s the saying?” He asks, muffled voice carrying in the open space. “If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.” He clasps his hands behind his back, strolling along, peeking at the cowering hostages. 

“He doesn’t have a pinstripe suit,” Jaemin whispers. 

“I don’t even think he’ll call the henchmen goons,” you whisper back. 

Jaemin shakes his head. He’d probably tsk if he didn’t think it would get you both killed. 

“I bet they’ll still beat us up,” you whisper. 

“If you don’t shut up, they definitely will,” Jeonghan mutters. 

Jaemin rolls his eyes and makes a face at you. You bite back a smile. You’ve tempted fate enough. 

“The name you all will know me by is Black Mask,” he announces. 

This time you can’t help the smile, turning away from Jaemin to prevent yourself from laughing out loud. Even Jeonghan mutters, “Very creative.” 

“I have a list, you see,” Black Mask continues, “people that owe me. They know what they’ve done. I promise if your name is not on that list and you don’t make a fuss, no harm will come to you. I’m a reasonable man.” 

Reasonable men don’t play dress up and shoot up hospitals, but you figure he’s due for a dramatic speech. At least he’s explaining why he’s here. 

Black Mask pauses in front of one of the nurses—Shotaro, a good nurse who you’ve worked with several times. He grabs him by the shoulder, sending him sprawling to the floor. 

“This one,” Black Mask announces, waving at his goons to pick Shotaro up. They half drag him away as Black Mask continues to make his way through the crowd. 

“This is more efficient, you know,” he says. “I’ve tried other methods, but there were some complications. So, I thought to myself, if you’re all in one place, why not just go to the source?” He points at another nurse, Sehun, but Dr. Bae steps in front of him. Black Mask pauses, tilting his head to peer at her before gesturing to the goons to drag them both away. Dr. Bae puts up a fight, trying to twist out of their grip, but one of the men tosses her over his shoulder and carries her out. Sehun follows, stumbling behind. 

Dr. Moon, Jaehyun, Shotaro, Sehun, and Dr. Bae, though it seems like she wasn’t originally a target. All good, hard workers, not the type to make mistakes, definitely not collectively. You watch as Black Mask creeps closer and closer. 

You’ve worked with all of them. Only a few months ago, a case of a man with terrible burns on his face. Your blood runs cold as Black Mask stops in front of you. You stand up, a heartbeat before he points. 

“You,” Black Mask says, venom seeping into his voice. “You owe me.” 

“I remember you,” you say, keeping your voice soft. 

“You remember what you did to me,” he says. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, “and neither did anyone else in this hospital.” 

He raises a hand and smacks you, and before you can react, two of his men grab your arms, dragging you away whether your feet move or not. You try to think of something witty or smart, but all you can think is how much you don’t want to die. 

They take you to the stairs, carrying you up two flights of stairs before depositing you in an empty patient room. One of the men stays with you, guarding the door, while the other vanishes. 

You glare at the man, face stinging. Jeno would tell you not to provoke a psychopath. 

But Jeno’s not here. You shouldn’t want him to be, because even if he could be here, he would only get himself hurt, and you won’t be responsible for causing him any more pain. 

He said he loved you, even after all he’s been through. He wasn’t afraid. 

You don’t want Jeno here, not to save the day. But it’d be nice to apologize to him. And if there was only one person you could say goodbye to before you died, you’d want it to be Jeno. 

Maybe you do want Jeno to save the day. Just so you can apologize. Just so you can tell him you were wrong. Just so you can finally admit the truth. 

.

Jeno’s bike screeches to a stop a block away from the hospital. He parks it in an alley, covering it with a tarp and trusting that the locks will prevent anyone from stealing it. He hopes he’s swiped it from the impound lot enough times for the police to leave it alone too. 

He climbs to the roof of the nearest building, moving painfully slow, between the pull of the stitches and the exhaustion of healing such a large wound. But from here he can see the line of black cars in front of the hospital, the setting sun reflecting on the metal, making it difficult to see. He switches to infrared, the mask buzzing a couple times before picking up on the mass of bodies in the main lobby. Majority of the building is far too empty for a place of medicine. 

From his memory of studying the schematics on an off day, he remembers the west facing wing houses the operating rooms, which explains why the infrared picks up a couple small masses. But with the rest of the hospital empty, the four rooms on the third floor stand out. Each holds two bodies, one significantly larger than the other. 

That’s where he’ll start. 

A better fighter would get a better gauge of the situation. Maybe spend more time determining which are civilians and which are hostiles, or figure out exactly where they’re holding people. But Jeno has always worked best flying by the seat of his pants. He still doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but these must be the hostages important enough to separate from the main group. 

It would be safest if you were on the first floor, just one of many in the crowd, but the selfish part of Jeno wants you to be where he can see you. Where he can save you. 

He can’t waste any more time. He shoots the grappling gun, pulling on it to build momentum even faster and angle himself directly at the window. It shatters beneath his feet, and he tucks into a tight ball, rolling once before springing onto his feet. He ducks as the big man swings a crowbar at him, wincing at the sharp pain near his stomach. He takes a quick strike with his knife, slashing up across the stomach first, then across the throat, finally driving the knife into the man’s heart. He crumples to the ground and doesn’t move. 

Jeno pulls the blade out, wiping the blood from the knife on his pants and sheathing it. He turns around to find a figure in a white lab coat, cowering in the corner of the room, hands over their head, glass shards scattered around them. 

He crouches down in front of you, brushing the glass off your shoulder. You peek up at him, eyes softening as you recognize him even though you’ve never seen him in the mask before. There’s a small cut on your cheek. His thumb moves on its own, swiping at the blood and doing nothing but spread more on your face. 

“Are you okay?” Jeno asks. The modulator of the mask twists his voice into an unrecognizable beast. It’s perfect for protecting his identity and intimidating low lives, not so great for comforting the scared victims. Maybe he should tweak that part of the suit, make it adjustable. But you don’t flinch, standing up and shaking the rest of the glass off. 

“I’m fine,” you say. “How did you get here so fast?” 

“These are the same guys that shot me,” Jeno says. “I had a tracker out on the car, which led me here.” 

“Sionis,” you say. Jeno frowns. He knows that name. 

“Roman Sionis, that’s the guy doing all of this,” you explain. “He was a patient three months ago, really bad damage to his face. He’s targeting the team responsible for his care, doctors, nurses, everyone he blames for what happened to his face.” 

“Which includes you,” Jeno says. 

You nod, eyes tight. “Which means they weren’t after you when you got shot.” 

“Hey,” Jeno says. “I’m fine. You patched me up, and I’ve got the super healing, so if either of us was going to get shot, I’d rather it be me. It’s not your fault.” 

“I know,” you say, though you don’t sound like you believe it. “Should you really be jumping through windows, though?” 

He shrugs. “Didn’t pull the stitches. I swear.” 

You purse your lips but let it go. He wishes you would just say what you’re thinking but you look away from him, glancing at the door. 

“They took three more of us up here, and they probably know you’re here by now.” 

Jeno nods. Resolve the situation, then talk. 

“I’m going to clear out the rooms one at a time,” he says, “then work my way downstairs.” He unholsters a gun, handing it to you. You raise an eyebrow. 

“I’ve never used one of these.” You reluctantly take the gun out of his hands. 

“Point and squeeze the trigger,” he says. “It’s semi-automatic, you don’t have to do anything to reload. If they’re close enough you won’t even have to aim.” He forms your hands around the gun, teasing your fingers into the right position and turning off the safety. He lets his hands linger, waiting for your eyes to meet his, though he remembers a moment later that the mask conceals them. 

“Get the rest of the hostages and stay together,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” He forces himself to let go of your hands but doesn’t step away yet. 

He should say something else. Maybe apologize for what he said. Take it back. But he meant every word of it, even if you did too. He’s said all he can, and if that’s still not enough then at least you’re still alive. 

“Go save the day,” you finally say. “Then… I’ll see you after.” 

He nods, turning away and striding to the door, stepping over the body. “Wait for me to clear the rest of them, then get the hostages out of here.” 

He pulls the door closed behind him, trusting that you will be fine on your own. He doesn’t have time to worry, ducking to dodge the knife that flies toward him. He doesn’t let the man get a second chance, sprinting as fast as he can and burying his knife in the man’s heart. He’s turning a second later, using the man’s body as a shield against the second man in the hall, who doesn’t hesitate to fire a couple shots. Jeno throws the first man’s body on him, his knife following quickly after, burying itself in the man’s forehead. 

Like always, his pains melt away when he’s fighting. He barely feels the tug of the stitches, or the exhaustion he felt earlier. This body was made to kill, and that’s what he’ll do. 

He ducks into the room next to yours, knocking the guard to the floor and stabbing him. The hostage, a woman wearing a white lab coat, stands. 

“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll clear the rest of this hall. Don’t go outside unless you want to get shot.” 

She nods slowly. 

Jeno clears the other two rooms similarly, quick and far too easy. He hesitates at the stairwell. He should clear the rest of the civilians if he wants to resolve things quickly, but it feels wrong to leave these hostages to you—you were a hostage yourself only a few minutes ago. But it’s irrational. He knows you’re capable of protecting yourself, and smart enough not to get yourself killed. He has to trust you and do his job. You were the one that told him to save the day. 

He doesn’t bother with the stairs, jumping in the open space between the flights and using his grappling hook to control his fall. If he wasn’t hurt, he’d just drop the three stories, but it’s only a little slower this way. He retracts the hook with a button and sticks it back into his belt, pulling out his knives. 

He makes it halfway down the hall before he sees the first figure, raising his knife on instinct. He drops it a moment later, picking out the scrubs from here. The nurse sprints past him, barely glancing at him. More and more people follow, until a stream of people flood the hall. They part around him, allowing Jeno to make it to the lobby as it clears. Only a few people remain, mostly patients that struggle to move on their own and the people that stayed behind to protect them. 

Where is Sionis? Where are all of his men? Even in the flood of people, they would have stood out. Did they hear the commotion upstairs and run? One of the men fired his gun a couple times, maybe they went to investigate. 

No, they wouldn’t have let the hostages go if that were the case. He curses himself for not trusting his instincts, turning around to get back to the stairs, but the hallway is still blocked by all the people clamoring to leave. 

It takes painfully long to get to a stairwell, but he finally makes it. That’s when he hears the gunshot—different from the pops before, no this is a sound he recognizes. This is his gun. 

.

.

You wait until the hallway is quiet, peeking out the window for good measure. Nothing moves, the bodies on the floor limp. Blood pools around the three, puddles bright against the white tiles. You wait for another heart beat, holding your breath but the only movement comes from the blood, trickling down the hall. 

The door creaks open beneath your fingers. It feels like your footsteps echo as you hurry to the closest door. You make it to the first door, hand on the doorknob when you hear it—footsteps echoing from the stairwell, the opposite side of where Jeno left. They thunder up the stairs, at least ten men. 

You open the door a crack, whispering a sharp, “Stay hidden!” 

You don’t give whoever is behind the door a chance to argue, closing the door and sprinting to the stairwell as fast as you can. You hear a shout just as you cross into the stairwell, sprinting forward. You take one step toward the descending flight but see dark heads bobbing in the space between the stairs. You curse, turning and heading up. 

Shit, shit, shit. You can only go up. The men from the other end of the hall burst into the stairwell, your heart sending another shot of adrenaline through your body and pushing you to take steps three at a time. Even as you feel your body working harder than ever before, you know it won’t last. You have to find somewhere to hide. 

You burst onto the fifth floor, cringing as the door slams against the wall. No chance they missed that. 

You run as far as you dare, ducking into a storage closet and curling into a ball in the farthest corner, hiding behind a wall of bedpans. You shove a hand over your mouth, trying to cover your heaving breaths. Bile rises in your throat as the sprinting catches up to you but you swallow hard, closing your eyes and praying. 

Jeno’s gun rests in your other hand. The cold metal helps calm you down, your breathing evening out as you hear a door bang open. A moment later then there’s another bang. You hear footsteps in the hall, then another. They must be checking room by room. 

You’re about halfway down the hall, maybe five rooms in. You don’t have much time. 

You raise the gun, letting go of your mouth to hold it with both hands. Your finger drops to the trigger. Point and squeeze, Jeno said. You can do that. You aim it at the door, bracing your arm on your knees to keep them from shaking. 

You flinch at the next bang, feeling the wall shake. They’re in the room right next to you. They trash the room, sending vibrations through the floor, until it suddenly stops. 

You’ll have to move fast, you can’t give them any chance. 

Light cascades around as the door is thrown open. You squeeze the trigger, keeping the gun aimed at the large mass in front of you. There’s a loud bang and the gun slams your shoulder back but the man stumbles backward. You squeeze the trigger again and this time he goes down. 

A second man dodges the falling body, taking a step inside but you squeeze the trigger again and again and again and he falls too. 

Shit, how many shots was that? You clench your teeth but they seemed to have learned the lesson for the moment—nobody follows. 

“Alright, that’s enough fun.” You recognize Sionis’ voice from behind the mask this time. “Come out on your own or get dragged out. Your choice.” 

“I’d really rather stay here,” you say, voice shaking. You force yourself to your feet. 

“Fun way it is,” Black Mask says. This time two men push their way through, one blocking the other. You shoot and it hits the front man in the shoulder but he doesn’t go down. You squeeze the trigger again but nothing happens. 

You throw the gun at him, hoping to catch him in the head but he just knocks it away. You start pulling things from the shelves, throwing as hard as you can. It does nothing to stop them, grabbing you by the arms and heaving you off your feet. You twist and kick and try to bite but they don’t seem to notice. They hold you up in front of Black Mask in the middle of the hallway. 

“You are a feisty one,” he muses, watching you thrash. 

“Let me go,” you say. You try to growl but it comes out more like pathetic begging. 

“I’d like you to calm down a bit,” he says. 

You open your mouth to tell him to fuck off but apparently that was some sort of signal because one of the men raises a fist and brings it down hard on the top of your head. 

It sends jitters down your spine as your teeth clang together. You blink tears away, your head lolling forward a little. The floor blurs beneath you—no it’s your eyes, struggling to focus. 

“Now, on with business,” Black Mask says, clasping gloved hands together. “I—”

You nearly fall to the floor as one of the men holding you—the one you shot in the shoulder—falls to the ground. You tilt backward as the second man goes down but a tight hand around your arm yanks you backward. 

Black Mask pulls you into a patient room, the bed pushed against the wall next to the bathroom. He pulls you away from the door until your back is against the window. He keeps his hand tight around your arm, pressing something hard and cold against the side of your head. Your brain still reels from the hit but you don’t have to think hard to figure out it’s a gun. 

There are a few shouts from the hallway but it falls quiet quickly. Only one pair of boots echo in the hall, solemn footsteps that pause by the door. Then Jeno appears in the doorway. 

Blood splatters cover the shirt, concealing the bat motif. It seeps into his leather jacket, though Jeno himself seems to be unscathed. He holds a gun in one hand and his knife in the other. 

“That’s close enough,” Black Mask says when he tries to step inside. 

Jeno’s mask covers his eyes, but if it didn’t, you’re pretty sure he’d be glaring. “Let the innocent go. Settle this like an adult.” 

“Innocent?” Black Mask cackles. “Sure, I’ll let the innocent go. I already did that.” He grips your arm tighter, pressing the gun harder into the side of your head. “But this one isn’t innocent.”

He taps on the mask. “I don’t wear this for fun, I’m sure you know. But I’m not like you. I don’t hide to protect myself or my loved ones—I don’t even have loved ones, and you know why? Because this idiot and the idiots at this hospital don’t know how to do a simple facial repair!” 

“They were third degree burns, you’re lucky to have a face,” you say. 

“Shut up!” Black Mask screams, shoving you. Jeno takes a step forward but freezes when Black Mask turns back to him. 

“One more step and you’ll be cleaning some brains off your mask!” He takes a breath, lowering his voice. “I’ll be the first to tell you, that’s no easy task.” 

“Let the hostage go.” Jeno sounds cold through the modulator.  

“And you’ll let me go?” Black Mask huffs a short laugh. “I don’t think so. Your reputation precedes you.” 

“Then you know what will happen if you pull that trigger.” 

“Leave now and I’ll leave this one alive,” Black Mask says. 

“What, half mad after you spend a few hours with your tools?” Jeno says. “Your reputation precedes you, too.” 

Black Mask sighs. “Then it seems I have no choice.” The gun presses hard against your head. 

“I’ll be seeing you around,” Black Mask says. You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the shot but the pressure on the side of your head vanishes. 

There’s a loud bang, and for a moment you’re sure you’ve died, but then you feel a hard shove on your chest. Your legs hit the wall but it’s not enough to stop you from tumbling out the window, nothing but air beneath you. 

You barely raise your arms out before something tackles into you, an arm wrapping around your waist. You wrap your arms and legs around whatever they find, clinging like a baby monkey to Jeno’s side. 

He raises the other arm, shooting the grappling hook and pulling hard. You snap in the air, swinging up higher than you had fallen until you’ve crested the roof. 

“I got you,” Jeno says, arm wrapped so tightly around you you’re crushed against his side. 

He takes all the weight as you fall onto the roof, bracing the landing with his legs, somehow remaining upright. 

You can only cling to him, waiting for your brain to sort out what happened. You aren’t dead. Black Mask threw you out the window. Jeno caught you. You repeat the words over and over in your head until they almost make sense. 

“We’re back on solid ground,” Jeno says. 

“Mhm.” You don’t let go, keeping your arms tight around his neck. 

“You’re safe now,” he says. 

“I know.” 

He pauses. “You can let go.” 

“Not ready yet.” 

“Okay.” 

For a long moment all you can hear is the pounding of your heart. It lessens and you start to hear tires screeching on pavement down below, people shouting, sirens wailing in the distance. 

“Black Mask is getting away,” you say. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Jeno says. “I’ll get him when I get him.” His hand ghosts over your back. “All that matters is you’re okay.” 

“I’m fine,” you say. “Physically fine, at least. Just trying to sort out my head.” 

He hums, second arm wrapping around you in a true hug. You let yourself linger in the moment, breathing in the sharp scent of blood on his jacket. It smears against your scrubs as you press closer to him, turning them slimy against your skin. The jacket hides the warmth of his body, a hard layer separating you from him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

You lean back, letting go of his neck to rest your hands against the side of his mask. Whatever it’s made out of is hard, a thin metal that curves around his features yet doesn’t bend beneath your fingers. It doesn’t look anything like Jeno, the pale eyes concealing the most human part of him. He reaches up, pulling the mask off. 

Sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead, which is creased with concern. His eyes flit between yours, dark and full of everything. For too long when you first ran into him, he would look at you with cold emptiness. Though you can’t read everything behind them now, he doesn’t bury all his feelings. He lets them shine through. 

“It’s not your fault,” you begin, letting your hands fall to his shoulders. “Too much has happened, and that guy hit my head, and I thought I was going to die, so it’s hard to tell what I want to say. What I’ve been meaning to say.” You take a deep breath, looking at his forehead instead of his eyes, at the white streak of hair that clings to his forehead. “But if I don’t say it now, I think I’ll chicken out and never say it. 

“I’m kind of a coward,” you say. “I don’t want to get hurt—I mean, like, don’t let anybody anywhere near my heart to keep it safe, and it works. I’ll find an excuse, any excuse to push them away. 

“I did it to you. Yeah, I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to think about you dying because it always sends me into a spiral, but those were all excuses. It doesn’t matter that you wear that mask. That doesn’t change anything, and I won’t hide behind it anymore. 

“I love you,” you say, “so much. So much that it’s making me brave. I don't want to be a coward anymore. I want to love you. I’m sorry it took me so long, but I love you, I really, really do.” 

Jeno doesn’t say anything for a long moment, looking back and forth between your eyes. He doesn’t frown or smile, his face a mask itself. 

“Oh,” he says. 

“Apparently near death experiences lead to radical reflections and revaluations of life values.” 

And then he smiles, a real smile that curls his eyes and sends your stomach hurtling in somersaults. He presses his forehead against yours, your hands still resting on his shoulders. 

“Don’t apologize for things that aren’t your fault,” you say. You brush his cheek with your thumb. “Save your applogies for real fuck ups.” 

He snorts. “Think there’s going to be a lot of those?” 

“Somehow I think I’m going to get stood up a lot,” you say. “It’s okay, though. That’s just what happens when you date a superhero.” 

“I don’t know about that,” he says. “I’m no superhero.” 

You kiss his nose. “Whatever you want to call it. But you’re a good man, Lee Jeno, through and through.” 

Jeno brushes his lips against yours, barely a kiss. He moves hesitantly, like he’s scared you’ll crumble in his hands. 

Well, you’re not going to die, he made sure of that. You are here and alive, and so is he. You grip the neckline of his jacket, pulling him into a crushing kiss. You press your lips harder against his and his arms tighten around you, finally kissing you back. 

It’s terrifying, how much you trust him. Like jumping off a cliff and knowing he’ll catch you—which basically he just did—you have to let go of the fear. Even when his arms are wrapped around you and you can feel him with every atom, it isn’t easy—a part of you will always want to run away, protect yourself. But you’re done running. Jeno put a gun in your hand and told you to fight. You can do that for him—for yourself. 

You will hold onto him and you will love him and he will do the same for you. It’s all you can do. 

.

.

Bonus: 

Jeno doesn’t know how you slept on this armchair. The back is stiff against his back and he can’t hang his legs off the side without the arms cutting into the back of his knees. He can tuck his head against the wing but it leaves his neck at an awkward angle. 

It’s for the best, though, since he needs to stay awake anyway. He shifts the chair until it’s against the side of the bed and sets his legs back on the edge of the bed, crossing one over the other and resting his elbows on the armrest. You raise your eyebrows at his feet but don’t tell him to move. He’ll give it a good twenty minutes before he tries to sit on the bed. He wonders if you’ll kick him out if he just asks outright if he can curl up next to you. Better to ease into it. 

You look radiant, wearing a big t-shirt curled under the blankets. Your lips curl into a little smile every time you catch him looking at you (which is pretty much always). 

“I’m going to invest in a big ass taser,” you say, still listing out your plan to keep yourself safe. “And some heavy duty pepper spray.” 

“I can teach you how to shoot a gun,” Jeno offers. 

You make a face, nose scrunching. 

“No?” 

You shake your head slowly. “No thank you. My arms hurt.”  

“How about some hand-to-hand?” He asks. 

“Are you going to be able to keep your hands to yourself?” 

“What are you talking about?” 

You look pointedly at his hand, which has found yours, fingers tapping on your knuckles. Huh, he didn’t realize he was doing that. He raises both hands, holding them up like a criminal waiting to be arrested. 

“My bad,” he says, setting them in his lap. Your bottom lip juts out for a second but you’re too proud to ask him to hold it again. He bites back a smile at the little war behind your eyes. 

“How’s your head?” He asks. 

“Concussed,” you say flatly. 

“You want to sleep?” He asks. 

“Not yet,” you say. You finally concede, reaching out a hand for him. He puts his feet down, slipping out of the chair to sit on the edge of the bed, clasping his hand over yours. Your shoulder rests against his hip. You blink up at him. 

“What?” He asks. “Is this okay?” 

You nod slowly, studying him with piercing eyes. He gets the feeling you see right through him, so he turns his gaze to your intertwined fingers. 

“What did you think of me when you first saw me? When you moved here, I mean,” he asks. 

You pause for a long moment. “Honestly?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I thought you were unemployed for at least two months.” 

Jeno snorts. 

“I mean pretty much every time I knocked you were wearing sweats and half the time you looked like you had just woken up!” 

Jeno scratches the back of his head with his free hand. “I don’t wear sweats that often.” 

You pause for a moment and he doesn’t dare peek at your face. “When you asked me to sew up your scalp, I figured it was either vigilante or something worse, and then I saw Red Hood on the news and I just knew.” 

He looks at you, head tilted down to see the top of your head. “Really?” 

“It looks like you,” you say. You pause before adding, “Plus you’ve got that leather jacket hanging in your entryway. What’s up with that, by the way?” 

“What?” 

“Your ‘suit.’ A leather jacket and cargo pants?” 

“They’re functional,” he says. 

“Your name is Red Hood and you don’t even have a hood. It’s a mask.” 

“Well a hood doesn’t exactly protect you,” he says, “and it strikes fear into my enemies.” 

You snort. “Does the black t-shirt help with that?” 

“Yeah, I can’t defend that one,” he says. “It’s cheap and easy.” 

“No wonder you died,” you say. 

“I take personal offense at that,” Jeno says. 

You yawn. “Okay buddy.” You scoot over a little. “Just lay down already.” 

Jeno grins, shifting to pull the covers up and slide his legs down them. He stretches out, rolling as close as he dares to you. His arm hovers over you until you shake your head and pull it over your waist, shifting until he all but lays on top of you. Your shoulder presses against his chest, his head resting on the same pillow only a breath away from you. 

“If you wanted to cuddle you could have just asked,” you say. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” 

You turn your head to meet his eyes, nose brushing against his. He could melt into your eyes, so warm and full of a happiness he hardly recognizes. He hopes he looks a fraction as happy as you do—and he hopes you know it’s only a fraction of how he feels. 

He didn’t think he’d ever feel happy again. Even if he finally got his revenge on Joker and Batman, it would be bittersweet at best, the end goal of a bitter fight that started when he dragged himself out of that grave. 

But he is happy. It’s the warmth that courses through every fiber of his body, the way his heart pounds every time he looks at you, the hope he feels when he thinks of the “after.” 

“You know it’s been years since the last time I smiled?” He says. 

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your eyes soften impossibly more. You rest your hand against his cheek again, fingers soft and careful as they trace the lines of his smile. They work their way to his lips, ghosting over the soft skin. 

“I think that part is over,” Jeno says. “Hating the world.” He presses a kiss on your thumb. “I’d like to be happier now. 

“Red Hood is a part of who I am, and it always will be. But Jeno is too, and I won’t let go of that.” He tightens his arm. “I’d like to hold onto you, too, though.” 

You grin. “I’d like that too.” You press a short kiss to his lips. “But my head hurts and right now I’d really just like to go to bed.” 

Jeno nods, shifting away only to turn off the lamp on your bedside table. He curls back around you, tucking his head against your neck and pulling you as close to him as he can. He is Jeno, he is Red Hood, and he isn’t alone anymore. 

thank you for reading!! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated

[judesmoonbeauty]

Black Wedding: The True Vow For A Jet-Black Bride - Victor

Fan translation only. Not 100% accurate. Please expect grammatical errors. Cybird owns everything. Feel free to re-blog, but please do not post my translations elsewhere. What I obtain is what will be translated. If other blogs have translated the stories before I do, I will notate their blogs. Thank you, for you support! ☾.

I had a secret longing for a wedding.

Many may have dreamed of being blessed by many people and wearing a pure white wedding dress as you make vows of eternity.

(I was one of them.)

The peak of happiness dreamed of as a child does not always come true in the same form.

An old church that is no longer in use.

The candlelight flickers and illuminates the interior, which is as good as abandoned.

I slowly raised my eyes and saw through the veil my beloved who was standing at the altar.

Kate: Victor.

He looked at me happily as I stepped forward to meet him as quickly as I could, but -

Victor: Take your time, it’s okay, just be careful.

Struggling with the unfamiliar dress, I approached him step by step.

The dress is the exact opposite of what he longed for, the color of night, just like his hair.

When I came to a halt and faced him, Victor gave a soft laugh.

Victor: William has cleared the place, so no one will come here.

A wedding ceremony for just two people in an abandoned church in the middle of night, with not a single sign of life.

As I lowered my eyes down in the quiet space, I heard a voice with a mixed with sadness about what I’ve misunderstood.

Victor: Sorry.

Kate: Huh?

Victor: You’re only able to have a ceremony like this.

Kate: Victor, it’s not your fault…..

Victor: No, it’s my fault that you’re here, not clad in pure white, smiling with the blessings of so many.

Victor: It’s no one else’s fault…..but mine.

I grip his hand tightly as he lets out a depressed sigh.

Kate: When I was a child, I always wanted to go to a wedding.

Kate: I thought that the moment I wore a pure white dress, and was celebrated by many people must be a happy one.

Seeing him slightly shaken, I continued to speak.

Kate: But, now I like this better.

Kate: If there were a lot of people around, I might be too nervous to do this.

Kate: I’d rather wear a dress the same color as your hair than pure white.

Victor narrows his eyes as his gaze meets mine through the veil.

Kate: I don’t care where I am. You’re more than enough for me.

He blinked several time, smiled softly and then lifted the veil.

Victor: Kate?

Kate: Yes.

Victor: I……I am the man who will take away your freedom and make you unhappy.

Victor: After this, I will continue to make you feel uncomfortable .

Kate: That’s not true.

Victor: But,

He interrupts me, and I’m so struck by what he says, so I instinctively close my mouth.

Victor: The choice to let you go no longer exists in me.

The strong words pierced my heart and brought joy to my whole body.

Then he fits the silver piece he took from his pocket onto my left ring finger and drops his lips there.

Victor: I don’t swear to God, I swear to you.

The kiss, like a knight’s vow of loyalty, was something like out of a painting,

It makes me feel like I’m a princess of some country.

(But that’s not the reality.)

Because our vow is much heavier than that of a knight who swears loyalty.

Victor: I love you, Kate.

He removes his lips from my ring finger, takes my hand and places it on his left breast.

Then he puts his hand on my left breast in the same way.

(I can hear your heartbeat…..)

Our slight beats of our hearts is evidence that we are here,

Victor: Even if death snatches us away and our bodies rot, please let us live in hell together.

Kate: ….Yes. I vow to live with you even after death.

When I closed my eyes, I could sense each other’s heartbeats more strongly.

Kate: Because I want to be with you, even if it means destruction.

A vow that no one can touch, it’s ours alone.

Even if my heart stops beating, I will walk the path to hell with him.

(But as long as Victor is there, I don’t care if I end up in hell.)

Because I can truly say, that’s it is much better than being in heaven with out him.

The hand that’d been resting on my heart, now slides to my cheek.

Victor: …Even if I lose everything, I won’t let you go.

I look up and wait for his lips.

It was much happier than the wedding I dreamed of as a child.

Their private vow, unknown to anyone else, was sealed forever in the British night.

[Black Wedding Master List] Tag list: @theimaginativelyreticent

Screams: VIVIIIIIIIIIII! Mildly tempted to do another story dissection like Jude's wedding story.