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the-californicationist · 2 months ago

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Cali's Kinktober: Day 09

Kinktober Masterlist aurum potestas est - "gold is power" Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x f!reader Kinks > prostitution, coercion, corruption Full tags on AO3 - MDNI - Read at your own risk. Warning: NONCON

You are hired by the FSB to plant a bug in Gaz’s coat pocket when he runs into you on the street. But he catches you in the act and drags you to his safehouse. As you realize that he plans to keep you as his prize, you wonder if this job was worth the money after all.

I think @cod-z left a comment about how much they enjoyed mean Gaz, so I took that idea a little too far.

They had known you were just hungry enough to say yes. You had seen them, those fucking Red wolves, lurking around Building D in your bloc apartments. They were bullying the kids who ran through the outdoor balconies, trying to climb on the roof to throw snowballs or to piss off the side onto unsuspecting pedestrians. And yes, they were little shits, but when you started to see them with black eyes and busted lips, you wondered if the FSB knew that they were twelve year olds and not fully grown men.

You wanted to scream at them to pick on someone their own size. To at least help the babushkas with their shopping trolleys. To maybe pick up a shovel and clear the path of ice and snow for a change. Maybe contribute to the community that they were policing so harshly? But, no. They didn’t give a fuck about the community. They were looking for those British spies.

Four Brits had moved into Building E, the shadiest bloc of them all, and they’d stuck out like a whole hand of sore thumbs. Everyone knew they were there. Their Russian accents left a lot to be desired. And yet, no one ratted them out. The Landlord, Danila Kosteyv, made sure the entire neighborhood knew that the Brits were off-limits. They’d obviously done well to line his pockets with enough rubles to last through the winter. It was the way of things: layer upon layer of corruption like a fetid little medovik, each cruel slice more putrid than the last.

So, when you were walking home from your job cleaning offices down Tverskaya street, it shouldn’t have surprised you that a menacing hand darted out from the shadows next to your apartment’s mailbox bank and curled around your arm.

“Idi syuda, devochka.” Come here, girl. Your assailant snapped at you, trying to drag you into the elevator next to the boxes.

You rolled your eyes at him, and put on your best Tajik accent, mimicking the women who worked with you on your floor,

“Sorry, no Russian.”

“Zatknis', suka. Zaydite v lift.” Shut up, bitch. Get in the lift. He shoved you with all of his force, and it was enough to fling you against the wall, spilling the meager contents of your purse.

“Fuck you, silovik. Tell your boss that the fucking chuzhaky are in the other apar–” A hard slap cut across your face without warning. One of the other brutes had raked his knuckles across your mouth, and now you could taste blood on your tongue.

You fought the urge to cry, and instead, you channeled your mother and rolled your eyes at him again, daring him to just shoot you already. You were nobody, just a cleaner. What they wanted, you couldn’t give them.

They boxed you in inside the lift, and their stale smell of cigarettes and sweat filled the tiny space, burning in your nose and throat. Once the doors shuddered open, they decided to walk you the rest of the way with each of your arms pinned in their big hands, bruising your skin carelessly.

You didn’t need to tell them which flat was yours; they already knew. The man who had spoken to you snatched your keys out of your hand and let himself in. You were pushed inside your own house, suddenly a prisoner in a place that you paid for. Even though you should’ve been scared, all you really felt was indignant.

The FSB bastards oozed into your dingy little flat like black tar, making everything that they touched dirty with their presence. They made themselves at home, eating your leftovers and drinking the dregs of the wine you’d been saving for your birthday.

“Chto ty khochesh'?” What do you want? You said in your normal Russian accent, dropping the ruse.

The leader, a fat, balding man with eyebrows like furry caterpillars and pock marks across his cheeks grabbed your hand and placed a device in your palm.

“Polozhite eto v karman odnogo iz shpionov. Zatem zazhgite svechu i postav'te yeye v okno.” Put this in one of those spies' pockets. Then light a candle and put it in the window. He told you, pointing to your one and only window that overlooked another bloc of apartments.

“Zaplati mne.” Pay me. You said, holding out your other, empty hand.

You waited for another slap, but instead, the man with the eyebrows rooted around in his pants for a moment and pulled out a money clip. He placed it in your palm and closed your fist around it, making your bones ache from his grip. You winced, trying to pull away, but he held fast, forcing you to meet his eyes,

“Desyat' tysyach rubley seychas i yeshche desyat' tysyach, kogda zazhzhete svechu.” Ten thousand rubles now and another ten thousand when you light the candle.

You looked down at the cash in your hand. This was more than you made in a whole week of cleaning offices, and you balked at the sum. These FSB men really wanted this job done. Eyebrows shoved his way past you, stealing your cigarettes from your countertop and pocketing them for himself. Just when he was about to close your door behind him, you rushed to it, holding it ajar.

“Zhdat'!” Wait! You called out, “Pochemu ya?” Why me?

Eyebrows wore a sinister smile across his mouth, bending close enough for you to smell his rancid breath, and you felt his hand trace his way up and over the shell of your ear, swiping down your braid gently with his finger, letting it rest in his palm.

“Ty dostatochno urodliv, chtoby ne vyzyvat' podozreniy.” You’re ugly enough to not arouse any suspicions. He sneered, “I ty deshevle shlyukhi.” And you’re cheaper than a whore.

He shrugged, slamming your own door shut behind him, leaving you to stew in your anger at his mean words.

The next day, you called in sick and headed over to Building E. You were bundled, smoking a brand new pack of cigarettes, your belly full for the first time in weeks thanks to the silovik’s money. This was not an area for foreigners, nothing like the shops and rental properties near your job on Tverskaya. But, when you saw the Brits emerge from their ground-floor flat, they were looking more and more like they belonged.

They’d taken to dressing in cheap but warm clothing, sporting hats and shoes and jackets they’d seen other men wearing around the bloc, and whomever had trained them in looking unapproachable had done a damn good job. Alas, they were still too noticeable to get away with much. Their nails were too clean, they were too well-fed, and the stain of an oppressive cycle of gray winters had not hardened their expressions quite enough.

You lingered closer to their apartment, pretending to pass out pamphlets you’d found around the bus station, giving yourself a reason to get near their entryway. One of them, the tall, handsome one with dark skin, walked by you, ignoring your pamphlet, letting the folded brochure graze his shoulder as he walked.

You chased after him,

“Gospodin, podozhdite! Razve vy ne khotite uznat' o –” Sir, wait! Don't you want to know about –

“No Russian. Izvini, ya ne govoryu po-russki.” His voice was warm like a fire, even when he was trying to give you a cold shoulder.

“Here, sir. Please, take it,” you moved closer, slipping the bug into his coat pocket, pretending to stumble over the cracked sidewalk a bit, keeping your eyes pinned on his and praying that he would take the bait.

He stopped walking, and for a moment, you thought you’d gotten away with it. He took one of your pamphlets, and you noticed just how much bigger he was than any of the FSB assholes who had come into your house. But, the pair of big, brown eyes that stared into yours were too bright, they held too much knowledge, too much experience. Behind his gaze lurked a smart, calculating beast, and when he let your pamphlet flutter onto the slick, icy path, you knew you had been caught. His full lips curled up into a smile, not unlike the one Eyebrows had given you when he degraded you in your own home, and he reached his hand into his pocket, pulling out the device you’d planted.

“Drop somethin’, love?”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you stared at the bug between his fingers. With very little effort, he smashed it in his hand, reducing it to platicky bits and letting them fall to the concrete, grinding them under his black, leather boot, crushing it to dust.

You turned, bolting back to your building, but he caught you by the wrist, gripping you even harder than the FSB men, nearly breaking your small bones just like he had destroyed the bug.

“No, please. They made me!” You protested, stumbling as he dragged you through the dimly-lit hall of his building, scraping your shoulder along the rough wall as he stomped off towards his flat.

You fought him, knowing that once he pulled you over the threshold of his door, you were as good as dead.

“They made you, huh? Did they threaten you? They holdin’ your mum hostage at the Kremlin, innit that right?” He rolled his eyes, showing the same disdain for you as you had for the FSB agents, sarcasm dripping from his sharp teeth.

“No… No! But they –”

He shouldered the door open, letting it bang into the wall, landing in the same spot where dents already existed from years of other men doing the same exact thing.

“They what? They said they’d come back and kill you, is that it?”

He sat you on the bed, your wrist still stuck to his closed fist, and he stood between your legs, towering over you like a giant.

“No…” You sniffled, fearful tears rolling down your cheeks.

“No. Then what are you doin’ this for, babydoll? Don’t you fuckin’ know better?”

“I needed the money!” You screamed up at him, shame flooding your voice.

He paused, looking down at you for a moment, his eyes glaring but a fake smile warping his visage. He looked like a hyena when it laughs, hungry and ready to taste blood.

“You needed the money? So, you risked your fuckin’ life. My fuckin’ life. All for what?”

He wanted a number. You stuttered, suddenly regretting telling him the truth,

“Ten th-thousand…”

“My life, all for ten thousand filthy fuckin’ rubles? Bloody hell…” He was laughing in disbelief, now. His hand wasn’t even holding onto you anymore. He was just shaking his head in disbelief, bitter and cruel in his appraisal of you and your morals.

“We come all the way out to this bloody fuckin’ shithole, tryin’ to stop a goddamn terrorist, tryin’ to save you bastards from fuckin’ war. And you’d sell me out for a goddamn hundred quid?”

His eyes peered down at you, and he seemed like he was full of thoughts. His energy was electric, and you could almost feel the edges of the room bending and warping as his mind raced, controlling you and this nasty little predicament like a magician, every movement was sleight of hand, every word was a riddle.

“What else would you do, huh? I got the bleedin’ bills right here,” he ripped a stack of rubles from his back pocket, flipping them in front of your nose like he was counting them out for you, letting the corners slap against your skin, “How much do you want? I don’t have any fuckin’ bugs for you to plant. So, what else are you gonna give me, huh?”

He bent his body down to look you right in the eyes, too close and yet his breath didn’t make you recoil like Eyebrows’ had. You imagined, in another place, in another time, this man could be good. He could be kind. But, what motivation had you given him to be kind to you?

“I… I don’t know… What do you want?” You asked him, sniffling and pitiful, holding your arms to your chest like you were shivering from the cold.

“How much for a kiss, hm?” He smiled, pretending to be sweet, and doing a poor enough acting job to know that he was still a threat.

He held up a red, crisp five thousand note, holding it in front of your eyes. Slowly, right in front of your face, he folded it in half and brushed the paper across your lips, watching with satisfaction as your mouth fell open in shock and terror.

“Yeah? One kiss. I think it’s a good bargain, love. What do you think?” His voice was low, like a lover’s, and yet you knew you were anything but.

You didn’t know another way out of this situation, so you leaned forward, pressing your mouth to his, kissing him as if you were in a school play, performing the act and yet feeling only embarrassment and shame.

“Mm,” he pulled back, his brow furrowing, “Let’s try again, yeah?” He pulled another note out, just as clean and crisp as the first, holding it up to your mouth this time, “Go on, then. Kiss me like you mean it.”

He kept the paper in place, moving his mouth over it, kissing you with the barrier between your lips, his other hand gripping you at the nape of your neck and forcing your head to move where he wanted it to. Then, as he kissed you deeper, the paper fell, wet and crumpled on the floor. His tongue invaded your mouth, and he sucked on your lips, making you forget that you were not supposed to be enjoying this.

“You’ve such a soft little mouth, love. Bet you can do all kinds of things with it, huh? Or does it only know how to lie to me?”

He glared, and you didn’t know what to say. So, you waited, watching as he counted out ten of the five thousand notes. It was twice what you’d made last month.

Then, he raised himself up to his full height, holding out the cash in his hand like a fan, showing it to you like it was proof of your crimes against him,

“C’mon, baby. It’s all yours. Every goddamn cent,” his hand tightened in your hair making you cry out from the pain of his fist on your scalp, “What’re you gonna do for it?”

You stared up at him and then your eyes settled on the crotch of his pants, bulging and tight right in front of you. You looked up at him again, and he looked like he was holding back his laughter, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from cackling at your helplessness.

You looked back at his obvious erection, and you gingerly began to unbutton his jeans, the only sound in the room was the whir of his zipper and the breaths that were hitching in your chest. He was hidden behind black boxer briefs, so you peeled them away, freeing his heavy cock and watching it sway in front of your face.

Then, you hesitated, wondering if he would truly force you to suck him off just for planting a bug on him. You looked up at his face, searching for the gentleness that you knew could be there. But, it wasn’t. He’d put that away, saving it for another, a prettier one, someone more deserving. You were just another problem for him that he needed to solve.

“Come on, love. Don’t get shy on me, now,” he purred, using his fan of cash to brush down your face and mouth, petting you with it, over and over, creating a deceptively silky softness on your cheek, lulling you into thinking you were choosing to do this on your own.

You leaned forward, taking just the head into your mouth, looking up at him for his approval. He grinned at you, smiling wide, winking at you audaciously,

“Tha’s it, baby. I knew you could put that mouth to work. Anythin’ for the cash, right?”

He was teasing you, watching you struggle to take even half of his length, rubbing your cash all over your face and nose, using it to grab you around the jaw and move you back and forth as you attempted to suck him off.

“How much for me to see those heavy fuckin’ tits, huh?” He let each bill fall across your face one by one as you jerked his shaft and suckled from his drooling tip, working him like a pump, expecting him to flood your throat, unfeeling and uncaring.

You pulled away from him and looked up in the same shocked way, not understanding how you could get yourself out of this. He had you under his spell, threatening in tone and stature alone, but it was enough.

You shucked off your jacket, and you began to unbutton your sweater, wearing nothing underneath. Bras were expensive, and you couldn’t justify wearing them out on your days off. Button by button, his cock twitched, shining with your spit, still beading up at the slit with his precome, eager for more.

Finally, your sweater fell open, and you removed it, laying it with your jacket, and looking up at him for another round of approval.

“Wow,” he praised you sarcastically, “Such a good girl, aren’t you? If someone holds out a bill in front of you, you’d fuckin’ stab your own mum in the back, huh?”

“No! I was only –”

His cock was back in your mouth, and you choked on it, struggling to take it so deeply and upset by how much of the shaft was still left to go. He pushed himself forward again, forcing himself down into your throat, making you take him in such a way that you didn’t know was physically possible.

“You just needed the money, I know, I know. You fuckin’ told me that. Short memory, me.” He laughed, watching you struggle to breathe as he held you in place, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got it right here.”

He reached back and grabbed another stack of bills, spreading some over your nose and face, using the other notes to tease and fondle your breasts, his hands neither holding them nor placing them deliberately. He was just smearing them across your flesh like it was paint, covering you in the notes, desperate to make you feel them against your nipples and your breasts and your sensitive neck, wrapping the paper over your body and squeezing it to you, groping you behind the money until it fell to the floor. Then, he could fondle you properly, pinching your hanging peaks, teasing them until they were taut, and rolling their nubs between his thumb and forefinger as you tried to bob your head up and down on his length.

Then, once he was pleased with your body, he turned his attention back to your mouth, holding both sides of your head in his huge hands, guiding your head all the way down to his black, curly root, burying your nose it his pubes maliciously, his cock throbbing when you gagged and gasped around him.

He began to thrust into you, humping his cock down your throat, not bothering to stop to allow you to take a breath.

“Tha’s it, baby. I knew you could fuckin’ do it. Just had to pay you the right amount, huh? A few rubles and this tight little throat opens right on up for me.”

Suddenly, with a show of strength you had never experienced, he held your face down to this body and jerked up into you, hard. He began to fill your belly with his hot come, cutting off your airway as he held your mouth in place. With each pump, you felt yourself getting closer and closer to coming. It was a natural reaction, and you had no say in it.

Unfortunately, he noticed.

“Look at you,” he clicked his tongue against his teeth, “You fuckin’ love it, don’t you? Swallowin’ my knob for money like a bloody hooker and comin’ in your knickers like a slag.”

The door to the flat opened up, and he ignored it, his fury and lustful rage focusing solely on you. You tried to get away, writhing and wriggling with desperation, trying your best to take a breath in whichever way you could.

“Gaz,” a man’s voice purred through the room like a warning, “Who’s this, then?”

“I dunno, Captain. Said she’d do anythin’ for a few quid. She even tried to plant a fuckin’ bug in my pocket for those Kremlin bastards, but we found something else she’s good at, didn’t we, baby?”

Gaz ripped himself out of your throat, strings of drool and come connecting his gleaming head to your wet lips, open, choking, and panting for breath. He dragged his dark, ebon head across your soft cheek, just like he’d dragged the money, and he wiped himself on your face with abandon.

“Don’t worry, love,” he grinned down at you, admiring the way he’d made a mess on your skin, “I’m sure there’s all sorts of talents you’ve got. Now, how much for me to fill up that pussy?”

“I don’t think I should… I can’t…” You whispered, unable to use the full power of your voice.

But, Gaz was already shoving you down onto the bed, rolling off your pants, and staring longingly down at your shining cunt. He turned to the captain and smiled,

“Think she’ll give us a two-for-one deal?”

Their laughter turned your stomach, but when you saw them reach into their wallets to shower you with more and more cash, you spread your legs wide, admitting to yourself that you were nothing more than a filthy whore for them, letting them take you as many times as they wanted, the red paper notes sticking to your sweaty flesh as your body rocked back and forth across the mattress.

#cali’s kinktober #kinktober 2024 #cod kinktober #call of duty kinktober #graviora manent #by the californicationist #x female reader #x fem!reader #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #gaz smut #gaz mw2 #gaz cod #gaz call of duty #mean!gaz

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nocturnalfei · 3 months ago

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“𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓂𝓊𝓇𝒹𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓇, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒶𝓁 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝐼 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊” ⋆˚. ݁˖

⏾ — 𝓓𝓪𝓻𝓴 𝓔𝔂𝓮𝓼 . ݁˖

song: 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦 - 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘯

assassin!lee minho x afab!reader // word count: 4.8k

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: dark content (do not read if uncomfortable), kidnapping, drugging, minor character death, mentions of blood

note from author: this is my first published work after a long hiatus, hope you like it <3

Minho has never been proud of what he is. It is just the cards that life dealt him, the product of his raising. It is what’s expected of him. He was proud, however, to be the best assassin in his family. He lived to see the glimmer of resentment in his father’s eyes whenever he got to the kill first. Minho was always smarter, always stealthier, always quicker, and always cleaner. His father began Minho’s training at the mere age of 4 and by the age of 7, Minho had successfully poisoned a rank 3 target. He always swore to surpass his father, for if he had to be what he was, he would always make sure his father regretted it.

Minho’s siblings were decent assassins, but only his eldest brother came close to his skill. As the youngest of four, Minho literally fought to survive his childhood. For as his father says, “if any of you are weak enough to get killed by one another, you’re too weak to be in this family.” Minho has never attempted on his siblings, another trait that he is proud to provoke his father with. Minho didn’t need to prove that he was the best.

It was currently 8:21 pm. Minho was perched on the rooftop of an apartment, overlooking the city. He enjoyed the view. The dark sky contrasted with the lights of the city, as if the stars had all descended to the streets, leaving the sky to remain as an endless void. After a deep inhale, he glanced at his watch again. 8:23. In seven minutes, an heiress to some royal family (Minho never cared for these details of the jobs) would arrive home for the night. And that was when Minho would make his move.

A chill swept through the air, carrying the scent of the freshly baked croissants at the next door bakery. Minho’s beanie and jacket kept him warm, along with his gloves and face mask. But, as he shifted slightly, the icy blade pressed into his skin at his waistline sent a different chill through his body. Maybe he wasn’t proud of his career, but he couldn’t deny there was a rush of excitement with every job he accepted. It was in his blood. He was born to be a monster.

8:28. He heard the growling engine growing louder, shifting himself flat against the roof to avoid detection as the car pulled up. Even being 3 stories up, Minho’s observant eyes peered over the tiles to inspect the scene below. The driver got out of the car, heading to the rear passenger door and opening it. And out stepped you.

Minho never showed emotion. His ruthless family would use it against him, so he learned to keep his expression neutral and his body language in check. But when he saw you, his eyebrows betrayed him with the slightest twitch. You were adorned in a luxurious black gown, the chiffon skirt cascading around your legs, the sleeveless bodice framing your figure. Minho blinked to clear his thoughts, watching as you entered the apartment, another man getting out of the car and tailing you. An employee of your father’s, most likely.

Minho remembers the job description: “mafia family heir, to be captured for ransom, then killed. Rank 1.” The ranks justified the difficulty of a job. But rank 1s were saved for kings and queens themselves or other jobs of that severity. Family members and heirs were usually ranked 2 or 3, depending on the security and relations. So what made you special? His curiosity urged him to get closer to you and, convincing himself that it was simply the next move for the job, his body complied.

Minho slid down the roof slanting onto the upper balcony, swiftly tucking into the shadows again. Like the professional he was, Minho had already surveyed the apartment and knew the layout. A 3-story apartment in a small community, tucked away between other similar apartments and a bakery. Expensive, but relatively hidden, blending in with the other buildings along the street. He quickly picked the lock, taking advantage of the precious minutes between your employee disabling the alarm and resetting it as he slipped inside.

He had expected a bedroom as luxurious as the dress you wore, but was surprised to find the place rather simply designed and decorated. You had books and clothes scattered about, an easel in the corner, a stuffed rabbit on your bed. It looked…normal. Not like the bedroom of a mafia heir. And he’s seen a couple of those in his life.

Footsteps ascending the stairs broke him from his thoughts. He carefully crouched behind the easel. Even if you had turned the lights on, the shadow from the bookcase next to him was perfect cover. He had planned every move accordingly. And now, he waited.

Minho listened carefully to the noises outside the door, pleased to find the walls weren’t thin. He strained his ears to pick up on your words. You sounded upset, but he couldn’t make out why. Minho didn’t flinch as you flung the door open, nor when you slammed it shut and turned on the light. He sat perfectly still, eyes just being able to see your figure between the easel and the corner of the bookcase.

You threw yourself onto the bed, hands working to rid yourself of your jewelry. Minho could easily swipe your earrings after his job was done - they were obviously worth a hefty penny. But Minho never cared for money. His grandfather started this family business for money, then fame once his children showed aptitude to follow his footsteps. His father continued the legacy for the same reasons. His siblings would’ve swiped your earrings, your necklace, your rings, and hell maybe even the gown after they were done with you. But not Minho. He only cared about getting the job done.

You stood, catching his full attention again. His eyes followed your every move as you made your way to your closet. You slipped your heels off, throwing them into the corner before grabbing a tee shirt. Your delicate hands reached for the zipper at the back of your dress. Minho politely shifted his gaze, keeping his pupils glued on your calves as the dress plummeted to the floor. He watched you throw the oversized shirt on in his peripherals, the hem reaching the tops of your thighs, not leaving much to the imagination. He tried to avoid seeing your underwear, not understanding why he was feeling some sense of nerves.

Minho has been a professional assassin for over a decade. He had forgotten what nerves were. But as you turned slightly, his eyes took in your face up close, and his heart skipped a beat. You were beautiful. As you grew closer, Minho’s muscles tensed. His fingers naturally found the hilt of his knife. He was a professional, he wouldn’t let you distract him from his job, no matter how much your eyes made his pulse quicken.

Suddenly, your door swung open, stopping you in your tracks. “Y/n, your father is on the pho-“

“I don’t want to talk to him.” You hissed, returning to plop on your bed.

The man from the car took a tentative step into the room. “Will you please not be difficult, Y/n. You knew this day would come.”

You shoved your face into the pillows with a groan. If Minho wasn’t perfectly controlled, he would’ve let a chuckle slip out. Minho had only ever met two types of heirs: stuck up and spoiled or meek and polite. Your childishness was interesting. The man tried to sneak closer to you with the phone, but you jumped up and shoved him out the door. “Leave me alone!” The door slammed shut. Minho watched you return to the bed, grabbing your rabbit and sighing deeply.

Hundreds of jobs over the years. Hundreds of faces that Minho has seen, lives he’s heard, and not one sprouted an ounce of interest in him. So, why you? Why was he curious about what was troubling you? Why were you a rank 1? What was going on here?

Minho sat, still as a rock and in total silence, as the night went on. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, rabbit tucked in your arms. The noises of the house quieted as well and finally he slid out of his hiding spot. He stalked over to your bed, trying to deny himself admiring your features. Your hair fanned out on the pillow like a halo.

Minho grabbed the small bag of powder from his pocket, spreading the substance over his palm. “I’m sorry.” He breathed, holding his palm to your mouth and nose while his other hand quickly grabbed your wrists. You woke up with a start, immediately fighting, but to no avail. Minho’s was much stronger than he looked. After a few moments, the drug kicked in a you lay limp in his grasp. Minho took a damp towelette to his glove, pocketing it, then gathered you in his arms.

You woke up in a daze. The room was blurry and your head pounded. You tried to turn, realizing you couldn’t move. Before you could attempt to speak, a voice made you jump. “Finally awake?” You blinked until the blurriness faded, leaving you in a small and dark room with a strange man staring back at you. “How do you feel?”

Still confused, you shook your head, only to wince when it pounded. “Uh,” your own voice startled you. It was hoarse.

The man stepped closer. “I thought so. The drug is relatively harmless, but can cause dehydration.” He is gloved hand reached out a glass of water towards you. “Here.”

You stubbornly turned your head, awareness setting in as you felt the ropes binding your wrists behind you. You fought the panic rising in your chest. You needed to be brave. “Who are you?” You asked, craning your neck to look around, seeing you were lying on a bed. “And where am I?”

To your surprise, the man chuckled. You tried to ignore how charming his voice was. “Drink some water and I’ll tell you.” His tone was casual, as if kidnapping you was just another Tuesday for him. It irritated you.

“No.” You spat. “You probably poisoned it.”

Again, the man laughed. “I’ve had several hours to kill you, my dear.” He shifted you into a seated position before guiding the water to your lips. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have woken up just now.” You pouted at his words. He was right. Reluctantly, you put your lips to the rim of the glass, allowing him to pour the water onto your tongue. You immediately felt better as the pounding left your head. “There you go,” he praised.

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warmth that spread inside you. You couldn’t even tell what he looked like, beanie and mask only leaving his eyes on display, but they were enthralling. Those dark eyes watched you intently, reading you with curiosity and amusement. You looked around the room, breaking the eye contact before you could be pulled into their depths. “Where am I?”

He set the glass down on the bedside table. “My room.”

“Your room?” You asked, unable to hide your surprise. “And who might you be?”

“That’s a secret.” He smirked, enjoying the annoyance in your features.

You bit your tongue. He seemed calm and friendly, and yet, there was an aura of danger surrounding him. You needed to be careful. “So,” you drawled, checking out the rest of the room, more so to avoid his eyes. There wasn’t much to it apart from a large bookcase next to a desk and the bed you currently resided on. You did notice a closet in the corner. But, no windows. Where were you? “Why have you kidnapped me, then?”

He sighed, catching you off guard. Coming from a mafia family, you had always been warned of people coming after you for various reasons. Money, revenge against your father, etc. You knew of people attempting to hurt you before, but their attempts were always disrupted by your guards. Your father had never left you alone for fear of this day, always guards around and within your apartment, his most trusted friend to always monitor your whereabouts. You were actually rather impressed that the man in front of you now had managed to pull off this stunt, the first to ever succeed.

Still, you’d always pictured the faces of the attempted kidnappers and assassins over the years. All you could imagine was different forms of evil. Angry, disgusting, maniacal, faces without remorse for what they were doing. But when you gazed upon the eyes of the man in front of you, you saw none of those things. What you saw was a bored and uninterested face, but if you allowed your eyes to linger on his for just a moment too long, you saw what was almost…sadness.

Finally, the man spoke, breaking you from your trance. “There’s a ransom for your return.” He was careful in his words, not to give away too many details about the job or his employer. Again, a professional. “I will keep you here until that ransom is delivered and then return you home safely.” He didn’t like lying to you, but he wasn't going to tell you this ended in your death. ‘to be captured for ransom, then killed…’ A bitter taste sat on Minho’s tongue. To request your murder even after receiving the ransom money, that was a clear giveaway of a personal grudge. His father had given him this job, but who was the employer?

Minho was a professional, always seeing the job to the end. But goddamn him if he couldn’t shake this feeling that something wasn’t right. He watched you intently, finally letting himself admire you. A professional he was, but evil he wasn’t. You were beautiful, innocent. Minho knew evil and you were not that. You didn’t deserve this fate. He had to think of a plan.

“So, this is for money.” you groaned, looking up at the ceiling. “Of course. Very cliche of you, I was actually hoping for better.”

That comment caught Minho off-guard and he snickered. You were different, indeed. “It wasn’t my plan, dear.” He fought the urge to move the stray hair from your face. “Just the job I took.”

You shouldn’t be talking to this man, your kidnapper, so casually. You should be stoic, or fighting, or scared, or something of a normal reaction to being kidnapped. But even with his dark presence, there was an air of ease with him. “You do this for a living then? Kidnapping?”

Minho hummed. “It is part of my skill set, I suppose.” His eyes never left you. It should be unsettling, you shouldn’t be enjoying his attention.

The room was quiet as you pondered which question to ask next. As you watched his eyes, you noticed the aging in them, as if he has seen many things, lived many lifetimes. But the surrounding skin pointed to a man rather young. Your curiosity got the better of you. “How old are you?”

Minho hesitated. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t really talk to anyone, actually. He kept to himself and his books. The conversation taking a personal turn made him uncomfortable, but he was tempted to share himself with you. Still, he had to protect his identity. “20.”

Your eyes widened. “Youre only a year older than me?”

Before the conversation could continue, Minho’s phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket, walking away from you to answer the call. “She’s awake.” Minho spoke first.

“The ransom has been posted. Await my signal for the return.” His dad was always straight to the point.

“Understood.” Minho hung up the phone, returning to your side, only to stop in his tracks. The way you looked up at him, eyes wide and questioning, caused a pang in his heart. You were causing him to feel so many things in such a short amount of time. You were dangerous, you would break the facade Minho has spent over a decade perfecting. He couldn’t have that. “Your ransom has been posted. I’ll return you home once it’s paid.”

You should be happy to hear the news, but you weren’t. You didn’t want to go home, where every move was monitored, every decision made for you. Besides, you wanted to know more about this mysterious man with his captivating eyes.

At that moment, your stomach let out an embarrassing growl. Heat rose to your cheeks as you quickly looked away from his amused gaze. “Are you hungry?” You wanted to hide, deny it, but your stomach gave you away again. With a chuckle, Minho turned towards the door. “I’ll be right back.”

A good few moments passed (you had no idea how much time in actuality since there was no clock or windows) before Minho returned to the room, a steaming bowl in his hands. He sat next to you on the bed. You peered into the bowl and inhaled. Wow, the soup smelled and looked amazing. Minho gathered some of the soup in a spoon before bringing it to your lips. The act was too intimate, too kind for the situation you were in, but it surprisingly felt natural. Minho fed you until the bowl was empty, then gave you more water. The comfortable silence that fell upon you two was finally broken by your voice. “So, you cook took?”

Minho gave a small chuckle. “My family doesn’t exactly cook, so I learned some basic recipes.” You waited for him to continue speaking, but he seemed to end it there. You wanted to know more. What was his family like? What kind of childhood would one have to go through to choose this kind of lifestyle? You decided against asking more. The man before you was shrouded in mystery and you had a desire to discover every detail about him.

Minho’s eyes met yours, catching you blatantly watching him. But this time, you didn’t turn away. You let yourself be pulled into those depths. You didn’t even know this man’s name, and he had kidnapped you for the matter, but you felt an irresistible pull towards him. He must have felt the same, taking a deep sigh before his gloved hand reached out to your face. You froze as his fingers grazed your cheekbone, guiding a stray hair behind your ear.

Your eyes were locked with his, breathing stalled as you waited for his next move. Instead, you jumped at the buzz of Minho’s cellphone. He was quick to answer it, leaving you stranded on the bed and walking to the corner of the room. “It’s done.” His father’s voice traveled through the phone. “Finish the job.”

Minho’s jaw tightened, but his tone remained neutral. “Understood.” He hung up the phone, returning it to his pocket. He was just ordered to kill you. He had always finished his jobs, quickly, perfectly, and without hesitation. But as he glanced back to your form on his bed, he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling in his chest. You looked up at him, eyes round and hopeful. Minho has never regretted what he was, until now.

“Your ransom’s been paid.” Minho stated. You quickly noticed his change in demeanor, as subtle as it was. Something was off. You patiently waited for him to continue. Finally, Minho spoke again. “I’ve been ordered to kill you.”

You feel panic rise in your chest. Suddenly you remember the reality of your situation: kidnapped, bound, at the mercy of a dangerous stranger. Minho hated the way quickly your gaze had changed, the admiration and curiosity being replaced by pure fear. “But, you said I would be returned home after the payment.” You pleaded.

Minho sighed heavily again. “The job was to kidnap you until the ransom had been paid and then kill you.” His eyes stayed glued to the floor, the unfamiliar feeling of shame overwhelming him.

“You lied to me!” Your outburst forced his gaze back to you, the image before him shattering the heart he always questioned having. Tears cascaded down your cheeks. Because of him. It felt so wrong. “I actually trusted you, but this whole time has been a lie!” Your sobs rang through the room. Minho’s chest ached for you. This was wrong.

Minho reached your side in a heartbeat. You jumped at his speed, trying to move away from him, but his hands grasped your shoulders to keep you in place. You refused to look at him, disgusted with yourself for being so foolish. ��Y/n,” Minho started. You shook your head. You wanted nothing more to do with the monster in front of you. His hand gripped your jaw, gently forcing you to face him. “Y/n. Look at me.” Your eyes finally met his. Those inviting depths. You wanted to believe they could pull you in, keep you safe. Minho’s thumb wiped a tear off your cheek. “I am NOT going to hurt you.”

He pulled you into a hug, surprising you. His strong arms held you firm until the shaking in your shoulders calmed down. You felt his warm, calloused hands slide down your arms to your bound wrists. When did he remove his gloves? A frigid object sent another wave of panic through you before you realized he had only cut the rope from your wrists. He holds you for another moment before pulling away, hands remaining on your arms, his full attention on your face. “I did not lie to you. I will return you to your family.”

You should be relieved, but you only had more racing thoughts. This was his job. “So, you’re an assassin?”

The question pulled the corners of Minho’s lips up. “I am.” He shouldn’t continue, but he needed to regain your trust. “I come from a family of assassins.”

You let that sink in for a moment. “So, if you return me, you would have failed your job?” Minho gave a curt nod. “What will that mean for you?”

Minho paused, debating how to answer your question. “I have never failed a job before.” He stated matter of factly. “My family will never let me live it down, my reputation will take a huge hit.” He saw the emotion begin to rise in your eyes again. “But that doesn’t matter. I will return you home safely. I promise, Y/n.”

You nodded, believing his words. Your arms wrapped around him and you properly hugged. He held you firm, protectively. He smelled like cedar and you melted into his hold. “May I know your name?” You whispered into the soft skin at his neck.

His breath tickled your cheek and you felt him smile through his mask. He leaned back just slightly, just enough so that when he removed his mask you could get a good look at him. Wow. He was nothing like you had pictured assassins to look. Dark, cat-like eyes and defined cheek bones, soft petals for lips. He was beautiful.

You had a strong urge to cup his face, but resisted as you mentally kicked yourself for having such a thought. Instead, the man leaned in even closer, lips reaching yours in the faintest of kisses, just shy of actually being counted as one but exciting your body just the same. “Minho,” he whispered. “My name is Minho.”

“Minho.” You repeated before his lips finally met yours in a proper kiss. As he distracted you, you couldn’t stop your hand from finding his cheek, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. This seemed to please him, his own hands snaking around your waist and shoulders, holding you close.

The streets are quiet as the night blanketed the town. You could see your apartment around the corner, guards stationed at the door. You walked along the cobblestone street towards your home. Minho kept to the shadows, but you felt him watching you, making you feel safe.

When you came closer to the lamp in front of your apartment, you saw your father’s consigliere open the door as if he was leaving. “Y/n?“ He stopped in his tracks, shocked. You entered the light of the street lamp, greeting your father’s consigliere.

Minho watched you from the shadows. He didn’t plan to return home right away. He couldn’t shake the feeling of something still being off, and throughout the years, his instincts have always held true and kept him safe. So, he listened to them. He was perched on your rooftop, just like the night he took you when your scream reached his ears. His body reacting before his mind’s command as he swooped into your bedroom. There you were facing your father’s consigliere, a knife in the man’s hand pointed right at you. Minho lunged, gripping his own knife, the blade glistening in the moonlight, hungry for blood.

In a blink, the consigliere was on the ground, knife thrown across the room and Minho’s knife at his throat. “It was you.” Minho growled, everything clicking in his mind. “You posted the job on Y/n. You wanted her killed.” Minho pressed the knife into the man’s skin. A droplet of crimson formed, igniting the predator inside Minho. It took every ounce of his strength to not push further and finish the job, reminding himself that you were watching.

“This good-for-nothing brat doesn’t deserve her father’s riches.” The man spat, wincing as the knife cut even more. “Yes, I listed her as a rank 1 and was told the best assassin was assigned to the job.” Minho saw red. His muscles shake as he used every ounce of strength to hold himself back, but every word from the man made it more difficult a task. “Her death was ensured and guaranteed to not be traced back to me. And I’m guessing you’re the said assassin? Pathetic.”

Minho withdrew his knife long enough to punch the man in the jaw. “In the mafia world, you are closest to her father. You are practically family to her. She trusted you!” Another punch. You watched as Minho’s knuckles broke the man’s nose, blood cascading down his face. “Why list her death on the market?”

“Because,” the man choked, spitting blood. “With her out of the picture, her father may actually be able to focus on his work! He has a significant business to run.” He coughed, blood spattering on Minho’s mask. “Her mother was just as much as a distraction, so I had gotten rid of her as well.” At your gasp, Minho’s heart sank. “At least that assassin could finish the job!”

Minho leaned closer to the man’s face. From where you stood, you could no longer see either of their faces, but Minho’s aura was seething with rage. “What a worthless excuse for a human.” Minho hissed. “I will spend the rest of my life waiting to see you in hell.” And with that, Minho slit the man’s throat. He had purposely positioned his body so you couldn’t see the act.

Minho stood and you ran over to him. He held you tight, wanting to protect you from everything in this world, everything he was. “I need to leave.” He whispered into your hair. “The police will be here soon.”

“No,” you begged, unable to let him go. “Stay. Please.”

Minho tsked, pulling you away but keeping his hands on your shoulders. “Your family wouldn’t exactly approve of an assassin living amongst them.” Minho half-joked.

”Then take me with you.” You pleaded. You heard the faint sirens outside, you still had a moment before the police arrived. “I don’t want to stay here.”

“No.” Minho said, voice stern. “You have a life here. I can’t take you away from that.”

“Minho!” His eyes softened, searching yours as he waited for your next words. “My father arranged to have me married off.” Minho’s eyes widened and you noticed that rage swirling in their depths. “The dude is awful and my father doesn’t care that I’m unhappy. I have no life here. Please.”

The sirens grew closer, but you leaned forward, lips meeting his own as you desperately tried to share your unspoken words through the kids. You didn’t love the man you were to be married to. But you loved the man in front of you now. The one that took you away and kept you say. The one you trusted to do it all over again.

The deafening sirens were on your street. Minho reluctantly broke the kiss, lifting you into his arms and carrying you onto the balcony. He would do as you ask and take you far away. He knew both of your families would come looking for you two, but he wasn’t worried. For once, he was proud of what he was. Because what he was, the horrible skills that he has spent his entire life developing, he would now use to keep you safe. He was born this way so that you may be his, forever.

©𝗻𝗼𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗳𝗲𝗶 <𝟯 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱. 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆 𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺. 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺 𝗺𝘆 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀 𝗮𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗼𝘄𝗻.

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eeboshmeebo · 4 months ago

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🌠Late Night Lovin'🌌

Totally didn't stay up until way too late in the night to write this. 😅

As always, Monoma Neito x Reader.

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

🌃

You looked out your dorm room window after studying (reading fanfiction) for some time. It was already dark outside, with stars glimmering in the rare darkness. There was a blackout in the city and most of the other students were asleep right now, but you knew that a few of them were still awake.

The dorms didn't have the best soundproofing, really... so maybe half of your class was awake and at a sleepover for some reason. Whatever. However, there was one person you knew you wanted to share the night with.

Monoma Neito. Despite how off-putting he seems to everyone else, all you could focus on were those round, pinchable cheeks, hair that you couldn't resist touching, firm hands that had such a delicate grip to them at times, that youthful voice...

Yeah, you had set your mind on one thing pretty easily.

You'd sneak to the roof with Monoma, maybe as a stargazing date if things went well.

You packed up anything you deemed necessary; pillows, one blanket, cushions to sit on, a large plushie to share, and a few more things to snack or sip on the roof, packing them neatly in a backpack.

On second thought... you popped a star mint into your mouth to suck on for the journey. Hopefully to calm your nerves.

With everything packed up, you set off for Monoma's dorm!

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

🌌

Monoma was studying battle tactics in his room, a corkboard with various papers and notes pinned onto it having even more things pinned to it as the minutes ticked by.

Not being invited to the sleepover only gave him more time to strategize on how to defeat the A class! Their winning streak had to end eventually!

...

His hand paused mid-pinning a note as he heard laughter from another dorm. Distant, just like everyone else.

...no matter, he would make them see that B class was leagues better than A class, and everyone would spend more time with him! A wonderful pla-

He turned his head quickly at the sound of knocking, not bothering to clean up the mess in his room as he just kicked it around to make a clear pathway to his door before unlocking and opening it.

"Hello? What is it that you need from me, Monoma?"

Maybe he was speaking a bit fancier because he was a bit tired. It didn't matter, because his mind finally registered that he was actually being visited by... you.

"Wait a minute, I thought you were invited to the sleepover!" His eyes, once bleary, widened with the energy supplied by his surprise.

You had comfortable clothing on, a backpack, and a large yellow kitten plushie in your arms, definitely not a sight he was expecting tonight. He was expecting Kendo to remind him to stay in his room or something like that.

"I wasn't. Now, wanna go to the roof for stargazing tonight, starboy? I got everything with me, like snacks, drinks, a blanket, pillows..."

He looked to the side as you slightly moved to peer into his room.

"It's- it's normally much cleaner, okay?" He protested at the intense gaze you were looking at him with, ignoring the tingling heat that rose from his shoulders to his neck.

"I'll take your word for it. Though, you didn't answer my question. Do you want to go stargazing on the roof with me tonight?"

The way you had an aura of expectation around you... maybe he was just hallucinating from staying up for so long, but still. It was you. And he won't have to spend tonight alone.

"You know what? Sure. Just this once."

The way you beamed with joy made his heart do funny little stops that he'd get checked later at the nurse's office. For now, though? He'd let you lead the way.

And maybe he'll let you do it next time, too.

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

🌠

On the roof of the dorms, a breeze blew by...

But you both were cuddled up together in one blanket. And sipping some tea that was warm from being in a thermos while watching the stars.

"I think that one just went out."

"Which one? I was focusing on the Big Dipper lookalike on the left."

Monoma didn't try to find it despite asking, and instead he leaned onto you. His friends normally did this with him, so this intimacy was supposed to be normal. But why did his heart quicken just because you interlocked fingers with him underneath the blanket?

He could feel how quick your pulse was as well. That thought was quickly cut off by something else, however.

"I'm looking for a shooting star to make a wish right now."

Now that intrigued him, more than his clammy palm since you didn't let go of his hand the entire time.

"A wish? What do you need a wish for?" He asked, yet he was even more intrigued by that mischievous spark in your eyes.

"That's a secret~" You paused, before speaking again. "Well, a secret until I actually spot one."

He cast his gaze downwards while you kept your head up. Knowing his luck with stuff like this, he probably wouldn't see-

"I wish for you to be my boyfriend!"

He sputtered and looked up, barely glimpsing the shooting star before it faded.

"W- wha-!? Aren't you supposed to keep wish- uh, wishes to yourself?"

You grinned at him at his response.

"Well, some wishes need to be said out loud... so, what'll it be, starboy?"

...

Damn. He couldn't resist that nickname, now that he would forever associate tonight with it.

"Yes, I'll be your... your boyfriend."

He hated how shy he was during this, what if you were disappointed by how meek he was? What if you broke it off immediately? What if-

A kiss that tasted like Rainier cherries and lavender tea stopped his mental spiraling immediately.

It was shocking at first and briefer than he'd have liked since you pulled away a few seconds after, the blush overtaking his face as you licked your lips.

"A kiss to seal the deal, starboy!"

Hmm. Maybe he didn't have to take initiative all the time, after all.

"Sure thing, supernova~"

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

🌇

Your classmates found you cuddled up with your new boyfriend on the roof.

There were pictures taken, courtesy of Mina and Hakagure with the inclusion of Kaibara with his polaroid camera, before they finally woke you both up.

You both got light punishments for staying on the roof all night, namely washing the dishes, but it was worth it.

So worth it.

✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪✪

#monoma neito #mha monoma #neito monoma #bnha monoma #monoma x reader #monoma #neito monoma x reader #monoma neito x reader #The late night yearning is real guys 😔

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guttergators · 2 years ago

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#roof cleaners #roof cleaning service #roof cleaning #roof #roof cleaning worcester #worcestershire #best roof cleaning #best roof cleaning services #best roof cleaners #best roof cleaner service #worcester #uk

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brabblesblog · 1 year ago

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Ch 7: And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved.

Astarion has ascended, and she has stayed with him. Life in the Crimson Palace isn’t as idyllic as it seems. Is there a chance for their relationship to go back to how it was? Or is it too late for the Ascendant and his consort?

This series is about Ban, my Tav, and the Vampire Ascendant. Will be angst and smut, with sprinkles of fluff.

This fic is a softer take on Ascendant!Astarion and of the changes he undergoes after the rite. Can Ban handle the change, and if a chance came, would she choose to run? And can the Ascendant win her back in time? Inspired by the concept of vampire wives and that IGN interview with Larian that discussed the ascension.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

It is the day of the party, and Astarion slowly begins to find the side of himself he’s long hidden slipping out. Ban is all too happy to help.

Read on AO3.

Masterlist.

The party was about to start.

Ban had yet to show up to the ballroom, and Astarion felt himself getting impatient. As he waited, his mind drifted back to earlier in the day, when she’d arrived in the carriage he’d sent for her, dressed in the simplest clothes he’d seen her wear in a while.

Without his input, she had shifted back to her old wardrobe, dressing down and picking more utilitarian styles, even in public. When he’d welcomed her into the palace, he hadn’t been able to help but curl his lip at her choice in clothing.

“My love. Why don’t you change into something more comfortable? Your clothes are right where you left them.” One glance at her face shut him up and ended that line of inquiry.

He wanted to hover over her, follow her around the grounds to see her reaction to the gardens and the other finished rooms as she walked through them. The palace had been her pet project for so long that he was quite sure that as much as she claimed to hate it, there was some affection there. However he held back, instead walking with her to their former bedroom.

“You are, of course, free to roam the grounds. You could take a walk in the gardens. The flowers are in full bloom.” He made no offer to join her.

She opened the door and headed inside, then blinked in surprise.

Is that…?

Yes. It was.

That ragged, dirty blanket he’d dragged along throughout their adventure. She hadn’t seen it since…

Since he’d ascended.

It was now laying on the floor of the bedroom, along with a pillow. It was cleaner now, having been washed at least, but it was definitely the same blanket, down to that small tear on the corner.

Before she could speak, Astarion walked in briskly and turned to face her, hiding the view of the blanket behind his legs.

“I’ll have your tea and lunch served wherever in the palace you wish to dine. Simply ask anyone, and they will provide. I will personally be overseeing the preparations for tonight, but I shall be in the dining room at noon. You’re welcome to join me.” The words came out in a nervous rush.

Ban bit the inside of her cheek, weighing her next move. She took a step forward and closed her eyes briefly. Just a quick test, she told herself. Her hand reached out before she could think too much, taking Astarion’s hand in her own.

His first instinct was to flinch. He braced, fully expecting to hear the loud bang that would accompany his body being flung away again, but it didn't happen. His eyes widened, meeting Ban’s as she opened hers.

“Just testing it,” she said, “Wouldn’t want to go to the ball unprepared and have you flying in front of everyone. That would be humiliating.”

He managed to muster enough presence of mind to nod, but hadn’t said much else. She touched me. He looked at his hand in hers, feeling her palm. She turned her hand to lay on top of his, her fingers finding his pulse.

His heart was racing. He couldn’t hide it from her, just like he couldn’t hide the blanket on the floor, or his desperate, pitiful need for her. He was frozen, a war raging in his head. The Ascendant wanted to grab her, kiss her, take her, but Astarion - her Astarion - won out.

He cleared his throat. “Does this mean that the spell is gone? I can touch you?” He heard the nervous lilt in his voice, but he couldn’t keep it out.

“Yes, but I can bring it back up the moment I want to.”

Their hands were still linked, her fingers still feeling his pulse. Before he’d ascended, she had always liked listening to his heart, at the way it sped up, just for her.

He covered her hand with his, sandwiching it between his palms. She had derailed his train of thought yet again. He had been planning to be his usual self today, but she had wormed her way through the chinks in his armor with one simple gesture.

She had touched him willingly. And then she’d held his heart in her hand. He despised it, but at the same time also reveled in it.

Ban saw it, how his gaze went from their joined hands to her face again, his eyes round and wide. It was a look she hadn’t seen often since his ascension and it melted her traitorous heart. She decided to give him a little break from the intimacy, an out so he wouldn’t get overwhelmed and lash out.

“Is the offer of better clothes still available? I think I wouldn’t mind roaming the gardens for a little bit.”

He relaxed, content to slip his mask back on again. That had felt a little too raw. “Of course. I have made some alterations to the clothes you left here, pet. I hope you don’t mind.”

He reached for the nearby closet, opening the door and taking out one of her old outfits without even looking. It was the most recent piece he’d added embroidery to in his free time. He held it out for her to see.

The backless extravaganza, the vendor had called it. They both remembered purchasing it when they’d first made it to Baldur’s Gate. Astarion had wanted to steal it for her, but she’d made him purchase it instead. The memory made him smile wistfully.

“Just buy it,” she said, laughing. “Or else I’m not wearing it.”

He scowled. “Darling. You know the coin I’m buying it with is stolen, right? What difference would it make?”

“I like the idea of you parting with your coin for me.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him playfully, and just like that, he reached for his coin purse.

“I hate you,” he mumbled as he paid.

Releasing the memory, Astarion raised the pant section of the outfit. The right leg now had roses embroidered on it. Ban took it from Astarion’s hands, holding the work closer to her face. She’d known he enjoyed embroidering, and had seen it on his clothes and underwear before, but she had never seen him engage in it since the rite.

It was beautiful, and she didn’t mind saying so. “You do very fine work,” she said, her hands reverent as they ran over the flowers. “Thank you.”

If only he had done this type of thing before she’d left. But it was too late for that now.

The side of his lip curled up in a half-smile. “I had some time on my hands,” he said simply. That, and too many things to forget.

As Ban moved to put the outfit on the bed, she walked past Astarion and saw the blanket again. Carefully she leaned down, picking it up along with the pillow. He almost protested, but stopped as she placed them on the bed along with her outfit.

“The floor never did wonders for your back, Astarion.”

His eyes darkened a little, feeling a bit cornered by the path the conversation had taken. He crossed his arms over his chest, closing himself off.

“The pretty thing I brought home last night wanted to sleep over, so I let him kip out on the floor.”

Considering that the bed was pristine and not slept in, Ban highly doubted that but merely nodded. The Ascendant straightened up.

“Well.” He clapped his hands together once. “I shall be off, then. I hope to see you at lunch.”

As he turned to leave, Ban gripped his wrist. The touch made him shiver involuntarily, the sensation sending a jolt of electricity through his body.

She leaned in, smiled, and kissed his cheek - his reward for behaving relatively nicely today.

It was a quick, chaste move, but Astarion felt like he might swoon. He mastered himself swiftly and looked at her with a smirk.

“What was that for, my treasure?” His voice oozed with false, playful innocence, as he attempted to sexualize the moment in order to process it. He could not even begin to think about it in other terms without falling apart.

“Just a taste, my lord, of things to come your way if you behave.”

The Ascendant bristled. How dare she dangle herself and her affection in front of him like that! He deserves it - is even possibly entitled to it. But he knew that if he pushed back, she'd just bring her wards up and he wouldn’t be able to touch her again. He would probably rather die than have that occur.

The spawn deep inside him also knew it was a sign of trust from her. The fact that she had touched his hand and kissed his cheek of her own volition could be the first step in winning her back, and he wasn’t about to squander that.

“I’ll play along if it’s worth the reward.” He deftly maneuvered himself so that he was leaning over her, invading her space, a subtle but unmissable attempt to shift the tide of power his way. “What… can I expect to receive?” He trailed a finger over Ban’s shoulder to her collarbone.

“You’ll have to find out when you earn it,” she said simply, meeting his gaze head on. She no longer cowered or bowed to the Ascendant’s will, and to his surprise, he found that resistance overwhelmingly attractive.

His eyes locked onto her lips for one second, letting her know exactly what he was thinking. Then he pulled away. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

He’d been perusing paperwork at the dining table when she finally walked in. Astarion immediately put the parchment down and let his eyes roam over her body, taking in the sight of her in the skintight outfit. Every muscle and curve was very much defined with little left to the imagination, which was exactly why he had wanted to steal the ensemble for her in the first place.

He aimed to say something a little sexy and teasing, but ended up being sincere. “You look beautiful.”

She beamed at him, a smile that instantly made him feel a little too pliant and soft. He stood to pull a chair out for her, much like he’d done when they’d still lived together.

She sighed as she sat. “The gardens are amazing. Exactly how I imagined them to be.” Ban looked a little rueful, and Astarion took that moment and decided to press his advantage.

“They’re still missing something,” he mused, keeping his tone light as his fingers snapped together and the servants quickly served Ban her lunch and tea. “This whole palace is missing something.”

She laughed, a sound he realized he would willingly lay down his life to hear again. “Before you say it’s missing me, Astarion, do know that I am extremely aware of when you’re fibbing.”

“Flattering you isn’t exactly lying, Ban,” he corrected, “I merely say what I perceive to be the truth.” He picked up his fork and began to eat his lunch, an appetizer of fresh salad as his first course. “The Crimson Palace does miss its mistress. It needs your touch to be a home again.”

He offered her a small grin, but it was less teasing and more pleasant than the ones he’d thrown her way in recent memory. He’d slipped last time, told her he missed her, and he was trying not to have that happen again. This new, unflinching resistance to his will both vexed and enamored the Ascendant, so much so that he found himself willing to do almost anything to have her back. He wouldn’t concede to letting the spawn inside him free rein, but he was more than willing to make concessions. Instead, he decided to take measured risks, allowing himself bit by little bit of vulnerability.

She looked around the room, in no hurry to settle in to eat her own salad. Although the taste of mortal food was flavorless and unfulfilling, it wasn’t repulsive and she did occasionally indulge, just to keep some sense of normalcy. But she didn’t look forward to it, either. Her observations turned up no significant changes to the room. The table was still too big for the two of them, but it didn’t feel as isolating as it used to.

Astarion watched her begrudgingly begin to eat, then frowned. “I have an idea,” he said. He’d been doing an awful amount of thinking in her absence.

He tapped his temple, a quick indication of what he was about to do, then reached for her mind. As she let him in, he took a bite of his own meal, letting her perceive what he could taste as he ate.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and not just because he'd thought of doing this when it had not even occurred to her; but because of why he was doing it. Something to think on later. For now, she chose to enjoy the moment, eating her salad and letting his taste buds do the work for her.

With her salad quickly finished, she severed the mental link. He paused, the sudden emptiness in his mind a little unpleasant, but he didn’t react. He looked over to her and was surprised to see something he hadn’t seen in ages - affection. It had been so long he almost didn't even recognize it.

“Thank you,” she said, for the second time today. It was almost odd for Ban to be doing so. Their relationship had taken such a horrible turn that every single favor each did for the other had been balanced and counterbalanced on a scale of favors and resentment. This was… refreshing. And sure, there was the promise of something at the end of it all, but really - Ban knew she’d end up with Astarion deep inside her anyway; she knew he knew this too. And so all these favors he’d been doing felt all the more sweet, especially since both the embroidery and the food tasting idea were obviously not off the cuff things.

Astarion offered her a crooked, goofy smile in response, for a moment utterly disarmed by her. That smile, the one she had only ever seen when he was still her Astarion, erased all sense of control she had; she leaned closer to put a hand on his knee.

The contact made him freeze, and immediately he waved a hand at the staff waiting nearby, a gesture that told them to clear the room. He turned to her, the smile turning into a more predatory grin.

“Have I behaved enough then, Ban?”

She silently scanned his face, then picked up her goblet and downed her actual lunch - fresh blood. Her tea remained untouched.

“The day isn’t quite finished yet. However, I’m sure a small aperitif wouldn’t go amiss.”

With her impressive strength, she turned Astarion’s chair towards hers. He was taken off guard. Months of having her acquiesce to his every whim and seeing her do little more than lounge around the house had made him forget just how strong his consort was. His breath caught in his throat, and he was stunned for a moment, unsure if he wanted to fight her or if he wanted to fuck her. He thought it was probably both.

His hands wrapped around each arm of the chair, as if he was holding on for dear life. She saw this and knew she’d won this round. Ban stood, parting his legs with her thigh, moving in close and leaning down to kiss him roughly.

With his head tipped back to accommodate her lips, Astarion groaned weakly when their tongues made contact. It had been so, so long. His cock began to harden, and he couldn't help the jerk of his hips, rubbing himself on her thigh. Immediately she drew her leg away, stepping back, and he growled at the loss of contact.

“Don’t be bad and ruin this, Astarion. Remember - I can end this the very moment I decide you’ve gone too far.”

The reminder was enough to cow the Ascendant, much to his shock. On a surface level, he thought he should fight back - this was not how things usually went for him. In fact, this had never happened, save for the times when he’d been forced to endure it for some of Cazador’s victims. But deeper within him, he felt an odd sense of ease - that he wouldn’t have to think or decide how to go about this, that Ban could and would guide him through it all.

A rather belated moment of clarity hit him then. Had he allowed her to have him like this back then, had he offered her his submission, shown her vulnerability in at least one area, their love might have not become so barren. She might never have left in the first place.

He forced his hips to still, staring up at her as she broke their kiss. That cocksure look in her eyes made his own cock throb, and he bit back the moan that was about to escape him. Ban saw him bite his lip and snickered. Before she proceeded, however, she leaned in, her expression shifting to one of concern. When they’d lived together they had made love every night and they had indulged in similar play, but the roles had been switched. She tried her best to do what he’d done for her back then, even though she hadn’t exactly appreciated it at the time.

“Are you amenable to this, Astarion? I need to know, or we can’t proceed.”

He understood the question, understood that she wasn't asking if his ego could take it. She was asking if he could handle it.

He gave her a nod. “I’m sure. To be honest, darling, I’ve barely experienced it this way. But better you than anyone else.”

Darling. Ban was pleased. He almost never used her old nickname, not if the Ascendant could get away with using pet, or treasure.

She nodded, then continued, “We need a surefire way for you to tell me when you’ve had enough. Shall we use the word I used before?”

Another nod from him and she was satisfied. Wordlessly she spread his thighs further apart with her hands, then knelt in the space between them.

Astarion looked down at her, his shirt suddenly feeling too hot and constricting, his cock fighting against the cloth of his trousers.

The only sound that came from his mouth was a broken groan, and she laughed again. The sight of him like this - legs spread and pliant, cock throbbing, waiting for her next move - it was something she thought she'd remember for eternity.

Ban moved forward, getting up on one knee to mouth at his jawline, tracing sloppy kisses down to his Adam's apple then to his collarbone. He shifted his torso closer to her, giving her access. The scent of bergamot filled her nose and she inhaled deeply; he had always smelled like home.

“Be a sweetheart and keep your hands on the chair.”

Astarion was only able to nod yet again, as her hands found the buttons of his shirt and slowly undid them. There really wasn’t much thought left in him, just her. Her presence, her hands stripping his clothes off, and that almost painful pulsing in his cock.

She finished undoing all the buttons and paused to admire her handiwork. “Beautiful,” she breathed, “I’ve wanted to do this since the fitting, Astarion. I won’t hide behind false words and bravado like you do. I missed you.”

His eyes locked on hers. He wanted to say it back, but the walls were still there. Instead, the Ascendant whined. It was a desperate, undignified sound, but he preferred to show her his lust rather than the contents of his heart.

That low whine sounded like music to Ban. She ran a hand down his chest, down to his abs, and then lower, wrapping her fingers around the outline of his cock. He gasped, his hips fighting the urge to buck, his body trembling with the sheer effort of it.

Ban rubbed him through his trousers, and she felt dampness where his tip was, an obvious sign of how much he was aching for her. She flicked her eyes up to his face, and the look of wanton desire and need on it was almost too much.

“Do you want me to suck you, my lord?” She teased. She squeezed a little roughly, eliciting another sweet groan from his throat.

“Yes.” The word came out in a hiss as he fought down his instinct to push back and reassert dominance.

“Repeat after me, then. ‘Ban, my love, please suck my cock’,” she said, still stroking him slowly, thoroughly enjoying the sight of him so desperately needy for her. She was wet too, but she could attend to her own needs later. Besides, this was only the start.

“Ban… my love. Please. Suck my cock.” He gritted out through clenched teeth. He found that it was getting easier and easier to relinquish control as he parted his legs further and shifted forward on his chair.

“Very good.”

She moved to undo the buttons of his trousers, reaching in to free his aching cock. The first contact with the chilly air made Astarion hiss, his head already sensitive and still leaking. A bead of precum formed at the tip, and Ban watched it for a moment, then leaned forward to playfully lick it up. The salty, musky taste was almost too good to resist, and for a moment she fought the urge to take all of him in immediately, anticipation and games be damned.

“Ban,” he gasped out as her tongue made contact, his voice a little higher than it usually was. He had his pride; he wouldn’t ever beg unless she forced him to. But the way he said her name was more than satisfactory to her.

She chuckled darkly, looking at his face. She made a point to lock eyes with him as she finally opened her mouth and slipped him inside, inch by painstaking inch.

The sight of her, of his beloved, taking him in almost made him come on the spot. It had been in his fantasies ever since she’d left, but the reality was utterly different from his dreams and memories.

Before, he had fucked her mouth, grabbed her hair while he pumped into her throat. But now he daren’t even move, knowing that if she chose, this would end painfully and embarrassingly for him. All it would take would be for her to think of rescinding her consent and he’d go flying. So he held still, refusing to analyze why it felt so right to surrender to her, to let her rule over him like this.

“You’re thinking too much,” she said, pulling away for a moment. “Just enjoy it.”

He hesitated briefly, opening his mouth as if to reply, but she swallowed down his cock again and his words were lost to a loud, needy moan.

Ban sucked his cock the way she knew he liked best, her tongue running over that delectable vein at the top, and then sliding to put more focus on the tip. She could feel and taste him leaking still, his flavor filling her with want. But she knew she had to be patient.

Astarion throbbed in her mouth and whimpered again. The trembling of his body told her that he was getting close to losing control, and she stopped her ministrations. “You can’t come,” she said, “Not until later. Like I said, this is only a taste.”

He managed to glare at her, but there was little heat in it. He swallowed and then spoke. “Then I won’t.” He couldn’t help but challenge her a little, however, lips curling as he continued. “But I’m sure you won’t be able to resist yourself, pet. You’ll want me to come.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Ever the brat, hm?” She playfully slapped a thigh. “Seems like you’re done playing, with that tone you just took.”

Ban pulled back, satisfied with her handiwork. Astarion’s ass was as far forward on the seat as possible, cock still rock hard and proudly jutting out from his hips. It was glistening, slick with her saliva, twitching at the loss of stimulation and the cold air rushing over it.

Astarion was still glaring at her, but he huffed in resignation. “Fine. I’ll…” he had to fight himself for a split second, “I’ll do better later, little love.”

Despite himself, he’d been enjoying her dominion over him immensely. As she pulled away, he exhaled roughly, knowing by her gaze that he had little choice but to wait. He wrapped a hand around his cock, feeling its velvety length throb in his grasp. He was momentarily tempted to just come this way, but he knew that if he waited, the reward would be all the sweeter. So instead he tucked himself in, buttoning up his trousers, realizing he didn’t really mind having to wait.

Ban watched this with dark amusement. “I finished my lunch,” she said, showing him her empty goblet. “But I wouldn’t mind tasting more food again, if you don’t mind.”

Astarion smiled. He didn’t mind at all. This, he could easily give her. As he buttoned up his shirt and called for the next course, they linked minds.

The rest of the meal was spent in companionable silence, the sharing of sensations taking precedence over anything else. Astarion made sure to chew slowly, savoring each morsel for her.

And if she could also read his deeper thoughts? If she could read how much he’d enjoyed having her take control and dismantle his ego?

Maybe he didn’t mind that very much, either.

Tonight could prove eventful if he could keep his wits about him, and he swore to all the gods that he would. He couldn’t afford not to.

Bringing his mind back to the present, Astarion watched as the guests started mingling and the wine started to flow. The Vampire Ascendant, dressed in his blood-red suit, stood away from everyone, near the ballroom door, waiting for his beloved.

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angeart · 5 months ago

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hhau vex art part I bonus: a night for living: a pink ribbon [RP]

[6,8k words]

this is a part of my and link's very self-indulgent discord rp. just a chunk of that whole night for living rp that relates to kane being gifted his own ribbon.

the night is in full swing. everyone is tipsy. mr beak gets handed to scar for safekeeping. kane and grian are going to race each other through an obstacle course.

because there's multiple characters here, i tried to keep track of which ones are involved in which replies for you. as per usual, grian bits are me, scar's bits are link, and kane and nico are sort of everywhere.

rp below the cut <3

GRIAN/KANE

it's undeniable that grian's getting excited now. the sky is clear overhead, stars shining. the bonfire crackles, sending sparks up as vexes sing songs that grian doesn't know. the atmosphere gets under his skin, his hands now free, alcohol lending him reckless buzz of warmth as he eyes the course.

"it's a lap or?"

"oh, there's a finish," kane reassures. "you'll know when you reach it." and, without waiting, he starts.

"hey!" grian yelps, scrambling to move and catch up. "i thought you said no cheating!"

"never said that," kane throws him a grin, the look back enough to destabilise him with how tipsy he is. he topples into a barrel, allowing grian to catch up. "anything goes."

"anything but flying," grian remarks, wings flapping as he leaps over the barrel on his side, much cleaner than whatever kane did.

it seems to click then, for kane, that this is a competition. and he loves those. the fierceness lends him strength, clearing some of the fog as he grins sharply and plunges onwards through the obstacles. "yeah."

SCAR/NICO

Scar loves watching Grian sprint about eagerly, wings on display and even being utilized. It warms his heart, seeing Grian in his element like this— competitive and nimble, nothing holding him back.

“I’m also rooting for Grian, but that’s because I love him,” Scar says, not bothering to hide the love dazed tone in his voice.

“Gross.” Nico sticks out his tongue, but then they both laugh, knowing he’s full of it.

GRIAN

the race is surprisingly long, all kinds of things put in their way. it's a bit of a blur as grian gets into it, frantic to be fast, laughing high and manic as he gets ahead of kane, tumbling over obstacles. some of it is bound to leave bruises, but he doesn't care, wings flapping and heart drumming a wild rhythm against his ribs, none of which has anything to do with fear.

he feels alive, as he vaults over things and dips under barriers. flinging himself at climbling walls, scrambling across a roof that was somehow included. his head buzzes, electric and delighted, liking the high spot before he glides off of it, definitely not cheating as his wings flap to carry him further.

kane stands no chance as grian sinks furthter into it, squealing and chirping and happy, skidding through turns until he sees the finish line: a mass of blankets and pillows dragged out, to create a sort of literal line.

grian dives into it, giggling, brain haywire on endorphins thinking nest.

SCAR

It’s about right before the rooftop that Scar gives up on waiting patiently and starts jogging along the sidelines of the race, avoiding all the obstacles and cutting through a line of vex so he can meet Grian at the end.

And oh is he glad he does.

Grian’s laughter carries, catching on the wind like his wings do, soaring toward finish line. Scar leaps up, clapping his hands together as best he can with a bottle and chicken in hand. He didn’t howl before, but now he does, loud and unbidden, a bright glow emanating from his throat as he cheers.

It feels like an old Boatem party. Like carelessness and hilarity. Like specially crafted games that all go so delightfully wrong.

(For once something truly feels akin to home.)

GRIAN/KANE

grian hears scar's howl, recognising his voice instantly. warmth runs down his spine as he realises scar is watching and cheering him, that he's giddy for grian's success. in response, he chirps, high-pitched and overjoyed, even as he keeps himself burrowed in the blankets and pillows, wings flared out, flapping occasionally as he nudges himself further into the perceived nest, high on victory. he's laughing into the soft things, the sound now muffled, free and unbound.

kane glides down, not bothering to run the last bit, knowing he's lost. he's breathing heavily, steps slightly clumsy, the run not doing good things to the alcohol distribution through his body. he pauses at the edge of the blankets, watching grian, all his quips and remarks dying on his tongue.

he's never really seen grian like this.

SCAR

Scar howls again, goofier and with several instances of ow owwws for flare. He rushes over to Grian, fully intending on diving into the blankets with him, but he catches Kane’s gaze first, and he pauses instead.

The two of them lock eyes and Scar smiles brightly, honestly glad that someone else gets to see this— the side of Grian that has Scar absolutely weak in the knees, head over heels, crazy in love.

Scar falls backward, right next to Grian while minding his large wingspan, using his own wings to flap and soften the landing. “You did it!!” Scar cheers, rolling over so he can admire his mate, stars practically visible in his eyes.

GRIAN

grian chirps wildly as he registers scar joining him, and he pounces on him, giddy and giggling. his wings flap, heedless and excited. he's so happy to have his mate here, in the victory nest.

"your sabotage didn't work," he remarks goofily, pressing a kiss to scar's cheek and then holding his lips there as he laughs.

SCAR

“I don’t think anything could have stopped you from winning that! You were a natural! Top notch!” Scar laughs, too, a delighted giggle, loud and squeaky and utterly overjoyed.

And maybe he shouldn’t— not here, not so breathless and without careful thought, but Scar can’t help it. He thinks of that single flap of Grian’s wings and his heart soars just as high.

“My beautiful night sky,” Scar whispers, voice honey-coated and absolutely drunk on love. “…complete with a rare glimpse of his gorgeous northern lights.”

GRIAN

grian squeals in protest at the sappy words, biting lightly at scar's jaw in a hollow threat, but he's laughing into it. "stop, stoop." his wings flap again, a gust of wind rushing across them, a feeble attempt to try and dissuade scar's lovesick speech.

still giggling, he rolls off, away from scar, onto his back. staring lightheadedly at the branches above, as he tries to catch his breath.

the awareness of where he is and what he's doing with his wings continues to evade him completely, warmth and life buzzing underneath his skin.

"that was fun," he says, out of the blue, still gazing up. his voice is a bit tamer, soft, deeply appreciative.

he glances at scar.

"give me mr beak," he requests as his hands reach out to grab.

SCAR

Scar laughs again, then exhales loudly, relaxed and happy, so glad that his gushing was well-received. (Yes, getting bitten on the jaw is being well-received.)

“Fine, fine,” Scar sighs goofily. He hands the plushie over when it’s requested, handed off with care and a goofy gobbling sound that suits a turkey and not a chicken. “Here you go!”

GRIAN

grian snatches at the bird, instantly wrapping his arms around it and tucking it into his chest. there's still something haywire in him, maybe because of the leftover adrenaline from the race, the excitement carrying other things with it and leaving them behind. grian's instincts are tingling, thinking nest and bird, mate and flock, and—

he peeks up, catching kane's gaze.

he has an insane urge to tug him into the pile of blankets.

he stays still for now, but he chirps at him, watching expectantly, wings flapping a little bit. there's plenty of space for him.

SCAR/KANE

Kane blinks, still stunned into silence, and he looks to Scar for guidance here.

He doesn’t know what a chirp like that means. He sees the way Grian flaps his wings and his own twitch in response, but he hesitates.

He doesn’t know. He—

Scar grins and nods toward Grian, urging Kane to take the space that is so clearly being offered to him. “Hey, Kane, buddy, I don’t think you crossed the finish line yet!”

It’s a blatant invitation, with absolutely no room for his intoxicated mind to doubt that fact.

Kane smiles, timidly at first, before it grows, infected by both of their overly apparent joy. “Make room!” he calls, diving face first into the blankets adjacent to Grian, learning from Scar to carefully dodge the spread out avian wings.

Scar raises his bottle (which has definitely spilled over several times now) victoriously, howling again before taking a huge swig, surprisingly ecstatic to share this moment, not a hint of possessiveness or paranoia in his veins.

Kane joins in, and there’s even an attempt to keep his volume down, to match the level of that eager chirp instead of the typical vex holler.

He’s never been happier to lose a race.

Second place never felt so good.

GRIAN

grian's delighted when kane dives in, his presence in the nest making everything so much better, instantly putting some deep-rooted instinct in grian at ease. he giggles in cheer, trying to welcome him, giddy at the joyful vex sounds that come from his nest-mates.

his wings spread, holding over both of them, hovering like a blanket without fully descending on them. his wingspan is wide, feathers unabashedly violet, only slightly unkempt.

he chirps again, pleased, eyes bright as he watches them. his skin feels warm, from the race and the slow spread of alcohol, making everything so much looser and easier. it's a moment of freedom; he doesn't think about where he is. he just is.

SCAR/KANE

Kane knows not to touch, but he’s never been presented with the possibility of being touched by Grian’s wings, and again he looks to Scar for some kind of guidance, but he gets none.

Scar is rolling over into Grian’s space, clothes brushing against his feathers, but he draws no attention to it, instead leaning in to press a sloppy kiss below Grian’s ear.

Kane thinks maybe he understands.

Scar coos, and it’s fractured and awkward, and more than a little slurred, but it’s sweet. So sickeningly sweet.

Kane untenses, slipping right back into his teasing nature by making a gagging sound, to which Scar growls at him, entirely harmless, teeth bared in a way that immediately melts into a smile.

GRIAN

grian squeals, quietly and happily, at the kiss and scar's closeness. he nuzzles his nose against him, appreciative, humming quietly at the coo, when kane makes the offending sound.

with a scowl, he chirps at him and smacks him lightly with his wing.

it's brief. it's barely anything. but the contact was there, before grian's wing flits away, slotting just slightly out of reach, seemingly nothing more than grian being sulky.

there's a chicken in his arms though, and scar at his side, and he lets it distract him easily. he turns to press a kiss to the corner of scar's mouth, cooing against the skin in a purr-like way. "i won."

it doesn't seem entirely important now, but a part of him is still overjoyed at his accomplishment.

SCAR/KANE

“You did!” Scar wraps a lazy arm around Grian, proud as hell, and steals a quick kiss before Kane can gag again.

Kane does no such thing, left frozen mid-laugh when he got whacked by a brightly colored wing. It’s something he’s done so freely before, but never Grian. He’s only ever seen Grian emote so openly with his wings around Scar, usually privately, when they think no one is looking— no one is perceiving.

Kane actively swallows down the knee-jerk comment he had about Grian’s wings feeling soft. “You won,” he concedes instead, finding himself shockingly pleased by that reality. Not that he’s ever truly been a sore loser— it’s all for show, for fun, for humor— but he’s never been so genuinely happy to have lost.

Grian deserves a win.

(They’ve both lost enough.)

GRIAN

grian coos and perks up at kane's acknowledgement, catching something soft in his tone that makes everything feel that much sweeter. he rolls over, getting closer to him, supporting himself on his elbows. his eyes are dark and bright, his wings still outstretched. (there's a faint ache there, muscles unused to this, but it feels good in a way very few things have felt lately.) (he stretches them a bit more, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as the tension between his shoulder blades unknots.)

"you're drunk," he accuses kane, then pushes the chicken toy into his chest. "hold this."

without any explanation, he shifts himself back into scar's orbit, kissing at his jaw and making tiny bird sounds. "share," he prompts, hand reaching to paw at his bottle.

SCAR/KANE

“I’m not— oh.” Kane takes the ugly toy, enamored by it in a way he certainly wasn’t when it was first handed to him by a fellow vex.

Scar is loving watching Kane so much that the request takes him by surprise, and he giggles at the cute little sounds Grian is making. He’d let Grian take the whole bottle if he asks like that. “Here ya go.” Scar hands the bottle off with no fuss, then looks back over at Kane. “Take good care of Mr. Beak. That’s an honor.”

“Mister beak? Kane asks, incredulous, but with a similar tone that Scar had asked initially as well. “That’s— …ok, honestly, that’s pretty cute.”

“Hah! He has a heart!” Scar claps his hands together now that they’re both free. He never actually doubted that Kane was a softie at heart— he’s seen how sweet he is on Nico— but it’s refreshing to see him expand the list of people he’s willing to be like that around.

GRIAN

Grian's happy to have gotten the bottle, and he pulls himself up, relishing in this new triumph and barely paying attention to the conversation around him. He sits on his heels and drinks, letting the alcohol warm its path down his throat.

Once he's had sufficiently enough, he lowers the bottle, glancing at Kane. "Mr Beak is a perfectly acceptable name," he defends, belatedly.

But now that he's no longer lying down burrowed in blankets, his surroundings trickle in. They're not in a nest. They're on the ground, in the middle of a village, amidst drunk vex celebrations.

His wings are flared out, and they are grabbing attention, the violet hue like fire against the night. He thinks he hears someone make a comment about them. He doesn't recognise the voice. The words blur into the chatter, but more people are turning.

Unease crawls down his spine and with a quiet, unsteady chirp, his wings slowly draw back as he stays sitting, frozen to the spot under the unwelcome attention.

SCAR/KANE

Scar registers the shift immediately, and he sits himself up as well, slotting a wing behind Grian without directly touching, just shielding him from view to a certain degree. Scar’s method of protectiveness is quiet, like the soft purr that escapes him as he presses his shoulder against Grian’s, gentle and encouraging without needing to say a word.

Kane’s method, however, is much louder.

He springs to his feet when he catches the way Grian’s wings curl inward toward his spine, infuriated by this injustice and taking it out on all the other wandering eyes.

“Oi!” Kane stomps in front of Grian, flaring out his wings in more of a show of power than an actual effective shield. “Mind your business, move along! Start of the race is back there, fellas!”

He’s pointing accusingly, puffing his chest out in offense, though all of this downplayed by him holding the adorable chicken plushie in his other hand, tucking it close while he barks out commands.

And maybe it’s not the style of defense Scar would choose, always preferring subtlety and a level of deniability for Grian as to whether there was ever a problem to begin with, but… this is so very Kane.

It’s incredibly genuine. It’s surprisingly sweet.

Scar wants to drag Kane right back down into this not-nest and hug him tightly until he inevitably gets kicked.

GRIAN

the night is dim around them, and yet grian feels like there's a blinding spotlight shining directly at him. his breath stutters in his chest, an urge to hide crawling over his skin in the most unpleasant, anxious way.

he tenses up, swallowing down another chirp, but then scar's lightly pressing against him and everything in grian swivels helplessly towards the grounding of his presence. he pushes back, leaning into scar, hunching a little as he tries to make himself smaller. his wings and earwings alike are pressed flat down against him now, and he's vaguely aware of scar's wing hovering behind his back like a safety blanket—or a privacy curtain—shielding the violet from the world.

grian flinches a little as kane scrambles to stand in front of him, voice loud. but he quickly realises what the vex is doing, wings flared out and teeth bared at anyone who would dare to approach. (nobody is approaching.) (grian's overreacting.) (he's safe here.)

his heart swells at the protectiveness kane is displaying, the unquestionable way it was provided without hesitation. even if he's succeeding in drawing more attention, confused glances taking the three of them in. the crowds brush it off. someone laughs. but mostly, they turn and go.

grian sits very still, shoulder pressed against scar and eyes glued to kane's back, trying to calm down the overreacting rapidness of his pulse as the two of them act as a buffer between him and the world.

but then someone does approach.

"hey, kane, you lost," they remark, amused and friendly and unbothered. "no need to take it out on us for watching it happen." they're holding a bottle, a pink scraggly ribbon tied to it. "for the winner, if you'd let me through." they flick the ribbon with their free hand, chuckling on a joke that's meant to be shared. "thought the colour might fit. cherry flavoured, this one. isn't it just perfect?" they sound slightly drunk, rambling about things too close to grian's wing colour, wanting to deliver the congratulation and the prize themselves, partially mostly just to tease kane over his loss.

SCAR/KANE

Clearly even Scar had begun to forget his surroundings, because the presence of another vex sets him off, as if he didn’t expect another person’s voice to dare enter their space. His purr shifts into a low growl and his other wing flares out to its full length. (It’s the more broken one, so it’s hardly impressive, but the impact is still there.) Now acutely aware of where they are, every bit of Scar wants to react in such a vex manner, spurred on by Kane’s outburst as well, but with a huff of blue magic, Scar resists.

He needs to react in a Scar manner.

“Oh, I think Kane ought to be the one to present the prize, don’t you?” Scar jeers, acting as though it’s to aid in embarrassing Kane. “He’s getting so good at this second place thing.” Scar smiles at the approaching vex, but his eyes are narrowed dangerously, making it clear that there is no room for disagreement here.

Kane spins around, hands on his hips in offense as he sputters, but one look at Scar makes it clear to him that he’s on the defense here. He wants to shout back at Scar, but there’s some kind of silent plea here, something that stifles the fire inside of him just enough to get an almost calm answer.

“Yeah, give me that, punk,” Kane says, contradicting the idea of him needing to be humbled here, but that’s unimportant. He yanks the bottle from the other vex’s hand and begins to shove at them with his wings. “Now scram, this is a private affair. I’ll kick your ass.”

GRIAN

grian remains pressed against scar, his wings twitching at the mention of the colours. he can't help the helpless feeling that sinks its claws into him, unbidden and wrong. he can't push it down enough to make his heart stop racing, feeling frustration well up in him. he doesn't want to be this weak. he doesn't want to feel like this.

the alcohol, even in the smaller quantity that he's drunk so far, doesn't help him get a hold on his emotions. doesn't help him stop feeling like he's ruining everything. like he's clearly overreacting and messing up a fun event.

but scar and kane don't complain, chastise, or belittle him for it. they're not telling him there's no reason to feel the way he does. they're there for him, protecting him, standing up for him.

grian's fingers curl into the blanket underneath him, holding tightly in an attempt to make the tremble go away. if the other vex approaches, he'll be okay. he'll be fine, it's alright, it's alright.

(attention on his wings. bright violet and hungry eyes. inquisitive, curious, wanting.) (awe and greed. a tidally rising interest.) (moths to a flame. except grian's the moth, and they're the flames, surrounding him, crowding him, threatening to burn him alive.)

he manages a shaky breath, trying to tune in and listen to what's actually happening. kane is grabbing the bottle and shoving the vex away. scar is still right next to grian, his stable rock, his safe dock, his unfailing shield.

grian tries, desperately, to play along. to get over himself and get on with this. "oh, is that my prize?" he asks, going for teasing and falling completely flat. his voice is unsteady and it's so painfully audible, he instantly shuts up, jaw tensing.

SCAR/KANE

Scar smiles at Kane, grateful for his restraint and willingness to play along. His expression loses some of its tension, relaxing further when Grian tries to speak as well, even if it’s an obvious struggle. The tip of his wing tilts forward and drapes itself over Grian’s shoulder, only making contact there, offering an ounce more of comfort.

“Yes, and Kane is going to deliver it to you personally!” Scar claims, still glaring over at the other vex until he’s certain they are leaving.

“Uh huh,” Kane says, strained, fumbling with the humility now that he no longer needs to lash out.

He kneels down, sighing softly (with a hint of blue, which is uncommon for him to do). His eyes are downcast as he recalibrates, but when he looks up he’s got a crooked smile on his face again, smacking Scar gently with his wing.

“For you, who definitely didn’t cheat, tooootally, not at all.” Kane is mocking the sort of sing song tone Scar would use, and it makes Scar choke on a bark of laughter, not expecting it. Kane sticks out his tongue, then hands Grian the bottle, nodding at Scar to take his own back.

Kane also holds out the chicken toy.

“…Mr. Beak liked it when you showed off your wings,” Kane mumbles, face suddenly very hot. His ears droop low when he flushes, suddenly struggling to speak. “H-he says… um.”

All aggression leaves Scar in an instant, thrilled at this development. “He says that Kane took good care of him! And that Kane promised he’d bite anyone that so much as looks at you wrong,” Scar finishes with a goofy grin. It turns soft and genuine almost immediately, however, as he looks at Kane with newfound appreciation.

GRIAN

grian feels a sliver of stability as scar's wing touches his shoulder and he watches the other vex scurry away. he takes a breath, not quite realising how much he needed to do that, a deep and proper one, tasting tentative, tricky relief.

then his gaze jumps to kane, who's now kneeling down.

grian wishes this really was a nest. he wishes this interruption did not happen. he wishes he could've kept them all happy and goofy and—

and maybe that's a silly thought, because kane's grinning and he lets out a quip, and grian really should stop catastrophising about all of this.

still a bit stunned, he reaches for the bottle, the ribbon on it a washed out pink. he tries not to look at it too closely, not to think about it too much, not to sink into what the other vex said about its colour. his earwings flick, nervous but so clearly looser, now that they're moving instead of remaining pinned tight.

he places the bottle at his knees, leaning it slightly against himself to keep it upright, as kane offers the plushie next and keeps talking.

grian's reach is much more needy this time, grabbing at the toy, instantly bringing it to his chest in a tight hold, craving the comfort it provides. but his eyes stay on kane, watching the blush on his face, and almost wincing at the mention of the wings, but— oh.

kane being this flustered is oddly endearing, and grian finds himself appreciative of all of his efforts. the words slink gently around him, that suggestion that it was good that grian showed off his wings, that kane (well, mr beak, he says, but grian sees right through it) liked it.

with a small coo, grian unfurls his wings just the littlest bit. feathers rustle, still safely shielded by scar's wing, something in him wrangling and contemplating this.

but they're still out in the open, in an area far from private, blankets pooled around them without being a nest at all. grian keeps himself on the other side of the line now, safe in its familiarity, unwilling to draw the barely dispersed attention back in this moment.

but it felt good.

it felt good to spread his wings. to use them, even if only a little bit. to be free with them.

he swallows thickly. "... i liked it too," he admits, unsteadily. the words feel like trapdoors ready to open underneath his feet and let him plunge. it feels dangerous to say this. wrong, even. but he finishes it off with a nervous smile, a grateful little thing that wants to be playful as well, to make this all feel lighter than it is. "i'll take you up on that offer. you might have a lot of biting to do," he warns.

he dips his arms with the plushie, lets it sit in his lap.

and maybe it's the alcohol. maybe it's him being sappy in this moment, after what's just happened. maybe he's just sentimental. but he reaches for the bottle and untangles the pink ribbon from it, hesitating only briefly at the insanely impulsive idea.

he takes a breath and lets himself succumb; he reaches for kane's hand, without any explanation, even if his touch is questioning and shy, nonverbally asking for permission to grab him and tug his arm closer.

SCAR/KANE

Scar hums at Grian’s meek agreement, happy to take it. “We can split the biting between us, don’t worry,” he assures, and Kane snorts, but doesn’t complain.

“Yeah, tonight’s about lettin’ loose and stuff, so— whuh?” Kane meets Grian partway, scooting in a little closer to offer up his hand to the avian freely. He’s not sure what he’s doing here, but he feels like the moth now, drawn to Grian and his brightly colored feathers that dare to peek out from behind him once more— drawn to that sharp bout of laughter and sweet little chirp as Grian welcomed him into some private, intimate thing that Kane can’t quite put a name to.

(Scar knows. It’s flock.)

GRIAN

Grian hums, something focused as Kane relents and offers his hand freely. Grian's hold on him is careful, so very harmless and safe.

And then he wraps the ribbon around Kane's wrist.

He feels his cheeks warm as he's aware of just what this gesture means. His gaze flits up, meeting Kane's only in the very briefest way, shy as it instantly flicks away. His hands squeeze a little, thumbs brushing the fabric, before he lets go.

"You match us now."

Grian looks over at Scar, eyes meeting the flash of violet that hangs from his ear, that spot of colour that ties him to Grian. And the ribbon around Kane's wrist is a tamer shade, a pink thing, but it still feels like it counts.

Grian's gaze anchors on Scar, and he chirps in the quietest way, seeking affirmation that this is okay. That his reckless, impulsive action is approved by his mate.

SCAR/KANE

Scar’s eyes crease joyfully as he purrs softly in response to Grian, keeping their exchange nonverbal as he awaits Kane’s reaction to the gift. He knows Kane’s much less of a sucker for sentiment than he is, but surely even the frostiest of hearts would melt at the gesture, if not just for the care in which it was offered.

Scar reaches his hand to slide over Grian’s as it returns, thumb brushing over his sleeve to touch at the fabric that still rests there as well.

(He approves. He very much approves.)

Kane stares at his own wrist, turning it up and around several times as if it would then reveal its secrets to him.

It’s a ribbon. Why a ribbon? Why is Grian so timid to offer up something so utterly silly?

Kane feels like he ought to understand, but all he knows is that this is something, but what exactly? Why does he feel so honored to have a scraggly piece of plasticy fabric tied to his hand right now?

“I… match?” he asks, looking up at Grian with confused, round eyes. He looks to Scar as well, drawn to the earring like Grian was, trying to see what he saw. Kane’s eyebrows furrow, trying to solve this puzzle that’s been tied around his wrist. “You… have you always had that?” Kane asks suddenly, pointing at the ribbon on Grian’s wrist as Scar exposes it.

GRIAN

Scar's purr and fingers sneaking to expose and touch the ribbon settle Grian immensely. He leans his shoulder against him, his free hand loosely curling around Mr Beak in his lap, feeling content.

He jolts a little at Kane's question, attention drawn to a possession that's incredibly precious to Grian, his tether and his lifeline. His eyes widen and earwings flap as he straightens up, cheeks smeared with pink under the scattering of freckles.

"... Yeah." He looks down at his own ribbon, then back up, searching Kane's expression. The puzzled frown he sees there sets him at unease, worried that maybe his gesture translated wrong. "It was a gift," he adds, a little bit meekly, about the ribbon around his own wrist.

SCAR/KANE

Kane manages to connect some of the dots from there. It’s a gift from Scar, surely, considering the way he’s running his fingers over it so tenderly. (Sap.) And considering what little the two of them must have had to actually offer in the way of gifts for so long… maybe a ribbon isn’t so silly.

“I love it,” Kane states abruptly, clasping his other hand over the ribbon like someone would possibly threaten to take it.

GRIAN

Grian blinks, so visibly perking up it's almost comical. A chirp slips past his self control, wings flaring out slightly (finding Scar and his wing to press against, but not minding the confines of the safety he provides in the slightest).

"You do?" He's so obviously relieved and happy about it. He beams, looks at Scar to share the little triumph. "He likes it!"

The bird part of Grian is giddy, running on affirmation that this action was good and accepted.

Grian can't change the colour of his wings, but Scar displays it proudly as he wears the earring, and now Kane has a similar colour tied to his wrist, and he likes it, and Grian feels a helpless, warm fuzz settle over him.

Maybe the violet isn't so bad, if it's a colour that connects them.

SCAR/KANE/NICO

Kane recoils a bit, mostly out of pure fluster, not used to seeing Grian so openly giddy like this. It’s throwing him off his rhythm here with how painfully adorable it is. And now Scar is grinning at him, too, and—

“You guys are a bunch of saps!” Kane protests, but he still holds onto the ribbon tightly, pulling the hand with it toward his chest, cradling it like a sentimental fool.

“Yep,” Scar agrees easily, popping his lips on the end of the word as he smiles, wide and toothy. He squeezes at Grian’s hand. “You love it.”

It’s a purposeful twist of Kane’s words, that he loves them by loving the gift. It’s not inaccurate at all.

“I— you—“ Kane’s eyes flick between the two of them, trapped by their eager expressions and intimate rituals. Desperately, he latches onto a pair of brown eyes approaching from behind, pleading pathetically. “Nico, helpppppp! They’re tormenting me!”

Nico snorts as he fumbles over, three bottles in hand: his own, Grian’s, and Kane’s. Kane hardly looks like he actually requires any assistance, so he smiles smugly instead of offering any. “Am I interrupting something here?” Nico asks, tilting his head curiously at the three winged fools sitting in a bed of blankets.

GRIAN/NICO

Grian giggles at the development, not protesting being called a sap and happily letting Scar deal with that remark—only eliciting more laughter out of him. There's no sign of the previous anxiety, the worries forgotten with Scar's wing still hovering over Grian's back.

When Kane yells for Nico, Grian's earwings twitch and he looks over, following his line of sight. He sees Nico approach, unhurried despite Kane's desperate plea, arms full.

Grian grins toothily. "I won."

Nico chuckles. "Figured."

Grian's grin grows, impossibly proud and triumphant, ignoring Kane's sputters at the insinuation that his mate was not expecting him to win.

"We're busy bonding," Grian adds cheekily in lieu of explanation of their lateness, and as a reply to Nico's inquiry.

Nico gasps. "Without me?" And he wants to grasp at his chest dramatically. Which he obviously can't do with an armful of bottles. They all almost fall out of his grasp and he scrambles to catch them and readjust his hold. "And I've been so good guarding your drinks and all!" he whines, ears flicking downwards, but he doesn't seem to entirely mind. It's rare to see them so relaxed, and he doesn't think he's ever seen Grian beaming this much.

Nico's gaze flicks to Scar. "I do think we ought to get your mate drunk more often," he chuckles, warm and lighthearted with his tease.

SCAR/KANE

“Psh,” Scar disagrees, trying to match the easygoing attitude instead of getting defensive like he did before. “We’re hardly drunk. If anything we ought to get your mate drunk more often!” When Kane growls out some pointless protest, Scar continues, “He’s actually out here enjoying second place.”

“Am not!” Kane rejects, puffing out his chest and wings alike. He reaches out his hand for his bottle, which Nico gladly hands off to him, laughing.

“Really? Because you sure seemed to like your prize,” Scar teases, regarding him with such a kind, genuine smile that even Kane can’t seem to form a coherent argument to.

Scar then presents Grian with that same expression, quietly checking in with how he’s faring after that open and vulnerable display.

GRIAN/NICO

Grian's enjoying the banter—and yet, in a way, it feels strange. It feels normal but normalcy doesn't feel normal anymore, so it instead feels like something askew he was not meant to get his hands on anymore.

And maybe he'd follow that thread until everything would unravel around him, but... Not now. Not with the warmth in his veins and Scar by his side and a pink ribbon around Kane's wrist.

Grian catches Scar's smile and offers one in return, his wing pressing lightly against Scar's side, for once not shying away from contact.

Today is a wild night, it seems.

"Oh, you got a prize?" Nico blinks at Kane, confused. "For second place?"

SCAR/KANE/NICO

Kane feels so weirdly defensive about this ribbon, almost resisting pulling his hand away from his chest, but it’s Nico, so of course he gives in. “From Grian!” Kane announces, holding out his hand palm up to show it off.

Nico squats down, looking over the scrap of twisty fabric curiously. Unlike Kane, he has noticed Grian’s ribbon before, though he’s never inquired about it. “…it’s very pink,” he says, grinning when Kane pinches his fingers together to flick at Nico’s cheek. “It suits you! It’s cute!”

“It’s not cute!” Kane protests, and he brings the hand back to his chest with a huff. “It’s— it… it’s special!”

Nico laughs again, and so does Scar, because that’s hardly any less embarrassing to say, but gosh if he doesn’t love Kane regarding it in such a valuable manner. Scar leans his head onto Grian’s shoulder, letting the feathered earring brush over his cheek as he rests it there.

It is special. Gifts from Grian are of the highest caliber.

GRIAN/KANE/NICO

grian's watching the whole exchange with rapt attention, slightly tense, waiting to see the reception. he coos under his breath, surprised and pleased when kane defends the ribbon and calls it special—a sound that gets completely drowned out by nico's and scar's laughter. a tangle of messy instincts keeps tripping him up, but at least right now, it's in a good way. it makes him feel warm and settled.

scar leans in and grian startles a little, too focused on the ribbon around kane's wrist, but he welcomes the closeness immediately, nuzzling lightly against scar in appreciation.

nico, in the meanwhile, laughs out an "aw", but then he follows it up with an attempt at a pout. "and i don't get anything? you guys ditched me and exchanged gifts and i get nothing?"

there's a slight pause that grian was meant to fill—it was his victory ribbon he gave to kane, after all. he was the one giving gifts. but he fails entirely to come up with an answer, feeling a vague sense of guilt for excluding nico, a complicated onslaught of confused instincts that don't really know where to go from here.

kane flicks his gaze to grian, then back at nico, taking over. "hey! it's only for second place winners! you didn't win second place!"

nico chuckles. "didn't know second place has winners."

kane puffs out his chest. "well, it does! the reward has a limited stock!" he taps his wrist. "you can't have it. i earned it."

"by losing," nico laughs brightly, enjoying teasing his mate, but then he presses, amused. "so you're saying if i end up in second place next time, i can earn it?"

kane rolls his eyes. "it's not just that." he doesn't exactly understand, and he can't talk for grian, but he knows the answer isn't that simple.

nico's relentless. tipsy and intrigued. "what else?"

grian speaks up, all of a sudden: "threatening to bite people."

nico's eyes light up. "oooh, are we biting people?"

SCAR/NICO

Scar chips in eagerly, “Yes! Biting people that look at Grian funny. We can use all the help we can get.”

Nico is quick with his retort, smiling wryly at Scar and Grian. “By that logic, I ought to bite you, Scar.”

Scar purrs against Grian’s shoulder, lower and possessive this time. “Try it. See what happens,” he warns, but he’s still smiling, teasing lightly and nuzzling into Grian all the same.

GRIAN

grian laughs a little, immensely comforted by scar's closeness, letting it ground him. he lifts his hand up, brushing it over scar's ear in a small loving gesture. "no biting the pink gang," he chastises.

but nico is not in the pink gang. not by the made-up rules, anyway.

so grian takes a breath and squirms a little, trying to look at scar. "scar, can we— do you want to do the couples race?"

SCAR/KANE/NICO

“Sure, sure!” Scar cheers, giggling softly at the touch to his ear. It’s a good feeling, being among friends and being so openly gushy toward one another. Scar’s always loved the idea of flustering his partner to no end with his public displays of affection, and it’s about time he gets to do so.

Scar leans in and kisses below Grian’s ear, then blows a little air over the spot just to be obnoxious.

“Lead the way, boys!” Scar says, snickering now, as he holds up a hand, expecting to be helped up.

Nico obliges him with a chuckle, even as Kane stumbles to his feet in an attempt to help as well. Nico’s grip is probably much more reliable than Kane’s right about now.

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fun bonus screenshots of things we said in between rp replies:

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