#being formal..... hard. just call everyone by their first name. much easier.

[the-nysh]

I think a lot about how Vash took a really long time to call Meryl by her name in the manga/98 and even then would still flip flop between that and 'Insurance Girl', but he was calling her Meryl by episode 4 in Tristamp and in fact is the *only* character to call her By Her Proper Name until Roberto does. And like yeah 'she's not an insurance agent in tristamp', but if he wanted he could have just easily substituted in 'reporter girl' or something. But no, she's Meryl. (thank you, Meryl).

Stampede Vash makes it so easy!!!! ;o; Cause he really was the only one in their party to respectfully call her by name early on without having that problem. Especially with the way Meryl was always so irritated with Roberto not calling her by name, demanding not to be teased even by Wolfwood's silly nicknames (Meryl wants to be Seen and taken seriously without being demeaned or dismissed! hhh authentic short woman struggles) so here we are with Vash--who likely Noticed that, being the polite-mannered, observant genuine nice guy who actually listens to her respecting her preferences, aaaa!!!

Cause I also think about how....the typical (Japanese) way of addressing someone new would be Last Name basis + honorific to show respect (and/or familiarity levels)....which in Meryl's case would be....'Stryfe-san' - like 'Ms. Stryfe,' blerghghg which sounds so...severe. So in her case, actually listening to what SHE wants to be called actually takes precedence. Hooray for Stampede Vash actually following that, almost to a super casual degree too (bam--First Name basis), since Meryl never really had to correct him on what to call her, unlike the others (so I think she's secretly grateful for that.) You can also interpret in a way...where Meryl comes from a formal (Japanese) university educated background, down to her ways of speaking, Vash's upbringing is not the same--so him going the more 'western' way casually using (first) names without honorifics probably comes that much easier/natural to him.

While we're on the subject, she calls Vash 'Vash-san' (since he doesn't really have a last name...unless you go by like...Mr. Stampede, which to her would be weird too, so lol. Dub Wolfwood can pointedly call him 'Stampede' when he's lecturing.) And Wolfwood's only referred to by his Last Name by everyone (close first name privileges + abbreviations are only reserved for those from his orphanage, like Livio)...but meanwhile he rudely calls everyone else whatever nickname he wants, respect/honorifics be damned! :P

In the 98 anime, dub Vash flip-flopped calling her Meryl sometimes, but in the subs, I really listened hard for it, but even for his same lines (addressing her with casual questions), I don't think he ever got the chance to call her by name there! :O Then when you go to the manga, 'insurance-san' is his basic form of address for the girls, which isn't even teasing or anything--it's distant but still respectful....until he calls her by name when things ~Get Serious~ and he earnestly wants her to listen (she is shook!!!!) Eventually Trimax Vash does keep a closer first name basis for her, especially in his most sincere/tender/considerate moments, which is waah. :'3

So if Stampede Vash wanted to keep that same occupation form of address, then something like 'reporter-san' would've been the closest equivalent...but even then, because he Doesn't...it's actually Really Nice!?!! that out of all the guys who keep on teasing/dismissing her, he instead actually listens and treats her seriously with the respect she wants from the get-go. :')) (RAAA!!!! Stampede Vash and Trimax Vash are sweet gentlemen!!!! ;o;)

[gender-vortex]

Alright, I know tons of ppl in the notes have already answered, but tbh they sound like they have never measured anything in their lives because those are NOT helpful/logical.

Side note: you got the names backwards. Metric is all base ten measurements, as afaik imperial is all weird measurements.

1. There are not 16 parts to an inch! An inch is just an inch, and people will split parts of an inch in half as many times as needed to measure what they want to measure. For example, I own a ruler with 1/32nd inch marking on it (but only for the first two inches). This does make it harder to calculate, but much easier to measure (hence why all my math and science classes in the US use metric, but all my art classes use imperial)

2. Because people will just split an inch in half as many times as needed, we just call those pieces whatever fraction of an inch they are. So 1/2 inch -> half an inch, 1/4 inch -> quarter of an inch, and so on.

3. We don’t have millimeters because we just decided to split our one measurement in half a bunch of times. If we need to go down to millimeter size, we will just split a 1/16 into a 1/32. Also, you seem VERY confused as to the size of an inch, given that you call a 1/16th of an inch “the length of my fucking thumb.” Below I have attached a picture of my hand next to my ruler: the length of my thumb is about 2 inches, and 1/16 inch is more in the ballpark of the thickness of my finger nail.

4. Okay I agree they are hard to remember, but there is an explanation! An inch was meant to be the width of a thumb (probably in thick work gloves), and a foot was meant to be the length of a foot in a work boot. When standardizing these measurements, they probably made a foot 12 inches since 12 is divisible by 6, 3, and 2, so a foot could be easily split into sixths, thirds, and halves. A yard being 3 feet probably has a similar explanation. I have no good explanation for a mile.

5. Again, you seem very confused as to the size of these measurements. A tablespoon is literally three times the size of a teaspoon, so no where near as similar as you suggest.

6. Okay yeah I agree. And the spellings being similar means I always have to double check which one the recipe says to use.

7. Also agreed with this, I have no idea why these names were chosen.

8. Again, you seem very mixed up on the names of the measurement systems. Ounces are imperial. So are inches and stuff. Metric is the base ten measurements you prefer.

9. While I do agree, this probably made more sense back when it was created.

10. Bestie I am sorry to tell you, but a pound as a measure of weight has existed since the 1300s, and Britain was the one to formalize this system of measurement, not the US.

11. Again, it’s halves. I don’t have the sequence memorized, but I’m pretty sure it’s 1 gallon = 2 pints = 4 quarts = 8 cups = 16 ounces.

12. This system is for measuring, not math. There is no reason for those conversions to exist, everyone uses metric for that.

13. I’m used to it but yeah kinda arbitrary.

14. I’ll be doubly fucked if anyone makes me do an art project in metric. What’s half of 7.25 centimeters? 3.625 centimeters, which is 36.25 millimeters, which means in can NOT use my ruler to accurately mark half of 7.25 centimeters. But half of 7.25 inches? That’s 3.625 inches, aka 3 and 5/8 inches, which IS precisely marked on my ruler.

Things about the metric system that confuse me

Why are there 16 parts to an inch. Like yeah it's divisible by 4 but decimals and percentages on a system based on 100 are so much easier to calculate than fractions.

What are those little sixteenths called

Why don't you have millimeters. What happens if you need to measure something smaller than 1/16th of an inch. Why is your smallest area measurement the length of my fucking thumb

BECAUSE of your dumb inches and sixteenth and fractions, nothing else makes any fucking sense to remember. What's an inch? 16 little notches. What's a foot? 12 inches. What's a mile? 5,280. How the FUCK does anyone remember that. You know what's easy to remember? 10 millimeters are 1 centimeter. Do you know what centimeter means? 1/100th of a meter. You know how many of them are in a meter? 100. Easy shit

Okay this one is at Imperial but whose tablespoon is a tablespoon based off. Why are tablespoons and teaspoons both distinct measurements, they're fucking spoons. They're almost the fucking same. Like if you had "inches" and "binches" and binches were for no reason at all 1/42nd smaller and you only used them for measuring sawdust. Fuck completely off

Okay actually still looking at Imperial and speaking of Teaspoons and Tablespoons, the names don't indicate anything. How would ANYONE simply deduce by name which is bigger or smaller. Why would a spoon for food be bigger than a spoon for a drink. They both gotta fit in your fucking mouth don't they

Did we all standardize our fucking spoon volumes before we standardized our math? And CUPS? Who in the cholera factory was using scientific standard measurements to quality control your cutlery for any of this to be at all reliable for anyone following recipes

Alright back to you Metric WHAT DOES OUNCE MEAN AND WHY IS IT ABBREVIATED AS OZ

WHY IS POUND ABBREVIATED AS LB FOR LIBRA LIKE SCALES LIKE A CRYPTIC ASS ILLUMINATI SECRET MESSAGE WHEN "P" IS PERFECTLY AVAILABLE. YALL AINT PAYING MONEY IN POUNDS AND PENCE SO WHATS THE CONFUSION

Okay also why the hell would the British using Pounds to mean money run away to make America and start using Pounds to mean weight instead. Do I weigh a hundred dollars? Does Chadley at the gym bench press a thousand cents? I hate you

What is a gallon for. What does it mean. You know what's easy to convert to milliliters? Liters. What the hell is an ounce to a gallon

On top of that, what's your measurement transference? We have grams for weight, liters for liquid, meters for distance, and they're all like 1:100:1000 and shit. What do you DO to like. Show how many square inches of mass a gallon has or whatever

Oh shit I ain't even got into Fahrenheit yet

Actually fuck all of us, the end

[mentalhealthdocumented]

Things get easier. Life is not fair. Good people sometimes suffer. I think as a person the best you can do it just learn and try to apply these lessons to the future. You can’t change the past but you have control over your own future. Not everyone is capable of healing. In the past I felt a lot of guilt about things, rightfully so but the reality is a lot of the mistakes I’ve made, I was taken advantage of too or I had no choice.

I feel guilty sometimes about limiting contact with my older sister but she is extremely aggressive and dominating, worse than me. I still love her but cutting off contact has also helped me reflect on my own behaviours which were normalized after being modelled after her.

I feel bad about ignoring my uncle but he has a little crush on me and that makes me feel very bad because I used to see him as a father figure.

I feel bad about trying to steal a man from a girl and calling her mean names. I have tried to help by proving mental health resources and he exploited me. He was sane, I was sick, he knew that I was threatening to hurt others and myself. I was the one who eventually left so I am not responsible. My last contact was the end of August 2022. It have been more than two years and he never had sex with me, he has never even seen me naked. I feel a lot of guilt because it was wrong how I basically stepped on that girl but he let me and he still doesn’t like her. I feel guilt and I feel bad even for writing that but I’m released from my guilt and responsibility. I have tried to help her more than him, I have done what I can but my life is getting busier and it’s been two years, it’s time for me to finally close this chapter.

People are allowed to watch me if they want but I’m busy, the last few days I’ve been stressed. Right now in school we are wrapping up the first semesters and so lots of exams, tests. I think im beginning to enter a stress induced paranoia thing and so I need to just really cut off toxic people and experiences. I understand these are not bad people, everyone is sick in their own way and everyone has their own traumas but I need to take care of myself.

Cutting off toxic people and situations, even their is a guy I’m talking too now which maybe I should distance myself from. I feel a lot of guilt for things but this is called empathy, feeling guilt is not bad and has actually helped me to like pursue a formal diagnosis and like fix myself to some extent, without empathy and guilt I’d probably be like in jail so that’s actually what’s keeping me on a better path. But I don’t need to feel guilty for everything, especially when I’m dealing with the complexity of my own traumas.

My mom would drink a lot growing up and so I remember one memory in particular she drank too much on new years and I had to clean up her vomit with her boyfriend who was kinda like that step dad for me that was trying to fuck me. And I remember she vomited on the passengers side and so for like the rest of the year even though it was clean you could still smell some of the vomit every time I’d sit there.

My sister is more dominant than me and so growing up I felt very in debt to her for a lot. I always felt like I had to impress her or make her happy, even now I feel bad for cutting her off but she’s a lot more insane than me and it’s hard to handle. I want to be there for my niece and nephew and so I’ll have to talk to her again, not just when I babysit but i need a relationship with her to really be there for them.

I have many uh complex mental health issues, my formal diagnosis originally in 2018 was autism. Now it was autism and bpd because I told them things I had been hiding, even things I never shared back in 2018. I actually don’t think I’m autistic I think I have bpd with cptsd (complex trauma) but that’s not a formal diagnosis right now in the dsm. So I’ll check again in a few years another assessment.

Aside from this I have low self esteem, codependency, anxiety. A lot of what im sharing now relates to low self esteem and codependency. Guilt is not a bad thing but sometimes it’s okay to give up, now I feel almost like responsible for helping some of these people which is codependency. But I’m not a therapist, I am not their therapist. I feel like if I don’t help them they will get hurt without me but that’s not true, they have friends, they have family (other than me).

My feelings come in waves, sometimes I feel kinda upset because like why can’t you fix your life but it depends. This is probably the bpd with mood swings right. I am a very complicated person which I think allows others to pick and choose which’s parts of me they want to believe.

I can’t help people who don’t want to be helped. Avoiding people who are toxic or situations that are too polluted is actually good especially since I’ve done everything I can do. I have tried helping people, my sister can’t take criticism. When I try to help she yells, not everyone yells but people get aggressive mean, I’m a very fragile person emotionally and I need to be in a safe space without people struggling with their own traumas. I’ve apologized a few times already to the universe like I’ve posted helpful playlists and whatever, I’ve tried to post maybe unflattering photos at times to make people feel better but it’s not my responsibility to heal anyone that doesn’t want to heal or cut myself short to make others feel better. I need to work on myself and take care of myself, I need to be the best version of myself and I shouldn’t feel guilty from moving away from toxic situations, I’m sorry to anyone that I’ve hurt but I need to heal myself. My intention is not to kill anyone’s confidence or make them feel bad, my VSCO for example really is to thirst trap. Please stay off my social media if you are struggling with mental health challenges yourself. I have a lot of mental issues and social media actually does help, an example is I have a video coming of like a music playlist actually. It’s sounds silly but it makes me happy. I like to stream my iPad call of duty. I think it’s cool. I have an online presence, I recognize that others may see it sometimes, focus on yourself.

If you are here you want something from me, ask yourself what is that? What do you want from me and why do you want it? Is it just entertainment, are you lonley, are you feeling insecure, are you loooking for advice, are you looking to laugh at me to feel better about yourself? I’ll be whatever you want but just know I’m still me. I am a complex person, I have complex moods, I have literal moments of psychosis. It’s not a one size fits all type of thing right. Anything you are getting from me you can get better from within yourself. So like if you look at me to laugh, like why are you laughing at a person having a mental breakdown? What does that say about you, you are insecure and maybe a little sadistic. This can be fixed. I am not the one to fix that, I mean at some point I’m probably going to be an actual therapist and so even though people ignore me a lot of what I’m saying is actually something that people would pay for so, you can either choose to learn and grow or avoid your problems. That’s your choice but I’m not a villain in your story, I am a victim too but now I consider myself more of a survivor. I’m moving on and trying to heal, right now like the next few days I think I’m actually experiencing like stress induced paranoia, I’m aware now and so I’m being careful but I have this feeling like someone is going to hurt me and that I’m going to die. I understand now this will pass and it’s actually not based in reality but posting and venting I think helps. It helps right now but I need to find a better coping skill. Posting on youtube helps more than nothing but I need to grow from this too, I gotta keep looking for resources and find other ways to vent. I think another reason I do this is I’m like trying to help people as a way to temporarily forget about my own issues. Like when I log off then I’m stuck with the stress and paranoia. Putting all of this into other areas is a temporary solution.

People are complicated frl, like this is a mental breakdown being documented. Not everyone is interested in psychology and whatever but it’s actually kinda interesting and creative. I just need to find a better way, I think I should do tumblr again because I keep deleted playlists, YouTube should be more for music and gaming. A lot of what I’m writing might be helpful for reference, I always say I’m going to keep it but then I don’t. It’s because I feel shame after but I’m literally crazy, having a record of my struggles is not bad. I feel a lot of shame, but what can I do like I’m freaking out. My emotions are there, I’m happy to at least not be keying any cars like YouTube is better than that.

[basicgrayson]

Whyyyy is it so hard to pick a name ugh. Tax refund is coming in soon and we planned to use some of that money for my name change, but I still can't decide? It doesn't help that I have a massive family, so the pool of leftovers is verrry sparse.

Growing up, "Brian" was one of the names I really liked, but now I have like 3 Brians in my friend group AND a cousin named Brian. "Marcus" was another favorite, but my husband's best friend is named Mark and for various reasons, I do NOT want to share a name with him. Hell, a while back, I decided to go by "Jay," and wouldn't you know it, like a year or two later my cousin had a baby and named him Jason, aka JAY. I need to hurry up and pick something or there will be nothing left lol

I want a common name for my age group, but also I don't want anything too... caucascious? Lol idk as cool as it would be, I don't think I should go for a Spanish name. It would be pretty odd with my last name, and none of my siblings have Spanish names, so it'd stand out a little too much for my liking. But I want something my mom doesn't have to struggle to pronounce, you know? There are some names I've been sitting on that I kind of like, but idk I feel like they just don't fit.

Ugh. I kind of wish I had polls, then I could just have everyone vote on it lol eh who am I kidding, I probably still wouldn't be able to decide.

On another semi-related note, my friends so far have been calling me "Grayson" (my middle name) and it's cool and everything, but I've realized that in casual settings, I really prefer a short nickname. Grayson just sounds so formal, but I don't like being called Gray, Grace, or even G. But when you take those away, what else is there? Well today, I thought of Ace! I mean, it's in there, right? Lol idk I really like it? I'm thinking of asking my husband to try it out for a while and see how it fits. It'd be cool if it does.

I feel like if I have a nickname I really like, that'll make picking a first name easier since I wouldn't really be using it in my day to day interactions?

Any way that's just a bit of what's on my mind lately. Guess I've got a lot to think about these next few weeks!

[daemoninwhiteround2]

🐻/🦊 Before Jason's (wholly unjustified) termination there is a fête or ball at Wayne Manor, and Alfred needs all the help he can get. Normally Bruce is capable of playing the part of dilettante and host without letting his mask slip, but on this occasion his resolve might break. Apparently, that scoundrel Slade Wilson (or Dick, or whoever else you prefer, Dae, dearest) is also quite taken with h̶i̶s̶ ̶o̶m̶e̶g̶a̶'̶s̶ his staff's charms and spirit. Understanble, of course, Bruce has impeccable taste after all. Wilson, however, doesn't share Bruce's compunctions. The gall of that fiend! He should know better than to make advances on what's someone else's. If Bruce needs to assert himself in no uncertain terms both to this rake and the tod himself he will. By any means necessary. Jason seems game.

"A gala."

Lucius shoots Bruce a quelling look. "Yes. The spring season will need to be opened in a month's time, and even the most optimistic estimates have the mayoral residence out of action until at least the Fall."

Bruce nods. He's not unaware of the situation - Dr Isley's displeasure had made both national headlines and that Manor nearly completely uninhabitable. "I don't see how we were the logical choice from there."

Lucius sighs. "Mr Wayne. You may be happy to be a confirmed bachelor, but from what I've seen in the papers, Richard is not. Finding a respectable spouse for him will be a lot easier if people think highly of the Wayne name."

Bruce scoffs. "With all I've done for this city-"

"You and I both know that charitable dealings, if anything, lowers your standing with these people."

"And yet I'm supposed to want Dick to marry someone with that mindset?"

"Children are not their parents, Mr Wayne. There's more than one way to change minds."

Bruce sighs. He is a lot of things but 'best father' has never been among them. But he tries and he does want the best for Dick. "I assume you have a date in mind?"

Lucius smiles faintly. "The first of March is traditional."

Bruce allows himself to relax ever so slightly into his chair. He dislikes disagreeing with Lucius, regardless of how mild. "I take it you've already spoken to Alfred?"

"Mr Pennyworth was the one to suggest the southernmost ballroom."

Bruce stands and turns to the western window, pondering the moving parts now set before him. "A month is very little time."

"Most of the preparations that had been done for the mayor's residence can simply be transferred across - redirecting deliveries of flowers, that sort of thing. As for allerting people, we shall of course be issuing invitations, but Mr Pennyworth suggested that you may wish to contact that reporter of yours?"

Bruce huffs and turns back to face Lucius. "Clark is, by no stretch of the imagination, 'mine'."

Lucius gives him a Look. "You were not the one who had to deal with Lex Luthor after that news article was published."

At this, Bruce outright laughs. "I can't be held responsible for what Vicki Vale writes, Lucius."

"But you are responsible for what you do in hallway closets."

Bruce grins. "He'd lost his glasses! I was just being friendly!"

"May I suggest being less 'friendly' this time?"

"I'll take that under advisement."

"I suppose that's all I can ask." Lucius clears his throat and shuffles the papers they'd been discussing before he brought this up. "I'll liaise with Mr Pennyworth to arrange the rest."

Bruce nods and leans forward to shake Lucius' hand. His friend and long-time business partner departs and Bruce returns to gazing at the sunset. The benefit of being the money is that there is little you actually have to do, so his mind turns to invitations. To Dick's marriage prospects.

To what he'd done in the closet with Clark and who he'd like to be in there with now.

He wonders if Jason's milk is in yet...

He shakes his head to physically reject the thought and settles back at the desk, pulls the stack of 'to be read' paperwork towards himself.

Jason has been wearing lower and lower cut tops. If he looks, he could probably tell-

No! No fucking the help!

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The quarterly reports shall cool his ardour.

...And if they don't, he's slightly concerned about what that says about himself.

[legendreign-archived]

tsukuharuko:

Haruko perked up when Takao and Midorima came to greet the girl sat behind her. She wasn’t too surprised about Takao, he was a friendly guy, but having Midorima there was unusual. 

She lend and ear, trying to catch a glimpse of the conversation, when Takao pre-empted her and invited her to join them. Haruko agreed with a light nod and turned her chair around to face the group. She took a mouthful of her bento, staring at Midorima with a distrustful look, as if waiting for him to be his usual weird self around the new student.

“So, Aomi,” she asked once she had swallowed, “you play basket too? You know, so do these two,” she said, nodding at the two boys with her head. “Takao’s pretty cook, he can keep an eye on every other player on the field, it’s a real talent. Midorima...”

She glanced at the green-haired guy with a huff. Midorima was beyond talented; according to the gossips, he was a miracle of a player, never missing a basket no matter where he threw the ball from.

“Midorima is pretty good too,” she conceded, not wanting to waste a compliment on that snobbish weirdo. “Or so I was told. I actually never watched a match,” she admitted, scratching her nape. “It’s hard to attend them with two part-time jobs.”

~~~~

 Shintarō followed Takao the moment Takao started pushing his desk in the direction of the girls. He hissed in a small voice.

"What is the meaning of this Takao?"

Kazunari spoke in a low volume "Come on, Shin-chan. You need to be more social. It's not like I took the girls up to the rooftop where we usually eat. I know how much you and Tsukishima don't like each other so I didn't invite her into your private area. Aomi-chan needs the company being the new girl and all, and tomorrow, it's up to her whether she wants to join us on the rooftop or not."

"Takao... You know I need to see whether our zodiacs and blood types are compatible nanodayo."

"Shin-chan! You can't just ask anyone those things out of the blue... Now hurry up and push your desk."

 Shintarō just kept quiet and followed Takao as he recalled Oho Asa advising Cancers to expand their friend groups as they'll meet someone interesting today.

Chantelle began eating her lunch as she listened to what Tsukishima had to say. She nodded. "That must be tough..."

After the boys moved their desks around, she began asking Takao.

"So... From what Tsukishima-san told me, you're the point guard Takao-san?"

He gave a dismissing wave.

"Takao is fine, Aomi-chan. And yup I'm the point guard."

"Ok. It's just that my grandmother mentioned people aren't on a first-name basis here like in France, so you have to call people by their last name and attach "san" if you don't know them well enough."

He gave another dismissing wave.

""San" isn't really necessary, it just makes things more formal. ...Things must really be different in France huh?"

Chantelle nodded. "Back there, we don't have many honorifics. Only titles for men, women, for older people, and people with certain jobs. And Japan isn't as intimate of a culture as France. Like for example, women often greet their friends, family, sometimes coworkers with cheek kisses. Men don't do that unless they feel really close to the other person."

"Wah... Shin-chan would hate to live there." He laughed then playfully jabbed his friend which earned him a glare.

"If it makes things easier for you Aomi-chan, we can be on a first-name basis once we get to know each other better, deal?"

Chantelle smiled "Deal. ...By the way, Tsukishima mentioned that she's heard that you can keep an eye on everyone on the field. Do you have really sharp eyes or?..."

Kazunari pointed at his eyes. "I have a hawk eye. Well both my eyes can see from a hawk's perspective but they call it "'Hawk Eye"', you know?"

"I know what you mean! Three of my former teammates have birds' eyes!"

"What?! Aomi-chan, your old team must be really strong huh?"

"...Yes... We uh won nationals three times."

Both Kazunari and Shintarō gave each other a knowing serious look because the victories of Aomi's team sounded like the track record of the Generation of Miracles.

"Tsukishima, you watched our games?"

[versadies]

CHAPTER 5 // TOLERATE IT

SYPNOSIS (of chapter). in which things are not what it seems to be as you decided to go shopping after finding out that you have forgotten to pack a formal outfit for the upcoming joint bachelor party and encounter a familiar face once more.

SYPNOSIS (of series). breaking up with your first love was heartbreaking, but not as heartbreaking as getting invited to his wedding after years of not seeing him. that is, until things seem to be easier when you encounter a certain guest, who could end up being more than just a blooming friend to you.

CHARACTERS. kamisato ayato, diluc ragnvindr ( w/ gn!reader )

CONTENT. fluff/angst/comfort, modern!au, ooc (?), mentions of breakups, childe slander, ayato is still trash

PENPALS. @scaraslover @dawgimsohot @kazu-topia @aqualesha @mrkamisato @serami00 @serenareiss @hiqhkey @emperatris-rinaka @bystander36 @irisxiel @coleluuviida @034ven @dear-dairiess @luv3rxcha @hadesaedes @chiro-chiro-kun @hersscherofyatta @mariusvonhangme @yuzuricebun @nejibot @hoshikistarlette @solaaresque @crowbird @lordbugs @estelwrld @irethepotatosblog @elychee @rion-s  @denkineptune @franini @sophisticatedleslie @thedivinepriestess @smashsubs @httpmitsuya @cottonkendi @uchihaeirin @abvolat @kokushiboswife @kyomihann @jiyujinsstuff @durptwit @elegantcecile @mnemosyneechan @s-adidass @belovedxiao @deimmortales99 @veyu002 @crowleysthings @prplbunny @bananazzzen @axeybelle09 @chimsblogg @ys14a @leaunce @q-zrs @phoenixdrake88-blog @giyusimpsassemble (come visit this post if you’d like to be tagged !)

WORD COUNT. 4.1k words

NOTE. please make sure to check the end of the post for extra notes by the time you’re done reading (just to clear some things up !!!)

SPECIAL NOTE. we have finally arrived to the last chapter before interlude begins. thank you guys so much for the support and love you gave me for the series, i’ll continue to work hard <333

LINKS. EVERMORE MASTERLIST \ MAIN MASTERLIST

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For the longest time, Chisato still couldn’t believe that she ended up with Kamisato Ayato. 

There are two reasons, one that is unspoken to almost everyone, and one that is reasonable. 

Ayato is an unreachable man, someone who she could never find herself to be with because well.. He’s Ayato! The infamous heir to one of the most infamous and successful companies that everyone knows. How could someone like her catch his attention besides the fact that she’s also an heir to her father’s company, who’s surely not as famous and successful as Kamisato’s?

She could still remember when the blue-haired man approached her one night during a charity party that she and her father have to attend, with her eyes so wide in shock that the highly-accomplished Kamisato heir is even paying attention to her whilst her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol she drank. 

“And what brings such a lovely lady such as you being so lonely for an exquisite party, if I may ask?” He spoke smoothly, if not teasingly. 

The woman couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eyes, her words stumbling. “I-I uhm.. I just feel a bit overwhelmed from so many people attending here. I thought it would be best if I took a breath of fresh air.” She explained. 

A small chuckle comes out from his mouth. “That I can understand. Not to mention how I have to make some small talk with half of the attendees, which bore me a lot.” He comments, leaning against the terrace and looks at the view. “Your name is Hiiragi Chisato, correct?” 

She lets out a small squeak. “You… You know my name?” 

“I know everyone’s names at the party.” He responded. “My name is Kamisato Ayato, I am delighted to make an acquaintance, Miss Hiiragi.” 

“O-Oh you don’t have to.. Call me that!” She said immediately. “You can just call me Chisato, Mr. Kamisato.” 

He pauses for a moment before a small smile appears on his face. “If that’s the case, then you may call me Ayato, Chisato.” 

And the rest is history. 

Since then, the woman finds herself enjoying her time with the blue-haired man. Every moment shared between them has all made her smile so wide, her cheeks start to hurt from it. 

As expected, Ayato is a lovely man. Not only does he respect her opinions, what she stands for, has a lot of things in common, and cares about his family as much as she does with her father, but he has also understood her more than she could understand herself. It honestly felt like she was Cinderella who met her Prince Charming. 

Not to mention how she and Ayato are in the same college, much to her delight. The universe must be trying to make them be together!

With this in mind, she went through a lot of effort in trying to gain her crush’s attention. Whether it’d be giving him a short love letter that wishes him well for his day, giving him snacks that she “accidentally” brought too much of, walking with him from the dormitory to the university, and so on and so forth. 

She felt like she didn't deserve to even be considered as Ayato’s spouse, but it doesn’t hurt to be selfish and try, right? Besides, he tolerated all of the things she does for him, so that has to mean something!

So when Ayato took her to one of his favorite places, a cafe that his best friend, Thoma, is working in, and asked her out on a date, she did not hesitate to say yes. 

And now, after a few arrangements and patience here and there, she’s finally getting married to the love of her life. 

What a happily ever after, she’d thought while dreamily staring at the engagement ring Ayato put on her ring finger. 

That’s what she thought of at least. 

It happened one night, both were exhausted from greeting all the guests that had arrived in Mondstadt for the wedding and are currently lying down on their shared bed facing each other, when Chisato heard something she had never heard often from her fiancé.

“( Name ).” He whispered in his sleep, his eyebrows starting to furrow as the woman beside him felt her breath hitch, as if the wind had knocked out of her breath.

It was only one whisper and one time, 

But it was enough for Chisato to wake up from her stupid fantasy.

To Chisato, you’re someone special to Ayato. 

When Thoma accidentally brought up your name when he and Ayato were conversing in the cafe with Chisato, the both of them stayed silent – it was a long silence that made her incredibly concerned – until Ayato immediately explained to her about how you’re just someone he and Thoma consider as their best friend due to how you three have been friends for a long time.

The woman didn’t persist in knowing more about you, but from the look on Ayato’s face, it was enough for her to think that you’re someone he holds dear.

It was truly unfortunate that the blue-haired man never got the chance to introduce her to you during college, and she excused it as him being too busy or you being unavailable to meet her due to your classes. 

However, she did see you often around the school grounds. 

Sometimes, she’d see you walking around the hallway talking with your friends, helping out a person picking up the things they dropped from tripping, holding your laughter with your friends while studying in the library, and even walking back to your dormitory from the university sometimes alone. 

Chisato would be lying if she said she didn’t want to be friends with you. She could see why you’d easily get along well with Ayato and Thoma. 

When Ayato suggested inviting you to the invitation, Chisato didn’t think much of it, assuming that he’s only inviting you to have a reunion with your friend group and because she’s looking forward to meeting you at last.

But now, it all makes sense. 

The way her fiancé didn’t get the chance to let her meet you, the way his friends would look away from her if she ever mentions your name, and the whispers that lingered whenever she and Ayato walk down the school hallways together whilst holding hands – 

Something happened between the two of you and Ayato took the chance to invite you to his wedding and fix it. 

The thing is, what happened between the two of you anyway? 

Surely.. It’s not that, right?

Chisato stares down at Ayato’s sleeping face before turning around and having her back facing him, conflict flashes her eyes. 

Did… Ayato ever mentioned to her about having an ex?

The woman inhales sharply. 

“Don’t be affected by this,” She mumbles to herself, raising the blankets higher to her shoulders to warm her from the cold room. “Maybe they just had a fight and are truly best friends.. Nothing more.” 

She doesn’t even know if she’s trying to convince or lie to herself.

–

You find yourself staring down at the bubbles in the bathtub as you sit motionlessly, your thoughts occupied with the events that had occurred hours ago. 

“Do you mind if…” Ayato pauses for a second. “If you and I could talk for a while?” 

You slightly furrowed your eyebrows, looking at the man. 

“..Talk about… What?” 

He looked as if he was taken back by surprise. “About… us back then. I would like to apologize for what I did to you.” He explains slowly, talking as if he’s reminding himself. 

You frowned even more. Why now of all times? Did he think that just because it’s all in the past means that you’ll easily forgive him unlike before?

“...Why now….?” You spoke. 

You held back your breath when you felt on the verge to cry, not wanting to sob again. The last time you cried was in front of a literal stranger – you can’t afford to let Zhongli of all people to hear you cry in the bathroom and then ask you about it– not when you don’t want to bother anyone with your burdened feelings that never seems to fade away.

Ever since your last encounter with Ayato, you couldn’t find yourself to stop thinking about it. How is he even going to explain himself? Why now? Why not when you’ve been trying to get his attention throughout the rest of the year in college like a fool? 

You clench your fists in anger. Angry that your ex has the guts to think he could apologize, angry that you are so helpless when facing him, and angry that you haven’t moved on from your foolish relationship even after how much time has passed. 

What was the point of going here?

You let out a sigh. It’s only been four days since I’ve arrived and yet here I am being stressed out instead of relaxing like how I wanted to. You thought.

You lean further back and lay down in the bathtub as you try to relax. You’re honestly grateful that Goth Grand Hotel provides bubble bath products for you to use since you could really use something to help you relax.

It was only when a few moments later had passed when you realized one important thing.

“Crap… Do I have an outfit for the joint bachelor party?” You mumbled, sitting up from your position as you thought of whether or not you brought another formal outfit that suits the upcoming party. 

When you can't recall anything, you scratch the back of your neck with a sigh. 

You suppose it won’t hurt to do a little shopping. 

–

“I’ll be going out to buy some clothes for the joint bachelor party,” You spoke to Zhongli as you fixed your clothing in front of the mirror that’s outside the bathroom, “would you like to come with me and help me out?” 

When you turned around to look at Zhongli, he looked agitated, as though he’s bothered by something. 

“As much as I’m interested in shopping with you today, I unfortunately have some things to do.” He explains with an apologetic look on his face. “Remember that… rascal…?” 

“...Who?” You asked, taken back by surprise from the fact that Zhongli has said a word that you haven’t heard him saying until now. 

A stiff smile forms on his face. “...The ginger.” 

His response instantly clicked in your head, letting out an “ah” sound as you recall Tartaglia and his antics in trying to befriend your plus one. Even now, you still don’t even know why the man is so desperate to be friends with the gentleman. Did Zhongli really catch his eye that much?

You then let out a snort. “You call him a rascal?”

“Is he not?” He responded nonchalantly. 

“What are you going to do with him again?” 

“He has invited me for dinner.” Zhongli responds, letting out a sigh. “I thought I shouldn’t reject such an offer since he mentioned going to a 5-star restaurant and booked a table for us before I could even reject it. It would be a waste of opportunity to try it out, correct?”

You chuckled, grabbing your items before heading towards the door. “Alright, whatever you say. I’ll be back before 21:00 if I manage to find a good outfit for the party.” 

He waved you goodbye. “Very well, stay safe, ( Name ).” He then gestures to your phone. “Call me if you ever get in trouble or need my help. If I could recall, the restaurant I’ll be going to is not too far from where the mall is, which is not too far from here as well.” 

You nodded in understanding. “I’ll remember that. See you later, Zhongli.”

Without another word, you left the room, thinking of what to do for tomorrow since you have no plans for that day either. Maybe going to the spa isn’t so bad, or go around the city to find some souvenirs to bring home to, but resting the whole day sounds tempting as well–

Your thoughts of your schedule for tomorrow had all instantly gone silent when you suddenly thought of one thing. 

Would Ayato try to confront me at the party? 

You clutch your phone tightly, anxious from the thought of the man trying to talk to you about the past in a public place. 

You honestly still couldn’t understand why he’s even trying. 

Did he not remember what you had told him back then?

It took one month before you finally got to talk to Ayato again, 

When you did, it was perhaps the last time you ever swore to go to him for the rest of your life. 

“Ayato, please.” You call him as you try to follow him outside the place where everyone’s celebrating an after-exams party. “You still haven’t given me an explanation! Why can’t you do this one simple thing? Don’t I deserve to know why you left?”

“I’ve told you already, I’ve fallen out of love with you–”

“But why?”

“Isn’t it obvious already?” He snaps, stopping his tracks and turns around to look at you. “I have too much on my plate. You know how much the Yashiro Company  (1)  depends on me, and I cannot let something such as you burden me–”

“What about Chisato?! The last time I checked–”

“This is different,” He interrupts. “You are different.” 

You scoffed. “What does she have that I don’t? Is it the money? Her reputation? Her company?!” 

He stays silent for a moment, and despite being with him for so many years, his expression right now is something you have never seen before. 

“My love.” 

Those words are enough to make your eyes widen as your breath hitches.

“...What do you mean?” You breathe out, watching as something flashes through his eyes when he realizes what he said. It must’ve been a regret for confessing what he said. 

“Unlike you,” He hesitates for a moment before letting out a sigh of defeat, “she has my love.” 

It took a few minutes for you to process what he had just said, when it did, you felt like the whole world – your own world –  was crashing down around you. 

Ayato didn’t even let you speak, he continued talking more, 

“For the past months ever since I’ve broken up with you, I have tolerated every single time you try to come up to me in the university and outside.” He explains. “I thought you’d stop when you get the hint that we’ll never get back together, but you just had to be this desperate for me to say it again and again.” 

“Stop it.” You whispered.

He didn’t stop. “No, you stop this. This will be the last day you and I will talk to each other about this again. We’ve been officially over long ago and we’re nothing more than just friends–”

“You’ve gone too far for me to even consider you as a friend,” You snapped, lips trembling as you feel like your heart is burning in devastation. “I can’t believe it took you this long to tell me the reason why you left me!” 

You took a step forward towards the man, who was taken back by surprise from your sudden change of attitude. “From now on, this will be the last day I’ll ever talk to you or see you again.” 

Just when he opens his mouth to speak up, you place your index finger against his chest. “Whether you like it or not, it no longer matters to me. You can tolerate it, right?” 

–

Zhongli was definitely not wrong when he said the mall wasn’t too far from where the hotel is, so you only decided to go there by foot. When you arrive, there’s a lot of clothing stores you could choose from, all containing fashionable outfits displayed by the windows. However, you decided to go to a certain clothing store that you frequently go to back when you’re in Liyue since the clothes there are comfortable and suit your taste in outfits.

Hence how you find yourself strolling all around the store looking for another good outfit whilst holding other clothes to try on later.

You’ve thought deeply of the possible outfits you could wear despite having already a lot of clothes to try on on your hands. A matching outfit with your plus one isn’t too bad, so is an outfit that doesn’t stand out much and won’t catch anyone’s eyes, but an outfit that makes you feel confident doesn’t sound bad either. 

Ah, so many choices. You thought with a frown. If only I have a companion with me, then maybe I wouldn’t look weird walking around the place like a hawk.

It seems the universe had heard your wish, because as soon as you went to a certain area of the store, a familiar voice called out your name.

“( Name ) ?” Thoma spoke in a surprised tone, causing you to turn around and see the blonde-haired man standing not too far away from where you are with a tuxedo on his hand, your eyes brightening at the sight of him. 

Finally, a companion!

“Thoma!” You greeted enthusiastically, walking towards the man. “What a lovely surprise, I didn’t expect to encounter you here!” 

“So did I! Are you here to shop for the bachelor party as well?” 

You nodded, your smile grew wider. “You too?” 

He showed you a tuxedo suit, copying your smile. “My suit got destroyed when my roommate accidentally spilled coffee on it, so I decided to go and buy a new one since I don’t think the suit will be clean when the party starts.” He explains. “What about you?”

You then look down at your hands, feeling your cheeks warm in embarrassment from the amount of clothes you’re holding. “Well… I wouldn’t say I have one for the party since I forgot it at home, so I came to visit the shop.” 

Being the sweetheart Thoma is, he didn’t mind the amount of clothes on your hands. “I see… Do you need some help in choosing your outfit?”

A part of you thought about accepting his offer instantly, but another part of you also thought about not wanting to bother your dear friend with something such as this. 

You let out a polite laugh. “I wouldn’t want to bother you, I’m sure you have matters to do for the bachelor party–”

“Nonsense! I’m actually free for the rest of the night, so I’m willing to take my time to help out, especially if it’s you.” 

You felt relieved from hearing his words. “Oh thank goodness. I honestly can’t decide which one I want – you can purchase your clothes first, I’ll head over to the changing room and start changing.” 

He nodded in response, giving you a thumbs up. “Will do. I won’t be long!”

–

For the next hour, it was all a blur. 

Thoma definitely didn’t disappoint you when he finally chose which outfit suits you best, you agreed with his choice and it basically hit the criteria you needed for the bachelor party, so you went to the cashier register and bought it. 

When the both of you walked out from the store, Thoma asked if you could spend dinner with him, to which you agreed willingly, wanting to properly catch up with your best friend after years of not seeing him since you left to go to Liyue. 

When you accepted, he instantly took you to one of Mondstadt’s infamous restaurants and said how he had always wanted to try it out ever since he arrived in his homeland. You’d be lying if you said the excited look on Thoma’s face isn’t endearing and infectious. 

Right now, the two of you were eating your meals in the exquisite restaurant, enjoying each other’s company. 

“No way, Itto won an eating competition against Miss Miko?!” Thoma exclaims, his eyes scream fascination. “What was the reason?” 

You laughed at his reaction in amusement. “Yep, they had a competition over a seat in Uyuu Restaurant – I honestly couldn’t believe he won since the foods have beans in them.” You explained, your cheeks started to hurt from smiling so much. 

The blonde-haired man gasps. “And he ate 32 bowls of it?!” 

“Yes!” 

The two of you laughed, ignoring how you received a few looks from people around you. 

“You know, this reminds me of back when we used to chat like this in the cafe.” He spoke honestly, slowly calming down from laughing. “How long has it been since we last talked to each other like this?” 

Now that you think about it, you do miss the times when you’d visit Thoma’s cafe to talk to him about anything. With all that has happened in college, you actually couldn’t remember the last time you actually talked to Thoma like this. Was it 2 years ago? Or 3?

You shrugged in response. “Perhaps 3 or less years ago.” 

“That long, huh?” 

You hummed. 

Suddenly, Thoma’s face lights up when he remembers something. “Oh right! Before I forgot to ask, would you like to get some desserts afterwards? I heard that there’s one certain store that sells lovely desserts that are to die for!” 

You nodded eagerly with a small smile, taking a bite of your food that was almost forgotten for a moment. “Sure.” 

Just like that, the both of you continued talking happily for the rest of the night. By the time you had left the restaurant with full stomachs, the two of you tried to find the store that Thoma was talking about. When you did, you felt like your mouth started watering at the sight of the delicious delicacies. 

“...This might sound a bit out of nowhere, but I’m glad I got to see you again.” He confessed, causing your thoughts to be cut off as you look up at the man in surprise. The two of you sat next to each other by the stools in the dessert shop, eating the desserts you bought together. “I always wondered how you’ve been – even though we chatted every now and then in messages – so when I saw you for the first time in years and seeing you being so happy, it made me feel at ease.” 

Your mouth was slightly open agape, unsure how to respond to his words. 

If only you knew I'm only this happy because of our time together. You thought to yourself, suddenly remembering the incident with Ayato earlier. 

But then again, there were other things that had happened besides the incident. 

You remembered the time when Diluc comforted you after taking you away from Ayato. 

“Why… Why does he get to be happy and I don’t?” You whimpered. 

He suddenly walked towards you, his steps were careful and cautious. “I’m sorry that this is happening to you.” He spoke, his voice unsure if he’s using the right words or not.

A black handkerchief is suddenly in your still blurry vision. It dawns on you that Diluc is offering his clean handkerchief to you in order to wipe your tears away. 

You hesitantly grabbed the cloth from him and wiped all of your tears. “Thank you… Mr. Ragnvindr.” You whispered. 

“It’s the least I can do.” He spoke softly. “There’s no need to thank me.” 

“...I am happy,” You said, your eyes softened at the thought of Diluc’s heartwarming actions towards you. “I can’t say I’ve completely moved on but… I suppose it’s better than my disastrous self back then.” Because I have people who care about me. You thought to yourself, smiling at the thought of your friends. 

“That’s good to hear.” Thoma responds. “Oh and uhm.. Rest assured that I’ll make sure to help you if you ever feel uncomfortable at the joint party, alright?”

“Oh you don’t have to do that, Thoma.” You spoke with a shake of your head. “I’ll be fine.”

“I insist.” He reassures you. “Never forget that you and I are friends, so don’t hesitate to call me if you need me, ok?” 

You try to protest about it, only to find yourself not being able to say anything and sigh in defeat. “...Alright. But you don’t have to check up on me at the party, I have Zhongli with me the whole time.” You added. 

“Can’t promise you that,” He said, “as the host of the party, it’s only my duty to make sure my guests are accommodated.” 

You laughed at the way he talked so formally. “Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” 

Despite reassuring Thoma you’ll be okay, his words surely did make you feel comfortable and at ease for the upcoming party. Perhaps this hangout was the one thing you needed to forget about your worries about Ayato.

If only you could truly see how Thoma looks at you.

A look that others would give to someone they truly treasure and love. 

With this in mind, has Thoma ever taken his eyes off of you the whole night you’ve spent with him?

DAN'S NOTES !

"You know how much the Yashiro Company  (1)"

in the previous chapter, ayato's mother referred the company as "yashiro business" so this may have confused a few readers here. "yashiro company" is the name of ayato's business, so his mother mentioned "yashiro business" in a way that refers to the entire business that includes the company itself.

UPDATE: tysm @anemoarchonhoe for letting me know about the mistake i made with hiiragi chisato — i got so used to referring her as hiiragi that it slipped my mind that her first name is chisato 😭😭😭

extra: i do not ship hiiragi chisato and ayato together, i only paired them up together in this series for the sake of the plot !

[scarlettriot]

Stood Up

You (Y/N) get stood up from a date and Kaminari decides to do something about it.

Pairing: Kaminari/F!Reader

Contains: Fluff, Flirty Denki, Established BakuSquad Friendship

Warnings: 18+ Below the cut, Minors DNI! Swearing, Electro-Stim, Overstimulation, use of pet names (cuddle bug & cutie), oral (F receiving), consensual recording

A/N: Well, here we are with the third in my Stood Up series. There is also Bakugo & Kirishima if you're interested. This one took me way too long and it's also my first time writing Kaminari at length. I hope you all like it :)

Word Count Starting Below: 2,461

You slipped your foot into the silver heels you had picked out. Something a little fancier since this was a first date after all and you wanted to make a lasting impression. Not only that but this was your first first date in a while. Being a Pro Hero made life busy and dating difficult.

Practically the entire day leading up to this very moment revolved around you either getting ready or babbling with excitement to your closest friends.

An alert chimed on your phone with a text from your date, a smile sliding onto your face expecting to read some message about how they were on their way and that they'd see you soon, but that wasn't what you were met with.

Instead, it was a screenshot of your Instagram page, multiple of them actually, all of you and the ridiculous photos you took with your friends but mostly with one Denki Kaminari. The most recent of which was from a tea shop he met you at just earlier that day so you could show him the shoes for your date.

The message below was simple and more than enough to leave a sour taste in your mouth, this isn't what I want to see when I'm supposed to be taking you out tonight. What, one date a day isn't enough? Why are you even dating? Does your blonde boyfriend know?

You giggled at what they were implying, quick to explain how these were all your friends, they had been since high school! They are people you spent what little free time you had with. Especially Denki, your best friend since you were 15!

That joy you felt started dissipating within the next few messages. You hadn't even had a first date and they were already jealous, and that was something you didn't have room for in your life. So, you slipped the heels off your feet and put them directly back in the box to return when you had the time. Tight black jeans and fitted top were exchanged with a hoodie and sweats although your makeup and hair stayed done, you didn't have the energy to undo your hard work.

Instead, you slid back into your computer chair, your headset snuggly back on your ears and before you notified everyone you were back online, you took a moment listening to the chatter of your friends.

"Shitty Hair! Fuckin' pay attention!"

"Yeah, man! We're getting slaughtered over here!"

"Less yelling at Kiri! More shooty shooty!"

"All of you are hopeless..."

Eijiro chuckled out an apology that was accompanied by a lighter giggle also coming from his mic. "Think this is gonna be my last round for a bit, guys."

"You're so fuckin' whipped." Bakugo scoffed, before screaming profanities.

"Is it whipped if I'm the one who's wanting to get her into bed though?"

You clicked your mic back on then. "Hey, remember last week when Kats forgot his push to talk so we all heard him getting head and we party whipped because someone couldn't focus?"

"You better shut the hell up right fucking now!"

Everyone else roared with laughter. "Yeah! At least I have the decency to mute myself!"

"Hey, wait a sec, why are you online, Y/N!" Denki noted, "You should have already left!"

You screenshot your messages to the group chat because it was far easier than just explaining the ordeal.

"Cute shoes." Eijiro and Kyoka commented at the same time.

There was a lull as their game ended and the messages were read.

"Ya don't need 'em if they're gonna have their head so far up their ass like this."

"I agree." Hanta chimed in. "They're not worth your time."

"Still, sorry they turned out to be a shit." You could hear the frown on Kyoka's face, "I know how excited you were."

"Right, you doin' okay, Y/N? I can stick around and we can all shoot some things!"

"Thanks, Kiri but I'll be just fine! Go spend time with your girl!"

One by one, everyone signed off. You pulled up Spotify and Stardew Valley, something of a comfort for you to get lost in for the rest of the night.

Less than an hour later, you noticed your phone lighting up with your best friend's familiar smiling face. "What's up, Denki?"

"Open your door! I have my hands full and don't wanna put everything down to get my key!"

You sprang from your desk and rushed to your door. Sure enough, on the other side was Denki with bags in both hands and his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. You grabbed it and a bag before he had a chance to drop anything like the klutz he was. "What's with all this?"

"I feel bad."

"Why? You didn't stand me up?"

He fiddled with the edge of a paper bag. "Yeah, but, we both read those messages and no one said anything but they didn't just call our group out, they called us out.

"Denks, it doesn't matter to me-"

"But, it does to me! You were so excited about this and I got in the way, unknowingly but, still! So, I gotta make it up to you now!"

He pulled out take-out boxes from your favorite restaurant. Two bottles of your favorite wine. Your top three favorite movies and video games, and a board game you both had been meaning to try. "I mean, if they think I'm your boyfriend I kinda gotta live up to the hype, right?"

You really wanted to insist that none of this was necessary. That just because some person that neither of you really knew that well, assumed something about your relationship that didn't mean he had to blame himself for it.

But, you had to admit, this was really sweet. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to you that he knew everything you liked but it was nice. Instead of sitting across from a stranger, making awkward small talk, and trying to learn about one another, you were barefoot in your kitchen, laughing with your best friend while he plated dinner and you poured the wine.

Formalities were out the window. Both you and Denki were eating dinner in your living room, laughing and drinking just as you'd done a million times before. You snapped a photo of the delicious food on paper plates, toasting good times with your cheap wine, ready to post them to your Instagram.

"Gonna make them more jealous..."

"I think they made it pretty clear they don't want to see me so why should I care?"

He shrugged. "I just thought they might, you know, come to their senses that they obviously lost."

"I don't really care either way." You wandered back into your kitchen, putting away the leftovers, "They can forget I exist or they can stalk my page like a creep. If someones' gonna try and tell me I can't be friends with my friends or just not listen to me, then I don't want them in my life. No matter how good-looking they are."

Denki watched you from the sofa, a bit of a lopsided grin on his face that had butterflies taking flight in your stomach. "What?" Laughing to hide the bit of a crush you always had on the man. It was unavoidable you told yourself. His personality was infectious and had 15 year old you head over heels.

He pushed back bright blonde hair back off his forehead and just shook his head. "Nothin'. Uh, what's next? Video game, board game, or movie?"

You peaked on the counter at the options. "Well, we probably should have checked this but the board game needs at least four people to play... guess we'll have to save that for our next game night. Is a movie okay?"

Of course, it was.

You brought over the DVD with a refill of wine and he pulled a blanket down off the back of your sofa.

It really didn't take long, just fifteen minutes or so, and you were curled up into Denki's side. You'd make grabby hands for your wine glass and he'd pass it over with that damn grin again.

And not long after that, he'd pulled out his phone, angling it to take a picture of the two of you. "What are you doing?" You could see him on his own Instagram, tagging you, with the caption, Check out my cute cuddle bug.

"I thought you didn't want to make them more jealous."

"I decided I don't care either. You're mine tonight, their loss. And since you're mine tonight, I get bragging rights." He snapped another quick picture of you rolling your eyes at him, and then he kept snapping them.

"Denki! Why!"

"Because you're cute, cuddle bug! I like having all the pictures of you that I can!"

Even as you tackled him back down on the sofa, pinning him below you, he still managed a photo. "Bet if I post this one, they'll really get the wrong idea."

You could have moved. You were the one on top of him and you had his arms above his head. You had the power here and yet you just lingered above him.

"Y/N? Not that I'm one to complain about having a beautiful person such as yourself pinning me down, like, it's kinda hot, but..." Looking down into half-lidded golden eyes, you wondered why you had to become best friends with such a damn flirt! "Are you gonna take advantage of this situation we're in or are we just gonna keep dancing around this for another decade or so?"

You couldn't have heard him right? No... no this was your brain playing tricks on you because he certainly hadn't had that much wine tonight. You sat upright on his lap. "Another decade then, Y/N?"

"You- ha- you should stop that, Denki."

He leaned up, moving his arms around you, "Gimme a good reason to and I will."

You didn't have one. And not just because you've been in love with him for ten years but also because he was your best friend. The only reason to not go through with it was the possibility of losing your friendship if something bad were to happen but, you really didn't think anything would.

Denki might have been a serial flirt but he was surprisingly loyal in all the relationships he'd been in, not that there had been all that many serious ones.

"I'm not hearing anything." He teased, his face getting closer to yours. You could count each and every one of the faint freckles that littered the balls of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. "But, I promise, if you tell me no, I'll stop, won't push this any further."

This whole thing seemed like a frickin' whirlwind, happening faster than your brain could really process the situation but you didn't want it to stop either. You wanted to take it further, didn't want to say no.

Which was why you coiled your arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. There was that small little buzz of electricity that tickled your lips when he'd kiss your nose or cheeks that was now playing on his lips, on his tongue when you welcomed him in.

He leaned back again, pulling you with him until you were both a pile of needy hands and breathy pleas. Everywhere his hands roamed you felt that faint trail of shock against your skin, making the little hairs on your body stand on end.

Clothes were shed, tossed haphazardly around your living room, both of you pausing to laugh when Denki managed to land your hoodie over a lamp. His attention was drawn back to you quickly though, still perched on top of him but now he had your chest on full display since you'd forgone a bra when your date canceled.

Electrifying tongue twirled around your nipples, sensitive normally, now it felt like you knew what it was like when he fried his damn brain. He was eager, relentless even, pulling and sucking, another hand giving your other breast a similar treatment. He had you so focused that you let out a broken moan when slender fingers found their way into your panties.

"Fuckin' hell, Denki."

The bastard winked up at you, nipple still between his lips and before you could retort, he sent another small jolt through you.

You were blatantly grinding down on his hand, reaching behind you, you found him completely solid, barely being contained in the tight black boxers he wore. You had enough sense to tug them down and wrap your hand around him making his teeth sink into your soft flesh, whining when you stroked him.

"Y/N..." He whimpered, his hand momentarily distracted from his ministrations gave you enough time to shift in his lap to scoot forward putting his cock in front of you. In one swift motion, you had his length between your slick. "Oh fuck, cutie!" Golden eyes were squeezed shut while you moved along him, feeling that pleasant curve he had, you could only imagine what it was gonna be like to have him inside you.

"You're being a little tease, ma-makes me wanna do all sorts of things to y-you."

He was kissing your neck, your chest, shoulders, and arms, anywhere on you that he could reach. His hips bucking up into you, just trying to hit that perfect angle.

Strength and agility were something most overlooked when it came to Denki Kaminari but when the man wanted something bad enough, he found a way to get it.

He had your ass rising up in the air with a harsh thrust of his hips and a small squeak from you, giving him exactly enough time to scoot down on the sofa so you were sat atop his face. If you complained, he didn't hear you. Denki already had your thighs around his head and his tongue devouring you completely.

Little shockwaves rocked you while you cried out his name, hands fisting blonde locks just trying to stay upright.

One orgasm from you apparently wasn't enough, neither was two but on the third, Denki finally relented, allowing your heartrate to come back down and your gasping breaths to come in more steadily.

You slid back down his body, his erection now smack against your ass. His hair was recked, face completely flush but he had the biggest grin on his face that you'd ever seen.

Denki kissed both your cheeks, "You are so amazing, cutie!" Kissed your lips, "You taste better than anything I've ever had!" And one more on the tip of your nose. "Doin' okay?"

You nodded, starting to really gather yourself again, and by this point, you really just wanted one thing.

"I wanna... Denks... can I take care of you now?"

"Sure, cutie! How do you want me?" The wiggling eyebrows had you rolling your eyes and pushing him on his back again.

It took little effort for you to position yourself above his cock, and with how slick you were, his bright pink head slipped right inside. He held your hands while you scrunched up your face, sliding all the way down him until he was completely sheathed within.

The curve was immaculate. Hitting in just the right way that had you moaning with just a couple thrusts from him. Before long, you were eagerly bouncing on his cock. Riding him hard so he filled you up each and every time.

You barely registered him reaching for the coffee table, his phone now in his hands. "What're you doin'?" You practically slurred, slowing only slightly. He tapped the camera lens with a wicked grin. "Seriously?"

"We could make 'em really jealous now..."

Somewhere in your brain, you knew your date wouldn't give two shits, in fact, this probably would have only validated their thoughts about your's and Denki's relationship but with his cock stuffed so deeply into you, kissing your cervix in the most beautiful way, you really didn't give a damn.

You and Denki put on the best possible show you could think of. You were overstimulated, sore, and completely elated! He balanced the phone against the wine bottle so neither of you had to try to hold it.

This way he could play with your breasts or squeeze your thighs while you dug half-moons into his chest. Shocked with the playful zaps he sent right to your core.

Your makeup you'd didn't feel like taking off now ran down your cheeks with tears. Your hair was a mess thanks to him pulling at it.

Denki had you howling through another two orgasms, telling you how perfect you were, how nice you felt squeezing him so tightly, your nails felt so good against his skin.

It was only when you collapsed against his chest did he hoist your hips up so he could ram into you, pulling out just at the last second with a strangled cry of your name.

He wiggled himself free, grabbing a towel from your bathroom and cleaning you both up before stopping the recording.

"You're, hey you're gonna send that to me right?" You asked when he handed back your hoodie off the lamp.

He dropped a kiss on your lips, plopping down beside you on the sofa again and you noticed your email already up and the video uploading. "Obviously, we share all our videos and photos. Why would this be different?"

[gutouhua]

ao3 / tip jar / comms open

wc: 5.3k+

tags: mentions of lbh & lqg, heavily implied bingqiu, mbj has horns, mentions of eating animal meat, mbj gives sqh bj & hj, some nipple play, mbj slaps sqh's ass like twice, spite & cum as lube, cum eating/swallowing, size kink, some dirty talk, mild urethra play if you squint (nothing inserted inside), multiple orgasms, anal sex, anal fingering, cockwarming, love at first sight for mbj, possessive mbj, we ignore canon and pretend their first time together was amazing, au, not beta read we die like s2 svsss

a/n: don't squint too hard at this, it's just my excuse to write this couple having hot seggs yeah. also i couldn't come up with a good title so here we are with this generic title :3 will probably maybe go back and edit this ;-;

“You are pretty too.” And he was, immensely so. So pretty, in fact, that he was the epitome of perfection in Shang Qinghua’s eyes. He’d never seen someone so much like his ideal type – never wanted to fuck someone so badly.

But he was not going to admit all that.

The diplomatic gala was exactly what Shang Qinghua thought it would be: a matchmaking spectacle with everyone packed onto the floor like sardines and fluffed up like gaudy peacocks.

And he wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

Shang Qinghua made a beeline for a server with a drink, ignoring the protests of his brother, Shen Qingqiu, and retreated to the corner to avoid human interaction. He most definitely did not want some impressionable young man or woman to think he was interested in them just because he was chatting politely and then have them send a formal marriage proposal along with a caravan of jewels and treasures come tomorrow morning. He shuddered at the thought.

He was about to down his third glass of wine for the night when he noticed a man, or rather, a demon, on the fringes of the crowd. Sapphire eyes and a sharp, aristocratic nose sat on a stony-faced pale blue canvas typical of the demons of the Red Lands. His shiny black hair was braided into a long tail down the back with silver-tipped horns jutting out from his thick mane. In the middle of his forehead was a dark blue demon mark – the mark of a Red Lands aristocrat.

He was stunningly attractive and exactly Shang Qinghua’s type: a pretty face with (what he liked to call it) a refrigerator body.

Mhm, delicious.

Suddenly, Shang Qinghua didn’t think this gala was a completely idiotic idea after all.

But he had no time to consider his gorgeous demon before someone announced that dinner was beginning soon, so he shuffled into the great dining hall and plopped into an ornate seat with his name labeled carefully on the back.

Shen Qingqiu took his seat next to him shortly, sighing deeply with his fan waving in short, quick motions despite the fact that it was quite chilly in the room.

“What took you so long?” Qinghua teased.

Shen Qingqiu only fanned harder, looking at him tiredly. “The banquet has not even officially begun, and I am already being run ragged.”

Shang Qinghua arched a fine brow, already knowing the answer. “The women?”

“And men.” He nodded tiredly.

“Well, that’s to be expected seeing as you’re the most eligible bachelor on the content. Well,” Shang Qinghua paused. “Aside from the demon king. But who would want to marry that barbarous man when you're around?”

“I am glad to see you have so much confidence in your brother, but sometimes I find that Mobei-jun has an easier time and it would be better to be him instead.”

“Mobei-jun?”

“Ah,” Shen Qingqiu amended. “Mobei-jun is the king of the Red Lands.”

“And you are on a first-name basis with him?” Shang Qinghua wondered when his brother got close enough to the demon king to call him so casually.

“A secret,” Shen Qingqiu chided him. “But don’t tell anyone. He doesn’t like to be called by that name, but I do it anyway.”

His brother was insufferable. “Can he not have you killed for that?”

“He loves me too much to do that.”

“Huh, so my brother does indeed have a secret love life that I don’t know about. I’m hurt.”

“Hmph, if only I had one.”

“What was that?” Shang Qinghua asked.

Shen Qingqiu looked away, suddenly finding the design on the plate before him to be very interesting. “Noth-”

“That was not nothing!” He interrupted. “You said–”

Heavy doors creaked open to reveal their dinner host and the room fell to a hush as if everyone had drawn one collective breath and was holding it in. And then he saw him – that beautiful horned demon. Shang Qinghua could not tear his eyes away from him and it appeared that everyone else felt the same.

The demon king made his way to the head of the table and turned his head toward Shang Qinghua’s direction, blue eyes piercing through him. “Shall we,” an icy-honeyed voice rolled through the room, “begin dinner?”

Everyone let out their breaths at the same time: the servants began moving and plating food, aristocrats turned toward their neighbors for conversation, and Shen Qingqiu began fending off the two women seated closest to them.

Shang Qinghua looked down at the table, cheeks burning from the encounter. Was he staring at me? Impossible. Why would he be looking at me? We've never met before and it’s not as if I'm the most handsome man or woman in the room – in fact, far from it. Ah, he’s so hot. I really want to jump his bones, but now that I know who he is…it seems almost impossible for me to do that. And he wouldn’t want me either. By the stars, he’s so attractive though and–

Shen Qingqiu broke off from the women for a moment after he noticed that Qinghua wasn’t eating. “Brother, is the food not to your liking? You’ve never been one to shy away from stuffing your face at banquets.”

Qinghua was too preoccupied to take note of his teasing, instead too focused on trying to stop his cheeks from burning. He was glad that the lighting was dim so that his brother wouldn’t tease him for it. “I think the king was staring at me just now.”

The meat on Shen Qingqiu’s silver fork balanced precariously mid-air on the edge of the prongs. “Why do you think he was staring at you?”

“Because his eyes were on me and in my direction? Pupils trained on me?” Shang Qinghua wasn’t some sheltered member of royalty. No, he knew when someone had their gaze on him. Had learned to feel and recognize it.

Shen Qingqiu put the meat in his mouth and chewed while humming. “Perhaps, when he saw you, he thought you the most beautiful person in the room and couldn’t help but stare at you.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Shang Qinghua almost burst out laughing before realizing that doing so would be highly inappropriate in the current situation so he stifled the urge by shoving a piece of lamb in his mouth. “If that is what he thinks, then he must be blind or a fool.”

“Why?”

Shang Qinghua pointed at himself as if it was obvious. “Because I am clearly not the most eye-catching person here. If he thinks so, then there must be something wrong with him. There are plenty of others here that are a hundred, no, a thousand times more beautiful than I am. I'm very plain and have no delusions about my appearance. A five out of ten on a good day. You know this, brother.”

Shen Qingqiu shook his head. “I do not, Qinghua. You must have more confidence in yourself. You are as beautiful if not even more beautiful than them.”

Qinghua knew his brother was trying to cheer him up, but it didn’t really make him feel any better. “That does not count," he muttered.

“Are you saying a king’s opinion is null?”

“Yes, when the king is my brother.” Shang Qinghua argued back while shoving a potato in his mouth.

“Hmph, then shall we ask our dinner host what his opinion is?”

“No!” Qinghua said quickly. “Why would you even ask him? He wouldn’t care about something trivial like this.”

Shen Qingqiu smirked at him. “So you care about his opinion of you? Are you smitten by him?”

“Absolutely not.” His answer was swift. “He looks so stoic and boring, and I want nothing to do with him.” But there was no mistaking the scarlet running across Shang Qinghua’s cheekbones.

“Dear brother, there is no need to fret. I won’t ask him that.”

Shang Qinghua visibly deflated in relief.

“At least in public.”

“What!”

“Don’t ‘what’ me! I’m only asking him for his opinion!” Shen Qingqiu said in defense.

“But I don’t want you to,” he whined.

“It’s a question from a friend to another friend. For curiosity’s sake. After all, you doubt my opinions so I should ask for another king’s opinions, should I not?”

Shang Qinghua groaned. “You are so embarrassing. Then please at least do it when I’m not in your presence.”

“Can’t promise that.” Shen Qingqiu skewered another piece of meat and put it in his mouth. “We’re going to go see him later and that might be my only chance to ask him before we leave.”

“What?” Shang Qinghua almost dropped his fork in his lap, barely catching it before the sauce dirtied his clothes. “What do you mean? You never told me we were going to have a private audience with him,” he hissed.

His brother looked innocently at him. “Did Liu Qingge not tell you? Hm, I should punish him for insubordination.”

Shang Qinghua would’ve bared his teeth at his brother if they had not been in public. “Don’t lie! You’re probably the one who told him not to tell me!” He cut his meat with heated anger, sawing at the poor tenderloin while imagining it to be Shen Qingqiu.

“Be nicer to the meat, Qinghua, what did it ever do to you?”

“Everything,” he seethed while continuing to knife the meat. “You know I hate socializing with aristocrats and now you want me to socialize with a king? And on top of it, with one I’ve never even met before! Are you out of your mind?” But at the same time, Shang Qinghua was hoping that he could somehow get into that demon king’s robes. If only.

“Brother, I just want him to meet you. And like what you said, you’ve never met him before. How are we to maintain good relations with the Red Lands if you never meet their king?”

We were doing just fine before all this, he thought, but outwardly, he agreed – it would probably be one of his only chances of meeting him. “Well, I’ll meet him, but I can’t guarantee I’ll like him.”

“That is enough for me.” Shen Qingqiu primly dabbed his mouth with a napkin, conveniently hiding a feline smile behind the fabric.

Still, Shang Qinghua looked at his brother suspiciously. Shen Qingqiu was oddly acquiescent today, but his appetite was back now so he focused on stuffing as much food in his mouth to avoid any further conversation from his brother and any neighboring aristocrats.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

After dinner, Shang Qinghua was escorted to the king’s study room. His brother had promised to be there later, but if the demon prince Luo Binghe hanging off his arm like an oversized puppy was any indication of what was going to transpire, Shang Qinghua knew his brother had left him to fend for himself.

But no matter. Shang Qinghua could deal with a lone demon king. Probably.

So Shang Qinghua sat in his plush seat before the king’s desk, obediently waiting for the king despite wanting nothing more than to go back to his room and sleep. The food coma was kicking in and combined with the relaxing incense, warm draft, and comfortable seat, Qinghua was about to sleep and–

“Prince of the Black Lands, Shang Qinghua.”

He bolted straight up, turning dizzily to find the source of the deep voice. Blue eyes glowed in the shadows before Mobei-jun seemed to materialize in front of him, a flurry of fur and black robes, ice and dominance.

“D-Demon King.”

Mobei-jun frowned. “So it seems that moniker is more popular than I thought.”

Shang Qinghua tried something different. Maybe he didn’t like being called ‘demon king.’ “My king?”

Mobei-jun showed no indication of his feelings aside from a grunt.

‘My king’ would have to do then. Shang Qinghua certainly wouldn’t dare to call a stranger, who was a king no less, by their given name.

“Where is your brother? I am told I would be meeting the two of you.”

“Ah, he–” Shang Qinghua paused, trying to find a good way to word it. “He was last seen with your brother. I’m not sure what business he has with him.”

“Hmph.” Mobei-jun grumbled. “Your fiend of a brother with that brother of mine who's always so clingy and horny...I know exactly what he’s doing with your brother. Or rather, to your brother.”

Shang Qinghua was pretty sure his jaw would’ve been wide open in shock if he wasn’t in the presence of a foreign king right now. “I-I apologize for my brother’s actions. He’s been known to fall prey to pretty faces. And your brother does have one…”

“What about me?” The question was sudden and unexpected.

“What?”

Mobei-jun repeated himself. “What about me?”

“You?” Shang Qinghua squeaked out. “You want my opinion of you?”

He nodded, looking expectantly at him. It was a command and it was to be answered regardless. Fine. He would tell this king what he wanted to hear.

“You are pretty too.” And he was, immensely so. So pretty, in fact, that he was the epitome of perfection in Shang Qinghua’s eyes. He’d never seen someone so much like his ideal type – never wanted to fuck someone so badly.

But he was not going to admit all that.

“Shang Qinghua, come closer.” Mobei-jun's eyes bore deep into Qinghua, so deep that he felt an ache in his soul.

He inched closer to him but kept his distance.

“Closer.”

A scoot forward.

“Closer.” This time there was impatience in his voice.

Qinghua moved so close he could feel the demon king’s cold aura radiate in waves. He shivered when he felt cold winds trail dangerously close to him.

“Tell me the truth,” he murmured. And there it was again, that piercing, cold gaze that seemed to numb Shang Qinghua – and make him want to do anything Mobei-jun said.

“You are indeed very pretty, my king. Very handsome – there is nothing you lack in looks.”

“But there is something I lack?” Mobei-jun was not angry, merely curious.

One would be hard-pressed to find something Mobei-jun lacked. He was the demon king of the Red Lands, after all, with dominion over all in the land and unparalleled powers. His handsome features and muscled physique was not lost on Shang Qinghua either. But if there was something he lacked…

“Softness.” Shang Qinghua ventured hesitantly. “You lack softness, my king.”

“Hmph.” Mobei-jun rearranged his heavy robes and shed the outer layer, perfuming the air with his spicy peppermint scent that seemed to grow stronger with each layer he removed. “I can be soft.”

Shang Qinghua doubted that such a stern-looking demon known for his harshness could be soft, but he did not want his brother to get mad at him for making the demon king angry. So he kept his mouth shut.

Mobei-jun narrowed his eyes. “You do not believe me?”

Shang Qinghua rushed to reassure him. Already, his plan to seduce and appease was failing. “Of course, I believe you, my king!”

“Mobei-jun," he demanded.

“W-what?”

“That is my name – call me that.” It was a command. There would be no room for discussion.

“Yes, my king.”

“Mobei-jun.”

“Mobei-jun,” Shang Qinghua muttered.

The king – no, it was Mobei-jun now, smiled upon hearing his name, revealing white, gleaming teeth. “And I can show you softness if you will allow me.”

Shang Qinghua nodded (for what else was he supposed to do) and kept his eyes trained on those pointed teeth. Mobei-jun brought pale lips and sharp teeth to his face, and Shang Qinghua felt like he was going to faint. By the stars, the demon king was going to eat him.

But what came was not the rip of flesh and hot blood, but spicy peppermint and tenderness – Mobei-jun pressed his lips against Qinghua’s, nipping lightly at the edges while slowly rimming the seam of his warm lips with his cold tongue. The heady combination of Mobei-jun’s spicy scent and cool lips relaxed Shang Qinghua so much that he didn’t even notice when Mobei-jun slipped his tongue in between his, eagerly seeking out Qinghua’s tongue in a tangle of flesh and saliva – as if he wanted to mate their tongues together until they became one.

Shang Qinghua was sure he was drooling at this point and looking very undignified but Mobei-jun tasted too good to let go and who knew when he’d be able to kiss such a delicious man again – if ever? So he gripped his sharp horns, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction when the demon groaned against his lips, tongue faltering ever so slightly in its frantic dance.

Ah, so his horns are sensitive.

It was too good of an opportunity to pass up: Shang Qinghua slid his hands down to the base of Mobei-jun’s horns and scratched lightly, causing the king to pull back from the kiss, leaving a light string of saliva in the wake of their passion. They were both gasping now and Mobei-jun’s cold eyes were most certainly anything but cold now.

“D-Don’t touch my horns. They’re very sensitive.” He shuddered as if the thought of it was overwhelming.

Shang Qinghua let out a small smile. “But my king, they are so very pretty – how can I neglect them?”

If he noticed that Shang Qinghua had reverted back to calling him ‘my king,’ he made no comment about it. Instead, Mobei-jun turned, blushing lightly. “Still, for us demons, touching someone’s horns is like…” He trailed off, too embarrassed to say the rest.

“Touching someone’s penis?” Shang Qinghua pretended to guess. He was an avid reader and writer, those words were like child’s play to him. No word was too crude. Just unused and untried. “Dick? Cock?” His smile grew wider when Mobei-jun visibly squirmed under those words.

“Yes,” Mobei-jun mumbled.

“Hm, then I should touch them more, shouldn’t I? Does it not feel good?”

“It does.” He replied with a small pout. Then he paused for a second, looking heatedly at Shang Qinghua with those cold, sapphire eyes. “But I’d rather make you feel good.”

How could anyone have mistaken this demon for being as cruel as his uncle?

Shang Qinghua prostrated himself in mock deference to Mobei-jun with palms pressed against the floor, forehead resting above his hands. “Your wish is my command, my king. How do you wish to have me?”

The demon picked Shang Qinghua up in one fluid motion before setting him down gently on sumptuous silk bedding as if he had plucked a delicate flower and was trying to keep it from wilting. He pulled a pillow over and gently tucked it under Shang Qinghua’s hips while Qinghua began pulling off his many layers of clothing. And when Shang Qinghua was laid bare for his king’s pleasure, Mobei-jun kneeled in between his legs, unmoving, like a beautiful icy statue.

Shang Qinghua was confused. Wasn’t this the part where they would fuck like bunnies until the morning? “What’s wrong?”

“I–” Mobei-jun swallowed thickly. “I want to commit your image to memory. To burn it into my eyes, my mind, my entire soul until you are all I think about, all I see, and all I remember.”

“T-That’s nice,” Shang Qinghua stuttered, brain shortcircuiting from the intense romancing he was receiving today. “But why don’t we focus on other things first.” His dick twitched in agreement.

Mobei-jun pulled his gaze down, focusing intently. “Yes, other things,” he murmured.

The bed dipped low as he lowered himself to the bed and pushed Qinghua’s thighs apart before planting a languid, cool kiss directly on the tip of his cock where precum leaked.

Shang Qinghua's hips rose instinctually off the pillow as if offering himself to Mobei-jun, and he moaned hard. “Ah, my king.”

Mobei-jun decided then and there that he liked it when Shang Qinghua moaned for him so he kissed his cock again, licking the full length in order to not waste any of his Qinghua’s precious seed. Slowly, he lapped at the fat tip before working it into his mouth, savoring and licking each ridge and vein, careful to give the whole length equal attention.

Shang Qinghua’s dick was not nearly as big as his, nor any other demons for that matter, so despite swallowing it whole – so that his nose bumped against Qinghua’s smooth tummy – it did not reach the back of his throat. But Mobei-jun didn’t mind since it was just another reminder of how cute and small his little human prince was.

As Mobei-jun continued to bob his head along Shang Qinghua’s cock, relishing the musky floral scent flooding his senses and the pretty cries of his human prince, Qinghua’s hips began to fervently push against his mouth, moans growing louder. Mobei-jun couldn’t help reaching up to tweak a pinky nipple – it was so perky and hard that it was almost impossible for him to ignore. The way it stiffened in the air was almost as if it was reaching for his attention. He could not ignore it.

Shang Qinghua came as soon as Mobei-jun pinched his nipple, unable to stop himself from spilling himself in Mobei-jun’s mouth from the combined sensation.

“Ha, fuck, that felt so good,” he panted.

Mobei-jun smiled against Qinghua’s cock, pleased with the fact that he was able to make him cum. He swallowed the semen that sat warmly in his mouth – so warm that it almost burned his cool throat – and spit some of it out on his hand, the creamy liquid spiraling with his pale blue saliva to create an erotic mixture of body fluids.

Shang Qinghua looked down in embarrassment and flushed deeply. “You didn’t have to swallow it, my king. You could’ve just spit it out.”

“And let such precious seed go to waste? That would not be a very kingly thing to do, Shang Qinghua.”

There was absolutely nothing kingly about this entire situation, but Shang Qinghua didn’t bother pointing that out.

“And besides,” Mobei-jun continued, as he gently rolled Qinghua over so that the pillow was under his stomach now. “I need it for you. It won’t feel good if there’s nothing in there. It’ll hurt.” He frowned, pondering the idea. “You do know how sex between two men works, do you not, Shang Qinghua? Or is that not something they teach the humans of the Black Lands? Perhaps I should stop for now and–”

“No!” He’d perish if Mobei-jun stopped. “Of course they do!”

Mobei-jun slapped Qinghua’s ass lightly, pale cheeks turning the loveliest shade of pink. He would have to do that more often if Shang Qinghua allowed him. “Then behave,” he ordered.

Shang Qinghua promptly shut up.

Mobei-jun looked at the mixture in his palm – it wasn’t quite the amount he wanted so he spitted into his palm again until he was pleased with the amount before spreading Shang Qinghua’s ass to drip the saliva-mixed cum over Qinghua’s puckered hole. Mobei-jun let out a groan as it twitched as if to suck everything in. He slowly pushed a finger inside, lightly massaging Shang Qinghua’s rim, testing the small space, before he added another finger and then a third, making sure everything was slippery and wet and ready for him.

Shang Qinghua whimpered against the stretch, but it still wasn’t enough for him. “Please, my king, more. I need more.” I need you.

“Wait.” Mobei-jun’s tone was patient. “You are not ready yet.” He ignored his straining cock – rushing things would make the experience unpleasant. There would be opportunities later for him to take Qinghua fast and hard, but today was not the day.

Mobei-jun continued his slow thrusts in and out of Shang Qinghua’s hole until he could comfortably slide his fingers knuckles deep. Already, he could tell it would be a tight fit (demons and humans were not the most compatible), but he knew that his human prince would be able to take him. He slid his fingers out, enjoying the lewd squelch Qinghua’s ass made and used what remained of the mixture to coat his hard shaft, careful to cover every last inch while holding himself in. He was so ready to spill himself, but he would only do so in Shang Qinghua.

“Qinghua,” Mobei-jun said softly, gently prying open his ass cheeks to rest his heavy length against soft, peachy globes. Again, he itched to slap it, to make it blush bright red and see Qinghua twitch – he knows that his human prince would writhe so beautifully before him – but that would be for another time. “Are you okay? Ready for me?”

Underneath him, Shang Qinghua moaned and unconsciously pushed his ass towards Mobei-jun’s hips, seeking friction against his aching hole while Mobei-jun continued to rub his cock between his ass. His voice came out as a shaky breath. “Yes, my king, please, put it in.”

Being at his limit and unable to reject such a desperate request from his human prince, Mobei-jun began to carefully slide himself into Shang Qinghua, gritting his teeth when he felt a vise-like grip around his cock, eyes watering when he filled Qinghua completely with his balls resting against his perineum.

“Ha, Qinghua, you’re so tight.”

Shang Qinghua’s response came out in ragged breaths. “And you’re…you’re so big.”

Mobei-jun smiled and gripped Qinghua’s lithe hips. “Humans are so tiny that there is no helping it. And bigger only means I can fill you better.”

Compared to the veiled riddles that humans often spoke in, demons were so straightforward. Shang Qinghua buried his face in the pillows, trying to ignore the embarrassment he felt – there was nothing to be embarrassed about since they were already in such a compromising situation, but he felt it nonetheless. No one had ever been this straightforward with him before, not even his own brother.

“Just move,” he grumbled.

“Your wish is my command, Qinghua.” But Mobei-jun dragged his thick cock out of Shang Qinghua at what felt like a snail’s pace and thrust slowly back in, continuing like this until Qinghua felt like he was going to go mad if he didn’t move any faster.

“Faster, my king, you move too slow.”

“Oh? Then you have to tell this king exactly how you want it. Go ahead.” Mobei-jun caught Qinghua’s lips in his, sucking his tongue lightly. “Qinghua,” he whispered, voice so honeyed that Shang Qinghua was pretty sure it’d be impossible to deny him anything. “Tell me what you want.”

Qinghua gulped. It was his turn to be shy now. He hesitated. “I want…I want you to move faster. Inside me.”

“What part of me do you want to move faster inside you? My fingers?” He began to pull his length out stopping when Shang Qinghua whined and reached for his hips.

“No,” he whimpered, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. “I want your…cock.”

That’s all it takes for Mobei-jun to slam his hips into Shang Qinghua’s. “Of course, you can have my cock, Qinghua. You can have it in whatever,” he pulled out only to thrust back inside harshly again, “Way you like.”

Qinghua swayed underneath the force, moaning hard when Mobei-jun began to pound rhythmically into him, breath catching when he hit a particularly soft spot deep inside him. He continued to press his face into the pillow, clenching the sheets around him while focusing on the delicious weight above him and the cold hands that circled his waist.

He was getting close, so close – he could tell by the way his cock ached fiercely and hung heavy in between his thighs. He just needed a little bit more to tide him over the edge so he reached down to grip his length, pumping roughly while fondling his sensitive tip.

“Don’t do that.” Mobei-jun panted.

“W-Why?” Even he could hear the ache in his voice. “I’m so close.”

Mobei-jun narrowed his eyes. “Your pleasure can come from no one but me,” he said harshly. “I’ll do it.”

He pushed Shang Qinghua’s hands away to grasp his length, causing Qinghua to jolt at the cool fingers against his hot, throbbing dick. “Ah, fuck,” he gasped. “That feels so good – just like that, keep rubbing it hard.”

Mobei-jun wouldn’t have stopped even if his life depended on it. Qinghua’s cock felt so good in his hands that he didn’t even want to stop. “Does it feel good, Qinghua? Which do you like better? My mouth or my hand?” He lowered himself so that his lips brushed the tips of Qinghua’s ear. “Or my cock?”

Too fucked out of his mind from Mobei-jun’s continuous thrusting, Shang Qinghua could only pant out a haphazard reply. “My king, ah, fuck I–, a-all of them feels good. They all feel good.” Mobei-jun squeezed particularly hard then, pushing lightly against Qinghua’s urethra so that cum seeped out. “Shit, ah, I’m gonna cum, ‘m gonna, gonna cum.”

“Then cum.”

His whispered command made the coil in Shang Qinghua snap, and he came so hard he swore he saw stars. Mobei-jun grunted when he felt Qinghua’s slick pool in his palm and seep through his fingers. Anything that came from his Qinghua was precious though, so he brought his fingers to his lips, taking the time to lick it clean off his hands.

“A-again!” Shang Qinghua flushed deeply. “You don’t have to do that…”

“But I want to.” And he was serious about it. Everything that came from Qinghua was a priceless treasure. And Mobei-jun wanted to rip another pretty orgasm from his Qinghua and find release for himself, so he continued to fuck Shang Qinghua through his orgasm, rutting his hips against his. “Qinghua,” he asked. “Can you give me another one?”

Surely another one would be too much. “I-I don’t think so, my king.” Shang Qinghua clenched hard when Mobei-jun slid deep inside. “I-It’s too much.”

“I think you can give me another one though? I want to see your pretty face when you come undone for me. Will you cum for me?”

Such sweet, warm words from such a cold person. How could Shang Qinghua resist his king? “I–”

Mobei-jun could feel Qinghua’s hole ripple against his hard length, milking him, bringing him closer to release. His Qinghua would only need a little more coaxing.

“You take my cock so well, Qinghua, so tight, so pretty and pliant for me. Will you give me another orgasm? I want to feel you squeeze my cock – only then will I cum. After you.”

Shang Qinghua squeezed his eyes shut. Damn this man and his dirty yet flowery words – he knew just how to get to him. He felt his release a few seconds later, his dick throbbing hard from the consecutive orgasm before Mobei-jun suddenly pulled him up into a sitting position to rest his back against his hard chest.

“Ah,” Shang Qinghua gasped. “What are you doing?” In this position, Mobei-jun sank deeper inside him, so deep that his cock seemed to press against Qinghua’s prostate. “My king, if you do that, I’ll–” Mobei-jun didn’t say anything but Shang Qinghua could feel him get bigger before his hips stuttered and he felt hot liquid spill against his prostate at the same time Mobei-jun bit his neck hard, making Shang Qinghua cum a third time. “I’ll c-cum,” he wailed.

Mobei-jun rocked beneath him, riding out his high while Qinghua lay limply in his arms. “Ah fuck, Qinghua, you felt so good.”

At this point, Shang Qinghua was too tired to do anything. He rested against Mobei-jun’s cool chest while Mobei-jun gently moved him so he was laying down, adjusting the pillows and blankets so they could rest comfortably. He left his cock inside Shang Qinghua the entire time, and Qinghua wondered when he was going to take his cock out, but even when he softened and had settled into the blanket and his breathing slowed, he did not take it out.

“My king?”

“Yes, Qinghua?”

Was this something he could say? Or would Mobei-jun get mad? Shang Qinghua decided he’d say it anyway. “Are you going to take it out?”

Mobei-jun slit his eye open. “Take what out?”

“Your…dick.”

“Of course not, what a silly question.” He shut his eye, dragging Qinghua closer to his chest, and said nothing else – as if the argument was finished.

Shang Qinghua didn’t really mind – he just felt a bit stuffed down there and full (he wasn’t used to it), but it felt oddly good, and he supposed this wasn’t going to be a common occurrence, so he let Mobei-jun be.

“Goodnight then, my king.”

Mobei-jun huffed.

It was only when Shang Qinghua fell asleep did Mobei-jun dare to speak.

“Goodnight, Shang Qinghua.” And then, after a pause, and in a low voice, as if he was afraid someone would hear him, he said, “I have loved you since the moment I met you…eight years ago on that fated night. And I will never let you go now that you are in my grasp.”

red lands & black lands come from egyptian mythology - set ruled over the red lands and Horus ruled over the black lands to balance each other out.

i just realized that i have a terrible habit of making things one-shots but putting tidbits of info that make you wonder what happened to warrant that info & whatnot (like the flashback in my previous chilumi fic *cries*).

anyway, moshang nation come get your crumbs!

come yell at/with me on the bird app (where i'm more active)

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos​ (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills. 

You’re his only solace. 

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often. 

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns. 

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks. 

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves. 

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings. 

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing. 

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent. 

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight. 

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex.  It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows. 

It’s grim in its predictability. 

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone. 

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.” 

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.) 

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen. 

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them— 

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand. 

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was. 

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future. 

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.) 

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted. 

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze. 

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings. 

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming. 

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.” 

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest. 

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face. 

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?” 

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. 

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa. 

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least. 

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind. 

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively. 

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap. 

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?” 

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do. 

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you. 

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible. 

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words. 

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy— 

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none. 

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments. 

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could. 

“Do you see now?” 

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch. 

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky. 

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning— 

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.” 

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side. 

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness. 

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.” 

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do. 

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan. 

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see. 

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection. 

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep.  The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue. 

It bothers him— 

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror. 

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while. 

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can. 

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant. 

All the same, the trim feels good. 

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back— 

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!” 

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!” 

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him. 

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.) 

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity. 

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning. 

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much.  The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering. 

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with. 

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach. 

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it. 

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree. 

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was. 

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh. 

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.” 

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet. 

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress. 

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely. 

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone. 

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

 Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes. 

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile. 

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up— 

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart. 

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later. 

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard. 

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead. 

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too— 

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement. 

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try. 

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered. 

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks. 

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.) 

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business. 

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat. 

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders. 

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—” 

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough. 

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands. 

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night. 

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?) 

But you’re not in the common room. 

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath. 

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten. 

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard. 

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him. 

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more. 

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone— 

...

Keigo leaves the next morning. 

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn. 

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse. 

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died. 

All disgusting reminders. 

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had. 

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he. 

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time. 

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave. 

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes. 

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.  

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter. 

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it. 

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears— 

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some. 

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought. 

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?” 

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe. 

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self. 

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

[writertitan]

have you eve done the fluff alphabet before? They can be kind of long but I'd love to hear your thoughts on Levi!

this is so cute, i’ve never done a fluff alphabet! this is the one i’ve seen go around by @snk-warriors​ (so cute thank u for sharing)

A ctivities - What do they like to do with their s/o? How do they spend their free time with them?

I think Levi is the type of partner who starts up a new hobby with a partner as a way of bonding with them. Like, the two of you just get super into candle-making together lmao. I think he’d want to spend most of his free time with his partner, even if it’s just in comfortable silence. He really appreciates feeling safe with his person and relishes in the mundane.

B eauty - What do they admire about their s/o? What do they think is beautiful about them?

I’ll say it before and I’ll say it again. Levi doesn’t really have a physical type. He really pays attention to people’s character first. He would really admire how his partner is constantly trying to be their best self, and admires their strength, and he thinks it’s beautiful that they can see the good in life, because it helps him see the good in life too. He would absolutely love the most random parts of your body, though. Maybe it’s your cheekbones, maybe it’s the shape of your hands. Something that he thinks is so unique to you.

C omfort - How would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

Levi is not a man of many words a lot of the time, but he is a man of action. If his partner is feeling down in any way, he’s there physically to help you through it. Over time, he makes little mental notes of what seems to help and what doesn’t, so that he can continue doing the things that help you and stop doing the things that don’t. If you prefer just being held for a while, no talking, he catches on quickly and offers himself up. If you need to talk, he listens and makes sure you know you’re the only thing in the world he’s paying attention to at that moment. He’ll know how you’ve calmed yourself down in the past, before he was in the picture, and takes up that ritual himself. Did you make yourself some mac and cheese to cheer yourself up in the past? He knows the recipe now, too. Very action-based man.

D reams - How do they picture their future with their s/o?

Levi, especially canon Levi, has trouble envisioning any sort of long-term future for himself. He’s just living his life one day at a time and pushing through. However, with a partner in his life, he indulges himself with little visions of the future. Things like marriage, children, are blurry wishes to him tbh, not out of the question but things that he won’t allow himself to indulge in. They’re kind of a given if you’re serious, and that’s enough to satisfy him. But near-future things are things he often thinks about. He wants to live with his partner, wants to think about how they’ll spend their next anniversary, he often thinks about what you both will be doing together for the holidays. Those futures comfort him immensely.

E qual - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

I think it is actually rather equal with Levi. He has so much baggage of his own, that a partner willing to share the load would make him feel really safe. But, I think he’d subconsciously be more of the dominant figure. He dedicates himself to his loved ones, and would do anything for them, and his partner would feel that tenfold.

F ight - Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?

Levi definitely is an, “I’m too old for this shit” type of guy when it comes to fights with his partner lmfao. He’s not about the dramatics of fighting. I don’t think he’d really ever yell at his partner or vice versa. The fights would have a snarky energy - I can see him snapping at his partner sometimes, or making an infamous sarcastic remark when he’s irritated - but Levi would honestly rather just discuss the problem bluntly and get it out of the way. But my god, the man wouldn’t back down until it was all cleared up.

G ratitude - How grateful are they in general? Are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

SO GRATEFUL. I think Levi would be so thankful to have his partner in his life. He knows he’s a tough nut to crack, so having someone finally get through to him is scary but wonderful. He sees everything you do for him and I think he’d honestly be so emotional about even the littlest things, because he’s so used to taking care of everyone else. It’s almost uncomfortable for him to know that someone is unconditionally loving him, but he’s grateful he has that love. Never takes it for granted.

H onesty - Do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? Or do they share everything?

Per the above, Levi is a tough nut to crack, and I think it would take a really, really long time to fully open him up. Like, a really long time. Honestly, he may not ever completely open up about his past because it can be so dark, but that doesn’t mean that he would actively keep secrets from you. If anything, his partner would know him the best out of everyone. While he may keep some stuff about his past in the dark, everything else is no secret. He’ll tell you about his day, about what’s going on with his friends, all that good stuff.

I nspiration - Did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? Like trying out new things or helped them overcome personal problems?

I think Levi with a partner would be a little softer, and a little more optimistic. I also think a big thing that Levi would change would be his ability to compromise (because I think it’s hard for him to compromise). He’d definitely be a lot happier and kinder to himself with a partner around. And, in private, he’d allow himself to be more vulnerable and actually show his emotions. Levi is a pretty level-headed person as well, and I think he would pass that trait on to his partner.

J ealousy - Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?

Levi is not a jealous person, but he’s very protective of his partner!! This is the hill I die on!!! He is always looking out for you, so if someone does hit on you, he watches to see how you react. If it’s funny to you, it’s funny to him, but if it’s creepy to you, then he’s already cracking his knuckles.

K iss - Are they a good kisser? What was the first kiss like?

I don’t want to roast this lovely man but I don’t think he’d be a great kisser at first LMAO. He’s so not used to being loved. Levi is touch-starved, confirmed on Tanny’s blog. I think the first kiss is okay at best, definitely awkward, and Levi definitely doesn’t really know what to do. He’s a quick learner, though. He’s a good kisser in no time, after learning how you like to be kissed, and after finally getting him to believe it’s okay to be affectionate.

L ove Confession - How would they confess to their s/o?

I picture it as word vomit (Levi’s version of word vomit tho, which is like, a couple of sentences). He’d confess his feelings for you once he just can’t physically keep the words in anymore. He’d definitely fight against it for a while but then the word vomit happens. I think, specifically, his first “I love you” would be quite intimate and very quiet, just a whisper in your ear when he finally realizes it. Realizing he loves you would be much easier for him than realizing he has feelings for you, so he wouldn’t even hesitate with saying it first, the sweet boi.

M arriage - Do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?

I don’t think Levi had ever considered marriage before meeting you. But after meeting you, that would likely change if you wanted to get married. He’d want to spend his life with his partner, and whether that means marriage or not, it doesn’t quite matter to him. Just the promise of being together is good enough for him. If the two of you do decide to get married, it’s no frills. Tbh, there’s no elaborate proposal from Levi, but he makes sure that he formally asks you and that it’s special to the two of you. Maybe he’d ask you at the place you first met/kissed/etc. The marriage itself would be just as lovely and peaceful as the relationship with him beforehand. Not much changes, except both you and Levi acknowledge there’s an added commitment as spouses. I think both of you would really cherish your new titles as spouses.

N icknames - What do they call their s/o?

Levi doesn’t strike me as the type to give their S/O nicknames like babe, baby, etc. but I’m sure he’d have a specific nickname that only he uses for you. Other than that, just calling his partner by their name is enough.

O n Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

Levi’s quite the stoic man, so while he presents that way to the rest of the world, his loved ones can actually see the difference between an “in love” Levi vs. a “not in love” Levi. It’s not that it’s a huge difference, he’s just softer somehow, and there’s more peace within his eyes, and he even smiles more. Levi’s not a huge fan of PDA, so he’s not prone to showing a lot of affection in front of others. In private, it’s a different story. Once he gets comfortable with affection, he’s more receptive and more giving. In front of others, he’s more comfortable holding hands or putting his hand on your back. He may not be a fan of PDA, but his eyes are on you frequently, and anyone who catches him looking at you can see how much he loves his partner.

P DA - Are they upfront about their relationship? Do they brag with their s/o in front of others? Or are they rather shy to kiss etc. when others are watching?

Like I said above, not a fan of PDA. Doesn’t mean Levi’s secretive about his relationship at all. He’s proud to have his partner and proud to talk about his partner when the topic comes up. He’d be quite shy/uncomfortable kissing in front of others. Maybe not a fan of kisses on the lips, but he’d be more okay with forehead kisses, cheek kisses, etc.

Q uirk - Some random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

Levi is so protective over his partner don’t @ me, and it just also means he’s naturally more attentive. He’d notice if your mood changes, he’d notice if something was “off” with you, he’d definitely remember you mentioning wanting something in passing and then gift it for your birthday/Christmas/a random Tuesday like MONTHS later. Memory of an elephant and more tuned into emotions than people give him credit for.

R omance - How romantic are they? What would they do to make their s/o happy? Cliché or rather creative?

Again, not overtly romantic. Levi is a straightforward person, very practical, and very simple. But he’d give his partner the moon if he could. He believes in making things special, though, so I think he would actually put some thought/creativity in romantic actions rather than going for something cliché.

S upport - Are they helping their s/o achieve their goals? Do they believe in them?

Oh absolutely. Levi is so supportive of his S/O and is happy to help with achieving any goal. He truly believes you can do whatever you put your mind to. You could lean on Levi for help with anything. He’s not one to make fun of your dreams. He’d just give his best advice and help you get a move on.

T hrill - Do they need to try out new things to spice out your relationship? Or do they prefer a certain routine?

Levi definitely prefers routine. He’s a simple man with simple pleasures, and his whole life has been quite unpredictable, so he really loves the simple things in your relationship. Loves your morning routine, your night routine, loves weekly date nights. Of course, he’d enjoy trying new things with his partner, but he legitimately can’t get enough of what other might see as “mundane” parts of a relationship, because he thought he’d never get to experience that.

U nderstanding - How good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?

Levi knows his S/O like the back of his hand. He wants to know everything about them but is also respectful if it takes time for you to open up. He can be empathetic, but it takes time for him to get there tbh. He would be uncomfortable with blatant emotional conversations at first, just give him time. He just wants you to be comfortable with him at the end of the day and vice versa.

V alue - How important is the relationship to them? What is it’s worth in comparison to other things in their life?

Levi’s S/O is so goddamn lucky tbh. He would never, ever take his partner for granted. He’s slow to get the hang of a serious relationship, that’s true, but he’s always trying his hardest to make the relationship be as good as it is. The best part is that Levi doesn’t lose himself in a relationship, however. He values his partner and prioritizes them, but you’d never catch yourself in a codependent relationship with this man. He wants you to be your own person and he wants that for himself, too. You’re one of his most important relationships, if not the most important one, but he understands that you are your own person and he is his own person.

W ild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

Levi wears a ring with your initials carved on the inside.

X OXO - Are they very affectionate? Do they love to kiss and cuddle?

In public, again, not the most blatantly affectionate. In private, he’s more into it. He loves having his arms around you or vice versa. He just likes having the warmth of his partner there, doesn’t need to be something very sexual or very physical.

Y earning - How will they cope when they’re missing their partner?

Levi would be more irritable if he’s without his S/O for some time imo. Have a week long trip you have to go on? He misses you more and more with each passing day, and he gets bitchier with each passing day. He does take it out on everyone else (poor fellas). If he’s not pissy, he’s otherwise quiet and just focuses on his own stuff until he sees you again.

Z eal - Are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? If so, what kind of?

Levi is extremely protective of his S/O and would literally put his life on the line for them. He’s kind of dramatic in that way, but he would rather suffer in your place any day. He would do anything for his partner.

[lovelylapins]

making sense

or: “when adrien couldn’t make sense of what marinette was saying, and the one time he could”

It didn’t make sense for Adrien to become so curious and intent on figuring out what exactly caused Marinette to trip over her own words, but then again Marinette didn’t make much sense most of the time.

In his defense, he could partially excuse some of the trouble due to his harsh schedule; the long hours and small breaks in between causing him to remain out of the loop for a large majority of things that occurred within their friend group - and for that matter, kept him away from deciphering out most of what Marinette was scrambling to say. He could also justify some of it to the fact of the rough start to their friendship, which he could without a doubt say left for some awkward tension afterwards. But then they had moved past that, and as time passed and he got more opportunities to be around her, Adrien still found himself grasping at straws and wondering what on earth she couldn’t quite get out sometimes.

He chalked his curiosity up to just friendly antics. Yes, as her friend, he was naturally inclined to learn more about her, from her interests to her dislikes to finally understanding what caused her to react the way she did.

It was normal. Or at least, as normal as he had convinced himself while also ignoring every single one of Plagg’s ‘helpful’ critiques on the subject matter.

He had even brought it up to Nino on one occasion, wondering if he had anything that might help unlock the mystery of it all and give him a much needed new look onto the matter.

“Trust me, Marinette’s just a fast thinker. Her mouth has trouble catching up is all,” Nino had reassured him, slapping an arm around his shoulders as they walked up the steps to their school. “Don’t worry too hard on trying to figure out what she’s trying to say.”

Adrien frowned. “Easy for you to say. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get that type of way around you.”

“She has.” Shaking his head, Nino laughed. “Trust me, she definitely has.”

“About what?”

“Most recently? I almost opened her locker door by mistake last week, and she started rambling on for a minute about nothing.”

“And did Marinette end up telling you why?” Adrien prompted, preparing himself for any notes he’d get to mentally jot down.

“Apparently, she had a moldy sandwich at the bottom of her locker that she hadn’t taken out yet and didn’t want me to catch a whiff of it. To be honest though, I’ve smelled worse smells whenever you take off your shoes.” Crinkling his nose, Nino cast a quick look down at Adrien’s feet. “I’m about ninety percent sure there was nothing nowhere near moldy in her locker. But hey, I’m not going to question it. Girls always have weird stuff going on, you know?”

Adrien nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

(He did not know.)

Later that day, when Adrien found himself taking refuge in Marinette’s locker during an akuma attack, he made sure not to open his eyes out of respect for anything she might have in there. He did though, out of pure morbid curiosity, take a big sniff of the air surrounding him before he called for his transformation.

He found himself musing over his findings a half hour later, in intense thought even while he dodged a punch from the akuma and called for his cataclysm.

Cookies. It just smells like cookies in there.

--

It made no sense for her to get so flustered over nothing. But Adrien had come to realize that nothing making sense was nothing new when it came to this.

Over time, he was proud to say he got the gist out of the majority of Marinette’s feelings and reactions towards an abundance of things.

When Chloé said something particularly harsh to someone in the class, or Lila let loose another lie that would ultimately lead to another issue later in the day, she would usually get agitated and annoyed. When the class managed to execute a plan perfectly, or she slid into her seat just before the bell rung and avoided being reprimanded, she would perk up and be all smiles throughout the day. He caught the general idea for her pet peeves and more noticeable likes, along with the small jumps and tendency to

But with him? He, sadly, still hadn’t figured it out.

And when it finally made sense to him, for why she never made any sense at all, he had only one crushing thought.

Oh.

Embarrassingly, he hadn’t come to the realization after formalizing final thoughts and testing out a hypothesis, achieving his final conclusion and obtaining his answer. He so dearly wished it had been that case though, not only to save his ego but to satisfy the overwhelming urge to figure it out. Adrien didn’t usually take so long to find out something, save for his Lady’s identity, but that in itself was an excused and special case. This though, the reason behind one of his closest friend’s odd behavior, was even more extraordinary.

And it had been uncovered before he could even try to pretend not to find it out.

Headed to fencing practice, albeit late, Adrien was taking a shortcut through the school in order to save time and get out of a scolding from the fencing teacher. It wasn’t like him to be behind on his schedule, but he had been caught up helping Ivan write out a new poem for Mylène after class ended. As a result, he was forced to shove on the rest of his fencing gear on his way there, adjusting his gloves and already wearing his mask instead of putting it on last before he stepped into the ring.

Adrien could hear Marinette and Alya before he saw them, voices loud enough they echoed through the hallway. At first he tried not to eavesdrop in their conversation, but it was easier said than done when he was naturally inclined to listen and listen to whatever his friends had to say, even more so when they weren’t attempting to hush their voices in any way.

Still, he managed as best as he could. Hurrying his pace, he had hoped to walk by and out of earshot quickly, only picking up a few keywords from their conversation.

Then his name had been spoken, right as Adrien passed them. And then again, but this time when he was intently hearing.

“I’m just saying, it can’t be that hard to talk to Adrien. You’ve had, what, like almost a year to get over your crush?”

“You make it sound so simple! If you were in my shoes - wait. Shh, that could be one of his fencing mates.”

“Don’t worry, Mari. It’s not like he wouldn’t already know. At this point, pretty much everyone in class knows how you feel about Adrien.”

“Yeah, everyone but him.”

Their voices had began to fade, Alya and Marinette turning the corner while Adrien continued on his way to fencing practice. If it wasn’t for the fact his mind already knew the route, and that walking was second nature to him, he was sure he would’ve given out a long time ago. At practice too, while he’s in the midst of running through his warm-ups, it seems strange that he’s managed this far, that he hasn’t completely lost all ability to function or ran off to ponder for a bit as Chat Noir on some high building, away from the rest of the world.

Instead, only one thought runs through his head.

Oh.

[guzhuangheaven]

Hello! I've seen many posts here on traditional clothing, but also on other topics, so I hope this is an appropriate question to ask. Could you please explain about different diminutives and terms of endearment in Chinese, like Xiao- (小), A-/Ah- (阿), -Er (兒), Lao (老), Lang (郎), and -Ge/-Jie/-Di/-Mei (哥/姐/弟/妹) (between non-biological relatives)? When would you use these, what is the difference between them and why would you use one over another, and how do you know which part of the name to pair?

The easy bit to tackle is the ge/jie/di/mei which when used socially are just an indicator of your relative age to the person you are addressing. So you would call a social acquaintance/friend who is slightly older than you ge/xiong or jie, and someone slightly younger than you di or mei. Ge/xiong and jie can also be used for someone around the same age as you as a sign of respect. I would say these honorifics imply a more informal relationship, but it is not such a close relationship that allows a more intimate diminutive or nickname like Lao X. If on an English-speaking scale of formality between calling someone Mr/Miss X, their name, or calling them dude or bro or some other affectionate insulting nickname, you’re somewhere in the middle. It’s basically the equivalent to being on a first name basis with someone, it’s just that the cultural values requires an honorific like ge/jie/di/mei to clarify the social relationship.

Regarding other terms like xiao/ah/er/lao/lang, it’s important to be aware that there are no hard set rules about how to use any of them. Most of the time diminutives of names evolve organically through social interactions. There isn’t any rule that X name has to be paired with xiao or er, any more than there are rules that a person named Robert can only be nicknamed Rob instead of Bob or whatever. Whether you’re called Rob or Bob or Bobby, or whether only your mum calls you Bobby and everyone else calls you Rob, entirely depends on whatever arbitrary reason you chose that name as your preferred name or what those around you decided to call you.

That said, of course there are certain connotations to be read when certain diminutives are used in certain contexts.

Diminutives like xiao and er are often given to children by older generations of their family, and can stick around until adulthood. If you’re a man, and unless your name is actually Xiao X, if you are still called xiao and er into adulthood, this is likely because these diminutives were childhood nicknames that stuck around, and would only be used by those very close to you anyway. An example of this is in Nirvana in Fire, where you have people from Lin Shu’s childhood calling him Xiao Shu because that was his family nickname when he was young. It’s probably also meant to emphasise that Lin Shu as an identity is perpetually stuck at age 19. In any case, cute diminutives like xiao and er may be used for a grown man by members from older generations of his family such as parents or grandparents, but would unlikely be used between peers or those from the same generation. Between peers, grown men would be more likely to use each other’s courtesy names rather than diminutives.

Xiao and er can be more often used between those of the same generation/peers as diminutives for women but even then, it often also implies a close relationship. Of course, I would say the spectrum of formality for addressing women is a lot narrower than men, as historically women would have more limited avenues of social interaction. You’re probably working with two extremes of “very formal title” and “intimate nickname/diminutive” with very little in between. Between two women, it’s probably easier to move into using the intimate nickname. But for a man to address a woman he is unrelated to with a diminutive such as xiao and er would probably imply they have either known each other all their lives or otherwise have a very intimate relationship. The exception would only be if everyone called her by those diminutives and there’s no other more formal option.

Ah is usually used to tack on to the given name of people who have a one-character given name, and you don’t want to call them by their full surname + given name, because that would be too formal. It can be used as a diminutive for people who have two-character given names as well, but I think that’s less usual.

I would equate lao to something like the modern English dude or bro, in that it has that back-slapping male vibe to it. As a nickname, it certainly is more often used between men and paired with the surname or the numbering position you hold within your family.

(Not to be confused with lao when used as a term of respect for older people, which is another story.)

Lang is an interesting one, because it can be very social or very intimate depending on the context. I personally tend to associate lang with a certain period around the Tang and Song dynasties, though I’m sure it was used in other times as well. Lang can be paired with your surname and/or your numbering within the family and used by people when talking about you or to you, simply to denote that you are a male member of that family. So for example, in The Story of Ming Lan, Gu Ting Ye is often referred to socially as Gu Er Lang, which basically is just a way to indicate that the person is referring to the second son of the Gu family without saying his full name (which is rude) or calling him by some more formal title (which might sound stuffy in a close social context and/or not quite appropriate if the person talking is a social/generational superior). So there’s nothing special about someone like the emperor or Gu Ting Ye’s stepmother calling him Er Lang, because it’s just a mode of address.  But at the same time, there’s a whole plot point of Gu Ting Ye trying to get Ming Lan to call him Er Lang after they are married, because between a couple, lang is a much more intimate term of endearment.  

In terms which part of the name you would pair with any/all of these pre/suffixes, that also highly depends on your name. If you share a generational name with your brothers/sisters/cousins, usually your diminutive would most likely be paired with the other name that is unique to you. Alternatively, some people’s diminutive name might derive from the first character of their given name, others might be from the second character, simply because whichever character it is flows better with the diminutive term, or because it’s just randomly chosen. Since if you have a two-character name, both are your names it doesn’t really matter which you turn into a diminutive.

These are just some points that come to mind, but again, these terms can be extremely fluid, so there are no rules about how they must be used, which also means that their usage is often open to interpretation. A term of endearment might also become special because only X person uses it, not because the name per se is special. If everyone calls you Tonks and there’s that one person who’s allowed to call you Dora then obviously you have a different relationship with that person.  -H

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 1

Co-written with @southerngracela​

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela​ for @jtargaryen18 ‘s  Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide. 

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone. 

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.  

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue. 

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but, not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. 

A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound 

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood. 

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you. 

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places. 

Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the  gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host. 

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone.

With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream. 

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. 

“Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat.

“Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall. 

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne. 

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize.” You bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. 

Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Alongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background.  And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. 

You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway. 

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.  

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his. 

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes.  With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!" 

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet. 

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away. 

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask. 

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system. 

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked. 

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow. 

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with  the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission. 

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you, Sweetheart? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did. 

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even, 

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his 

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out three vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby. 

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. 

The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his. 

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought. 

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** Part 2

[caker-baker]

ahh I loved 'If there was a crown' If you have time would you please consider writing a continuation? because it was amazinggg

The hero hated princes. Princes were annoying, vain, arrogant, and so very cocky, according to the hero.

The prince, on the other hand, didn’t so much mind bakers. Bakers were fun, scare-able.

At first, the prince was everso delighted when learning of the hero’s identity, his plot being decided in all of two minutes.

Then the baker-hero was there, and they were so different than the prince imagined. He always thought they would be strong, with or without the costume, but this baker was barely quelling their nerves.

And to hear them call the prince by his title gave him relief to no end. But it felt oddly wrong.

To see the fear dawn on the baker’s face - fear the prince had never seen in their fights - it was all too perfect, and all too short lived.

Next was the taunting, something the hero had always been able to participate in, and with the repartee being one sided, the prince was filled with glee.

Until he wasn’t

He was frustrated, he thought he would be happy. As a prince, he could have anything except the hero, and now that he had them, it wasn’t enough. He wanted more, still.

The prince noticed the hero’s harsh concentration whenever he neared, their head working on ways to escape.

He was a diplomat, the prince. He was taking over the kingdom, he was raised to know what people were thinking.

“Pesky little hero, it’s no use.”

“What?” The hero snapped, still mid thought.

In response, the prince smiled, and tilted his head to the side. “Would it be fair to assume you have never been in such a situation?”

“Take your best guess, my prince.” The hero’s tone was anything but formal, but that didn’t stop the delighted feeling flowing throughout the prince.

“Such malice, baker.” His words were equally as venomous. “For someone in such a bind, I would think one to be kinder.”

“I would think I still have my dignity.”

“And shaking hands.”

The hero fell silent.

Sly eyes found their way to the crown in the corner of the cell. While it was hard to break, the hero certainly did try, the crown now dirtied and somehow slightly dented.

The prince didn’t know they had that sort of strength.

“I did mainly come to drop this off.” A tray of food rattled on the lone desk. “But it seems you are in dire need of company, what, with taking out your solitude on my most prized possession.”

“You shouldn’t give nice things to pesky heroes.” The hero bit back, the chains on their wrist becoming uncomfortably heavy.

“I told you, I would make an exception for you.”

Silence reigned for a brief moment.

“I could strangle you.” The hero said, voice soft and hands trembling. “If you just got close enough, these chains are more than enough, I could-”

“Then do it.” The prince stepped closer. “I won’t try to stop you. I will even assist you.” He turned around, back towards the hero. “I’m close enough, unsuspecting, a prime opportunity if any.”

Nothing happened. The hero didn’t move, the prince didn’t move, and the world came to a standstill.

“Or,” the prince spoke, still turned around. “Is this not how you would like me? Would you prefer I go to war for you? Some neighboring territories would be rather easy to take, if only in your name.”

The hero actually stepped back. “What is this?”

“Compliance. I’m being a kindly host.”

“A host?” The hero repeated. “This is a game to you?” Their face had twisted into a snarl, but no move was made against the villain. “Tormenting one while killing others?”

The prince whipped around. “What makes you think I’m practicing villainy again?”

“There was never a choice, was there?” A stark laugh came from the hero. “That’s why you’re the only one down here, isn’t it? Everyone else thinks I’m long gone. Besides, are your plans for the kingdom finished?”

Oh, this amused the prince greatly.

“Clever and pesky.” He muttered. “An awful combination.”

Despite their nerves, the hero managed to stare the prince in the eye.

“Won’t your guard be suspicious?” The hero asked. “The king?”

Pure anger flashed on the prince’s face. “That man is of no-” he remembered himself, the anger dissolving before a neutral expression took hold. “You should eat. I’ll know if you don’t.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I hope you don’t value that bakery all too much.”

When the prince had gone, the hero let themselves come undone, trembling in a pile of fear.

No other threats were made past that one fateful day, on either end.

It became a routine, of sorts. The hero would try to find a way out, and the prince would sit back, amused.

Once, the prince stormed in, wrinkled papers clutched in hand.

“I’m working in here.” He announced, making use of the desk oh so generously supplied to the hero.

The hero had to wonder if that was the purpose of it, more for the prince than them.

“I thought you had no power.” The hero mumbled folding something from ripped book pages.

“I still have responsibilities, something I suppose doesn’t affect you anymore.”

The hero nearly crushed their paper creation. “My responsibilities were ripped away from me if you deign to remember!”

The prince waved them off, scribbling something with their other hand.

There was no way of knowing how much time had passed for the hero, it was only when the prince sighed and leaned back did they realize time had passed at all.

“What are you making?”

“A child’s toy. Most every child in the kingdom can paper-fold.” The hero snorted. “Probably not royal ones.”

The prince stood tall over the hero, eyes landing on the expert foldings. “A paper crown. How ironic when a real one stays in the corner.”

“How ironic you keep coming here.” The hero set the paper crown aside, their hands clutched together.

They were refusing to look at the prince.

“Pesky little hero, your silence is suffocating.”

“What were you working on?” The hero said, still not looking at the prince, though they could see him in their side view.

“Are you truly interested?” The prince asked. “Or is this you trying to find information to use against me?”

“What does it matter to you? Any information I get will rot away with me. It’s ‘no use’, isn’t it?”

Clever and pesky indeed.

“If you must know, you pesky thing, I’ve been trying to worm my way out of a potential marriage.”

The hero’s head snapped up, only to find the prince already looking at them, smiling widely. “There you are. A possible wedding is what it takes for you to look at me?”

“So you won’t be getting married?” They made to look down again, but the prince snaked out a hand, grabbing the hero’s chin.

“You would make a pretty royal.” He said appreciatively, turning the hero’s head with his hand. “Especially done up for a royal portrait.”

“So you’ve said.” The hero tried to yank away, but the prince held fast.

“We,” he began, “are created to be perfect. I was created to be perfect. There’s something so fascinating with everyday people still being beautiful.”

The hero’s lip curled. “My appearances are not for you to marvel at!”

“My, my.” The prince dropped his hand. “Where do these little bursts of defiance come from? It feels as if I am truly talking to Hero, and not some baker. By the by, what do you call a baker without a bakery?”

“Go to hell.”

“At some point.”

The hero suddenly regretted their words, their bakery floating to the top of their mind.

“That’s not a concentrating face.”

They hated him, for being a prince, for figuring out their identity, for having power, even if he didn’t realize it. But most of all, they hated he could hold their bakery over their head.

“And that’s resolve. What, I wonder, is going through your head?”

The hero’s eyes dropped, their hands reaching to tear more book pages, and at this, the prince sighed.

“Fine then, I’ll leave you to your folding.”

“What do you care?” The hero asked, already making a crease in the words. “Are you just having your fun before you decide to kill me?”

“No.” The prince spoke quickly. “No. I am having fun, but you will not be dying. Not here. Not by my hand.”

“Then it is just simple then.”

“What is?”

The hero looked up. “You are a cruel bastard.”

There was no response, just a long and cold stare, then once again, the hero was alone. They were alone, and now had a plan.

The prince had mentioned it earlier, but the hero didn’t believe him, they thought he was still going to kill them. However, the quick desperation of his tone made the hero rethink otherwise.

The prince didn’t want them dead, did he? What were the chances of getting out if the prince thought they were close to death?

This was a flimsy plan, especially in that there was no telling when it would happen. The hero would have to make it look like something had happened, but the prince would have to be there to witness it.

So, the hero had to listen, and carefully.

Any sign of steps, and they would move. First, to the bed, where they would grab the blankets and pull them down, trying to make it look as if they had clutched onto something before falling.

Next was the positioning. The hero wasn’t sure about this, the chains being a bit inhibiting, but hopefully, if this all went as planned, the chains would be coming off.

Finally came the hard part, acting. They had never needed to pretend to be passed out, they had never had to force themself to be calm like this. It was already difficult for them to even their breathing while in a state of nerves, but to play at vulnerability while making their lungs steady was difficult to say the least.

So, it all came down to keeping their nerve, and timing. It would work fine, they were sure of it, despite how hard their heart was hammering in their chest. This had to work fine.

Listening was difficult, singling out one specific sound among dozens of others, especially to the untrained ear. Once or twice, the hero had prepared, positioning themselves with the blankets in hand, only to realize it was an echo of a sound.

Knowing what time it was would make it easier, the prince delivering meals himself at a specific time was otherwise useless information.

They couldn’t be sure how long they listened, only that they were suddenly on the floor, the sound of regal boots getting closer.

The creaking door opened, and the hero had to stop themselves from shaking. They had to do this right, it had to work.

The prince cursed, something dropping onto the ground.

Then there was the sudden closeness, the prince mere inches from the hero’s face, who could feel their muscles tensing.

Two fingers were on the hero’s neck, who almost cried having to keep still while the prince checked their pulse.

A rattling sound, then the weight on the hero’s wrists dropped. They had to stop themselves from flinching away, from running right then and there. They had to make themselves be dead weight when strong hands lifted them.

Breathe even.

Dead weight.

Don’t let your eyelids move.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

The steps the prince took were large, frantic. He was in a hurry to wherever he planned on taking the hero now.

And once the hero was sure, absolutely positive they were at least past the bars of the cell, at least far away from the manacles, and at least in an open space, they struck.

A fist flew to the prince’s jaw, his hold on the hero weakening. They hero leapt from his arms, rolling back onto their feet.

“And there’s that acrobatic hero I know and love.” The prince chuckled, rubbing his bruising face.

There was no time for the hero to play into what was surely his attempt at stalling. They could either incapacitate him now, or run and hope to find the quickest way out.

A prince knocked out in his own home might raise questions the hero couldn’t afford to answer.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid to fight?” The prince baited.

It almost worked. Almost.

The hero, fists clenched, turned and ran. Maybe this wasn’t the brightest of plans, but none of the options were the best.

“I happened to have grown up in this place.” The prince said, leaning against a corridor wall the hero had just turned onto.

They immediately turned around again.

“Pesky hero.” They heard the prince tut, footsteps once again fading away.

A door, it was all they needed, a window is what they got.

They didn’t hesitate, smashing their elbow against the glass, cracks beginning to form. This was done again and again, until the window had shattered completely.

The hero peered down, looking at the two story height.

Considering the prince had taken them from seemingly below ground to upper levels of the palace, the height made sense.

And the height worked. The hero had done much more from much higher places. This would be easy, it might still hurt, but it would work.

The hero stepped up, their back facing outside, a slowly setting sun bathing them in light.

“Hero.” A voice said, cold and commanding. It was a voice future kings should learn.

“Your highness.”

“You don’t know what you would happen if you made a reappearance as Hero. You don’t know what would happen if you left.” The prince took a step forward, fully aware of the hero watching him. “As it turns out, I’m not the only royal who dislikes heroes.”

“Is that all?”

The prince cautioned two more steps. “I don’t think you quite realize what I have afforded you.”

After prince’s taunts, his fun, it felt good to see his discomfort, even if vengefulness wasn’t the hero’s style.

“I’m sure I don’t.”

Three more steps. “And I don’t know what stunt you are trying to pull here, but-”

“Not a stunt.” The hero interrupted. “I’m just leaving.”

It had gone right, this plan, and it felt fantastic, they felt calm for the first time in a while. They felt a lot that they hadn’t felt in a while.

“I think we could discuss this civilly, don’t you?” One more step, and he was in arms length of the hero.

“I think you’re wrong.”

The prince lunged, but the hero was quick enough, pushing him back as momentum for the fall.

If he wasn’t aware of the hero’s skilled ability in any and all things acrobatic, he would’ve been worried for their safety, but instead, he had a million other things to worry about, namely, how to get them back without making a fuss.

The prince chanced a glance out the broken window, but the hero had already faded away, disappearing with the prince’s dignity.

The worst and most daunting of it all was that the hero had managed to snag the prince’s brooch on their way down.

[xfandomwritingsx]

Dirty Little Secret – Loki Laufeyson

(gif source)

Ashley’s 2020 December Prompts

Prompt: Company Party

Warnings/Labels: Office AU. I think this is literally the first AU I’ve ever written which is a warning in of itself. Smut. Unprotected sex. Face-fucking. Semi-Public sex. Getting caught in the midst of said semi-public sex. Dirty talk. Hair pulling.

Appox. Word Count: 2,000

A/N: So this is mostly just smut with not a lot of Christmas. Somehow I don’t think you’ll complain though.

You blame the punch. There is no other reason you can convince yourself to believe for being on your knees in the vice president’s office, his cock filling your mouth and both his hands on the back of your head. You hadn’t even spoken directly to Mr. Laufeyson before tonight. You knew who he was, obviously. You’d been in the same room as him, maybe you’d made eye contact once, but that was it. And now somehow, you’re here with the carpet burning your knees and your green velvet skirt bunched up high on your thighs, sucking his cock as if your job depended on it.

It’s easier to blame the punch than the fact that you have been craving good sex for months and the man is practically sex in a suit or that the way he had looked at you from across the room like a fucking predator had your pussy tightening with excitement. If anyone ever asks, you’ll blame the punch and exaggerate how many cups you had.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises above you, fingertips pressing more firmly onto your scalp. He holds your head steady as he starts to thrust his hips. Your hands fall away from his slacks as you relax your throat as best you can, his undone belt rattling around his waist. You look up at him, eyes watering and saliva dripping down your chin as he fucks your mouth. “Such a pretty mouth.” Your fingers drift down between your legs, rubbing frantically at your clit through your wet panties. “What would everyone say if they could see you now?” he taunts. “Such a cliché. The office secretary sucking off the boss.” His eyes roll up for a moment as he groans and his hips lose their rhythm. He pulls your head back off of him quickly and you gasp for air.

You can hear a loud bout of laughter from the room down the hall where the holiday party is in full swing. You can only just hear the sounds of Christmas music drifting through the building too. The lights in his office are off, the blinds on the hall windows are drawn shut, but the ones to your left that overlook the city are wide open. You wonder briefly if the door is locked. You hadn’t been paying attention when you stumbled in, too preoccupied with the way his tongue licked at your neck and his hand groping you under your skirt. You can’t honestly say you care at the moment.

“Such an eager thing, are we?” he asks darkly, watching the way your hand is moving hastily beneath the velvet around your thighs. His thumb swipes once over your mouth and then again over your chin as he cradles it in his fingers, making sure you don’t look away from him. “Did sucking my cock get you wet?” All you manage is a strangled moan in response. He slides his thumb up, barely slipping it into your open mouth. You close your lips around it and suck. He chuckles before withdrawing. “Stand up,” he demands.

You have no words for him. Complete and ravenous lust has taken the ability to speak from you and all your body craves to do is follow his directions and hope he’ll be kind enough to ebb the ache. You put off all thoughts about how you’ll face your job come Monday morning and just listen to what your body wants.

“Such a good little girl,” he coos as you stand in front of him, your pussy already missing the touch of your fingers. He pulls you close, his hard cock nudging into the velvet as he kisses you roughly. He’s all tongue and teeth and firm hands palming your breasts. Your arm wrap around his neck, hands mussing his black hair that had been gelled for the occasion. You still don’t feel close enough to him. “Do you want fucked, my darling?” he whispers against your lips. You moan and twist your hands in his hair. “Where are your words?” he teases, pulling away just slightly.

“Please, Mr. Laufeyson,” you choke out.

“No need to be so formal,” he tells you, dipping his mouth down to your neck and sucking gently.

“Loki,” you breathe out heatedly, his name nothing more than a plea on your lips. It sounds wrong on your tongue to call him by his first name even now. “Please, sir,” you try again. He pulls away and for a moment you worry he’s displeased, but then a wicked smile comes to his lips.

“My desk,” he commands. “Bend over it.”

You do as he says, finding a spot mostly clear of papers and clutter so you can rest your forearms on it. Hinging at the waist, your skirt rides up a little more, your panties peeking out at him. He doesn’t bother to remove his clothes nor yours. He comes up behind you and hikes your skirt all the way up and over your ass. He reaches around your waist and pulls your wet panties to the side roughly, exposing your pussy for his cock.

“So wet,” he muses before lining himself up and edging the tip of his cock inside of you drawing a long moan from your mouth. He’s torturously slow, letting you feel every inch of him as he pushes inside of you. The strangled groans and heavy breaths that come from him tell you it’s as pleasurable for him as it is you. “Fuck, you feel good,” he tells you roughly. “So tight and hot around me.” He pushes until you’ve taken all of him in, your pussy clenching around his length. He runs his hand up your back, over the curve of your spine and you can feel the heat of his skin through your sweater. He pulls his hips back and snaps them forward quickly, pulling a choked moan from you. His hand slides up into your hair and pulls. “Let them hear you, pet,” he growls.

He fucks you hard and fast. There’s no slow start or build up. There’s no loving touches or words of admiration. His cock pounds into you and his hand tugs on your hair, arching your back for him. The only words said are dirty praise that make you keen into him and ache to pleasure him however he wants. He tells you he wants you to be loud, to let everyone know what a filthy slut you are for him and you can’t deny his demands.

“Such a good little girl,” he tells you, twisting his hand again. He pulls at your arm with his other hand and shoves it between your legs. “I want to feel you cum on my cock,” he hisses. “Play with your clit and make yourself cum for me.” Your fingers are rubbing at yourself before he even finishes talking. You find a rhythm to match his thrusts and it doesn’t take long before you feel yourself on the edge. “That’s a good girl,” he encourages as you moan louder. “Let me hear it. I want to hear how bad you want it.” Words are still hard to form, but your moan turns into a cry as you feel yourself snap with release. “That’s it,” he coaxes, slowing his thrusts to let you relax, but never stopping. “You feel so fucking good.”

You’re breathing heavily, mind still cloudy and pussy still tingling. Your heart hammers against your chest and you lick your lips, finding yourself still craving him. You want him to feel the pleasure you did. You want to make him feel good.

“Loki,” you say his name, words finally starting to make their way back to you. “I want you to cum inside of me.” His hips sputter and he chuckles behind you, starting to pick up the pace of his thrusts again.

“Is that what you want?” he teases. “Good little girl wants to be filled up?” You groan again, letting yourself collapse on the desk, arms too weak to hold you up. He lets you put your cheek against the wood, but doesn’t let go of your hair.

“Please,” you beg. “Cum inside me. I want to feel you.”

“You’re going to walk back into that party full of my cum.” He’s no longer asking. He’s telling you. “Your pretty little pussy is going to be so full it’s dripping.” His desk rattles with each thrust as they get harder and faster. “Such a good little slut.”

You hear the knob of his office door twist open and hear a man say Loki’s name before taking in the scene in front of him. You can’t see who it is and though your initial reaction is panic, Loki presses your cheek down harder into his desk and refuses to stop fucking you. In fact, his groans grow louder and more strangled, his thrust more erratic. It spurs a pleasure deep inside of you and threatens to wind you up again. The intruder stumbles back and closes the door with a quick apology, leaving you two to finish.

“Now they’re all going to know how much of a slut you are,” he tells you. “The whole office is going to hear about how you got fucked by the boss.” Your pussy involuntarily tightens around him. “I’m going to cum,” he warns. Your hand reaches back to his thigh and you push your ass back to him.

“Do it,” you say. “Fill me up.”

One hand fisting your hair and the other holding your hip with a bruising grip, he gives one final thrust into you and holds you steady, loud broken moans spilling from him as cums deep inside of you. You let out a satisfied moan, closing your eyes and taking in the way he feels against you and inside you.

“Fuck,” he curses dryly, body relaxing against you. His hand releases your hair and his pulls turn to gentle strokes to ease the remaining sting. He leans over you and there’s a soft press of his lips between your shoulder blades before he withdraws, both of you groaning softly.

It’s not until you’ve readjusted your panties and skirt and he’s tucking himself back inside his suit pants that your logical mind catches up with you.

“Who was it?” you ask. He looks at you, seemingly confused by the question for a moment before his own brain can think again.

“Oh, it was just my brother,” he says casually, moving to fix the tie around his neck.

“Thor?” you cry in disbelief. “The president of the company?” Oh god, this was so stupid. Mind-blowing and amazing, yes, but so stupid. “I’m so fucking fired,” you mutter to yourself, burying your face in your hands. Loki simply laughs.

“Ironically, you’re the one with the power here,” he advises evenly. “I’m your superior. You could file sexual harassment, sexual abuse, abuse of power, and a list of other charges if you so wanted.” You take a chance to look at him and his stare back to you is heated still, as though your little tryst together did nothing more than sprinkle water droplets onto a raging flame. “Of course, that would mean you wouldn’t want to do this again.”

You’re still not in the right state of mind to think this through. Your body is still humming and you’re not entirely unconvinced that you wouldn’t drop to your knees again right now if he told you to. You need to let the lust dissipate in full before you open your mouth.

“Either way, I assure you my brother won’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” He smirks and retrieves his suit jacket from the floor. “He doesn’t want to have to deal with a scandal.”

“Good,” you sigh in relief mostly to yourself.

He walks up to you, careful to make sure you’re not going to push him away, and presses a kiss to your lips softer than any other that night. He pulls away sooner than you wish and walks to his office door, pulling it open.

“I’ll see you Monday morning.”