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coffeedepressionsoup · 9 months ago

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Somebody Does Love | MYG - He Falls First

Pairing - Yoongi x F!reader

Summary - "What is grief, if not love persevering?" Two people are in love but that is not enough because sometimes loving requires courage.

This is the one where Yoongi is a man with a crush, and Sammy is a diligent shipper. Part 4 of Somebody Does Love.

Series Masterlist

Genre - fluff, strangers to lovers, eventual smut and angst

Word count - 3.9k+

Warnings - lil swearing, drinking is injurious to health, smoking too (dk if that bit is in there), flustered Yoongi Pro Max

Ratings - 13+

Taglist: @majiiisstuff @starlighttaek8 @yoongrace @proudnoona

A/N - It would seem the word limit is me overcompensating for the long break. Hehehe. I have received so many positive and encouraging comments throughout this time, some anonymous, I wanted to write a slightly longer note to thank you all. On some of the worst days, your enthusiasm puts a smile on my face. Thank you, and take my warmest love.

Partially proofread. Basically word vomit. Written in three frenzied, sleepless nights. Please be kind. Like, reblog and comment to let me know what you think of this chapter. Also, feel free to DM me to be added to the taglist. That's all. Enjoy!

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Sammy tries his best to keep a straight face as he looks at his friend of more than 8 years explaining why he decided to drop by his house - the third time in two weeks, which is more than the number of visits in the last two years, combined.

Min Yoongi, the friend in question here, allegedly found inspiration at a park earlier that day and had the beats for a new song in mind, for which Sammy was being requested to work on the lyrics. Could it have waited until the next day? Apparently not.

The urgency (of the creative variety, of course) is why the award-winning music producer was hunched over at Sammy’s living room sofa, having hijacked the latter’s laptop.

However, the explanation did not seem satisfactory to Sammy. I mean, obviously, there are some good beats that Yoongi presented in the short while that he was there. But that is not unbelievable. He has previously seen him finish a song in less than an hour.

Even the inspiration is not doubtful. Not in the least. Of course, he can believe in finding inspiration for a song at random places, at random times. Sammy himself had made a song about the annoyance shaving can be after a particularly annoying early morning schedule.

The urgency, however, is the fishy bit. Not that it’s too late in the night. It’s 10:27, Sammy checks his phone. It is not too late at all for his friends to get together for drinks or movies. But turning up at his house though? And Yoongi?

Sammy has had to often take in a drunk and dejected Jaehyeong at around midnight when he was going through a difficult breakup and would end up in his neighbourhood because the ex used to live close by. Dojoon and Yijeong would often come in unannounced for impromptu jamming sessions. Hajoon would drop by to cuddle Woolfie. You get the drift.

But the most Yoongi had done, in all their years of knowing each other, was call and ask if he was down for a drink and/or meal. If it was regarding work, a .wav file over chat. Never has he barged into his house, unannounced. What are the odds of that happening after 8 years of knowing one another? Thrice within 14 days? Sammy wondered.

The first time did indeed take him by surprise.

Sammy was getting out of the gym in his building and heading towards the elevators to climb back to his apartment. He had promised Y/N some of his signature japchae for dinner. She had been nagging him for it ever since she arrived in Seoul. The previous night at Hajoon’s place, he pinky swore that he would make it for dinner the next day. He was ordering all the ingredients he’d need to fulfill that promise. It was as he was going to add spinach to the cart that Yoongi’s caller ID floated on his screen.

“Hel-”

“Are you at home now?”

“Uh-yeah, wh-”

“Okay”

And the line disconnected.

Sammy had intended to call Yoongi back. But by the time, he got back to the apartment and freshened up, he heard the buzz of his doorbell. Expecting his grocery deliveries, Sammy was disappointed to find someone else at the door.

He was more surprised when he realised that someone was Yoongi, with the straps of a tan corduroy tote bag clutched in one of his hands. The two men stared at each other for a few quiet moments - one in confusion, the other in fluster. Meanwhile, Sammy’s groceries arrived and since they were at the door already, the two friends quickly emptied the items and returned the bag to the delivery person.

Once the door was shut, Yoongi held up the bag, saying, “I had some leftover food.”

Sammy nodded. Yoongi had made him food at times when he was sick, and even when he had locked himself in his apartment save the daily hour-long walks with Woolfie to finish his first solo album. This was not a new thing. And even then, the rapper did not announce “I made this for you.” It was always variations of “I made too much,” “I don’t want this anymore,” or sometimes just quietly shoved into the arms, without any explanations.

But what he wondered was why now. He was neither sick nor stressed. They did not even have an ongoing argument that needed to be smoothed over with pensive bribery or a crony bet that required settlement.

“What’d you make?” he asked, carrying the meat that arrived in the delivery alongside a few other boxes to the kitchen.

Yoongi followed with the remaining items in his arms and placed them all, including the bag he was carrying, on the granite-top kitchen island. “Just threw some stuff together,” he lied comfortably. Nobody had to know that he went shopping that noon and handpicked the ribeye fillets among other things.

Sammy smirked at the very vague and characteristically predictable response. “Want some beer?” He saw Yoongi’s head nodding in his peripheral vision as he dived into the fridge to fish out a couple of beer cans.

Stood across from each other, at the kitchen island, the two opened and tipped their cans in silence and took a swig each when Yoongi’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the caller ID and gestured to Sammy that he would take the call, who nodded back in acknowledgement.

Yoongi walked out of the kitchen with the beer in one hand and his phone held up to the ear in the other.

Sammy was making a mental checklist of the things he needed to soak, wash, peel etc. and in what order as he glanced over the ingredients laid out on the countertop in front of him. When his eyes fell on the tan corduroy bag placed there, curiosity caught up. He dragged it towards himself and brought out the casserole inside it. It was heavier than he anticipated.

He opened the lid to reveal a piping-hot pot full of japchae. His confused frown gave way to a knowing smirk within a couple of seconds when he joined the dots. He closed the lid and continued sipping on his beer as he checked the time on his phone and walked out into his living room.

Y/N will be home soon and things will get interesting, he thought.

Just as he plopped himself on the sofa and turned the TV on, Yoongi, who was perched up against one of the bookshelves, finished his call, shoved his phone in his back pocket and joined his friend.

By now, Woolfie had woken up from his evening nap and strolled out. He wagged his tail and shoved his snoot up Yoongi’s crotch, as he usually does, earning coos and cuddles from the man.

Sammy patted his dog on the back a couple of times from beside his friend, resulting in Woolfie withdrawing from the aforementioned crotch and sitting down in front of the couch, like the goodest (we know it is a valid superlative adjective for all dogs) ever boy that he was. Yoongi chuckled and continued showering pets on the husky till he heard his friend’s almost prosaic statement, made apparently to no one in particular.

“Y/N loves japchae.”

Yoongi tried his best to not react to the statement. He took another swig of his beer attempting to appear nonchalant. But chalant, he was. Of course, he knew Y/N loved japchae. She lamented missing the dish and reprimanded Sammy for a good part of two minutes the previous night for not making it. When Hobi suggested ordering the dish, she rejected the idea claiming she wanted the kind with slightly burnt garlic, the one that Sammy made once by mistake and has since and will forever have to make it that way for this adorable little friend of his.

However, Sammy would never describe Y/N as adorable or little. He would choose something along the lines of tenacious and talkative. Adorable and little were Yoongi’s interjections as he observed the japchae exchange unfold. Adorable because everything about Y/N seemed to warm his heart at that time - her voice, her hand gestures, her face, her anecdotes. And little because he often found himself wishing, throughout the night, to hold her close and safe, near him, like a little flower.

That morning, when they were leaving Hajoon's place, Yoongi remembered the smile she had as she waved her goodbyes. At one point, her eyes landed on him, and she said a simple, “See you around.”

He managed to smile back and nod in acknowledgement. He wished to no one in particular that the around would come sooner than later. Then his eyes fell on the jacket that was draped across her forearm. His jacket. His smile faded and anxiety crept back in.

Yoongi had attempted about twice through the night to will himself into owning up as the owner of the jacket. But he failed. Sometimes he drowned in her eyes, or the curve of her smile. At other times, his will just wasn't strong enough to face the mountain of curses and rebuttals he'd heard about his perceived self, or rather of his absence.

As he saw her drive away with Sammy, he decided what to do. He will cook one of her favourite dishes, directly own up for his fuckery and apologise, no conditions applied. Simple enough plan, one-third of which he seemed to have completed successfully. With his friend's single comment though, all his resolve started to fall apart.

This was too forward, wasn't it? Is he encroaching? In a space where he doesn't belong? Is he making this too easy? Too hard to deal with?

Sammy saw in glee as the top of his friend’s ears and cheeks turned a bashful red. He stopped at a channel playing “Tease Me” by Seo Inguk and paused.

Yoongi gulped down the last bit of beer in that can, crushed the sides a little and cleared his throat. “Everyone loves japchae. It is easy to make.”

“Is that why you made it?”

Yoongi turned to look at his friend and looked into his eyes. Fucker had caught on, had he not? He cursed internally but held his gaze, unfaltering.

“Yes.”

Sammy let out a laugh and did not implore more. If he teased some more, there may be actual smoke coming out of the poor man’s ears.

Before Yoongi could act annoyed about being inflicted with stupid, pointless questions, their attention was drawn by Woolfie’s gentle growling. The dog jumped up on all fours and pattered towards the front door of the duplex, wagging his tail.

Familiar enough action for Sammy, he continued surfing channels without reacting but glanced over at Yoongi ever so often.

Confused by the dog’s sudden departure, his face had a frown in the beginning which smoothened out and gave way to his mouth hanging open ever so slightly when he heard a familiar cooing voice.

Yoongi was not surprised by Y/N’s arrival, he was of course expecting it. He was however not ready for his heart to beat that fast at only her voice, even when sober. For some inexplicable reason, he stood up from the sofa.

He heard Y/N’s giggles from the corridor and when he finally saw her, he regretted standing up because he could feel his heels faltering a bit.

Y/N was half carrying, half dragging the 50-something pound Siberian Husky and muttering phrases like “Yes I missed you too bubba.” “Aww my little baby.” “I know I know.” “I love you so much.” into his fur, which was peppered by pleased grumbles and breathy sighs from the dog. He was quite happy having resigned his weight over to one of his favourite humans, not minding one bit for having his hind feet dragged leisurely across the carpeted floor because she was gone for a tad bit longer than he would have preferred. Fines would have to be paid.

Sammy’s anticipation was killing him but the sight of his child with one of his best friends endeared him a lot more. Grinning at the duo, he clicked a couple of pictures and walked towards one of the shelves.

“Come on big boy, time for your walk,” he called out as he picked out one of Woolfie’s favourite leads. The boy, snapping out of his baby mode, whoofed and ran towards his dad in earnest, earning a giggle from all the adults in the room.

Y/N could place all but one of those sounds. One from her, unmistakable. One from Sammy, who had managed to hook the lead on. She turned to see the source of the third giggle, whose face had now frozen into a taut smile.

Sammy’s voice emerged before the other two people could say anything. “Yoongi, Y/N. Y/N, Yoongi. Y’all remember each other right? From a few hours ago?”

“Yes, of course, hi,” Y/N said.

“Hi,” Yoongi whispered back.

Sammy stopped near the turn of the corridor and said, “Yoongi bought us japchae. He made too much.”

And with that he walked out of the door, laughing once he was out of earshot.

What he left behind was a red Yoongi, warm to the touch. The last thing he heard was, “Oh thank you so much! Hope you are staying for dinner.”

Sammy does not yet know the details of what transpired in the 35 minutes that he was gone. He apologised to Woolfie for cutting their walk short but his curiosity would not allow him to not observe the progress of what could become a legendary love story further down the line. He would even volunteer to write the foreward if a book was ever written on the matter.

Was he building castles in the air? Yes. But was it unfounded? No. Even with the japchae out of the equation, he saw his 33-year-old friend fluster like a teenager with a crush. He also had to stomach about 1:40 minutes of “Oh I thought he was haughty at first but he’s quite a good listener. Helps that he is cute,” from when they started driving back from Hajoon’s place, till Y/N left for work that morning. He liked to believe that he was a realist, but what is life really without the dystopian fantasies of romance we build in our silly little heads?

He had come back to the pair of his friends in the kitchen - Y/N straining out some noodles and adding them to a pan of sauce and Yoongi chopping spring onions, with Ash perched upon his shoulder, observing his skills like a diligent invigilator.

The tail end of the conversation that Sammy managed to catch was - “That is probably a smoother blend, but the aftertaste of Glenfiddich sits better with me,” Y/N said, to which Yoongi replied, “I agree. But you have to try Bowmore once. I might have a bit of the 15-year-old left, I can bring it over next time.”

Which had offered a very flexible segwue to the second visit that Yoongi made to Sammy’s place. Sunday night. As Y/N and Sammy were watching the match highlights of an earlier Arsenal vs Liverpool game, the bell rang.

Sammy was less surprised this time when he buzzed Yoongi in. He held up an unopened bottle of Bowmore 15 Scotch Whiskey this time instead of a tote bag. He walked in to see Y/N scream at the TV with half a chicken wing pointed at it with some of it still in her mouth, muffling the expletives.

When she saw Yoongi, she smiled a wide smile to greet him. He smiled back but when he saw the packets of chicken and beer cans strewn around, felt immediately like he was intruding. Intruding into quality time between two people. All because he could not stop thinking about one of these two people at all, and had also not mustered enough courage to exchange numbers with. He admonished himself internally endlessly for everything in the next couple of seconds of silence where he thought of what he could say.

He settled on, “I-uh told you about this,” held the bottle up again, “Thought I would drop it by.” He went up and placed the bottle on the lounge table.

“Are you not staying?” the question was immediate. Innocent enough but filled with a slight tone of disappointment that tugged at his heart.

“Yeah, what the fuck dude. You gotta have at least a couple of drinks with us.” Sammy patted him across the back. That encouraged him.

“Yeah. It’s only going to be fun when you have someone else who also enjoys and understands scotch,” Y/N said, ignoring the hurt Sammy displayed at the slight jab, adding, “Stay for a bit if you have nothing else lined up.” That convinced him.

“I did not mean to interrupt anything,” he said half matter-of-factly, half apologetically.

“We are eating fried chicken and watching a week-old football match. Trust me, you’re adding life to the party,” Y/N said as she scooted over to allow Yoongi enough space to sit by the lounge table, facing the TV.

Yoongi blushed and could feel his ears heat up as he sat down beside her. Y/N did not notice it but Sammy did. “It is true though, Sammy does not really enjoy anything other than a beer.”

“Well, fuck me that I like for my tongue to not burn out of existence,” Sammy grumbled as he brought over three glasses and ice.

A little more than half the bottle was finished that night between Y/N and Yoongi, who bonded quite seamlessly over teasing Sammy about giving up after a single peg, scotch in general and discussions over media’s ever-evolving role in influencing a person’s life choices on a day-to-day basis.

Although Sammy would have offered the sofa to Yoongi for the next few hours anyway, he stepped back when Y/N urged Yoongi to not drive back. He also exaggerated how tired he was with a couple of over-the-top yawns, which would have been suspicious if he was amongst sober company. He therefore hurried back to his bedroom and shut the door, allowing his friends the privacy he thought they probably sought.

He was partly right. Yoongi and Y/N had both wished to have met one-on-one but neither had the balls to ask the other first, caught up within webs of self-doubt and anxious ominosity in their heads. Even with Sammy having retired to his room, as they sat alone, only with each other for company, they did not dare go where their mind sometimes wandered to.

There had been occasional hand and shoulder brushes throughout the night that they managed to glance over. With Sammy gone, though, they became hyper-aware of their proximity. Y/N turned to look at Yoongi and when he did the same, they were one head tip away from a kiss. Theoretically.

He tracked as her eyes moved from his own and fell to his lips and then back.

Y/N could feel warmth wash over all her body. She also felt his warm breath sync with hers. His face was flush and his lips luscious, inviting.

She had thought about these lips often in the past few days. Not intentionally, but she caught herself with her mind wandering quite often. Him - his demeanour, his voice and his attitude pulled her in. If she was reading things right, there was an interest she could read as well. If making the japchae was not a loud enough argument for that school of thought, the glances and the smiles surely were. Since Sunday, there have been a tonne of those and the eyes never lie, right?

And those damned eyes. They seemed familiar but at the same time, she found new depths in them each time she focussed on them. She stared at those dark orbs for a while before tracking back down to his lips.

This man was too beautiful for Y/N to hold her sanity. But she had to try. He was who he was in the public eye, but he was also Sammy’s friend.

Sammy is one of the most important pieces in the stained glass panel of her life. And pursuing something like this with one of his friends and industry peers would intermingle things beyond a point of recovery.

She readjusted her posture with an audible sigh.

Yoongi drew in a sharp breath and looked down at his hands fiddling with a coaster on the floor. An apology sitting at the tip of his tongue. But before he could get it out he could hear Y/N say, “We’re drunk, aren’t we?”

He looked up to see a smile on her face. He would call it fond but there was something else in it. However, he could not stop smiling back. He nodded slightly and let out a huff of giggle. For a moment it felt like he was 16 again.

Y/N slapped her thighs and got up. “I will get you some covers,” and by the time Yoongi managed to drag his ass up onto the couch, she was back with a comforter and a throw blanket.

She held the folded items out to him, “‘s all I could find.” He muttered a thank you and when he went to grab them, his left palm grazed over hers, ever so slightly. But it was enough to spark him awake, out of whatever sleepy haze he was in a moment earlier.

He heard Y/N say “sleep well” on her way back to her room. He lay on his back staring at an empty spot on the ceiling, trying to replay images from earlier that evening and the last thought he remembered having was that he had to ask her out. Properly.

Yoongi woke up to a slight pinching sensation on his chest. He opened his eyes to see Ash making biscuits on his pecs. He nuzzled the kitten closer to his face and drifted off again for a couple of minutes before waking up to a strong waft of coffee that Sammy was brewing in the kitchen.

Y/N had left for work already. Yoongi left soon after coffee and a handful of muesli. He expected Sammy to tease him in some manner but was not met with anything other than what their normal mornings post a night-long drinking session sounded like.

Work kept him busy enough for the next couple of days. But not enough for him to completely ignore what he decided to do. Ask her out. Properly.

Which brings us all to today. Wednesday. Almost midnight. Yoongi was a little taken aback to learn Y/N was not in. But that minor flick of a longing he could not put a name to yet, immediately lit a few of his neurons alight and he had to get the beats and melody down before it slipped away.

Sammy, amused as he was, also impressed by the tune, brought out his trustee Fender CD60 to play around with.

Splayed across the living room floor, with a few beer cans, a couple of notebooks, a guitar and a laptop on each of their laps - that is how Y/N found the two men when she came in after her departmental dinner with a few of her university colleagues.

#bts x reader #bts x y/n #yoongi fic #bts fic #bts scenarios #bts #min yoongi #bts suga #suga #yoongi #yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi fanfic #min yoongi x you #suga bts #min yoongi fic

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itmeansiris · 19 days ago

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The Solar System Legacy Challenge: Accomplishments Gen 1 pt.75

The night Kason and M made up, Beckett never stopped by or called. M had sent him a text but didn't think much of it when he didn't respond, concluding that the date had either been really good or was another one to file with the growing list of failed dates Beckett had been on.

The next day was a free day for most of the Gratz household besides Kason, who had work. He spent the morning tending to the plants in the garden, it was secretly his baby. He had planted and nurtured every plant that grew there. Recently he decided reluctantly to leave Spirit to take over caring for the garden while he focused on work. There was a promotion coming up and with his outstanding performance, he was hoping to secure it by the end of the weekend.

M, on the other hand, had gotten the kids fed, dealt with a squabble between Venus and Aphrodite, who seemed to constantly be at each other's throats, settled them into their own individual activities, and decided she was feeling creative. For the cosmic duo, the storm was mostly behind them, which was ironic considering a huge thunderstorm was rolling into the Bay.

M was supposed to take Aphrodite to Chestnut Ridge that same Saturday but she'd gotten a call Friday night from the Ranch instruction. They'd been forced to cancel all horseback riding lessons due to the storm. The Weather channels were predicting it would be 4-days long. Dite had been looking forward to this trip all week it was all she'd talked about before school or during dinner. She had jam-packed all her free time after school and violin practice reading equestrian books or watching the Pony up Kids Channel whenever Venus wasn't hogging the Livingroom tv playing video games.

(Call takes place Friday night)

When M took the call Dite had shadowed her every move. M had paced the span of the first floor, trying to get something worked out.

M: We had classes set up for tomorrow afternoon. Yes. I understand. No, no thank you that's fine. The last weekend works just as well. I really appreciate that. Thank you again. Bye.

She'd barely removed the phone from her ear when Dite jumped her.

Aphrodite: So?!

Ishtar was in the living room watching the continued news coverage. It droned on about the strange 4 day storm affecting Chestnut Ridge but moving quickly into other areas like Evergreen Harbor and Henford-on-Bagley.

M: *sighs* Here's the deal. It's not raining here yet, but the thunderstorm is already in Chestnut Ridge and should start here later today. They don't think it's safe to take the horses out.

M was internally holding her breath. Aphrodite's' response was unexpected for any 7-year-old girl but Dite was special.

Aphrodite: That's okay Mom. I don't want any of the Horses or their babies to get hurt. The horses don't really like the thunder and the lightening.

M was in awe of her daughter and how mature she'd become despite her young age. M rewarded her with spectacular news.

M: Well I spoke with the owner Byron and he booked us for a weekend, to give you personal lessons and he's agreed to do indoor and outdoor lessons. That will give you more riding range and if the weather doesn't hold up they won't have to cancel again.

Aphrodite lit up.

Aphrodite: I get 2 days of riding lessons?

M cherished moments like these, when she could make her children happy and they looked at her with admiration and love.

M: Hmm, yes you get two days of private lessons from Byron himself. We'll get to stay in a hotel and try the local food. But, you're not upset we can't go tomorrow?

M asked wanting to snuff out the guilt she felt at the possibility of disappointing Dite. She had made Dite a promise and she'd wanted to keep it.

Aphrodite: Are you kidding this is awesome! I can't believe I get to take private lessons and sleep in a hotel! Can I call and tell Kelsey? Oh, and Mom, can we still buy me my own riding gear, please?

Her begging was unnecessary. M wasn't the type of parent that said no.

M: After school on Tuesday we can go shopping deal?

Dite jumped up and down too excited to express her agreement with words.

M: I'll take that as a yes. Go on, go call Kelsey.

Having taken care of that the day before, with no other plans M settled into her office to finish the remaining chapters of The Court of Slumbering Fae. Her deadline was coming up and she didn't want to give Takara a reason to come down on her. She was already working overtime dealing with the media. She'd gotten the photos removed and was working on Mercurys slander case against the reporters who had taken Paris' false information and tried to spread it like wildfire. Luckily Takara was like a tsunami, she was known for putting out fires immediately and would take out anyone who stood in her path to get it done.

Zohreh on the other hand was having a rough day. Lately, he'd been clingy and Kason was the parent of his unwavering affection at the moment. So when Kason left for work later that afternoon it was no surprise he threw a tantrum. He stood by the front door crying his heart out till Ishtar came over to comfort him.

Ishtar: Zoh what's the matter?

Zohreh: Dadaa w-weave Zohweh!

Ishtar: Come here Zoh. It's okay Daddy's coming back. I'm going to change. You go wait in the office with Mommy and then when I'm dressed we can play! Okay?

He kissed his brothers forehead and walked him to the office then went to change. Once inside he quickly found trouble. M paused her writing to interrupt his destructive search.

M: Zohreh? Can Mommy help you find something?

He trained his soft green eyes on her and pouted.

Zohreh: No. I wait for Ishtaw to pay.

His pale green eyes and curly blond hair made her think of his adult double. It warmed her heart to see so much of Kason in her youngest son, consider the triplets seemed to favor her with their dark hair and moss green eyes. Ishtar had taken on her exotic Tomarang coloring while the girls were fairer toned like their father.

M: How about some company while you wait.

She joined him on the floor as he babbled about Dada, his toys, and his favorite (and only brother) Ishtar until his mood lightened. Ishtar returned and took Zohreh out front to play, leaving their mom to work.

The afternoon passed by uneventfully after that. The kids kept busy while M worked on her book, until Spirit had summoned everyone from their respective activities to have lunch. At 7pm Kason returned home to find Spirit reading on the porch. He greeted her before heading inside to find all the kids gathered in the entryway helping Ishtar complete his school project.

Kason: Hey guys. Where's your mom?

Triplets: Hi Dad!

Ishtar: She's still in her office.

M emerged having heard the voices outside the door. She strolled over to Kason greeting him and sharing good news.

M: Welcome home handsome. The book is finished. I sent it to Takara for last minute edits before publishing.

She whispered with a hint of lust and excitement as she hugged him the sight of him making her instantly flirty. He pulled back showering her with kisses.

Kason: Mmm, you brilliant woman. I can't wait to read it.

She nipped at his bottom lip. His response was low and seductive.

Kason: Save some of that for later. I'll make it worth the wait. You'll never believe what happened today?

He mumbled between kisses.

Venus: Hello we are still here. Gross!

Ishtar giggled and Aphrodite sighed and shook her head at her sister's comment. Kason kissed M's nose one more time for good measure before putting a little distance between them to stop the mock gagging noises coming from Venus.

M: So? What happened?

A mischievous smile spread across his face.

Kason: Nope. You have to guess.

M: Hmmm. Paris quit?

She said only half-joking. Kason snorted.

Kason: Good one, but no we aren't that fortunate. One more and then I'll tell you.

M: Hmm. You..you got the promotion?

Kason shook his head enthusiastically the smile on his face full of pride his eyes shone with accomplishment. He had worked for Bay's Robotic Engineers for almost 8 years. He had been hired mid-level due to his degree but that hadn't stopped him from putting in his all to impress Greg and earn his keep. He'd moved through the ranks fairly quickly, his progress only halted when he needed to take time off after the triplets and Zohreh were born. He had even put up with training Paris and all the craziness that came with having her work for the company. His focus never wavered, he had a goal and finally he could ring the bell on his career. Being promoted to the head of the department he was now Bay's Robotic Engineers new Master of Machines and he could finally call himself a master of his trade.

M: Congratulations!! I'm so proud of you! Guys Daddy got the top promotion at work today!

The triplets jump up to join their parents excited to be a part of Dads big news.

Ishtar: Congratulations Dad! You're like the lord of the robots now!

Venus: Dad does that mean that you're the boss? That's so cool you get to tell everyone what to do.

Aphrodite: Yay Daddy!

Comet barked loudly running around the family's feet with confused excitement. Zohreh toddles out of the living room and M picks him up waiting for Kason to finish with the triplets. She brings Zohreh over to Kason and Zoh immediately squirmed reaching for his father.

Zohreh: DADA!

Kason: Hey buddy!

Zohreh: Zohweh missed you

Kason snuggled his son close.

Kason: I missed you too Zoh. I'm sorry I had to leave earlier Mommy told me you had a hard day but your big brother kept you company. Good job Ish.

Ishtar smiled up at his dad with fulfillment. Zoh just snuggled closer happy to be back in his father's arms. They stood around laughing and congratulating him. Kason was euphoric, his life felt whole. He was at the top of his dream career, he'd found and married his soulmate, and though they'd found trouble their marriage was stronger in the outcome. He was making good money and felt he and M were laying a secure foundation of wealth for their children to inherit when they were gone. The only thing worth perfecting now was his parenting. His kids were his life and he wanted to be the patriarch they felt they could always come to for love, knowledge, and protection. What else could be worth his time and dedication now that his personal life goals had been met? Kason had always been a great father but when it came to his children he knew there was always room for improvement. His parents hadn't been perfect and he knew the same was true of himself and M even though he felt she was as close to perfect as a parent could get.

He started by joining the triplets in tackling their school projects. When all the castles were complete and everyone was cleaned up for the night they gathered in the backyard to celebrate and enjoy each other's company. The clouds were low and ready to open and unleash rain at any moment but it wasn't raining yet. So they roasted marshmallows and hot dogs while Kason played the guitar (another of his hidden talents) while Spirit told ghost stories in anticipation of spooky day which was only a week away.

Around 11 the first signs of rain became evident as the droplets fell on the fire, the logs hissed in protest, leaving faint wisp of smoke in their wake as it tried to smothered small portions of the flames. Everyone found shelter inside while Kason stayed behind to ensure the fire was properly extinguished. Feeling full, accomplished, and filled to the brim with love for each other the family turned in for the night.

Previous Next

Beginning

Sidebar: It felt like Kason and M needed a break. Just a day to work on their own careers and spend time with their kids and each other. I also wanted to give a quick update on what was happening with the photos online. With M being a celebrity there had to be some fallout from her husband being called a cheater online. M has an active slander case against the paparazzi which I will include the results of in a later post. Also, I had no idea that Tucker was in the house or by the fire when I took the last couple of pictures. I didn't notice him till everyone was going to bed and got the notification thanking us for hanging out with him.

I sent M and Aphrodite to Chestnut Ridge to go horseback riding when I got there, there was this crazy thunderstorm going on (I forgot to reinstall my sul sul weather app by littlemssam) so I added the Friday night call because apparently something is wrong in Chestnut Ridge and there was like a 4-day thunderstorm almost none stop.

Poses: @elen-shine Homecoming

cc: @ravasheencc Fantastical Play Rug

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 story #sims 4 screenshots #solar system legacy challenge #itmeansiris #sims 4 legacy #sims 4 romance #gen 1 #sims 4 lovestruck

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 22 days ago

Text

Passion

Could you write Roman angst / hurt/comfort that’s a human/college au? Roman wants to major in something related to the arts (theater, art, creative writing, etc). However he’s constantly reminded by his family that he should pick a major that will lead to a career that pays well. So he just settles for a major that will lead to a well paying job, but is clearly stressed out and sad by how his college life is going. So the other Sides step in a comfort him; they are determined to help him follow his dreams and not go down a life path that he’s not happy with. – monkeythefander

Read on Ao3

Warnings: insecure!roman, poor bb

Pairings: none

Word Count: 4045

Roman's parents are very encouraging. They want him to succeed in life, they want what's best for him. And what they think is best for him is for him to have a major that sets him up for jobs that will provide him with a steady paycheck, stability, and plenty of options for growth. Never mind what he wants.

Roman glances down at his phone as it buzzes again. His hands clench and unclench as he reaches for it. He looks at the text.

Mom: Doug said he's happy to help you when you do figure out what you want. Just a reminder of all the people that care about you <3

He flips the phone over and looks at the mountain of textbooks stacked at the edge of his desk, just barely on the edge with all the folders of homework and printed articles he has to somehow get through by the end of the week. He looks down at his hand, the callus on his finger flattened from how hard he's been pressing his pen to paper just to try and struggle through one more project, one more class. He swallows, mouth dry, and reaches for the water bottle only for it to be way too light—how long ago did he finish it?

With a grunt, he gets up and goes to the bathroom, jamming it under the water bottle filler and waiting until the light turns green. He slumps back down at the library desk and buries his head in his hands. He can't afford to be doing this right now, he knows it, he has to get back to work. He's got three deadlines looming over his head and the persistent growl of his stomach isn't doing him any favors.

The 'starving artist' cliche is really overblown, Roman. There's no glamor in it. I know it sounds like it's romantic and it'll all pay off in the end, but the truth is that's not how the world works. I'm not trying to crush your dreams, honey, I just want you to be prepared.

He'd stayed up all night making his art about that, and he's never going to show that particular piece to anyone because it will get back to his parents somehow and they'll want to know what inspired this, this seems really dark, Roman, are you alright? Is there anything we can do?

He wishes he'd never shown them some of his art to begin with. God, he's never going to get his mother's face out of his head when she'd looked at him over breakfast like he was a complete stranger and said I wish I'd known how to love you better when you were younger.

What the fuck was he supposed to do with that at 9 in the morning?

He shakes himself. He can't be doing this right now. He has work to do. He grits his teeth and picks the pen up again and starts struggling through the pages and pages of homework. The characters on the screen fuzz and blur and he has to keep blinking, keep squinting, keep trying to parse them out through the fog in his brain that just doesn't want to. He's rarely felt more useless in his life than when he'd seen the word count for a paper and failed to do it until he was shaking with frustration at how hard it was to make the words go.

Any writer will tell you that writing isn't as simple as sitting in front of a keyboard and just letting the words fall out of you. It's called a discipline for a reason and it takes discipline to do. It takes practice, just like anything else, it takes work and it takes more than just someone glancing over it and thinking oh, nice, you wrote a story. It's never wow, the amount of time you must've taken to practice your craft to do something like this is admirable. It's never I really like how you've used this particular technique or this particular style to do what you wanted. It's only ever yeah, you've improved and they don't even have the vocabulary to specify how or what it is they think is better. Not when it comes to writing, and in Roman's case, certainly not when it comes to his writing.

Sure, some of his professors think he's good. But those ones were from his other classes that he actually wanted to work for. Now? Now he's lucky if he gets one word of decent praise in between all the other suggestions and criticisms for how his style isn't appropriate or he's missing key parts that mean the rest don't count for anything and—

And he blinks and realizes the reason that he's struggling to read so much is the tears now rolling down his cheeks.

He doesn't have time for this. He has studying to do. He has projects to finish. He has work that has to be done to be worthwhile and make sure that he's doing it right and he's impressing his class and he's also managing his life in a way that gets him a high-paying job right after graduation and he's making his family proud and—and—

And he's not forgetting that he has people who care about him.

He blinks again. He stares unseeing at the screen as a tear hits his computer. He thinks, if he were in another major, he might be able to do something with the fact that the first thought he has was I can't cry on my computer, I have too much work to do.

But this work doesn't care about his emotions or his feelings, so he sniffles, clutches his water bottle like it's a cuddle toy for one, two, three seconds, then he gets back to work.

***

"Alright," Virgil announces, plopping down on the edge of the sofa almost in Roman's lap, "what's wrong?"

"I'm not a ventriloquist, get off my lap!"

"I'm not on your lap, Princey, I'm next to it." He leans down and flicks the side of Roman's head. "Talk to us."

"'Us?'" Only then does he look up and see that yep, the rest of their friend group has gathered around, Logan sitting slowly on the other side of the sofa as Patton and Janus lean against the wall. "Oh. When did you guys get here?"

"About twenty seconds ago." Logan crosses one leg over the other. "But Virgil's right."

"Savor that."

"Dick." Virgil swats him. "Don't ignore us. You've been off for weeks, Princey, what's going on?"

Roman hunches his shoulders. He really doesn't have time for this. "I'm fine, guys. Just let me get back to work."

"Lie."

"Janus, I don't have time for you right now."

"Also a lie, but maybe a little less of one." Janus doesn't even have the decency to flinch when Roman glares at him—which part of him really wants to find offensive, he has a great death glare— "you're upset, sweetie, you have to let us help."

"Well, I don't have to do anything except pay taxes and die."

"Okay, he's still making bad Vine references, he can't be that far gone."

"Guys," he mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose, "really, I'm glad you're all here and concerned about me, but I really need to finish this, can we do this later?"

"When is later?"

"I don't know, like, after dinner?"

"Done," Logan says in that way where he knows Roman's gotten himself into a trap—shit, see, this is why Roman switching majors really sucks too, because Logan kicks his ass verbally enough outside of class, he doesn't need to give him an excuse to kick it inside too. "We'll set aside some time after dinner to discuss. Thank you for suggesting it, Roman."

Roman redirects his death glare to Logan's back as he walks out of the room, trying not to let his cheeks flush too obviously when the others are trying—or not trying at all, in Janus's case—to hide their smirks or snorts. Instead, he buries himself back in his work and makes the best effort he can to getting through the nonsense so he can be present for whatever interrogation he's about to receive afterwards.

He doesn't make that much progress, but that's not new. He saves what he's done, sends emails to the groups for what he can't, and resigns himself to being quiet during dinner so he can save his energy. Thankfully, none of his friends try to make him talk during dinner itself, they'll all distracted talking about some show or some game—honestly, he's pretty sure there's both games and shows in the franchise so he'd be correct either way—and not on the very sad and upset Roman poking halfheartedly at dining hall pasta and salad.

He has about three minutes after they get back to the dorm before they're all piling into his room and demanding he talk to them.

"I don't know what you guys want me to say."

"You can start with why you've looked like a kicked puppy for the last few weeks."

"I have not!"

"You have, kiddo," Patton adds, wincing a little at the description but not denying or disagreeing, "it's not your fault, but it's…you look like someone's told you Disney's never making another movie ever again."

"Okay, maybe not that bad," Virgil amends when Roman stares at them blankly, "but you've had your little princely pout on pretty much constantly."

"I do not—"

"Yeah, you do."

"Yes, you do."

"You do."

"You kinda do, kiddo."

"Wow, fuck you guys, you all suck." Roman rubs his temples. "I really don't know what you guys want from me."

"You've been upset." Logan reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. "We just want to know why."

"And what we can do to help," Virgil adds.

"I don't—I'm just stressed from work, okay? That's all. I'm trying to wrap my head around new stuff and it's taking me some time. You don't have to worry about it."

"Well, that ship has very much already sailed," Janus says, feigning a put-upon indifference that Roman sees right through because he won't stop fiddling with his gloves, "we're here, we're worried, so you may as well tell us."

"That's not how it works."

"That's very much how it works."

"Enough, you two." Logan's hand is still on his arm. Logan's hand better not stay on his arm for much longer because all the emotions he hasn't been able to get out of him are racing toward that one point of warmth like it's the only port in a storm and if he doesn't stop touching him now, there's going to be no more work that gets done this evening and he has a deadline to meet. "Roman, obviously we won't pressure you into sharing something you don't want to, but…we are worried."

"Why?"

"Because you seem so much less like you." Thank God that hand leaves. "You've been quiet and distant and we—well, I won't speak for everyone else, but I miss you."

A lump rises in his throat. He never thought he'd hear Logan say he missed him. "You do?"

"Yes, I do. I miss going on walks with you in the morning and talking about our readings, I miss studying in the library with you."

"I still study in the library."

"Yeah, but that's all you do right now, Princey." Virgil fiddles with his hoodie strings. "You don't come game with me or Janus, you don't watch movies or shows with us as much anymore, hell, Patton can't even get you to come to breakfast in the morning if it's not an hour before your class."

He sneaks a guilty look at all of them to see similar expressions on their faces. His chest twists. He's…he's been a bad friend, hasn't he?

"Don't," Patton says softly when he opens his mouth, "you don't have to apologize to us, we're not mad at you. We're just worried, like Janus and Logan said. We're your friends, Roman, we just want you to know we're here for you."

Right.

Roman swallows. He bows his head and mumbles something about being too overwhelmed with work and not knowing how to deal with it. Logan pats his shoulder and Patton promises to try waking up a little earlier to go and get breakfast with him and everything. Janus and Virgil manage to convince him to take the rest of the night off to watch the new episode of the show they're binging. He waits until the rest of them have vanished back to their rooms for the night to look longingly at his notebook.

He scribbles down a few lines and shoves it under his bed, cracking his laptop open again.

***

He should've known that eventually, they'd bring out the big guns. Or rather, big gun.

"Ro-bro!" Roman barely has time to move his computer out of the way before he has an armful—and lapful—of his brother, squirming to get closer. "It's been too long!"

"Ack—Re! Re, you're squishing me!"

"So? You're used to it." He wiggles his way even closer with a happy sounding hum. "Hey, there's my Roro. You've been dodging my calls, haven't you?"

"What? No, I didn't—when did you call?"

"I'm just fucking with you."

"Can you—ack—not fuck with my ability to breathe?"

Remus rolls his eyes fondly but does step back, letting Roman actually get himself together and stand up for a proper hug. Then he's right back to getting squished by a boa constrictor and…maybe he's grinning a bit into Remus's shoulder because yeah, he missed his brother too.

"I haven't seen you since you started this new bullshit," Remus mumbles in his ear, "why's it look like it aged you four years?"

"Asshole."

"You know I'm right, though." Remus pulls back, holding him by his shoulders and poking his cheek. "You look ragged, Roro. You been getting enough sleep?"

"You're worse than our parents."

"Fuck yeah, I'm worse. I can actually make you do shit still."

He flinches. It's small, but Remus notices everything, especially when it's about him, so of course Remus notices and he gets two seconds before Remus is stepping closer and bringing him into another hug—gentler this time, but still firm enough to let him know he's not running away from this conversation.

Shit.

"Now, what was that all about?"

"Nothing, Re, it's fine—"

"Bullshit." He squeezes him closer. "You're upset about something, Roro, so tell me what it is."

"I'm just stressed, okay? Switching majors is hard and I'm trying to play catch up. That's all it is."

Remus narrows his eyes. "So if I ask Janny if that's true, he'll agree with me?"

"Ask me what?"

Oh, great. He glances over his shoulder to see that everyone's apparently coming to say hi—that's not fair, they're Remus's friends too, but he'd be a fool to not put together why they're all here right now and it has everything to do with the concerned furrow between Remus's brows that isn't going away anytime soon.

"Did you guys seriously call him because you're still worried about me?"

"Yep."

"That's correct."

"We're still worried, kiddo, and we figured Remus might have an easier time getting you to tell us what's wrong."

Remus flicks his forehead and grins when Roman glares at him—what is with everyone suddenly being immune to his death glares? Has switching majors caused his death glare to weaken too?—and ruffles his hair. "C'mon, Roro, you can tell us. We'll only make fun of you if it's funny."

"No, we won't."

"Fine, only if you deserve it."

"We won't do that either."

Remus pouts. "You're no fun, Logan."

"I'm concerned about my friend," Logan says smoothly, "and I'm not in the habit of punishing the behavior I want to see."

"Ooh, kinky."

"Both of you shut the fuck up," Virgil grumbles, "we're here to support Roman, not whatever the hell that is."

"Great idea, Dark and Stormy! Roman, tell us what's wrong!"

"Oh, for crying out loud—I'm just stressed!"

"That much is clear."

"Shut up, Remus." As soon as he says it, he bites his tongue, reaching out for his brother before he can pull away—Remus wasn't, not even a little, in fact he's pretty sure he was stepping closer— "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"I know, Roro." Remus gives him another squeeze around the middle, the way he knows makes Roman relax because he fights dirty and Roman hasn't cried in days. "What's going on? I haven't seen you like this in ages."

Roman hangs his head. "Why is it so hard to believe that I'm just stressed? What part of my story doesn't make sense?"

"The part where you're admitting that it's a story and you haven't told us to fuck off about it yet."

Roman groans into his hands. "Why do you have to know me so well?"

"I'm your brother, that's my job. And they're your friends, so caring about you is their job."

"Which you haven't been letting us do, so…"

Roman doesn't say anything for a long moment. The lump in his throat keeps getting bigger and bigger. He clutches Remus's arms and Remus just lets him. He can hear Patton and Janus shuffling closer, trying to gauge if this is a sort of problem that a group hug can fix. He can hear Virgil and Logan mumbling something. He can feel Remus tightening his grip on him. He can feel himself getting closer and closer to crying—

"I'm just stressed," he croaks, "I'm…that's it, okay?"

There's a pause. Then Remus sighs. "Okay, Roro. I believe you."

"You do?"

"Yeah." He ruffles his head. "While I'm here, though, you wanna make good on that promise to show me your studio?"

His studio. The one he's technically not supposed to have anymore because that's for his old major and students in his new major don't get studio space. But academic bureaucracy moves slow and he hasn't had the heart to clear it out yet.

"Ooh, wait, can we come too?"

"I'd like to see it."

"Roman, is that okay?"

"Yeah," he mumbles, turning to grab his coat, "let's…let's go."

Remus just slings an arm over his shoulders for the entire walk across campus. Roman stares at the ground as he trudges over to the once-familiar building, pushing open the door and heading up the stairs. God, just the smell is enough to bring the tears back to the corners of his eyes, that half-dried paint and the weird heat from the kiln on the first floor, the paint thinner, the stuff from the woodworking shop and the forge…

He reaches into his pocket where the keys never left and opens the door to his studio. He has to hold himself against the door for a moment at the rush of being in the space again.

It's his. It's his, it's only ever been his. Not really, the room itself has probably housed over a hundred different students' works over the years, but right now? Right now this room is his and his alone. His manuscript sits in a messy pile on the corner of a desk filled with open sketchbooks and colors strewn about. The easel in the corner still has his composition work. The walls are still covered in his projects and concept ideas that have started to fade a little with the sun. The room smells of charcoal and paint and freshly-dried ink—not so fresh anymore—and there, in the corner, is his setup for sealing wax and the letters he'd been making before…before…

Before.

"Holy fucking shit, Roro," Remus breathes out and oh, yeah, everyone's here, "this place is fucking magical."

He steps aside and watches them through his lashes as they spill into the room, treating it like it's some sort of gallery and not Roman's mind frantically spinning its wheels at too many hours of the day. Logan and Janus are already deep in conversation about one of his earlier painting hanging on the wall. Patton is trying and failing to be subtle about poking at some of the clay figures on the windowsill. And Virgil is shamelessly reading the manuscript.

His heart flutters, just for a moment.

"That's it," he mumbles, "this is where the magic happens. Happened."

"No, no, no, you don't to downplay this." Remus turns around like he's a kid in a mad-science candy store. "This place is the shit."

"I'm glad you like it."

And for a split second, he thinks that might be it. That they'll wander around in his soul for a little, see what they want to, and then they'll leave and he'll lock the door behind them. But he forgets that Remus is Remus and knows everything.

"Why're you standing right there?"

"Huh?"

"You're standing right in front of where the door is like you don't want us to close it."

"Oh, I can close the door."

"Yeah, but you're still standing there. So what's behind the door, Ro-bro?"

He shuffles in place and apparently, that's all Remus needs to dart forward and shove him out of the way, yanking the door away from the wall and—

He knows what they're all staring at now. He'd done it in the dark, so he hadn't really been able to see what he was doing, but when the sun came up and he could, he couldn't bring himself to finish it or destroy it. Not when the curve of his own face was staring back at him as the rest of his body turning to dust, scattering in the wind to turn to cold, merciless coins clanking and clattering into a never-ending void.

It's a terrible painting. One his old professors might have been proud of. One his new professors won't ever see.

He didn't really want anyone to see it, but it's too late for that now.

"Oh, Roro," he hears Remus mumble, "you really didn't want to switch majors, did you?"

"It's not worth it," Patton says too, "going after something because it might get you a better-paying job later, not if you're miserable."

"You work so hard on your art, you deserve to be celebrated for it."

"How are you all getting this from one painting?"

"Because it's your painting, sweetie," Janus says, coming close enough to take Roman's shoulder, "and you're a very, very good artist."

"I'll fucking call our parents myself and tell them to fuck off," Remus growls, spinning and snatching Roman back up in a hug, "you don't deserve to be miserable. You deserve to be the person you want to be."

"Princey, I've been here for ten minutes and I feel like I understand you better than I have for years," Virgil says when Roman goes to protest, "you're fucking great at this and you've worked hard at it. Logan's right, if this is what you want? Fucking chase it."

"Oh, sweetheart, come here," Patton whispers when Roman chokes on a sob, "come here, come here, that's it…"

It's group hug time on the floor, apparently, and Roman can't stop crying. Not when these people are standing in the middle of his soul, trying to hold him together, and not when he can't stop hearing the clink, clink, clink of metal hitting metal. He wants to stay here, in the light, in the warmth of it, not go back to cold papers and projects that feel so foreign to him.

"So do it."

"But—"

"No, if you want to do this, fucking do it. We'll talk to your professors, we'll fight the academic subcommittees if we have to. If you want this, Ro? We're in your corner."

He sniffles. "You…you mean it?"

"Of course we fucking mean it. We care about you."

And for the first time in a few months, Roman might actually believe it.

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#dragonbabbles #fic #sanders sides #roman angst #roman sanders angst #roman sanders #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #virgil sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders

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hotcheetohatredwastaken · 11 months ago

Note

what do you think the chains favorite breakfast foods are (if they eat breakfast)

I WAS HALFWAY THROUGH ANSWERING THIS AND MY PHONE DIED AND DELETED EVERYTHING I HAD WRITTEN, DEATH AND SORROW AND DESPAIR.

Okay I'm good now.

ANYWAYS, I split you ask into two sections: first, their favorite food ever if they can get their hands on it, the second what they like to eat on the road. And then a final unhinged rant at the bottom about the one thing about teenage boys/young men and their food that I'll never understand: Bacon.

Legend--I have a feeling that he likes sweets. Specifically, waffles with whipped cream and berries. They're a little burnt, but Ravio made them for him, so he'll pretend he doesn't notice (and grows to like them better that way). On the road, he'll go for coffee/tea (he's not picky) if one of the others make it, or nothing at all.

Hyrule--does he have a favorite breakfast food? Food isn't very stable where he comes from--Legend and Wild would spoil him so much in regard of expanding his palate. But I imagine that something like a fried mixture of beef/sausage, vegetables, and a starch (perhaps an even poorer version of an already poor person food Shepherd's Pie, perhaps? it could be a breakfast food) would be a sort of filling, tasty, and easy to procure/make/preserve food that he'd like. On that note, I would say something simple, easy to get and preserve, and hardy would be his go to breakfast on the road--maybe meat jerky.

Wild--Also a sweets person. Fruit cake, cinnamon rolls, frosted cupcakes, basically all the little delicacies he could get at a dumb party 100 years ago, he ain't picky, it's for breakfast and it's fueling a day long sugar high. On the road he, unlike the other Links, can be pretty creative with his breakfasts, and he likes his spice as well. So, I think he'd like Meaty rice balls.

Four--direct this question to someone else please. He has four voices in his head fighting to answer right now, and none of them agree. I surely dont know if he doesn't.

Time--Pancakes and farm-fresh scrambled eggs and toast with jam. Malon makes it for him. What can I say. On the road he is a habitual coffee drinker, he wouldn't be functioning in the mornings without it. But he'll also take a poached egg if he has the time (heh).

Warrior--unlike Time who is a habitual coffee drinker, he is a coffee connoisseur. He likes the breakfasts they serve at the castle--a lot of meats and fruits, expensive, and on top of it all, well plated. Not to say that he can't eat simply--he was in a war, mind you--just that he prefers not to. On the road, he strikes me as the kind that would drink those tasteless quick oats (y'know you just add water, shake and go?) and also be very vocal about much time (heh) it's saving him (being none). I don't know what the Hyrule equivalent of those are.

Twilight--our favorite country boy. I think he likes a true southern breakfast. Ham and pan-fried potatoes and eggs over-easy, with a side of cheesy grits and sausage biscuits and gravy like Uli used to make for him (I HC this man has a black hole of a stomach, out of all the Links). On the road he'll inhale a boiled egg or two (salted and peppered if he's feeling fancy) that Wild made for him. I also head canon that Twilight likes tea with an intensity. And not only sweet tea, but like, ALL of the teas. He gets obsessive. I literally have in my detail/subplot tracking documents for BDOR the following entry underneath chapter 8--Tea: "Twilight’s cure to Wild’s voice is tea. His cure to life’s woes is tea."

Wind--whatever his grandma is making, probably with seafood involved. I've had a crab-spinach-egg casserole for breakfast before, it was good, so I'll give him that. On the road, I can see him packing a lot of bread and some meat (dried fish if he can get it).

Sky--This guy honestly has me stumped. Do those on Skyloft eat Loftwing eggs, or are they considered taboo? They have a lot of pumpkins around--do they incorporate them into their meals?@needfantasticstories you know a lot of Skyward Sword lore, bequeath me your wisdom. Anyways on the road he's a meat and bread person like Wind. Practical.

Now, for my rant about young men and their food quirks:

Bacon. Bacon, as I have witnessed, drives the most reasonable of men insane.

I just a few things to say about this. I have younger brothers, and I born witness to many male sleepover parties. I--as the resident nasty fe-male XD--have been (forced) to cook for them in the mornings. Set a pile of bacon in front of them (or really any meat, but I have found that bacon has the strongest affect) and they turn into WOLVES. They start to crowd around and stare as soon as they begin to smell it (which hey, give me space in the kitchen, please!), snatch it up before the grease even cools, and then retreat into their separate corners of the living room/kitchen and scarf it down, all while avoiding eye contact and projecting just how much they don't care about the bacon they're eating (perhaps so one of the others don't take notice and try to steal it). There's an odd little ritual/rules to the thing, too: for example, it's frowned upon to take more than three or four pieces at a time, there has to be enough for everyone, obviously; but if you finish a second and third serving before some poor sod stumbles in and gets himself a piece--why that is acceptable, even encouraged. But at all times, you could feel them watching each other, judging whether each person had taken acceptable amounts. 6 at once, I have determined, is veritably considered too much, as I have watched an entire group of mid-late teenage boys chase another through the house and outside for this crime of greed. Another thing was the presence of literally any other edible food. If there was anything else--eggs, fruit, even something like a few slices of unbuttered toast or coffee or juice sitting out, this reaction was largely tempered--even if none of the boys took the other foods, they would take a meager one or two pieces of bacon and be satisfied, perhaps reassured that other food was present and their hope of a filling breakfast was not in vain. Most, at that point they would restrain themselves from eating anything (other than their bacon tax) and wait so that everyone could eat together. But the mad scramble that occurs when there is bacon and only bacon in the kitchen (even if other things are cooking, nearly done, and visible to them) is otherworldly.

I never saw it with anything else, not eggs, not fruit, not even sausage or any other breakfast food. And it must be noted that I was exempt from their little ritual of judgement--perhaps as the only woman, or perhaps as the cook, I was allowed to take as much bacon as I liked from the pile, once the initial wave had attacked and retreated with their bounty (and the strips of bacon had cooled enough that mortal human hands such as my own could pick them up). And while they behaved like beasts, I was always very politely thanked for making breakfast once it was over and the frenzy had abated.

Anyways, your ask got me thinking about Malon making a pile of bacon for the boys, activating the beforehand undiscovered "PANIC! BACON!" mode in their brains, and just being utterly confused as they turn into animals. Just the boys descend, and then a few shouts of "Thanks, Malon!" drift in on the wind as they scatter like racoons with treasure, leaving an empty plate spinning behind them.

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theepisceswriter · 1 year ago

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WELCOME TO CLUB RENAISSANCE !

(Aka Stallion's return event)

ＣＵＮＴＴＯＴＨＥＦＥＭＩＮＩＥＷＨＡＴ，ＰＯＷ！

OMGGGG, lovies I am SAUR excited to be back and share my creativity and world with you all and build off of the equally amazing ideas you have as supporters of my work. As an artist, having the inspiration and drive to write after not having ANY for so long means the world to me! So come help me spew out more content for yall!! And what better way to do it than a Beyonce themed event?

MASTERLIST (TBA once requests start rolling in)

HOW THIS EVENT WILL WORK

♡ Underneath the readmore tag there is an assortment of characters, tropes/situations (both sfw and nsfw), and even reader specifics to choose from annnnddd even wildcard options for you if there's anything I left out!

♡ You’ll choose a Drink (character), Beyonce Song (situations/tropes), and your favorite Yonce (reader specific).

♡ The characters listed are not the only ones available, all characters from the fandoms I have listed on my page are available! The ones listed are just the ones I get requests for the most or ones I’ve been having brainrots for lately

♡ You can send in all sorts of combinations and be as vague or descriptive as you want to be. You can list multiple characters, multiple situations, etc, etc.

♡ For example: "Can I have a Long Island Iced tea, Cuff It & Energy, with Femyonce?", "Can I request Zeke Jaeger with the fwb trope and nb!Reader?" and even, "Can I have One night stand trope with Gojo after he comes home after being locked away for so long?" Whatever you want baby I got you!

♡ Enjoy grandma's babies !!!

♡ CMON AND GRAB YOU A DRINK BABY ! (Characters) ♡

Long Island: Reiner Braun

Margarita: Toji Fushiguro

Martini: Gojo Satoru

Old Fashion: Nanami Kento

Mimosa: Jotaro Kujo

Cosmopolitan: Dio Brando

Bloody Mary: Geto Suguru

Whiskey Sour: Jean Kirchstein

White Russain: Eren Jaeger

Daiquiri: Zeke Jaeger

Negroni: Gutts

Gin Fizz: Shigure Sohma

Manhattan: Levi Ackerman

Mojito: Erwin Smith

Lemon Drop: Shuu Tsukiyama

Sangria: Benimaru

Screwdriver: Leonard Burns

Mai Tai: Character of your choice!

♡ CHOOSE A JAM TO BOOGIE TO! (Scenarios/Tropes)♡

♡ CENSORED (SFW) ♡

ALL UP IN YOUR MIND: Yandere

KITTY KAT: Sidechick-type beat

NO ANGEL: Troubled!Reader

PRAY YOU CATCH ME: Cheating

JEALOUS: Jealousy

ALL NIGHT: Domestic themes (marriage, children, etc)

SORRY: Reconciling

ON THE RUN: Criminal!Reader x Criminal!Character

HEAVEN: Death

LOVE ON TOP: Fluff

MINES: Any trope to lovers

BEST THING I NEVER HAD: AU (coffee shop, modern, organized crime, etc, etc)

LOVE DROUGHT: Angst

HELLO: First date

BREAK MY SOUL: wildcard! A theme you think of that might not be listed

♡ UNCENSORED (NSFW) ♡

COZY: Cockwarming

ALIEN SUPERSTAR: Monsterfucking

CUFF IT: Overstimulation

CHURCH GIRL: Religion kink

PLASTIC OFF THE SOFA: Aftercare (can be sfw)

VIRGOS GROOVE: Friends with benefits

MOVE: Dominatrix

THIIQUE: Body worship (can be sfw)

PURE/HONEY: Onlyfans!Reader

SUMMER RENAISSANCE: One-Night Stand

VIDEO PHONE: Phone sex

IF I WERE A BOY: Pegging

6-INCH: Sex worker!Reader

SANDCASTLES: Hate sex

UPGRADE U: Sugar Daddy/Mommy

HAUNTED: BDSM

BLOW: Oral fixation

PARTITION: Car sex

DANCE FOR YOU: Striptease

ENERGY: Mutual masturbation

ROCKET: wildcard! A theme you think of that might not be listed

♡ CHOOSE YOUR FAVORITE YONCE ! ♡

Femyonce: F!Reader

Thugga Bey: M!Reader

Themyonce: Nb!Reader

Diversce (I thought of this one real hard): POC!Reader (you specify)

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starry-polytheism · 8 months ago

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a modern festival to psyche, the butterfly's preparations

now, as you all might be aware, psyche was not worshipped historically, so therefore she does not have any festivals. so, i decided to fix that and make her a festival for myself mainly, since i don't know that many of her worshipers who live in the southern hemisphere

as for how historical this festival is, well, the answer is Not Much. i am still practicing in secret, so this has to be discreet. as for resources used, i referenced mainly fel the blithe's video on festivals!

now, when psyche herself was asked for a date for her festival, she told me she wanted it in april, which means it fell on autumn. i have always felt her the most strongly during the transition months between summer and winter, so this made sense to me. when asked further about it, she pointed me towards the direction of self-reflection and transitions, with preparations for the "harder days" (which i took to mean winter, but my country is a mess right now so i can't help to feel she partially meant That also)

as for other gods included, she asked me Very Intensely that eros be included with her, and when he was asked if he wanted anything, he more or less went "well... im just happy to be included, but also it could be nice to spend it with loved ones". i decided hermes also to be part of the festival, mainly focusing on his side with transitions and change

festival for me will take place during the first weekend of april, but for those of you in the nortnern hemisphere who want to take this festival, you'll have to adapt the date to your zone, sorry

so, for devotional acts, here are a few suggestions but feel free to get creative with it:

do some journaling! be that reflecting on your relationship with psyche or more generally on plans to come

prepare a meal in her honor with fall fruits and vegetables, and enjoy some warm drinks (bonus points if you can make hot cocoa, but no pressure to)

spend some time with loved ones, be that in person or through the phone (if you can cook for/with your loved ones, even better!)

make some jams and/or pickle some stuff

store away the summer clothes and bring out the colder weather clothing

donate old coats and blankets to those who need them

#starry originals #psyche worship #psyche deity #hellenic polytheism #helpol #festival: the butterfly's preparations

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chr0macide · 1 year ago

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Break In: The Novelette (Fanfic)

Part 2 is out

BOOM FIRST TUMBLR POST. I am currently normal about the Roblox Break In series so I decided to try and recreate it as a short story. This is my first time writing anything seriously for fun so I'm sure the pacing is all kinds of fucked up but I did enjoy making it lol. I tried to follow the game's storyline as closely as possible but I also took a few creative liberties and tried to give the characters more personality, not sure how well it worked though lol. This is just the first Break In but I might also do this to Break In 2 as well, probably won't happen in the immediate future though. This thing is about 9,500 words. If you have any feedback/notice errors please do comment :)

Chapter I – Silent House

An old coupe trundled down the road of a quaint suburban neighborhood. Four kids were crammed uncomfortably inside it. One of them reached into his bag of chips, elbowing his younger sister next to him as he did so.

“Ugh. Watch it, Hadrian,” she grumbled.

“You watch it,” Hadrian replied as he shoved the chips into his mouth. The girl reached over to steal one out of the bag. Hadrian slapped her hand away.

“You jerk!” she shrieked, swinging her teddy bear into Hadrian’s face. Hadrian grabbed a handful of his sister’s dark hair and pulled. The two older kids in the car groaned as their younger siblings began bickering and jostling everyone else around.

“Hadrian. Stephanie. Cut it out,” warned the older sister. The younger kids quieted down, but only slightly. “I’m serious! Prince, tell them to stop,” she said to the driver.

The car ground to a halt. “Monica, it’s fine. We’re here,” said the older brother. He removed the key from the ignition. The engine made a worrisome rattling sound as it shut off. He grabbed the handle of the car door next to him and jiggled it. The door was stuck. “Damn this old shitbox,” he muttered as he forced it open.

The four kids squeezed out and breathed in the fresh air. “Finally,” said Stephanie. Prince walked around the car and popped the trunk open, removing the family’s only suitcase.

They’d parked in front of a modest two-story house. It was old and the paint was starting to peel, but at least it looked cozy on the inside.

The front door of the neighboring house creaked open. Out stepped an older man with sunglasses. Uncle Pete. After Prince and Monica had managed to get custody of their siblings, they all knew they had to get away from their parents’ house.

Pete was wealthy. He owned more than a few properties. He’d agreed to let them stay here for free. They weren’t sure why he owned two houses right next to each other. Old people were weird sometimes, but they weren’t complaining.

Prince waved at Uncle Pete. “Evening, Pete!” he called out. Pete just smiled and waved back.

“He’s, uh, usually nonverbal,” Monica explained to her younger siblings. “Anyway. Let’s get inside,” she suggested.

Prince stuck his hand under the welcome mat and fished out a keychain. He tried to jam several different keys into the lock before the door opened. Everyone stepped inside.

“It’s musty,” Stephanie complained. Hadrian made a beeline for the couch in the living room as he shoved another handful of chips into his face. He collapsed onto it and proceeded to ignore everyone.

“It’s not that bad,” Monica claimed. Truthfully, there was a slight odor in the house, but that was probably just because no one had aired the place out for a while. “Come on, let’s open these,” she said to Stephanie as she unlatched one of the windows.

Prince inspected the kitchen. They hadn’t had a chance to go grocery shopping yet, so the cupboards were barren. He took out his phone. “Pizza, anyone?” he called out to the others. They yelled their approval from the other rooms.

“Fine!”

“Sure!”

Prince punched a string of digits into the number pad and put the phone to his ear. “Is this Builder Brothers Pizza? OK, we’ll have a large pineapple—”

“NO!” bellowed Hadrian from the living room.

Prince rolled his eyes. “Fine. A large pepperoni as well,” he added.

Monica called out to him from the other room. “Prince! Get over here!” she said. Prince finished up the call and followed her voice until he was standing before a door with a large padlock affixed to it. Monica and Stephanie turned to him.

“This door looks cool. Open it,” Stephanie demanded.

Prince squinted at the padlock. “I don’t know… Pete probably locked it for a reason.”

“What, are you scared?” the girl joked. “You can lock it again if there’s a monster inside.”

The eldest brother pursed his lips. He wasn’t worried about monsters, but he’d heard rumors of growing criminal activity around this neighborhood. Although…

Prince rifled through the pockets of his cargo shorts until he located the keychain. He found the right key and inserted it into the padlock. It clicked open and fell to the ground with a dull thunk. Prince gently opened the door.

There were concrete steps leading down into a basement. They couldn’t see anything through the darkness, but the cold, stagnant air rushed out over them.

“That’s ominous,” Monica remarked.

Stephanie grinned in excitement and took a step inside, but Prince put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “No, Steph. It’s too dark to see anything in there. You’ll get hurt,” Prince told her. Steph stuck out her lower lip and pouted, but she didn’t try to run inside again. Prince shut the door.

The doorbell rang. The pizza was here. At the same time, Hadrian yelled at everyone from the living room again. “Guys! There’s breaking news on the TV!”

“Coming,” Prince yelled back. “You guys go ahead. I’m gonna get the food,” he told the girls.

Prince opened the front door. It was almost dark outside, and starting to rain, too.

“Sup,” said the delivery guy. Prince took a small step backwards. The guy was pretty big. “Two large pizzas?”

“Yeah,” Prince confirmed. He took the pizza boxes and set them aside before he rummaged through his cargo shorts again for his wallet. He opened it. The family had been low on cash ever since they left their parents’ place. He handed a $20 note to the delivery guy, but he continued to look at Prince expectantly. “Uh… no tip this time. Sorry. That’s all I got right now,” Prince admitted, averting his eyes.

The delivery guy threw up his arms in disbelief. “Dude, are you for real?” he questioned.

“Sorry,” Prince apologized again.

The pizza guy shoved the bill into his pocket. He turned around and trudged over to his motorcycle. “This is my livelihood, man,” he muttered. Prince fidgeted with his wallet guiltily as the guy sped off.

Nonetheless, Prince picked up the pizza boxes and brought them into the living room. Right as he set them down on the coffee table, there was a clap of thunder. The lights in the house blinked out abruptly. The TV flickered off.

Monica glanced outside. The streetlights were also off. There was a power outage.

Everyone looked out the window and saw Uncle Pete’s silhouette leave his house through the back door. He ran a cable to a box outside. He ran another one from the box to their own house. The box hummed to life.

“Oh, it’s a generator,” Monica figured. The lights didn’t turn on, but the TV did. Pete noticed everyone staring at him through the window. He waved at them again before running back into his home.

They turned to the TV and started eating their pizza as the news reporter began speaking. The screen showed a gang of mobsters wearing fine suits and tuxedos, their faces obscured by comedy masks. They were dumping a barrel of some unknown liquid into a storm drain. The picture appeared to have been taken through somebody’s broken windowpane.

The Purge has Begun, Villains on the Loose, read the headline. “This is not a drill. Agents of the mafia are roaming the streets,” said the news anchor. The image on the screen shifted. A short video played of a second group of mobsters smashing someone’s car window with his crowbar. They dragged a man out. One of them raised a gun to the civilian’s head, but the video was cut off before anything else happened.

“Goddamn,” muttered Prince.

“Do not engage these fugitives under any circumstances. There have been 19 confirmed deaths and many more confirmed injuries so far. Keep doors locked and windows closed at all times,” the news anchor continued.

Another image appeared on the screen. “Their leader is Larry Clockturn,” said the news anchor.

Monica stifled a laugh at the mob boss’s appearance. A grey beard hid the lower half of his face. He was old, and he definitely dressed like it. Bowler hats were not in fashion. There was a domino mask over his eyes. He wore a violet waistcoat with a rose affixed to the lapel over his black undershirt. A peculiar golden crowbar was in his hand.

The image switched to a mugshot of Larry. Monica stopped laughing. “Wait, that’s not a person,” she said. Now that they were looking at him up close, she realized that his skin was unnaturally shiny. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the dark and his face seemed stiff and lifeless.

“Is he a robot, or something?” asked Stephanie.

“I don’t know… he looks more like an automaton,” Monica replied.

Stephanie looked at her funny. “Is there a difference?”

“Well, yeah,” said Monica. “At least, I think so. Robots use electricity, but automatons have engines or something-”

Hadrian shushed her as the news anchor continued talking. “If you see this entity, run away and hide. Larry Clockturn is considered by authorities to be an extremely dangerous serial murderer. Do not engage him under any circumstances. Special forces have been dispatched to regulate the situation. I repeat, this is not a drill.”

There was static as the program ended. A standby screen appeared on the TV. Nobody spoke at first.

“That shit is wild,” said Hadrian, deadpan. Stephanie peered through the window nervously. “I told you we should have gone to Bloxburg!” she hissed to Prince.

“And I told you, Steph, we don’t have that kind of money.”

“Guys. Be quiet.” Monica was the one staring out the window now, but the streetlights were still off. If there were any mobsters creeping around outside, she couldn’t tell. “Can’t see shit. Maybe they don’t know we’re here, either… let’s just go upstairs.”

Prince grabbed the suitcase he’d left by the front door. He partially unzipped it and felt around inside until he found the flashlight, then switched it on and held it in front of him as he lugged the bag up the stairs. The others followed him from behind until he came to the bedroom. He dropped the bag just inside.

“Phew.” Prince was too tired to unpack, and now probably wasn’t the best time, anyway. He cautiously made his way to the window at the back of the room. It might have been his imagination, but he could almost see moonlight glinting on mobsters’ white purge masks. He drew the curtains. “Let’s just hit the sack,” he said to the other kids.

They were in for a rude awakening.

Chapter II – Broke In

The kids awoke to the sound of shattering glass. Stephanie sat bolt upright and screamed. She fell out of her bed and rolled underneath it, still clutching her teddy.

A mobster had smashed the only window in the room with his crowbar and was now climbing inside. The other three kids jumped up and scrambled away from him. He planted his shiny black shoes on the floor, brushed some glass shards off his tuxedo, and brandished his crowbar at the kids, laughing.

“G’day, cunts,” he greeted them, tipping his fedora at them wryly. He started towards them.

It was only one guy. The kids whirled around, searching for something to defend themselves with. There was nothing except for Prince’s baseball bat… but it was still in the suitcase. Monica ran to the front of the room and shoved the bag flat onto the floor. She started to unzip it.

Meanwhile, the mobster raised his crowbar to bash Prince’s brains in, but Hadrian had skirted around until he was behind the guy. He kicked the back of his leg. The thug folded, eliciting a giggle from the boy, but it was promptly cut short as the mobster shot to his feet and grabbed him around the throat. “Little shit.” He lifted his crowbar again as he throttled Hadrian with one hand.

Monica had the suitcase open. She dug through it, throwing the clothes aside until she found Prince’s chrome baseball bat. She tossed it to him.

Prince caught the bat and turned to the mobster again. “Get away from Hadrian, you asshole!” he yelled as he swung as hard as he could.

There was a sharp ding as the bat connected head-on with the side of the mafioso’s skull. His head was jerked to the side by the impact. He released Hadrian and crumpled to the ground, barely conscious.

Monica rushed towards Hadrian and hugged him. “Are you OK?” she asked, fussing over her younger brother.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Hadrian replied as he pushed her away, but his voice was wavering a little. He rubbed his neck. The mobster’s grip had left a red mark around it.

Stephanie finally crawled out from under her bed. “What do we do now?” she whispered, staring wide-eyed at the insensible mafioso.

Prince walked over to him cautiously. “We should… uh…”

He didn’t want to kill a guy in front of two young kids. Certainly not his own siblings. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to kill anyone at all. His eyes fell upon the broken window.

“We should… just push him back out through the window. Yeah. It’s not that far to the ground. He’ll be fine,” finished Prince hesitantly. He grabbed the mobster’s feet. Monica grabbed him under the arms. They hauled his nearly unconscious body to the window.

They draped the mobster over the windowsill. Prince gave him a little push. He slid out rather gently and grunted in pain as he hit the ground outside. Now he was really knocked out.

Prince and Monica took a peek over the sill. He was already surrounded by a few of his fellow mafiosos. They glanced up at the teenagers, faces unreadable through their masks. They started to drag their unconscious accomplice into the shadows, where Prince spied his own car. The hood was open. The engine was gone. Looked like they wouldn’t be leaving this place anytime soon.

“Shit. We need to do something before they come back,” whispered Prince, pulling away from the window.

Monica squinted as she looked around the bedroom. She opened the door to the walk-in closet. “There’re some wood planks in here. Maybe we can board up the window…?” she suggested.

“We can board up all the windows,” Prince told her… “except for this one,” he added, nodding at the broken pane. “We’ll use that to see outside.” He retrieved some tools from the suitcase. Monica had told him to leave them behind when they’d moved out of their parents’ house—they were heavy—but now she was glad that he’d packed them anyway.

Prince dragged the planks out of the closet and left them in a pile. He picked up a hammer and went to nail one of the boards over a window at the end of the hall. He swore as he hit his thumb. “Fuck.” The sun was peeking over the horizon, but it was still barely light enough to see.

Monica and Hadrian started boarding up the other windows. They spent all day securing the place, and it was dark again before they knew it. They were all making a lot of noise, but there was nothing they could do about that.

Unfortunately for them, the sound attracted some unwanted attention.

“This was a shit idea.” Hadrian glanced through the gaps in the boarded window. There were more than a few eyes glinting in the darkness outside, glaring at them. “Now they know we’re in here,” he told Prince.

“They already knew we were in here, dumbass. A purger broke through the window and tried to kill us, remember?”

“Oh… yeah. I guess you’re right.”

With all the windows boarded up, there was nothing to do except meander around the house. Hadrian went to the living room and thought about turning the TV on, but he wasn’t in the mood.

He looked at the leftover pizza on the coffee table. He was hungry, but it had been sitting out all night. The power was still gone. The refrigerator was useless.

Hadrian sighed. No eating today.

As he reentered the foyer, Hadrian heard a scratching noise coming from the other side of the basement door. He panicked initially, but when he listened closer… was that mewling?

Hadrian stepped closer. He put a hand on the doorknob and opened the basement door, but only a little. An orange tabby cat slunk through the gap.

“Have you been in there the whole time?” Hadrian questioned, staring at the cat in disbelief. He reached down to pet it, but the cat batted his hand away and hissed. It ran past him and darted through the gap between Prince’s legs—he’d been watching from behind.

The cat jumped up onto a cabinet in the foyer and stared at Hadrian disdainfully. “Tch. Cats are lame anyway,” he muttered as he shut the basement door again. “Wait… Prince, do you hear that?”

There was a strange noise outside. Tires screeched along asphalt to a standstill. There was a loud electrical bang as a pair of headlamps were abruptly switched on outside, flooding the living room with a bright light.

A van had pulled in front of the house, facing them and shining its headlights into the room. Six mobsters got out and stared at the house silently. One of them made eye contact with Prince as he peered through the boarded window. The teenager backed away. He beckoned Hadrian to follow him upstairs.

“Prince? What’s happening?” Monica asked when she saw him.

“More gangsters. Six.” Prince paused as he looked outside again. “They’re just standing there…”

Prince’s brow furrowed in thought. It felt like ages before he spoke again. “I’m staying awake tonight. The rest of you sleep,” he told everyone as he picked up his bat and paced around the room. “I’ll wake you up if something happens.”

“Prince, are you sure? We should sleep in shifts,” offered Monica.

“No. It’s fine,” the eldest refused, waving the suggestion away.

Everyone else got into bed, but Prince walked over to the broken bedroom window again. The mobsters were still staring at the house intently. He stared back, determined. It was going to be another long night.

Chapter III – Tick Tock

It was dead silent. Light from the mobster van’s headlamps was still streaming into the house, but they hadn’t tried to get inside. Prince leaned against the wall, nodding off with his baseball bat in hand. He’d been awake for hours. His eyes began to close.

The sound of glass breaking pierced the night once again. Prince snapped to attention. He heard wood splinter and nails clink against the floor as the mafiosos pried the boards off a window downstairs. He opened his mouth, about to shout for the other kids to wake up, but he instead decided to shake them awake instead. They’d lose the element of surprise if the mobsters figured out they weren’t sleeping.

“Monica, wake up,” Prince hissed, shaking Monica in her bed. Her eyes snapped open.

“What? Did they break in?” Monica asked. She rolled out of bed hurriedly and grabbed Stephanie, dragging her off her bed as well. “Steph, we have to get up. There’re more bad guys.”

“They’re downstairs. Maybe we can get the jump on them,” Prince whispered as he shook Hadrian awake as well. He hesitated before pointing to the hammers they’d discarded after fortifying the house. “Grab one,” he said to Monica and Hadrian. He didn’t want to kill anyone… but these mobsters weren’t leaving them with many options.

Prince grimaced as Monica picked up a hammer. “Actually… Monica, you take my bat. I’ll use a hammer,” he decided.

“Huh? Why?” Monica wondered.

Prince shrugged. “I don’t want you to have to kill anyone,” he admitted.

Monica shot him a look. “I’ll be fine, Prince. Worry about yourself.”

There were footsteps below. The mob was inside. Prince motioned for everyone to follow him.

The mafiosos ascended the stairs. They slunk down the hall. The one at the front reached out to push the door open, hoping to attack a few feckless civilians in their sleep… but he saw nobody.

The door behind them opened instead. Monica buried her hammer in the nearest mobster’s cranium, then wrenched it out. Blood spattered against the wall next to his head, and then he fell onto the carpet with a soft thump, dead. The other mafiosos whipped around at the noise.

Five left.

Monica was clutching the hammer to her chest now, wide-eyed and shaking a little bit at what she had just done, so Hadrian pushed his way past her before the mobsters figured out what was happening. He swung his own hammer at the closest one. The mafioso had no time to raise his crowbar as Hadrian struck him in the forehead, cracking his purge mask. He slumped to the ground as well, knocked out.

Four.

Prince jumped out of the wardrobe and rushed out of the bedroom while the mobsters were facing away from it. One of them bashed his crowbar into Hadrian’s chest, who stumbled backwards, wheezing. Prince managed to strike the side of the aggressor’s head. It bounced off the wall next to him. He heard something break. Maybe the drywall. Maybe his skull.

Three.

Another mobster rushed Prince. He swiftly retreated into the bedroom until he was standing at the broken window. The mobster followed. As he lunged with his crowbar, Prince sidestepped and took the chance to grab the mafioso, hurling him through the window. He landed on the concrete with a sickening crunch and didn’t get up.

Two.

Monica came to her senses. It was just in time, too, because Hadrian was about to be ganged up on by the remaining invaders. Prince came out of the bedroom. “You go left. I go right,” he whispered to Monica. She nodded.

One of the mafiosos lashed out at Hadrian with his crowbar. He raised his weapon to defend himself, but the hammer was too small to block anything. Hadrian yelped as his forearm took the hit. He dropped his weapon as Monica brained the offending mobster.

One.

Prince raised his bat high above his head at the same time and brought it down on top of the other mafioso’s head.

Zero.

The kids stood in silence for a while, breathing heavily. They didn’t hear anyone else in the house. After a minute, Monica spoke.

“Steph, you can come out now,” she said. Stephanie emerged from the guest bedroom wordlessly and clung to her sister’s leg. Monica took Hadrian’s wounded forearm and prodded at the injury. He winced.

“I don’t feel a break. Maybe it’s just cracked. I left my first aid kit in the car,” Monica admitted nervously. She knew it wasn’t safe to go outside right now.

Prince pondered. “We can check the basement first. Maybe Pete left something useful in there,” he advised. He retrieved the flashlight from the bedside table and switched it on as the kids moved down to the first floor. They walked past the window that the mobsters had entered through. Wooden planks and shards of glass lay on the carpet. It crunched under their shoes as they stepped over it.

“Didn’t you leave this closed?” Prince asked Hadrian as he came to the basement, shining his light inside. The door was ajar. He quickly realized what a stupid idea it was to point the flashlight into it. There was a chance someone was lurking there. He turned it off.

Hadrian started backing away. “Yeah, I did… I think?” he whispered.

There were footsteps again. Loud ones.

“Shit,” said Prince.

Hadrian hesitated. “Wait, I think it’s just one guy. We could take him.” Indeed, only one pair of feet could be heard, and yet, the floor shook as the basement dweller began to climb the stairs.

“No! That guy sounds huge! Hide!” Prince whispered harshly, pulling Hadrian—who winced again as his forearm was jostled—along with him. They and the girls ran away from the basement door as silently as they could.

Prince put his hand on the sill of the broken window, about to jump outside, but he saw too many masked men in the shadows. He doubled back and whirled around, searching for somewhere to hide. There was only the storage cabinet in the kitchen. All four of them squeezed in. It was a tight fit. They almost couldn’t breathe, but they all froze as the trespasser reached the top of the basement stairs. Prince peered through the thin gap between the cabinet doors. The guy was so tall that he needed to duck underneath the doorframe. There was a faint ticking noise emanating from him.

The ground quaked with every step Larry Clockturn took. His golden LED eyes lit up in the dark. The glow glinted off of the violet mask on his eyes. He was far more daunting in person. As he walked near the shattered window, the moonlight illuminated his tarnished metal face and the steel wires that served as his beard.

He passed the open kitchen door. Monica saw a large wind-up key affixed to his back. I told you he was an automaton, she wanted to whisper, but this wasn’t a good time.

The mob boss walked past the kitchen and out of sight, but the kids heard his footsteps move to the stairwell. The first stair, decayed with age, splintered and caved under his weight. Larry cursed and swung his crowbar at the wall in anger, annihilating the plasterboard. He tried the second step. It groaned under his mass, but it held this time. He made his way to the second floor.

Prince hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, but now he was almost gasping for air as he pushed the cabinet doors open and darted towards the basement. The other kids ran after him.

He swore internally as he almost tripped on the first step. It was still dark in there. He turned on the flashlight just long enough to make it to the bottom.

It was chilly. The kids huddled together in the darkness.

“H-he knows we’re still in the house,” stammered Monica, voice shaking. “He was here when you shined the flashlight in the first time. He had to have seen it. What are we going to do?”

Prince said nothing. He was out of ideas. All they could do was shut up and hope Larry didn’t think to come back here.

But the mechanical ticking returned. Larry did come back.

The automaton’s silhouette appeared at the top of the stairwell. The light from his eyes, still glowing golden in the dark, faintly illuminated his face.

There was a tinny creak as Larry tilted his head, staring into the basement. It was pitch black inside. Maybe he couldn’t see them, the kids thought.

Larry’s lips parted into a malicious grin. Prince flinched in surprise. He hadn’t realized the mob boss could emote with his metal features… but he didn’t come inside. Instead, he turned from the basement door and walked away, his steel exterior clanking as he moved.

There was a loud crack as Larry forced the front door open instead of leaving through the window he’d broken.

“What an asshole,” Prince grumbled.

Monica touched Prince’s arm. “Why didn’t he come inside?” she wondered.

Prince shrugged. He didn’t know either.

“Maybe he’s playing with us.”

It wasn’t a comforting idea, but they didn’t hear Larry’s footsteps anymore, so…

“Turn the flashlight on. We have to search this place,” Monica told Prince. He did.

The shelves were cluttered with supplies and knickknacks Uncle Pete had left behind. Pete, Prince suddenly remembered. He hoped the guy was alright, but there was nothing he could do for his uncle right now.

A good portion of the items were littered across the floor as well. Larry and his mobsters had trashed the place. Prince swept the flashlight across the ground.

“There.”

He pointed to a discarded first aid kit.

Monica picked it up. “Thought we’d never catch a break.” she took a broken piece of shelf as well and assembled a makeshift splint for Hadrian’s forearm. It wasn’t pretty, but it would hold until they figured out how to get to a hospital.

In the meantime, Prince perched the flashlight on a shelf to rummage through some carboard boxes. “Oh my god. Finally,” he exclaimed as he pulled out a bag of cheese puffs from one of them. The box was full of junk food, but it felt like the kids had struck gold after having nothing to eat for a day and a half. They gorged themselves, but once they were full, they were unsure of what to do next.

Prince looked pensive. “We can’t stay down here,” he eventually said. They had no clue how long the purge was going to last, and they couldn’t subsist on their meager supply of junk food for long.

Monica didn’t say anything at first. Prince was right, but the streets were still teeming with every kind of criminal.

She had an idea.

Chapter IV – Delivery

“This is dumb as hell.”

“Just put it on,” urged Monica.

Prince finished buttoning up the tuxedo. He pulled the purge mask over his face.

They’d swiped the disguise off of a dead purger they’d left upstairs. Monica reached for the second mask that they’d looted, but Prince stopped her.

“Nope. You’re staying here,” he told her.

“You serious? You can’t go out there alone.”

“Yes the fuck I can. Besides, someone needs to stay with those two.” Prince motioned to Stephanie’s tiny form and Hadrian with his arm in a splint.

Monica sighed. “Fine… be careful.”

Prince picked up one of the dead mobsters’ crowbars. Monica took a step back and looked him up and down. “I think it’ll work. Just act casual,” she said.

After peering outside, Prince grabbed the windowsill and vaulted over it. The mobsters lurking nearby didn’t even glance at him twice.

The nearest convenience store was just up the road. Prince could see it from here, but as he started walking, his shoe slid on the ice beneath him. He almost fell. The wet asphalt had frozen overnight.

There was a loud guffaw from a group of mafiosos passing him by, but then one of them slipped on the ice as well and fell on his face. The other gangsters laughed even louder. “Man, shut y’all’s asses!” he hollered at them.

Prince had frozen in place for a few seconds, almost thinking he’d blown his cover, but he quickly regained his bearings. He left the gangsters to bicker amongst themselves. They seemed a lot less menacing when they weren’t trying to kill him.

As he continued towards the convenience store, Prince passed by the house of one of his neighbors. Of course, he hadn’t had a chance to meet them yet, but he still wondered if they were doing alright.

There was an earsplitting scream from inside the house, then a gunshot. The distant voice of a mobster reached Prince’s ears. “Aww, come on! I was gonna play with her first!”

Prince scrunched his face up in disgust under his mask. Nevermind. Fuck these guys.

He made it to the convenience store. The place had been nearly bled dry, but there was some fruit left in the produce crates. Prince opened the sack that he’d taken with him. He reached for an apple.

There were two mobsters sitting on the counter nearby. They turned their heads towards Prince. They were masked, but he could feel them giving him an odd look. He faltered, then grabbed the edge of the fruit crate, tipping the entirety of its contents into his sack. The mobsters looked away, losing interest.

Phew. Prince threw the sack over his shoulder and almost ran back to the house.

Monica met him at the basement door. Panic flashed through her mind until she realized it was Prince. “What did you get?” she asked as they returned to the basement.

“Fruit.”

“Lame,” said Stephanie.

Prince took his mask off and shoved an apple into her tiny hands. “No, it isn’t. You need it after eating all that junk food.” He didn’t notice the sound of a motorcycle pulling up to the front of the house.

There was commotion in the kitchen upstairs. Utensils and cookware clattered against the floor tiles.

Prince foisted his crowbar over his shoulder as he turned to the stairs. “I gotta say, I’m getting real tired of this shit,” he muttered to Monica before he returned to the ground floor.

As he reached the top of the staircase, he hesitated. This dude was kinda big, he thought as he scrutinized the person wrecking his kitchen. There was no time for Prince to change his mind, though—the mobster saw him.

“There you are.”

He sounded vaguely familiar, but Prince had no time to muse as the guy charged at him.

Prince responded in kind. He rushed at the mobster and raised his own crowbar to block the blow. There was a sharp clang as their weapons met.

It was almost like a sword duel, though not nearly as graceful. Prince was no trained fighter, but neither was the mafioso, apparently. He accidentally hooked a vase with his crowbar, sending it shattering against the floor. The opponents staggered around the foyer, neither of them gaining the upper hand at first

The mobster couldn’t get a hit in. He grew impatient and lunged forward. He swung too wide. Prince backpedaled away from the strike, and now, for an instant, his foe was wide open.

Prince delivered an uppercut to the mafioso’s face with his crowbar. The force of the strike knocked his mask askew.

The mafioso collapsed to the ground heavily, dazed and confused. “Ugh…”

Alright, Prince had absolutely met this guy before. He reached down and pulled the guy’s mask all the way off.

Prince stared.

“Dude, are you fucking kidding me?”

It was the pizza guy from a couple days ago. He sat up gingerly, rubbing his chin, and spat a glob of blood onto the carpet. “Shouldn’t have fuckin’ stiffed me, you asshole!”

Prince threw his arms up in exasperation, still gripping his crowbar. “I told you I didn’t have any more money! And you come into my house and trash the place over it? What is your problem?”

The delivery guy eyed Prince’s crowbar. He straightened his bowtie as he spoke. “OK, don’t be like that, man. A guy paid me to do it. You’re not the only one hurting for cash,” he said, pointing his finger at the boy. “The big metal dude,” he continued. “I’ve been running with the mafia for a while now, but this morning he shoved a crisp hundred into my hand and told me to come in here. Take you guys out. And, uh, he looked like he was gonna kill my ass if I said no, so… here I am, I guess.”

Prince glared at him for a moment. “Man, just get the hell out,” he said, pointing his crowbar at the open door.

The pizza guy looked outside. “Uh… actually, I think I’m gonna chill in here for a while.”

“Excuse me? No, you are not. You just tried to kill me,” Prince snapped.

The guy held up his hands in surrender. “The big guy is gonna fillet me like a fish when he finds out I didn’t get rid of you guys! I’m not going back out there,” he said. “Besides, he paid me in advance, man. I ain’t gotta do shit no more.”

Prince mulled it over. This guy wouldn’t get out of his house, but Prince definitely didn’t want to kill him, either.

“Whatever. Fine. What should I call you?” he asked.

The pizza guy stood up unsteadily. “Isaiah.”

“OK, Isaiah, you said you’ve been running with the mob for a while. Any clue how we might get away from here without dying?” Prince asked.

Isaiah deliberated for a moment.

“The sewers. The mafia normally uses it to move around the city, but It’s empty now that they’re on the streets…” He paused again as he formulated a plan. “I overheard a li’l bit of intel. The national guard made it to 5th Street. We head in that direction. Get behind their lines, where it’s safe. Then we can exit the sewer. No sweat.”

Prince didn’t have any better ideas. “Fine. Get in here, man. Leave the crowbar,” he warned Isaiah as the ruffian reached for his fallen weapon. “No funny shit.”

“I wasn’t going to do shit,” he muttered as they descended into the basement.

The other three kids drew back suspiciously as they saw Isaiah. “Prince? Who is that?”

“He’s the pizza delivery guy,” Prince replied. “From the day we moved in, I mean. He’s…”

Prince gave Isaiah the side-eye.

“He’s chill,” he decided. “And he told me how we can get out of here. We’ll walk through the sewers until we meet the national guard.”

The other kids glanced at each other. “Unless you guys would rather stay here…?” Prince added. They all heard a bout of submachine gunfire in the house across the street.

“Nope. Let’s get out of here,” Monica said. “Tomorrow morning?”

Isaiah raised an eyebrow. “Why are we waiting?”

“It’s midnight. We gotta get some sleep,” Prince said.

Isaiah’s eyebrows crept even higher. “You guys have been sleeping at night this whole time? You can’t be doing that shit during the killing purge! How are you people still alive?”

The kids murmured inaudibly. They didn’t really know, either.

Isaiah shook his head incredulously. “Whatever. I don’t know where you got that disguise, Prince, but there had better be more. Your buddies will get jumped in no time if they go out looking like that,” he said.

Prince retrieved some more suits and a couple of crowbars from the dead mobsters upstairs. The second floor was starting to smell really bad. He was glad they were leaving soon.

The disguises were a little ill-fitting on Monica and Hadrian, but Stephanie wasn’t going to be able to wear one at all.

“What are you going to do about her?” Isaiah asked.

Prince scratched his head as he thought. “I saw a manhole cover real close by. We’ll just have her walk in the middle of us ‘til we make it into the sewer.”

“If you say so.”

The group stepped out. Stephanie stood in the middle of the bunch, hopefully obscuring her from the mobsters’ sight.

They had almost made it to the manhole cover when they heard a crash in the distance. A shrill alarm pierced their ears. Someone had smashed one of the convenience store’s windows open and set it off. The group turned to see who was responsible.

They saw a shape with glowing eyes through the glass door of the store as he strode into view. Larry downed a can of cola before crushing it in his hand and throwing it aside. He turned to look at the street.

The automaton looked blasé as he surveyed the darkened neighborhood, but his expression shifted to one of suspicion as his eyes fell on the group. Then he looked furious.

Their disguises hadn’t fooled him. Larry kicked the door open and started towards the group.

“God fucking damn it!” roared Isaiah as he hauled the manhole cover off the ground and thrust it aside.

“Get in!”

Chapter V – Clockturn

Everyone clambered down the ladder and into the sewer.

Stephanie held her nose. “It smells really bad in here.”

Something heavy tumbled into the manhole after them, landing on Prince’s head. “Ow! What the hell?” he exclaimed.

It was the same cat that had come out of the basement earlier, and it started yowling as Prince pried it off his scalp.

“Guys, he’s coming! Fucking run!” Isaiah shouted at the group. He’d broken into a sprint as soon as his feet touched the floor. “And shut that cat up! It’s gonna give our location away.”

Prince set the cat on the ground. Thankfully, it stopped screeching, but it did follow them.

The kids raced after Isaiah. “Do you know where you’re going?” Prince panted.

“Yeah, I’ve been down here before. Just stay behind me,” Isaiah assured him. “Take this right!”

As they rounded the corner, Monica risked a glimpse behind her. The concrete ground fractured beneath Larry as he jumped into the manhole after them.

The corridors twisted and turned as Isaiah led everyone further into the sewers. He barreled through iron gates in their path. Some of the paths had collapsed and been replaced by flimsy timber.

Hadrian stumbled. A board slipped out from under him. He was about to fall into the fetid sewage, but Prince reached to fish him out.

Isaiah got there before him. Hadrian’s shoe had just touched the water when the mafioso forcefully pulled him back onto the walkway.

“Hey, be careful! His arm is hurt!” scolded Monica. Isaiah simply jabbed his finger at Hadrian’s foot.

Hadrian wiggled his toes. The tip of his shoe was gone.

“I forgot to let you guys know. I saw some other mobsters pouring something into the storm drains,” Isaiah explained as he continued to run. “Whatever it was, it was corrosive as hell, ‘cause the drain stared melting. Don’t fall in there,” he finished, pointing at the water channel.

Isaiah veered left into a round clearing in the sewer. He came face to face with another gate, but he almost bashed his head into it as it refused to open. The kids skidded to a stop as he grabbed the bars and rattled the door. “This wasn’t locked before!” he shouted in frustration.

The mobster wedged his crowbar through the edge of the gate and tried to pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge. The kids glanced at each other anxiously. “Maybe Larry doesn’t know where we went,” Monica whispered.

No such luck.

They heard the ticking of his cogs before they saw him.

Larry rounded the corner. He was moving at a leisurely pace, but his footsteps were still fairly thunderous as he strolled across the improvised wooden bridge.

The automaton came to a halt as he reached the other side of the walkway. The kids could only stare at him. He was blocking their only escape.

Larry put a hand on his crowbar, leaning on it like a cane. He ran a hand through his wiry beard. His LED eyes swiveled as he looked the group over.

A lanky delivery boy, down on his luck.

Some high school dropout with a hero complex and his doormat of a sister.

A kid with a broken arm. His youngest sibling, hugging her teddy bear to her chest.

Larry laughed to himself and booted the wooden board behind him. There was a low sizzle as it fell into the waterway and began to disintegrate. The kids were trapped. His gaze shifted back to the group.

“What do you think you’re doing, Isaiah?” said Larry in his metallic peal.

His voice sent a chill up the kids’ spines. It was sonorous and hollow, filling the entire corridor.

Isaiah didn’t reply. He only yanked his crowbar out of the still-locked gate. It was futile. He walked to the front of the group.

If Isaiah wouldn’t talk, Larry would. “It’s not too late for you to follow orders, young man. Get rid of them.”

Isaiah didn’t move.

The crime lord raised an eyebrow. “Interesting decision.” Larry lifted his crowbar with one hand and rested it over his shoulder as he advanced on Isaiah.

“Hold on, boss, I-”

Isaiah cut himself off as Larry swung his crowbar. The mobster managed to duck under the blow so that it connected with the wall instead. The stone bricks cracked under Larry’s strength.

There was no reasoning with this guy.

No one knew how they were going to take Larry down, but he couldn’t go after all of them at once. Everyone scattered across the room, but the littlest was too slow.

Larry grinned as he reached down and snatched Stephanie by her tiny arm.

“No!” cried Prince. He rushed towards the automaton.

The cat was quicker. Prince had almost forgotten it was there, but it leapt onto Larry’s face, scratching and hissing. He cursed and released Stephanie. Prince pulled her away and swept her into his arms as the mob boss reached for the feline instead.

Its claws did nothing except piss Larry off. He ripped the cat off his face and flung it aside as he straightened his tie. It hit the wall before sliding to the floor and going limp, still mewling pitifully.

Stephanie normally would have begun crying by now, but she must have known it was no use this time. She gazed down at the teddy bear in her hands. It was the only toy she’d been able to take with her when the siblings had left their parents. Its voice box didn’t work anymore, but she turned it over and looked at the pull-string attached to it. She looked up at the golden wind-up key on Larry’s back. Still in Prince’s arms, she reached for it.

Stephanie twisted the wind-up key counterclockwise with all her diminutive might while Larry’s back was still turned. A steely bang sounded from inside him, followed closely by the jarring noise of an engine backfiring. The automaton flinched violently. He nearly toppled over, but he caught himself and whirled around, lunging with his crowbar furiously as he did. Prince backpedaled hurriedly, but the very edge of the crowbar just barely caught Stephanie’s cheek, ripping off a layer of skin.

“Bastard!” roared Prince. He set Stephanie down behind him. She ran into her sister’s arms. Monica steered her over to Hadrian before she went to confront their aggressor.

The group had figured out Larry’s weak point, and now he was a lot more wary. Prince, Isaiah, and Monica circled around him, but he’d turn and lunge again whenever one of them took so much as a step towards him. The three comrades glanced at each other. They all knew one of them had to engage the automaton while another tried to reach his key, but none of them particularly wanted to be stomped into red paste.

Before anyone grew audacious enough to rush Larry, the kids heard yet another odd noise. There was a resonant clang as the automaton’s steel plates snapped apart along the seams. A deafening mechanical whirr filled the sewer. All of a sudden, there was a cyclone of buzzsaws where he’d been standing a second ago.

Larry charged at Prince, who had to dive out of the way to avoid being sliced to gory ribbons.

Blood sprayed against the stone brick wall. Prince cried out as he hit the cold floor. He’d been too slow. The blades had caught him anyway. Fortunately, his arm was still attached, but there were several deep lacerations. Larry had sliced him all the way to the bone.

A pool of red bloomed under Prince as he collapsed. Monica rushed over to where she’d dropped her first aid kit. With wounds like that, he was going to bleed to death if she didn’t do something, but she couldn’t get near Prince while Larry was standing between them.

The automaton’s buzzsaws ground to a stop and clicked back into his casing. His plates snapped shut again as he stood above Prince.

Larry had his back to Hadrian now. He was so close. He had to do something. Hadrian ripped the splint off his own arm. He knew he was probably about to make his injury worse, but that was far better than dying here.

As Larry raised his crowbar to finish Prince off, he felt a pair of hands on his wind-up key.

Hadrian turned the key counterclockwise. Larry grunted in pain again as even more of his gears jammed, but he swung his weapon behind himself immediately this time.

Hadrian reeled as the crowbar struck his torso. He gasped for breath as he hit the concrete. Great. Now he had both a cracked forearm and a cracked rib cage. Larry turned away from Prince, heading for Hadrian instead.

Monica bolted to Prince’s side and started tying a torniquet around his bleeding arm. As she tended to him, Isaiah stepped in between Larry and Hadrian.

Larry narrowed his eyes. “Get the fuck outta the way, kid.”

Isaiah didn’t.

Larry scoffed and brought his crowbar down upon Isaiah with one hand. Isaiah gripped his own weapon as hard as he could with both hands and held it up to shield himself.

Their weapons clashed. Isaiah staggered, but he managed to remain on his feet. His crowbar vibrated in his hands with the aftershock of Larry’s blow, but he maintained his grip on it.

Larry raised his eyebrows, mildly surprised. Perhaps Isaiah wasn’t as lanky as he’d thought. He shook his head at the mobster.

“Little shit. I gave you a job when you were about to be homeless, and this is how you repay me?”

Larry attacked again, grasping his crowbar with both hands now. Isaiah did lose his weapon this time. It skittered across the concrete and into the corrosive water.

Monica sprang for Larry’s wind-up key. He swung his crowbar into her face without looking at her. She flew back and hit the ground, unconscious. Prince dragged himself towards her. He was starting to become lightheaded from the blood loss.

Larry swung again. With nothing to guard himself with, Isaiah took the hit squarely in the chest. He crumpled to the floor, winded.

The automaton circled him. He gave the mafioso a kick in the ribs with his steel-toed shoe.

“Come on. Is that all you can take?”

Isaiah choked out a couple of choice words. “Fuck… yourself…”

Larry scowled and opened his mouth to speak, but the cat hauled itself from the stone floor and launched itself at his face again, caterwauling and clawing with renewed fervor.

That was all Prince needed. He scrambled to his feet and leapt at Larry’s key. He grabbed it with his uninjured arm and wrenched it counterclockwise one more time.

Something rattled inside the automaton. His gears shuddered to a halt. There was a hiss as steam escaped from the vents on his face. His glowing golden eyes blinked off.

Larry lurched forwards and hit the ground with a crash, deactivated.

Epilogue

Prince opened his eyes blearily. He instantly shut them again. The lights were unpleasantly bright. He tried to shield his face, but the ensuing jolt of pain jarred him fully awake. Oh, right. He’d taken a buzzsaw to the arm.

He used his other arm to cover his eyes as he opened them. Prince was lying in a hospital bed.

“How’s it going, man?” said a voice from the left.

The boy turned his head. Isaiah was in the next bed.

“Is everyone else alright?” Prince rasped.

“Yeah, looks like it. Hadrian and Monica are right over there,” Isaiah told him, gesturing with his head to his left. “And there’s the li’l one,” he added.

Prince looked at the bed across from him. Stephanie was clambering down. She ran over to Prince and grabbed his hand, bouncing excitedly. “You’re OK!” she exclaimed.

“Hey, Steph. Ow. Don’t do that,” Prince croaked as Stephanie jostled his bandaged arm, but he was smiling. “How did we get here?”

Isaiah let his head fall back onto his pillow, brow furrowed in thought. “Uh. You beat the big dude. Or disabled him, at least. I don’t know. You passed out right after, and then… I think I heard Stephanie crying for a while. Someone above us heard it, too. They lowered a ladder into the sewer. Yeah, there was another manhole above us, apparently, but no ladder attached. Hah,” Isaiah laughed shortly. “They thought we were mafiosos at first, but I guess they figured out we weren’t when they saw Larry on the ground. And then they brought us here.”

The hinges on the hospital door squealed as a nurse walked in. “Oh! Some of you are awake,” she observed. “Don’t disturb your big bro right now, young lady. He’s going to need a lot of rest,” the nurse told Stephanie as she carried her back over to her own hospital bed.

“As for you…” the nurse examined her clipboard. “Prince Aguilar? Emancipated minor…” she read. “I’ve been told that you got into a fight with Larry Clockturn. You’re all lucky to be alive.”

“You ain’t lying,” Isaiah muttered. The nurse shot him a look.

“You should all be fine once we’re done patching you up,” the nurse continued. “But…” She checked her clipboard again. “Monica Aguilar appears to have taken quite the blow to the head. We’re monitoring her, but we aren’t going to be able to assess if there’s any brain damage until she wakes up.”

Prince sat up. “Brain damage?”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. We would be able to tell by now if it was serious,” the nurse assured Prince, urging him back down onto the bed. “At most, she has a concussion. She’ll be alright.”

Prince lay down again gingerly. “OK… I guess.” He was silent for a moment… but he was also curious.

“What happened to Larry?”

“Larry Clockturn? The police are handling that. They haven’t given me many details, I’m afraid,” the nurse told Prince. “All I know is that they haven’t moved his body yet. And the so-called ‘purge’ is over, by the way. Most of the mafia turned tail and ran after they figured out Clockturn was gone,” she laughed. “National guard didn’t encounter much resistance after that.”

Prince didn’t ask anything else. It was the nurse’s turn, now.

“It says here that four of you are siblings. Prince, Monica, Hadrian, and Stephanie Aguilar. And Isaiah… Smith,” she said, walking over to Isaiah’s bed. “It is to my understanding that you are affiliated with the mafia.”

Isaiah’s eyes widened. “Uh, I mean, like-“

The nurse held up her hand to stop him. “I’m not a police officer, but don’t be surprised if they come in here to question you guys at some point. I just wanted to warn you about it, so you aren’t blindsided,” she explained.

“Yeah… yeah, OK. Cool,” said Isaiah, even though it was not at all cool.

The nurse nodded. “Well, that’s it for now,” she said as she turned to leave. “Just sit tight. The doctor will be along soon.”

Prince took a deep breath. Larry was deactivated. They were out of the sewers. The purge was over. They were in a hospital at last. Everything was fine again.

In the sewers, however, things were not so fine. Police tape lined the walls of the room Larry had collapsed in, cold and unmoving. Officers surrounded him.

One of them looked up at the manhole high above them. “We could airlift him…?”

“Through that tiny opening? I’m not so sure,” his Lieutenant responded. No one was certain about how they were going to get this colossus out of the sewer and into police custody.

“We might have to move him all the way through the tunnel. Into the nearest water-”

The officer was cut off and his head jerked back as a bullet pierced the middle of his forehead.

The other cops drew their service weapons. The round had come from the other side of the locked iron gate. They returned fire. So did their assailants.

There was no cover in the room. More officers dropped dead. One of them tried to speak into his radio. “Shots fired. All units to the 5th-”

He was shot dead as well before he could finish.

The Lieutenant glimpsed something through the metal bars of the gate. Something green and glowing. He fired reflexively. The round ricocheted off metal. He stared into the darkness, confused, but there was no time to ponder as bullets continued to whizz past his ears.

“We’re taking too many casualties! Fall back!” yelled the Lieutenant.

The remaining officers ran from the gate and disappeared around the bend of the tunnel, leaving Larry’s body behind.

The mobsters lowered their guns. Their leader, who had been watching from the back of the troupe, made her way to the iron gate. Her high heels clicked against the concrete. The sound echoed through the now-quiet passageway.

She towered above her cohorts. The lock on the gate broke easily as she raised her slender arm and forced it open with one hand.

The lady reached the felled automaton. She walked around his inert figure and clicked her tongue in disapproval.

“Take him,” she ordered.

The mobsters, with some difficulty, lifted him up and carried him into the small speedboat they’d used to traverse the sewer’s water channels. The motor roared to life.

As the helmsman steered them back to the river outside, he glanced at his boss. “We’re not gonna reactivate him, Miss Gearwise?”

“No,” she answered shortly.

“Then… what are you going to do with him?”

The lady’s icy gaze fell on Larry. The corners of her metallic green lips curved up into a small smirk.

“I have a few ideas.”

#break in 2 #break in roblox #roblox break in #scary larry #scary mary #roblox #snnizanzniA FUCK YOU MARY LEAVE HIM ALONE #did you really read this post all the way through or nah

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interesting-interludes · 1 year ago

Text

stranger than fiction (1)

→ 📖 pairing: assistant!jimin x novelist!reader

→ ☕ genre: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut

→ 🚬 word count: 3k

→ 🍝 summary: you are a reclusive author who wants nothing more than to be left alone so you can write at your own pace. jimin is the youngest executive assistant at Lucky Coin Publishers, and he’s never once been intimidated by a writer or their current project. that is, until he’s assigned to help you complete your latest novel. and you aren’t pleased about it.

→ 🍷 content warnings: profanity, smoking, jimin is very determined, reader is very grumpy, sexual tension.

→ 🖊 a/n: loosely based on a relationship from the movie stranger than fiction and also the tv show black books. thanks for reading :)

series masterlist → next chapter

chapter 1: satan smoking a cigarette

Jimin has worked with many, many authors, but none of them have ever been this elusive.

The publishing executives said you would be a difficult case, that you were a bit of an eccentric. In fact, when Jimin asked one of his supervisors about you and your...colorful reputation at the publishing house, all he had to say on the matter was “that woman is Satan smoking a cigarette.”

Jimin had been told that he was the sixth person to be assigned to you. No one knew why, but apparently you had a vendetta against anyone connected to Lucky Coin Publishers. A category which Jimin unfortunately fell under.

But, being the perfectionist that he was, and never one to back down from a challenge, Jimin accepted the seemingly impossible task. A task that no one else from the company has accomplished so far: getting you to finish your latest novel by the end of the year.

Jimin tried calling 42 times over the course of three days. You had no personal number, even though it was the year 2002 and most people with your level of notoriety and fame owned a cell phone by now, or at least a pager.

The publishers were beginning to get anxious, considering the fact that you hadn’t given them anything to work with in over three months. Not one draft, not one page, not even a clipping of meaningful prose. And, considering the book’s set release date, this was quite the problem.

So, here he was, asking around the quaint yet utterly reclusive community of Hidden Village. The name being as ironic as its residents. For it was a town of starving artists, retired creatives, and obscure literary celebrities who were fiercely protective of their anonymity. It was a place for strange, solitary people to live in peace and blissful privacy.

Something Jimin was about to disrupt.

He’d traced your location as far as your apartment number, given that the publishers were so antsy and had given him clearance to be a little invasive, but no one had answered the buzzer.

Now, if Jimin was any less determined, any less qualified given his history, he might’ve given up after the first few failed attempts. But, of course, he was Park Jimin, the youngest executive assistant in the company’s history. And he wasn’t about to let that title slip away.

So he walked the cobblestoned streets in the fading afternoon sun, searching the street signs for Red Herring Road.

When no one answered the buzzer, Jimin tried a few of the neighbors. One of them was a grumpy-sounding man who told him check the cafe a few blocks away, or the museum, or the bar, or the bookshop. But Jimin figured he’d try the cafe first.

He found it after just a few minutes of walking. An ivy-draped awning in the narrow street, shading a few little tables and chairs. A teapot-shaped sign over the door read:

Jam & Bread: coffee, sandwiches, pastries.

This must be the place, Jimin reassures himself, straightening his sleeves and perfecting the curve of his hair.

As he approaches, he sees that there’s only one person inhabiting the small cafe.

A woman, sitting outside, hunched over the crowded tabletop.

None of your books have an “About the Author” section, let alone a picture of your face on the back cover. But he recognizes you still, from that one interaction four years ago.

You’re dressed in heavily oversized, layered clothing. A sweater here, a scarf there, a wool coat hanging off the back of your chair.

It’s a bright yet chilly afternoon, so you’re dressed warmly with a pair of sunglasses on your nose.

A sea of papers is spread out in front of you. Open books, notepads, a few loose leafs, and sticky notes scattered all throughout. And to your right: a foamy latte in a large mug with a fluffy chocolate croissant.

Jimin prepares himself for the interaction to come. Because, from the looks of it, you clearly don’t want to be disturbed.

But Jimin knows that if he wanted to succeed, he’s going to have to do just that.

You’ve decided, over the course of several run-ins with your editor, that semicolons are bastards that have no place in any of your works. You make a note to exclude them from all future manuscripts.

This particular novel has proven to be more difficult to complete than all the others, you’ll admit that much. Maybe it’s because your most recently published book catapulted into unexpected (and probably undeserved) fame, meaning that the next thing you put out has to be even better or you’ll be a disappointment to everyone.

Now, you’ve never been one to easily cope with high expectations, or anyone expecting anything good out of you at all, so this newfound situation was especially overwhelming.

This book has loomed over your head like a storm cloud, like a deep depression, threatening to destroy your mental state at the drop of a hat.

Then, just as you’re getting into a groove, another damned interruption.

This time, it’s a young man in black dress shoes. The obnoxious squeak from the overly-polished leather is the first thing that grabs your attention.

You look up from the page you’re currently annotating, barely bothering to disguise your irritated expression.

He’s standing there in a tailored green coat that molds to his shoulders and thin waist. Then there’s the rings on his fingers and the ridiculous perfection of his hair: dyed blonde and styled up out of his face.

He’s beautiful, tantalizing. It's slightly infuriating.

“Excuse me,” he begins in a voice much lighter and silkier than you expected. “Are you Miss Nin?”

Nin, it was the pen name you’d chosen so many years ago. From Anaïs Nin, the author famous for her diaries and erotica. Even now, most people you know refer to you by that name. It makes life a little easier, living life through someone else’s name.

You survey the young man, trying to determine what exactly he wants. Nothing good, no doubt.

“No, she lives down the street,” you say, testing the waters. “Just around the corner, you can’t miss it.”

You say it with a pleasant smile, hoping he’ll take the bait. Because once he turns the street corner, you can escape through the alleyway and make it back to your apartment.

But the young man scans you up and down, calculating. After a few moments, he gives you a sly smile.

Authors are such bad liars, he thinks to himself. They spend so much time thinking up fiction in their works that there’s none left for their real lives.

And, of course, he already knows well who you are.

“No, I think you’re sitting right here, Miss Nin.”

Your genial expression drops in an instant. So that’s how it’s going to be.

You look at him over the rim of your sunglasses.

“And you are?” you say, clearly not amused.

Something very small in Jimin’s mind deflates. You don’t remember him.

But he shakes it off in an instant, slipping back into his professional persona.

“Park Jimin, pleased to meet you,” he answers cheerfully, holding out his hand to shake.

You glance at it once.

“A horrible judge of character on your part,” you reply dryly.

“I’m the assistant your publishers hired,” Jimin says, still friendly as ever.

“Oh, the spy,” you spit, beginning to gather your things.

“The assistant,” he corrects gently.

“I don’t need an assistant.”

You snatch all the stray papers and shove them in your tote bag, along with the three books, two journals, three notepads, and the six loose pens that were strewn about.

“I provide a number of services, whatever you need to—”

“Oh, such as watching me like a vulture and nagging me every time I get distracted, those kinds of services?”

By now, you’ve gathered all your belongings and have moved on to donning your scarf and coat.

Jimin watches you curiously. There’s a strange quality about you, the same one he saw when the two of you met the first time.

Maybe it’s the way you look at him with such quiet intrigue, or the way you rush to gather the immense amount of books and papers that you apparently carry in your bag. Whatever it is, it seems that he can’t take his eyes away from you.

“Miss Nin, I’m sure we can find a way that I’d be of use to you,” Jimin says as you shrug your bag onto your shoulder.

“I can help you with any organizational needs you might have, any—” the rest of his sentence trails off.

Jimin watches in fascination as you grab the full mug of coffee, tilt your head back, and down the entire thing in a matter of moments.

Then, you wrap the croissant in a napkin, dig in your wallet for an extremely generous tip (which you tuck under the vase of flowers on the table), give whoever is inside the cafe a friendly wave, and set off marching down the street.

He scrambles after you.

“Listen,” you begin impatiently. “I don’t need the publishers breathing down my neck and I certainly don’t need an “assistant” lurking around my workspace. So, if you would be so kind, please vacate the premises before I commit the stereotypical and turn you into an unlikable character that gets killed off in my next work.”

You pick up the pace as you stalk down the street, bristling at the fact that the publishers felt the need to send yet another spy after you expressed your intense dislike for them.

“Miss Nin, if you would just listen for a moment—” Jimin tries, but you’re quick to interrupt him again.

“Look, I’m sure you’re good at your job and all, but I simply have no need for any kind of assistant. I work best alone, even though the publishers refuse to acknowledge that. I’ve told them time and time again that outside involvement just slows me down. So, thank you for coming all the way out here, but you can tell the publishers that I dismissed you and I’ll take the heat from there.”

You say it all without looking at him, staring straight ahead like you’re hoping it will make him magically disappear.

By now the two of you have reached the mass of apartments, all in shades of old brown and faded cream. A criss-crossing system of fire escapes crawls up the sides of the building. The whole structure looks ancient, with peeling paint and chipped stone.

You approach an ivy-covered wall and stop at the door where Jimin started his search not too long ago. With the hand still holding the napkin-wrapped croissant, you punch a very long sequence of numbers into the keypad next to the buzzer.

A beep. You yank the door open and try to slither inside without him following you. But Jimin jams his foot through the gap before you can slam it shut.

“Miss Nin, please,” he pleads. “I really think I could be of help to you if you would just let me.”

There’s a moment where you stop to look at him, and something in your expression suggests that he might’ve gotten through to you.

Jimin’s breath catches in his throat when he sees how your lips part slightly, how your eyes flick over his with that same silent, enigmatic question.

He has to admit, something in his internal rhythm skips in that moment. Maybe this is the start of something—

“Nah, I’m good,” you say, whipping around and leaving Jimin hurrying after you after a pause of shock.

The room you’ve both entered is not what Jimin thinks of when he imagines the lobby of an apartment building.

There are checkered marble floors, shiny and polished despite the outward state of the building, and a number of large, stylishly modern leather couches scattered all throughout the large room.

But there’s also stacks of boxes lining the walls, countless empty picture frames propped up against each other, and cobwebs hanging like drapes from the ceiling.

You’re rushing up the stairs now, which stretches and spirals far above.

Jimin uses the curling iron railing to help him catch up to you. His professional shoes click against the marble, and the sound only adds to your annoyance.

He’s a persistent one, you’ll give him that.

“Trust me, Mr. Whoever You Are,” you say, somehow walking even faster. “You wouldn’t enjoy working with me. I’d make sure of it.”

Jimin is a little distracted. Not only by the incredible speed that you’re maintaining, but also the interior of your apparent “apartment building.”

Paintings crowd the walls, all in old intricate frames, a thick layer of dust over the landscapes, portraits, and impressions. It looks more like a museum than a place to live.

As Jimin follows you up the great, winding staircase, he can’t help but wonder why you’re so resistant to the idea of an assistant. It instills a small flame of curious determination in him.

He matches your pace, just a few steps behind you, as the two of you pass a massive cracked mirror leaning against the railing.

“Maybe I could come to that conclusion myself?” Jimin says, hopping up a step so he can stand next to you, trying to catch your eye.

But you keep on pretending he’s not there, staring straight ahead with the rigid focus only a writer possesses.

Higher and higher you climb, passing more curious things, like a broken chandelier surrounded by crystal shards, then a pile of rotting wood planks.

The sound of your footsteps remains steady while Jimin’s start to slow from exhaustion.

Either you’re completely unfazed by the incredible number of steps, or you’re very good at hiding it.

Jimin pauses, chest heaving, one hand on the railing as he leans over to catch his breath. He hears your steady footsteps carry on.

He looks up to see you reaching towards a rusty door at the end of a long hallway. Digging around in your bag, you pull out a bundle of jingling keys, almost immediately finding the right one and slipping it inside the lock.

Swinging the door open, you disappear behind it as Jimin springs into action again.

His hand slips between the gap just before the door closes and automatically locks.

What he hopes to see is the inside of your apartment, a refuge from the long stretch of exertion that lays behind him. But what he finds is more stairs.

This stairway is less grand. No marble floors or fancy railing, just a narrow tower of concrete steps and unpainted walls.

He follows you up the stairwell that twists this way and that, until the two of you reach yet another door.

“Go home, kid. I have no use for you,” you say dismissively, sifting through your key ring to unlock the door.

That does it. The last of Jimin’s patience flickers out like a candle flame.

The lock clicks open, and you try to slam the door in his face, but he extends his arm and plants his hand firmly on the wood.

The sound and force of it makes you jump, whipping around to face him.

His face has changed. A moment ago, it was soft and pleasant. Now it’s hardened and dark, his eyes piercing into yours like icicles.

“Miss Nin,” Jimin begins, voice sharp enough to cut. “I’ve been an author’s assistant for three years. I’ve helped eight authors complete more than eleven books, and I’ve never gone back to the publisher to ask for more time.”

He straightens, adjusting his coat while maintaining that same icy eye contact.

“Now, I will available to you whenever you may need me. And you will find that I can be very....persistent.”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Here’s my home number, my mobile number, and my pager number. I don’t take calls past eight p.m. and I don’t tolerate the use of narcotics.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, begrudgingly taking the business card he hands you with all his information.

“I believe the novel is set to release early next year,” Jimin says in a fake nonchalant tone. “Which means you have until the end of December to come up with a final draft.”

The mention of a deadline makes you bristle, setting him with a glare.

“So, until you put the last punctuation mark on the very last page, I will be here. Ready to assist you.”

A moment of tense silence. You glaring at him, him staring right back with a slight, smug smile.

You move to retreat into the doorway.

“Oh, and Miss Nin?” Jimin interrupts, sounding pleased with himself. “I get paid whether you like me or not.”

You slam the door.

#jimin x reader #jimin fanfic #enemies to lovers #park jimin #jimin angst #bts enemies to lovers #BTS jimin #bts fanfic #bts fanfction

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aldryrththerainbowheart · 1 year ago

Text

You get what you give

Note: We're leaving dmc3 era folks. I should probably state this at the beginning but the reader is a bit ooc. You have creative background, you're welcome. Dante and reader learn more about each other as they try to work as a team.

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“So…these are your accounts.” You spoke more to yourself than Dante as you turned page after page filled with various scribblings, none of which even closely resembled accounts. You spotted one with tic-tac-toe, on the other Dante just tried how many circles he can fit on one page, and on another two were very fifth-grader drawings of male and female anatomy.

“Yeah.” you heard from the opposite side of the office.

Jesus.

“There seems to be a gap here.”

“Is there?”

“Yeah. There’s a gap where should be accounts. I can see a big account-free gap between page one and page two hundred and ten.”

Dante fished a magazine out of the cushions of the worn couch and headed toward the toilet. To your horror, you heard the sound of the zipper opening, and when you lifted your head, your sight was greeted with a piece of pale buttcheek hanging out of oversized cargo pants. When you heard the sound of water running, you burrowed your face in your hands.

“Could you close the door next time?!”

“Don’t have ‘em.”

“What??”

“Don’t have the door,” Dante answered calmly, holding a magazine in one hand as he went about his business.

You decided to change the topic and occupy your mind so you won’t freak out about Dante's complete lack of decorum.

“This place is a mess! Not just its finances the building looks like it's about to crumble, I can’t barely walk for all the debris and pizza boxes littering the floor, and electricity falls out every two hours!”

You throw Dante an exasperated glare as he stepped from the bathroom, this time with his pants up.

“It’s not my fault that a bunch of…gangsters decided to wreck my shop, and if you didn’t notice the electricity gets jammed all around the city, thanks to the massive tower that spurted from the ground a week ago.”

“Please tell me you have insurance on this place.”

“I just moved here.”

“Argh! Where’s a phone?”

Dante walked over to a pile of debris, put his hand in there, and pulled out the dusty red rotary phone. To his credit, he wiped off some of the dust before handing it to you.

“All right, so thankfully, I have written some important numbers in my diary, including the insurance company. They should at least give us some advice on how to handle this.

“And the desk?”

Dante nodded his head to one piece of what used to be a wooden office desk cleaved right in the middle. Right.

You sighed. Sitting on the floor did not seem like the best idea, lest you wanted to throw away your pants as soon as you came home. So you just stood there, balancing the rotary on your hand while holding the earpiece with your shoulder to your ear. You handed Dante your diary opened at the contact list, so he is of some use. As you started putting in the numbers, the phone started ringing.

“Yes? Hello? Mr. Sparda’s office.” you used honorifics despite Dante telling you otherwise. Old habits die hard.

“Help! They swarming the entire area! The dem-” You didn’t get the chance of listening to the rest of the story as Dante ripped the headphone out of your hand.

He listened to them for a minute before giving you back the phone with the person still talking on the other line.

“Ah! Yes…Mr. Sparda will arrive soon. Goodbye.” You finished talking to them while you watched Dante stomping around the office, gathering his gear.

“Take care of the place will ya? And if you hear weird sounds from outside, don’t worry it’s normal here.”

As he headed towards the door, you called after him. “Hey! You still have to give me-” The click of the door closing was your only answer. “The employment contract, and CIN, and testimony about the accident in the shop…” you finished the sentence to yourself.

You stood there in the middle of decimated building, surrounded by garbage and unpaid bills, and reminders from the tax office. Wordlessly, you walked to your bag, pulled out two pills of aspirin, and swallowed them in one go. This’ll be a long day.

By the time Dante returned, you managed to get the office area into a somewhat manageable space. The trash you collected was enough to fill three large bags and you had a feeling that if you properly decluttered the entire building, you would fill thrice as much. With the desk missing, you created a small working area in a place where the desk should be and answered endless calls that gave you an idea of what sort of business is Dante running, or not.

You moved to Redgrave recently for your now ex-job. You had marveled at how cheap the housing expenses were here, despite Redgrave being one of the larger cities. Soon you found out why. Living here is…dangerous. Frequent disappearances, lots of crime, and natural disasters. Well, natural, recently Redgrave city experienced an earthquake, which caused some ancient monuments to rise from underground. The newspaper explained this phenomenon as an earthquake revealing old ruins hidden under the city. You didn’t question it. Neither did you question Morrison when he told you Dante Sparda does mostly pest removal. You assumed that the guy is an exterminator, and he is…in a way. The issue is in what exactly he is exterminating.

As you answered calls and booked him appointments, you learned that there is a side to the world that was unknown to you. There’s a group of what appeared to be grim reapers with massive scissors at 99 Greenview Lane. Then some gentleman was hiding in his car from two multi-limbed living statues between Rock St. and Lancaster Aven. And the last call you picked up was just screaming and inhuman hissing… Needless to say, you were more than a little worried, and you had to make an order in all of it. So when the door swung open you jumped up in shock and almost peed yourself at the sight of blood-covered Dante, hunching over like a predator ready to pounce and with his bangs covering his face in a way it made his eyes almost glow from underneath them. As he began walking, no, stalking in your direction you felt the same chill as the night you met.

“G-good evening mister-”

He shot you a look.

“Dante.”

You slowly rose from your seating position as if any quick movements would make him act up.

“The accounts are done. It took me twice as long because I’ve been answering calls between the accounts. You’re booked for two weeks.” You gave a nervous chuckle.

“Somethings different.”

“Huh?” you looked around in confusion. “Oh, I guess I cleaned the place a little.”

“You cleaned??” Dante’s eyes peered at you from the white curtain.

“Well, I have to make a working space. You gestured awkwardly to the calendar, notebook, lamp, phone, and few writing supplies in an empty can you found, all neatly lined up in rectangular shapes.

Dante put his sword against the wall and walked to you while fishing for something in his pocket. He pulled out a thick wad of banknotes, quickly thumbed through them, and gave you some.

“Thanks for today. You did a lot of work today. See you tomorrow.”

When you said your goodbyes, you were already pushed out of the shop. Only when the door closed behind you, you inspected your paycheck and almost choked. Now you are sure Dante has no idea how money works, considering the children’s coloring book he made out of his accounts and that he gave you during your first day what you normally earned in a month.

The next day you came a little late. It doesn’t matter, because, from the silence that greeted you, no one else was up and about in this establishment. You looked around the ground floor with Dante nowhere to be found, so you headed upstairs. You were a little uncomfortable entering his private space, but he had several appointments in the morning and you need to keep this business going if you wanted your next paycheck.

You opened several rooms, finding a small kitchen, storage, a room filled with…things, and a bathroom. As you were going through rooms, you realized something. The place was jarringly, surprisingly, miserably bare. Not personal in the slightest. The only sign that someone live there was empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, and dirty laundry. No photos, or posters on the wall. Dante said he moved to this place month ago. Surely he has to have boxes of stuff. Clothes, dishes, something…

You opened the last door and there he was, sprawled on the bed in deep slumber. A blanket wrapped around his hips and muscular torso was full on display.

“Dante! It’s time to wake up.” You put your hands on the edge of the bed. No reaction.

With a huff, you walked over to the curtain and pulled them open, then headed to the foot of the bed and gripped the blanket.

“I said, wake up Dante!” you raised your voice and pulled away the blanket. Only to screech in horror. Is this guy allergic to clothes?!

At your harpy screech, Dante finally woke up.

“Huh? What’s the time?”

“It’s almost eight!”

“In the evening?”

“No moron! it’s morning.” You gestured towards the window. Dante blinked once, twice, then flopped on the bed. “Too early.”

You felt your eyebrow twitch. You just called your boss a moron and you were in danger of kicking him in the butt he flashed your way. Without another word, you walked out of the room. Dante secretly grinned in victory and felt himself dozing back to sleep…only to have water poured on him a few minutes later.

“Hey-What the-”

“Good morning mister Sparda!” you singsonged, face dangerously close to his, smiling aggressively. “I hope you slept well, and now it’s time to wake up.” You gave two claps right in his face and Dante jerked away in shock. As you walked out of Dante’s bedroom, you could hear his silent grumbling, but also rustling of the sheets as he got up. Good.

When Dante walked down to the office dressed (?) and somewhat clean you handed him a piece of paper.

“What’s that?”

“Your appointments. I wrote the time and the address and number of…pests. However, I can’t tell you which kind it was. The customers were often…disoriented. You’re already running late for the first one, by the way.” You stated as you peered at the digital clock at your…table?

You noticed that only now. The improvised sitting area is made out of concrete blocks, planks of wood, and a car seat he found god knows where. It was a poor excuse for office space, but it’s more than what you left yesterday. You turned back to Dante who was still studying your writings and started to gently push him towards the door.

“I’m sure they’ll forgive a little tardiness. After all, they need you.”

“Right, I swing by once I buy some breakfast and…”

“No breakfast. You’re late, remember?”

“But I’m hungry!”

“You should’ve thought about that before sleeping in.” you sing-songed once more and pushed him out of the door.

“Happy hunting!” you called after him before closing the door in his face.

With the accounts taken care of, you mostly picked up phones and cleaned the office…again. That seemed to be like a neverending task. With Dante having no cleaning supplies, not even a bucket or a broom, you have to bring these things from home. You filled another pack of trash bags and the place didn’t look so sad anymore.

As you were sweeping around the couch, something crinkled under your shoe. You looked down and noticed you stepped onto a picture frame. As you bend down to pick it up, you noticed the glass front broke and several pieces fell on the floor. Once you carefully removed all glass and threw away the broken frame, you had a chance to inspect the photo. A woman, probably in her thirties, with long, platinum blonde hair and a smile that seemed to hold many secrets. She was wearing a red shawl and when you inspected her face closely, a yellow paling paper gave away two pale blue eyes.

This must be Dante's mother, you were sure of it. What happened to her? Surely, she would call into the office and check up on him by now. Are they not in contact? Why would he have her photo on his desk though? And what about the rest of his family? Does Dante have any family? The more pieces of a puzzle you had about the life of Dante Sparda, the more questions you had. You could have just put the photo away and mind your own business. However, you couldn’t look away from the shining red dot on the otherwise grey canvas that was your life. It was the reason why you’re still working here, after all. That and fat bills still resting in your wallet.

You were ripped out of your musings by the loud growling of your stomach. It’s been two hours after your lunchtime. When you prepared for leaving, you realized that you don't have the keys to the shop or any way to contact Dante. You have to get him a pager or something. Hopefully a sign on the front door with the message ‘Be right back’ will suffice.

When you came back, you found Dante laying on the couch with a magazine covering his face. Silently to not wake him up, you tiptoed to your improvised desk. Your efforts to be quiet showed pointless when Dante greeted you from under the magazine.

“The insurance lady called.”

You jumped a little in surprise, “Really? What did she say?”

“The government is sending funds to small businesses to help them after the earthquake.”

“That’s great!” you beamed. Finally, something is working out.

“Dante?”

“Hm?”

“You are enlisted in the tradesman…right?”

Your only answer was a low grumble.

“Dante?!” You felt your blood pressure rising.

“Listen,” Dante grabbed the magazine and threw it on the couch as he got up, “it’s your job to take care of these things! You’re the accountant!”

“I’m secretary!” you interrupted him, “my job is to pick up phones not be your maid. I’m doing everything in here, and I don’t even have a contract. Working in a place that’s on the verge of bankruptcy for a man who doesn’t even know what CIN is??”

“And you think I spend all these hours outside of the office scavenge hunting?! And for your information, I know very well who the CIA is, worked rather closely with them in the past.”

“What?!?”

“Is this a bad time?”

You both whipped your heads towards the entrance and notice Lady standing there.

“Great. You were the only thing missing here.” Dante snarled sarcastically.

“Don’t drag me into your shit.” she hissed angrily.

You still weren’t done with Dante. “I worked here tirelessly for three days now. Doing everything from chores to administrative work, to finance. Despite the working conditions” you threw your arm around the office to emphasize your point, “I was rather amicable-”

“You were a pain in the ass,” he snapped at you. “I was doing fine before you came. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody.” He whispered the last bit, but you heard all the same.

You were completely speechless, only letting out a single gasp. Your patience finally snapped. Without another word, you grabbed your things and walked out of the office, but then you remembered something and put your head inside the office once more.

“I bought you lunch, by the way.” Then you left for good.

Dante and Lady simultaneously turned to the steaming, plastic container on the table.

Your nails nervously danced on the plastic table in what was probably the only standing McDonald’s in the city. You were supposed to wait for the head of the staff and discuss the contract details. As you watched a middle-aged man with a beer belly stuff his face with Bic Mac while his two gremlins (ahem children) smeared ketchup on the surrounding tables as one of the staff, a high school girl with blue hair in braids ran after them with a wet cloth and distressed look on her face.

You can’t wait for the shift to start.

You were so preoccupied with watching the scene in front of you that you haven’t noticed someone quietly slipping into the opposite seat.

“You need to go back.”

“Gah!” you jumped at the familiar voice in front of you.

“Seriously?! Do you and Dante enjoy freaking me out?” You saw Lady’s deadpan expression and realized how loud you were. Without commenting on it, she continued.

“You need to return to the Devil May Cry. Dante needs you.”

“Devil-what??”

“Devil May Cry. That’s how Dante wants to name the shop after he scrapes enough money to repair it, that is.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

Lady narrowed her eyes at you, then sighed.

“Listen, I understand that you’re angry and that the job is…difficult at times. But there’s plenty of cash in demon hunting. Especially now with the Temen-”

“Hold on, did you say demon hunting??”

“Well yeah. What else did you think Dante was doing?”

“Pest…control?”

Lady cackled. “That he does. Just different types of ‘pests’.”

You let that information sink in.

“So…you and Dante…hunt demons.”

Lady nodded, “And the bastard is pretty good at it, too. The best there is.” She admitted begrudgingly. “But the things like taxes and running a business? He’s hopeless. I don’t think he had anyone to show him the ropes.”

“In enterprise?”

“In…life.”

You remembered the bareness of Dante’s apartment, the single photo of a woman with the same eyes as Dante’s, the haunted look in Dante’s eyes the night you first met him, and the rumors.

“Lady…what kind of guy is Dante.”

She seemed to be taken aback by that question, but then she looked at the table with a frown. The events from a month ago came back to the forefront of her mind. The tower. The blood. The ritual. The man in red. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

“He’s…a guy who saved my life, for the start.” It wasn’t in her nature to depend on anyone and she hated owning someone, but Lady was not petty enough to deny this fact. She told you about the events of the Temen-Mi-Gru incident. At least the ones she was sure of, and left out gory details, leaving only relevant and important.

Just when she was describing them crawling out of a decaying tower, another voice chimed in.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m interviewing this person.” It was a storm managed, and she was giving Lady disapproving glare. Bold from someone who let you sit there for half an hour.

Lady clicked her tongue and answered, “Right, it’ll be just a minute.”

The manager put their hands on their hips, “But I have time now.”

Without looking at them, Lady pulled out a gun, and with its barrel pointing right in their face she growled, “And you’ll have it five minutes later.”

You’ve never seen a person disappearing that quickly before.

Lady spoke again.

“The thing is, he may appear like a cocky jerk at first, but once you get to know him as I did, well, he’s still a cocky jerk.” Lady chuckled. “Who puts his skin at the front line for people he barely knows and heads straight into places other people are running from, guns blazing.” She paused for a moment, twiddling with her gun. “So please, help him.”

You remembered how tired Dante looked every time he stepped into the shop, exhausted, bitter, and covered in grime. The surprise and gratefulness he displayed by simply you cleaning his office.

You let out a sigh. I’m too soft.

There was a bit of awkward air in the Devil May Cry office that day. Perhaps it was because there was an ex-employer who declared their departure with a slamming of a door and an ex-boss who kept looking at the floor with hands deeply wedged into his pockets, with an impatient angry woman with a rocket launcher on her back tapping her foot standing in between.

Lady jabbed Dante in the shoulder, trying to snap him out of it.

“C’mon!” she hissed through her gritted teeth. “Say it already!!”

With eyes still trained on the floor, Dante shuffled closer to you. He had the decency to lift his head for a split second to grumble with a visible pout.

“Do you wanna work at my shop.”

You bite your lip.

“Alright.”

His head whipped towards Lady, “See! I said it.”

“Don’t push it.” she pointed her finger at him threateningly. Then, she turned to you with something you dared to call a sweet smile and said, “I hope you’ll make the best of it!”

She strutted off after that, leaving you both in silence once more.

You took a good look at Dante. He looked more…ruffled than usual, and you could’ve guessed why, based on his reluctance and Lady’s pestering.

“Thanks for the lunch.” Dante ripped you away from your train of thought, making you jump a little. That made him frown.

“And you don’t have to be so skittish around me either. I…” he sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “I know I can be a little…too much to handle, but I don’t want you to be scared to tell me off if you feel like it. She does it all the time.” He motioned towards the now-closed door with a snark.

You looked into his eyes. He was truly looking at you for once and you couldn’t help but get a little lost in those baby blues.

“I don’t like that you’re afraid of me,” Dante said softly.

Your first instinct was to deny what he said, but you paused and went about your feelings regarding Dante Sparda.

“I’m not afraid. I’m…confused.” You shrugged.

“Confused?” Dante raised his eyebrows.

“You’re…strange.” You motioned with your hands awkwardly, looking for proper words.

Dante seemed to think about that comment and you were worried that you may offend him.

“Whaddya wanna know?”

“So, her name is Eva.” You spoke mostly to yourself, as you held the picture of who was - surprise, surprise - Dante’s mother.

“Was Eva.”

You lifted your head from the photo to him. Dante was sitting at the new desk, cleaning his guns. After that simple question, you and Dante talked away as he helped you get the office together. You talked about your lives and your families, you told him about how you attended art school, but then had to drop out due to not being able to pay the tuition and started working as an account, which you hated, as you described to him in vivid detail. Dante, told you bits and pieces from his past, albeit you could see that he was still uncomfortable with disclosing some details. By the time you were done, you sat Dante down and with his help made a few phone calls. You managed to wrangle some money out of the insurance company, and order repair work on the front facade, and Dante even agreed on buying new furniture and office gear together. By the time you were done with him, the poor boy was so wrangled out and out of his depth that you took pity on him and ordered a pizza. While you waited for the pizza to arrive, you gently probed him about the smiling woman in the picture.

“Has she…?” you left the sentence open.

Dante shifted in his chair, not once lifting his gaze from the firearm.

“It happened when I was a little kid. There was a fire..”

“I’m sorry.” And you were. You can’t imagine what would you do if you lost your dad. Sure, you didn’t have mom but as far as you can remember, she was never in the picture. Can’t miss something you never had. But Dad…he was your whole world, and every day you hoped he still has enough time. That once rehabilitation was over, he’ll be back on his feet again.

“It’s ok,” Dante said quietly. It seems he wasn’t comfortable talking about her.

Once more, silence settle over the office, and you desperately looked for things to say. You got up from the couch and walked over to him. Dante peered at you from behind his bangs.

“I doubt you can see anything with your hair like that.” You put the photo on his desk again and pulled out a hair band. Dante twitched a little when he felt your fingers carefully card through his hair. When you were done, a little tuft of white hair stuck out right above his forehead. He looked a little ridiculous.

“There, now you can see what you’re doing.” you smiled.

He looked up at you from his chair, a little taken aback and unsure what to say, he looked so sweet and boyish it made your heart twitch. You felt yourself being pulled into those blue shades once more. You noticed those whispy white lashes framing them and the petulant scrunch of his brow.

“You have really pretty eyes.” You have breathed out, feeling a little flustered by saying the compliment.

Year heard Dante swallow. Is his face getting closer, and yours warmer??

You were interrupted by knocking on the door.

“That’d be the pizza.” Dante finally spoke. “I…uh…I get it.”

You watched dumbly as he grabbed bills wedged in the demon's skull that served as a morbid decoration of sorts and headed to the door.

You completely forget to ask him about the whole demon-hunting thingy.

#dante x reader #devil may cry dante #dante devil may cry #devil may cry #dante sparda #dmc dante #dmc3 dante #dmc3 dante x reader

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