#gears turning turning turning in my mind about this

[hgfictionwriter]

First Impressions

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Varsity athletes are all the same. They aren't interested in a real relationship or connection. And Jessie Fleming - you've heard about her - she's no exception. But maybe, just maybe, first impressions aren't everything.

Warnings: Suggestive language, but nothing overly explicit.

A/N: I've gotten a few requests for frat boy Jessie. This is my version of that. Out of character (OOC) Jessie. From my perspective anyway lol. But hopefully it’s entertaining!

“Oh, sorry.”

“Sorry.”

You retracted your hand after reaching for a bottle of liquor at the same time as someone else and they did the same.

“Go ahead,” you offered with a nod to the bottle and the girl offered you a smile in return.

“Thanks. Here - I’ll make you your drink. What were you wanting?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll make mine after,” you dismissed as you stepped back.

The girl gave you a teasing frown before giving you a quick once over that caused you to avert your gaze and cross your arms. She chuckled.

“Please. Let me make you a drink. It’s the least I can do for accidentally cutting in line,” she offered once more.

While you’d felt neutral about the whole exchange initially, now you felt irritation starting to brim. Between this brunette’s charming smile and varsity athletic gear, you really didn’t need to know more. They were all like this. They were all the same.

Unfortunately, one of your friends was now dating a member of the Bruins soccer team and, despite all odds, you found yourself tip-toeing into this world you'd heard all about and really had no interest in.

You rolled your eyes.

“Fine,” you relinquished flatly with a tired sigh. “Vodka cran.”

“Fancy,” she said simply with a smirk as she turned her back to you and made the drink.

You rolled your eyes once more though she couldn’t see you this time. You mustered up a stiff smile as she turned back around holding out the drink for you.

“Thanks,” you offered plainly and was about to turn to leave when she interjected.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you at one of Teagan’s parties before,” she commented lightly as she began to fix her own drink. “Who’d you come with tonight?”

You arched an eyebrow. “No. First time. And I’m friends with Mel.”

The girl frowned in thought for a moment as she took a sip of her drink. “Oh - [teammate’s] new girlfriend! Got it. Alright, cool. Well, welcome. Teagan’s winter break parties are the best,” she finished with a smile before extending her hand. “I’m Jessie.”

Jessie? Jessie Fleming, likely. So this is the famous captain of the Bruins. She’d heard about her through Mel. And seeing her now, all the stories and rumours made sense.

There she stood before you, smiling sweetly and acting so polite. And with that curly hair, those freckles and those eyes, she seemed perfectly nice, perfectly harmless. But you’d also heard of the girls she’d won over with her innocent charm and left in her wake.

You smirked as you took her hand.

“Y/N.”

She smiled wider, eyes travelling discretely once more and you retracted your hand as you lifted your eyebrows at her.

“Thanks for the drink, Jessie. Have a good night,” you said politely with a smile as you turned on your heel, admittedly enjoying the subtle flash of surprise on her face at your departure.

——————

A new semester started and you sat down in the one of the front rows of a class. You were opening your laptop when someone sat down in the seat next to yours. You paid them no mind until they spoke.

“I thought that might be you.”

A frown of confusion immediately crossed your face as you turned towards the voice.

“Jessie?” You asked, your tone not remotely veiling your surprise. She laughed good naturedly as she pulled out her own laptop.

“So you do remember me. You were in such a rush to leave I thought you’d forgotten our introduction,” she teased with a smile.

You rolled your eyes immediately and huffed. “I was not in a rush. We finished our introductions and that was that.”

“We exchanged names,” she said in mock contemplation before giving you a look. “I suppose that’s an introduction.”

You shrugged lightly returning your attention to the front of the class. “Suppose so.” You heard her snicker as she began prepping for class.

You couldn’t quite help yourself as you spied on the various lecture documents and notebooks she had pulled up.

“I didn’t take you for an environmental studies kind of person,” you said. This time she gave you a frown.

“Why? I wish I could take more of these courses actually,” she countered.

You blushed, feeling a bit foolish now. “I don’t know,” you mumbled as you tried to choose your words carefully. “I guess I’ve just seen, you know, other people, not have much interest in this kind of thing.”

She smirked. “By ‘people’ do you mean jocks? AKA,” she paused to shift in her seat to face you more directly, “elite level athletes who, despite stereotypes, have to maintain a particular academic performance to remain on said teams and can actually be fully developed individuals with interests and passions outside of sports?”

You gave her a withering stare, but hated to acknowledge the way your cheeks burned under her scrutiny.

“I recognize that,” you said pointedly before turning up your nose at her. “But yes. That’s mostly what I meant,” you said facetiously.

To your surprise she laughed, sitting back in her seat once more.

“Well. You’re not entirely wrong. Stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason,” she acquiesced mildly. “But I, for one, don’t like being painted that way,” she said, mimicking your tone and demeanour. You had to laugh.

“Touché,” you relented. “So,” you started slowly, finding yourself fidgeting for some reason. “What is your major, then?”

“Materials Engineering,” she responded easily, not even bothering to make eye contact. “And considering a minor in environmental studies if I can make it work.”

“Oh,” you said, taken aback. You didn’t see that one coming.

“And you?” She asked, now looking over.

It took you a beat but you gestured vaguely to the front of the room. “Environmental studies.”

She smiled and gave you a nod before focusing on her screen momentarily. “It’s important work. Do you know what you want to do for a career?”

“Um. Government work - hopefully influencing policy,” you answered somewhat slowly, still processing that you were having this vein of conversation with Jessie. You nearly shook your head as you refocused. “What about you? I mean. I’m guessing you’re going to go pro?”

“That’s the hope,” she said as she turned to you. “But I know I’ll have a life and career after soccer. That’s really important to me. So I’m looking to find something that allows me to help promote sustainability in some way.”

Okay. You really didn’t expect this. The Jessie you’d heard about was not the Jessie you were actively conversing with. You were really having trouble reconciling the two images.

You had another question on the tip of your tongue but the professor began her lecture.

You couldn’t help but notice how attentive Jessie was throughout class and how thorough her notes were. Maybe there really was more to her than all of the team antics.

Still, academically-minded or not, the very real fact is that she was very casual with girls. That was not the kind of situation you wanted to get entangled in. She just wasn't your type.

Class ended and you were about to close your laptop when she reached across and started typing on your computer.

“My number. In case you want to talk about the readings or assignment,” she said simply as she began packing up. She stood and offered you another charming smile. “It was really good to see you again and to get to know you better.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and gave you a wink. “Same time next week? See ya.”

——————

“Hey, want to study together for the mid-term?”

You paused your movements as you turned to Jessie at her question. If she noticed your hesitation, she didn’t acknowledge it and merely continued packing up her things.

“I guess…,” you offered slowly.

You felt conflicted. She’d sat next to you each class and despite yourself you actually found yourself looking forward to seeing her. You didn’t even want to admit it to yourself but you’d started showing up earlier for class in case she did too and you could talk longer. You'd even started walking to your next classes together or grabbing a coffee in between.

This was dangerous territory.

She chuckled and gave you a sidelong glance.

“You don’t have to. I just thought we could.” She crossed her arms as she stood and gave you a smirk. “I was hoping by now I’d proved that I actually have a brain. I was also hoping, heaven forbid, that we might even be friends.”

You clicked your tongue as you stood, giving her a chiding stare. “Study buddies,” you said with a smirk of your own before going on facetiously. “Friends is really pushing it.”

She held up her hands in jest. “My apologies.”

“Yes, let’s study together,” you clarified, giving her a slight nudge with your shoulder and she beamed at you.

“And hey, bonus, practices start up next week. Even practices can be a lot of fun to watch. It’s a good time and we go out after. You should come. Support your new study buddy,” she finished with a grin.

“Mm that’s quite alright,” you said with a playful smirk. “Soccer’s not my thing. As you know.”

Jessie exhaled and placed her hands on her hips. You inadvertently looked away.

“Fine. Don’t come for the full thing. Just join us after. Won't Mel be there?” She asked. You shrugged a shoulder.

"I'm not sure," you replied patiently. "I haven't exactly asked."

She tilted her head as she gave a winning smile. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Yeah?” You asked in jokingly flirtatious matter. “And for how many other girls?” You couldn’t help but ask.

Her expression faltered briefly before she subtly narrowed her eyes, something dawning on her.

“Oh. I see. Well, I can’t say other girls are my study buddy,” she said with a sly grin before dropping it. “No. Seriously. I feel like we’ve had some very good conversations. I-,” she paused, blushing lightly now, “don’t talk to a lot of girls outside of the football world. It’s been really nice and different talking about real matters and serious things. I like it.”

You felt your cheeks heating up and you forced an eye roll while you folded your arms against your chest.

"Yeah, I'll bet," you teased.

"Come on," she coaxed. "Admit it. You like me at least a tiny bit." She tacked on quickly and placatingly, "As a friend."

You chuckled giving your head a light shake. "Sure," you relented as you cracked a crooked smile. "You're alright."

She made a fist a gave a single pump of her arm jokingly with a mouthed "Yes". She offered a playful grin. "I knew it."

"Oh my gosh," you said as you gave her a light shove and you two began to exit the lecture hall. "Now I'm definitely not coming."

----------

"You made it," Jessie said, freshly showered and with a bright smile as you walked down the bleachers to greet her at the sidelines.

"Don't get too carried away," you replied dryly. "I only got here 5 minutes before the final whistle. I didn't exactly see this skillful mastery everyone seems to rave about."

"There'll be lots of other times for that," she replied without missing a beat as she poised an elbow on the barrier and rest her chin in her hand.

"Uh huh," you went on flatly. "That's not presumptuous at all."

"Did you see my freekick goal at the end there?" She asked, again undeterred.

"I don't know what a freekick is, but I saw you score, yes," you went on allowing the faintest smirk as you recalled her waving to you as she jogged over to take the kick. You smirked further. "How many points do you get for a goal?"

Her face dropped and her arms fell to her sides as she looked at you in dismay. "You're just messing with me now." You laughed.

"Maybe. It's kind of fun." She smiled at your comment and you had to stop yourself from smiling too much in return. You cleared your throat and looked away briefly. She was still smiling at you when you looked back.

"Ready to go?"

Your stomach flipped over and over as you two caught up with the rest of the group on the walk over to a nearby bar. You were nervous - she made you nervous. In good ways and bad and you questioned yourself on if you should be here, but yet your feet carried you forward and your eyes found her throughout the night anytime she wasn't next to you.

So much for keeping your distance.

The drinks flowed and though Mel was there and you made a point of not staying too focused on Jessie, you might have to admit you weren't entirely successful.

"Here - and with some water this time, too. You should try to stay hydrated," she said as she returned with another refill for you.

"How thoughtful." You meant to say it sarcastically, but it didn't quite come out that way. She merely winked and took a sip of her drink.

You must be drunk because that stupid wink was enough to disarm you even further. A part of you tried to coach yourself into biting your tongue, but instead you spoke your mind.

"What are you doing?" You asked, spurring a perplexed expression from her. She took another sip.

"What do you mean?"

"What are you doing?" You asked as if it was entirely obvious. "I saw your little fan club at practice. I saw that girl chatting you up at the bar. Why are you here talking to me?" You went on putting on an air of both teasing and indifference.

She arched an eyebrow, holding your gaze and you had to steel yourself to not look away.

"Sounds like you're watching me pretty closely," she relayed with a similar nonchalance and you immediately scoffed.

"Don't deflect. I'm just curious," you said lightly with a shrug and a swig. "Mel's in this world now, so I've heard stories about you, Fleming," you finished as you set down your drink and leaned back, waiting expectantly and rather smugly.

This time Jessie was the one to scoff. "Yeah? Like what."

You didn't flinch or shy away, instead leaning in. "Oh you know, just about the girls you don't text back."

Her freckled cheeks started to turn pink and she broke your gaze momentarily, leaving you feeling vindicated.

She opened her mouth to speak, but paused and shrugged a second later instead.

"I won't lie. Yes...first year here things were a little...eventful. It was my first year away from home, living this new life, a fresh start where I could build whatever personality I wanted. And I had fun with that. But things are less so like that now." She held up her index finger. "And, I need to point out, that I don't make promises. I think I'm pretty clear that things are casual."

You digested her words and eventually gave a nod before taking another measured sip.

"Okay. Fair enough. So casual's all you're into then."

"No," she answered easily with a slight shake of her head. "That's all I was interested in before. There wasn't anyone I wanted to actually date. And, honestly, that's easiest with my schedule. But," she gave a light shrug, "if the right girl came along, I could commit."

You felt a smile forming and tried to hold back a laugh, but failed. She shot you an offended look and you waved in apology.

"Sorry. It's just kind of funny. You 'could' commit. Okay," you snickered a bit more as you took another sip. A hint of regret washed over you at the hurt expression on her face.

"I'm being serious here," she said. "And you asked me why I'm talking to you instead of those other girls. Because. I want to talk to you. I'm interested in you. And 'no' - because I know you're going to make a comment about it - this is not what it was like with the other girls. We've actually talked and I genuinely like you and want to know you better. And for the record - I actually hate studying with other people. I find it distracting and it slows me down, but I respect how smart you are and I love hearing you talk about things you're passionate about and I want to spend more time with you."

The rim of your glass was held poised at your lips as you blinked at her. You abandoned your drink, setting it down on the coaster before leaning forward, folding your arms across the top of your legs.

"Okay. I'm sorry. I hear you," you said, humbled by her declaration and feeling guilty about judging her the way you had.

She gave a quiet sigh and took a sip of her drink.

"It's okay," she went on quietly. "It's not your fault. You didn't create this reputation. I'm sorry," she went on. "That was a bit much."

"No. I'm glad you were honest. Thank you," you corrected her.

You two sat silently together, the din of the busy bar a continuous rumbling around you before you spoke once more.

"I am sorry, Jess. I judged you and I shouldn't have. And I've been holding onto that image of you even though, you're right, our conversations have relayed otherwise," you said.

"Thanks," she said with a soft smile before she turned her attention to her glass, swirling the remainder of her drink. She looked back up after a moment. "And, you know, hopefully we can still be friends. Oh wait," she paused with a teasing eyeroll, "sorry. Study buddies. Totally understand if you're not interested in something more."

You smirked and nudged her knee with yours. "We can be friends," you returned her eyeroll and spoke as though the offer was a great sacrifice. You smiled as she laughed warmly. She drained her drink and held out her hand to you.

"Friends?"

"Friends," you said as you shook her hand. Admittedly, it took you a couple of seconds too long to drop her hold. Your chest warmed as she smiled at you.

"Hey," you went on as you leaned in a touch. "Do you want to get out of here?"

She gave you a blank stare and it took her a beat to reply before she gave a shake of her head. "Yeah. Course. Let's go." She rose from her chair and offered you her hand. You took it.

Conversation was quieter between you two than normal as you walked back towards the dorms, but it was comfortable and easy all things considered. Any tension you were feeling right now was a kind you'd been too afraid to acknowledge previously.

"Your dorm's the other way," you said as Jessie walked past her turn alongside you.

"I know. I'll walk you back to your dorm," she replied easily and gave a nod of her head, urging you to continue walking with her.

Soon enough you were at your door, the two of you facing one another.

"Well, I'm glad you came out tonight," she said with a hint of a smirk. You mirrored it.

"Yeah. Me too," you agreed. "It was nice." A beat passed and you said in a rush, "Hey, are you busy this weekend?"

"Mm, I'm doing a few things with Teags, Mia and the crew, but, yeah, I have time. Did you...have something in mind?"

Your gaze shifted away and you felt your face begin to heat up. "Oh I don't know. I was just thinking if you're bored maybe we could, I don't know. Do something."

A smile grew across Jessie's face and she looked at you unwaveringly despite the way your gaze flit around the hallway.

"I'd love to do something. And not because I'm bored," she chuckled. "Can I take you out to dinner? Or is that too much."

You scratched the back of your neck distractedly, tucking one hand behind your back. "Oh, no, that's fine. Sounds good."

"Okay," Jessie chuckled. "We can go to that Mediterranean place you wanted to check out."

You gave a pointed nod of your head. "Ah. You were listening and paying attention."

"Of course," she laughed. She gave a half smile and held up her index fingers as though something just came to mind. "Oh. And, me and the girls are gonna play a pickup game Sunday morning and grab lunch after. It'd be cool if you came."

"Cool, huh?" You smirked and she rolled her eyes.

"I'd like it if you came," she corrected with a lopsided grin.

You sighed as though the request was a chore. "I suppose I have a few things to learn about soccer. Watching a game might help."

Jessie laughed. "If you think I talk your ear off about engineering and sustainability, just wait 'til you get me talking about soccer."

"Can't wait," you said without your usual sarcasm and with a quiet smile instead.

A beat passed and the tension between you was high. You rose onto the balls of your feet briefly before dropping back down. "Well, good night, then. Thanks for walking me home."

"Happy to," she said.

You pulled each other in for a hug and whether it was the liquid courage or something more, you found your hand weaving through her hair. She held you close and neither of you pulled back right away. And when you did, your cheeks brushed and it was only far enough for you to look at each other, seeking silent approval from one another before you captured her lips in a kiss.

All of your hesitation and careful control went straight out the window and soon your hands were wandering and exploring her body, as were her hands on you. Before you knew it, you were pulling her with you so your back was against the door and your kisses grew heavier and deeper.

Your core pulsed with want and you could feel arousal starting to pool in the fabric of your underwear as you both subtly ground against one another. The one shred of restraint left in you couldn't believe you were honestly contemplating inviting her in. Thankfully, she spared you the rashness as she broke off the kiss, resting her forehead against yours as you both caught your breath.

She chuckled with a smile. "Right. I said I was going to go." You bit your lip, your eyes trailing down to her mouth that you were craving more of. She kissed you slow before pulling back.

"We can take our time," she promised and it brought you back to your senses.

"Yeah, of course," you agreed, nodding readily. She took a step back, wishing you a good night.

"Text me to let me know you got back safe," you told her. She gave you a shit-eating grin.

"Aww, you care."

"Don't start with me," you warned her though you both laughed. She snuck a quick peck on the cheek.

"Sweet dreams," she said with a wink as she turned around. You watched her retreating form for a few seconds before calling out.

"On a scale of 1-10, how casual is this?"

She turned around with a smile, placing her hands in her pockets and cocking her head.

"How casual do you want it to be?"

Whether it was 'cool' to say it not, you said, "Not very."

Her smile widened and she gave a nod. "'Kay. I can do that. Legitimately though, I am on the road a lot. Is that okay with you?"

"Depends. Do you fuck around on the road?" You asked easily.

"If I'm committed to you? Then 'no'. Hard to believe based on the stories you've heard, but, context is key. To the people I care about - I'm really loyal. Ask anyone who knows me. They'll tell you," she said.

"'Kay," you said, ignoring how you toed the hallway floor like some silly school girl. "Don't break my trust Fleming and we'll be good."

She winked and began to turn on her heel. "See you in class tomorrow."

A/N: I was going to write this as smut, but it became too long! I definitely have a vision for Part Two (I.e. smut) in this story if there’s interest though.

[echo-riot]

Wired for you (previously posted on wattpad) chapters 1-5

The air in the workshop was thick with the smell of oil and the hum of machinery, a constant buzz that had become as familiar to you as your own heartbeat. You had worked in more sterile environments before, but there was something about the grime of Silco's operation that made you feel more alive, like you were part of something important. The underground tunnels of Zaun were a world of their own, a far cry from the gleaming labs you'd worked in before, but now you found yourself in the heart of this dangerous world, a new recruit to Silco's growing empire.

As you walked through the dimly lit hallways of the hideout, your boots echoed softly against the metal floors. The walls were adorned with tools, blueprints, and designs for weapons and tech that had been hastily scribbled out on pieces of paper. You had no time to waste—Silco needed you to repair broken equipment and upgrade the tech his people used. And that's where you came in. You were a techie, a specialist, with a sharp mind and a reputation for turning broken gadgets into powerful machines.

Your first real test came sooner than you expected.

You were summoned to the back of the hideout, where a small group of Silco's inner circle had gathered. It was there that you first laid eyes on her.

Sevika stood near the center of the room, her imposing presence commanding the attention of everyone around her. She was a tall, muscular woman with dark skin that gleamed in the soft light of the room. Her silver-gray undercut was sharp, and her eyes were filled with the kind of intensity that made most people take a step back. But there was something more—something unspoken—that drew your attention. The powerful, robotic arm that replaced her missing limb was a marvel of engineering, a testament to the brutality of this world.

"You must be the new recruit," she said, her voice low and unwavering. "I'm Sevika. And if you're here to fix my arm, you better be good at what you do."

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the weight of the situation. No pressure, right?

You nodded, keeping your composure despite the tension in the room. "I'm here to help. I've worked on a lot of tech, and I've got experience with prosthetics and augmentations."

Sevika regarded you with a long, unreadable stare. The others in the room shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, but you stood your ground, meeting her gaze without flinching. There was no room for hesitation in Silco's operation, and you weren't about to show weakness now.

After a beat, Sevika motioned toward her arm. The metallic appendage glinted under the lights, the intricate gears and mechanisms visible beneath the surface.

"I had a little... incident earlier," she said, her tone casual, though there was a glint in her eyes that suggested something more than just a simple malfunction. "Looks like my arm's in need of some work. Can you fix it?"

You approached her cautiously, not wanting to cross any lines, but your curiosity was piqued. You had seen mechanical arms before—hell, you'd built a few yourself—but none as advanced as this one. It was a marvel of engineering, a powerful tool, and yet there was something almost elegant about the design. As you inspected the damage, you could tell it was more than just a simple repair job. This wasn't a matter of fixing a few wires or reprogramming a circuit. It would take skill, patience, and a deep understanding of the mechanics.

Sevika, for her part, didn't flinch as you worked. She stood still, letting you inspect the arm with a quiet intensity. It was clear she was used to this kind of thing, but there was a subtle tension in her posture, a wariness that she didn't bother to hide. As you worked, you noticed the scars on her arms, the faint marks that told stories of battles fought and won—battles that had taken their toll.

You had heard the rumors about Sevika. She was Silco's right hand, a ruthless enforcer who commanded fear and respect in equal measure. She was known for her strength, both physical and mental, and her loyalty to Silco was unwavering. But there was something about her that intrigued you, something beneath the surface that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

"You're not like the others," Sevika said suddenly, her voice cutting through your thoughts. You looked up, meeting her gaze. "Most people would've already been shaking in their boots by now."

You raised an eyebrow. "I'm not most people."

She gave you a look, one that was part amusement, part challenge. It was the kind of look that made you feel like she was measuring you, trying to figure out what made you tick. But it wasn't hostile—not entirely. Instead, it was almost like she was testing you, seeing if you would rise to the challenge.

You worked in silence for a while, your hands deftly repairing the damage to her arm. The room was quiet except for the soft sounds of tools clicking and gears turning. You were focused on your task, but your mind couldn't help but wander to the woman standing in front of you.

Sevika was a force to be reckoned with. Her presence was commanding, and the way she carried herself made it clear that she was someone who didn't take shit from anyone. But there was also something more to her—something you couldn't quite place. Beneath the tough exterior, you sensed a quiet vulnerability, a rawness that she kept hidden from the world. It was a feeling you recognized all too well.

When you finally finished repairing her arm, you stepped back, wiping the sweat from your brow. You had done it. The arm was functional again, the damage fully repaired. You had done what you came here to do.

Sevika flexed her fingers, testing the movement of the prosthetic. She nodded, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Not bad," she said, her tone begrudgingly approving. "You've got skills."

You allowed yourself a small smile in return. "Glad I could help."

Sevika's gaze softened for a moment before she quickly masked it with her usual cold demeanor. "This is just the beginning," she said, her voice low and authoritative. "There's a lot more work to be done if you want to stay here."

You nodded, already knowing what was expected of you. Silco's operation was no place for weakness, and you had to prove yourself if you wanted to make it in this world. But as Sevika turned to walk away, you couldn't help but notice the way her muscles rippled beneath her clothing, the quiet strength in her movements. She was a force of nature, and for the first time in a long while, you felt like you might have found your place in this chaotic world.

As the door to the room closed behind her, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. Sevika's world was dangerous, unpredictable, and full of threats—both external and internal. But for now, you were part of it, and that was all that mattered.

You had a feeling that your work with Sevika wouldn't just be about fixing broken machinery. There was something more at play here, something that neither of you could ignore.

—-

The first few days in Silco's operation were chaotic, to say the least. You had expected the job to be challenging, but nothing could've prepared you for the intensity of life in the underbelly of Zaun. The constant sound of clashing metal, the hum of electricity running through the city's veins, and the ever-present tension in the air all served to keep you on edge. But the hardest part, by far, was working with Sevika.

Silco had decided to assign you as her personal technician—after all, no one else had the skills to fix the intricate mechanisms that powered her robotic arm, let alone design new weapons and tools for someone like her. You couldn't help but wonder if Silco had some ulterior motive. He was never one to make decisions without calculating the benefits, and you suspected your placement near Sevika was no accident. But there was no time to dwell on it. You were here to do a job, and that's exactly what you intended to do.

Your first assignment came quickly. Sevika's arm was damaged again—this time, during a skirmish with a rival gang. The mechanical appendage was cracked and malfunctioning, its delicate inner workings in need of immediate attention. You were called to the scene, as usual, but there was one key difference this time.

Sevika was already there, waiting.

She stood with her arms crossed, her stern gaze fixed on you as you walked into the room. Her imposing presence made the air feel heavier, her muscular frame and silver-gray undercut giving her an almost otherworldly look in the dim lighting. Her robotic arm was slung loosely at her side, a reminder of the damage it had sustained.

"I hope you're better at fixing things than you look," Sevika said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. There was a sharpness in her tone, one that you had come to expect, but it still stung nonetheless. "Don't waste my time."

You set your tools down carefully and nodded. "I'll get it fixed, Sevika. Just give me a minute to take a look."

She didn't respond right away, simply watching as you began to assess the damage. It wasn't the first time you'd fixed her arm, but the complexity of this particular issue was more than you'd anticipated. As you inspected the damaged components, you could feel her eyes on you—constant, unwavering. It wasn't unusual for her to be so watchful. You were a new face in her world, after all, and she didn't trust easily. You'd be lying if you said you weren't frustrated by her unspoken challenge. It wasn't just her arm that she seemed hesitant to allow you to fix. It was her entire self, and that made your job even harder.

"So, you're Silco's new toy?" she asked after a few moments of silence. "What's your story?"

You glanced up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since you'd started working. Her stern expression was still there, but there was a curiosity lurking beneath it, one that made you uncomfortable. You weren't used to being under such intense scrutiny, but you weren't going to back down either.

"I'm here to do my job," you replied, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Silco needed someone with experience in tech, and I'm the best for the job. That's all there is to it."

Sevika gave a small grunt of approval, but it was clear that she didn't fully believe you. You had to prove yourself in her eyes, and that wasn't going to be easy. She was as tough as they came, and the last thing she would do was hand over her trust to a stranger.

As you worked, the silence between you grew heavier, the tension palpable. It wasn't just the mechanics you had to fix—it was the distance that seemed to stretch between you two, one that neither of you was willing to bridge. Sevika didn't speak much during the process, but you could tell she was watching you closely, assessing every move you made. You couldn't help but feel the weight of her gaze, and it made your focus waver just for a moment. She was intense, not just in her physical presence but in the way she observed the world. She didn't trust easily, and that made her difficult to read.

After a while, the arm was fixed, the cracks sealed, and the internal systems realigned. You tested it carefully, making sure the movement was smooth and the circuitry was fully operational. Sevika flexed her fingers, inspecting the arm herself. You stood back, waiting for her judgment.

"It's better," she said finally, her voice low. "Not perfect, but it'll do for now."

You nodded, wiping the sweat from your forehead. It wasn't perfect, but it was functional, and that was what mattered. At least for now.

"Good. What's next?" you asked, hoping to move on to the next task.

Sevika's lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smirk. "I've got some new designs in mind. Something to make my arm even more useful."

You didn't hesitate. "I can do that. I'll need some specifications and time to draw up the designs."

Sevika's gaze sharpened. "Don't take too long. We're not here to waste time."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room, her presence lingering in the air like an electric charge. You couldn't deny that you were intrigued by her, though you were also frustrated by the way she seemed to keep everyone at arm's length—herself included.

Over the following weeks, you found yourself spending more and more time with Sevika. Whether it was fixing her arm, designing new weaponry, or upgrading the various pieces of tech used by Silco's people, you were always in close proximity to her. Each time you worked together, you could feel the tension rising—an unspoken challenge that neither of you was willing to acknowledge, let alone address.

It didn't help that Sevika was an enigma. She was sharp, intelligent, and brutally honest, yet there was something guarded about her. It was like she held a part of herself back, always on the defensive, always ready for the next fight. You didn't know much about her past, but you could tell she had been through things that had shaped her into the person she was now—someone who didn't trust easily, who didn't allow others to get close.

But there were moments, fleeting and rare, where you saw something else in her—something softer, more vulnerable. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep you coming back, trying to understand her, trying to make a connection. Those moments were usually brief, but they were enough to make you wonder if she was willing to let anyone in.

You had become frustrated with her reluctance to trust you, especially when it came to the weapons you were designing for her. You spent countless hours drawing up blueprints, testing materials, and refining the designs, but every time you presented them to her, she shot them down with a scowl or a dismissive comment. You had worked with plenty of difficult clients before, but Sevika was a different breed. She didn't take kindly to suggestions, let alone any form of criticism.

"You think this is going to work?" she asked one day, after you presented yet another weapon design. Her arms were crossed, her stern eyes boring into you as if she were trying to see right through you.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your frustration in check. "It's not about what I think—it's about the design. It's built to give you an advantage in close combat. Faster, more efficient."

Sevika raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "And what makes you so sure it'll work?"

"I've tested the tech. I know it'll hold up under pressure," you replied, your voice calm but firm.

For a moment, Sevika simply stared at the blueprint, her gaze intense and unyielding. Then, without warning, she tossed the design aside and looked at you. "You don't get it, do you?"

Your brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You think this is about technology," she said, her tone low and almost contemplative. "It's not. It's about trust."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had spent so much time focused on the technical aspects of your work, trying to prove yourself through your skills, that you hadn't stopped to consider what Sevika might really need. She wasn't just looking for a new weapon—she was looking for someone who would understand her, someone she could rely on, someone she could trust.

You swallowed hard, your frustration melting into something else—a quiet understanding. It wasn't about being the best techie in the room. It was about earning her trust, one step at a time.

"I understand," you said quietly.

Sevika didn't respond right away. Instead, she simply gave you a brief nod before turning away. "We'll see if you do."

As she walked out, you couldn't help but wonder what it would take to truly earn her trust. The challenge was only just beginning, but for the first time, you felt like you might be ready for it.

—-

The sharp, acrid scent of gunpowder hung in the air as the chaos of battle roared around you. The walls of the warehouse you were in had been shattered by explosives, leaving only skeletal remains of what had once been a place of operation for one of Silco's competitors. Now, it was just a battleground.

Your hands were covered in dirt and blood, but it wasn't your blood. At least not yet. You could still hear the deafening crackle of gunfire, the screams of combatants, and the rhythmic thud of boots against broken concrete. You had no time to process the madness, no time to analyze the risks. There was only one thing on your mind: Sevika.

She was out there somewhere, fighting like the savage enforcer she was, but that didn't ease the growing tension in your gut. Your job wasn't just to repair her tech anymore. You were her lifeline in moments like this, the one who kept her operational. You knew Silco valued her, which meant he trusted you to make sure she didn't get taken down by something as simple as a malfunctioning limb.

But that's exactly what had happened.

As the sounds of the battle raged, a series of explosions rattled the building. A flash of light cut through the haze, and the sharp sound of a grenade landing in their midst signaled trouble. You turned just in time to see Sevika take the brunt of an attack, her imposing figure engulfed in a plume of smoke and debris.

"Sevika!" You called her name, your voice barely carrying over the din of gunfire. But she wasn't the type to be taken down easily. The towering woman with the silvery-gray undercut and the robotic arm was built to survive, to fight. She stumbled back, smoke trailing behind her, and staggered toward you, gritting her teeth.

But her arm... her robotic arm was glowing red, a violent flash of sparks and smoke spiraling out from the damaged joint.

You cursed under your breath. The arm was compromised again, this time far worse than before. She had taken the hit directly. From the looks of it, the damage was more than just superficial.

Sevika pushed past the rubble, her breathing labored but determined. Her eyes locked onto you as she limped forward, her gaze sharp but pained.

"Fix it," she ordered, voice grating with exertion.

You didn't waste a second. You rushed to her side, your toolkit already in hand. You could see the strain in her muscles, the raw pain in her movements. The fight had clearly taken a toll on her, but you knew that if you didn't get her arm fixed now, she wouldn't last much longer in the field.

As you knelt beside her, your mind raced. You had the necessary equipment, but you'd have to work fast. Time was running out. Her arm was sparking wildly, and you could see the frail connections inside the prosthetic were melting under the strain. The sheer force of the explosion had done more than just break the external shell. The internal workings were fried.

"Stay still," you said, trying to keep your voice steady as you gently pushed her to a sitting position on the debris-strewn floor.

She grunted, but complied, her large frame sinking heavily against the broken wall. The contrast of her muscular form and the delicate intricacies of her cybernetic arm was a strange thing to behold, but you had seen it before. The arm was a marvel of engineering, but it could only withstand so much.

You quickly unlatched the arm's external casing, revealing the intricate wiring and burned circuits. You could feel the heat radiating off of it, the burn marks and jagged edges showing just how much damage had been done. Your hands worked quickly, pulling out the damaged components and trying to replace them with whatever you could salvage from your kit. It wasn't ideal—this wasn't a full workshop—but you had no choice.

Through the haze of urgency, you couldn't ignore the tension between you and Sevika. The proximity forced a certain intimacy, and it was in these high-pressure moments that the barriers between people were sometimes broken down.

"Where does it hurt?" you asked, your hands deftly working to repair the circuitry. You needed her to be able to move and fight again, but you also needed to understand the extent of her injuries.

She winced as she tried to adjust her position, but there was no complaint, no plea for mercy. It was just raw determination. "Don't bother asking," she said. "Just fix it."

Her voice was rough, strained, and there was something behind it—a tension, an anger, maybe even a touch of vulnerability that she quickly masked with cold defiance.

You didn't press her. Instead, you focused on your task, knowing the only way to get through this was to keep her focused. The weight of her trust was not something to be taken lightly. You were the one who could bring her back from the edge, and you would.

Sevika's gaze was fixed on the chaos of the battle, even though the fight had moved farther from where she was now. She was always aware of her surroundings, constantly vigilant. But there was something different about the way she sat now—her face was grim, her usual unshakable composure slightly cracked.

"I've been in worse," she muttered, almost as if speaking to herself, her voice a little too low. It was a far cry from her usual confidence, and for the first time since you'd met her, you saw something different in her eyes.

"What happened?" you asked quietly, working to replace a damaged wire.

Sevika's gaze flickered to you, her eyes narrowing. She was silent for a long moment. The words she was about to say seemed heavy, like they carried the weight of years of pain and sacrifice.

"I lost my arm when I took a bomb for Silco," she said, her voice surprisingly soft, though still edged with that familiar hardness. "We were ambushed. I pushed him out of the way, took the blast full force."

Her words struck you like a hammer. Sevika, the woman who never showed weakness, the one who had built herself into a machine of strength, had given everything for someone else. She had sacrificed her own body to protect Silco, the man she followed without question.

A part of you wanted to ask more, wanted to know why she would risk everything for him, but you stopped yourself. This wasn't the time for questions. She wasn't looking for sympathy. She wasn't looking for answers. She was telling you this in her own way, in the only way she knew how.

"I didn't need to," she continued, her voice harder now, as though she had to force the words out. "But I did it anyway. And now... well, now I've got this." She motioned to her arm, her tone tinged with bitterness. "A machine. A replacement. A reminder."

Her words stung, but you didn't say anything. You couldn't. The silence between you grew, thick and palpable. There was so much more you wanted to say, but now wasn't the time.

Instead, you finished the repairs and reattached the final piece of the arm. The prosthetic hummed to life again, the circuits sparking back into action. She flexed her fingers, her expression unreadable, before she looked at you.

"Thanks," she said, the words quiet but genuine. It was the first time she had acknowledged your work in such a way, without the usual snark or brusque dismissal.

You stood up and stepped back, breathing a little easier now that her arm was operational again. "Anytime."

But as you looked at her, something had shifted. Sevika was not just the machine-like enforcer you'd met when you first arrived. She was a woman who had been through hell, who had paid a price for loyalty and for love—whether she'd ever admit it or not.

"Are you okay?" you asked, unable to stop yourself. The words were out before you could stop them.

Sevika glanced up at you, and for the briefest moment, her eyes softened. "I'm fine," she said, her voice more subdued than you had ever heard it..

But you could see the cracks now. You could see the weight she carried, the unspoken burden of the choices she had made. And despite her tough exterior, you knew that this mission, this partnership between you two, was only just beginning.

——

The dim light of the hideout flickered as the remnants of the battle outside faded into an eerie quiet. The dust had settled, but the tension in the air was thick. You had been working alongside Sevika for several months now, and in that time, you had learned to read her every movement, every shift in posture. She was always alert, always vigilant. There was no room for weakness, no room for hesitation.

But tonight, as you sat next to her in the corner of the hideout, the silence was different. It wasn't just the usual quiet that came after a fight; there was something heavier about it, something that seemed to weigh on Sevika herself.

You had finished repairing her arm again after the last skirmish. She'd insisted she could fight through it, but you knew better. She had taken more hits than anyone else, pushing herself to the limit with little regard for her own well-being. This time, though, she hadn't argued when you told her she needed to rest. You could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. But as always, she tried to hide it behind that cold mask.

You glanced at her now, sitting across from you, her imposing figure draped in shadows. Her stern eyes, usually filled with calculated intent, were distant tonight, unfocused. She was lost in her own thoughts, staring into the space between you two. It wasn't like her to be so still, so... vulnerable. You weren't sure why, but something about it felt like a crack in the wall she'd built around herself.

"You never talk about the past," you said, your voice gentle but probing. "I've heard little bits and pieces, but it's like you don't want anyone to know."

Sevika's gaze snapped to you, sharp and guarded. For a long moment, she didn't respond, as if weighing whether to dismiss you or actually engage in this rare moment of vulnerability.

"I don't see the point in dragging it all up," she muttered finally, her voice a low rumble. "What good would it do?"

You watched her carefully, noting the way her muscles tensed slightly, the way her jaw clenched. She was retreating into herself, already bracing for whatever answer you might give, expecting judgment, expecting rejection. But you didn't offer either.

"I'm not here to judge you, Sevika," you said softly. "I just... I just want to understand you better. We're in this together, aren't we?"

Her eyes narrowed, the tension in her body thickening as if she was about to shut down. But then, something shifted. Her posture relaxed just the slightest, as though the pressure she had been holding onto had loosened—if only for a moment.

"I wasn't always like this," she said after a long pause, her voice quieter now, almost as if she were telling herself more than she was telling you. "There was a time when I had more... hope. More... dreams."

You could hear the subtle change in her tone, the rawness in it that she was trying to hide. She didn't speak often about her past, but when she did, it was always brief, always shrouded in a defensive wall. This was different. You could sense the unspoken weight of her words, the unspoken truth that she was revealing more than she had in years.

"What happened?" you asked carefully, not pushing but wanting to know more. It felt like the right moment. Like she needed to say it.

She exhaled slowly, her gaze turning to the floor. For a moment, she was lost in thought again, the vulnerability there flickering like a flame in the wind. Then, with a huff of frustration, she spoke.

"I grew up in the underbelly of this city. People like me, we don't have much of a choice. You fight, you survive, and you either become a predator or a victim. I didn't have much of a family, just a few of us from the same neighborhood. We took care of each other. We had to."

Her fingers tightened around the armrest, the mechanical limb creaking softly under her grip. "But Silco... he came around, and everything changed. He promised us more, a way out of the chaos, a future. I believed in that. I believed in him."

There was a sadness in her voice, a hollow echo of trust betrayed. Her usual strength, the fortress she had built around herself, seemed to crumble just a little as she spoke of those days. It was a side of Sevika you rarely saw—the young woman who had once believed in something greater than herself.

"I fought for him, for his cause, because I thought we could make things better. I thought it was worth it," she continued, her voice steady but laced with the bitterness of a past that still haunted her. "But the more I fought, the more I lost. I lost my friends, my family... and eventually, I lost myself."

You could see it now. The cracks in her armor weren't just physical, weren't just the result of combat or injury. They were emotional, deep scars that ran through her heart, hidden beneath layers of toughened skin and steel. Sevika had been a weapon, a tool, a pawn in a much larger game. And the cost had been her humanity.

"Losing my arm was just the final blow," she said, her eyes hardening once more as she wiped away a stray strand of hair. "It was just another reminder of what I gave up. What I sacrificed for him... for this."

You sat there in silence, feeling the weight of her words, understanding more about her than you had ever imagined. She had been broken long before you'd met her, and every tough exterior and sarcastic remark had been built to protect herself from feeling the weight of that loss. You didn't blame her for it. You understood. You understood more than she might have guessed.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, your voice soft but genuine. "For everything you've lost."

Sevika's head snapped up, her eyes locking onto yours, and for the briefest moment, you saw something flicker in them—something raw, something vulnerable. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but it was enough to make your heart ache for her.

"You don't get it," she muttered, shaking her head as though trying to dismiss her own emotions. "This city... it's built on lies. There's no place for people like me to belong. We don't get to have things like peace. We just survive."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with resignation. But something had shifted between the two of you, a change that was subtle yet significant. Sevika had let her guard down, if only for a moment. She had shared something with you that she had never shared with anyone else, not even Silco. And despite her attempt to mask it with harsh words and defensive anger, there was a part of her that was grateful, even if she wouldn't admit it aloud.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said after a long pause, meeting her gaze without flinching. "You don't have to do this alone."

She looked at you for a long time, her eyes narrowing as if assessing whether or not she could trust your words. But you could see the shift in her—a quiet understanding passing between you. It was unspoken, but it was there, the fragile bond of trust that had started to form between you two.

For the first time since you'd met her, Sevika's eyes softened, just a fraction. She didn't say anything. Instead, she gave you a small nod, one that was barely perceptible but still meaningful. It was as if she had finally acknowledged your presence in her life, as if she was allowing herself to let you in, even if only a little.

"Thanks," she said gruffly, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability, before she stood up, her posture shifting back to its usual rigidity. "But don't expect me to start talking about feelings. I'm not that kind of person."

You smiled faintly, knowing that it wasn't about words. It was about the understanding that had passed between you, the silent acknowledgment that, despite everything, she didn't have to carry the weight of the world alone.

"No promises," you replied.

As Sevika turned to leave, you could feel the weight of her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual. It was a brief connection, one that might fade with time, but for now, it was enough.

——

The hideout was quiet, the usual hum of activity now a soft murmur in the distance. Most of the others had retired to their quarters, leaving you alone in the dimly lit workshop with nothing but the soft clink of tools and the sound of your steady breath. The flickering lights overhead cast long shadows across the room, and the constant buzz of the damaged arm in front of you was a reminder of just how close you and Sevika had come to the edge in the last few weeks. Tonight, though, was different.

Sevika had insisted on staying to supervise your work. Her arm had been damaged again during the last mission—nothing you couldn't fix, but enough to make her insist on waiting while you worked. The last few days had been taxing for both of you, and the weight of it hung in the air between you, making each glance feel heavier, more meaningful.

Her towering presence was almost a constant in the space now, but tonight, it was oddly subdued. She was leaning against the workbench, her usual hard exterior softened by the late hour. Her silver-gray undercut glinted in the low light, and the mechanical arm she'd once used as a symbol of her strength now sat motionless on the table in front of you. Her usual bravado had slipped away, leaving a vulnerability that you hadn't seen before.

You continued to work, carefully inspecting the arm's damaged plating. A few of the internal components had been rattled loose during the fight, and you needed to carefully realign them. The sound of your hands moving across the metal was calming, the only sound in the room as you focused on your task. The silence between you and Sevika was strange, but comfortable in its own way. You couldn't help but notice how she'd positioned herself: close enough to be within arm's reach but far enough to keep that invisible wall of distance.

Sevika's gaze followed your movements, her eyes calculating, always watching, never allowing herself to relax too much. You could feel the weight of her stare on your skin, the intensity that radiated from her like an unspoken challenge. She was so used to being in control, used to holding power over every situation. But right now, she wasn't. Right now, you had control of her fate. Her well-being was in your hands.

You glanced up at her for a brief moment, your eyes meeting hers. The usual guarded expression was still there, but there was something else lurking behind her stare—a flicker of curiosity, of something more. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you caught it. And for a brief moment, you wondered if she'd noticed the same thing in you.

You focused back on the arm, trying to shake off the rising heat in your chest. It wasn't the first time your proximity to her had made your heart race, but something felt different tonight. Maybe it was the long hours, the shared exhaustion, or maybe it was the quiet moments of understanding that had passed between you in the last few days. Whatever it was, it was undeniable.

The tension in the air seemed to stretch as the minutes passed, the two of you falling into an unspoken rhythm. You worked in silence while Sevika watched, her posture still rigid but with an underlying softness. Every so often, you caught her looking at you—brief glances that spoke volumes. She didn't say anything, but her presence was all-encompassing. It was like she was trying to figure you out, to understand the person who had slowly begun to occupy her thoughts more than she'd ever intended.

There was something intoxicating about her quiet intensity, the way she observed you without a word. It was almost as if she were waiting for something. And as much as you tried to focus on the task at hand, you couldn't help but feel the pull of it. The space between you had grown charged, thick with a tension neither of you could ignore. Every movement you made felt too intimate, too close.

You reached for the tools, trying to steady your hands as you tightened a bolt on the arm's plating. It wasn't until you heard her voice, low and quiet, that you realized how much you had been avoiding it.

"You're good at this," Sevika said, her tone strangely soft for her usual bluntness. "Better than most I've seen."

Her compliment caught you off guard. It wasn't that you didn't expect her to recognize your skills; she was smart enough to know your value. But the way she said it, the way her eyes lingered on you—it felt different. There was no sarcasm in her voice, no mockery. Just honesty.

"Thanks," you replied, your voice steady but betraying the flicker of warmth that had spread through your chest. "I've had a lot of practice."

She nodded, her eyes following the movement of your hands as you worked. The silence stretched again, and for a moment, the only sound was the quiet clicking of your tools against the metal. You could feel the weight of her gaze on you, heavy and penetrating, like she was searching for something in the way you moved, in the way you responded to her.

You could feel it too—the heat building between you, the way the space had grown too small, too tight. It wasn't just the proximity. It wasn't just the late hour or the shared exhaustion. It was the chemistry that had been simmering between you two since the first moment you'd met. You were drawn to each other, even if neither of you was willing to admit it aloud.

You finished tightening the last bolt and stepped back, wiping your hands on a cloth. Sevika's arm was fixed, the metal gleaming under the light, its mechanism now working smoothly. You looked up at her, your gaze meeting hers once again.

Her eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual, the unspoken question in them hanging in the air. Was she going to say something? Would she acknowledge the tension between you? You held your breath, waiting for her response.

But instead of speaking, Sevika stood up, her movement fluid and practiced. She reached for her arm, slipping it back onto her shoulder with a precision that spoke to years of experience. The moment was fleeting, a passing glance that could have been interpreted a hundred different ways. And yet, neither of you said anything more.

You both stood there, the air thick with the unspoken, the silence almost deafening now. Sevika adjusted the arm, testing the strength of it, her fingers flexing around the controls. But she didn't look at you as she did so. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, her face unreadable once again.

"Good as new," she muttered, her usual gruffness returning.

You nodded, your mind still swirling with the unspoken words that hung between you. The moment had passed, but something inside you told you that this wasn't over. The tension, the chemistry—it hadn't disappeared. It was still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the next moment when it might explode.

"Glad I could help," you said, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. "Just don't get it blown off again."

Sevika gave a sharp, almost imperceptible grin. "I'll try not to. But no promises."

You watched her walk toward the door, her movements as calculated as ever. She paused in the doorway, glancing back at you one last time. There was something in her eyes then, something that made your heart skip a beat. It was as if she was waiting for you to say something, to acknowledge the moment that had passed between you.

But instead, she just nodded and walked out.

You stood there for a long time after she left, the quiet of the room pressing in around you. You could feel the weight of her absence, the empty space where her presence had been just moments ago. But you also knew that whatever had passed between you two tonight—whatever unspoken words, whatever building tension—it wasn't over.

[stansthemans]

it’s a new years miracle. i wrote canon stan. woke up with this idea and decided it was gonna be the only thing on my to do list

Ford would like to imagine that he is not a man prone to petty or grumbling complaints, but when his first conscious thought upon waking up that morning is that the sheets next to him are cold and then his immediate reaction to that thought is to let out a huffing whine that would not be misplaced coming from the mouth of a toddler, well, maybe he has to reevaluate a little.

Maybe a lot, because he then proceeds to spend a solid two minutes curled in on himself, stubbornly refusing to leave the warmth that he has maintained between the crumpled sheets and continuing to huff to himself that surely nothing could be so important as to draw anyone away from this cocoon of comfort and bliss. He ignores the pointed growling of his stomach and the pressure in his bladder that also demand attention from his now waking mind.

Freshly awake, Ford’s mind is—outside of his petty grumbling complaints—foggy and sluggish. It’s a luxury that he has only been able to afford in recent months and with much coaxing. So when he finally does pull himself up from the bed and is hit with the blast of cold air, he simply grabs up the comforter and wraps it around him before shuffling off to take care of the other immediate concerns.

The most immediate is finding his brother, but he does suppose he can take a quick leak first.

Stanley is not in the kitchen, although the smell of coffee does fill the air, so Ford knows he’s been here recently. Neither is he at the helm. Ford does not bother looking in his lab. Stanley typically avoids it unless he is harassing Ford in some manner—go to bed at a normal hour, eat real food, that’s too much coffee, please for the love of God don’t create a biohazard in this enclosed space in the middle of the ocean. Finally, Ford finds his brother up on the deck, leaning against a railing and staring out at the sun that, this far north and this late in the year, will not climb much higher in the sky today.

Ford does not think that he made much noise—certainly none that could be heard over the wind and waves—but as soon as he steps from the doorway, Stanley turns around. They’ve never been able to sneak up on each other, not once that Ford can recall, so it makes perfect sense that Stanley just knew he was there.

One look at him, and Stanley throws his head back and laughs. It’s a loud thing, from his belly, and the sound alone prevents the harsh arctic air from delivering any ill effects to Ford’s body. “Cripes, Poindexter,” Stan says, his voice full of affectionate teasing. “I know you’re a human furnace, but that ratty thing ain’t gonna cut it out here.”

He then walks right around Ford, who can only whine in complaint that his brother does not come close enough for Ford to latch onto, and disappears into cockpit. He’s back in just a moment, Ford’s bulky coat slung over his shoulder. Stanley grabs at the comforter and wrestles Ford into the proper gear for their current environment. Ford simply stands there and takes it, not at all displeased to listen to his brother’s biteless grumbling about frostbite.

Once he is properly in the coat, gloves, and knit cap, Stan replaces the comforter around Ford’s shoulders. “You actually cold or are you doing your best impersonation of a teenager who just woke up?” Stan punctuates his question with a slightly too sharp clap to Ford’s cheek.

“Ow,” Ford grumbles, although it does not hurt at all. He huffs at his brother, which only makes Stanley laugh again.

“You look like a chipmunk,” he says. “It wasn’t cute when you did that when we was kids, and it’s not cute now as a grown ass man.” But considering the way that Stanley’s eyes are sparkling, the way he looks at Ford’s puffed cheeks and wild curls not at all well contained by the knit hat, the way that his teasing smile is a bit softer at the corners of his lips, Ford must surmise that his lying charlatan brother is, in fact, at least slightly charmed by Ford’s sleepy, if a bit immature and childish, disposition.

That he has charmed Stanley stirs the always lit embers in the pit of his stomach, fanning the flames just a bit higher. However, the feeling of delighted contentment is not enough to stop him from pursuing an all too pressing manner.

“When we were kids,” Ford corrects, and Stanley groans and rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible. Ford does not bother to hide his grin, which might be crossing into dopey territory.

Stan shoves him a bit, and says, “You stop with that shit, or I’ll be forced to dump this right out into the ocean.” From seemingly nowhere, Stan holds up Ford’s thermos and waves it enticingly in Ford’s face.

“No,” Ford whines pitifully and makes grabbing hands at it.

Stan chuckles smugly. He throws an arm around Ford’s shoulders and leads him over to the railing. “Come on, Poindexter. Let’s get you caffeinated. This is pathetic.”

They settle onto the bench, and Ford takes the opportunity to press in close to his brother’s side, unfolding the comforter enough to also envelop Stan. Stan plucks his own thermos—his covered with stickers from one of Mabel’s care packages—from the nearby cup holder, and silently, comfortably, they turn their gazes back out to the horizon. Ford sips lightly at his coffee. It’s the perfect temperature, which means that Stanley must have prepared it along with his own drink when he first woke up. It has the perfect amount of sugar and cream to suit Ford’s sweet tooth. Made with love, as are all things that Stanley gives to him.

Ford drops his head onto Stan’s shoulder and asks, “Why did you get out of bed so early?”

Stan huffs a light laugh. Ford knows it would have been louder and livelier, but he’s likely reluctant to jostle Ford around. “You have less than no idea what time it is,” he says.

“Irrelevant,” Ford states.

Stan takes a long, slow sip from his thermos. “Wasn’t any reason,” he says. “Just thought it would be nice to check out the view.”

“It was nicer in the bed,” Ford grumbles, and Stanley doesn’t answer that. Ford waits a moment before shifting his head just enough that he can get a glance at his brother’s face. There isn’t any particular emotion standing out. He seems peaceful and content enough, but Ford doesn’t have the best angle to see his eyes. Stanley’s eyes have never been able to fool Ford.

The thing about the bed is that it isn’t the only one on the boat. The thing about the bed that Ford woke up in this morning—the bed that he almost always wakes up in—is that it isn’t Ford’s bed. Ford’s bed, theoretically, is the bunk above Stanley’s, the same as it was when they were kids. As soon as they were old enough for their own individual beds, they were given bunks. It was a space saver, as there was no chance they would ever be given their own bedrooms, and two growing, rowdy boys needed all the space they could get for play. Ford had always taken the top bunk. Stanley was scared of heights. Ford doesn’t even remember why—it had just always been like that—but even that little bit up the ladder had been too much for him. It was no hardship, and when they still wanted—or needed—to cuddle and be close, it was the easiest thing in the world to pull down his pillow and an extra blanket and settle into Stan’s bunk with him.

It’s what they still do now. Ford very rarely makes the climb up that ladder at the end of the night. Whether they go to bed at the same time or whether Ford has finally hit the wall after a long day of adventure and research and drags himself up from his lab, far more often than not, Ford slides under the covers of Stanley’s bunk and presses himself into his twin’s space. Stan accepts it each time without complaint. He accepts Ford simply lying there. He accepts Ford nestling himself into Stan’s side and using him as a pillow. He accepts Ford’s arms folding around him and pulling him back against Ford’s chest.

Ford thinks that it means all of the same things to Stan that it does to him, but they haven’t talked about it. For all the leaps and bounds they’ve made since setting sail four months ago, they still haven’t talked about this.

Ford knows how he feels about his brother. He has known for a very, very long time. It had, of course, been alarming back when he initially came to the conclusion that his feelings for his brother—his identical twin brother, at that—were not entirely platonic in nature, although certainly that brotherly feeling was always there as well. Of course it was alarming. He was not supposed to look at his brother and want to smash their faces together, to know the taste of his lips. He was not supposed to look at his brother and imagine trailing hands across his body, memorizing not only the sight but the feel of him. He was not supposed to look at his brother and be so overwhelmed with yearning and desire that the only thing he could possibly do to stay sane—debatable, considering how wild he always felt in the aftermath—was to take himself in hand and stroke until he exploded, Stanley’s name always on his tongue.

Alarming, but Ford is certainly capable of incredible rationalization. He was already considered a freak. What was this one new aspect? If he kept it all to himself—bottled up where it rightly belonged—it could do nothing to harm his brother. If Stanley didn’t know of Ford’s desires, he would always continue to look at Ford with his sweet, trusting, loving gaze. Ford has always been the axis around which Stan orbited. He’s always known that. He could always continue to be that if he just kept the simple secret. And even if he couldn’t, if it got out, if by some miracle Stanley felt the same way, well, they were both of the same sex. Which isn’t to say that the homosexual aspect of it all wouldn’t have given them problems, but as to its connections to the incestuous aspects, well, two men can’t procreate.

Not that Ford hasn’t had plenty of fantasies in which he does his damnedest to try, but that is neither here nor there.

As teenagers, it was never truly a pure thing. Ford had rationalized it, but he’d also been resentful. Those feelings had come into play around the same time he had begun to yearn for separation from his brother, to for once be his own person and stand on his own merits, all without a hovering shadow that shared his face. It was a complicated thing, to love Stan that much, to want to absorb him completely, all while slowly suffocating with that closeness.

And then the science fair project. And then their father kicking Stan out of the house. And then over ten years of separation. Over a decade in which Ford’s bitterness only grew in equal measure to his longing for what had once been, the opportunities squandered. And then Bill. And then the portal.

For thirty years, Ford’s life was a constant type of hell. He had lived in fight or flight mode, and he was forced to become a type of person he would have never guessed, all to survive, all to keep going until he could finally achieve his goal of ripping Bill apart molecule by molecule in revenge for everything he had done to destroy Ford’s life. But for all the very real horrors, Ford cannot find it in him to entirely hate or regret his time out in the multiverse. Around the dangers, it had been the perfect sandbox, an endless place upon which Ford could exercise his vast intellectual curiosity. Sure, he could have done without being a wanted man with alluringly high bounties on his head across multiple dimensions, but oh, the things he had learned.

And one of the more profound takeaways had been just how many dimensions did not give two flying shits about who had sex with who, no matter the circumstances.

Well, it had only further cemented into Ford’s mind that his love for his brother was perfectly acceptable the way it was. It didn’t matter the anger and bitterness that he refused to let go of. It didn’t matter that Ford had no expectations of ever laying eyes on his brother again. All that mattered was that despite it all, he did still love Stanley, was in love with him. It wouldn’t change. He was at peace with that much at least.

But now, Ford has let go of the anger and bitterness. After everything that happened, after what his wonderful brother did to save the world, to save their family, how could he ever continue to cling to those awful thoughts? Because Ford has been given the utter gift and miracle of laying eyes on his brother again. And not just that. They are together again, truly together. A dynamic duo once more. It’s taken a lifetime of struggles and sorrows, but they are together on their boat, finally living out their old dreams.

Ford knows how all of this makes him feel. And he thinks he knows something of Stanley’s thoughts as well. Because he can only rationalize it one way. Yes, Stan has always orbited Ford, always deferred to him and protected him and loved him. But thirty years. Stanley spent thirty years, his every thought, his every action all poured towards the singular goal of reopening the portal and getting Ford back. He had completely lacked the education or even the innate skill set to truly understand the advanced mechanics of it all. He had ignored every single warning of the risks and dangers. Stanley Pines had locked himself completely away, put all of himself on hold, all on the slimmest glimmer of a hope that he could bring back his brother, who, by all accounts, seemed to hate him. And in those initial weeks, Ford had given him no indication otherwise, and still Stanley had been prepared to leave, to fade into the distance, to give up everything once again if that was what Ford demanded.

Love is the only conclusion that Ford can come to that offers any sort of explanation.

Not to mention the looks, the touches, the sheer tension between them. But they haven’t talked about it. And Ford does not know how to start that conversation.

They continue to sip their coffee in a comfortable silence until Stanley nudges Ford gently. “Your stomach’s been making enough noise to set off one of your monster radars,” Stan says, exaggerating, but not entirely wrong. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.”

It’s a routine they have fallen into easily. Stan whisks himself about the kitchen with ease, cracking and seasoning eggs, frying bacon, buttering toast. Ford washes their thermoses and pours fresh mugs to their individual specifications. They each take only the smallest splash of cream, but Stan makes the time to huff a laugh at how many more spoonfuls of sugar make their way into Ford’s cup compared to his.

They set the table, and Stan slides into his usual spot on the bench. Typically, Ford takes the chair on the other side of the table, but he doesn’t today. Today, the comforter still in play, he climbs onto the bench right alongside Stan, pressing in close. The only word to describe it would be snuggly.

“You’ve been—uh—you’re in a cuddly mood this morning,” Stan says, and they have been inside long enough that the pink tinge to his cheeks cannot be caused by cold, arctic winds. Still, Ford is a man of science. He needs to test that hypothesis.

“Yes,” he says, “the reason I was rather discontented to wake up alone in a perfectly cozy bed.”

Yes, Stanley does blush harder at that, his cheeks going from pink to a lovely red. Ford wants to press their cheeks together, to feel that warmth bleeding over into his own skin. He wants to kiss that gorgeous blush, to see how much redder it could get, how far could it spread down Stan’s neck, his chest.

“Of course, I see no reason why we can’t return after we eat,” Ford goes on, eyes locked onto Stanley’s. “As you’ve stated, it is a holiday. Holidays are not for working.”

“It’s New Years Eve,” Stan says, and Ford does not miss the slight warble in his gruff voice. “Really only a holiday if you’re planning to party, and we’re how many hundreds of miles from the nearest shoreline?”

Ford chuckles. “Not that far,” he says. “But still. It is my first one in this dimension in thirty years. And you are always harping on me to take it easy.”

Stan snorts. “And you’re finally listening?”

“If the result is a lazy day in bed with you, yes,” Ford says, and Stan blushes so violently that it takes nearly every ounce of Ford’s willpower to not grab his face and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. He has to force himself to simply pick up his fork and eat the breakfast that his brother has so lovingly cooked for them. “Hm, very good. Are you not hungry, Stanley?”

The choked noises that gurgle up from Stan’s throat do not contain any plainly stated curses or swears, but Ford feels their intent. Stan grabs his own fork and stabs at the eggs as if they are the cause of his flustering.

When they have eaten, Ford gathers up the dishes and drops them perhaps a little too roughly into the sink. But sue him. He’s impatient, and, wrapping his hand around Stan’s wrist when he tries to attend to the mess, he says, “They’ll keep.”

Stan turns an almost unreadable glance to Ford, and Ford could keep teasing, but he knows this is no longer the time. “Please,” he says simply, because he knows that is all it will take.

He’s right. A little sigh, a shake of his head, and a fond smile, and Stan agrees, “All right, you lazy bastard. Let’s fucking cuddle.”

Although the generator and all the mechanics on the boat are in excellent order—personally built by Ford and McGucket—and outperform anything else commercially available by leaps and bounds, this far north, this late in the year, there is always some cold that seeps inside. But Ford can’t feel any of it around the heat in his stomach, flames spreading and crackling like a merry campfire. He can’t feel anything but warmth and comfort as he drags Stanley off to their bed—theirs, theirs, theirs—and envelops his brother in his arms, rubbing gentle knuckles across Stan’s scalp until they are both lulled into blissful sleep.

The nap is overly indulgent and lazy. One might consider it excessive. Every time Stan attempts to move, Ford latches on tighter. When he tries to get up—“Christ, Stanford, can a guy not take a quick piss?”—Ford pouts and complains. Stanley surrenders quickly enough, understands that this is his fate today. He will stay in this bed with his brother. He will stay warm and snuggly and tucked into Ford’s chest, his ear right over his heart, listening to the steady thump and at least somewhere in the depths of his mind knowing that it pumps solely for him.

They lounge for nearly the entire day. Sometimes one of them is sleeping, sometimes both. If they are both awake, they talk in low whispers, and it reminds Ford of childhood innocence, a time he once felt only like he does now. A time when he could not have imagined a world or a circumstance in which he wanted to be parted from his brother.

Finally, late into the evening, Stanley finally puts his foot down and bodily wrestles his way out of the blankets. “We’re getting up,” he says. “Even if it’s just to fucking cook dinner. You’re eating dinner, you maniac.”

Ford lets him out, but he does not allow Stan any space. “Freaking koala,” Stan grumbles, but he also surrenders to this treatment, attempting to maneuver about the kitchen with Ford all but clinging to his back and effectively using him as an oversized teddy bear.

“Ok, knock it off,” Stan says when he truly does need to be released to complete their meal. “And don’t give me none of that fake pouting,” he adds when Ford puffs his cheeks at him.

“I assure you, Stanley, this pouting is entirely sincere,” he says, and Stanley laughs a loud and beautiful sound.

“Shut up and make us something to drink,” Stan says, still laughing.

There isn’t any champagne, of course. It’s not a beverage either of them would drink with any sort of regularity, so Ford sets about heating a kettle and pulling out whiskey and honey. Stan already has a lemon sliced on the counter.

Again, they both slide onto the bench to eat. Ford allows a bit more space between them this time, even as he does tangle their legs together under the table. As he refills their hot toddies, Stanley’s phone lets out an obnoxious oink. It’s the text tone for Mabel.

“Oh shit,” he says with clear delight. “We got a signal.”

“You would always have a signal if you were using the communication device that I built for us,” Ford says, and Stan just waves him off. He snatches up his phone and pulls up the message. Laughing, he shows it to Ford.

The first part of the message is an image—Ford has heard them all refer to as a selfie—of the twins. In true Mabel fashion, she is wearing a sweater unique to the occasion. Little bursts of fireworks have been knitted in brilliant colors, and all of the bursts are decorated with either glitter paint or real, working lights. Her earrings are glowing as well, clearly miniature versions of the Time Square ball. Her headband is a mess of curled streamers. Beside her, Dipper is far more subdued, although he is wearing a silly set of glasses displaying the new year. Each of the kids is blowing on a noise maker, their arms slung around each other.

Behind them, on the wall, is a clock, displaying something very close to the current time—nearly 10:30 in California—but there are messy scribbles over it attempting to erase the actual time and instead show it to read midnight.

Under the image is a text message. “Totally and 100% made it! Not even a little tired!! Party all night long!!!!”

“Oh, they are going to be dead asleep in under five minutes,” Stan says, completely oozing affection for their niblings. “Completely unconscious. End of the world wouldn’t wake ‘em up.”

“Agreed,” Ford says, feeling all that same affection as he laughs at the purposefully sloppy editing.

Another burst of pictures comes through. The twins running around their neighborhood street with sparklers. Toasting each other with plastic flutes full of sparkling juice. Mabel dancing in front of the television with some celebrities that Ford has less than no clue the identify of during their part of the live performance in New York. A very blurry shot of Dipper trying to snatch a piece of paper from Mabel’s hands—likely an in-depth resolutions list that has more than its fair share of embarrassing points.

“God, I miss them,” Stan says.

Ford slides from the booth, pulling Stan after him. “Come on,” he says. “We should send them something back.” They move quickly to dress in their coats and hats and gloves, and Ford pours their drinks into their thermoses and darts to the bedroom to snatch up the comforter again. “We don’t have sparklers,” he says as they step out onto the deck, “however—“ And he points up at the Northern Lights dancing across the sky.

It is not the first time they’ve seen them, but Stan still stares up in awe. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “They’ll love that.”

They take two pictures. One of the sky alone, allowing the aurora and stars and moon to shine all on their own. A second of the two of them, cheeks pressed together, arms around each other, just as the kids had sent. They have no noise makers, but Stan holds up his thermos for Mabel to see the collection of stickers.

They don’t have as many pictures to send, so Stanley pulls off his gloves and sets to typing out a longer message. Ford takes the comforter and wraps it around them both, hooking his chin over his brother’s shoulder to read along. It’s a rambling message, full of spelling and grammatical errors, but it’s warm and affectionate, and no one who ever read it could ever for a second doubt just how much Stan loves those two perfect children. It’s overwhelming, and Ford loves him all the more for it.

Stan sends everything off, and the messages go through, but there is no response, which confirms to Ford’s mind Stanley’s prediction that the kids have indeed passed out from the long day’s excitement.

Stan puts the phone into his pocket, and when his hand emerges, he has a cigar. He waves it under Ford’s nose with a grin. “I wouldn’t say no,” Ford says, and with a quick, well practiced clip and flick of a lighter, Stan takes the first puff before passing it to Ford. It’s a nice Churchill, one that will take them a good deal of time to smoke, even together. Ford is perfectly amenable to that.

And so they stand there together for a long time, the only noise the light splashing of waves against the side of the boat. They pass the cigar, slowly sip at their warm drinks, and watch the sky dance. Stanley has stronger opinions on cigars than Ford, and although Ford would be just fine with taking the cigar down to the foot, he accepts Stanley’s assessment of, “Last pull,” before plopping it down into the railing’s cup holder to allow it to die its natural death.

Immediately, Ford regathers the comforter and tucks himself into Stanley’s back, wrapping his brother in a hug. He nuzzles at Stanley’s neck. Back to cuddling they go.

“You’re ridiculous,” Stanley says. “Seriously, what’s been with you today?”

Ford only holds him tighter, presses Stan’s back so close to his own chest that he can feel Stan’s heart beating right alongside his. His chin is already hooked over Stan’s shoulder, resting comfortably, but even that is not enough. He tilts his head, presses as much of their faces together as he can. “I’m happy,” he says simply.

“Oh,” Stan says, a small noise, so tiny, but so full. His hand—the right one—moves slowly, moves across Ford’s forearm, moves until he can slot their fingers together. Six around five, as they are meant to be.

For a long time, they stand on the deck, wrapped up in each other, staring up at the brilliant lights that color the sky above them. Their breath curls in puffs of fog, and yes, it is cold, but it’s also so perfectly warm surrounded by each other and the simple blanket.

Ford notices the second that Stanley comes to some sort of mental conclusion. He doesn’t exactly go tense, but there is a certain rigidity that was not there a moment ago. His fingers twitch minutely between Ford’s. Ford can feel the quickening of his pulse. But he doesn’t urge him on, doesn’t rush him. He can wait until Stanley is ready.

And when he is, he does not step away. He just turns in Ford’s arms and locks their gazes together. Identical, as are so many aspects of their physical appearance, but Ford has always considered Stanley’s eyes warmer. The same shade, there is no difference there, but perhaps it’s just that Stanley has always worn his emotions so openly on his sleeve. He’s always felt so much, and in his eyes, it’s always so plain. Ford can—and has—gotten lost in them. He would be glad to do so for years to come.

“I’m gonna be a real sap for a minute here, so can you just let me get through it,” Stan asks, and Ford can only nod and wait, nearly trembling, for Stan to properly gather his thoughts. It’s difficult, especially when part of the process is Stan grabbing tight to the front of his coat, clinging to Ford as a means to ground himself.

They have been wrapped up in each other all day, but Ford knows that it is different in this moment.

Even under the collar of his sweater, Ford can see the way Stan’s throat works, swallowing thickly against what is clearly overwhelming emotion. His eyes are wet behind his glasses, and he blinks rapidly to try to contain it. Ford knows that whatever it is that Stan has to say will only be good, but it still sends some pang through his chest to see his brother struggle in this way. Ford moves quickly, tugging off his gloves. He doesn’t care about the cold. He only cares that he can touch the wind-kissed pink of Stanley’s cheeks, skin to skin. He only cares that his hands can be there to catch and wipe away any of those tears that might escape Stan’s eyes. “It’s all right,” he says lowly. “Take your time.”

Stan smiles at him, and the only thing Ford can see is love. His. Stan’s. Theirs.

The reassurance, the physical contact, it does what it needs to for Stan. It calms him enough to let him speak. “This is corny as hell, I know, but fuck it, right? We’ve got the right be corny after everything. Forty years. That’s fucking insane. Forty years completely apart, when I spent the first seventeen feeling like I’d crawl out of my skin if we were separated for just fifteen minutes.”

The choice of the number fifteen is not lost on Ford at all. The number of minutes between their first breaths in this world. The number of minutes that is impossible for Ford to actually recall, but what he always assumed must have been the longest of his life, waiting for his other half to join him again. A small number, truly, but to them an insurmountable time to be forced apart, the absolute longest either of them could stand before they were ready to make it a problem for everyone else around them.

“I just—“ Stan licks at his chapped lips, and Ford doesn’t know if he’d rather lose himself staring at that or the shining reflection of the lights in Stan’s warm eyes. “I don’t care, you know. This is insane, but I don’t care. I don’t care that it was so hard. I don’t care how much it hurt. Because we’re here now right. Fucking new year, new us. I’d do it again, if I had to.”

“No,” Ford says. “No, you will never have to, Stanley. We are never going to be parted again. Never.” He steps closer, unwilling to take his hands from his brother’s face but still needing more of the minuscule distance between their bodies negated. If he could, he would open his rib cage and draw Stanley inside of himself, or he would crawl into Stan’s. Either option, so long as they are joined. “I simply will not allow it.”

Stan huffs a laugh, and one tear manages its escape. Ford is quick to wipe it away. “Yeah, you’re a stubborn old goat,” he says.

“Takes one to know one,” Ford retorts.

They both laugh and then just stand there, so, so close, just staring at each other, just together. And Ford’s watch lets out a tiny little beep. The same beep it lets out each hour. It’s midnight. It’s midnight crossing over into the new year.

Corny. Sappy. Sure, it is all those things. But it’s also tradition, and as Stanley stated himself, new year, new them.

Ford closes the remaining distance between them and slots his lips over Stanley’s. The reaction is immediate and electrifying. Stan’s mouth opens in a gasp, and Ford doesn’t waste a second of the opportunity presented to him. He pushes his tongue into Stan’s mouth, and Stanley reacts so perfectly, just as Ford has always dreamed. He clings tighter, pulls Ford flush against him, and kisses him back as if to do anything less would shatter him apart.

The kiss lights Ford on fire, sets him completely ablaze and then rebirths him immediately from the ashes. Stanley fits so perfectly against him, so perfect in his arms. They belong like this, made for each other like this. This was the true reason Ford was put on this earth, to kiss Stan, to hold him, to love him.

When they finally pull back from each other, gasping, it’s not very far. Stan’s body remains pressed against him, his fingers clinging to Ford’s shoulders like a vice. Ford’s hands are still cupping Stanley’s cheeks, protecting him from the cold night wind. Their noses and foreheads touch, and they breathe in each other’s air. In the darkness, the only light coming from the aurora borealis and the nearly full moon, Stan’s eyes should not look so bright, but they practically glow. Ford has so much to say, but he can’t bring himself to speak. Still, Stanley’s eyes bore into him, searching, finding all of it on open display, every part of Ford there for him, only for him, if he wants it.

And Ford can see, Stanley does want it. He wants Ford in all the ways that Ford has always wanted him. He loves Ford as Ford loves him.

Ford surges forward, one hand sliding around to cup the back of Stan’s neck and pull him the rest of the way to kiss him again. It’s not as deep this time, no tongues involved, just the slide of their lips together. Still, he tingles everywhere they touch. “I love you,” he says, finally finding his voice. He sounds devastated in the best possible way.

And now Stan’s cold hands are on his cheeks. “I love you, too,” Stan says. Another gentle kiss. “I love you.” Another. “This is insane,” he says, but this time he’s smiling, almost giggling. Ford grins at him, so wide that his face hurts. He feels manic, ready to burst at the seams. He never wants this feeling to stop. Stan starts to back away, but Ford tightens his arms around him. Stan laughs, his fingers sliding into Ford’s hair. “Stanford,” he says against his lips, and Ford shudders.

“Stay here,” Ford requests, begs. “Stay with me.”

“Always,” Stan answers.

The sky above them explodes in color, a more brilliant display than any fireworks show. Ford presses his lips to Stan’s, the next in an endless line, too many to count over the next year, decade, the rest of their lives.

[aishangotome]

Azel Radwan: Dramatic Ending Ch. 21 His Side Story

Dramatic Ending Ch. 21

Thank you @passthechloroform for providing the video for this chapter!

♡———♡

People always rely on God when they are on the verge of despair.

Even in the face of the end, that stance doesn't change.

They turn a blind eye to the fact that the root of all this is God himself.

It's truly comical, even pitiful.

(...As I expected––)

Hiding in the shadow of a building, I sigh at the sight before me.

The sight of people kneeling before the woman favored by the God was spectacular in a way.

(What good is praying to a woman who isn't even a God?)

(...I wish she wouldn't get involved.)

Putting aside my own thoughts, I take a step forward.

I hadn't intended to step out in front of the crowd, but I changed my mind.

Azel: Oh my, everyone. This is a strange sight, but what are you all doing?

With just a single word, the surrounding noise is silenced.

As soon as the true god appears, the crowd instantly loses interest in the woman.

The woman herself stares at the god with wide eyes and, for some reason, starts pinching her cheeks.

(Ah, does she think it's a dream?)

I barely manage to stifle a laugh.

I really need to read the room here.

(Just how far are you going to push me...?)

Diviner: We have been searching for you, Living God. We were so worried that something might have happened to you...

Azel: Don't be absurd. I am a God who can foresee all futures.

Azel: There's no way I would put myself in danger, is there?

Azel: Naturally, I am also aware of everything that is happening in Tanzanite.

(But... talking to these guys really grinds my gears.)

It's not like the people being foolish and pitiful is anything new.

However––I recall the perplexed look on the woman's face just a moment ago.

If the God hadn't appeared then, the devout people might have captured the woman under the apostle's guidance.

As bait to lure out the God.

(With Silvio there, she probably wouldn't have been harmed, but the believers would do such a thing without hesitation.)

(...That's why I hate it.)

Of course, the ones who are truly at fault are the royals who created this faith, not the people.

Azel: You are all consumed by anxiety and fear right now, aren't you? Oh, how pitiful.

Diviner: Living God, please give divine punishment to the unbelievers who defile the God.

Diviner: Please protect our country so that the end does not come.

Voices pleading for salvation one after another create a dissonant chord, shaking the Land of Illusions.

I wonder how this sight of people desperately begging the God for salvation appears to the foreign tourists.

Azel: Everyone, lift your faces.

(Well, it's all going to be over soon anyway.)

As usual, I gently accept their pleas––and scoff.

Azel: You seem to be mistaken, but everything that happens in this country is by my will.

Azel: Because this is the Land of God, mere mortals cannot outsmart me.

Only after saying this do the people finally notice something is amiss.

Azel: Haven't you all been vaguely aware of it?

Azel: False divinations have increased, and oracles are no longer a guaranteed reality.

Azel: Is it a problem with the diviner's skill, or is there a problem with the oracles given by the God himself?

Azel: You all noticed this problem but turned a blind eye, placing all the blame on the diviners.

Azel: But unfortunately, the answer is the latter.

Azel: My oracles were the ones that were false.

Azel: Living God... why...?

Azel: Why do you think that is?

Azel: Why did I give you false oracles?

No one can answer.

(Do they even have the brains to answer?)

(Even so, I want them to think about it a little.)

(I went through the trouble of replacing the star-reading board and destroying the foundation of divination built by generations of gods.)

(For you, of all people.)

Emma: Is it to make the people of Tanzanite "thinking reeds?"

In the midst of the prevailing nightmare, it was the woman who was the only one to raise her voice.

With so many people here, only the woman who had recently arrived in Tanzanite reached the correct answer––

It reaffirms the necessity of the plan the God is about to carry out.

(Though it's probably also because you're particularly bright.)

Azel: This is the last mercy a God gives to his people.

Azel: I have received a great deal of love from the people of Tanzanite.

Azel: I've been preparing this for a long time... thinking I had to return the favor before the end came.

Azel: I, God, love all my people, so I would be happy if you would all be pleased.

(Well, it's sarcasm, though.)

(Suffer as much as you've made me suffer.)

(...Surely there must be a better future beyond that.)

Azel: You will all witness the death of God on the next full moon.

Azel: And if you don't like that...

Azel: Struggle all you want, you fools.

As I leave, I glance at the woman's face.

––I almost stop in my tracks, but I force myself to keep moving.

.

.

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Dramatic End Ch. 22

If you’d like to support my translations, feel free to buy me a coffee here! :)

[harmonyrae]

A Sovereign is Born

Synopsis: A story he never thought he'd tell, his own. How did he become the Abysm Sovereign, a monster to so many? Who was he before?

My submission for the Where Drakeshadows Fall Fan Art Contest

Content Warnings: Spoilers for Sylus's Myth, Grief, Death of Loved One, Physical Pain (mentions of the horn/tail transformation), Sylus POV

Word Count: 5.9k

It’s not unusual for Sylus to sit up and read for an hour or so after waking up. He enjoyed waking up slowly and starting his day, or rather his night, challenging his mind. Leaning against his headboard, he propped his book up on his knee while he sipped his tea. However, the peace and quiet was short-lived. 

“That’s it! I can’t do it anymore!”

Her voice echoed down the hallway. A smirk spread across Sylus’s lips as he listened to her footsteps making their way to his bedroom door. The door swung open, but Sylus kept his eyes glued to the book before him. He felt the bed shift heavily beside him. He looked over to see she had face planted right into the plush black comforter. Her hair was tossed into a messy bun, her usual Hunters gear replaced with a pair of red sweatpants and a t-shirt three sizes too big. Sylus’s smirk turned into a full blown smile.

“Is that my shirt?” 

She lifted her head and blew a strand of hair away from her nose, completely ignoring his question. 

“I haven’t been able to sleep for the past 2 nights. I’m - I don’t know what to do…”

“So you came here?”

“I’ve tried everything - warm milk, ocean sounds, meditation, no caffeine or screen time after I get home from work, melatonin gummies. Nothing has worked. So yes, I came here.”

She dropped her face back onto the comforter. Sylus tilted his head, clearly enjoying seeing his kitten in such a desperate state that she came to him for help. As various ideas floated through his mind, one stuck with him.

“Do you know why I love reading so much?”

“Hmm?” She didn’t bother to lift her head to respond. Sylus could tell she was past her breaking point. He had already decided he would do everything he could to help her relax and fall asleep tonight.

“Stories take me to far away places or back in time. That escape, no matter how brief, eases my mind. Stories speak to the soul.”

She lifted her head and looked at Sylus with wide eyes.

“Tell me a story!”

Sylus chuckled. She sat up on her knees and clasped her hands in front of her.

“Sylus, I never beg. But… please? Please tell me a story?”

“On one condition.”

She scooted closer to him, seeming to agree without knowing the terms.

“You tuck yourself into this bed and call out of work tomorrow. You need more than just one night to recover from insomnia.”

“Sylus! I’m not- I’m…”

“Sweetie, I just woke up, remember? You’ll have the bed to yourself all night.”

“Oh… uhm…” She sighed heavily. “Deal.”

She rolled off the bed and kicked off her slippers. Peeling the comforter back, she slid between the sheets and let out a contented sigh as she settled in. Turning on her side to look at him, she smiled. “Story time!”

Sylus closed his book and set it on his nightstand. He pressed his lips thinking about the story he was going to tell. Would it be too much for her? Would it be too sad? He cleared his throat in an attempt to smother the anxiety.

“Are you sure my story will interest you? It’s not a happy story. Quite sad actually. And it involves dragons.”

“Ooh dragons! Yes, tell me, tell me!” 

Her excitement made his heart swell. His nerves, much less troublesome. 

“I just have to decide what to name the main character.”

“Sylus.”

“Yes?”

“No, name them Sylus!”

“You want me to name the main character after myself?”

“Why not? It’ll be like you’re talking in third person.”

Sylus pinched the bridge of his nose and forced a smile. The story he was about to tell just became infinitely more challenging. But he nodded.

“Okay, they’ll be named Sylus then.”

He crossed his arms and braced himself, prepared to tell a story he had long ago promised to never tell a soul.

“In a time before humans, dragons occupied the land. And before Sylus - well, dragon Sylus that is -  was born, a great war was being fought between clans. His father was fighting on the front lines, while his mother protected her egg. She never left her nest, even as news from the front took a turn, she focused on taking care of her unhatched child.”

She smiled and pulled the blankets up to her chin. Sinking deeper into the plush mattress.

“Sadly, Sylus never got to meet his father. When word reached his mother, she immediately flew to the front. Leaving her egg to search for her lover to say a final goodbye. The war had already ended and the spring flowers had started to bloom when she arrived. She couldn’t find him, all she could do was roar into the night sky, mourning her lost love. And as quickly as she flew to that datura covered field, she returned to her child. The egg showed the first signs of cracking during the days she was away. She was terrified that leaving the way she did would mean her child wouldn’t survive.”

“But they did.” She whispered.

“Yes, they did. When the egg broke open, she was shocked to see a creature unlike anything she’d ever seen before. It didn’t look like a dragon. Pale skin, tufts of white hair.”

He winked at her and she giggled in response. Her eyes softened as her imagination took over.

“She was shunned by many mothers in the clan. They believed she had been cursed for leaving the egg the way she did. But she didn’t believe that, not for a moment. She saw him as a blessing. Even if she didn’t understand why he was so different. She would make a pilgrimage to the field every spring to pay respect. Eventually, Sylus wanted to go with her. And here, kitten, is where the story really begins.”

Sylus clung to his mother as she flew. Her ebony scales shimmered in the sunlight. Her crimson wings outstretched, steady and fluttering gently in the wind. Spring had started early this year, the air was warm and the floral scent washed over her, bringing tears to her ruby eyes. 

“Will I ever be able to fly?”

His small voice broke as asked. He’d been asking the same question for years. The only dragon-like features that he had were his talons and scales, which had slowly started to spread across his arms in spare patches, chest and up his neck when he had turned 5. There’ve been no new developments in the past 5 years. He still had no horns or tail, and of course, no wings. 

“I hope so. But remember what I told you?”

Sylus collapsed onto his mother, his arms swayed against her neck as his face pressed into her back. She felt the chill of a tear run over her scales. She flapped her wings hard, pushing them higher into the sky above the clouds. Sylus squealed in response.

“Mother!”

She smiled, she could hear the excitement in his voice. She flew higher and higher until the clouds lay beneath them like a fluffy meadow. 

“Stand up.”

Sylus didn’t hesitate. He dug his claws into her scales, anchoring himself before he placed his feet firmly on her back. She leveled out and let her wings spread wide to allow them to glide. He removed his claws and eventually let go completely. She looked over her shoulder to see his arms outstretched and his face painted with a smile. The fabric of his tunic billowed in the breeze, the arms cut loose to imitate wings.

“Better?”

Sylus giggled and flapped his arms, feeling the fabric flutter.

“Better.”

“We’re almost there, you think you can hold on for a dive?”

He looked down at his mother with wide eyes, his sharp teeth on full display as he smiled. He nodded and dropped to his knees to cling to his mother ready for the descent. She tucked in her wings and angled her nose downward, diving through the clouds and straight for the ground. Sylus laughed and shouted as wind nearly deafened them and the ground grew closer. His mother finally flung her wings out and the updraft pushed them upwards before slowly descending to the field.

Sylus slid down his mothers wing and rolled onto the ground. He lay on his back, savoring the feeling of solid ground beneath him. As much as he loved flying, it made him appreciate the safety of the ground. He rolled over on his stomach and watched his mother walk into the field. She settled at the top of a hill and wrapped her wings around herself before lowering her head to the ground. Sylus frowned. The excitement of the flight momentarily made him forget the purpose of the trip.

Sylus jogged up the hill to his mother. He sat down next to her head, which was nearly three sizes larger than he was. If he was a normal dragon he might be half her size by now, but whatever “cursed” him made sure he would always be tiny in comparison to his kin. He shoved those thoughts away for now, leaning against his mother and using the ends of his tunic to dry her tears. It was always a hard trip, his mother mourned the loss of his father as if it was only yesterday she lost him. 

“Tell me the story.” Sylus nudged his mother. She let out a soft growl in response. 

“Sylus…”

“Come on, you know it helps. Tell me!”

She sighed, her breath blowing the petals off of hundreds of flowers that sat before her. 

“When I first met your father, he was just a young dragon learning how to fly. I was, of course, performing better than he was in class. He would antagonize me during class, but during the journey home he would stay close to me, telling me stories about far away cities he had heard of and wished to see. When we came of age, he never gave any indication he liked me in any way. But when our first mating season began, he approached me and I was rather shocked.”

“He had a crush on you and you didn’t even know it. Embarrassing.”

“For me or for him? Being direct is always better. Don’t be embarrassed about what you desire.”

Sylus scrunched his nose, but nodded before settling back against his mother.

“It was rather impressive at first, but I think he got too cocky. He tripped over his tail and rammed his nose into a boulder. Everyone laughed and my friends urged me to ignore him, a better mate would present themselves. But –”

“But you didn’t want another mate, you wanted him!’ Sylus finished for her.

“I did. I wanted your father. Everyone thought I was crazy and mocked me for choosing a weak mate. But in just a few months he –”

“He proved himself to be the fiercest warrior and became the commander of all warriors in our clan!”

“You know the story better than I do it seems.” She laughed. “He wasn’t just strong, he was brave. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him. I loved him dearly and miss him everyday.”

She nudged Sylus with her snout. 

“And you remind me of him.”

“But I’m not even a real dragon. And I’ll never be a warrior.”

“You are stronger than you know. Being different doesn't make you weak and it doesn’t mean you can’t be a warrior. You have a purpose Sylus. I know it.”

Sylus stared at her, tears filling his eyes. 

“I just want to be like you. Like father.” 

“And you are. You don’t have to look like us to share our heart. Our strength.” 

Sylus never stopped wanting to look like a normal dragon, but over the years he started embracing his natural strength. Stubborn like his mother and cunning like his father, he proved himself to be a respected and valued member of the clan.

Sylus was 16 when the humans came. Tension in the clans grew as new inhabitants moved closer to their valley. And then they invaded. Clan after clan fell, their weapons were strong enough to pierce scales and shred wings. His mother protected him, but she wasn’t able to keep them away forever.

The afternoon sun cast a red glow across the valley, Sylus clung to his mother as she flew. Her strength was dwindling, her wounds were deep. Sylus had tried to treat them, but she wanted to get away from their army as quickly as possible. 

“You have to stop, you’re hurt!”

He felt her drop several feet, her wings refusing to hold them up. She straightened her neck, pointing herself in the direction of the cave they had called home for the past few years. But when they finally approached the entrance, she couldn’t make it inside. Her claws scraped along the mountain side and Sylus could barely hold on. She came to a halt on a small ledge, her body collapsing, her wings draped over the edge of the cliff. Sylus crawled over her body, tugging off his tunic to press into her wounds.

“We have to get you inside, they’ll see you. Mother?”

Sylus couldn’t hide the fear in his voice. His hands shook as he treated her wounds. His mother let out a strangled roar. She was in too much pain to be quiet, Sylus knew they’d have heard her. They’d come for her and soon.

“I know it hurts, but you have to be quiet, you have to try, please.” 

Tears stung his eyes, his heart pounded in his chest. The headache he’d had for the past few days had become so much worse. His mother struggled to open her eyes, a haze muddying the usual red shimmer. 

“Be strong, my love. Always be strong.”

“Stop. Stop it! Don’t talk like that!” 

Pain washed over him as his scalp split open. His talons clawed at his head as he screamed. His mother shifted, with her remaining strength she wrapped her wing around him protectively. He fell to his side as his back arched, his tailbone transforming and his tail extending. His body calmed, but fear settled over him. He lifted his hands to feel the spiraling horns. He felt his body sway and he looked over his shoulder to see a tail sweep against the rock beneath him. 

“Mother?”

“I see them, my love. They’re beautiful.”

Sylus didn’t have time to process this sudden change. He’d waited 16 years to have horns and a tail, to be remotely similar to his kin, and now he would be hunted for having them. He resumed treating his mothers wounds, moving to the dagger stuck in her side. 

“I need to remove this, hold still okay?”

His mother let out a deep growl. He gripped the hilt and pulled with all his might. The blade shook as her scales scraped against it. He placed it on the ground and moved the cloth over the new wound. She wasn’t getting any better. With tears streaming down his face, he finally knelt next to his mother, trying to meet her eye.

“Mother?”

She looked at him through weary eyes, her breathing slow. 

“Please don’t leave me… I can’t… I don’t want to be alone.”

“You will never truly be alone. You are my beautiful warrior–”

Her chest shook as her eyes closed. Sylus collapsed beside her, his body shaking as he sobbed. He forced himself to sit up and run his hands along her face, her scales rough and shattered. He rested his forehead against her, the pain of his new horns and tail mingling with his heart breaking.

Then he heard it, shouts in the distance. He looked over the ledge and saw the humans. They were climbing the mountain towards him. They had seen his mothers body, he had to hide. He looked up at the cave entrance. He picked up the dagger before digging his claws into the rock and pulling himself up. 

“I see movement!”

Sylus swore under his breath, they’d seen him. He hauled himself up the mountain and rolled into the entrance to the cave. He stood and raced to the furthest corner, searching for a way out or a hole he could hide in. There was nothing. The shouts were getting closer now. He looked down at the blade in his hand. He looked down at his tail. It felt foreign to him, like it didn’t belong, like it wasn’t meant for him. Maybe it wasn’t….

He didn’t have time to talk himself out of it or think up another plan. He wanted to live. 

He pressed the dagger against the base of his horn, the cool metal made him shiver. He grit his teeth, a sob breaking free as he began to cut. The horn came loose and he held it in his hands. He threw it to the other side of the cave and began on the other horn. The pain was almost too much to bear. The horn fell away and blood trickled down his face. The stream poured into his eye and he blinked away the sting, but not before feeling a strange warmth spread through his mind.

He heard the sound of blades and more shouts. They’d reached his mother. He held his breath to stop himself from screaming in anger. 

He blinked back more tears as he placed the blade under his tail. Bracing himself against the wall of the cave he sank down. His tail fell away and Sylus collapsed. He crawled to the opposite corner of the cave, leaving a blood trail behind him. He pulled his legs to his chest, his heart aching, his skin stinging, his eyes burning. The shouts are right outside the cave now. He didn’t have any strength left, if this was it, he couldn’t stop it. He felt an inexplicable exhaustion take over and he slipped into darkness.

Her face. Bright, soft, sweet. The dress she wore. The dark fabric flowing and fluttering in the wind. She held red datura flowers. She reached out a hand, a flower held between her delicate fingers. Sylus felt a subtle touch, as if the flower was tucked into his hair. And then darkness, once again.

Sylus opened his eyes slowly, the room spinning around him as he woke. He stared at the blank ceiling above him, a faint scent of herbs wafting through the air. He turned his head to see a man crouched next to a small fire, mixing something in a cauldron. Sylus coughed. The man looked up and gave him a small smile. He scooped something into a wooden bowl before approaching Sylus.

Sylus tried to sit up, a combination of fear and curiosity settled over him. The man offered him the bowl with a wooden spoon. Sylus cautiously took it.

“Root soup, it’s not much, but it’s all we’ve had for the past few days. Should help with that cough too.”

The steam from the soup warmed his face. He took a spoonful and sipped, the warm broth soothed his throat. He dropped the spoon onto the blanket beneath him and tipped the bowl back taking large gulps. The man laughed.

“You’ve been asleep for two days, I figured you would be pretty hungry. There’s plenty left.”

Sylus finished the soup before looking over at the man properly for the first time. He shifted uncomfortably, his back still tender.

“Where am I?”

“You’re with Judicator’s finest - his dragon slaying army! We are a day's journey away from the city.”

“The city?”

“Ivory City! You must be from a neighboring village, taken by those beasts. It’s good we found you when we did. Seems you fought off the beast and kept yourself from being a meal! The Judicator was impressed.”

Sylus clenched his fist. They’re calling his mother a beast. They think he killed her? That he is human? He suddenly reached up to his head, but felt no horns, only fabric.

“Your head was bleeding pretty bad when we found you. A doctor in the city will get a better look at you tomorrow. For now, the bleeding stopped.” 

The man took the bowl from Sylus and returned to the cauldron to ladle in more soup. Sylus heard blades clash outside and the faint sounds of hooves against gravel in the distance. He realized they’re in a tent. He’s surrounded by humans. The humans that killed his kin. Who killed his mother. A heat rages beneath his skin, his chest heaving. Sylus closed his eyes to calm himself. 

“More soup?”

Sylus opened his eyes and took the bowl eagerly. He sipped slowly this time, still not bothering with the spoon. He took in the man’s features. Old, black hair speckled with white, a long beard, silver armor, a long sword hung at his hip. He wondered if all the men in this camp had weapons like that. Sylus straightened his back, becoming acutely aware of how defenseless he was. No weapons to defend himself. No wings to escape. 

“Thank you.”

The man nodded. 

“I must report to the Judicator, he wanted to know when you woke up. Get some more rest or explore the camp, but don’t go far.”

With that, the man left. Sylus set the bowl down and reached behind him to feel the base of his spine. The skin is tender, but no tail. He felt his head one more, the skin smooth where the horns once were. He sighed in relief. They thought he was human, maybe he had a chance. 

Sylus spotted a set of clothes in the corner of the room. He stood and held up the clothing before him. They appeared to be his size and made of quality fabric. Much better than what he could find to clothe himself in years past. He stripped off his dirty clothing and pulled on the black pants and sleeveless tunic. The pants were a few sizes too big, but the buckles on the waist secured them nicely. He stepped out of the tent and squinted against the setting sun. At least a hundred men are camped here. There are dozens of tents propped up across the field and horses grazed nearby.

He strolled through the camp, taking in the humans gathered around campfires. Like his kin, they varied in appearance greatly. Some tall, some short, some thin, some wide. Some with hair on their face or no hair at all. He rubbed a hand along his jaw, feeling no hair, only the ridge of the patch of scales that ran up his neck toward his ear. He covered the scales with his hand, panic settling over him as he wondered what the humans thought of his scales. 

Sylus quickly ran to a stream just on the outskirts of the camp. He crouched and looked for his reflection in the water. The moonlight lit up his face, making his silver hair glow. The water settled and he gasped at his reflection. He appeared… normal. He looked like all the other men in the camp. He ran a finger along the scales on his chest, feeling their rough texture, but seeing nothing but smooth skin. He lifted his hands, his talons appeared to be replaced by slender fingers. When his gaze returned to his face, he saw himself smiling. 

“I look like them?” Sylus whispered.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t sad or angry about his appearance. He’d wanted horns, a tail and wings for as long as he could remember. But now, he was surrounded by creatures that looked like him. And his “curse” had, somehow, masked the remaining features that set him apart. He leaned back on his heels and looked up to the moon. 

“What do I do now?”

His heart ached. Could he really stay with these humans? The ones who killed his own mother? Learn to live like them? Embrace his appearance and suppress his draconic desires? He stood up and walked further from camp, toward the steep slope leading back into the valley he had called home his entire life. As he gazed out over the horizon, he saw a flicker of firelight, the faintest hint of smoke rising into the sky.

“We burned the bodies. We didn't want to risk some kind of filthy disease washing its way into the rivers and streams as they decayed.”

A deep voice rang out behind him. Sylus flinched.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you, young man. I was concerned when I didn’t find you in your tent.”

“I’m sorry, I just… I wanted to take a walk. I didn’t know…”

“It’s perfectly fine. I was surprised you strayed so far from camp. Given all that you’ve been through.”

Sylus nodded. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling cold and uncertain in the man's presence. 

“I’ve built my army to fight even the most foul of beasts. You’re safe now.”

Sylus looked back to the valley. This man must be the Judicator, the one who started all of this. Who started the war against his kind. Sylus had a thousand questions, questions he never thought he’d get the answer to, let alone ask. But one gnawed at him and he couldn’t stop himself. 

“Why?”

The man walked up beside Sylus, looking over at him with a brow raised in confusion.

“Why did you want the dragons gone?”

The man laughed, his voice deep and cruel. He slapped Sylus on the shoulder. Sylus bit his tongue to avoid saying something he would regret.

“Because those beasts only know one thing. Desire. And desire leads to corruption and greed. They were evil and it was my duty to rid these lands of their kind. I am proud of what I’ve accomplished.There are no dragons left to destroy the souls of my people.”

Sylus felt his chest tighten, his anger and disgust making it hard for him to breathe. His heart felt like it was breaking yet again. The pressure behind his eyes building as he pinched them closed. His eyes flew open when he felt a familiar twinge of pain tickle his scalp.

“Why do you ask boy? Did they fill your head with their lies?”

The pain was so intense Sylus couldn’t speak. Fear paralysed him. He silently prayed to the only one he ever believed in. 

Mother, please. Don’t let them come back. Please…

But it was too late. He felt the flesh of his scalp split open once again and his body shook. He fell to the ground with his head in his hands. The man beside him lurched backwards, watching in horror as Sylus transformed. Sylus heard the footsteps of several men run toward them. His spine extended, his tail sweeping across the ground, knocking the Judicator off his feet.

“He’s a beast!” “How can this be?” “Is he a dragon?” “He doesn’t look like one, but he has horns! And a tail!” “He’s a horror!”

The Judicator stood over Sylus, peering down at his slumped form. He unsheathed his blade and kicked Sylus over onto his back.

Sylus groaned in pain, his tail coiling around him in a weak attempt to protect himself. He held his hands out, tears stinging his eyes as he tried to steady his breathing to speak.

“Please… don’t…”

“You disguise yourself and lie your way into our camp?! You intended to destroy our city! You foul creature!”

Sylus tried to crawl away from the crowd now gathering around him. His elbows sunk into the mud and his heels scrambling to gain traction. Other men were retrieving their weapons. Sylus gathered his remaining strength to dig his heels in and straighten his back, his legs shook as he stood. His hands still in front of him, shaking his head as he backed away from the men.

“We will not be fooled by you! You are a fiend. An evil, vile creature! You will not corrupt our souls!”

The Judicator lunged forward, Sylus reached out to try to stop the blade, but the man was too fast. His blade pierced Sylus’s chest. Sylus held the blade, as he stared into the eyes of the Judicator, the man sneered, pleased to see the fear in Sylus’s eyes.

Sylus gasped, the tears in his eyes spilled over, mixing with the dirt and blood across his face. He placed a foot behind him, trying to steady himself, but his tail swiped at the crowd viciously. Men went flying and some tumbled over the edge of the cliff into the valley below. 

“Stop him!” The men shouted as they rushed towards Sylus.

In a flash, a dozen swords were thrust toward him. Sylus felt every jab, his body weakening with every blow. The Judicator stood before him, watching his men attack the dragon boy. A prideful smile plastered on his face. Sylus kept his eyes trained on the man, he became numb to the pain, only feeling his body being shoved. 

Sylus fell to his knees, his hands crashing to the ground before him. He looked down to see half a dozen blades pierced through his chest. A sob broke free from his ravaged chest. He saw boots before him, the Judicators booming voice louder than his men's victory chants.

“The final dragon has been slain.”

He bent down and took the hilt of his sword, placing a foot on Sylus’s chest to gain leverage, he yanked the sword free kicking Sylus backward. Sylus tumbled backwards, his foot caught the edge of the cliff. He didn’t try to stop himself from falling, he closed his eyes as the wind howled in his ears. He felt the rocks of the cliffside against his back, his legs, his arms, his face as he rolled. The blades dislodged themselves and clanged against the rocks as they fell with him. 

Sylus hit the rocky base of the valley with a brutal thud, the metallic clinks of the swords falling all around him. He had no strength left. He forced his eyes open when he heard the sound of shouts above him. Men poured over the side of the cliff, making their way down using rope, some swinging from rock to rock. Their quick descent stirred something in Sylus. 

He was familiar with rage, but this was different. The pain his body felt transformed into something white hot. His legs burned as he stood. He stared up at the men climbing down to him. His right eye watered, it stung with every blink. Sylus wiped at his eye, but felt no tears. His vision darkened as his chest shook with something akin to laughter. Then everything went dark.

Her face, once again. Framed with silky strands of white hair. Her hand. Clutched a weapon of some kind. A sword? A faint golden glow swirled around her fingers and arm as she lifted the blade. Sylus felt the same searing pain in his chest. Blood splattered across her skin. Tears fell from her eyes. 

“Sylus…” She whispered.

A gust of cold air swept across his face and he shivered in response. His eyes fluttered open, a blue sky filled with soft white clouds floating above him. Beams of sunlight broke through the clouds and shone down upon him. He felt the warmth and took a deep breath, that’s when he felt it, the pain. He lifted his head to see the wounds scattered across his body. He sat up, clutching his chest as he looked around. 

Bodies surround him, men he saw at the camp. Sylus crawled to a boulder and used it to help him stand. Did he do this? How? And why did he feel so free and happy at the sight? A laugh bubbled up through his throat, catching him by surprise. The memory of his mother teaching him about the ancient dragon curse flooded his mind. Rage. Anger. Hatred. Something stronger. It took over and now…

Sylus walked further into the valley. He looked down to see a black red mist swirling toward him from the corpses. The mist felt refreshing, like a burst of cool air on a hot summer day. The mist swirled around his tail, up his spine to his horns, across his face and down his arms before funneling into his chest. The wound the Judicators sword had created glowed. He felt the wound close, but what replaced the flesh is bright like a ruby. The other wounds closed and his strength slowly returned as the mist continued to swirl around him.

With his wounds healed he felt the tension in his back grow. He hunched over and lurched forward, bracing his hands against the cliffside. The skin of his back split open, the pressure finally released and Sylus threw his head back letting out a roar. Crimson wings burst forth from the wounds. They stretch outwards, the breeze dusting over the newly exposed flesh. Sylus' chest heaved as he looked over his shoulder at his wings. He has wings. Wings. 

He stood up straight. His tail swayed and his wings fluttered, eager to take flight. He hadn’t seen the Judicator among the bodies. He also hadn’t seen that girl. He didn’t know why he dreamt of her, but he’d seen her twice. She wasn’t there. Who was she? 

He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, shaking the image of her from his mind.

“If humans want a monster, they’ll get one.”

Sylus took a breath and flapped his wings hard, allowing instinct to take over.It was a foreign sensation, but as soon as his feet left the ground he sighed. Years of wishing to fly and here he is, flying over a valley filled with bodies. 

He soared over the valley and towards the fields he had visited so often as a child. Tears sting his eyes as he lowered himself to the ground. He sat among the datura flowers, most withering in the summer heat. He picked one up and held it between his claws, allowing the tears to finally fall as he mourned the loss of his kin, his mother and the person he was. Only the monster remained. 

“You were right. That is a sad story.”

Her words are slurred, fatigue finally winning the war. Sylus shifts slowly and leans towards her, lifting his hand to gently brush the hair out of her face. 

“Is that really the end? Who was the girl? Did he find that judi-ma-cator guy?”

Sylus chuckles under his breath. His thumb moves to her cheek, stroking her soft skin. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was slow and steady. She was nearly asleep.

“He did find the Judicator. And the girl… she was very important to him. The most important actually. But that’s a story for another time. Sleep. I’ll turn out the light.”

She lifts her hand to cover his, trapping it over her face. 

“Wait.”

She stares up at him, her tired eyes glistening.

“At least tell me if he had a happy ending?”

Sylus gently removes her hand from over his. He pulls the blanket up over her shoulders and leans over to press a kiss to her temple. She closes her eyes once more, finally letting sleep take her. He smiles as he takes in her delicate features. He carefully stands and turns off the lamp beside the bed. He strolls to the door, but turns back to look at her before leaving.

“His story isn’t over yet.” He whispers.

He opens the door and gently closes it behind him, leaving his beloved to sleep peacefully.

Tag List (comment if you wanna be added!): @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22

AN: I have no idea if this will be allowed to compete because it is pretty intense, but I wanted to write this regardless. I always crave the boys POV so this was a must. I hope you guys like it - and cry with me... If you want to give the X post some love, it's linked below.

X Post: (posting now)

[malt-rants-and-stuff]

@sunnfish okay Take Two!!! hello sunny sunnfish you wonderful sea creature! I was your secret santa for the @ssmygiftexchange! so sorry for the delay on this, my scheduled post was taken by the tumblr void and I wasn't home with my laptop to remake this post haha.

Your prompt was shirashiro college roommates au and prev pres, hanzawa, and tashiro hang out!! hope i was able to do this justice, this is officially the longest oneshot ive posted :)

Now with an Ao3 version, i would recommend reading there because Tumblr messed up some of my formatting and I can't fix it right now ^_^

Summary:

Tashiro and Shirahama are college roommates. It's a relatively peaceful life.

A non-linear story written for the sasamiya & hirakagi winter gift exchange!

As it turns out, moving in with a guy that you’ve known for almost half your life is pretty unremarkable.

Maybe it has something to do with being too familiar with each other. There have been too many sleepovers for the sound of snores to phase him, too many gym classes for the sight of skin to fluster him, too much time for anything to feel awkward between them. And yet…

And yet.

Packing your whole life into boxes is pretty hard, as it turns out. Looking around his room now it seems hard to imagine how it’ll feel to see the whole place emptied out. Cleared of every reminder of himself.

Tashiro tries not to think about it so hard as he turns back towards the closet. He’s never felt the need to go through everything he had stuffed in there until now, remnants of the past mixing with comforts of the present.

He reaches out to grab one of the hangers, pulling it free. His ping-pong jacket, he thinks despairingly, is slowly becoming small on him. His name spelled across the back in white lettering brings him back to when he first noticed. The growth spurts he’s been having refuse to slow even for a moment, and though he likes that some days, it mainly makes him face annoying things like this.

If he leaves the jacket, it will probably be packed up and put away somewhere to be forgotten. He can picture it now, sitting in a box stuffed away as it slowly fades from his memory. It makes him feel sort of heavy. But, if he takes it with him, he’s not sure it would be much better in the long run. Just holding it in his hands reminds him of how much time has passed. Of how fast it will keep passing.

He stands there, gears turning haphazardly in his mind, as he tries to breathe it all in.

Then, a knock.

His eyes dart to his doorway in surprise– knowing none of his family was home right now– only to remember that he’d invited the others to help him out.

Shirahama stands in front of him, knuckles resting against the already ajar door. His slightly bored face and tellingly awkward posture show that he hadn’t expected to be the first to arrive.

“Is your doorbell broken?” He asks as his socked feet pad their way into the room. “I tried using it, for once, but from that look I guess you didn’t hear.”

Tashiro finds himself a little amused by this, as he knows for a fact Shirahama has his own key. Perks of coming over to play games most weekends out of the year. He remembers them making jokes about going into each other's fridges while no one was home when they traded keys.

“Nah, guess I was just distracted,” He says with a casual shrug, placing the jacket back in the closet.

Shirahama gives him a questioning look. “I thought you were moving out, not back in.” His friend jokes as he passes Tashiro, grabbing a couple of shirts from the closet alongside the jacket.

He feels his eyebrow twitch in a way that reminds him a little of Hanzawa; and what a scary thought that is.

“I’m feeling indecisive.” He says, his mouth twisting to match how the word makes him feel. All twisted up and confused.

Shirahama turns to the side to face him, having stacked more clothes into his arms that look to be on the verge of falling to the floor. “About what? If you should take your whole house with you?”

That jacket. If I should re-dye my hair. Growing up. You. The future.

“What if we paint all the walls yellow?” He says instead of the hundreds of things his racing mind pushes forward.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” Shirahama responds resolutely, his eyes showing no room for argument. Not that Tashiro will let that stop him.

“Or maybe green? Something bright.” He continues on, stepping away from his thoughts to grab the jacket out of the teetering pile and place it to the side. “Actually, scratch that, blue would be great too.”

Shirahama gives him a withering look that has no effect on his enthusiasm. Now that he’s thinking about it, the fact that he isn’t going to make these kinds of decisions on his own anymore is pretty fun. He’ll have a roommate, a friend to work through his troubles with. The thought makes him feel lighter.

“Hey, d’you still want this?” Shirahama asks some time later, long after Kuresawa and Miyano have come and gone. Tashiro looks up from the stack of boxes he’d just finished labeling.

“Oh, yeah I almost forgot!” He says as he takes his jacket, tying it around his waist for safekeeping. He really hopes he didn’t overestimate how much closet space he has.

It’s only a few hours after the final box has been unloaded and the moving van is hauled off when Tashiro makes a chilling discovery.

“Dude, we have no food.” He says, eyes staring at the bleak emptiness of their new fridge.

“Yup,” Shirahama responds as he walks up beside him, handing Tashiro a scrunchie in a sort of placating manner.

Tashiro’s shoulders droop with the weight of his exhaustion. Moving was one of the most tiring things he’s ever done, and coming from him that’s saying something.

Turning away from the depressing artificial fridge lighting, Tashiro turns toward the kitchen counter behind him and grabs his keys. As wrecked as he might feel, the growls of his stomach refuse to be ignored. “I’ll go buy something quick,” He says.

“Ah- wait, I have an idea,” Shirahama says suddenly. Back straightening, he moves away from the fridge of doom over to a bag of housewarming gifts the others had left. It was mostly a small array of gag gifts, little plant pots shaped like ping pong balls and a lampshade shaped like a pudding cup, but in a small container alongside the rest was something else. A saving grace for the hungry:

A tub of butter.

Tashiro looks at it in confusion, asking if his friend was really that hungry.

Shirahama smirks, “With food, no container is ever as it seems.”

He opens the tub’s lid, revealing its contents. Inside is not butter, but a large frozen serving of chicken soup. Tashiro feels his jaw drop as he gasps in disbelief.

Quickly shaking himself of his shock, Tashiro grins brightly. He takes the soup and stuffs it into the microwave, but Shirahama stops him from starting the timer.

“Y’know it would taste better if you put it in a pot instead.” Shirahama says, his hand gently clasped around Tashiro’s wrist in a way that he chooses not to internalize. His fingers are a little cold.

“But it’s already cooked.”

“So? You can still warm it up in the pot. Plus it’ll make it taste closer to how it’s supposed to.” Shirahama retorts, opening the microwave and placing the tub on the counter as he goes to try and find a pot in the sea of boxes.

Tashiro stays behind as he thinks. He hadn’t ever had a reason to go so far out of his way to warm up food before. He feels himself smile a bit, the first change he’ll have to get used to in this new life.

As it turns out, keeping a relatively small apartment clean is a little difficult when you’re living on your own as two messy 18 year olds.

They tried the whole chore chart thing at first, Shirahama said he used to have one at his parent’s house and it worked fine. But, well, it’s a little different when it’s just them.

The dishes are stood in a precarious stack, plates and glasses towering in ways gravity should never allow. Tashiro faces his task with a body radiating reluctance.

He’s been busy the entire week. Classes and work keep him out of the house, and even when he is home he prefers to spend time relaxing or hanging out with Shirahama. He had forgotten about his chore, and now it’s become a problem.

Carefully reaching towards the tower, he grabs the cups first and goes for the sponge right as Shirahama walks out from his room.

He has his hair held back by a headband, because my bangs are a nightmare right now, he’d explained the other day.

He walks towards the kitchen and looks at Tashiro, who has begun to work through the dishes.

“…Need any help?” He asks as he reaches toward the kitchen cabinet, pulling out the chips he’d come for.

“Oh, no I’m good,” Tashiro responds, though the overwhelmed look in his eyes doesn’t match his words.

Hm. Shirahama puts his chips down on the counter, turning towards the sink and stepping up beside his friend. “I’ll dry and you wash, okay?” He says with a smile.

Tashiro blinks at him for a moment, lips parted in an ‘o’, before he nods and sends back a smile of his own.

They make it through everything eventually, though not without some effort and accidental water sprays. They decide afterwards to just do the dishes together, just to save them time.

There's this strange sensation that comes for him one day. The apartment is dark, the steady hum of the aircon welcoming him home, and immediately something feels amiss.

Tashiro kicks off his shoes, only to turn back around and place them carefully on the shoe rack. He always forgets that it’s something he should worry about now. Keeping his home in order was never really a big deal before, it was usually only him spending time there anyways.

Passing through the short hallway, his eyes catch on a small black and red container. He looks around suspiciously, but finds no sign of Shirahama. Crossing the creaky floorboards, he inspects the tupperware and finds a green sticky note pressed onto the lid.

Went to a mixer.

Put this in a pot and try eating real food for once

Tashiro blinks away his shock. His eyes trace over the words on the note. Again, then again.

Thump

Thump

Thump

His hands warm the plastic as he goes to hold it, and a smile breaks out across his face. He’ll have to say thanks later.

Placing his food back onto the counter, he turns to go change. He feels anticipation swirl around inside of him, and even without tasting the soup, Tashiro feels warm.

Tashiro finds out in the second month of living with his best friend that they’re maybe not the best at making their place livable.

“How have you guys been living like this?” Miyano asks, part judging and part concerned. They’re standing in the living room, which consists of a couch, a tv, and a shelf balanced on two boxes that they use as a coffee table. The tv sits on the floor with a console, video game cases stacked beside it.

It’s not like they haven’t talked about decorating. They joked about it before moving, and made plans about what they wanted to do. The plans just… didn’t end up happening.

At some point between the exhausting move-in and the rush of classes starting up, decorating didn’t feel like that urgent of a thing.

But now classes have been in session for a while, and they still haven’t bothered with it.

The click of Kuresawa’s camera bounces off the empty walls. “A total bachelor pad,” he says, sounding just to the left of impressed. “My girlfriend was wondering what it looks like when two college guys live together.”

Tashiro groans at that, knowing that another classing girlfriend ramble is on its way.

“We live just fine,” Shirahama says, and as if on cue the boxes fold into themselves, sending the shelf clattering to the floor. Right.

They decide to go furniture shopping, just to make sure that they don’t have to deal with any more Looks from Miyano or paparazzi from Kuresawa.

Tashiro suppresses a laugh, pointing towards a table with odd looking fish for legs, “We need that.” Shirahama laughs along with him, but shakes his head.

“We have a budget, we’re only getting what we absolutely need.” He reminds Tashiro. His eyes turn towards a yellow and white coffee table that is practically calling for him. He turns away.

Tashiro salutes him, and doesn’t retaliate when Shirahama gives him a playful shove in response. He turns around and walks towards a different part of the store, twisting strands of his hair between his fingers as he goes. He really needs to touch up his roots.

Spotting something on a shelf, he picks it up. It’s a decorative statue, a silver painted hare taking a nap. He smirks and turns around, walking back to Shirahama. “Hey, look, I found you…” he starts to say before trailing off, eyes focusing on Shirahama’s side profile.

His eyes look focused in the way they always do when he’s overthinking something simple. His brows are pinched and his thumb is pressed flat on the side of his lip. Tashiro breathes in the expression, and decides he can show him later.

Laughter reverberates through the restaurant, one table in particular shining with rays of excitement and teasing.

“No, but seriously, how many more piercings can you get?” Tashiro questions dramatically, standing from his seat to stretch across the table and investigate. Hanzawa only laughs behind his hands and turns his head, showing off another new hole in his ear.

“If you ask that every time you’ll keep giving yourself a headache,” says the eldest one at the table, the previous ping pong president in all his red haired glory smirks mischievously and pats Tashiro’s back.

Crossing his arms and dropping back into his seat, Tashiro tries to keep up an air of frustration. It lasts about a second before he breaks out into a smile of his own.

These little meet-ups are a lot of fun for him. It’s not every day that all three of them are in one place. Especially not with their current schedules. It’s a nice break from the busy life he’s been settling into.

He feels his heart warm as he sits with his friends, ready to bring up his latest win in his college ping pong club, when his phone vibrates. Flipping it over, he sees that Shirahama texted him.

Divorce Soon: hey r you home

I left my jacket and this place is freezing

He pauses to consider. He’s not very far from the apartment, he could run there, grab it, and drop it off pretty quickly. But… he glances up from his phone to the two in front of him. He doesn’t want to leave yet. But… looking back at his phone he sees the spam of crying emoji’s Shirahama has begun sending. 

“Hey guys, sorry but my roommate needs me to get him something,” he says with an awkward expression. The conversation pauses as the two process what he said. “Oh sure, you need a ride?” His absolutely genius red haired friend offers, pulling his keys out as he says it.

“Yes!” Tashiro replies as his expression lights up. He tells Shirahama he’s on the way, and they head out towards the parking lot.

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Tashiro fiddles with the edge of his shirt. He tries not to move too much, looking back and forth from his hands to Shirahama. His friend has that same look in his eyes that he did back in middle school art class. Focused, determined, trying and failing to keep paint off of his face. Only this time the paint is a bright yellow dye.

They’ve been like this for a while. He hums along to the music playing from his phone. His butt feels a little numb and he has counted and recounted the tiny floor tiles at least a million times, all 173- no, 175 of them. He tries to focus his attention on anything but the gloved hands in his hair.

He carefully reaches over for his phone, switching the playlist to a random one he saw in his recommendations.

It’s not as if he couldn’t survive in silence for a little while. He usually doesn’t have anyone else to do this for him, so silence is kind of a given.

But as he taps the beat into his leg and opens his mouth, no words come out. He lets the silence linger even as Shirahama begins humming the words to a song he remembers coming out in their first year. He thinks about laying on the floor of his bedroom, phone conversations bouncing off his poster-lined walls and music blasting.

He remembers the telltale clicks and clacks from the other end of the call, the curses against ridiculous route mechanics spilling into his ears.

Tashiro feels like this is sort of like those moments, just a little bit more. His legs are longer, his hair can go into a ponytail now, and his world feels so much bigger. His eyes turn towards the boy-technically-man in front of him. His eyes look sharper and his face is more angular.

But, in a lot of ways he feels the same as he always has. The same Shirahama who cried during their graduation, and sat next to him on their first day of middle school. The same Shirahama who bullies him for counting on his fingers, but forgets what comes after 3 when he’s drunk enough. 

The same yet different Shirahama. They match in that way, at least. Both the same, but not fully.

“I… think I’m done?” Shirahama says, breaking their steady silence. Tashiro stands to go look in the mirror. He giggles at the sight of his foil-wrapped hair sticking out at odd angles.

Shirahama laughs along with him, and it really isn’t that funny, but they still stand there giggling like idiots. Tashiro pulls at the corner of his shirt again, turning around and raising it up to Shirahama’s face and wiping away some of the dye.

He drops his shirt and turns back to the mirror, looking at the two of them in the reflection. He watches the way Shirahama’s face stays frozen, and how his whole face flushes like it always has. It’s nice to see some things will never change.

[troutfur]

But what if Firestar did end up dying to the fox trap for good?

[abrielarnold]

“Ooh, the attack dog is coming,” Julius stage-whispers. He wavers close to Alex’s ear—too close, shifting Alex’s hair against his temple. “Think he’ll bite this time?”

Danny’s lip starts to curl.

Things That Bleed chapter 8 by @kkachis @artistfingers and @ghostly-cabbage .

This fic makes me feel emotions.

Me:

I am very normal about these characters and their situations.

[imminent-danger-came]

You know I think my lmk ships are: skeletalspider (SQ x LBD), ivorylotus (Ne Zha x Yellowtusk), shadowpeach (you already know), and the samadhi dumpster fire (dragonfruit)

[netscapenavigator-official]

Sometimes I have these vivid moments where my brain likes to come up with conspiracy theories that I can't disprove and are kinda reality rattling, but I just kinda gotta be like "meh," and move on.

The latest is what if religious people are right about life on Earth being a test for the afterlife... but what if the test isn't existence, but religion, itself.

As in, what if the "God" that created humanity specifically made religion on Earth as toxic and dehumanizing as they could possible think, and only those who can stare their maker in the face and say "I disagree with your rules" and not follow religion, are the ones who make it into the "good" afterlife. Like, what if our "God" specifically wanted to make themselves sound like an extremely evil, snobbish being, where the one and only rule in "religion" is to trust them blindly. That way, after death, they can filter humans between those who were strong-willed enough to maintain morality, even when told it's against their entire life's purpose; and those who blindly followed immorality because they were told it was what the creator wanted. In essence, religion is the pre-afterlife test that aims to sort humans into those who will show compassion, even if it damns them; and those who will internalize fear and become nothing but a yes-man to "God."

.

.

.

Anyway, enough of that. I'm making mozzarella sticks for lunch.

[ebonytails]

GOT ACCEPTED INTO A LOCAL CON.. BABY'S FIRST ART MARKET

[purgemarchlockdown]

I dunno if this would of helped her but it would of done Something.

[thedragonagelesbian]

the raven circle IS a baldur's gate faction the info about making swords of ppl's souls is FROM minsc and boo's journal of villainy it would not be that hard to write an act 3 encounter.......................................

[gratisdiamanten]

contemplating whether i need to go on anon for this or into witness protection. but i reject and actively pray for the downfall of all daniel girl delusions about him getting the rbr seat.... idc that you have a conspiracy board of explanation and that checo is "flopping" in a car that doesn't suit him as well as his teammate....

🤨 the f1blr hypocrisy of 'my fave is flopping in the car but his teammate is doing great so obviously its NOT HIS FAULT' vs 'my fave deserves this seat bc the current racer is flopping but his teammate is doing great and this is obviously HIS FAULT'

now if yuki gets the red bull seat? im listening. i can dream about promotion.

Now see I cook up plots and schemes to get Daniel back in that seat so Max can finish him off for good measure

[termagax]

anyways. i feel like ive said this before but i think that wouldve been a bigger concern of his when he was younger and was trying to think abt how he was gonna like. live in the world. well and then the world exploded and he decided he could do whatever he wants forever and started larping as his fursona and i think hes chill about it now. like i think hes okay.

[tonycries]

Bad Boys Bring Roses - G.S.

Synopsis. You’ve never dealt with the yakuza - not once. So why is the future head of the Gojo clan suddenly coming up to you, demanding that you marry him for 30 days?

Pairing. Yakuza boss! Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, yakuza! au, fake marriage, annoyances to lovers, elders suck, mentioned k*lling (not reader or Satoru), Satoru is INSANE and SO down bad, one bed trope, praise, biting, oral (fem receiving), fíngering, unprotected, créampie, spitting, overstim, flower language, kníves, bit dark, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 9.1k (whoopsies)

A/N. I just HAD to get this out of my mind like I wanna write an entire book series on this. Spent too long researching rose language as well so see if y’all catch that hehe.

You thought the wedding invitation was a joke when it had arrived - a delicate, lacey little card that you’ve probably read over a million times by now. It had been stuffed haphazardly into your mailbox, along with a ridiculously large bouquet of purple roses. Seemingly inconspicuous when you first tore into the thick envelope, wondering which one of your friends was getting married now. 

And it was - that is, until you saw your name at the very top - right where the blushing bride’s was supposed to be. 

We hereby formally invite you to the marriage of…

What? 

No return address. No date. No groom’s name either. Only yours, written in beautiful, golden writing - inviting you to your own wedding, exactly a week from now.

You remember perfectly the way you’d flipped it over and over in your hands, the gears turning in your head as you tried to crack down on the motive behind this invitation. A threat? A joke? Texting all of your friends about what a cute prank that was - only to get a shared confused reaction, and a few “April Fool’s has already passed, y’know.”

Hell, you’d even cornered the mailman, desperate to get to the bottom of this. But that wasn’t particularly helpful when he was only able to shake his head in protest, pale as a sheet, and trembling ever-so-slightly as he sped away from you. Weird. 

Without a clue as to who sent the letter, or even a follow-up in the days after, you stuffed the invitation somewhere deep in the back of your closet and handed the bouquet to your mother. Not bothering to tell your parents where it was from - because who’d worry over a stupid prank like this? It was probably one of the kids from down the street that’d gotten their grubby lil’ hands on a printer. 

You, however, had more important things to focus on - like trying to help your father revive his failing diner. It was a family business, a quaint, hearty little shop. One that was quickly, and dangerously, losing both customers and employees with the brand new fast food place that’d popped up right across the street. 

Which is why you found yourself here - working overtime on a Saturday night, looking over the empty chairs and stacks of boxes from behind the counter. Whatever, it was only a few weeks until relocation anyway.

You heave out a sigh, eyes flitting to the clock beside you - 11:21pm.

Nine minutes more, you drum your fingers in boredom, maybe you should just close up early. Because sure as hell no one else was-

“Oh? Still open?”

“Ah- Uh, yes, welcome!” Jolting out of your reverie, you stand up ramrod straight, taking in the customer standing at the door. He wasn’t one of the regulars - no, you think you’d remember if he was. Cloudy white hair, piercing blue eyes that twinkle from above his shades, even in the dim light of the diner. He was so very tall, taking up almost all of the doorframe, only getting more and more imposing as he walks up to you in quick, long strides. Magnetizing. 

And if you dared let your eyes wonder, you caught a few tattoos peeking out from his unfairly snug button-up, clashing with its flashy blue color. Dragons? Trees? Or were they flowers - roses?

“Roses.” the man in front of you answers your unspoken question, voice so very deep, and melodic - tinged with something playful in it that you wouldn’t have expected at first glance. At your raised brow he continues with a wink, “Could tell ya were checkin’ me out, sweetheart.”

“F-forgive my rudeness, sir.” you sputter, face burning. You look away from the way his muscled ripple as he crosses his arms, immediately turning to fumble with the menus, “Please take a seat and I’ll be there with you shortly.”

You’d expected him to take up a booth, or maybe head towards one of the good tables around the corner. What you did not expect was for him to plop down on the stool right in front of you, flashing you a playful grin before humming, “S’alright, m’just waitin’ for someone.”

Oh. Well, it made sense that someone like him would be taken. Swallowing, you hand over the menu, before giving him a close-lipped smile, “A lover?”

Resting his head on his palms, not bothering to even glance at the list of dishes before him. “My fiancée.”

“Congratulations, Mr…”

“Gojo Satoru.” he tilts his head, looking way too happy with himself. “Please, call me Satoru.” 

You nod softly, picking up your pen and notepad to get this conversation over with - and maybe to also avoid his heavy stare that made something hot and uncomfortable coil in your stomach. “Right, Mr-” at his disappointed whine, “Satoru. Congratulations, must be one heck of a thing to plan.”

“Oh I’m having fun with the wedding planning.” He waves off your words with a chuckle, missing - or pointedly ignoring - the way you were waiting for his order. “How’s it going for you?”

What?

You narrow your eyes at the way Satoru was batting those long lashes up at you, deceivingly innocent and waiting for your answer. “I’m sorry- Me? Did you mean with the diner relocation plans or-”

“No no no.” he laughs, loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say at someone interrupting you if you weren’t so mesmerized by that little dimple at the corner of his grin. One that moves as he plows on, “M’asking how wedding planning is going for you, wifey~”

There’s a beat of silence. One. Two. With you gaping at the pure audacity as Satoru quiets down to little titters, seemingly studying your reaction in amusement. Which slowly, but surely, drains from his face as you grit out a sharp, “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, sir. We’re very busy and don’t have time to entertain your pick-up lines.”

Those widened blue eyes sweep the painfully empty diner, letting out a low whisper. “I can see that.” you let out a strangled noise of embarrassment at that. “But you’re really gonna ask your husband to leave?”

Huffing in frustration, “I don’t have a husband.”

“...you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. And who the fuck are you to tell me I do?”

“What?!” Satoru jumps out of his seat in shock, fast enough that the stool clatters to the floor with a deafening clang! Hands slamming on the counter as he leans over it - so close that you could feel his minty breath fanning your face with each hurried, shrill word that tumbles out of his lips. “What do you mean you don’t have a- I’m gonna kill those fuckin’- After I bought Canva premium just to make that invitation? Did the flowers come at least?”

And while Satoru is panicking, words spilling out of his mouth a mile a minute - only one of those rings in your mind - invitation. 

“You.” you hiss, barely audible over meltdown in front of you. Pointing a finger accusingly, “You’re the one behind that prank with the dumbass roses.”

That seems to snap Satoru out of his dramatic monologue - and you’re glad it did. Because he looks up to meet your glare, “Hey! You didn’t like the roses?” 

And for the first time, you see Satoru more serious than he’d been ever since stepping into this diner. Eyes somewhere behind you, ablaze and almost…frightening. “Didn’t you ask him?” 

You whirl around to see your father, who’d apparently rushed downstairs at the commotion. Baseball bat to fight off the intruder hanging in midair as he stands frozen, taking in the scene before him - but more importantly, that man in front of him. “You.”

---

And, well, it’s not everyday that you’re having late night tea with your parents and one of your father’s…business associates. Even rarer when said business associate is…you gulp, praying to whoever’s above that this is all some sick dream you’ll wake up any second from. 

“So, let me get this straight…” you sigh, pinching your nose in frustration. It’s been an hour or two of trying to understand whatever this was. Giving a stern look at the two men squirming across from you in the booth. “My father was conned by one of your-” you gesture your head at Satoru, which only makes his smirk grow, “-men to take a loan from your um-”

“Family, yakuza. Anything goes.” he supplies helpfully.

You wave him off, trying as quickly as possible to brush off the ‘yakuza’ bit that makes your stomach lurch. “And now he owes you a favor of…what exactly?”

Satoru leans across the table, t-shirt opening tantalizingly. Voice dropping to an almost-pleading murmur, “Look, I just need you to pretend to be my doting, loving, charming, gorgeous-” backtracking at your withering glare, “...Anyway. I just need a fake wife for a few months, convince my family to get off my back about arranged marriage n’ carrying the Gojo legacy. Then bam! you stomp all over my heart, we divorce and I’m too heartbroken to ever get married again. Easy.” 

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You bet Satoru’s disappointed groan echoed across all 23 words of Tokyo, because it was definitely ringing in your ears amongst whirlwind thoughts of marriage? To a yakuza? Completely, and utterly ridiculous. And from his talks of “carrying the family name” it seemed like he was some sort of future head as well. Though, he definitely wasn’t acting like it right now. 

“Alright. Plan B, then.” 

Oh? You couldn’t help but think that maybe he wasn’t that much of a manchild as sits up from where he’d been splayed all over the table in tragedy. Lacing his fingers together before turning to your father, continuing in a more diplomatic tone, “But I want the cash you took. In full. Now. Gonna hafta disguise my best friend as my wife, n’ dresses for a six foot man aren’t cheap.”

Your mother looked like she could faint right then and there. Choking out a noise of surprise, “B-but we’ve deposited it all for the relocation- Please, can’t we pay any other-”

At the firm shake of his head, you stammer, “Now? Aren’t you some yakuza nepo baby, can’t you just ask your parents for money?”

“No.” Satoru chuckles, in a tone which told you that he probably could but might just lose his head for it. Only further supported as he muses, “Not unless I want a finger cut off for dealin’ money on the side. Seriously, sweetheart, why did you think I sent you the invitation last week?”

“Take me instead.” you father cries, trying to negotiate above Satoru’s half-joking mutters of “Ugh, I’m not into ol’ men dumb enough to sign yakuza contracts.”

It was all too much. You couldn’t take out the relocation deposit - it was a new start, possibly the only thing to save your family. Nor do you have enough in savings to pay back the loan. And if Satoru’s warning was anything to listen to, then you knew that dealing with the yakuza could be dangerous. Why you? Why you? Why you? 

“Fine.”

The moment that word leaves your lips, it’s like the whole world freezes. Everyone in the room - including yourself - unsure of whether they heard you right. “I’ll do it.” you clarify, voice hesitant but firm. Eyeing the way Satoru’s eyes begin to sparkle, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips. Raising a finger to shush your father’s protests, “But for a month, until we leave this place. After that m’going with my family and you’re never to contact us ever again. Deal?”

And oh Satoru seemed over the moon, reaching out to grasp your hand in a handshake - so warm, and softer than you’d imagined. “Swear on m’life, wifey. You can kill me if not.”

He was so intimidating - and intimidatingly exhilarating.

Only an hour more of arguing and a quick phone call later, men - yakuza, you assume - were flooding your family’s little diner. All tattooed and burly, looking somewhat comical as they carried your few packed-up suitcases outside. Well, at least they stayed for a late dinner. 

And ended up being witnesses to a very rushed, very rushed signing of marriage agreements. Evidence to really show up your alleged marriage. It barely even lasted a few minutes before, well, that was that - you were married, to the son of a yakuza head. 

You say a quick goodbye to your teary parents, soothing them with promises of “I’ll be back before you know it. One month. That’s all.” 

“And don’t worry about a thing,” Satoru sing-songs, coming up behind you. “If there’s anyone she’s safe with, it’s me.”

“You better keep your mitts off of my baby.” your father warns, raising the baseball bat still clutched in his hand menacingly. 

“I won’t lay a hand on her, father-in-law. And anyone that even thinks about it…” he cackles, breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll kill.”

Prancing off to hold the door of that shiny black Mercedes parked outside open for you. “Ladies first.”

With another quick hug to your parents, you hastily make your way inside. Feeling extremely out of place amongst the overly luxurious interior in your slightly-stained work uniform. God, the covers on these cushions themselves probably cost more than your house. 

“Like the car? I can buy you one. Or four, as a wedding gift.” Satoru grins. 

Oh, right. You weren’t in here alone - you were here with your new…husband. The word felt so strange to even wrap your head around, instead you turn to meet his easy smile. Clenching your jaw as you grit out, “So how do we act m-married?”

You swear he brightens up impossibly, scooting closer to you on the seat. Heart lurching as he raises his eyes to meet yours, dizzy with the heat of his proximity, he promptly pulls out his Notes app. 

“Well, you see. I forgot to send this with the invitation so you better memorize this before we get home.” flashing you a long, long list of likes and dislikes, “Here’s my favorite color and my favorite Digimon and-”

That car ride could not have been longer. Because in addition to arguing with Satoru about who the best Digimon was, you had to fill out your own version of his overly extensive list. “So we can be foolproof.” he’d whined. And you’d been so engrossed in the process that you barely noticed the looming estate out the window.

“We’re here, young master and madam Gojo.”

It took a second to register that the driver was talking to you as well as Satoru, immediately pushing your face against the window to take in the scenic site before you. Heavy wooden doors - probably taller than an average house - opening to reveal sprawling gardens. Koi ponds and rose bushes lining a pathway that led to a traditional Japanese house - all power and glory. You half wondered whether you were still in Tokyo. 

“Home sweet home.” Satoru grunts. “Such a beautiful hell, huh?”

Your home, for the next month. At least. 

And if you had any doubt that Satoru was in fact the future yakuza head, that all went out the window at the welcome you got. Men lining the wooden hallway, bowing at the waist while your all-new husband wraps a hand around your shoulders, pointing out the various rooms and ornaments as he led you in. 

“-and this is going to be our room.” he brings you in front of a large tatami room, one the size of your entire diner. 

“Ours.” you repeat. Walking unhurriedly to the king-sized bed in the middle - the only bed. Heart pounding as you take it all in. 

“Ours.” Satoru echoes, happily. And if he was any bit as affected as you are, then he doesn’t show it, instead pulling out a blue yukata from the closet, a golden Gojo emblem stamped on the back. Made with such a pretty, delicate fabric that it made you shiver to think how much it cost. “Now, I had these made jus’ for you last week. You can give me a lil’ fashion show tomorrow, so make sure you get some rest, wifey.”

It’s only when he says the word “rest” that you realize exactly how tired you are. Your long shift and the entirety of this having your eyes feeling heavier than usual. 

“Um…” you start, risking a glance at the bed. 

Satoru jolts, “Ah- don’t worry, sweetheart. You take the bed.” beginning to saunter outside to meet his team. “Got some work, so I’ll be sleeping in my office. Dream of me~”

And, really, you almost felt bad splaying yourself out on the crisp navy sheets. Sinking into the heady smell of fabric softener, and something so so Satoru. Addictive. Like an expensive cologne that made your head spin, one that wafted through your mind as you dreamt of summer weddings, and blue, blue skies.

“Ichiji.”

“Yes, young master.”

“See to it that the madam is safe. Anyone try anything funny and you bring them back alive. I wanna be the one to play with them, okay~?”

“Of course, young master.”

---

Admittedly, you probably have the best sleep of your life at the Gojo estate- or, it would’ve been if your husband didn’t burst in every morning at 7am. Handing you a ridiculously big bouquet of white roses, straight from the garden, before dragging you outside. 

Milling about the estate, Satoru was never too far behind, chattering away. Letting you hold onto his strong arm crossing the bridges, occasionally having you show up to yakuza meetings as his plus one. Relishing in the rumors spreading all through the yakuza syndicates in Tokyo. Gojo Satoru, and the commoner wife he’d do anything for.

Weirdly enough, some strange little part of you thinks he puts in a lot more work than necessary for some pretend relationship…

“I think that stupid plan is really working, y’know.” you muse to him after a few days of this. Dipping your fingers into one of your favorite koi ponds with a nod at the figures watching you from a distance - Gojo clan elders, you assume. “Those old coots hate being within a five mile radius of me.”

Satoru huffs out a laugh, “That so? S’probably the method acting then, huh? Taking good care of me, wifey?” he wiggles his eyebrows, nudging you from where he was holding an umbrella beside you. 

Furrowing your brows mockingly, “S’funny for you to say, they don’t even look at me. But they follow me around everywhere.”

“Do they annoy you, must I do my duty as a husband and gouge their eyes out?”

He…didn’t sound like he was joking. 

Rolling your eyes, you pointedly ignoring the way your heart lurches at the word “husband.” Still so jumpy at the idea. “Speaking of, your parents give up the marriage proposals, yet?”

At this, Satoru clenches his jaw. “Still nagging, but they’re finally considering you as my actual bride rather than some hijink.” he spits out, seemingly recalling whatever conversation they’d had before. “And they want to have some family ‘dinner’, but it’s going to be awful and you don’t-”

“Let’s go.” you interrupt, nodding determinedly. “The realer this marriage seems, the faster we can divorce, no?”

He blinks at you slowly, “That’s…true. For the divorce, then?”

“For the divorce.”

And, well, that was settled - you were to meet your new in-laws. The ever-elusive heads of the Gojo clan. Also one of the most powerful yakuza in all of Japan, but, semantics really.

You spend the evening cooped up with Satoru in the library, poring over the bloody history of the yakuza - with the Gojo’s heading them all. The only time he actually leaves your side is a few hours before the dinner. 

“For you.” he’d murmured, lips ghosting your ear, slipping something cold onto your finger. You look down to see one of the most beautiful rings you’ve ever seen - gold, with delicate blue and white diamonds encrusting it, cut in the shape of roses. “Can’t be married without a wedding ring, huh? Think of it as a good luck charm for tonight.”

And with that he’s swept away in a flurry of bodyguards and ruffled men, and you’re left standing there all alone. Cheeks burning, wondering how the hell he knew your perfect fit. 

You worry longer about the dinner than you spend actually preparing for it. Though, that’s probably because of the group of stylists that come into your room to help you dress. Wordlessly fussing around you despite your weak attempts at conversation, eyes averted. Almost like they were…scared of you. 

But there wasn’t much time to think of that - not when you’re being marched off in the direction of what you remember Satoru had called the family dining room. “More like a fuckin’ meeting room for those hardasses.” he’d snarked.

The moment you step in, all eyes turn to you - the only ones you recognize being Satoru’s, who immediately stands with a smile. “Ah, wifey! Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” pulling you into a tight hug. His voice drops into a low, raspy murmur in your ear, “Ya look fuckin’ gorgeous in my colors, y’know.”

Traitorously, jolts of electricity run down your spine. Especially at how fucking gorgeous he looked in traditional wear. Whispering back, “Playing up the doting husband bit, huh?”

“Only for you.”

Pulling away, you drink in his dangerously handsome state. Hair so effortlessly styled, tattoos winking at you from just above his yukata - blue, to match yours. So pretty.

Stammering out, “Corny.”

“Only for-”

“Now that the girl is finally here, may we begin with dinner?” A stained voice sounds from behind Satoru, old and tinged with a tone that years of customer service told you did not bode well. Craning your head, you look over his broad shoulders, meeting the eyes of several disapproving elders. 

Shit. Some of the most dangerous people in this country right now. 

Gathered here - for you. 

Automatically, you knew which ones were his parents - painfully upright, and hauntingly beautiful in a cold, calculated way. Sat right at the head of the long table. With a jolt, you realize that you two are seated right opposite them. 

“So.” his mother starts, as you take your seat with a bow. Satoru doesn’t waste any time on niceties, plopping down right next to you, scooting closer than necessary. “Congratulations on the…wedding, my son.”

My son. You ignore the way both parents pointedly avoided looking at you. Your husband, however, does not. “What~ Not gonna wish my dear wife as well?”

It’s a silent staredown - one that has the entire room on edge. You don’t realize that you’re clenching your fists in tension until Satoru untangles them, slipping his larger hands into yours. Gaze still alarmingly intense and locked on the other side of the table.

He wins.

“Congratulations. Let us begin now.” 

You breathe out a sigh of relief, the tension only slightly broken as butlers stream into the room, carrying decadent trays of food. Well, at least the food might make up for how appalling this dinner is going to be.

It’s only 15 minutes in that you realize how very, horribly wrong you are - because the elders of the Gojo estate really don’t hold back, do they? Thank God you memorized every part of that stupid likes and dislikes list.

Besides picking apart every aspect of your relationship that they could manage to squeeze out of you between the appetizer and the main course, the main scrutiny tonight seems to be you. But in that icy, subtle way that has Satoru’s jaw clenching tighter each second. 

Lips curling, Gojo senior eyes you over his wine glass. “So, dear,” voice dripping with underlying venom despite the pet name. “Is it true our Satoru missed an esteemed marriage meeting with the Zenin group to ambush you at some rundown old diner?”

You fight to keep the smile plastered onto your face, painful and cracking under the pressure. A hand squeezing under the table to stop Satoru from opening his mouth to retort, you answer instead, “Well, ambushed wouldn’t be the word. You could say we fell in love over the counter - at my family’s diner.”

“A waitress, she said?”

“Now we know why it was this rushed. Probably pregnant.”

“The scandal. How far the Gojo name has fallen.”

The few stifled gasps from the other end of the table are so dramatic that you could almost laugh. But you don’t. Breath hitching as Mrs. Gojo chuckles, “Marrying the daughter of a lowly diner owner? How... quaint.”

“Mother, be quiet or-”

“What?” she throws her hands in exasperation. “Can’t I say anything around here. Honestly, Satoru, I’m just trying to make conversation with your new wife.”

Before either you or Satoru can react, his father speaks up, apparently not done with the interrogation. “You understand that we’re just worried, right, dear? Especially with marrying into prestigious families, of course.” The emphasis on “prestigious” is not lost on you.” And it drives you insane. 

Steeling yourself, you train your eyes on the untouched food below you. “I understand.”

Plowing on as if trying to infuriate you, “And you understand that this position is dangerous? You’ll be targeted.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Don’t be swept up in our Satoru’s charm and wealth, dear, my son just wants a way out of duty.” tone dripping with disdain, Satoru’s grip becoming tighter and tighter on yours. “The Gojo syndicate owns half of this city, we could bulldoze over that little diner of yours with only one phone call”

“My wife and I are leav-”

“I said I fuckin’ understand.” Your words hang in the air like a foul stench, and you raise your head to glare. If looks could kill, all the elders in this room would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on their graves already. “Neither me, nor my husband would ever let that happen because he knows a thing or two about respect, unlike you.” Lacing your fingers tighter with Satoru’s. “So shove your mighty family up your wrinkly asses. I don’t give a flying shit.” 

Eyes wide, jaws dropped, the old couple opposite you finally seems stunned into silence. And if it was any other situation you could’ve almost laughed at how similar they looked to Satoru when he found out you thought his proposal was a prank.

His father adjusts his glasses. “Perhaps that is so.”

Ah, if only the rest of the table would be quietened just as easily. 

“Not only is she a slut she’s a-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not even sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. Because in a split-second, the knife that was at your side is suddenly embedded, deep into the wooden table - barely even an inch away from the elder that had spoken up. 

“You’re lucky I’m matching with my wife n’ didn’t want to dirty this new yukata.” a voice sounds from your side. Melodic and so so eerie that you don’t realize for a second that it’s Satoru - your Satoru. 

He loops an arm under your legs as he stands up. Easily maneuvering you into a princess carry, forcing you to cling onto his robes for dear life as your feet dangle from the floor. You look up - maybe to snap at Satoru to put you down - only for the words to die in your throat at how absolutely fucking feral your husband looked. Eyes wide, aura menacing. A grin gracing his features, not the familiar one which had your heart racing, no - something so dangerous and cold. 

“Now,” he hums. Turning his back to the room, gaze still locked with the shocked heads inside, “My lovely wife and I will be retiring. Won’t you all say goodnight to your future madam?”

You don’t know what shocks you more - the way everyone in that room mumbles out a disdainful little “Goodnight, ma’am.”, or the way Satoru cackles as he carries you to your shared bedroom. Laying you gently on the mattress with a quiet, “Be right back, sweetheart.”

What the fuck happened?

He could’ve killed that man. And looked like he wanted to. 

Your brain yells at you - run away run away run away- But you weren’t…scared? In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever been less fearful in your entire life. Especially not when Satoru stumbles back into the room, clearly rushing. Something warm spreading in your chest at the trays of food in his hands.

“Dinner’s better without a bunch of fossils on my kill list.” he grins. Settling right next to you on the bed, setting out the dinner he’d brought for you. And, well, you didn’t doubt that they really were on his kill list. 

“Hey, wifey.” Satoru speaks up after a few moments of silence, satisfied with the food laid in front of you. “M’sorry for putting you through that. No more family dinners from now.”

You inch closer to lay your head on his sculpted shoulder, a hand bringing up the food to his pretty lips. He smelled so good, faintly like pine, and clouds. It made you so dizzy. “Eat, Satoru.”

That’s all which is said, because maybe that’s all that was needed. And for a second there, you almost forget that this is all pretend.

---

“Hey, uh- mister. You alright?” you call out, voice barely audible over the rain. 

The sullen figure didn’t react at first, soaked through and eyes trained on the ground. Unmoving, even when you hesitantly drew closer, umbrella quivering in your hands. 

You should turn around - walk away like everyone else on the sidewalk was doing. But no, something about the way he sat alone, stoic to the storm around him made you inch closer. “Here.” you hold out your umbrella. “S’our diner’s, but you look like you could use this more than I do.”

He jolts, as if hearing you for the first time. A flash of blue, so quick you almost think you miss it. Still not raising his head fully, the man’s snowy hair tousles as he jerkily closes around the handle. Pretty. And so so sad.

“It’ll be alright.” you nod. 

And with that, you turn, running back in the rain to the haven of the diner, where your father was waiting impatiently - he’d just bought the boxes to start packing up for relocation. Fingers still burning ever-so-slightly where his hand had brushed against yours. How strange, you wondered his name.

---

Satoru stayed true to his word over the weeks that followed. His parents seemed well and fully intent on avoiding you. And, well, other than a few disdainful remarks, the elders mostly scurried away in fear at your very sight. 

The only thing that made your skin prickle was that the housekeepers had a penchant for peeping in on the two of you. Increasingly following you - they always did, but now…honestly, it was a bit disconcerting. 

But other than that, it was almost…peaceful. You wake up every morning to a large bouquet of burgundy roses at your bedside table - and a husband. Because Satoru had taken to sleeping on the little couch at the corner of your room every night - saying something about not wanting to rouse suspicion because if he actually had a wife he’d be “taking her to bed every night”. Somehow, you didn’t doubt it. 

“Funny how it’s getting close to a month of being married, but you haven’t even kissed me yet.” you deadpan. Looking down at where he was resting his head in your lap, sprawled across the soft grass in the garden.

Something else also happened - something different.

Because Satoru was a bit touchier, a bit closer. Like right now, preening into your fingers carding through his soft hair. “Oh~? Why, wanna take me to bed, wifey?”

“You wish.”

“Maybe I do.”

Your hands still, pulse racing as your eyes bore into Satoru’s, trying to figure out what sort of bad joke this was. Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning down closer - too closer. Close enough that you could count every shade of blue in his hungry gaze. But by the grace of whoever was above-

“Young master, please excuse the intrusion but you have-”

Sitting up abruptly, addressing the newcomer in a stone-cold tone. “How many fuckin’ times have I not told you to never bother me when I’m with my wife?”

The servant bows apologetically, sputtering out apologies as you move to get up. Flashing a smirk at Satoru’s dramatic pout, “I have to catch up on some reading anyway. See ya, Satoru.” 

“Noo~ my sweetheart don’t leave me~” 

You stifle a laugh at his little tantrum, so different from when he was serious. He was so….dizzying. “You’ll be okay, Satoru.” Glancing up nervously to meet the servant’s intense stare, studying the scene before him, how different his master was. “I’ll be at the library now.”

And Satoru notices - of course, he does. He sees that tiny flash of concern in your eyes. One that you might not have noticed yourself. He lowers his voice as you walk away, so you don’t hear him speaking behind you. Words dripping with a similar venom he always heard from his parents, “Now, tell me who you’re spying for. Names, first and last.” 

Satoru doesn’t join you in the library that day, the first time in weeks. And you find yourself missing him more than you should. It’s dark out by the time you’re raising your head from the books, joints aching from poring over them for hours. The house seems a lot quieter. Somewhat bigger. 

Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. 

Scratching the back of your head, you wander through the wooden hallways to your bedroom - wondering what was amiss. Your feet take you there as if on autopilot, thankful for Satoru’s meticulous tours. 

“Hey,” you smile softly at a servant making your bed, “Where are-”

Your question dies in your throat at the way she yelps at your words, hurrying down the corridor with a jerky bow. Weird. Leaving you all alone, and confused, muttering to yourself, it’s only then that you notice the flash of red by your bedside table. 

Not a bouquet. Only a single, red rose - a note tied around the stem, something you’d never gotten before. 

“The marriage proposals have been revoked, your contract is fulfilled, my ex-wife.”

Oh, reading that hurt more than it should’ve. You should be happy at being free, a few days earlier than expected at that - but it was over - just like that. You didn’t want to leave him. You didn’t want to leave him.You didn’t want to leave him.

 Were you going insane?

Clutching the flower like a lifeline, heaving out a sigh, “Maybe Satoru knows…”

“Thinking of me?”

Startled, you whirl behind to face your husband. In the dim-lighting, making out the stoney expression on his face, eyes wide and a little duller than they had been earlier today. 

“Satoru?”

His eyes light up at the mere sound of your voice - then you’re engulfed in him. Wrapping you in his arms, bowing his body into yours, so tight that it almost hurts. But you let him, fisting the fresh yukata in your hands - and that’s when you realize, he’s changed his robes since this morning. “Are you okay?” you whisper into his shoulder. Drinking in the smell of his cologne, and something faintly metallic. 

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to take the opportunity - to run away from this yakuza and his slaughter and whatever this was. But how could you? Staying rooted to the spot, not even a speck of fear.

Satoru heaves out a heavy breath, tickling the hairs at your nape as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Those nosy elders won’t be bothering you anymore, sweetheart. You’re free to go.”

A shudder runs down your spine at his words, and you didn’t want to think too hard about what they meant. Instead, you guide him to your bed - and, surprisingly, he allows you to. Letting the two of you sink into the plush mattress. With Satoru still in your arms. He repeats, “You’re free to go.”

Run away. Run away. Run away-

There it was again - that strained little manta. You stare right into his eyes, voice thick at the sinking feeling in your stomach. “My 30 days aren’t over yet.” 

“Leave. Please.” he grunts into the crook of your neck, like your hands drawing patterns down his back had broken some dam. “M’not a good man.” 

You press your lips to his forehead, searing and a desperate attempt to soothe the man. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I’m yakuza, sweetheart. Doomed to follow my parents here.” he mutters, strained and voice more unsure than you’ve ever heard. And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into your skin, “I hate it here, and you should, too. All these fuckin-”

“So go with me instead.”

“What if-”

“Toru.‘ you cut off his words, slurring and spilling out of his mouth. Gently, you pry him away from his little haven, reeling back to take a good look at the face he’s been hiding for so long. Hair mussed, curtaining his whirling eyes - all disheveled and vulnerable where he was once so suave. 

Your eyes bore into his, unwavering. “It’ll be alright, Toru.”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. Only when his lips meet yours, soft, and so so sweet, do you realize that this is everything you ever want right now - possibly these past few weeks. “Y’can kill me if you don’ want his.” he mutters into your open mouth.  

It’s so desperate - a messy clash of teeth and saliva, Satoru was drinking you in like you were the last drop of water on Earth. He tasted so sweet, like candy almost, and the gentle caress of a lover. You were addicted like you could do this forever and ever and-

And then he’s pulling away. A disappointed little whine leaves you involuntarily as he parts, delicate strings of saliva snapping in the space between you two. Satoru’s mouth drops into a soft oh! at the noise, surging forward minutely like he was about to kiss you senseless again. Only to halt with a pained grunt, just a hair’s breadth from your lips. 

“M’sorry.” Claiming your lips once again, like a man possessed. Drinking in your breathless gasps. Like he never wanted to let go. “F-fuck, sweetheart. Y’don’t know how crazy you drive me.” he pants.

“Why did you pick me?” you blurt out, a question that had been nagging at the back of your mind every time Satoru slipped his hand in yours, introducing you as his loving wife. “Was it just the debt?”

He’s kissing your pulse now, canines hovering over the erratic little cadence. Breathing you in like you were intoxicating. “No.” he’s licking a long, languid stripe up your neck. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down every inch of skin he could reach. 

“Then why?” your words come out in almost an embarrassing plea. But by the way his breath hitches, you know that Satoru loves it. 

“Because.” he breathes, “You treated me like a human.”

He’s capturing your lips with his again, nipping at your bottom lips. You squeal as he pulls, suddenly wanting him to tease you like this everywhere. To have him absolutely ruin you like you know he could - treat you like the wife he claimed you were. 

But Satoru wasn’t done yet - far from it. He chuckles, kissing down your neck, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Remember that night? You probably don’t, was rainin’ so hard I thought I’d drown out there.” Worshiping the valley between your breasts as he hastily unbuckles your bra. “That night was when the marriage proposals had come in. They said I’d either carry the legacy or be forced to leave the family. Kicked out of my own home.” 

And you’re reeling from both his words and the way Satoru was rocking his hips into yours now, something hot, and so achingly hard pressing in the damp area between your legs. “Thought I was gonna take ‘em all out that night.”

“Take them all out?” your breath hitches.

“Every. Single. One.” Fingers dancing across the hem of your panties. “Wouldn’t have felt bad about it either.” 

Satoru’s licking down your navel now, humming in confirmation into your skin. “But then…” he groans, taking in the first fucking sinful sight of your drenched panties. So flimsy and already dripping for him - and after just a few kisses, really? You were heaven on Earth. “But then along came you. So pretty and all worried f’me. The daughter of that diner owner I’d loaned money too.”

You watch, heart racing as Satoru swallows in awe. Darkened gaze locked on the way your slick beads out of your pussy, bare thighs trying to close - give yourself some semblance of dignity. But no- how could you? When Satoru’s holding them apart.

“And then I knew…” he’s sliding his index underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertip before popping it into his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut at the taste, and you’ve never seen him look so blissful. “I just had to have you.”

Rip! 

The cold air brushes against you before you even know it - only when you feel Satoru’s hot breath against your dripping cunt does it hit - this bastard just ripped your panties off. And he was dangling it like a badge of honor, breathing in your juices so animalistically. 

Your lips wobble as he just admires your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing. “Hah- please.”

“Please what?” he grins, and you can feel him licking little circles around your inner thigh. So close. “The wife of a yakuza boss has gotta know how to use her words.”

“You’re awful.”

“And yet you married me.”

With such a cute lil’ whine that makes Satoru’s cock twitch so painfully, you buck your hips closer to his hot mouth. “Wan’ your mouth on me, to eat me out. Please, Toru.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, “There’s my girl.”

You gasp when he surges forward, burying his pretty face nose-deep in your pussy. Holding your breath as he lazily licks up your folds - long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Swirling deftly around the sensitive nub. 

Drunk off your pussy with the way he’s so messy - seemingly unable to decide between sucking harshly on your poor, ravaged clit to dipping into your sloppy hole. And it’s driving you mad, keening and pulling at his soft locks. You haven’t been touched this good in ages, and Satoru was well and fully intent on ruining you. 

“Shhh, don’t worry, wifey.” words muffled into your cunt, “Your husband’s gonna take care of you.” He’s throwing your legs over his broad shoulders.

“Real good care of you.” Then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, the tips of his long fingers massaging your plushy walls. Messy enough that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Roaming for that one spot he knows will have you moaning deliciously. Pressing down, hard.  “Found it. Gonna have you screamin’ my name til’ the entire estate hears.”

You tug on his hair, urging Satoru’s mouth towards your cunt - partially because you wanted him there, partially because you really needed him to shut up right now. 

And shit how could he ever say no to his pretty wife?

Satoru is grinning, you can feel it on your throbbing clit as he wraps his pretty pink lips around it. Pumping his fingers in and out, hitting that little spot each and every time. Looking like he was absolutely in heaven as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over and-

“Sh-shit. Toru-”

“Mmm, yes- fuck, love it when you call me that.” he groans. And oh he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you - eyes half-lidded, such a pretty blush disting his cheeks - and making out with your pussy just as much. Tilting his head back, back, back so that your juices slide down his throat. “Feels good? Ya like when m’ruining your pretty pussy?”

“Yes!” you squirm. Shaking, bucking your hips into his touch so desperately. “Wanted it s’bad.” 

He’s becoming frenzied now, drinking in your cute little whimpers like he was addicted. But it wasn’t enough - it never was and fuck Satoru wanted more more more-

“Move your hips, yeah- jus’ like that.” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Letting you pull and angle him just as you please. 

“Gonna be the best fuckin’ husband you’ll ever have. N’ anyone that says otherwise, m’gonna fuckin’ kill.” The vibrations have your body jerking violently. “Make you cum harder than y’ever have. C’mon, say yes.”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and bullying his tongue through your swollen folds. Stretching you, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Jaw grinding deeper into you as he eats you out like his last meal. “Ngh- fuck, yes yes yes-”

“Beg for it, beg for your husband.”

“Wanna cum- Ah! Please, wanna cum, Toru.”

One hand so messy toying with your dripping entrance - not having the patience or the sanity to even draw circles anymore. Just quick, hurried patterns to get you off. The other digging into your hips, so hard you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. Making you drag your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth. Using him. 

“Hngh- Toru! Ah- fuck fuck Toru Toru T-”  You’re shaking - crying out as you cum. A guttural, strangled moan of your husband’s name. So violent, and hard that you don’t even realize at first. Just that you’re rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears.

And he doesn’t stop - not even once. If you were in any better state of mind you’d wonder whether it hurt - whether his fingers were cramping up, and his tongue was tired. If they were, he didn’t show, only letting you chase your high as roughly as you want. 

Greedily lapping up all your juices. Even when you’re blinking your vision back, chest heaving as you try to regain our breath. “S-Satoru.” you mewl, stars behind your eyes with each flick of his tongue. 

“Jus’ a bit more. Wanna taste all of you.”

You weren’t going to make it out alive.

Big, fat tears pricking at your eyes from the overstimulation as Satoru finally rises from what you almost worried would be his favorite seat. “All done. Now, keep that pretty lil’ cunt on display f’me, my girl.”

And your cunt is clenching in- fear? Anticipation? As your husband finally unties his yukata, letting it slide off those milky, toned shoulders. And shit he was such a fucking masterpiece. The dim-lighting bouncing off every curve and dip of those carved abs. Delicate swirls of his tattoo inching from his collarbone, down, down, down, hugging Satoru in a way that made you so half-lucidly jealous. All the way till the last inky thorn meets the neat tufts of white hair peeking up from the hem of his underwear. 

“Touch me.” he groans into your ear. The words barely leave those pretty lips before your hands are everywhere. Dancing down his tattoo, groping at this pecs - too much to worship, not enough time. 

“Toru…” you trail off, hand reaching out to brush his waistband. Tugging just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, fat tip weeping down his length, already so soaked in precum. He was so intimidatingly long - longer than anyone else you’d had before. Thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself. 

And he sees right through you.

“Now now, none of that.” he tuts, pushing your bare thighs as far apart as they’d go. He spreads your cunt so shamefully with his thumb. Spitting once, twice. Some of it splatter against your thigh as Satoru mixes his saliva with your slick. “Don’t worry, wifey, m’gonna make it feel good for ya.”

You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he drags his fat head down your folds. Wetting himself, all the preparation he was going to give you because fuck Satoru needed to be inside your pretty lil’ pussy right now. 

Then you feel like you’re being split apart - as if Satoru’s cock was pushing all the way to your lungs as he presses through the first ring of muscle.

“Ah! Ngh- Toru, s’too big!” you yelp, eyes locked on the way your lips were stretched so lewdly around his tip. Clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in, inch by fucking inch. No mercy. Absolutely none at all. 

And while he sounded like he was on cloud nine, you were having your head spin, torn between wanting to run away from his massive cock and just push yourself down for more more more. His lips claim yours - absolutely animalistic because God he needed to shut up your pretty whines or else Satoru was going to cum right here right now.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breath. Ngh- You can take it.” Satoru pants into your mouth, fucking into you in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to fit inside your snug cunt. Sounding like he was losing his sanity each time your heavenly walls milked him. “So fuckin’ tight. Jus’ relax f’me. Oh yeah, jus’ like that. You can take it you can-”

You gasp for air when he finally bottoms out inside you, tears streaming down your face and clawing at his back. 

Satoru only coos, letting you mark him up all you want. Pace increasing relentlessly, “Aww, my good lil’ wife. Taking me so well, huh?” Starting to rock his hips just a bit faster into yours, “Always knew y’would.” 

“Can y’feel me, right-.” Balls smacking against your ass, his finger tracing an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “-here?” Thumb stroking where he could feel himself bulging inside you, pressing down. Hard. 

You almost sob at the pressure, jolting - you should’ve expected that the yakuza boss would fuck so mean.

And shit you can just do nothing but take it, hips jerking wildly as Satoru pounds into you with reckless abandon. Clutching at his shoulders, the sheets, his hair - just anything. 

“C’mon~ Don’t run away from me,” he grunts, strained like he’s struggling to maintain restraint. Lacing his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper onto his cock. “Jus’ fuckin’ got you, so don’t you dare run away.”

You can only nod. Eyes glazed, cockdrunk and letting him thrust so sloppily. “Won’t run away Toru…” you babble, “Wan’ you to make me yours.”

“Mine? Gonna be all mine?”

“All yours, Toru.”

And maybe you were an idiot, maybe you were a mastermind - because with a choked out little moan of what sounded like your name, Satoru’s pulling you both to sit up. The gravity makes you bury his cock deeper and faster into your tight pussy.

With the new angle, your husband’s hitting all the right spots easily, almost as if he knew your body better than you did. Veins rubbing so deliciously against your walls, shifting around your hips to fuck up into that poor, abused spot. 

“Ya like this, huh?” he groans, fingers now toying with your ravaged clit. Rolling it around harshly between two fingers. “Always knew this cute pussy could take me s’well. Just didn’t know it would feel this fucking heavenly.”

Faster, sloppier. Bouncing you on his rock-hard cock  like he was claiming you from the inside. So, so desperate and debauched.

And exactly where you wanted to be. 

You leave delicate pink bites down this pale neck, alongside those roses - marking him in your own way as you edge closer and closer. It was too much. Everything was too much. 

“Toru-” you sob. And he already knew what that meant. With how your voice breaks so adorably and the way you’re clenching around him hard enough that it’s almost difficult to ruin that cute pussy. 

“Close?” 

“Mhm…”

“Well then.” thrusts getting sloppy, with no reason or rhythm now. Grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Cum f’me like a good lil’ wife, then.”

And that makes you throw your head back in ecstasy - it makes you cum. Thighs quivering, jolts of electricity running down all the way from your overstimulated cunt to your hazy mind. It has you chanting Satoru’s name like a lifeline while his teeth dig into your flesh. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood.

Letting out low, muffled moans into your neck while he cums as well. Hot ropes of seed filling up your poor, bloated pussy, painting your walls such a sinful white. Cumming and cumming so hard you wondered whether you’d make it out alive.

And because of the obscene position, you could feel the way it dribbled down your legs. Thick globs landing in a pool on the overpriced sheets below, smearing so lewdly between you two. Hips still fucking up into you - not even thinking about it as he pushes his seed deeper and deeper. 

You managed to raise your eyes, still dazed to meet his - exhausted, and dark with lust and something else that you really weren’t in the right mind to decipher right now. 

And then Satoru’s lips find yours again, biting and tugging lazily. Tasting so unfairly of candy and sweet, sweet trouble. Body melting into you like all the worries have been lifted from his shoulders. He’s looping his arms tighter around your waist, crushing you into an almost-painful hug against him. 

Something soft. Something new. Something that makes a little part of your heart twinge to break the kiss and pull away mere millimeters. “We better not divorce after this.”

“Of course not.” He chuckles into your lips, resting his forehead against yours like he was trying to map the constellations in your eyes. “I haven’t even given you my wedding gift yet.”

Smirking, you lock your legs tighter around Satoru’s toned waist as he lets the two of you fall back into the mattress. Sinking into it - and each other - with both exhaustion and something of a quiet, unspoken little fondness. Batting your lashes up at him, “Mhm, I remember someone talking about giving me four mercedes as a wedding gift and I’m leaving if not.”

“Well then, better get to it. Four for my in-laws to get on their good side, too,” he nuzzles the bite mark on your neck. “Because I plan to stay like this for a long, long time.”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.