#gray and white hairs are such a life source

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

Peeping on your neighbor DILF!Getou Suguru

Here I go again starting something new when my drafts are full of WIPs...

Consider this Getou's 35th bday gift 💋

[fanart by: @polariae on X (#needhim) / cw: peeping]

Everyone has guilty pleasures—secret indulgences they hide from prying eyes, vices they pretend don’t exist.

But no matter how satisfying they may be, how deeply they scratch that internal itch, reality always comes crashing down. And when it does, it cuts deep, jagged shards of shame slicing through delusion.

The worst realizations come after you’ve sunk too far, waded too deep into depravity, so numb to your own self-indulgence that you can’t even recognize it for what it is. Like the old tale of the frog in boiling water—oblivious to its slow, inevitable demise.

And right now? Being awake before even the birds have stirred, wedged between your thick curtains and the wall, peering through the narrow slit with bated breath?

That’s your boiling water.

You lift your arm carefully, tapping your smartwatch. The dim glow illuminates the numbers.

4:55 AM.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. Even the faintest intake of air feels like a risk, as if he might somehow sense your presence.

It’s happening.

Slowly, he stands from the black velvet club chair, folding his newspaper—the Times, maybe?—with meticulous precision before setting it on the bed. He stretches, arms lifting over his head, his body rolling fluidly as he shakes off the last remnants of sleep. A slow bounce on the balls of his feet. A lazy roll of his shoulders.

Then he moves toward the closet, flicking the light on.

You barely stifle a squeak.

Illuminated, his sleep-heavy eyes remain hooded, half-lidded with exhaustion. He crosses his arms over the hem of his faded gray sleep shirt and lifts it in one smooth motion. The fabric slides over his toned torso, revealing the defined cut of his V-line, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband. His flannel pants dip dangerously low on his hips.

Your mouth goes dry.

As he rifles through his wardrobe, his back muscles flex under the shifting light, honey-bronzed skin rippling as he moves. He pulls out a crisp, white button-up, holding it to the light. The subtle gleam of a barbell piercing peeks through his nipple.

You swallow—loudly.

The wet click of it makes you cringe in embarrassment, even though you’re entirely alone.

You sink down, sliding soundlessly against the wall until you’re curled into yourself, head in your hands.

I have got to get a grip.

𓂃۶ৎ

“You’ve got to get a grip.”

Across from you, Yu stares, wide-eyed and incredulous.

His big, brown eyes are filled with concern, lips pressed into a thin, grim line. He reaches across the table, placing a warm hand over your own, rubbing your knuckles in reassurance.

“I say this with the utmost love and care,” he begins, voice low and serious, “but you are genuinely starting to scare me.”

You tilt your head, amused despite yourself. Placing your other hand over his, you give him a saccharine smile.

“And I fear your love life is even scarier,” you quip, “considering you and Nanami are disgustingly smitten with each other but refuse to do anything about it.”

Yu groans, yanking his hand back as he slumps into his seat.

You’ve been working with Yu for five years now at a highly accredited education company, officially as tutors but often picking up shifts in the adjoining daycare. He’s been a constant source of fresh air in your life—unrelentingly optimistic, perpetually happy, and the only thing keeping you sane when bratty kids, back-talking teens, and overbearing parents strip away every ounce of your patience.

And for the past two years, a certain someone has been an added incentive to showing up.

Nanami Kento.

Tall, broad, devastatingly handsome. Blonde hair, sharp features, and an air of refined old money. He first enrolled his younger brother, Yuji, in tutoring classes two years ago, exasperated by the boy’s athletic prowess but academic struggles.

Nanami, ever the composed professional, is a bank analyst with little time to spare—especially for schoolwork. But despite his packed schedule, he always makes time to bring Yuji in himself. And, without fail, he always requests Yu as Yuji’s tutor.

Nanami never hovers, never interferes—but he stays. Every time. MacBook open, glasses perched low on his nose, working in the corner while his gaze flickers to Yuji…and, more often than not, lingers on Yu.

They’re not slick.

Yu, for all his confidence, is an absolute mess around Nanami. He stumbles over his words, turns an embarrassing shade of pink, and loses all train of thought. Meanwhile, Nanami remains perfectly composed—save for the occasional, barely-there smirk when Yu flusters himself into silence.

It’s infuriatingly adorable.

But despite their obvious mutual pining, neither of them has made a move. You’ve tried to nudge them along, but they’re both stubborn as hell. They have to get there on their own.

Maybe you should have a little chat with Yuji—

“Hey! Hey!”

Yu waves a hand wildly in front of your face, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“I know that smirk! Stop scheming.” His expression darkens. “And focus—you wanted to talk about your situation, remember? I have, like, five minutes left on my break.”

Right.

You lean back, exhaling slowly. Recounting the sick, twisted ways you’ve gone from having a harmless crush on your thirty-five-year-old neighbor to full-on stalking him is…a lot.

So you clean up the details.

You leave out the part where you wake up at the crack of dawn just to watch him get dressed. Or how you happen to be outside every afternoon when his daughters get home from school, conveniently offering them sweets as if it’s just a coincidence.

Everyone has flaws. Yours just happen to feel entirely justified every time you’re blessed with the sight of Getou Suguru—all six feet of sculpted muscle, dressed in tailored suits and expensive watches, long hair pulled into a tight bun, sharp violet eyes glinting behind sleek glasses.

And if that wasn’t enough, the way he is with his daughters—that obliterates any remaining shred of reason.

On weekends, he’s outside your apartment complex in casual clothes, guiding them along the sidewalk on their little pink tricycles. He smiles at them, warm and genuine, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

He moved in a year ago.

And in eleven months, you’ve lost a lifetime’s worth of dignity and grace thirsting over the DILF next door.

Well—not next door, but close enough. Your balconies face each other.

You discovered this little fact a couple of weeks after he moved in.

It had been a casual meeting at first—one of those neighborly exchanges where introductions are made in passing. You were returning from work, tired but relieved to be home, and he had just finished enrolling his daughters in school. He had held the lobby door open for you, a simple courtesy, saving you from the trouble of buzzing yourself in.

You’d jogged a little to close the distance, not wanting to keep him waiting. As you passed through, you turned to thank him, fully prepared to run off—but he stopped you with a radiant smile.

“Hello, I haven’t had the pleasure of introducing myself yet.” He scratched the back of his neck, letting the door swing shut behind him. “We’re new to the building.”

Then, with a gesture toward the two girls at his side, he continued, “This one’s Nanako,”—the jumpy, golden-haired child practically vibrating with energy—“and this is Mimiko.” The brunette clung to his leg, wary but curious.

“They’re adorable,” you had told them warmly.

“Now, girls, what do we say to the nice lady?”

“Thank you, nice lady!” Nanako chirped.

Mimiko mumbled a soft, “Thanks.”

Getou chuckled, ruffling her hair before leaning down to press a kiss to her crown. “Don’t be shy, honey. It’s okay.”

Mimiko tightened her grip on his leg, holding onto him as though you might whisk her father away if she let go.

As he straightened, a sharp breeze carried the scent of musky sandalwood and lavender from him, teasing your senses in a way that felt almost intimate.

“They’re still a little frazzled from the move,” he admitted in a mock whisper, “Don’t tell, but some nights I’ve been sneaking them candy for dessert—except it’s just melatonin.”

You had giggled at his confession, and his lips had ticked upward at the sound.

“I’m Getou, by the way,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “But if I’ll be seeing you often, feel free to call me Suguru—I’m not uptight.”

You’d introduced yourself, mentioning that you were native to the area and worked as a tutor, meaning you were well-versed in the local children’s events. As you spoke, he listened attentively, nodding along to every other word, his eye contact steady. You had to fight every intrusive thought about how distractingly attractive he was—how much you wanted to press your tongue to the line of his jaw, trace the length of his throat.

Not the time. Definitely not the time.

By the time numbers had been exchanged for “neighborly inquiries,” you’d realized you lived on the same floor.

“Well, would you look at that~” He had chuckled, amused by the coincidence.

You’d smiled, bid the girls farewell, and assured Getou he could reach out if he ever needed anything. But the moment you turned away—oh, God. You had to fight the urge to squeal, mouthing a silent oh my God to yourself as you hurried to your apartment, barely processing the fact that an incredibly sexy dad lived just a few doors down.

Then came the accidental discovery.

The first time you caught him dressing in front of his window had been pure chance.

You’d been up early—5 AM, thanks to your turn to let in the clean-up crew for your workplace’s monthly deep clean. Half-awake and desperate for coffee, you had shuffled into your kitchen, only to catch a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision.

And there he was.

Shirtless. Wet.

His long, damp hair fell in dark ribbons down his back, droplets clinging to his skin, catching the dim morning light. He was flipping through a newspaper, one hand resting on his chin, brow furrowed in thought. His serious expression made your brain short-circuit—sending it spiraling into dangerous territory.

A strict professor making you stay after class.

A mean dom forcing you into submission.

A strict boss calling you into his office, locking the door.

You had to physically shake the thoughts away, dragging your gaze back to your coffee like it was a lifeline.

Then he cracked his neck, flexed his fingers, and carefully laid a pair of black work pants across his bed, arranging his outfit with meticulous precision. That was when you realized—you had unintentionally learned his morning routine.

And you weren’t proud to admit that you had grown to love it.

Your favorite part? When he stood before the mirror, brushing out his hair.

He always looked so at peace during that ritual—like it was something grounding, something necessary. It was the last thing he did before spritzing on cologne and stepping out for the day.

Now, sitting across from Yu in the breakroom, you finally admit to your… situation.

“Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend?” Yu asks, frowning. “Or—God forbid—a wife?”

You wave him off. “No way. If he had a wife, she would’ve been mentioned. Even a girlfriend—I would’ve seen her by now.”

Yu cringes. “Right.”

He places both hands flat on the table, inhaling like he is about to deliver some sage wisdom. “You need to do what I do—just keep running into him, talk to him, wear him down until you two become close.”

You give him a look. “So I can be friend-zoned for a year? No, thanks.”

Yu turns up his nose. “So rude. Even when I try to help.” He pushes back his chair dramatically. “I’ll be on my way.”

He stomps off toward the door, only to pause, his bangs brushing against his lashes as he peeks back in.

“But text me later, okay?” he says with a smirk. “We’ll figure something out if we put our heads together.”

You huff a laugh. What a sweet guy. Even your obsessive behavior hasn’t scared him away.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur. You spend the final hour tutoring Sam—a regular who somehow always smells like cheese puffs and leaves everything he touches sticky. When his dad finally picks him up, you all but shove the sign-out sheet toward him, making a beeline for the bathroom to scrub your hands clean.

𓂃۶ৎ

A hot shower is calling your name as you skillfully back into your designated parking space, humming to yourself before stepping out of the car.

The moment your foot hits the pavement, the familiar sound of drunken laughter and hollering echoes through the garage. Of course. Your downstairs neighbors—wasted out of their minds. Again. On a Wednesday.

Rolling your eyes, you make your way toward the exit, only to find yourself in full view of the rowdy group perched on the hood of a sports car parked obnoxiously across multiple spaces. Among them is a guy you’ve seen before—arguing with his then-girlfriend at ungodly hours over god-knows-what. Spiky pink hair, gelled into stiff peaks, paired with a tight white tank top despite the night chill. You’ve never spoken to him, barely spared him a glance, but tonight, for whatever reason, he has something to prove.

“YO! HEY, YO!”

You ignore him, keeping your pace steady.

“Aye, I know you hear me! C’mere real quick!”

Your jaw tightens. You shoot him a glare but don’t stop, closing the distance to the door.

“Aww, don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he drawls, clearly reveling in the attention of his friends. “That’s not very neighborly. I just gotta ask you a quick question.”

You exhale sharply, finally turning to face him and his little audience. “What the fuck do you want? You can ask from there.”

He scoffs, spitting onto the pavement. “Damn, no need to be a bitch about it.” He jerks his chin toward one of his friends. “My boy here thinks you look good, wanted to get them digits, but you ain’t even all that to be actin’ like this.”

A dry, humorless laugh escapes you as you prop a hand on your hip. “Funny, ‘cause from where I’m standing, you’re the one desperate for my attention. Screams ‘bitch’ to me—but go off.”

His friends snicker, their amusement only deepening his scowl. He swings his legs off the hood, standing up with an air of aggression. The moment he takes a step forward, your fingers slip into your bag, wrapping around the familiar cylinder of mace.

Six steps to the door.

His bloodshot eyes, the reek of weed clinging to his clothes—it sends your senses into high alert. If he lunges, you’ll spray him.

“Stuck-up bitch.”

A firm hand presses against the small of your back, guiding you away just as the tension peaks.

You startle, spinning with the mace raised—only to freeze when you find yourself looking up at Getou Suguru.

And he looks pissed.

Brows furrowed, lips pressed into a firm line, the sleeves of his button-up pushed to his elbows like he’s ready to handle this personally.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Sukuna?” His voice is low, rough, demanding.

Your grip on the mace loosens as you exhale, the warmth of Getou’s hand steady on your back. You’re not helpless, but dealing with scum like Sukuna? That’s the last thing you want after a long day.

Sukuna’s posture falters for half a second before he scoffs. “Relax, man. Just wanted to talk. No need for the hero act.”

“I’m pretty sure she would’ve handled you herself,” Getou counters coolly. “But I figured I’d remind you that you’re one misdemeanor away from that assault and battery charge becoming a felony. So watch yourself.”

Sukuna’s arrogance wavers. His jaw tightens as he glances at Getou, weighing his options before choosing the safer one—retreating back to his car.

“If I catch you pulling this shit again,” Getou continues, “I’ll personally ensure you get a speedy trial—as is your constitutional right.”

The group piles into the car in tense silence. As the engine roars to life, Getou pulls his hand away from your back like he’s just realized it’s there.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to—” He sighs, shaking his head. “It just pissed me off seeing him try that with you. You don’t deserve that.”

He smiles, but there’s a quiet sadness to it, as if he’s seen too much of this before.

“I don’t think you know this,” he adds, voice softer, “but I run a non-profit for domestic violence survivors. We’ve helped house a few of Sukuna’s former partners. Got them legal support, protection. He’s—” His jaw clenches. “He’s worse than he looks.”

You take in the weight of his words. On one hand, you’re grateful for his work, knowing how important it is. On the other, the thought of Sukuna being a repeat offender makes your stomach turn.

“Don’t apologize,” you tell him, offering a small, genuine smile. “I appreciate you stepping in. Macing him would’ve ruined my whole night—pepper spray’s a bitch to wash out.”

That earns a quiet chuckle from Getou, the tension easing.

“Sure would’ve been a nuisance,” he agrees.

As you walk toward the building together, you steal a glance at him—at the way the moonlight catches in his hair, reflecting off a few stray gray strands. His jawline is sharp in the dim glow, the curve of his cheekbone accentuated in a way that makes your heart stutter. You watch as a calloused finger brushes his bangs back, tucking them behind his ear.

Ever the gentleman, he holds the door open for you and walks you all the way to your apartment. At your door, he rests a firm but gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Be safe,” he says. “And if you ever feel unsafe, don’t hesitate to reach out. Okay?”

You nod, feigning composure, but he sees right through it.

He narrows his eyes slightly. “Not good enough. Promise me.”

You huff, rolling your eyes before holding up a pinky. “Alright, alright. I promise.”

A slow smirk tugs at his lips as he hooks his pinky around yours, the warmth of his touch lingering even after he lets go.

“Good girl.”

The praise haunts you for the rest of the night, looping in your head like a broken record. You spend hours lying awake, spamming Yu with frantic, half-incoherent texts detailing every second of what just happened.

𓂃۶ৎ

The following week, you don’t see him—not in the hall, not in passing. And though you tell yourself you’re being ridiculous, the lack of interaction leaves you feeling… disappointed. You want to text him, but without a real reason, it feels weird. You’re just his neighbor, after all—and at least a decade younger than him.

Still, you catch glimpses of him in the mornings. His routine never changes, but you do notice something new—he’s started drinking tea with his morning newspaper.

You wonder what sparked the change.

Then, on Friday night, your phone buzzes with a notification. A text.

Getou Suguru Hello. This is Suguru, your neighbor. Got any eggs?

You stare at the screen, blinking. That is… certainly an approach.

You: I do! Need me to bring a couple over? I don’t mind.

Getou Suguru: Oh, thank god. Would you? You’re a lifesaver.

You: Yeah, it’s just eggs. I’ll be right over!

You toss your phone onto the counter, glancing down at your loungewear—a silk two-piece pajama set, your favorite. Soft to the touch, effortlessly comfortable. Deciding it’s appropriate enough given the hour, you slip on your slippers, grab the carton of eggs, and head for his door.

Getou’s apartment has a personalized doormat at the entrance, The Getou Family scripted in bold cursive. Cute. You knock lightly, mindful of any sleeping children. A few moments later, footsteps approach, and the door swings open.

And it’s… not what you expect.

Getou stands there, hand on the knob, dressed in a sleek black turtleneck and chocolate-brown cargos—an effortlessly clean-cut look if not for the pink, frilly “Kiss the Cook” apron haphazardly tied around his waist. His long hair is braided loosely over his shoulder, stray strands falling over his forehead, and he looks utterly defeated—his entire body dusted in flour, even in his hair.

You giggle before you can stop yourself.

“Finding humor in my misery, are we?”

You barely manage to stifle your laughter behind your hand as he steps aside, ushering you in.

“Maybe just a little.” You poke at the apron first, smirking. “Well, don’t you look adorable?”

He swats your hand away with a playful huff, taking the eggs from you and leading the way into the kitchen—which is immediately visible. And immediately disastrous.

Flour streaks the counters. Sugar coats one side of the island. Three bowls, filled with dough in various colors, sit among a chaotic spread of every imaginable baking utensil. The only thing not in complete disarray is the rest of the apartment—modern, sleek black decor, perfectly organized, with a wall full of adorable photos of the girls over the years.

You whistle, taking it all in. “My god… what did you do?”

Getou sighs, brushing off flour from his sleeve in a half-hearted attempt to clean himself.

“My buddy Gojo had the girls today. Took them to a science museum, then dinner, and spoiled them, so naturally, they will be too hyped to care about me when they get home.” He gestures vaguely to the mess. “Thought I’d win them back over with homemade cookies since they love sweets. As you can see, I’m not exactly a natural.”

You move to the island, flipping an overturned bag of flour upright, salvaging whatever hasn’t already been sacrificed to the countertop.

“Clearly.”

Getou grabs an egg and cracks it over a bowl of light caramel-colored dough.

“Hey, I can’t be good at everything.”

You squint at his movements, catching the inconsistency in his technique. “Still cocky, huh?”

You peer into the bowl. This is definitely his third attempt at the dough.

“Instead of making another batch, maybe try tasting this one first? Are you even following a recipe?”

He taps sugar-dusted fingers against his chin. “Not exactly. I was going off memory. My mom used to make cookies for me when I was little, but… I may have mixed up a few ingredients.”

Before he can stop you, you dip a finger into the dough and bring it to your mouth.

“Don’t do that!” He wags a flour-covered finger at you, scandalized. “There’s raw egg in there—you’ll get salmonella.”

You grin, unfazed. “It’s just a little taste. And I can tell you’re missing vanilla. The sweetness is off, and it’ll help bind the flavors together.”

His violet eyes widen slightly before lighting up in realization. “Oh, right! Of course! Let me add some!”

Watching him scramble around the kitchen, searching for the vanilla like a deer learning to walk, is nothing short of endearing.

Together, you tweak the recipe—adding a little cinnamon, a sprinkle of nutmeg, some roughly chopped pecans. He lifts a mixing spoon to your lips, and you taste again.

This time? Sweet, only a hint of saltiness, and the nutty pecans bring a rich depth to the dough.

“It’s perfect,” you declare. “We can roll it out now.”

You hadn’t exactly planned for your Friday night to be overtaken by this bumbling, flour-dusted dad, but somehow, you don’t mind. You take turns rolling and flattening the dough before he slides the tray into the oven. Already, you’ve started cleaning—scooping up flour piles, bagging ingredients, restoring order to the battlefield.

“You don’t need to do that,” Getou protests, frowning. “You’ve done enough. Sit down.”

You comply halfway, still gathering loose flour into the bin. He pours you a glass of water and begins wiping down his own mess.

“Where’d you learn how to bake?”

“I wouldn’t call myself a baker,” you say, shrugging. “But working with kids, having treats around helps as a motivator. So I picked up a few simple recipes.”

He nods, impressed, running a damp rag over his flour-streaked shirt. His glasses have slipped down his nose, the lenses smudged from dirty hands.

“Suguru,” you say, deadpan, “go clean yourself up. I’ll finish here.”

He grimaces at the kitchen’s state, then exhales in surrender. “You’re a saint. I’d hate for the girls to see this mess when I’m always nagging them to keep their rooms spotless.” He presses a thumb to his brow. “Turns out, I’m quite the hypocrite.”

You methodically put the kitchen back in order, enjoying the gradual return to cleanliness. By the time Getou re-emerges, the only mess left is on his apron. His hair is pulled up in a loose bun, and he shoots you a wink.

“Right on time.”

As if on cue, the oven alarm dings. He pulls the tray out, setting it on the stove. The scent of buttery, warm sweetness fills the air. You inhale deeply, taking a seat at the barstool beside the counter.

Getou leans down, elbows propped against the surface, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Well, wouldn’t you say we make a per—”

“DADDY!!”

The door slams open, and Nanako barrels inside, launching herself at Getou’s waist.

“Daddy! Daddy! Guess what Satoru got us?!”

Laughing, he lifts her up, ruffling her hair as she clings to his neck. Gojo enters right behind, overloaded with shopping bags, white hair slightly tousled, Cartier shades barely hiding his mischievous blue eyes. Mimiko shuffles in, latched onto his pant leg.

Gojo smirks. “Took them on an all-you-can-grab shopping spree. Fun, right?” He inhales, pausing. “Mm, something smells good—wait. Suguru. Did you actually—” His gaze lands on you, and his smirk sharpens. “Well, well. Who’s this?”

You quickly stand, waving your hands. “Just a neighbor! Suguru needed eggs, and, well…” You gesture vaguely toward the cookies. “I took pity on his baking skills.”

Gojo snorts. “Little did you know, you probably just saved this entire building from being burned down.”

Getou shoves his shoulder. Gojo nearly drops a bag, grinning.

“Hey girls,” he calls, heading down the hall. “Make sure to thank your dad for wearing the special apron I got him! And don’t forget—no kiss, no cookie!”

Nanako gasps, eyes wide. “Oh! Before you go—you have to give Daddy a kiss too! Or no cookie!”

Mimiko nods solemnly. “No kiss, no cookie. Right, Daddy? Or were you lying?”

You laugh at Getou’s panicked expression.

With exaggerated effort, you stretch onto your toes, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the edge of his jaw.

“There. No lies.”

You grab your cookie and eggs, heading for the door. “Thanks for the treat! Have a good night, guys!”

As you step out, you catch one last glimpse—Getou, frozen, cheeks tinged pink, his jaw still faintly glossed from your kiss.

Munching on your cookie, you grin.

Bless those kids.

𓂃۶ৎ

The next morning, you wake up lazily, blissfully, embarrassingly late—somewhere around noon. A rare luxury. You stretch across your bed, basking in the slow start to the day before slipping into an easy, indulgent routine.

A long, hot shower.

A hearty, homemade brunch.

A carefully curated R&B playlist humming in the background.

You take your time with the little things—styling your hair, finally trying that shower steamer you’ve been saving, relishing a morning that’s just for you. It’s been a while since you’ve allowed yourself to unwind like this, especially since you’ve just started refraining from peeking in on the DILF next door.

Not that you’ve been thinking about him. Not at all.

The sun is bright today, the perfect excuse to go for a walk. Maybe you’ll drop by Yu’s place—figure out how your night will unfold from there. Something lively, hopefully.

Locking up, you head downstairs, offering nods to other tenants as you step outside. And then—

Giggling. Light, carefree, unmistakable.

You don’t even need to look to know who it is.

“Daddy, look! It’s the Cookie Lady!”

“Hi, Cookie Lady!”

You exhale, shaking your head. You vividly remember introducing yourself properly, but kids? Selective memory at its finest.

Sure enough, Nanako and Mimiko are on their pink tricycles, zooming across the pavement while Getou lingers nearby, guiding them like a watchful shadow.

You wave at the girls first, playing along. “Wow, you two are going so fast! Don’t run me over!”

They giggle, swerving dramatically around you as you pretend to stumble back. Behind them, Getou smiles—warm, effortless, like the sun overhead.

You move closer, eyes flicking over him instinctively.

Baggy denim. A beige sweater. A classic dad fit.

Only… the sweater’s losing a battle against the curve of his bicep, the fabric stretching just a little too tightly over muscle. And his arms—the shape of them, the way the fleece clings to his forearms—

You look away fast. Which is no reprieve because now you’re staring into his eyes—deep purple, sunlit flecks of magenta making them shimmer.

His lashes are obnoxiously thick. Prettier than yours, even with volumizing mascara.

Unfair.

“Any disasters for me to clean up today?” you tease, breaking eye contact.

His chuckle is low, warm, easy. His chest shakes lightly. “Not today. Yet. But can I keep you on call just in case?”

You shrug. “I’m around. And honestly? I could never say no to someone with such adorable little girls.”

Getou hums, eyes drifting toward his daughters, who are now engaged in a very serious race down the sidewalk—little hands swatting at each other as they try to throw the other off course.

“Adorable, yes. But don’t let them fool you.” He sighs. “They’re little devils in disguise.”

You laugh. “That’s just the age. They’re curious about everything. Had a kid at work raid my purse once during a session. Looked away for two seconds, and when I turned back, he was wearing a menstrual pad like a hat.”

Getou snorts. Catches himself. Coughs into his fist. “You’re lying.”

“I wish.”

His laughter fades into something softer. Thoughtful. His brows knit slightly.

“…I know you didn’t mean anything by it, but hearing stuff like that—feminine products, girl things—I get anxious. It’s hard, raising two girls alone.”

Your chest tightens at the look on his face. The quiet weight of it.

Without thinking, you reach for his hand.

“I know it probably doesn’t mean much, but I’ve worked with kids for years,” you say gently. “And I can spot a good parent a mile away. Even with our limited interactions, Suguru, you are one of the most doting fathers I’ve ever met.”

His fingers tighten around yours. Then his other hand clasps over the top, warm, grounding.

“I appreciate that,” he murmurs. “You’re pretty wise for your age.”

You scoff. “Of course. Women mature years faster than men. Be careful—your girls might surpass you before you know it.”

And then—

A piercing shriek cuts through the air.

“D-Daddy! T-The cat scratched me!”

Both of you snap to attention.

Mimiko is curled up on her bike, terrified, while Nanako sits on the pavement beside her toppled tricycle, clutching her arm. Across from her, a fat black cat hisses, back arched.

Getou is already moving. He scoops Nanako into his arms just as the cat lets out a low, guttural growl. You think you see it pounce, but it’s all a blur. You barely register Getou kicking at the ground near it before you swoop in, lifting Mimiko onto your hip and retreating toward the apartment.

By the time you make it inside, the girls’ tear-streaked faces are devastating.

Getou fumbles with his keys, cursing under his breath.

Nanako—the little mimic—parrots him perfectly.

“Shit, fuck!”

“Shi—crap!” he corrects quickly. “No, no, sweetie, Daddy said a bad word. I was just scared you were hurt.”

Inside, Getou heads straight to the bathroom, setting Nanako on the closed toilet lid while you settle Mimiko on the sink. He wets a rag, voice gentle, soothing.

“Can I see your arm, Nana?”

She nods, sniffling. Brave. Mimiko leans forward, eyes wide as she watches her sister.

Getou is careful. Tender hands. Steady voice. He dabs at the scratch, applies ointment, murmurs reassurances as Nanako flinches. A patient, loving father.

And God help you, but it makes him even more attractive.

Once the bandage is in place, Nanako puffs up proudly.

“See, Mimi? I’m too strong for that old cat!”

Getou lifts her up, but as he does, you notice—his sweater has a tear along the back. The fabric darker, wet.

Blood.

“Hey girls,” you say gently. “Why don’t you go play? I’ll help your dad clean up. You were both so brave.”

They perk up instantly, rushing out with another fit of giggles.

Getou starts to wave you off. “I’m fine, don’t—”

“Suguru,” you deadpan. “The cat sliced through your shirt. Let me clean it up.”

He sighs but relents, settling on the toilet lid.

“How do you keep ending up rescuing me?” he muses. “I thought we had a back-and-forth thing going on.”

You snort, swatting his arm before carefully lifting his shirt, rolling it up so he can hold it in place and inspect the scratch. It’s deep—deeper than you’d expect—so the cat must have been a stray with nails sharp enough to cut like that. Skimming your fingers over the wound, you feel Getou’s breath hitch. You murmur a quiet apology before rewetting the rag and dabbing at the injury to clean it properly.

You’ve seen Getou’s bare back more times than you’d like to admit, but up close like this? It’s a whole other story. And—selfishly—you envy the cat for being the one to leave marks on him instead of you.

His broad shoulders shift under your touch, deltoids flexing with every small wince. His spine curves smoothly, leading to two faint indentations at the small of his back. Back dimples.

You suppress the ridiculous urge to trace them with your fingers.

Instead, you focus on the task at hand—reapplying the ointment before resting your hands lightly on his shoulders.

“I think I’m done,” you say, voice steady despite the very unsteady state of your thoughts. “Your scratches are deeper, though, so I wouldn’t bandage them up just yet. They need to breathe so the skin can heal properly.”

Getou hums, the vibrations buzzing through your palms.

“In that case, I’ll just take this off.” He grips the fabric at the back of his collar, crossing his arms as he pulls the shirt over his head in one smooth motion—something you’ve seen him do a million times before.

But somehow, this time feels entirely different.

And suddenly, you’re questioning whether today is the best day of your life—or the worst, because temptation is sitting right in front of you, and you can’t do a damn thing about it.

You poke lightly at the scratch, half out of curiosity, half as an excuse to let your eyes wander. A few scars, pink and raised, wrap around from his ribs. A couple of small, cute moles sit just below his nape.

“—tter.”

You blink. Wait. He was talking?

“Hm?”

Getou chuckles, low and amused. “I said, poking at it like that isn’t gonna help.” His lips curve into something teasing. “Be a sweetheart and kiss it better for me?”

His deep voice lilts, gentle but dripping in lazy, playful seduction.

Heat floods through you instantly.

But you refuse to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that.

Steeling yourself, you swallow down the butterflies flapping violently in your chest and school your expression into something cool, composed.

“I don’t think that’s how healing works,” you muse, smoothing your fingers over his warm shoulder. “But if you insist…”

You lean in, lips parting as you move closer—so close that you can feel his warmth against your mouth. But just as you’re about to press the kiss to his skin, you pause. Then, with deliberate slowness, you pull back, kiss your own palm, and press it firmly against his wound instead.

“I think that’s the best I can do, Suguru,” you say, feigning innocence. “Wouldn’t want to get antibiotics all over my lips.”

He blinks, momentarily caught off guard, before huffing out a laugh.

“Clever.”

Then, before you can react, he shifts—adjusting his position so that you’re kneeling between his legs. His arms rest lazily over his thighs, dark eyes watching you with soft amusement.

He pouts.

Pouts.

Which, despite being a fully grown man, still looks unreasonably cute on his annoyingly handsome face.

“Guess we’ll have to make do,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. “Right here is also acceptable.”

He puckers his lips dramatically, raising a brow, but he doesn’t move closer. Just waits. Daring you.

So that’s how he wants to play it.

Your hands slide up to rest lightly on his knees, and you lean in—slow, deliberate. Your noses brush, and you let your breath fan against his lips, lingering.

“I’ll make it all better,” you murmur.

Then, finally, you press your lips to his—soft, warm, deliberate.

His lips are plush, moving against yours in a slow, languid rhythm. One of his hands lifts to cup your cheek, thumb grazing your jaw, keeping you there just a moment longer before you pull back.

But he doesn’t let go.

“It still hurts,” he says, voice lower, gaze heavier. “Try again.”

You let out a breathless laugh but comply, leaning in again. This time, he meets you halfway, mouth parting slightly as his tongue just barely brushes against your bottom lip. You sigh into him, fingers instinctively threading into his hair—his stupidly soft, midnight-black hair. The loose bun falls apart easily, strands tumbling over his shoulders.

When you finally pull back, his eyes are dark, half-lidded, hungry.

“Again,” he breathes.

But just as he leans in to kiss you—

“Why are you kissing Daddy?”

The two of you jolt apart like you’d been electrocuted.

Your head whips to the side, heart lurching.

Nanako stands in the doorway, arms crossed, staring point-blank at the two of you with the unimpressed authority of a child who has just caught an adult doing something stupid.

Mimiko peeks out from behind her, brows furrowed in confusion.

Getou fumbles for an excuse, visibly panicking, and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Kiss the Cook?”

Nanako squints. “But Daddy, there’s no cookies.”

𓂃۶ৎ [Tentative taglist: @mentallyillcore]

[andy-clutterbuck]

[tetzoro]

˖˙ ꔫ — HAPPY BIRTHDAY TETSU ˚

꒰ synopsis ꒱ : getting ready for kuroo’s birthday dinner has brought on a few unexpected surprises.

꒰ contents ꒱ : kuroo tetsuro x reader ; fluff. full of silliness and made with lots of love. reader is pregnant but kuroo doesn’t know, brief alcohol mention, dividers by adornedwithlight — WC : 1.8k

An unnaturally high-pitched, almost bone-chilling scream sounds off in the bathroom. The tube of lipstick you were holding drops onto the vanity with a small clunk before you dart to the source of the distress.

Every light in the bathroom was flicked on, the brightness overwhelming you as you attempt to focus on the scene before you. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight.

Your devastatingly handsome husband, dressed to the nines in one of his best suits, was rustling with his inky, unruly hair in a state of panic. His eyes were wide and filled with a crazed determination as he looked for something. He's never been one to fuss that much over his hair, so it worried you a little.

“Tetsu..?” You ask in a soft voice, taking a cautious step forward with the gentleness of a curious cat. “What’s-"

“I HAVE GRAY HAIR!” He dramatically exclaimed, turning towards you and pointing towards his head. You blink once, twice. In a few easy steps, you’re right in front of this man-child and gently caress his cheek, your eyes trailing from his to the small white hair he was gesturing to.

“Okay?” You look back at him, rubbing your thumb against his cheek soothingly. “It looks good, honey.”

“I can't believe it.” Kuroo goes to break out of your hold, looking back at the mirror in horror. “I just turned thirty, this can’t be happening.”

“It's only one tiny strand of hair, Tetsuro.” You sigh exasperated, walking up to wrap your arms around his slim waist. “Besides, I think it suits you. You’re entering your silver fox era, very sexy of you.”

His body rumbles against yours as he lets out a reluctant chuckle before his hands move down to rest over yours, giving them a gentle pat. The twin golden bands that adjourn your ring fingers shine under the fluorescent lights, the glint catches your eye as it happily reflects in the mirror. 

“If you say so.” He didn’t look convinced, still frowning at his reflection. If he didn’t look so adorably pitiful, you might’ve felt bad. “Just pluck it off me. Please.”

“Aw, I love it when you beg.” The pout on his face only deepens.

“Ha, ha. Way to kick a man while he’s down, babe.” The sarcasm flows past his lips, clearly unimpressed with your lack of sympathy in this life changing moment.

“You’re so dramatic.” Without hesitation, you go to grab the defenseless strand of hair and it comes off all too easily. It only takes a second for everything to click into place. “Tetsu.”

“Did you get it?” His eyes are squeezed shut, bracing for the impact that never comes.

“Kuroo.” The use of his surname has him straightening up, eyes flying open. The piece of hair falls into his palm and he looks at it, completely gobsmacked. “This is cat hair.”

The cackle of his laugh drowns out the silence in the cramped room, his head tossed back in absolute delight. Whether it’s over the fact that it was just cat hair or the simple fact of him not having gray hair yet, you’re not sure, but you can’t find it in you to be mad. Not when his amber eyes twinkle and shine as they brim with joyful tears. 

“You’re absolutely ridiculous.” You shake your head, a smile resting on your lips. The two of you were always coated in cat hair of some sort and Kuroo had an affinity for nuzzling his head against the kitties. It’s no wonder one had found its place nestled in his hair.

“Would you love me even if I was already graying?” He asks, but there’s a tone of insecurity that weaves itself into the cracks of his voice. Thirty was a new milestone, one that he had been looking forward to but birthdays always seem to shove the concept of time right in your face.

With a tenderness that came as easy as breathing, you press a sweet kiss against his lips. It quickly blooms into a life of its own as you pour everything you wish to say into it. 

The love that will remain eternal, the warmth of all the sunsets you will watch together, the endless laughs you have yet to share, the sweet promise of tomorrow and the rest of your lives together.

“My love, I'll be with you until you’re old and gray and screaming over the fact that you found a black hair in place of all that gray.” You giggle, carding your fingers through the soft, unruly strands in an attempt to smooth it all over. “I meant it when I said my vows. I'm with you forever.”

The words reassure him, letting your promise melt over him and ease all the tension out of his body. There was never any doubt, of course, but he always loved hearing the reminder.

“My sweet wife.” With a boyish grin, Kuroo spins you around and securely cradles you in his arms, gently swaying side to side.

“My silly husband.” Reaching up behind you, you affectionately pat the palm of your hand against his cheek.

The warmth of his smile cascades through you, a beam of affection that never fails to give you butterflies despite how long you’ve been together. Something that will forever remain unchanged.

Kuroo kisses the side of your head, pressing his cheek against yours as you lovingly gaze at each other through the bathroom mirror.

“You look so beautiful, by the way. The prettiest angel I've ever seen. That dress is almost unfair.” Kuroo kisses down your cheek and along your jaw. “And you smell delicious enough to eat.”

“We have dinner reservations mister, so reel it in.” You smirk, a trait you’ve easily adopted from spending years with the man who was currently pouting over the fact he had to go to his extravagant birthday dinner.

“I suppose you’re right, but I plan on thoroughly enjoying my dessert after.” Kuroo purrs, running his soft lips along your skin, kissing your earlobe before trailing down to your neck to murmur on. “I'll order that champagne you like too, we can pull out all the stops.”

“Too bad I can't drink it.” The words slip out of your mouth faster than you could reel them back in. Kuroo froze for a moment, looking back at you through the mirror.

“Haah?” He gives you a puzzled look, standing up straight. “Why not?”

The reasoning escapes you, replaced by the pitiful opening and closing of your mouth, tongue twisting in every direction as it tries to land on what to say or rather, how to say it. 

The longer you take to respond, the more Kuroo’s eyes widen. Abruptly, he turns to you, quickly grabbing your shoulders as hope shines brightly through his hazel irises.

“Are you..?” He trails off, the words escaping him as well, nothing more than a whisper. All you can do is nod a little before Kuroo envelopes you in a crushing embrace. “You’re pregnant?!” 

“I am.” You smile, letting Kuroo pick you up a little in celebration. He lets out a bark of laughter, squeezing you gently before lowering you back down.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner!” He gazes softly at you, fondness crinkling by the corner of his eyes and a smile so genuine that his dimple began to show. 

“I just found out!” You grin back at him, tears brimming your eyes and overjoyed with his reaction. “I wanted to tell you but i didn’t know if tonight was right and —“

“It's more than right.” He presses his forehead against yours, eyes searing into the depths of your soul. “It's perfect. The best birthday gift ever.”

It was no secret that Kuroo had been ready to expand your little family for a while now. It was something you had wanted too but when the timing was a little better. So you had promised him to have that conversation again after he turned thirty. 

At least this saves a little time.

Kuroo carefully slides down your body, falling to his knees in seemingly slow motion. his ear is pressed against your stomach, his hands tenderly gripping your waist. 

“Oh my god.” He whispers so softly you have to strain to hear him. “I'm going to be a father.”

“You’re going to be such a good dad, Tetsu.” You run your fingers through his inky black hair. Kuroo looks up at you, wide-eyed and hopeful as his chin gently presses against your abdomen.

“You really think so?” He asks, vulnerability licking at his tone. 

“I know so.” You smile. The reassurance flooded his system, reigniting the excitement of it all. He grins back at you once again and all feels right in the world. The ghost of his lips brush along the fabric that serves as a barrier to your lower abdomen, a place that he plans on showering with love as much as he can.

“Hang on!” Kuroo stands back up so abruptly it almost gives you whiplash. You shouldn’t wear those heels, it’s not good for the baby.”

“Tetsu, I-“ Your sentence is interrupted by a squeal as Kuroo picks you up bridal style and marches towards your room. He sits you on the edge of the bed. “Tetsu, I’m only 7 weeks pregnant.” 

“Still.” Kuroo lifts your foot, fiddling with the straps of your heel before sensually sliding it off, giving your ankle a kiss for good measure. He does the same with the other foot, his eyes set on you. “You better start getting used to this, sweetheart.”

The other heel hits the ground with a distant thud as Kuroo kisses up along your leg, the fabric of the dress annoyingly getting in his way until he slides his head under it.

“Tetsu, we have reservations.” You try to squirm away but his hands grip your hips before his head pops back out to look at you with a serious expression.

“We’re not going.” He decides, hands roaming along your body. “Let's get take out, I wanna take care of you tonight.”

“It's your birthday though.” You can’t help but pout a little, guilt slowly seeping through the cracks of excitement from earlier. If only you had kept the news a secret a little longer —

“Shh.” Kuroo sits back up so his face is directly in front of yours, nuzzling his nose against yours. He always knew when you’d retreat into your mind and never let you fall too deep before lulling you back. “You gave me the perfect gift and nothing would make me happier than spoiling you a bit.”

“But—“ 

“No buts. It’s my birthday after all, and I get final say.” With a dastardly smirk, he kisses you with all the love in the world, his palm happily resting on your stomach. The excitement of the coming days in your lives grows alongside the little one that will bring you so much joy in the near future. 

thank you very much for reading. happy birthday tetsu 💋

[imastrangeone98]

Homecoming

(A/N: boothill my cyborg my love my life my everything-)

WARNING: fem!reader, SMUT SMUT FRESH OFF THE PLATE MINORS GTFO ILL WHOOP YO BUTTS, probably ooc!boothill but whatever it's fine lmao, his exact birth name isn't known so I didn't put a name for him- if there is one I'll replace it; but I found some X art that called his baby girl "cherry" and I really liked it so I'll use that, and way too much plot as always

"Well, hello there! What'cha lookin' at, sweetie?" You bend down to the little girl's eye level, peeking at where the child's gaze is locked on, then smiling in understanding. "You like those ones? They're moon lilies; they're flowers that are really special!"

"Pe... shal?" the little girl babbles, and you laugh.

"Yes, dear. Special." You pluck one of the flowers, beautiful with light blue petals and golden pollen, and offer it to her. "They mean loyalty, and undying devotion, because they only grow in places they like, and they won't grow anywhere else."

"Loya..." the girl mumbles. You chuckle and pick her up, carefully tucking the flower behind her ear.

"Now, where's your mama? Or your papa? I'm sure they're worried sick about-"

"Cherry! Sweet pea, where ya at?!"

Your ears prick, and the girl giggles and claps at the sound. "Well, I guess we found him."

You maneuver through the crowd until you find the source of the call: a man, tall and lean, with flowing black-and-white hair and piercing gray eyes.

Oh. He's beautiful.

The little girl squeals with delight at the sight of her father, and his head whips towards your direction. He sprints over to you and takes the child in his arms, pressing her close to his chest.

"There ya are, ya little rascal! What'd I tell ya about runnin' off?! Ya had me worried sick!" He kisses her forehead, then looks at you. "Thanks, I would've lost her without ya."

"Of course!" You wave it off, hoping he doesn't notice your hot cheeks. "I will say, she has good taste in flowers! If you'd ever like to buy a bouquet, you should bring her along!"

"Flowers? Oh..." He looks at his daughter, finally noticing the moon lily tucked in her hair. His cheeks flush a bright red. "Aw, man, I'm sorry for the trouble, I can pay for it-"

"Oh, don't worry about it, it's on the house! But I do hope this won't be the last time I see her!" You wave at her, and she giggles.

The man laughs at that. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind." He then stretches out his hand to you. "I'm [???]."

"(Y/N)."

He repeats your name slowly, thoughtfully, then smirks. "Guess I'll be seeing you around, lady."

"I'll be looking forward to it, cowboy."

Your eyes crack open.

Instead of a bustling marketplace, you're in a small shack in the middle of nowhere.

Just a memory.

You rise, body aching with fatigue and heartache, but you force yourself to push it to the side.

There's work to be done. You grab your phone and send a message.

ML: The USB is ready. I'll leave it at the usual place.

BH: ca nt maek it cme her

You stare at the coordinates your contact sent you with a groan.

You don't do face-to-face, too much risk. And the information you collected is time-sensitive; you're not sure if you'll be able to make it to the abandoned planet of Mavorosa in time for it to still be valuable, and your spaceship isn't one meant for such great lengths.

But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: Oswaldo Schneider is likely to make an appearance at the upcoming IPC Centennial Gala, and BH has proven themself capable of terminating that sick bastard.

You know you're not strong enough to do it yourself, but BH is. And anyone capable of taking down the son of a bitch who destroyed your home, your planet, your lover, is worthy of your trust.

So you bite your lip and bear it. You'll work something out.

ML: ok. I'll be there tomorrow @ 18:00, don't be late.

BH: k

You roll your eyes. Never mind.

With a heavy sigh, you carefully take out the picture/ only one you have of him. With your little girl in one arm and the other wrapped around your waist, he stares back at you with a grin. Bright, beautiful, alive.

"Don't worry, darling," you whisper, tracing the lines of his cheek and hair on the photograph. "We're one step closer to our goal. That bastard's a dead man walking now that we got BH on the case. They're good; strong and capable, I know they'll get the job done for us."

You gently press your lips over his image. And for a brief moment, you let yourself pretend that the paper is a good replacement for his callous skin.

"Once everything's done, I'll go over and join you and our girl. We'll be together again, I'm sure."

He smiles eternally at you, and you find yourself smiling back.

"Wish me luck, darling. Help me be strong."

[...]

His little girl adores you.

Each time he comes by the market, the first thing she whines for is to see the flowers. And you always indulge her, lifting her in your arms so you can show her all the pretty little blooms you have in your small cart. You give names to each one, tell her what they mean as though she understands you.

And you laugh. And he finds himself thinking that his little girl is a good judge of character, because he's starting to adore you too.

And it's becoming obvious, since Nick and Gray give him the occasional nab and jab, wondering out loud when they're going to see him get married and give them another grandchild. His siblings too, always cackling and yapping about how he might be the first to hang up his boots and settle down.

He rolls his eyes, but he's not too displeased by the idea. You're soft and sweet, with a kick of spice to match- the thought of settling down with you and Cherry on the farm is surprisingly sweet.

So he leaves Cherry to her loving grandparents and invites you out on a moonlit stroll through the hillside meadow, the one with the perfect view of the blooming moon lilies and the spring lake that reflects the starry night sky.

"I've never been here before," you gasp in awe, eyes aglow as you absorb the scenery. "It's beautiful."

"Yeah," he murmurs, gaze fixated on you and the moonlight in your eyes. "You are."

You turn your head, and your eyes meet. "Huh? Did you say something?"

"N- nothin'!" He faces the lake, and hopes you don't notice his red cheeks. "Said nothin'."

You laugh, and god, he melts at the sound. Then you rub the back of your head, and turn away, blushing. "I... I think you're very beautiful too."

His brain short-circuits. "Pretty... you think I'm..." Then he gasps dramatically. "So you did hear that! You sneaky mouse!"

He playfully tackles you, and you both laugh and chortle as you wrestle one another to the ground. But then he opens his eyes and finds himself on top of you, hands intertwined, faces so close he can feel your breath, smell your moon lily scent.

The moonlight bathes you in silver, and god, he wants to kiss you. He wants to kiss you senseless, run his callous hands on your soft skin, wrap your plush thighs around his hips and-

"Can I...?" he whispers, weak and wanting. "Just... just a taste, I swear..."

You stare up at him, eyes so big and wide that he swears the moon itself disappeared to light up your gaze, that he doesn't notice you untangling your hands from his until you wrap your arms around his neck.

"Just a taste, cowboy?" you tease. "You don't wanna try... anything else?"

You raise your hips and grind on his pelvis, and he moans and kisses you, hard.

Eager hands dart across skin, tearing off clothes. He runs his hands over your plush tummy, hooks your thighs around his hips and moans when he finally enters you.

He'll never forget this moment. Even if he were to die and be reborn, he'll never forget you. Your pleasured moans as he slides himself inside your tight heat, your teary smile as you open your arms to let him press his chest against yours, your starry eyes so full of love and desire that mirror his own.

You make love for hours, the stars and moon lilies your only witnesses.

"-hill. Boothill."

His eyes crack open.

Instead of a blooming moon lily meadow, he's in the underground repair shop.

Just a memory.

He rises with a groan, mechanical joints creaking from the lack of use. "Done already? I was havin' quite the nice dream."

The mechanic rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I can tell. Anyway, speed upgrades are done; the rest of your body is the same- sensory receptors are good, memory chip still intact, et cetera."

She rambles on and on; he's used to tuning her out at this point. As long as his body is in peak condition, he doesn't need to know what else extra she's stacked on him.

"-and the dick. Make sure to test it out at some point."

He blinks. "What'd ya say?"

She groans. "The dick, Boothill. Make sure to test it."

"What dick are ya talking about? If you're trying to say I'm a piece of shi-"

"I added a dick attachment to your body, dumbass." She points towards his crotch. "I had an extra one that I really need to get rid of, so I'm giving it to you. Use it, rip it up and toss it, I don't care- just get it off my back!"

And with no further explanation, the mechanic practically throws him out the store, slamming the door with extra ferocity. Boothill lies on the ground, blinking a few times in shock, before checking his pants, and lo and behold, there is a silicone dick attachment. Sensory receptors and everything, he hisses when he pokes lightly at it, the wires in his body jittering at the unfamiliar sensation.

Doe eyes and a teary smile flash in the back of his mind.

He suddenly jumps to his feet with a vengeance and slams on the door. "You cheating, deceitful shirt-bag! Take this fudging thing off right now! You hear me, woman?! Take this shirt off right now!"

He's no doubt starting a commotion, a crowd drawing in to witness his rage-induced ranting and raving. But then his phone dings, and he's forced to put a pin in it, taking out the shitty device to hear the alarm: Meeting with ML @ 18:00! Meeting with ML @ 18:00! Be there or be square!

Ah, shit.

He can't miss this meeting, not even to blow a hole right between that shitty mechanic's eyebrows. ML is too valuable to lose, having provided him with incredibly detailed information on Oswaldo Schneider and the IPC time and again. Almost as if they have an agenda against that sick bastard as well.

Well. The enemy of an enemy is a friend, right? He'll take what he can get. And if they end up turning their back, well, he's sure his bullet is faster than their legs.

So he leans to the door, whispers a deadly "I'll be back for you, baby," and dashes to his spaceship to head over to Mavorosa.

And as he's prepping for flight, he looks over at the picture on the dashboard.

It's the only one Boothill has of you. The three of you, together- him holding little Cherry in one arm and your waist in the other, you wrapping your arms around him and your baby girl with your sweet smile and moon lily eyes.

He brushes a metal fingertip over your face.

"Just hang in there, moon lily," he whispers, a clump in his throat. "We're one step closer; ML's got some good intel on the son of a nice lady that destroyed our planet- our home. That destroyed you."

Boothill lost the ability to cry long ago, but the corners of his eyes itch all the same. He gnaws on his lip so hard, drops of blue blood trickle down his chin.

"I swear to you, darlin', I'm gonna get our revenge against that beautiful bench. He'll wish he never set his filthy sights on our home once I'm through with him." He gently picks up the photo and presses his lips to your image. "And then I'll come home. To Cherry, Nick and Gray, my siblings. I'll come home to you. We'll get started on that house we talked about, maybe some runts so Cherry can be a big sister..."

He swallows, then carefully puts the photo back on the dashboard. The lump doesn't disappear, so once the spaceship is cruising through the stars to Mavorosa, he sets it on autopilot and descends into the belly to go to his chest of valuables. He opens it up and delicately takes out the moon lily crown.

The one he was working on for you, a promise of his undying devotion. Before the world exploded in fire and ash. Before the IPC decimated his family, the moon lily meadow... decimated you.

He closes his eyes and raises it to his face. Even preserved, the petals are still soft to the touch, and smell just as lovely.

Just like you.

He won't let your death be in vain. He won't.

The lump in his metal chest morphs into rage.

Boothill opens his eyes.

[...]

If not for the Stellaron, Mavorosa would be a wonderful planet. A once lively city now stands abandoned, its skyscrapers and glass structures being embraced by nature once again.

You stand on the rooftop, mask and voice synthesizer on, fidgeting with the USB, simply observing everything when-

"So this is what you look like. I thought you'd be bigger," a male voice calls behind you.

Your body freezes. That voice... it sounds like...

No. You must be wrong. Maybe you've been so lonely that every male voice just starts to sound like your deceased lover.

"I thought you'd be here earlier," you reply with your warped voice. "Time is precious to you and me both, BH."

"Sorry, had to wrap up some... personal stuff on my end. I'm here now, ain't I?" The oh-so-familiar yet distant voice chuckles. "Well. Business ain't gonna settle itself. Where's the drive?"

"Where's the payment? We both know I don't work free."

He huffs. "Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Don't worry, I got your cash. Just fork over the drive, no need to make things difficult, not after everything, yeah? Haven't I earned your trust by now?"

"You realize how difficult face-to-face is? It takes a substantial amount of effort to get this intel, not to mention the possibility of being-" You turn around in your exasperation-

And you drop the USB.

Tall and metal. Flowing black-and-white hair. Piercing gray-and-red eyes. Sharp teeth.

"Y'know, I've always wanted to be a gunslinger, just like Nick," [???] cackled, whipping out his revolver and making dramatic poses with it. "Maybe be one of those boothills of legend."

"I'd rather you not," you murmured as you brushed off some dirt off of his shirt. "Those boothills always died on their feet. I'd rather you not die at all."

He softened, and with a smile, he put down his gun and sidled up to you, bringing you in his embrace, warm and strong. You breathed in his comforting scent and sighed happily.

"Don't you worry about that, hun." He kissed your cheek, then square on your mouth. "I ain't goin' nowhere. You can't get rid of me that easy!"

BH. Boothill.

How could you not notice earlier?

Your mouth dries. You can't move a muscle.

It's him. Mechanical, but very much alive.

"Hey, watch the merchandise!" he hisses, pointing at the fallen USB. "I need that, don't you forget it!"

"How are you..." you weakly gasp, then you grab the USB. "Here. Take it. Forget the money."

You slide it over to him, and he stops it with his foot. But his eyes narrow at you.

"Whaddaya mean, 'How are you,' huh?" He walks towards you, slow and leisurely, like a coyote cornering its helpless prey. "You say that like you're shocked I'm still around. What'd ya do, huh? Sell me off to the IPC?"

"No!" you cry, shocked. "I would never-!"

"Why so jittery, partner? What are you hiding?" He smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "How about a show of trust, huh? You take off that cute little mask of yours, I don't shoot you dead, and we keep our little arrangement goin'. Sound fair?"

You turn around, eyes searching for an escape route.

Aeons above, you need to leave. You can't show him your face. You can't remind him of everything he lost, the people he couldn't save. You can't hurt him any more than you already have. You're afraid. You want to hide. You're selfish. You want to tell him. You're in love.

You want to die. You want the ground to swallow you alive. You want to hole away in your shack and wallow in your grief, descend into a spiral of what-ifs: what if you tried harder to find him? What if you searched the whole IPC ship you snuck on trying to resolve things peacefully until you found him? What if you ran out earlier and tried to bring him with you? What if, what if, what if-

"Now that you got some measure of my grit," he whispers in your ear, suddenly standing behind you, "I'm sure you know how this ends, yeah? C'mon now, take it off."

You pant heavily, head dizzy with his close proximity- god, even with the metal, he still smells the same. "I- I can't-"

"Feelin' shy? Alright, I'll do it for you."

"No! Please, no!" You swat at his hands and try to break free of his iron grip, but he grabs you hard and pulls you against his chest.

He cackles, metallic and bitter. "And here I thought I finally had an ally, but no- you're just like the rest of 'em shirt-bags." He whips out his revolver and raises it to your head. "Take. It. Off. Now."

You want to cry. You don't want to hurt him.

Slowly, with trembling hands, you take off your mask...

And his gun falls to the floor.

Doe eyes. Soft cheeks. Scars. Floral scent.

"What made you wanna be a florist?" he asked you once, helping you water the rainbow roses. "They're pretty and all, don't get me wrong. But don't you want somethin' more exciting?"

"On the contrary, I think they're very exciting," you explained. "They all have their unique personality; some need lots of love and care, and others don't mind if you go missing for a week or two. There's flowers that only stay with you for so long, and there are others that will love you for as long as you'll let them."

He grunted. "Sounds like you'd do just fine without me."

"Oh, please." You put down your watering can and embraced him from behind. And just as planned, he melted at your touch. "Moon lilies love the moon, but they need the sun to grow. And that's exactly what you are to me."

"The moon?"

"The sun."

ML. Moon lily.

It's so obvious, how did he not realize it sooner?

He lets you go. You immediately stumble away from him, hands covering your face in shame.

Boothill has no lungs, yet he feels his chest collapse.

"(Y/N)?" he calls to you, weak and desperate. "Moon lily? That's really you, right?" He reaches out, hand shaking. But when he grazes your shoulder, you hunch further into yourself. "I- I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to scare ya. Please..."

Boothill willingly let go of his humanity. But right here, right now, he wishes he still had his skin.

"Please, darlin'... turn around? Let me see you, please."

You shiver, tears spilling down your cheeks, and slap a hand over your mouth. You can't hurt him, you'll never hurt him. "I can't... I can't see you."

His body wants to collapse. He wants to grab you by your shoulders and kiss you senseless, look at you from head to toe and sing praises to Lan for protecting you and keeping you safe.

But you won't see him. You won't turn around.

"Why?" he whines, like a pleading child. "Why not?"

"Because I'm not the same anymore!" you sob. "I'm not your moon lily anymore! I don't want to remind you of everything you lost! I don't want to hurt you anymore! You don't know the things I've done, the blood I spilled, all to destroy the IPC!" You sink to the floor in despair, echoes of the dead haunting you, swarming your mind. "I can't bear to see you hate me for being alive when everyone else died. I already hate myself so much, hated myself because I couldn't save anyone else! I thought I lost you, but now I realize I didn't search for you at all! I didn't even try to find you, I..."

You cry and sob and scream. You pound the floor with your fists. You pull at your hair, your clothes, your skin, so hard that drops of blood water the cement.

Boothill's eyes itch with tears that will never spill. His chest burns with a profound grief that will never truly be his own.

"You think I don't feel that way about myself?" he finally whispers. Bravely, he takes a step closer to you. "From the moment the bombs fell, I was never the same. I changed too much to be that man you met at the market- hell, I don't even have the body anymore." He sits just behind you, close to touch but not close enough. "The blood I spilled would be enough to fill oceans. But I'm still here. I still remember everything. I still remember you." His hand, feather-light, brushes your arm. You don't pull away. "I thought I lost you. When I went back to the ranch and couldn't find anyone there, I thought you were one of the piles of ashes on the ground." He chokes as he speaks, but he pushes on. "I never hated myself more. I failed to save them; I failed to save you."

You shake your head, but he gently rests his head on your back, right between your shoulder blades. He breathes you in- dust, machine oil, and moon lilies.

You smell so alive.

"How could you think I'd ever hate you," he whimpers, "when there's no one I hate more than myself? No, sweetheart, I could never hate you. I never will. Nothing you do could ever make me hate you. So please, turn around..." He grabs a fistful of your shirt and tugs. "I'm begging you. Let me see your face, please."

Your heart breaks. You couldn't fathom how much he suffered, how lonely he must have felt, the self-loathing that coursed through his wires every time he looked in the mirror.

Just like you.

"Don't hate yourself," you sniffle, rubbing your eyes. "Nothing you do could ever make me hate you either. What happened wasn't your fault; you didn't know what the IPC was going to do until it happened."

He lets out a small huff. "I could easily say the same about you. It wasn't your fault either- neither of us could've known until it was too late."

You exhale shakily. "Do you really mean it? Not hating me?"

Boothill smiles. "Every word."

For a moment, you're afraid. What if he doesn't like what he sees? You know he's not a superficial man, but you're still not the sweet florist he remembers anymore.

You suck in a deep breath. He's not the same man you remember, but he's still your cowboy, your Boothill.

Slowly, you turn around, and...

Oh. His face is just how you remember. His beautiful silky hair, the red targets in his eyes still framed within familiar stormy gray. When you reach out with trembling hands to cup his smooth cheeks, he melts in your touch just how he always did.

And melt he does. He nearly moans at your soft touch, pressing his cheek into your palms to keep your focus on him. He drinks up every detail of your face and commits it to memory- your beautiful moony eyes and the dark circles under them, the faintest hint of a scar curling from the edge of your jawline into your neck, your soft hair that smells of moon lilies.

You're still you, the sweet florist he fell in love with all those years ago. And now you've returned to him, and this time, he'll never let you go.

He sits you on his lap and embraces you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and savoring your scent. You wrap your legs around his waist and make yourself comfortable, admiring his metal body, tracing patterns into the steel.

"I love you," he whispers with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I never stopped loving you, not for one second."

"I'm sorry I didn't look for you," you confess. "But I kept you in my heart every day. Even when we weren't together, you were always a part of me."

"I'm here now." He pulls away to admire you, his thumb brushing your bottom lip as he gazes at you with what you could only describe as reverence. "I'm right here with you. I'm not leaving you ever again."

Boothill didn't realize how much his world lacked color until he kisses you, but now he swears he can see every color in the spectrum flash before his eyes. You taste just how he remembers, sweet and salty with your tears. When you pull away for air, he dives back in to reclaim your lips, hooking a hand around your neck to keep you in place.

He won't let you slip from his fingers again. And you clearly feel the same way, because you tangle your hands with his hair and tug him closer, pulling him on top of you.

"Please don't be a dream," you cry in his shoulder, and it damn near breaks his heart. "I don't want to wake up if it is."

"Darlin', those dreams are better off in Penacony; I'm right here. Does this," he kisses your cheek, "or this," he squeezes your ass and relishes in your squeal, "or this..." He grinds into you, and you gasp, squeezing his shoulders with a whimper. And fuck, maybe he was a bit too harsh with that mechanic, he should send her flowers or something, because your face contorted in shock and a hint of reawakened pleasure is a drug he will happily become addicted to. He nibbles on your ear and whispers, "Any of that feel like a dream to you?"

"...No." You stare at him, moon lily eyes abloom with hearts and love and fuck, he wants you, he needs you.

And your eyes are reflected in his, because you're so captivated by how the targets in his gaze morph into blood red hearts that drip with love and devotion. You want to give him everything, bring him under your skin and into your heart so you'll never be separated again.

"I love you." You smile and open your arms for him. "Let's never be apart again."

Boothill's brain short-circuits. He can only remember the minutiae of what happens next- tearing off your clothes, your hands running across his metallic chest, his sensors working in overdrive to let him process your touch, your smell, your taste, as he kisses, nibbles and sucks his way across the canvas of your body to reach your core.

But just as he's about to taste your liquid gold, you tug on his hair. He immediately moves up to your face, nuzzling into your neck to comfort you.

"What's wrong, moon lily? I'll be gentle, I promise," he reassures you, but you bite your lip and shake your head.

"I know. But I don't want that right now; I want you to fuck me."

You spread your legs, once again revealing your soaking pussy to his hungry eyes, and fuck, his mouth goes dry at the exquisite feast before him. And his new dick feels the same way, as the electricity in his body jolts it to life, straining against his pants.

He swallows. "Yeah, baby. I want you too, but I gotta prep ya, or it's gonna hurt."

"Don't care!" you whine, and on Lan's Arrow, you're so cute with your pouting and wailing. "I need you, Hillie, I need it, I need it-!"

Ah, fuck. He can't say no to you, and he won't start now.

So he rips off his pants, and after a few quick pumps of his new cock (yeah, he'll send some flowers to the mechanic as a thank-you), he grabs hold on your hips and thrusts forward.

You shriek at the burning sensation, scrambling for grip on his shoulders as he penetrates deeper and deeper. Fuck, it's been so long since you had sex of any kind, and it shows. You moan loudly, shamelessly, so sensitive to the buttons his cock presses perfectly against your walls, that you cum instantly when he bottoms out, hips meeting yours with a soft thud.

"Fuuudge," Boothill groans, each syllable drawn out in pleasure, "you're so tight, sugar~ I can't even move..."

His brain might just melt from the overload of sensations. Your pussy's so tight, so wet, he's damn sure he near ascended to aeonhood. And your face is so adorable when cumming, he makes sure to engrave every part of it into his neurochip and brush the hair out of your eyes, moving his hips in slow, shallow thrusts, guiding you out of the afterglow.

When you finally blink the stars out of your eyes, you see Boothill hovering above you, rubbing your cheek with hearts in his eyes.

"God, you're so fudgin' gorgeous." He grins, sharp teeth glinting in the dim light, and a shiver of excitement runs down your spine. "Think you got another for me?"

You whine, "Still sensi- AH!"

He immediately sets a vigorous pace, hips slamming against yours in a hypnotic rhythm. He fixates on your breasts, and leans over to take a hard nipple in his mouth to suck and lick and nibble. You squeal and pull on his hair. He bites your skin in retaliation.

"Easy, moon lily," he moans, quickly stifling it with a kiss. "Hold on to me."

He grabs under your arms and lifts you onto his lap. His cock sinks impossibly deeper inside you, the tip nudging at your cervix. With a shriek, you bite his neck to try and ease the discomfort, but it only excites him more. With a guttural groan, he thrusts up into your sopping hole, bouncing you up and down with rough hands to set an even rougher pace.

You're still so sensitive; too much, too fast, and his cock fits so snugly inside you that you're already spiraling towards another release. But you don't want to make that journey alone, you want Boothill beside you.

So you grab his face and devour his mouth, pressing your tongue against his to savor his metallic taste. He moans against your lips, hips stuttering in an effort to keep up with you.

"Wanna make you feel good," you pant heavily. You carefully slide up and down on his thick cock, head thrown back as it hits your sweet spot. "Wanna... wanna cum with you!"

"Y- you are, baby," he groans against your neck, each word punctuated with a deep thrust. "You're makin' me feel so- darn- good-"

You're so close, you can see the faintest glimmer of stars again. Or maybe that was the sparks from his body as it overworks to keep his sensors running, so he can keep feeling you, tasting you, fucking you.

"Hillie," you gasp when the stars start to overwhelm you. "Hillie, I-"

"I know, baby, let go, I'm right with ya." He kisses you, over and over, thrusts sloppy as he chases his high, sensors working overdrive, wires sparking to further push him over the edge. "I'm- fudge, fudge, fudge-!"

He chokes, and you both come undone together, chasing that relentless wave of pleasure side by side. Stars collide and burst in showers of gold and silver, and your strength all but fails you, so you collapse in Boothill's arms, rubbing your cheek on his cool chest.

He catches his breath, letting his sensors rest as he basks in that afterglow. His wires are probably fried after such an intense sensory overload, but he can't bring himself to give a damn. Not when you're sitting so pretty in his arms, eyes just barely able to stay open.

You're so cute when you're sleepy, it's hard to not bite your cheek like he used to do. But tonight, he'll be generous and resist the temptation; you need your rest.

He runs a hand through your hair, and he once again finds himself wishing he still had his skin. But he sets that aside, preferring to be lost in your sleepy smile instead.

"Love you, Hillie," you coo drowsily, head nodding off.

"I love you more, moon lily," he whispers back with a kiss to your forehead.

In a moment, he'll bring you on his spaceship and clean you up, then tuck you in the spare bunk next to his charging port. He'll have to look at that USB you painstakingly put together for him sooner or later.

But for now, right here, he's not going anywhere.

His moon lily came back to him.

Boothill has finally returned home.

[Post-Credit]

"What the actual hell is this..." the mechanic sighs as she stares at the large bouquet of blue flowers.

She wonders if she should toss them out before she notices the card.

Thanks for the added bonus, Doc! - BH & ML

Her eyebrows raise. The handwriting's too nice and legible to be that Galaxy Ranger's, so...

She chuckles. "I figured it'd come in handy sooner or later."

She sets the bouquet on her desk and continues on with her work.

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

A/N: holy shirtballs BOOOTHILL MY LOVE AAAAAAAHSHDHDBSK I LOVE HIM SO MUCH LIKE I NEVER LOVED A CHARACTER BEFORE

...if only he loved me back just the slightest, cuz I lost 50/50 and went hard pity to get him. But I did win his lightcone so I guess it's even...?

[lazycats-stuff]

Hey cats, I was the one who sent you that anon that's alright with me, I don't mind but is an gen z reader yeeted to the dc verse be okay? I could picture Bruce almost growing white hair because of reader who is an epitome of ✨unhealthy coping mechanism✨

Oh yeah, a reader just yeeted in there... Some universe doing some shit and Bruce adopts him... While also losing his mind. I love it. Lets go. It's a bit short, but... I like it.

Summary: (Y/N) is Gen Z. Bruce is loosing his mind.

Warnings: unhealthy coping mechanisms, Gen Z ones at that.

Bruce knew that each generation is different. They have different opinions, don't like to be told what to do exactly, although that's more specific to the newer generations. That is something that Bruce knew all to well. Gen Z wanting to have a balance between work and personal business. Bruce could respect that. But one other thing that shocked Bruce about Gen Z is the fact they have so many unhealthy coping mechanisms.

How would Bruce know?

He has adopted a teen who simply got, according to Jason and other younger heroes, yeeted into their universe. Universe where Justice League and it's heroes are real. And where DC comic universe is real. (Y/N) was forced to explain to the entire Justice League what DC is, what does it contain. And that has only applied to comic books. Then he had to explain cartoons, movies, video games... Absolutely everything.

Bruce found it to be interesting, the entire multiverse essentially, all of them are carefully planned out... Bruce found them to also be a great source of information. What to avoid, what to do... It was an incredible well of information and has decided to investigate this even more.

And while doing so, keep (Y/N) close to make sure that he has the information he needs.

And while (Y/N) is a nice kid, he has some unhealthy... Coping mechanisms as he calls them.

First one being jokes. Humor is something that can help a person if they feel down. Or if they simply want to deflect. And (Y/N)'s sense of humor is rather... Dark, to say the very least. Bruce would more often than not get gray hairs if he heard (Y/N) joking about his will to live being gone. He knows that (Y/N) is not suicidal... Right?

Humor is simply used to deflect... Right?

Bruce didn't quite like how (Y/N) was chronically online. Sure, teens spend time on their phone, but this is borderline an addiction. Bruce has tried to solve the problem with putting restrictions, taking the phone away. Put settings that don't allow (Y/N) to be online from certain times. That was to try to make (Y/N) sleep better, since he's clearly online into the late hours of the night.

Bruce simply wants the only child in the house who is not on patrol to have a normal sleeping schedule. Is that a crazy thing to ask for? It should be a normal thing to ask for, right? Being chronically online is far from good. Far, far, from good.

Also, hyper fixation.

(Y/N) was more invested in fiction rather than reality. Which would be fine. If it didn't interfere with his life. In what way, I might hear you asking? He's been neglecting his hygiene, gets angsty and anxious if he is not near his hyper fixation. Bruce never knew that Gen Z is this... Bruce shouldn't say annoying, but this was getting out of hand. Rather fast.

Bruce had to take action.

Otherwise he would get a lot more grey hairs. Way more. Way more.

" (Y/N), go to sleep. " Bruce pleaded, suited up and ready to go on patrol, however, he can't go, knowing that (Y/N) won't go to sleep. And everyone needs their 7 to 9 hours of sleep. Besides Bruce and the boys that are... On their night job. To put it mildly.

" I'm not tired Bruce. "

A common response in the most recent days from (Y/N) to Bruce.

" I swear to God, I'll sedate you with ketamine if you don't go to sleep. I'll knock you out with it to the point you'll be sleeping for days. " Bruce threatened and then came the infamous two words.

Alright, bet.

Bruce was seeing red at the mere thought of those words. They were both taunting and dismissive. Not something to be saying to an already stressed father anyway. And while Bruce has grown to love (Y/N) as his son, he was going to lose his mind with him.

" Alright, here's a deal. You go to sleep and sleep through the night and I'll take you to see your favorite artist. "

(Y/N) tilted his head, frowning.

" Promise? "

" I promise you. I swear it to you. I'll get you VIP tickets. I'll make sure to take you myself and pull strings. But for the love of God and everything else, go to sleep! "

[seraphdreams]

DREAMIN' — underground racing miniseries.

“being a pretty flag girl is more than waving around banners and wearing cute skirts.”

WARNINGS. this series contains an ungodly amount of smut. reader discretion is advised. topics explored are: gangbanging, drugs, gang activities, semi-dark content, weapons, dub/noncon. each fic will be tagged with its own warnings. 18+ only.

NOTE. finally putting out this series that i’ve been thinking about for a while now. i hope you all enjoy it. each fic is inspired by a song so listen to them!

— STARTING LINE UP.

PART I — NO PHOTOS.

SHIBUYA CITY CHAMPION, BAJI KEISUKE GOES HEAD TO HEAD WITH KAZUTORA HANEMIYA.

PART II — BLINDING LIGHTS.

BRAHMAN’S PRINCESS RACES AGAINST BONTEN’S MASTERMIND, MANJIROU SANO.

PART III — P POWER.

DRAKEN V. HANMA SHUJI.

PART IV — TASTE.

IZANA KUROKAWA FLIES ALL THE WAY FROM MANILA TO RACE AGAINST BEST FRIEND, KAKUCHO HITTO!

PART V — TO BE ANNOUNCED.

Bonten had somewhat of a ritual. It wasn’t anything too crazy like pentagrams or summoning the dead relatives of their victims, but something that made them, them. It was the driving force of all their operations, the sole source that kept the organization afloat. When things went awry they knew they could always count on this one thing, something minor yet major.

Money.

Money granted them connections to criminal organizations around the world. Allies established, and enemies gained. The issue here was that Bonten was bored. All the money in the world couldn’t snatch them from their odd day to day realities of being glorified hitmen, they needed excitement. Something new.

“Any ideas?” All 8 of the men sat around the large lacquered oak table with a particular noble at the forefront. He wore a black suit with a white tie that complimented the strands atop his head. His gaze was empty, as if the light had died out ages ago. There’s two standing beside him, one with a blond skunk strip and slick back hair, the other with the same style except it was platinum all around and a short beard adorned the lower half of his face.

If you didn’t know them, you’d steer clear—They looked intimidating, terrifying almost. You knew Bonten too well though; under all that hardened criminalism were just regular salarymen.

You stood next to where Koko sat. A snarky young man with low patience. It’s hard for you to get under his skin like the others do, and though he’d never admit it, he did have a thing for his little assistant. “We already do so much, I doubt taking on other projects would benefit us financially.” Koko retorts to Mikey’s query. His hands are folded under his chin, propping his head up as if he was bored of the conversation that only lasted two minutes so far.

“Look at you only thinkin’ ‘bout a quick buck. Ya never change, do ya?” It was Sanzu who spoke. Eccentric as he is, when Mikey was in the room he was loyal like a dog. He was one of the many variables that contributed to Kokonoi’s premature graying. Never have they ever gotten along.

“It’s not always about profit. We could expand territory and utilize it for something bigger like weapon trade, or women.” The eldest Haitani spoke. You favored something about him, possibly the eyes or his charismatic nature. He was a caring soul as well, he put his brother above his own life whether Rindou liked it or not. “Bouncing off Ran’s idea, what about Okinawa?” Kakucho uttered.

Usually you tuned out business talk, it wasn’t important to your job. All you were paid to do was look pretty and occasionally pass out paperwork, but the topic at hand piqued your interest. Hitto continues, “We own land in Okinawa, we could build another headquarters there, a casino maybe?”

It seemed as though Manjiro finally took his children into consideration, nodding along with the conversation. “A casino is for idiots, let’s do underground racing.” Sanzu adds. There’s silence and judgmental stares before Mikey finally allows himself to speak once more. “I like it.”

“You can’t be serious, Boss?” Takeomi asks from his spot behind. “How can we even—”

It’s Hajime who interjects this time, the wheels seemingly turning in his head. “If we combine both Hitto and his idea, we could host bets and call in racers. I’m thinking motorcycles over cars. We can’t risk importing illegal vehicles overseas.”

That was just it. The very proposal that’ll put words to action. With a seance of agreeances, Mikey turns to Rindou for finalization. “Make it happen, Haitani.” Rin nods before taking a quick glance at you and back to his leader. “A flag girl’ll be nice too, preferably a hot bimbo.”

You were too fixated on checking your fresh manicure to feel the stares of all the men burning into your frame. The clearing of Kakucho’s throat pulls you from your focus and you finally make the realization. “Hm?”

Mikey tunes his attention back to Rindou, the one notorious for his connections with about any and everyone. “Call up your best racers and fly them to Okinawa. Set up a hotel and headquarters while you’re at it. Let’s take a little business trip.”

With the meeting adjourned, the plan sets in motion.

[oonajaeadira]

That Awoooo Inside You, Pt. 1

Fandom: The Wild Robot / Fink the Fox

Pairing: Fink <3s OFC fox

Rating: G all the way, don’t worry. This is keeping in the world and disgustingly wholesome. Prolly too clean for tumbles 😆

Warnings: None. It’s for cuteness and for heart.

Summary: After the events of The Wild Robot, a new resident joins the island.

A/N: Listen. This is just for fun. I love a fox character and I love a sassmaster with a gooey center and my heart melted for Fink. He is very lovable. As @something-tofightfor mentioned in a chat with me, “he just wanted to matter to someone.” I totally agree. In keeping with the frank but sweet style of the movie, I just ached to give Fink a silly little sequel and it feels in bad practice to keep it locked up when I’ve had such blockage lately. Thank you for indulging my exercise.

It was a mild spring evening like any other, the sun going down as Fink bounded back inland, his belly nearly dragging on the ground after an afternoon of digging clams and catching fish. If it hadn’t been for Roz, he’d just be waking up for the evening, getting ready to hunt mice and rabbits. But thanks to Roz, he couldn’t bring himself to eat them anymore. He couldn’t eat his friends.

He smiled warmly. Friends.

And thanks to Roz, there was a soft, mossy green bed for him to curl up in after gorging himself on the pantry of the sea. It was waiting for him just ahead, its siren song of comfort and sleep calling out to him. Why be a hunter in the cold night when you can fish in the warm sun and sleep in a warm basket? What a life he’d lucked into.

Suddenly though, the spring evening like-any-other shifted into something else entirely when he was hit with a scent so new and wondrous that his quick feet stumbled to a stop just before the hut came into view. Putting his nose to the wind he let it wash over him and the scent ran through him like fire, tingled like a storm in the air, chattered his jaw and set every hair on end…

But in a really, really delicious way.

Obsession was something he was used to, but this was intense. He had to find it. Had to paw at it and roll in it. He needed it ground deep into his fur and he was running full out before he realized it, not off into the woods but to familiar ground, to his very own home.

“Your tail’s all puffed out,” Thorn noted as Fink came through the opening. “Someone chasin’ you? That’s my job.”

The bear gave a low laugh and Fink ignored him, hastily scanning the hut for the source of his agitation, not caring so much that his tail was puffy, but he couldn’t stop it twitching. “What… what what is that smell?”

“Oh. That’s probably her.” Thorn heaved himself off his big furry butt and stepped to the side, revealing Fink’s bed and the creature sleeping in it. “Found her washed up on the shore. Still alive. Barely. Thought you wouldn’t mind if I brought her here–”

“It’s a…fox. Another fox.” Fink stood aghast. He hadn’t seen a fox on this part of the island for most of his life. His mother had driven him off as soon as she was going to have another litter and the only other foxes around had been bigger males or his sisters, so he had run for days hoping to find a territory where he wouldn’t be bitten and bullied and kicked around by them. He’d found this corner of the island to be lonely, but at least he wouldn’t get himself killed over territory disputes. And then, of course came Roz and Brightbill and then this corner hadn’t been so lonely after all. It had seemed a fair trade to make; with such a warm, accepting new family, he’d never even stopped to wish for someone of his own ilk.

But now…

“She is?” Thorn mused. “Never seen a white fox before. Just thought she was a kind of weasel or something.”

Fink’s nose twitched. “No. She’s definitely fox.” Slowly approaching the bed, he craned around to get a better look at her sleeping face tucked halfway under her gray-tipped tail. She was small and her features were a little more delicate, but that scent couldn’t be denied. “Definitely.”

Another fox! Here! Where did she come from? How did she survive into maturity with that coloring in the wild? Was she friendly? She’d have to be taught the rules of their community. She’d need a place to stay…well, here, of course, with himself. No doubt. Foxes united. Was she clever? Another fox could help keep the raccoons in order. Would she be in pain when she woke up? No visible injuries. Would she be hungry?

Fink gasped.

Another chuckle from the bear. “Well that’s just great. Now there’s two of ‘em. Dandy.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Fink turned and ran for the door. “If she wakes up before I get back, don’t let her leave!”

“Where you goin’?”

“River! Fish!”

Darting under fallen trees and skipping over the bank stones, making the grasses into a blurring tunnel of green, Fink made quick work of the path to the river. Getting a fish under duress and desperation was less than graceful though, slipping off the tree spanning the water and falling in, swimming halfway to shore before surrendering the indignity of being wet and turning around to paddle back to the center of the stream and bite bite bite at the water where the fish were jumping in the twilight as they came up to the surface for bugs. By the time he returned to the hut with a fish in his jaws the sun was finally down.

There were a number of animals sitting in the meadow outside of the shelter when he arrived, sitting up on their haunches and vying for a view, attracted by the noise of spitting and snarling, of Thorn bellowing reassurances, and a great deal of scampering happening inside. It seemed their guest was awake. Fink had to paw at the bear’s backside to get into the hut–Thorn was plugging the entrance with his body–and was able to squeeze through in a moment of silence.

The hut was in chaos, everything that could be upturned had been, and the white fox herself was at the side furthest from the door, braced and ready to spring, exhausted and panting, seemingly fighting for her life. She was now ashy as the shadows inside the hut; it seemed she’d fallen into the cold fire pit at one point, her bright coat splotched with soot.

“I keep tryin’ to tell her she’s safe but she doesn’t wanna believe me,” the bear moaned, his defensive roar shaking the walls.

Dropping the fish, Fink rolled his eyes. “Gee. I wonder why.” He took a few steps toward the newcomer. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry this big lug scared you–”

“Oh right,” she panted. “Why would I be afraid of two predators that are keeping me trapped in a cave and won’t let me leave????”

“Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa,” Fink flinched at her ferocity. He couldn’t blame her for going on defense, but he knew he had to calm her down fast before her flight instincts led her to hurt herself. He put on his gentlest voice. “You can leave, I promise you. But? Weeeeee need your help first.”

This threw her off, her breath catching and her eyes darting between Thorn and Fink in the darkness. 

Her eyes— one dark and one light–

“Help you? Help with what?”

It was working. Her panting slowed and her shoulders began to relax. Fink sneezed in a show of playfulness and gave a sideways glance to his quarry. “I came all the way back from the river to bring you this feast and it’s just gonna rot and stink up the hut if you don’t eat it.”

“I’ll eat it,” Thorn offered, earning a jab in the belly from Fink.

She continued to watch them a moment before slowly sitting back on her sooty haunches and considering. “I don’t get it. What’s the catch.”

“Trout, by the taste of it,” Fink sassed, sighing in mock dismay. “A little embarrassing, if I’m being honest. I’ve caught bigger, but I was in a hurry and they tend to be slippery. I had to take what I could get and–”

“I mean, what do you want?” She wasn’t amused. But she was calmer. 

“I…want you to…eat the fish?”

She huffed, squinting at them. “Why don’t one of you eat it?”

“Because we’re not hungry.” Returning to sincerity, Fink took up the fish and walked it around the central fire pit closer to her, stopping just as a twitch in her side warned that she might run. Laying it on the ground gently and turning his back on her to show trust, he resumed a sitting spot near Thorn at the door. “You’re new here. A guest. And we have rules. And rules are, the animals around here are all friends. Well, mostly. We don’t eat guests. And we don’t eat friends. And we don’t let guests eat friends. Or squirrels.”

“But… you’re predators,” she countered weakly, the fish beginning to pull her focus.

“We aaaare,” Fink conceded. “But? There’s enough bugs and shellfish around here for everyone, and plenty of good roots and berries. Someone really special made us understand that we survive better when we’re counting on each other instead of chomping on each other. My big friend here found you and brought you here to help you survive. You seem to be doing nicely with that and you can go, but we’d like to send you off with a full belly so you’re not tempted to eat any of our pals on the way out, capiche?” 

“So you’re not going to kill me.”

Fink and Thorn’s heads swung in unison.

“Too pretty to kill,” Thorn mumbled. Both foxes stared up at him. “What. I’ve never seen fur so white. She glows in the dark.”

They followed his gaze up to the round vent hole in the roof where the moonlight was shining in. The parts of her coat that weren’t besmirched with soot reflected it brilliantly, bluish-white in the darkness of the hut.

And perhaps it was the moonlight or perhaps it was her hunger, but something in her changed just then, grew softer, let go. And thanks to Roz, Fink had learned to see it.

“I’m Fink,” he said. “This collection of fur and odors is Thorn. You can stay as long as you want. Or you can go…but there are more who would probably like to meet you. Thorn? Move it. Let the lady pass if she wants.”

The bear stepped away from the door and let more of the moon in, catching the fish in its sparkling light. Beyond, it also illuminated the clearing outside and the crowd of animals there, predators and prey alike, peacefully side-by-side, trying to get a peek at the newcomer. 

Her eyes–one dark, one light– reflected the moon and her tentative decision not to run. “I’m Farrah,” she said with careful unveiling trust, before settling down and digging into the meal.

A collection of tiny possum voices called from outside. "Nice to meet you, Farrah! Welcome! We're glad you're not dead!"

Thorn bumbled about the hut, tipping things back into place with his nose, trying not to amble too close to Farrah or scare her while Fink simply laid down and, crossing his paws in silence, watched her eat.

Not so long ago, he was just like her. They all were. In one short year, a robot–a machine with a heart–had come and shown them all a better way to live. And for a while, Fink was happy. He had love and family; he mattered to someone. To many someones.

But he hadn’t considered that he might ever matter the most to one specific someone. 

Not until now, at least.

It was spring on the island. And he was a fox. He did foxy things. And maybe one of those things was finally considering what it might be like for a specific someone to matter the most to him.

---

PART 2

SERIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

[captainuranium543]

Fairy tail headcannon a nobody wanted at all😊

- most of the dragon slayers+erza eat bugs regularly and it's gross AF to everyone

-Natsu because he grew up in the woods and they were like the number one abundant source of food, same for Wendy but she stopped for a while because Carla told her it was nasty (as soon as she joined the fairy tail guild she reverted so incredibly fast)

-gajeel pretends to thinks it's gross but secretly he really likes the taste he just doesn't wanna have that in common with natsu

- erza and Erik because in the evil slave tower where everyone was starving if you found a bug you ate it before anyone else could grab it from you.

- sting did not do that growing up but started when natsu told him it was good, he does not agree but does it anyway so natsu thinks he's cool

- rogue only tried it a couple times because frosch wanted to try it to be more like a frog and rogue is nothing if not supportive

- laxus grew up normal and thinks all of them are disgusting

- Lucy has the WORST financial skills. Legit they are awful. Everyone thinks she's always broke cuz of the tpd (team property damage) constantly making them lose their reward to repair bills but (while that is a factor) when Lucy sees smth cute that would look great in her apartment she just cannot help herself. Lucy will be so careful trying to save her money then she'll see a new set of stationary and goes "haha rent what rent"

- the hand me down game at fairy tail was fucking insane when they where kids. For levy and lisanna basically everything they owned had been passed down like 6 times already

- that red shirt natsu wore in the flashbacks? Before him it was erza's, and before her it was canas, and before her it was laxus.

- gray wears almost exclusively white jackets because jackets are expensive and if he loses them he would rather they be easy to spot so he can find them again rather then have to buy a new one

- sometimes people will invite erza places for the scary dog privilege when they dont want to be bothered by strangers. Erza has no idea thats the reason she just thought people really liked walking with her through rough parts of town in the middle of the night.

- Carla and lilly have insane beef, for no damn reason. Like both of them are fairly polite so neither will say it openly but every conversation between the two is the most passive aggressive petty insult battle you could imagine

- freed, levy, Lucy and later jellal have a book club where they all meet up and talk about whatever they're reading and play Scrabble and talk a lot of shit about their annoying ass friends.

- happy sometimes comes but he is under no circumstances allowed to bring natsu(he knows what he did)

- when erza met seigrain/jellal in the magic counsel she first tried to attack him, when that proved to be a bad idea she later started specifically destroying stuff under his jurisdiction to make sure he had to deal with as much paperwork as possible

- for her modelling, Mira used to use a very light spray of holy water to remove body hair because it burns it off💀

- wendy romeo and chelia are actually best friends like they are constantly hanging out together just to go do stuff

- erza and Erik hate each other for no reason at all. Like over that year that she worked with crime sorciere they where ALWAYS BEEFING. Every time they were near each other erza was thinking insults she knew he could hear and Erik was fighting for his life not to strangle her to death.

When erza became sclass she used to sit on the 5th step of the stairs because Mira wasn't allowed on those stairs yet and it really pissed her off. She was like, just barely out of reach, so Mira would stand at the bottom the stairs yelling death threats at her and erza would be like "whattt I'm not doing anything I don't even know what your talking about in literally just sitting what are you so mad about"

- when Warren invented cellphones, despite all of them looking like modern smartphones, freed somehow managed to get one that looked exactly like a Blackberry and refuses to get a different one

- Mira used to cut her siblings hair and because she didn't know any good haircuts yet her 2 options where 1- bald or 2- bowl cut. Hence lisannas horrifying cut as a child

[sl-newsie]

American Woman (Thomas Shelby x American OC) Ch. 62: Don't Count On my Sympathy

Masterlist: https://www.tumblr.com/sl-newsie/739551758747090944/american-woman-thomas-shelby-x-american-oc?source=share

I can’t believe I’m doing this. Surely Ada is exaggerating Thomas’ reaction to my coldness. If he’s survived this long on the love of whores and Lizzie then there is no reason for him to act so hurt. 

I’m really doing this. Driving to the home of the man who broke my life. Arrow House is straight ahead, pale against the dim gray morning light. Even after all these years they still kept my Bentley in good shape. Another reminder of Thomas’ financial perks.

In no more than ten seconds after I park there’s a familiar sound of scampering footsteps.

“Hello, Charlie!” I smile as the young Shelby runs up the hill.

“Venna!” His face lights up and he tackles my legs for a hug. “You’re back!”

“Yes I am, dierbaar jongen. My my, you have grown so much!”

He giggles when I try to ruffle his hair and continues running to the house. “I’ve got violin practice now.”

“Oh! I won’t keep you, then. Go on!”

In one hand I grip the briefcase Ada sent with me. The very reason why I’m forced to be here. With my other hand I feel the comforting cross around my neck again. Lord, please give me patience-

What’s that?

Something white in an empty muddy field catches my eye. It’s very faint. Is that a person…? It’s a cross. Off in the distance, a giant wooden cross stands a single cross with familiar clothes. Thomas’ clothes. And the man himself is standing across from it. What is that? Is it supposed to be a mockery of faith? How dare-!?

Bang! Bang! Bang! Thomas lifts up a gun and blasts the clothes to shreds, causing sparks to scatter. What the Hell?! I drop the briefcase and break into a sprint. What the Hell is happening?! I nearly stumble and trip down the hill and by the time I reach the fence my dress is splattered in mud. Is he trying to kill himself-?!

Ka-boom!

A giant explosion rips a crater open in the field, sending dirt and rock flying everywhere. A blast of fire clouds over Thomas and I give a loud shriek. My stomach drops. He really was trying to die…

And he still lives. The cloud of ash lifts and Thomas walks back across the field, covered in mud. I nearly scream again. How can he look so- so… calm?! How far has his mind spiraled since I’ve been gone?

“What the Hell was that?!” I yell at the top of my lungs, my eyes nearly bulging out.

Across the dirty field, Thomas spots me as he walks closer and immediately panics.

“Verena? Fuck! Why are you-?”

“I come here to get your signature and this is what you’re doing?!" I screech and stand my ground. "What the Hell happened?!”

Thomas walks through the gate and looks me up and down with wild eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know! Just please-” He desperately grips my shoulders. “Please stay off this place. Now… What do you need signed? Wait, wait. I’ve got a call to respond to.”

He takes off towards the house, leaving me speechless and confused as to what to think of this. Did he rig that cross to explode? Was it a trap? A warning? I swear if there’s another bloody vendetta I’m going to punch him clean in the face! Reluctantly, I follow Thomas’ muddy footprints and retrieve the briefcase before going inside.

Grrrr.

A brown mutt walks out from the dining room, alerted to my presence. I calmly let him smell my hand. He doesn’t look too harmless. Since when did Thomas get a dog-?

“That’s Cyril,” Charlie beams from another doorway.

“He’s very charming,” I smile as the mutt wanders to the small boy. “You must be done with your lesson. Aunt Ada also told me you speak Rokka, Charlie?”

He nods. “Bits and pieces. Do you still speak Dutch?”

“Yes, I’m learning. You should be very proud of yourself for holding onto your heritage.”

Another set of footsteps echo down the stairs and I look up to see a little girl with dark hair. When she sees me she freezes and watches me as if I just threatened to shoot Cyril. She's Lizzie’s daughter, for sure. She has her eyes. And her look of judgement.

“And you must be Ruby!” I kneel down and offer a friendly wave.

“Hello,” Ruby says shyly. “What’s your name?”

“This is Veena,” Charlie introduces me. “She’s fun.”

Someone else steps down and now Lizzie herself joins us, wearing a very fancy fur stole. A vast contrast to my filthy dress and simple hair braids. She puts a protective hand on Ruby and looks down at me with the same lowly expression from four years ago. I should have been more prepared to feel her smug victory over me.

“Hello, Ms. Steenstra.”

I show no sign of friendly acknowledgement. “Mrs. Shelby.” 

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Why are you here?”

“Straight to the point, I see,” I quip and hold up the briefcase. “I’m here because Mr. Shelby has some papers to sign, ASAP.”

“What about me?” Charlie whines.

“And I’m here for you too, Charlie,” I assure him with a wink, then turn back to Lizzie with another cold glare. “I am not staying in England for long. Mr. Shelby is currently in the middle of a call but as soon as he is finished I will swiftly accomplish my ordeal with him.”

Lizzie, not amused by my agenda to conduct my visit as quickly as possible, leads Ruby back upstairs. At least Grace eventually let me interact with Charlie. I probably won’t ever be able to talk to Ruby again.

Charlie interrupts my thoughts by skipping over to wait by his vader’s office door. “I’m going to show him what I learned today!”

He proudly holds up the violin he’s holding and I almost chuckle to think of Thomas subjecting his kids to musical practice. Intriguing. Would Thomas ever learn to play music himself?

I lean my head to the door, hearing the phone being set down. Good. Time to get things over with.

Knock knock.

“Come!” Thomas’ voice booms through the door.

I enter slowly, deeply trying to forget about the last time I was in this room, and spot Thomas leaning against his desk. He looks like the walking dead. Lasting remains of mud still stain his white shirt. However, Charlie ignores his vader's troubled state and goes to stand at the center of the room.

“He has something to show you,” I tell Thomas. “Then you-”

“I know, I’ll sign.”

Charlie grips his violin and smiles. “I learned something today!”

Thomas, as usual, holds a whiskey. “So did I. And what have you learned, my boy?”

Charlie brings the bow to the instrument. A screech of strings pinches my ears and I do my best to not cringe. The young boy carries out the thankfully quick Hellish melody and Thomas sits blankly across from him. Perhaps the terrors conspiring inside Thomas’ head are horrendous enough to drown out any outside noise.

“Good start, Charlie,” I praise after Thomas fails to speak. “Why don’t you go get yourself ready for supper, eh?”

He nods eagerly and scampers off. I set down my briefcase and wave a hand in front of Thomas’ eerily quiet face.

“Here are the papers.”

Thomas blinks at me and seems to remember where he is. He slowly stands up and goes to grab a pen from his desk. Time to fire the next shot.

“I am also here for my next payment.”

A quick flash of anger colors Thomas’ eyes but it’s replaced by another blank stare. “‘S that why you came back?”

“For the sake of my familie, yes.”

“Are you sure?”

My eyes narrow and my jaw tightens. If he thinks he can guilt-talk me out of this he is dead wrong. I came for my familie and nothing else.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I respond firmly and reroute the subject. “I also heard about what happened to Finn. Please tell me you’re going to talk to him. He’s not the same man from two years ago. He’s becoming just like you. Drinking, chatting up girls, going in guns a-blazing. It’s-!”

“I will,” Thomas says evenly as he signs the documents. “Arthur and I are going to sit him down tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” The shadow of a smirk crosses my mouth. “How did your chat with Mr. Dixon go?”

Thomas takes another drink. “Your country has some of the oddest people. Half the time he wanted to talk about guns and mixing moonshine instead of actual business. I left him to some associates in London. Did your dad really make him come with you?”

“When you’re a single woman traveling alone it’s considered proper to be escorted, according to my parents. Now that I am here I plan to do things my way.”

I hold out my hand expectantly. Thomas hands me the papers and I store them away in the briefcase. Next he passes me a handsome stack of bills. There. Done and done. Now I can tell Ada I talked to him, sort of, and don’t have to see him again-

“Another thing,” Thomas calls once I’m halfway across the room. “Have you been in contact with Michael?”

Despite the raging voice telling me to flee from him, I turn around to face Thomas once more with a lazy head shake. “No. I’ve stuck to the west side of Michigan and practically avoided him, honestly. He’s grown just as arrogant.”

“Yet you still agree to work for us,” Thomas points out as he lights another cigarette.

Stay calm, Steentstra. “Now that the depression is underway, what choice do I have? Anything I earn goes to my familie.”

“Hm. Well, do not trust Michael. That call just told me he was making deals to kill me.”

“Sweet Jesus-!” I gasp and stop myself short.

Nothing could prepare me for this! I’m supposed to distance myself from Thomas, not panic over another death threat! Calm the Hell down, Verena!

“Now don’t get your skirt in a bunch, love,” Thomas implores. “‘S for me to handle, eh? Did you ever notice any strange transactions from Ireland?”

I shake my head. “My uncle would have told me. If you doubt it then you can talk with him yourself.”

“Alright. I might.” Thomas gets a look that says he’s lost in thought again and waves me off. “Now go play with Charlie before he starts whining again. He missed you.”

I slip over to the door and offer one last remark, a sort-of peace offering. “Ruby’s a darling, too.”

“That she is,” Thomas murmurs and looks at me again. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

No no no! Get out, get out. Lizzie’s going to have my head just for him suggesting that! I’m supposed to get paid and leave-!

“I do not think I will be welcomed by all-”

“Lizzie and Ruby have been staying in the Midland Hotel,” Thomas explains and takes another puff on his cigarette. “‘S just me, Charlie, and Frances.”

So their marriage isn’t so peachy after all. Lizzie finally realized what she dug herself into. Say no. Say no! Thomas knows I want no part of his life anymore. Even though it is nice to see Charlie again…

“One hour.” I hold up a finger. “One hour, and then I’m gone.”

Before Thomas can react I slip through the door and back down the familiar hallway. A few maids give me quiet greetings but for the most part the house is empty. So this is the life you wanted, Thomas? It’s awfully lonely.

“Hello again, Charlie!” I announce when I spot the boy sitting at the long dining table.

His face scrunches with hopeful confusion. “Are you staying for supper?”

“For tonight, yes.”

I take a seat next to him and take a moment to observe the young Shelby. He’s definitely grown up. Instead of a boyish carefree smile Charlie has traded it for a rigid frown. Oh, Thomas. You’re turning your son into yourself. 

A deep whistling sound draws my attention to the window. Outside a strong wind blows fiercely across the pastures. Dark clouds churn overhead, drowning out the little sunlight that’s left of the day. The dark skeletons of the leafless trees sway and stand as ghostly figures left to the imagination.

“It looks really spooky outside,” I observe mysteriously, playing at Charlie’s remaining curiosity.

He shrugs. “That’s appropriate for this time of year.”

I try again. “Do you know about the Samhain celebration, Charlie?”

His eyes widen. “What’s that?”

Bingo!

“It’s a Celtic tradition celebrating the autumn harvest. It was last week on October 31, between the fall equinox and the winter solstice. I went to Belfast last year for the Samhain festival and it was incredible!”

In the corner of my eye I see Thomas appear. He silently makes his way to the end of the table and takes a seat. He's changed into clean clothes. As if on cue, a couple servants appear with trays of food. My first instinct is to stand up and help but then I remind myself I’m not in America anymore. Things are still done differently here.

“So you still celebrate Samhain even though you’re American?” Charlie asks after a few bites of pork.

“Yes. Samhain can be a very spiritual time for me. It’s believed to be a period when spirits can cross over and interact with the living.”

Thomas stops eating for a second. Does speaking with the dead intrigue him? Maybe reconciling with spirits is one way to deal with yourself. And I need to deal with myself before I start feeling sorry for him again.

“Thank you for having me,” I start off and stand up from the table. “But I’m afraid that I need to be going.”

“Really?” Charlie grumbles but doesn’t dare to complain more in front of his vader.

Thomas keeps quiet but watches me leave with noticeable emotionless eyes. One hour, Thomas. That’s all I will allow to make up for nearly four years of absence. After what I’ve seen today it’s not only my life that’s changed. Thomas, Lizzie, Charlie. They’re different. Even Ruby seems different than a normal girl. Not that I would expect any Shelby to be normal.

As I begin the drive back to Birmingham I can’t help but wonder if the Shelbys were right. Do I really have such an influence? That my presence helps in more ways than one? How have things become so gloomy in the past years? Well, now there is a depression to add to this and it will confuse my thoughts even harder.

@meadows5

[lazybutsmexy]

Salt and pepper

Price x gn!reader

Warnings: none!

Summary: The realization of age hung heavily on his shoulders. Luckily for him, you're more than ready to share it with him.

A/N: This was loosely inspired by a section of this post by @skylarsblue (read it and you'll see which one hehehe)

Word count: 700~

Anxiety crawls up his chest while his eyes wander over his face. An angry heartburn settled in his chest, and his jaw clenched so tightly his gums protested in pain. Had the sink been a living creature, it would’ve screamed under the pressure of his hands gripping its edge. 

He didn’t like one bit what he was looking at. A total of five - five - gray hairs on each of his temples. He counted them over and over again. Five on each side, in a sea of brown, sitting on the same line of his eyes. 

Dozens of scenarios ran through his head. His knees already creaked sometimes the moment he stood up after being crouched down for a while. How long until his hips started hurting randomly during the day? How long until his beard also sported splotches of white hairs?

The more he looked at his reflection, the more details he noticed. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the gentle sag of the bags beneath his eyes, the little dots on his skin from the hours spent under the sun. 

The realization of age hung heavily on his shoulders now, wrapping around him like a vice.

“...John? ‘s everything okay?” your voice pulled him from drowning in the lagoon forming in his mind. Your sleepy voice, which made his heartstrings tighten every time, suddenly sounded so youthful to him. It didn’t really help his nerves. 

He had always been aware of the age gap between the two of you, but you had reassured him whenever he questioned your sanity for falling for an older man. 

An even older man, now.

“You’ve been in the bathroom for a while, hun,” your words carried a tint of concern, and he immediately felt guilty for being one again the source of your worry, “are you feeling unwell? Need me to call someone?”

“Nah, love, I’m coming out now,” he finally sighed, finally releasing his grip on the poor sink and splashing water on his face and hair. It was early, the crack of dawn to be precise. You weren’t usually completely functional at this time of day. He could hold onto the hope that you wouldn’t notice it yet. He toweled off his face a little rougher than necessary before opening the door to reveal your sleep-ridden face to him. 

His heart soared as your half-lidded eyes met his, and a small grin adorned your face the moment he held your face in his hands. His whole world, in his hands. 

“...salt and pepper,” he almost didn’t catch your whisper, and for a moment he thought his ears were deceiving him, but the twinkle in your eyes proved him wrong.

As well as your hands cupping his face oh-so-tenderly, and your fingers stroking the very cause of his crisis. The inside of his lower lip got caught between his teeth, and he waited for any sign that you were unhappy - he made a mental note to run for hair dye the moment he got out of your touch.

Instead, you offered an appreciative hum and stroked the little offenders with the tips of your nails, and John all but melted under your touch.

“I’m too young to have ‘em,” he grumbled - excusing himself, perhaps? “I’ll dye them later, love, you won’t see them.”

“Don’t you dare, Jonathan,” your tone was final, and his cheeks squished a little under the slight pressure from your palms. He blinked at you, both confusion and adoration swam in his irises - he couldn’t deny he loved it whenever you used that tone on him. “I love all of you, every hair on your head included.” 

You must have been a witch or a sorcerer in your past life, for just as if you’ve cast a spell, his previous anxiety began melting away, giving space to the burst of love blooming in the middle of his chest.

“Besides,” your grin turned to a smirk, and you pulled him closer to you. Your chest was flush against his and he instinctively wrapped his arms around your middle. Your lips brushed against his, and he would be able to count each of your eyelashes if he weren’t drowning in your widening pupils.

“I’ve been waiting for you to enter your salt-and-pepper era for way too long.”

[camlovesjace]

No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her.

Jacaerys Velaryon x oc!fem Targtower. Part two, -part one, here:

https://www.tumblr.com/camlovesjace/747473041907449856/no-grave-can-hold-my-body-down-ill-crawl-home-to?source=share

WARNING: war stuff, violence, grief, etc. SINOPSIS: Cellys thinks Jacaerys is dead, the whole kingdom mourns the crowned prince while the war pushes everyone and everything apart. All must choose.

The days were a torture, the nights even more. His face seemed to haunt her anywhere she could look at, his honey eyes, those who capture her whole heart and tempted her to worship him until her last breathe. The lords were ashamed, like if the biggest burden were resting on theirs shoulders, and how could they not feel like that? Even the white haired girl felt ashamed, ashamed of being alive while Jace wasn´t. It felt totally wrong...to be in a world without his presence, to know that her name will never come out of his mouth, that his hands will never touch her again, that his gaze will never find her own in this lifetime once again.

Aegon and her mother moved from forced to stay into her bechambers to force her to get out of them, but Cellys wasn't really interested in keep pretending that a piece of her had not die with Jace. The sheets of her bed were glued to her skin, in a mix of tears and pain, her cries in the moonlight kept the whole castle awake. Her sobbing were a constant reminder of the life this was was stealing from them. Not only the lives of those who fight for the greens, but also to their enemies. The lost of Jacaerys Velaryon, prince of Dragonstone and heir to the iron throne, was a stab in the guts of everyone.

Maester Eustace stayed loyal to the young boy, claiming him as legitimate and denying the comments of those who dare to call him bastard, even if those rumors were true or not. Aegon knew Cellys would be destroyed and devastated, and it was happening in front of his eyes. She barely ate, her pale skin turned into a gray almost lifeless, her white hair was silver and her eyes seemed empty. All the rage in her stopped suddenly, it was like if she were a shelf of the old fearless princess who always had something to say.

Seeing her like this wasn´t usual at all.

Now it was all silence, empty and breaking silence. No words, no fight, just a deep whole of darkness. And she was not fighting against it, Cellys was just letting it ate her.

"No, mother..." she spoke, refusing the petition of the old green queen about walking in the gardens. Her voice was slow, hoarse from all the crying of the last night. Half a moon had passed since the death of the eldest son of Rhaenya and Cellys Targaryen was already rotting from inside.

"Do you want to keep living like this?" Alicent asked, yet her question didn't get any answer from her younger daughter "He...he was..." she spoke but when the young woman gaze her she closed her mouth, unsure if her words would help or make her feel worse.

"Do no insult him in front of me" Cellys said, thinking about the worst.

"I was not about to insult him" the old queen said, sighing "I know how much you cared about him, i know it...but he wouldn't want you to consume yourself with the pain of his death"

Cellys knew Jace would not want that, if he would be here he would literally pick her up from bed and take her to take sunlight, he would try to distract her with anything to not let her felt alone. He would want to her to live, and move on...to find happiness again.

But he wasn't there, and that was the most unbearable feeling.

Cellys doesn´t know if Rhaenyra found his body, or if the sea sank him. The thought of his body alone, cold and forlorn made her want to die as well.

"I..." she whispers, but the knot on her throat cut off any words, she wanted to cry but the sore on her eyes was painful. She wanted to ask her mother to let her go to Dragonstone, to talk with Rhaenyra and...at least, confess that her heart the one of his son were one. Even if a marriage didn´t tied them officially, their souls were one.

But now she was only a half of that soul, cursed to try to find a glimpse of him her whole life.

He never made her his own, her womb never carried and never will carry a child of his, his blood and flesh. And she will have nothing to remember him but her own memories, that will deteriorate every moon, every second.

She missed him, and she wouldn't doubt to die instead of him in any chance she could get.

His lungs were sore, every breath felt like the slowest torture. His eyes were still closed, soft gasps rolled out of his tongue when the unknown hands on his back moved to heal his wounds. The pain on his chest was overwhelming, and yet his mind was consumed by her face.

"Cel..." he says, but a gasp of pain cut his words, his whole body aching while the soft cries ran out of his mouth "Cellys"

He called her, hopeful to hear her voice against his ear, to see her face, but the touch of those hands weren´t hers. The warmth was not the same as the one she has.

"Eis baos han daar" an old woman said and he couldn´t understand her, the language was something he'd never heard before.

-the boy had woke up-

"Han esse jeiclis?" someone asked -is he still hurted?-. Jace felt a wave of cold sweat ran over his back, he stayed there, trying to not be seen like a threat. But that voice, the voice of a man, was very familiar.

"Naor, we essese kao jeiciness" again, the woman who was taking care of his wound spoke those new words. -yes, but he will heal-

He opened his eyes, breathing heavily and biting his lower lip to hold on a cry of pain. He felt embarrassed for being crying like this like a child but the pain was too much to handle. Then a man kneel beside him and the face of Lord Stark blind him for a second, until the feeling of relieved hit him. A soft smile showed up on his face and Jacaerys tried to do the same yet he was sure that it must have looked like a grimace.

"Prince" The man said, almost proud to see that he survived. The arrows on his back looked bad but he was awake and that was a good sight.

"Cregan" Jace says back, he tried to get up from the small mattress but his friend stopped him, shaking softly his head. The background sound were a mix of man's speaking and horses noises, it was an army...

"No, stay there, you need to heal" he spoke and then his dark eyes found his own, and everything that needed to be said spoke for itself in between their gaze. Both knew what will happen next, and Jace was ready to face it, to get back his mother and his own birthright...and to take his woman back to his arms, where she belonged "We have came to fight for our dragon queen"

[pxnsneverland]

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 7)

(gif source: bin1es)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 3,724

warnings/notes:

Chapter 7: A Dance of Threads

As they entered the parlor, Mr. Pembroke's gloved hand rested on the ornate doorknob, holding it open for them. The room was filled with the scents of lavender and sandalwood, and luxurious silk drapes adorned the windows. A grand piano stood in one corner, its polished wood reflecting the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. On the plush velvet couch sat a petite woman with chestnut curls cascading down her back. Her eyes sparkled as she caught sight of Austin, and her rose-colored lips curved into a luminous smile. She gracefully stood up, giving a slight curtsy in greeting.

“Lord Butler,” she greeted.

Austin's tall frame bent at the waist in a fluid motion, releasing Violet's arm before taking Evie's delicate hand in his own. His lips touched her knuckles gently, a gesture of chivalry. "There's no need for such formality, Evie," he coaxed with a charming smile. He turned to Violet, his voice like smooth honey as he asked, "Would you judge me if I didn't adhere to strict etiquette?”

Violet's head shook with a nervous twitch, her lips curling into a slight smile. "No, no," she replied quickly, trying to hide her nerves. Her eyes flicked towards the elegant woman standing before her, dressed in impeccable fashion. This was Evelyn Rosewood, renowned modiste and one of her host's oldest friends. As Violet took in the intricate details of Evelyn's dress and perfectly coiffed hair, she couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and intimidation in the presence of such talent and grace. She instinctively straightened her posture and smoothed out the wrinkles in her own dress, suddenly feeling self-conscious about her appearance compared to Evelyn's.

As Violet approached, Evelyn's hand was extended towards her, a warm smile gracing her lips. Her teeth were impeccably straight and gleaming white, adding to her already stunning appearance. The sound of her voice was soft and gentle, like the rustle of leaves in a gentle breeze, immediately putting Violet at ease. "Miss Everly, it is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you," she said with a soothing cadence. "I have heard so much about you from Austin, and I must say, I am excited to help bring out your natural elegance.”

Violet's hand shook as she hesitated, her fingers hovering just above Evelyn's outstretched hand. She took a deep breath and finally made contact, feeling the gentle warmth of the older woman's palm against her own. "Thank you, Miss Rosewood," she murmured, barely audible. Her rough, calloused hands were not accustomed to such delicate touch and expensive jewelry. “I am not accustomed to such…finery.”

Evelyn's laughter rang out like the tinkling of tiny, silver bells, bringing a smile to Austin's face. She gestured towards a table covered in luxurious fabric swatches and elegant dress designs. "Let's find something that not only fits you, but truly celebrates you," she said.

As Austin watched, it seemed as though Violet was shedding her defensive barriers under Evelyn's gentle and skilled touch. Austin could see the transformation happening before his eyes, like witnessing a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

Evelyn's elegant fingers glided over the intricate patterns of the luxurious fabrics, each one more opulent than the next. She led Violet to a table overflowing with materials fit for a princess. Violet's breath caught as she ran her hand over a midnight blue velvet, its surface shimmering under the soft glow of the room's lighting. Evelyn smiled and nodded at Violet's unspoken question. "That color will accentuate your eyes perfectly," she murmured.

As Evelyn took Violet's measurements, she spoke in a soothing tone about the designs she had in mind. "We'll create a fitted bodice to emphasize your posture and draw attention to your slender figure," she explained, her fingers deftly marking out lines on the fabric.

Violet leaned in, her whole being focused on every word that escaped Evelyn's lips. The room was filled with the scent of freshly-cut roses and the soft glow of flickering candles. As Evelyn spoke, she gestured gracefully with her delicate hands, highlighting each design element with precision. Violet felt like a canvas being painted upon, her emotions shifting with every brushstroke of Evelyn's words.

Across the room, Austin observed silently, his intense gaze fixed on Violet. She could feel his eyes on her, like a comforting warmth spreading through her body. With each step he took, his powerful presence filled the room, commanding attention without saying a word. The sound of his shoes echoed against the marble floors as he moved closer.

"You wear it beautifully, even before it has been crafted," he murmured, his deep voice sending shivers down her spine. His clothes fit him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and confident stance. The rich fabric whispered against his skin as he reached out to touch one of the pieces on display.

Violet couldn't help but blush under his intense gaze, feeling like a bird caught in a trance by a skilled predator. But as their eyes met, his smile was warm and reassuring, calming her nerves and making her heart flutter like a butterfly in flight. The air between them was charged with an electricity that neither of them could deny or ignore.

"Thank you, Lord Butler," she responded. She nervously smoothed out her dress, trying to maintain her composure under Lord Butler's intense gaze. His piercing blue eyes remained fixed on hers, unblinking and unwavering. As he took a small step towards her, the fabric of his silk coat rustled in the quiet room. The air seemed charged with electricity as they stood in silence, the tension between them almost palpable. Her heart raced and her palms grew clammy as she struggled to hold his gaze.

"Please, call me Austin.” As Violet stared into Austin's eyes, she noticed the sincerity in his gentle plea. He extended his hand towards her with an open palm, as if inviting her to get closer. She couldn't help but feel drawn to him, his name simple yet holding a hint of mystery that intrigued her.

With each syllable of his name falling from her lips, she felt a sense of familiarity and warmth fill her. "Austin," she repeated softly. A small smile tugged at his lips. A small smile tugged at the corners of Austin's lips as he returned her gaze with fondness

Evelyn crouched in front of Violet, her nimble fingers meticulously arranging the delicate lace and silk fabric around her form. Austin leaned against a nearby column, his intense gaze following every movement of Evelyn's skilled hands. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the grand windows, casting a warm glow on the soft folds of fabric that surrounded them. As Evelyn stepped out to retrieve a forgotten lace trim from her carriage, the room was suddenly filled with a hushed stillness. Austin and Violet were left alone, breathing the only sound in the otherwise silent space.

A hesitant silence hung between them, until finally Austin broke the stillness with a gentle voice. "You seem to be adjusting well," he observed, his words filled with both curiosity and concern.

Violet turned towards him, her heart still fluttering like a delicate butterfly in the aftermath of their quiet intimacy. The warmth of his hand lingered on her skin, sending shivers down her spine. Her cheeks bloomed with a rosy blush as she shyly whispered, "Yes, thank you.” The midnight blue velvet cloak draped over her shoulders felt like a regal embrace, its soft fabric caressing her skin and instilling her with an odd sense of empowerment.

A glimmer of relief lit up Austin's tired eyes, softening them and revealing a hint of vulnerability. He released a small sigh, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders."I'm glad. I must admit, I was concerned about how you would find life here... after everything."

"I appreciate your concern, Lord—Austin." A soft, warm smile spread across his face as she corrected herself, addressing him by his proper title. She couldn't help but feel a flutter in her chest at the sight of that charming smile and the way his dimples appeared when he laughed.

"It is unusual," she said, the soft timbre of her voice betraying a hint of fear, “When whispers paint a different picture of you."

A look of deep contemplation washed over Austin's face, his hazel eyes drifting towards the grand piano situated in the corner of the room. Its smooth ebony surface gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier, intricate carvings along its legs and fallboard hinting at its antiquity and value. With a graceful stride, he made his way towards the piano, his movements fluid and confident as if he had played on this very instrument countless times before. His long fingers gently ran over the keys, eliciting a series of delicate notes that filled the room with a melodic charm. "May I?" he asked, turning back to her with an earnestness that was impossible to resist.

Violet's eyes were fixated on his hands, moving with fluid grace over the piano keys, sending shivers down her spine. “Please.”

Austin gracefully lowered himself onto the piano bench, his fingers hovering over the ivory keys with a practiced ease. He ran his eyes over the black and white pattern just once before he began to play. The melody that poured forth from his fingertips was hauntingly beautiful, each note ringing out with a sense of deep longing and sadness, but also with a glimmer of hope. It seemed to tell a story, one of struggle and hidden dreams, and Violet couldn't help but feel drawn in by its emotive power. As the music swirled around her, she felt as though it were building a bridge between their hearts, connecting them in a way words never could. She was completely captivated.

As the last note faded into the night, Austin turned to face her, his features softened and unguarded. Violet's eyes met his, her own emotions reflecting the rawness in his deep blue gaze. "That was beautiful," she murmured, unable to tear her gaze away from him. A magnetic pull drew her towards him, a sensation she couldn't quite explain but one that felt inexplicably right.

Austin stood up and closed the distance between them. His deep voice was laced with both tenderness and intensity as he spoke."Violet, I never intended for you to be drawn into my world." He paused, his piercing gaze searching her eyes for a glimmer of understanding. "But now that you are here, I find myself hoping you might stay."

Before Violet could respond, the sound of the door clicking open interrupted the charged atmosphere. Evelyn stepped back into the room, her arms laden with spools of delicate lace and a contented smile on her face. She paused momentarily as she noticed the proximity between Austin and Violet, an expression of mild surprise flickering across her features before she swiftly masked it with her customary warm grin.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting," Evelyn said, her voice laced with a hint of mirth as she moved towards a nearby table to lay down her materials. "I found just the right trim for your gown, Violet. It’s a vintage lace; very rare."

Austin stepped back from Violet, clearing his throat slightly as he composed himself. "Thank you, Evelyn," he replied, his tone casual but his eyes still holding a flicker of intensity from his earlier words.

Evelyn glanced between them, a knowing look in her eye, but chose to focus on her fabrics instead. "The lace is quite exquisite, really," she continued, unfolding the delicate material for Violet to see. It was beautifully intricate, threaded through with hints of silver that caught the light as it moved. "It'll complement the velvet wonderfully."

Violet was drawn to the lace, appreciative of its beauty but also grateful for a reason to steady her emotions. The cool threads felt comforting under her fingertips. "It’s beautiful, Evelyn. Thank you.”

"Of course, my dear," Evelyn replied, her voice soft and soothing. "It’s my pleasure to assist in adorning such a willing canvas."

As Evelyn continued to discuss her design ideas with Violet, Austin quietly exited the room.

***************************

Days later, Violet found herself aimlessly strolling through the dimly lit hallways of the manor, her mind consumed with thoughts of Austin. The gentle touch of his hand on hers earlier in the evening had sparked a whirlwind of emotions that she couldn't quite grasp. The manor was silent except for the soft breeze brushing against the ancient stone walls, and she moved almost unconsciously, drawn deeper into its depths.

As she passed by a partially open door, a tense and sharp voice stopped her in her tracks. It was Mr. Pembroke's voice, filled with both worry and accusation, in a stern tone that Violet had never heard before.

"You should never have brought her here, Austin," Mr. Pembroke stated firmly, his tone both worried and accusatory. "She is too... tempting for you. This proximity— it’s dangerous."

There was a heavy silence, and then Austin's voice replied, low and strained. "I know what I am doing, Pembroke.”

“Do you? I have seen the way you look her, how delicately you treat her. What happens when the hunger becomes too strong? When you can’t resist the smell of her—”

“Enough!” Austin slammed his hands down on the desk in front of him. “I would never hurt her.”

“Not intentionally. But I have been by your side a long time, my lord. The thirst—”

Austin paced the room, each step echoing like a distant drum in the quiet night. His jaw was set, his eyes haunted by battles fought in the darkness of his own soul. "You think I am not aware?" he said quietly, stopping to face the window. "You think I do not feel it gnawing at me every moment she is near?"

Mr. Pembroke sighed, his expression softening as he watched his master struggle with his inner demons. "I know you do, sir. And I fear for you both." He paused before adding solemnly, "Especially for her."

Violet's heart seemed to seize within her chest, her emotions tangled as tightly as the vines that crept along the manor's old stone walls. She had come in search of solitude, a place to ponder the peculiar warmth she felt around Austin—how his slightest smile or the mere touch of his hand could set her adrift in turbulent seas of feeling. Yet here she stood, invisible in the shadowed threshold, eavesdropping on a conversation that she knew would alter everything. Fear prickled at the base of her neck, sharp and cold as the draught that danced through the corridor. The chilling words hung in the air like a dense fog, seeping into her very bones. How could someone so composed and formidable grapple with such overpowering vulnerabilities?

As she stood there, cocooned in the thick shadows just beyond the flickering light from the room, her mind replayed every encounter with Austin. Each smile, each thoughtful gaze he had directed at her now seemed laden with an unspoken gravity that pressed heavily on her chest. The realization that his struggle was far more profound than she could have imagined ignited a fierce protectiveness over him, mingling strangely with her own survival instincts. A part of her yearned to burst into the room, to confront the palpable tension. Yet, another part, gripped by an almost paralyzing fear, urged her to flee—to run from the manor and its dark secrets that seemed as ancient as the stones themselves.

Caught in this tempest of thought and emotion, Violet shifted slightly, her foot brushing against a loose floorboard. The sharp creak shattered the silence like glass. Instantly, the voices ceased. The eerie quiet that followed was suffocating. Violet's breath hitched in her throat, and for an agonizing moment, time seemed suspended.

Then Austin spoke, his voice cutting through the stillness with unnerving calmness. "Who is out there?"

The air in the corridor grew colder, a palpable tension swelling as Violet's heart pounded in her ears. She felt pinned in place, her instincts at war between the urge to reveal herself and a desperate wish to vanish into the shadows. Slowly, with a sense of inevitability etching through her bones, Violet stepped forward into the dim light spilling from the room. "It's me," she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper but loud enough in the haunting silence.

Austin turned sharply at the sound of her voice, his expression transforming from suspicion to something undefinable. His eyes, usually so commanding and unreadable, now betrayed a hint of vulnerability. Mr. Pembroke looked between them, an uneasy expression etched upon his features.

"I... I didn't mean to eavesdrop," Violet stammered, her eyes darting nervously between Austin and Mr. Pembroke. "I was just—

"There is no need for explanations, Miss Everly," Mr. Pembroke interjected smoothly, though his eyes held a warning glint that suggested the gravity of what she might have overheard. "These walls are old; they carry sound misleadingly."

Austin stepped closer to her, each movement deliberate and controlled. There was an intensity about him now that seemed almost palpable, a dark aura that both frightened and compelled her. "Violet," he began, his voice low and resonant, "what you heard—"

"I understand it's none of my business," Violet interrupted quickly, not entirely sure if she spoke out of fear or a protective urge towards Austin’s privacy. “I didn’t hear much truthfully.”

Austin’s gaze lingered on her, his eyes searching. For a brief moment, there was silence again, thick and unyielding, as if the world held its breath. Then he softened, the tension leaving his body if only for a moment. “Very well,” he said with a forced smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Mr. Pembroke, observing the delicate interplay of emotions crossing Austin's face, cleared his throat discreetly, a subtle but insistent reminder of the propriety that governed their actions. "Perhaps, it would be best if I attended to some matters elsewhere," he suggested, his voice measured and bearing an undercurrent of urgency. "I shall ensure that everything is in order for tonight's gathering."

With a final nod that seemed to convey a multitude of unspoken thoughts and warnings, Mr. Pembroke excused himself, his footsteps echoing down the grand hallway with a rhythm that mirrored the ticking of the ornate grandfather clock at its end. The old clock, a sentinel in time, chimed softly, marking the hour. Austin watched Mr. Pembroke depart with an unreadable expression before turning back to face Violet. The room seemed smaller now without Mr. Pembroke's commanding presence, yet charged with an electric intensity as if the walls themselves were leaning in to listen.

In the vacant quiet left by Mr. Pembroke’s departure, Violet felt as though she was truly seeing Austin for the first time—the complexities of his nature suddenly laid bare. There was something deeply compelling about his troubled solitude, and despite her apprehensions, she felt an undeniable pull toward him. She decided to break the silence. “Gathering?”

Austin, glad for the change in subject, nodded. “Yes. An annual ball I am all but forced to throw every year for the socialites around the area. More of a formality than anything.” He gestured to the vast hall outside the room, where servants were already starting to arrange decorations. "It's an obligation, but one that provides a... welcome distraction."

Violet nodded, absorbing every detail, her curiosity piqued. "It sounds... extravagant." She paused, then added with a hint of playfulness that surprised even herself, "Will I be expected to attend this grand affair?"

Austin's expression shifted slightly, and for a brief moment, his guarded reserve faltered. "I would be honored if you joined me," he replied earnestly, then hesitated. "But only if you wish. You are under no obligation to participate."

The invitation and its cautious delivery spoke volumes to Violet. It was a glimpse into the duality of Austin’s existence—caught between the obligations of his status and his more genuine impulses. Her heart fluttered at the sincerity in his voice, pushing her earlier reservations momentarily aside.

"I think…I would like to attend," Violet responded softly, her decision surprising both Austin and herself. "If my lack of social decorum wouldn’t be an embarrassment to you.”

Austin walked closer to her taking her hand. He placed a delicate kiss on her fingers. The touch of his lips was light, yet it sent a shiver racing through Violet's body, her skin tingling with a mixture of alarm and exhilaration. She looked up at him, her piercing gray eyes wide and searching.

"You could never be an embarrassment," Austin murmured, his voice low and imbued with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "I assure you, the pleasure would be entirely mine." His gaze held hers, steadfast and revealing a hint of vulnerability that she had not seen in him before.

Violet felt the walls she had meticulously built around herself tremble under the weight of his words. Here was a man marked by power and shrouded in mystery, yet offering her a kindness that felt both genuine and heart-stirringly tender.

"Then I shall prepare myself to be your most charming guest," Violet replied, the corners of her mouth lifting into a tentative smile. The atmosphere between them was charged now, the air thick with something unspoken but palpably present.

Austin's grip on her hand lingered, a silent plea in his touch before he reluctantly let go. "One more thing," he started, the timbre of his voice turning grave once more. "At the ball...stay by my side." His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken warnings and a fierce protectiveness that caught Violet off guard. It left her pondering about the mysterious attendees of the upcoming event and the secrets they might hold.

"I will," she vowed, her words a mere breath, almost drowned out by the faint crackle of the fire in the far recesses of the chamber. As Violet's thoughts whirled with uncertainties about the impending gathering — pondering who might attend and what hidden perils awaited necessitating such proximity to Austin — a rush of excitement tingled through her. The idea of standing beside him among enigmatic high society figures sparked an intoxicating blend of apprehension and fascination within her.

Stay tuned for part 8!! Click HERE to view!

Taglist: @buckysteveloki-me @imusicaddict

[aperture-hag]

Lady of the Underworld

Happy Holidays, @the-comedy-formula!!! I'm your Secret Santa for @portal-secret-santa! I completely relate to having a reborn Portal obsession and I am honored to have been selected to make your gift this year.

I was inspired by your prompt for a story about what happened to Chell after the events of Portal 2, and what kind of world she walked into. I hope you enjoy, and wish you a wonderful winter season.

Edit: Ao3 Link

Lady of the Underworld

Word Count: 6,490

She lifted her hand to block the brightness, her blue-gray eyes barely able to process anything aside from blinding white light.

For the first time in what felt like months, Chell felt the warm sun on her cheeks and the wind in her hair. At first it brought a rush of vigor, like she could do anything. She was free. She had won. And the sun was shining down on her, welcoming her to the surface!

After a minute of just soaking in the solar rays and being one with the world, Chell felt a bead of sweat run down her back. Then both her jumpsuit and tank top felt stuffy, her lips cracked and dried. She ran her sandpaper tongue over the roof of her mouth, suddenly realizing just how desperately she needed a drink of water.

Chell whipped her head back and forth, looking for some sort of water source. A convenience store, or office building. Heck, she’d even drink out of the sink of a public bathroom. But instead of any mark of civilization, all Chell saw was countless strands of wheat in the field, lazily waving and bending in the breeze.

Oh, wait. That’s right, she had no idea where she was. This wasn’t the typical exit route from the building she would take as an Aperture Science test subject.

Chell stole a quick look at the rusty shack behind her and felt a magnetic pull to it. At least in the underground, it wouldn’t be so hot. And so unfamiliar with her surroundings.

Maybe she could try and go back down. At the end of things, GLaDOS did seem to have a change of heart (or programming, whatever was the robotic equivalent of a heart). Maybe she would let her back in, and things could be better this time. Curiosity continued to nibble at Chell, making her wonder if that “Caroline” woman truly was deleted. Maybe she was still there, having an influence on GLaDOS’s decisions. Maybe, deep down, the entity that was GLaDOS or Caroline (perhaps both) actually cared for Chell and wanted what was best for her.

Chell’s tan arm reached out for the shed.

But before her fingertips could graze the rusty metallic surface, she trembled. Her throat felt thick and her stomach churned with nausea as she remembered everything else in the underground. GLaDOS’s taunts and death-threats. A mausoleum of a thousand dead test subjects and scientists. Test chambers with toxic waste, lasers, and bullets around every corner.

Chell retracted her arm, rubbing it against her torso. If GLaDOS or Caroline truly did care about her, then she let her go so that she could find freedom and safety elsewhere. Maybe they wanted her to be back with her own kind. A world where Chell belonged, beyond the field of wheat. Yes, could have been the exact life GLaDOS and/or Caroline wanted for Chell.

Before she went off – she frowned at the toasted companion cube. Without her zero-point energy feature of her portal gun, it would be completely unreasonable to carry the cube around.

Oh well. Alone again. At least without the cube, she would be unencumbered, and would be able to find her fellow humans faster.

After an hour and a half of wading her way through the bronze fields, Chell’s entire body was dusted with pollen and plant fibers. She could hardly breathe through her nose and resorted to wheezing in and out of her throat.

Wheat wasn’t even supposed to grow in this area of Michigan. Or was it? Michigan wasn’t supposed to be this hot, either, even during the summers. Chell heard rumors of “global warming” during her early days working as a test subject of Aperture Science. Maybe it was actually true and really did start to happen in the past nine years she was stuck in stasis.

It was only nine years or so, right?

That’s what the Announcer’s voice had alerted her of the day she woke up.

You have been in suspension for NINE – NINE – NINE – NINE – NINE…

Chell shook away the foreboding feeling that came with the memory. Surely the Announcer must have glitched. Nine years was a long time to be away, but Chell could figure her way through it. After surviving a fight with Wheatley once and GLaDOS twice, Chell was confident she could do anything.

So she kept her head swiveling, hoping to find one of the main roads that she and all the other Aperture personnel took to get to and from the nearest towns. Wherever GLaDOS spat her out was not a common exit route for Aperture personnel, but she was confident she’d spot a familiar landmark at some point.

She traveled through the tundra of endless wheat and grass for hours.

As the sky began to turn purple with the sunset, and darkness chased after Chell, she could not shake the feelings of fear that came with it.

What had GLaDOS told her, during their first showdown?

Things have changed since the last time you left the building. What's going on out there will make you wish you were back in here.

At first Chell believed that was just another string in the tapestry of lies that GLaDOS wove for her. But the further that Chell trudged on without a sign of life, or even a bent and rusted highway marker, the more she fantasized that something did happen beyond her wildest expectations. The hunger and dehydration made her head simultaneously dizzy and pounding with a headache.

Deliriously, she began to imagine something insane. Maybe she would find no people, because there weren’t supposed to be any people here. Maybe the world had ended, or was taken over by aliens. Perhaps she was just a little insect skittering at the bottom of someone else’s terrarium.

Chell’s fists curled around her eyes as her mind ran wild with these frightening possibilities.

“No, no, no,” she thought. “GLaDOS would not have done that, she wouldn’t have kicked me out just to die like this. Caroline for sure wouldn’t have. They saved me…they had to have cared…”

Chell spent that first night curled up in a long patch of grass, her throat parched with a lack of any moisture. There were no walls to shield her, and her only ceiling was the intangible night sky. She had never known the sky could carry so many stars. The light pollution Chell was used to only left a few hundred stars at night, in the Michigan she remembered.

---

When she felt the soft dirt around her grow heavy with footsteps, Chell’s mind was torn completely from sleep. Eyes still closed, she kept as motionless as she could, trying to analyze her options. But the panic that flooded her system erased any possibility of making rational decisions.

She just hoped that when she opened her eyes, she would see some humans in familiar flannels or puffy jackets. Just some local farmers looking to help out a lost trespasser. Not any screen-faced androids or shapeless aliens.

The footsteps in the earth around her felt like megalith stones gathered in a fairy ring.

Chell couldn’t take the tension of not knowing what they were doing any longer. She ripped her eyes open and sat up on her legs, ready to run if she had to.

Her body immediately loosened with relief - she was surrounded by human faces after all. Five of them, all crouched around her in cautious stances. The tallest among them carried a flickering light source, so Chell could just barely see some detail in their features.

The source of light came not from a flashlight – it came from a wooden torch that crackled with fire. And these humans weren’t dressed in plain clothes like she idealized.

From the torch’s weak orange glow, Chell saw that the people all around her were dressed in simple tawny-colored cloth, looking like they were made of animal furs. Their hair was unwashed and matted, and lines of mud were painted across their skin.

Chell scrunched her eyebrows. Were these cavemen?

The silence lasted a full three minutes of Chell staring and blinking, and the cavemen blinking and staring back, their curiosity mutual. Chell thought to herself that if these people were this quiet all the time, she at least might get along with them.

Finally, one of them spoke. The tall woman who held the torch stood up to her full height. In her other hand was a long wooden spear, tipped with a sharpened stone. Draped across this huntress’s torso was the fur of a deer, as suggested by the white speckles and the loose antlers hanging as ornaments. Chell guessed that was their leader.

“Who are you?” the Huntress spoke. She had dark skin and hard brown eyes like stones. The language she used was without a doubt English, but there was a thick accent that clouded it. Slow and syrupy like a western drawl, but the vowels sounded twisted, like a foreigner just learning how to speak the language.

Moving slowly so they could hopefully follow along, Chell pointed a finger at the leader. Then with her pointer finger extended on each hand, her two hands chased each other in a circle.

“Do you sign?”

The five humans in their animal-skin clothes exchanged confused looks.

Chell tried one last thing. With one hand, she fingerspelled the letters: “A. S. L.” Her eyebrows lifted upward, pushed her lips upwards, expressing the question.

No, these people did not sign.

One of the males of the group turned to their leader and asked, “Ya think she understood you?”

Chell nodded rapidly and pointed at the man who just spoke. Yes, yes, she did understand what they were saying. She tapped her throat and shook her head.

“You can’t speak?” The Huntress tilted her head, continuing to watch Chell carefully.

Chell shook her head.

The Huntress took a step closer, drawing the torch light with her.

“Wait, she could be dangerous!” one of the strangers hissed.

“Look at those strange clothes. I’ve never seen an animal so bright of color,” another added.

“And what are those strange…bones that she wears on her legs?”

Chell looked down to her orange jumpsuit and Long Fall Boots. Even though her outfit was smudged with dirt and leaves from the day’s journey, the manufactured nature of her clothes still made her look out of place.

“Where do you come from?” the Huntress asked.

Chell reflected on the question for a second. Then, she took a finger, and pressed it into the dirt.

“Are you saying you come from here?!” the Huntress asked in disbelief. “We’ve never seen anyone wear clothes like yours before.”

Chell shook her head and kept pressing her hand into the dirt. Then she thought of a better way to express it, turning her hand into a shovel and scooping out several handfuls of dirt.

“You come from the underground?”

Oh, that was actually correct! Chell tapped her nose and pointed at the woman in excitement, like she was playing charades.

“She comes from the underground?” someone whispered.

“Is she a god?” another asked.

“Silence,” the Huntress said, swaying her torch around. Everyone else went quiet. “We will take her to camp. Perhaps the Elder will understand her purpose.”

“But what if she is a god, and she has come to crush us?”

The leader fixed her dark eyes on Chell, studying her. Then, she gave her a relaxed smile. “She looks human to me. Let’s take her back to the cave.”

Chell released a taut breath she did not realize she was holding onto. Her head still throbbed with the lack of food and water, and now the lack of sleep. The weakness in her body took over her and she trembled, barely leaving her brain any space to try and comprehend why she had come across a pack of cavemen in the State of Michigan.

Still, one clear feeling flickered in Chell’s chest as she looked at the Huntress in the deerskin cloak. Chell didn’t realize how nice it would be to be seen by a human, and be called human again.

---

The group of pseudo-cavemen escorted Chell through another long stretch of grass, not once threatening her with the spears or axes they carried. Instead, they offered her water, and a few bits of dried meat from hidden pockets sewn into their animal-skin cloaks. Her belly felt full, and her head began to think clearly.

They treated her so decently, Chell’s heart felt bursting with relief. Finally, she had found humans to help her, even if they wore strange clothes. GLaDOS and/or Caroline would have been so happy for her.

Then Chell saw their “cave” in the distance.

A massive rectangle, half-swallowed by a mound of dirt. It had the size and the sharp corners of a building, like an office or an apartment complex. But a tangle of lichen and ivy coated it several times over, like the vines of the earth were forcing the building to merge and become one with nature. All around the main building were other lumps in the earth covered by green foliage, no doubt more human structures fallen down, reclaimed by the earth, and forgotten.

Chell’s legs gave out and she fell to the dirt. Not even her Long Fall Boots were able to support her. The group of humans dressed in animal skins were one thing, but the dilapidated building confirmed the worst.

It hadn’t just been nine years.

She had been gone for a very, very long time.

Tears blurred her eyes as it all became truth in her mind.

Chell didn’t think she would miss the world so much. She didn’t have many friends, as her muteness isolated her, and people rarely put the extra effort to become acquainted to her.

But now she knew she never would have the chance to go back to the life she once had or the few people she did know.

The Huntress put her arm around her shoulders and helped her up to her feet. Normally Chell would have shrugged away from being ushered around like a child, but the despair sunk in. She allowed herself to be herded inside the building.

Chell was sat down near a crackling fire. Her eyes drifted downwards and did not focus on anything else, even as her hands were fitted with a pouch of water and a bowl of a warm earthy soup.

Her old life was further from her than she had ever imagined. And the only other being that was “left behind” with her was miles down deep in the ground and had quite coldly told her –

Don’t come back.

The clan of cavemen looked at Chell, chattered among themselves, but did not engage with her outside of handing her food. Maybe they were frightened of a stranger, or did not want to waste words on someone who could not return them.

As the voices of the people died down, they moved to their own little corners of the “cave,” huddled into groups of sleeping blankets.

Chell only had the dying embers of the fire to keep her warmth or company.

When she finally did lift her head up from where it hung, it was to follow the trail of smoke, which twisted upwards through a collapsed hole through the top of the building. From the open space, Chell could see a limited view of the same night sky she fell asleep under.

That, and she saw drawings all over the mossy-green and gray concrete walls of the building. Stick figures of humans and their spears and bows, chasing after herds of deer, all around her head. Cave paintings from ancient times, fresh and brand new, just for Chell’s eyes. As if the scientific evolution of humankind never happened at all. 

---

When the sun rose, the tribe of humans resumed their seemingly daily duties. Some adults got up and left the shelter in the fallen building to go hunting or gathering, while others stayed behind to wash old clothes, stitch new outfits, or make future meals out of burrowed food. The dozen or so children got busy either helping the adults with their chores, or looking after the youngest as they played games in the sun.

Chell sat still, watching them, like it was a TV documentary on the Stone Age. In a similarly curious way, the people of the tribe stepped close to Chell, then backed away in distrust of whatever she was. An outsider in freakishly pure orange and white clothes.

When Chell couldn’t take her role as an observer anymore, she buried her face in her hands. Betrayal burned in her chest. She thought being among people again would bring her some sense of belonging. Even though GLaDOS didn’t seem to know when to shut up, the robot still spoke to her like a person, even knowing she would never respond. 

Chell did not lift her head up again until she heard soft shuffles on the dusty floor and clinking stones. Approaching her was an elderly woman, with pale skin pocked by freckles and sunburn scars, wrinkled like the bark of a tree. The old woman’s back was hunched over as if she had spent a lifetime being beaten by the wind. But she was cloaked in an elaborately woven shawl of brown and white, tied off with beads of turquoise and snail shells. Nobody else in the tribe was dressed like that.

“You are the one who came to us last night, the one with no voice.” The Elder’s voice was ancient yet sturdy. 

Chell didn’t respond. Would nodding her head “yes” change anything? Her blue-gray eyes dropped down, away from the elder’s scrutinizing gaze.

Then, steadying herself on her walking stick, the Elder knelt down to the ground, and pressed her arms out on the ground before Chell.

It took a few moments for Chell to understand what was happening.

The old woman was bowing.

“I apologize for my people’s arrogance in not recognizing what you truly are. Please, Great Goddess, have pity on my tribe.”

Chell slapped her hand on her face and launched to her feet. No, no, no. If she couldn’t be seen as one of the tribe, she couldn’t live with being idolized as some sort of deity, either.

The old woman lifted her head, her beads shimmering in the light streaming from the ceiling. “No? You’re not a god?”

Chell pulled her face into a large frown and shook her head sharply from one side to the other.

The wrinkles on the elder’s face doubled in quantity as made a disappointed frown. “Oh. Very well, then.” She shuffled away, her shawl hanging low and leaving a tiny cloud of dust in the path she walked.

Chell crossed her arms and huffed, hoping that was the end of their interaction. Then, the Elder looked back, and gestured her to follow.

They walked to a perfectly flat wall towards the furthest end of the cave, before the entire structure succumbed to the earth and the ceiling merged with the ground. Chell imagined the flat wall was once part of someone’s office space, eroded of every detail except the basic shape of the building. Maybe if she started to dig in the soft dirt floor, she would find some plastic desk toys that had not biodegraded (and never would).

At the wall, some children doodled spirals and clouds using sticks of charcoal from last night’s bonfire. At the approach of the Elder, the children bowed respectfully and scattered, leaving their drawing utensils behind.

The old woman picked up one of the burnt ends of wood, and offered it to Chell. “Why don’t you tell your story, then?”

Chell took the charcoal. She looked at the blank wall. She knew what her first instinct was – she just wasn’t sure if it would resonate.

She pressed the burnt end to the wall and dragged it, leaving behind a trail of black markings that read:

h e l l o

Chell checked for the old woman’s reaction. Her beady eyes squinted, trying to find a possible image in the letters Chell had written.

So, humanity had lost the power of written language. This meant that drawing was Chell’s only method of communication. And the people around her had to guess, like some bad party game. 

Sighing, Chell tapped the stick to her chin, wondering how to even begin.

She drew a line. Above the line, she drew basic rectangular shapes of buildings and trees, and the sun. Below the line, she drew a large circle with basic shapes and scribbles. She tapped her finger in the heart of the scribbles.

“Ah, so you have come from a world beneath ours - the Underworld?” the Elder ventured, rubbing her fingers down her chin.

Chell shrugged and gave only one nod. The old woman wasn’t technically wrong, but she had the right idea.

Next, Chell tried to think of some way to explain how she became from a time long in the past. She tried drawing before and after pictures of a building fallen down, but the old woman did not make the connection that the fallen building in the picture was the structure they were currently standing in.

Chell took a moment to massage her wrist, sore from all the drawing. She was reminded of the mysterious test subject or scientist back in Aperture Science who left behind messages for her. Whoever they were, they were talented, not only in their quick and efficient scribbles, but with their colorful, meaningful murals.

Chell’s heart ached. She wished they were here, whoever they were. They would never know just how grateful Chell was that some messages were there, to make her feel a little less alone in her blind fight against a monster.

The unknown artist of Aperture was a messenger, and Chell would honor that by doing the same.

She went back to the wall, rubbing her forearm across the failed drawing attempts to explain her time travel situation, bringing it back to a blank gray wall. She began drawing again, this time trying to draw a picture of herself. Granted, a stick-figure version of herself, but she made sure to give herself her signature ponytail to make her a bit more recognizable.

Then what? What else about Aperture should she draw? Chell drew a large box full of cubes, platforms, and buttons.

“Were you trapped underground, in a maze?” the Elder asked.

Chell nodded. She doubted the woman would understand what a “test chamber” was, so a maze would be the next best descriptor.

What next...? Oh. Chell knew what to draw.

On another blank space, Chell drew a flat horizontal line, then several large circles dangling from it. She made sure to give the small circle at the very end one giant eye right in the center. Next, she drew robotic claws and wires all around the series of circles.

The old woman’s eyes widened. “You were trapped in the Underworld, by a god.”

By this point, some of the children returned, curious of the little game Chell and the Elder were playing.

Chell crinkled her nose. She thought GLaDOS might find too much gratification in being called a god. Chell shook her head.

“Not a god?”

Chell shook her head even harder.

“A monster!” one of the children jumped and shouted. “A cyclops!”

Chell nodded and pointed to the child.

“How’d you escape?” a little boy asked, running up to Chell and tugging on her orange jumpsuit.

Chell cringed at having a snot-nosed child so close to her. The boy was no doubt full of germs. But at least he wasn’t afraid to get close to her. His eyes were wide with curiosity, enthralled by the story. Encouraged, Chell patted him on his greasy blond hair and went back to the wall.

She took her time drawing this next scene. Her own memory of it was foggy, clouded by all the fear she experienced when she was there in the moment.

The same figure of GLaDOS, constructed of massive circles and claws, this time accompanied by a tiny figure of the rocket turret. Chell knew they wouldn’t understand what a rocket was, so she drew it with long, sharp flames spitting out of its face. Next, Chell drew her stick-figure self jumping over the fire, and tearing out a personality sphere from GLaDOS.

Stepping back and seeing it in full, Chell wasn’t happy with how this drawing turned out at all. It was quite dramatic and not at all like it actually happened. Stick Figure Chell wasn’t even holding a portal gun. How could she ever explain that to these people? Ironic, because the damn portals were technically the only reason she was ever there in the test chamber in the first place.

Despite her own self-doubt in her art, the children eagerly jumped in with guesses. The Elder silenced them all with a hiss.

“Settle yourselves, young ones. Clearly, she fought the cyclops and pulled it into pieces before it could burn her alive,” the elder said matter-of-factly. All their eyes, young and old, looked to Chell and awaited approval.

For once, Chell chuckled. She nodded, agreeing that that was indeed what happened.

The same little boy from earlier went back to Chell. “And then you escaped?”

Chell clucked her tongue and shook her head. No, it was never quite that easy.

She went to drawing again.

---

As the day went on, a crowd grew around Chell’s black-and-gray mural. When the hunters returned with a rope strung with dead squirrels, one of them poured their blood into a bowl and offered it to Chell. Repulsed by the sight, Chell refused to take it, until the hunter dabbed his fingers in the squirrel blood and used its color highlight the drawings she made. The blood was joined by more offerings of shades of paint: deep browns from rich dirt, blues from crushed flower petals, and even yellowish-orange from citrus peels (and what unfortunately smelled like urine).

Chell made sure to go back to each drawing and paint blue and orange circles everywhere.

By the evening, the entire tribe gathered to watch Chell put the finishing touches on her work.

Picking up from defeating the “cyclops,” Chell drew herself being dragged back into the underground, then sleeping for a long time – as indicated by many cycles of moons waxing and waning above her head.

Then a drawing of Wheatley (in the shape of a simple blue-eyed orb) waking her up and leading her back through the underground maze. There was some debate among the tribe at exactly what the blue orb was, with most agreeing that it was either a demi-god, or a fallen star, or a lost spirit.

Then, the revival of GLaDOS. Chell drew the figure of the massive AI rising from the dark murk that became of her central chamber.

“The cyclops came back to life?!” the little boy from earlier had exclaimed when Chell’s drawing came to fruition. “After you killed it?!”

Chell nodded and gave her crowd an exaggerated, exhausted frown. It earned her a few laughs. The little warmth of making others laugh was enough to motivate Chell to keep drawing. Even if the story wasn’t being perfectly interpreted, the people of the tribe were invested in understanding her.

The second defeat of GLaDOS and transformation into a potato was tricky to pull off. Chell drew herself and Wheatley controlling the claws to tear GLaDOS apart. She hated how violent it looked, reminding Chell of just how terrible it was to witness and hear as GLaDOS’s core was cannibalized by the rest of her own body.

Then, a drawing of Wheatley’s blue orb in the body of GLaDOS, using a large claw to send Chell and GLaDOS’s isolated core down deeper underground.

“The demi-god betrayed her?” someone gasped.

“Perhaps it was a trickster god,” another person whispered. “Let’s learn more – perhaps the trickster is still out there!”

The next part was probably the easiest to draw: Chell holding GLaDOS’s core, walking through halls in a deeper layer underground. Chell framed that drawing with jagged lines, trying to depict the broken machinery that littered the older sections of Aperture. Maybe tomorrow, she would go back and add more details to the picture.

“There is a land even further from the Underworld?” someone asked.

“A land of vengeful spirits and ghosts,” the Elder concluded, as if she had been there herself.

Chell pointed at her and nodded. There was so much about the world and its past that these people would never understand. But they understood tall tales, so that was what Chell would give them.

Next to the drawing of her and GLaDOS in Old Aperture, Chell drew a picture of a man in a suit and a woman in a dress. She wished she had taken a longer look at that old portrait of Cave Johnson and his assistant Caroline, as she barely remembered what the pair looked like. To emphasize their importance, Chell tinted brightly colored circles around their heads, like crowns, or halos.

“She met the Lord and the Lady of the Underworld,” one of the tribe guessed.

Chell shook her head rapidly, and corrected herself by drawing a picture of what she imagined had happened all those years ago before GLaDOS’s activation. The lady in the dress standing next to the form of the GLaDOS, framed by a larger drawing of the man in the suit, moving them together like pieces in a game.

The people of the tribe were stumped, until Chell drew a third drawing of Caroline – just a full-body picture of her standing still. Then, Chell took her arm and erased half of her body, and filled in the other half with the shape of GLaDOS.

Finally, the message was parsed out by the Huntress who discovered Chell the night before. “She was once a god of the Underworld, before the other god transformed her into the cyclops.”

Not the most accurate interpretation, but perhaps the only one they would understand. Chell pointed at the Huntress and nodded. The Huntress smiled, and Chell held her gaze in appreciation for just a few moments longer.

“And what became of the other god, the god with the long beard?” someone asked.

Chell didn’t know what the “beard” referred to, until she looked at her Cave Johnson drawing, and realized that the tie she drew him with looked more connected to his chin than his neck. Her face burned a bit in embarrassment, but didn’t take the misunderstanding too harshly. None of these people had ever seen a necktie, after all.

To answer the original question, Chell wiped her hand across the face of the man, until it was a smudge of charcoal.

“He died? Then he was no true god,” the Elder concluded.

---

Everyone took a break for supper, eating quickly to sooner return to Chell’s storytelling. Belly full of sweet, greasy venison and tart fruit, Chell felt recharged and ready to return to her drawings.

Where did she leave off? Ah, yes, escaping the lower levels of Old Aperture and returning to her final showdown with Wheatley. Chell had to run back and forth from her first drawing of defeating GLaDOS as a reference.

And that was the resolution of the story. Despite the impossible odds, Chell triumphed against the powerful being that betrayed her, working alongside her displaced former enemy. Her audience understood the message, made obvious by them nodding along, whispering excitedly among themselves, and looking at Chell with a new respect in their eyes.

To mark the occasion – to truly express what Chell felt at the moment of victory – she drew a picture of herself, standing proud and triumphant, with a halo over her head and wings at her shoulders. And above that picture of her, Chell also drew another picture of GLaDOS restored, and her own respective halo and wings. Because Chell hadn’t won on her own – she had help from an unexpected source. GLaDOS, or Caroline, or both – they cared about Chell and wanted her to succeed and be happy.

Then Chell’s heart sank. That’s exactly what she thought when she first stepped away from the rusty shack. But so far, being outside had brought her nothing but more heartbreak and trouble. Had GLaDOS or Caroline really wanted this for her? Did everything they had gone through together mean nothing?

Or maybe either of them did not know what became of Earth, and were just as clueless as Chell was.

Chell’s eyes locked in on her last drawing of GLaDOS, restored in her body, haloed with her power.

Who even was she? What did she mean to Chell, at the end of everything?

As the mute woman contemplated, the men and women of the tribe talked to themselves behind her.

“She is a monster-killer. Have you ever heard of someone who strong?”

“I always knew she must have been powerful.”

“Should we invite her on tomorrow’s hunt?”

The sudden popularity made Chell a bit bashful, a thankful distraction from her ruminating over GLaDOS. She soaked in the attention, until she realized that despite everyone talking about her, no one was talking to her.

Ah, yes, the fate that Chell would never seem to escape: being an object of study.

Chell signed, not knowing what else to do but return to her wall. She had graffitied the events of the last few days of her life, but defeating Wheatley was not where the story ended.

Because despite everything - or maybe it was because of everything that had happened between them, before, after, and always – GLaDOS and/or Caroline chose to save Chell’s life.

Her hand curled into a fist over her chest. Closing her eyes, she could still feel the firm clasp of GLaDOS’s pincer over her wrist. She could still hear the robot’s words in her mind with such clarity she might remember them forever.

Being Caroline taught me a valuable lesson. I thought you were my greatest enemy. When all along you were my best friend.

The surge of emotion that shot through me when I saved your life taught me an even more valuable lesson: where Caroline lives in my brain.

How could Chell draw, where Caroline lives? What even was this feeling it seeded in her? How could Chell transpose the feeling of at long last being understood, valued, and seen, by a monster with a human’s heart?

And what if it was a lie? What if GLaDOS or Caroline never cared about her after all? Was it wrong of Chell to try and interpret comfort from these final moments? Because despite the warmth, it still made her frightened to think of it.

Chell returned to the wall, fresh stick of charcoal in hand, and began to draw. Slowly.

Chell scratched out a picture of herself, floating as if suspended in space. Opposite of her she drew GLaDOS, and emerging from GLaDOS’s torso came the lady in the white dress.

The two women reached out to each other at arm’s length, hands just barely touching. Two entities in time, so close to seeing each other, achieving an instance of miraculous unity despite everything between them.

Then Chell dipped her finger into yellowish-brown paint, and drew a sour-smelling lightning bolt between the sliver of space between the two humans in the drawing. Striking down their bridge before it could be complete.

Stepping back, Chell examined the full mural of her adventure, spanning several meters of the wall’s surface. Despite the project being finished, she felt emptiness in her chest, like some part of her had been scooped out and splattered onto the wall.

She didn’t like this story. She hated what had happened to her.

Then, Chell felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She smeared her tears away and looked at the Huntress, who was giving her a kind smile.

Oh, that was right. Chell wasn’t alone. Viewing the entire piece was the people of the tribe, sitting in engrossed silence like theatergoers.

This story did not just belong to Chell anymore – it was part of their home, now, too.

All that was left for Chell was to wait quietly and hear what they all thought.

---

With nowhere else to go, Chell remained with the tribe.

She lived to see several generations born and interred into the soil, like the cycle of the seed to the fruit.

She became one of them, but nobody forgot where she came from.

During their nomadic journeying, the tribe often crossed paths with other groups of humans. They would trade stories about ancient monsters deep underground or soaring above the sky. Chell’s people would boast about her, telling and re-telling her story on her behalf, as a lesson to keep an eye out for more people (or monsters) who emerged from the Underworld.

Despite a deep and secret hope that Chell might cross paths with other survivors from her time, she never did.

The tribe learned to value Chell, beyond her status as a monster-killer from the Underworld. She taught them a few basic things that any kid from her time period learned in grade school, like how dung could be used as fertilizer for plants, or how to follow the never-changing North Star. What was basic knowledge to her was a gateway to innovations for her new people. Chell often wondered if GLaDOS would have been proud of her work. For science.

Chell would learn some of the tribe’s legends, as well. While she never knew the full story of how humanity was essentially de-evolved and forced back into the Stone Age, she did figure that some ancient and terrible outside force must have ruined the planet. Something extraterrestrial.

And at the twilight of her life, when Chell was a hunched-over, gray-haired old woman, she began to realize that she was the one that the young people of the tribe called “Elder.”

Chell would sit by the family fire, flames and shadows animating the paintings on walls, hearing the stories of her own life told and re-told. The tale of a human from the Underworld who battled demi-gods, befriended monsters, and emerged victorious to the surface.

And as the years went on, the stories became less and less familiar, the details changing slightly more with each time, becoming more myth than history. 

The cave paintings remained preserved on the walls. But the details would be forever lost. The endless corridors once populated with cutting-edge scientists. The supercomputer that powered the entire facility like one body. The haunting melody of the turret’s farewell song. The tiny ghost of a human inside the machine, alone forever, waiting for another human to drop in and resume the precious testing that everything was sacrificed for.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Length of Years: A Rapunzel Retelling

The woman in the tower brushed her hair. It had long ago turned white, and had grown to cover most of the floor in her little stone room. She braided it with lightning speed, her gnarled fingers confidently completing the familiar task.

Her gaze wandered through the chamber filled with the works of a lifetime. Tapestries she'd woven. Books she'd read and written. Dresses she'd designed. Plants she'd carefully tended until flowering vines framed her one window to the outside world. Evidence of arts she'd mastered, skills she'd developed--once sources of pride and joy, and now simply the remains of an empty life.

Now that her mother was dead, what did she have to live for? She'd sacrificed her life out of loyalty to the woman who'd given her everything; she'd never dreamed that someday she'd be the one left alone. This tower room had been her world; now that world seemed pathetically small. A dismal showing for so many decades.

She sang to banish the thoughts--song was her only weapon in her war against the hostile silence. The song was a light ditty from her younger years, about a bird in a cage, flying free. She'd sang that song often, once upon a time, to an awestruck audience. The only visitor this tower had ever held.

Unbidden, he appeared before her mind's eye. Young. Strong. Dark-haired. Square-jawed. With scarred hands and a dimpled chin and laughing eyes. He'd come to see her, day after day, and filled her world with a joy she'd never before known.

He'd asked her to leave with him; she'd refused, for Mother's sake, again and again, until he'd spoken so abusively against Mother that she grew offended for her sake, and told him to leave and never return. He'd obeyed her wishes, as he always had, and now she had nothing left of him but memory and regret.

She sang all the stronger as the memory turned to sorrow. She'd had her chance and thrown it away. Time had devoured any hope she'd ever had. What was the use of wishing otherwise? She was, and would be, now and forever, alone.

Even the song couldn't change that, so she stopped singing.

And in the silence, she heard a voice.

"Rapunzel! Rapunzel!"

An illusion. A hallucination. A phantom voice conjured by an abundance of memory and solitude and a lack of anything else.

The voice persisted. "Let down your hair!"

The voice was weaker than the one she remembered. Graveled. Worn. Aged.

But beneath it all, a familiar tone that brought her mind back to a time when she was fair-skinned, golden-haired, slender, willowy and oh-so-young.

She raced to the window with a speed she hadn't been capable of in years. Her joints creaked as she leaned far out the window, clinging tightly to the ledge to maintain her delicate balance as she looked down.

At a man in well-worn travel clothes marked with the royal coat of arms.

"I heard your singing," he said.

His hair was shorter than she remembered, gray and frazzled but still remarkably thick. His square jaw had grown jowls, his face had grown lines, his eyes had grown dimmer. But his smile as he gazed upon her was as bright as the one she saw in her memories each night.

With a bow that was slower but no less elegant for the passing of years, he asked, "My lady, might I ascend?"

With a joy she hadn't known she could ever possess, Rapunzel gathered up her endless white lengths of braid and let down her hair.

**

The climb took longer than Rapunzel remembered, but at last her visitor reached the window, and Philip Peregrine Bertram, prince of Whitbay, entered her chambers once more.

He bent double as he caught his breath. "Has your window always been that high?"

"It hasn't moved," Rapunzel said.

And neither have I.

Philip heard the unsaid and more valuable words. His gaze, when he stood straight and looked at her, held the compassion she'd always admired. "I heard of your mother's passing."

"It was very sudden." Mother had collapsed in the middle of a conversation, just after a climb up the tower in the rain. Rapunzel had buried her body beneath the stones of the tower's lowest level.

"My sympathies," Philip said.

He was the first to offer them, in all these weeks. Despite the hatred Rapunzel knew he had for her mother, she knew his words were genuine.

That, more than anything, brought the tears to her eyes. "Thank you."

Philip offered a handkerchief, which she took without shame. "Do you have food? Supplies?" he asked.

Rapunzel nodded, glad for the switch to more practical matters. "There are garden boxes here in the tower, and a boy comes every week with supplies."

"And you've stayed?"

She shrugged. "I had nowhere else to go."

No one else to go to.

He heard these unspoken words, too, and his face, as he sighed, seemed to age another ten years. "Rapunzel," he breathed. "I am so very sorry."

His voice held such depth of regret that she knew he apologized for far more than her mother's passing.

Despite herself, Rapunzel's words of response sounded far younger than the girl he had known. Like a child's--small, delicate, broken, plaintive. "Why did you never come back?"

"You asked me not to," Philip said. "And I had my pride. I might have returned, when my temper cooled, but then there were the wars, the diplomatic missions, the voyages, the marriage treaty, the children..." He sat wearily on her window ledge. "By the time life slowed down, I assumed you'd long ago moved on, and it would have been disloyal to seek you out. I only came to the village by chance and heard the locals speaking of the woman in the tower. Then I came to the woods and heard your song..."

He trailed off as he gestured to the room around them.

"I see," Rapunzel said, though she could barely even imagine it. An entire life full of war and travel and conflict and change happening quickly enough to obscure the passage of time, while she'd stayed here in the same set of rooms as the long, slow seconds marched lazily by.

"Did no one else ever come to the tower?" Philip asked, sounding almost desperate to hear some hint of joy from her life.

"No one," Rapunzel said simply. "Mother made certain of that."

Philip's jaw clenched, and there was a spark of the old fire in his eye, but he did not speak ill of the dead.

"I never mentioned you to her," Rapunzel said, "but she must have been suspicious--I wept so often in the weeks after our argument. She set barriers and traps in the woods after that. Spread rumors that I was mad and violent. The only outsiders who ever came were the boys who delivered supplies, and Mother always hired slow-witted lads who didn't ask questions."

"And..." Philip swallowed back some emotion. "And she was your only company?"

"She was never unkind to me," Rapunzel said, for she hadn't been, whatever her other crimes. "She made certain I never lacked anything I wanted."

"Except for freedom."

Rapunzel shook her head softly. "For a long time, I wasn't sure I wanted that. If I left, how could you find me? And by the time I believed you'd never come, I knew enough of the world to know I was safer here."

"Friendship, then."

"I did want that," Rapunzel admitted. "You don't know how much." Her fists clenched and her words quavered. "Sometimes, I thought it would break me."

Philip rose to his feet and caught her hand between his. "But it didn't," he said, with soft reassurance.

"Not yet."

"It won't," he said, with the firm compassion of age. "Not while I live." He raised her hand between their faces and looked deep into her eyes. "We've lost so many years, Rapunzel. I can't begin to atone for what you've been denied, but I can make certain that you're denied it no more. Come with me. Leave this place."

Rapunzel felt as though the tower had crumbled beneath her, leaving her no firm place to stand. It was more than she had dared to hope for, not for years and years and years. "How can I?" she whispered. "Your wife and family..."

"My wife passed nearly ten years ago. My children won't deny me the comfort of your friendship."

She gazed out the window toward a distant world glowing with a purple sunrise. "It's been too long," she said. "Too much life wasted. So little time ahead."

Philip's eyes, when she looked back at him, were as bright as those of the boy she'd once known. "Then we'd best not lose another minute."

**

Her head felt impossibly light. Her hair felt strange where it brushed against her shoulders. She secured the long, long braid to the pulley outside her window, then let down her hair one last time.

Philip secured her in the braid like a harness, and slowly lowered her to the ground. When her feet were firmly on the grass--it was so much softer than she'd imagined!--he climbed down and landed beside her.

Philip took her hand in his. "Are you ready?" he asked.

She nodded, too full of joy to speak.

"We'd best be on our way, then."

With her face toward the sunrise and her hand wrapped in his, Rapunzel strode forward and left the tower behind.

[daryltwdixon]

The Heart of Us: Chapter 18

As you walk up to the group, there’s a mix of casual chatter, Eugene and Noah trading verbal jabs about whether the mulleted man will actually join the run. You try not to cringe at the thought. Eugene, with his monotone drawl and his knack for needing constant babysitting, never made you feel particularly confident in group outings. Still, Deanna leads you straight to them without hesitation.

You step up beside a tall man with glasses and wispy white hair. Deanna gestures toward him with a warm smile, her hand sliding around his back. “Y/N, this is my husband. Not sure you two met at the party the other night. Reg, this is Y/N.”

“Hi, Y/N,” Reg says, offering his hand with a kind, easy smile. “Joining this group of misfits on their run today?”

“Sure am, sir.” You shake his hand firmly, flashing a polite smile.

“No.” The word comes sharp and fast from your right, and you barely need to glance to know the source. Aiden.

“No way, Mom!” he barks, his tone grating enough to make you bite back a sigh. You glance past him to Tara, who grimaces in shared exasperation. Maggie strides past, arms full of supplies, heading toward the paint-peeling van parked in the driveway.

“Get over yourself,” Maggie mutters as she passes Aiden, her tone clipped but effective.

You plaster on a sickly sweet smile, your voice dripping with mock cheer. “Hi, Aiden,” you croon.

He rolls his eyes but turns toward his parents, his body language shifting into something slightly more composed—if only because his father is watching.

“You got everything?” Reg asks, his tone even.

Aiden nods stiffly while you turn to Noah, who hands you a familiar weapon.

“Good thing I brought this along,” Noah says, holding up your old rifle.

Your lips tug into a smirk as you take it from him. “You were gonna take my old girl out without me?”

“Somethin’ told me you’d be here. Just a matter of when,” he replies, grinning as your hand squeezes his arm in quiet thanks.

Behind you, Aiden continues rattling off the checklist to his parents. “First aid kit, yellow pages, Glenn made a checklist. We’re good, I swear.”

“I know,” Reg says, his tone calm but insistent. “I’m just a worrier. That’s how we got that wall built.”

You let their conversation fade into the background as you exchange a quick hug with Maggie in farewell. She shoots you a small, knowing smile before heading back toward Glenn.

“I know I’ve said it before,” Deanna calls after you as you turn to leave, “but thank you.” She winks, her voice tinged with quiet encouragement.

Without a retort, you climb into the van after Tara and Noah. The interior smells faintly of old oil and dust, the cracked vinyl seats sticking uncomfortably to your legs as you slide in. Glenn follows, plopping down beside you with a soft laugh.

“What?” you ask, elbowing him lightly.

“Nothing,” he chuckles, but his gaze flicks pointedly toward the driver’s seat, where Aiden sits, his hair perfectly tousled and his posture stiff with irritation.

You follow Glenn’s gaze, then smirk. “Yeah. This’ll be interesting.”

The van rumbles to life, its engine sputtering briefly before catching. You lean your head back against the seat, your fingers tightening around your rifle. It’s just a run. You can handle Aiden. Probably.

➳

“So that’s it, there?” you ask, glancing at the looming structure ahead while double-checking the chamber of your rifle. The familiar click as you ensure it’s fully loaded echoes in your ears, mingling with the sounds of the others prepping their weapons. Your gaze lifts to the large, gray building ahead—a stark, soulless block of cement with trash scattered around its base. You’ve seen places like this before. They rarely hold anything good.

You’d learned on the drive here that this wasn’t just any supply run. Among the usual haul, the group was after something critical—a part to get the power grid up and running back in Alexandria. That’s why Eugene and his “techie brain” had tagged along. You weren’t thrilled about him being here, but the stakes were high enough to swallow your complaints.

“That’s the warehouse,” Aiden says, pointing toward it as Nicholas nods beside him. “Looks like that door’s our fastest way in and out.”

You glance at Glenn, and he’s already voicing your thoughts, his tone calm where yours would’ve been cutting. “We should know all the exits first,” he says evenly. “So we have a plan in case things go south.”

“Already got one,” Nicholas quips, shrugging. “It’s called goin’ out the front.”

You roll your eyes, slipping the strap of your rifle over your shoulder but keeping your mouth shut. Better to let the “experts” pretend they know better. Still, you make a mental note to scan every inch of the place once inside.

The faint growl of a walker cuts through the silence, followed by Tara’s sharp voice. “Noah, heads up.”

You pivot to see a lone walker shuffling toward the group.

“Got it,” Noah says, lifting his gun and taking it down with quiet precision. The sound of the silencer on his weapon makes you pause, envious. You make a mental note to find one for yourself—or better yet, snag one here.

“Good aim,” Aiden says, handing Noah a second weapon. Then, surprisingly, his tone softens. “Glenn’s right. We should do a perimeter check—just in case.”

Your eyebrows shoot up at his words. Maybe he’s capable of learning after all.

Glenn gives a small nod, his eyes meeting yours. You both shrug in silent agreement before breaking into groups to scout the perimeter.

You, Noah, and Glenn take the fence line. The walk is quiet, the air thick with tension. After a few moments, you break the silence, nudging Noah lightly. “That was good aim back there,” you say.

“Target practice helps,” he replies, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Honestly, last week I was pretty close to practicing on Aiden.”

“You and me both, kid,” you mutter.

“Same,” Glenn adds with a chuckle.

But the humor dies quickly as the faint sound of snarling reaches your ears. You quicken your pace, the three of you rounding the corner to find a crowd of walkers pressed against the chain link, their rotting hands clawing at the metal.

“Guess we’re not getting out the front,” you mutter, your voice low.

When the group regathers at the van, you report what you’ve seen. A collective sigh ripples through everyone before Aiden speaks up, gesturing toward the back entrance. “We’ll take the other way in.”

You slam your hand against the metal door a few times to draw out anything waiting inside. The sound reverberates off the walls, but the space remains silent. No snarls, no shuffles, nothing.

“Alright,” Glenn says cautiously. “But take it slow.”

You’re already stepping through, your rifle raised and your other hand brushing the knife at your waistband. Glenn’s voice follows you in. “Y/N, give it another second. It’s a big place. There could be more.”

“Noted,” you whisper, your steps deliberate as you sweep your gaze across the rows of metal shelving.

Aiden pushes in behind you, handing you a flashlight. You hold it up, the beam cutting through the shadows as orders murmur softly from the others to spread out.

“I got this aisle,” you whisper, moving down a long corridor lined with shelves stacked high with crates and boxes. The air is stale, heavy with the faint scent of rot.

Then you hear it—the faint clinking of metal paired with a low, guttural snarl. Your grip tightens on your rifle as you inch forward, the sound growing louder. 

“Eyes up,” Glenn whispers behind you, and the group starts moving again. But the sound of snarling grows louder, this time to your right.

You stop short when your flashlight catches movement.

You whip around, your flashlight beam landing on a cluster of walkers– a lot of them–trapped behind a metal fence on your right. Their growls are relentless, echoing through the hollow space with a feral hunger. Dead eyes lock onto you and the others, and their decaying fingers grip the fence, rattling it so hard that the chain holding it shut clatters noisily. There are more of them here, at least twenty, and their frenzy is contagious. If there are any walkers deeper inside, they’re likely stirred up now.

“Well,” you mutter, letting your rifle fall against your chest, slung on its strap, “let’s get to work.” You pull your knife from your waistband, the familiar weight settling in your hand like an extension of your arm.

Tara swings her flashlight toward Eugene, the beam hitting him square in the face. “You’re up,” she says curtly, her tone brooking no argument.

In the harsh light, Eugene’s wide eyes shine with unmistakable fear. He hesitates for a moment, his breathing shallow, but he moves into place without protest.

The next few minutes are tense but systematic. Knives plunge through the chain link, one walker at a time, their snarls cut short with each precise blow. The group works in sync, clearing the gate efficiently despite the noise. Finally, the last walker collapses, and the rattling of the fence ceases.

Once you’re moving again, Eugene and Tara call out from another aisle, their voices bouncing off the high walls. “Found it!” Tara’s tone is sharp but triumphant, cutting through the tension that’s been winding tighter with every step. Eugene’s voice follows, lower and laced with cautious pride, as if he’s surprised at their success.

You exhale, your shoulders dropping just slightly at the idea of finding something useful in this place. At least this trip won’t be a total waste. You adjust your grip on your rifle and refocus, scanning the rows of shelves towering around you.

The space is massive, and your flashlight struggles to cut through the shadows clinging to the upper reaches. Dust floats lazily in the faint beams of light trickling in through cracks and boarded windows. You squint, looking for anything—tools, supplies, something to make all this worth it.

Your boots crunch softly against the littered floor, the sound almost too loud in the cavernous space. 

A distorted groan echoes through the space, pulling your attention to the far side of the room. You turn, flashlight sweeping over the source, and your stomach twists at what you see.

Aiden.

He’s firing his gun, the sharp sound of his shots bouncing off the walls. His target is a walker in full military gear—helmet, face shield, camo uniform. A soldier, you realize. Its body is decked with weapons and equipment, a vest strapped tightly across its chest.

“Aiden, stop shooting, let it get closer,” you say quietly, but with a sharpness. He doesn’t seem to hear you, and the bullets ricochet off the soldier’s visor with sharp, metallic pings. The walker keeps shambling forward, undeterred. You step closer, your eyes scanning the walker’s gear, searching for a way to disarm it.

He doesn’t listen. Another shot rings out, then another.

“Aiden, stop—!”

Your voice rises in urgency, but it’s too late.

The bullet hits the grenade strapped to the soldier’s chest.

For a brief moment, the world slows, the green oval of the grenade catching the light in a sickening flash.

And then everything goes black.

[woneuntonzz]

𝖙𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖈𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖊 || s.mg x reader

An alternate universe of wizards, witches, and celestial beings

ꜱʏᴘɴᴏꜱɪꜱ: In the tales created by the rulers of mystic society, all the magic in the world came from a single stone —the White Diamond— and was bestowed to the world by the very first sorcerers that hailed from the heavens; the Keepers. Those tales turned out to be true. And now, an evil force seeks the the power of the White Diamond. This evil overpowered the Keepers, leaving you who had retired from being of high power. Now it is up to you to fight this evil and await the hero from the prophecy that is said to be the saviour of the world.

contains: angst, fluff, a dash of humor, slightly suggestive (just squint maybe?), combat and blood, fantastical, names and themes derived from greek mythology, angels and demons, use of spells and incantations, (an attempt) made up greek chant, telepathy, wizards and witches, and wands, extensive backgrounds

word count: 8.17k

[an: yes, there is a part two (and quite possible a three) after this week]

⛦ ᴊᴏɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ!

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭 .ᐟ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You’ve laid out a new batch of freshly baked cookies, straight out the oven and still bathe your face with steam. The smell of different cooked sugars and the aroma of the dozen flavors you had to offer whistled for customers that roamed the outside world. It was a heavenly time of the day, where wizards, witches and their children came with such delightful faces that wanted nothing more but a bite of your warm and delectable pastries.

“Lemon chiffon please, five slices.” the velvet-haired witch smiles at you with her pearly white canines, holding her son’s hand. The boy was about the height of your shoulders and he wore a junior wizard badge on his blazer. 

“Coming right up!” your voice, jolly and as sweet as your baked goods, made them smile. You’d watch them from the corner of your eyes as you got them five slices of the lemon chiffon cake from the display case. 

The bells chimed right as you went back to them. More customers had arrived as the sunshine warmed up the sorcerous lands. 

Those were simpler times. When magic was as wonderful as they’d be in children’s fantasies. It was all gone. A dark force took over what was once the land of joy and enchantment, now an ominous place where it was all shades of black, gray, and blood. Then, no one would dare challenge the sentinels that watched over the mystic grounds, but they were all gone with what seemed like a snap of a finger. Evil reigned upon the kingdom of sorcerers, the king they praised and loved was slain and his head was hung at the Fountain of Tears, the very center of the land. 

You had failed to aid the sorcerers at battle, concealing the last shard of the White Diamond —what the great Ahriman seeked that would give him all the magic in the world. He’d be unstoppable. You had it with you, ever since being brought down on Earth as a Keeper. The White Diamond was the source of all magic that ran through the very land you walk on. The dawn of mystic society began with the Keepers shattering the White Diamond, releasing its magic and finding its way to the wizards and witches of today. There was no use for the Keepers to hide such power as you were already granted with eternal life and sorcery at birth. Each shard was kept between twelve Keepers —including you, and with the progression of mystic society, you left the guardian life behind, settling at a cozy spot in town as a baker. It was no ideal life for some, but for someone like you who had endured thousands of years and hundreds of wars, it was the best gift life could offer. Living amongst the mortals, you carried a shard of the White Diamond, keeping it hidden with an obscuring spell. 

You knew the time was bound to come, that one vicious soul would one day seek the power of the White Diamond. It was the sole reason why the shards were kept separately. It was in the prophecy.

“Destruction awaits your haven, and a sword with the devil’s essence…” 

Ahriman was once a loyal servant of the south kingdom where there was no magic. He lost his family to an unforeseeable attack that killed a few dozen families. There was no truth to who might be the culprit, but Ahriman believed it was the mystic society. Blue flames and glittered fumes, it was magic, and he was certain it was the work of a sorcerer. Yet, there is no motivation for the mystic society to attack. With the lack of reason, Ahriman was hindered with his mission to seek vengeance and was locked away by the king. He spent two decades inside that dungeon, with pent up wrath and anguish. The spirit of Belial sensed the great power he withheld. Belial was banished under the oceans of eternal agony —Keeper Cordelia’s prison for banished spirits— but his power remained puissant, as his remaining disciples chanted his name he was able to whisper to Ahriman and grant him the strength of six armies. Ahriman escaped, leaving the walls of his prison obstructed. He was to come back to the south to kill the king, but not without the power of the White Diamond. 

At the occurrence of those events, you were already retired from being a Keeper and surrendered your magic to the old Keepers’ well. You blended in with the mortals, using incantations and spells, and a wand granted to you by Keeper Zephyr as a token. They were your family, and they understood your reasons. Never did they question nor oppose your decisions. You’ve served well, and it is you who gave the mystic society its mystique. You found the White Diamond from the caves of the lost tribes, and the spirit of the tribes told you to shatter the diamond, and the fate of the society would be in the hands of the Keepers. It was from those spirits that you’d be given that prophecy. Along with Ahriman’s rule, was the rise of a hero. 

“Young eyes you’ll meet, and he will wear the darkness when he returns. He is the might of the society, his heart is the true yielder of the White Diamond and he will save a Keeper’s soul.”

The hero was yet to come. But you had to wait. You hoped that the hero was a sorcerer who can help you revive your magic from the well. Because after Ahriman’s attack on mystic society, what was once your sanctuary for your passions of tending to the wizards and witches, would become a desolate place for potions and wands bound to no possessors. You were in no power to resist nor attempt to fight the circumstances. You’ve had futile attempts at the well, unable to solve the Keepers’ riddles, and your magic would remain with the well’s dew. Ahriman’s soldiers would come into your shack thrice a week for duneberry serums to get rid of any wounds, relieve any pain. On occasion, they would stop by to retrieve special potions —that you had received a mandate letter for— that you could only guess was for battling and slaying the mystic beasts of the society woodlands. You’ve been given an order to brew silver hare drops at the time of Aries. It was used on weapons, splayed on blades. Once the solution is mixed in with a being’s blood, their heart will stop within the count of five seconds for smaller bodies, and twelve seconds for larger ones. You knew they visited your shop for a cruel purpose, under vengeful orders. You knew you shamed Keeper Fauna’s values. The mystic society was meant to house and protect those beasts because they protected the mystic from monsters that dare threaten the society’s inhabitants. 

For years, you’ve been devising a plan to escape this land of chaos, and retrieve your powers from the well. And soon you’ll meet the hero in the prophecy and save the mystic society. It just won’t be very soon. Escaping was harder than living under Ahriman’s ruling. The sentinels became punishers, minds corrupted to serve the great evil. You did not have enough strength or magic to get past them, and they were near every means of escape. It was a seemingly impossible dream that you’ve fostered for a decade. And Ahriman was still on the hunt for the White Diamond’s missing piece. You knew by then that he had killed the other Keepers with Belial’s influence. You could hear Belial’s whispers again, that’s when you knew that he was coming back once he’s garnered all the power Ahriman had to offer to him through bloodlust. He would rise from the oceans of eternal agony with his army of undead wizards, then he would yield all the gold of Earth and call for the wrathful dragon, undefeated and fated to destroy the world, the gateway to Ragnarök, Flauros.

As long as the last shard is with you, Ahriman’s malevolent schemes will be thwarted. Nights left no room for sleep as you studied the shard. Tapping the end of your wand against its sharp edges, it creates small sparks that produce puffs of smoke and magic dust. It smelt of dew of the caves from which the White Diamond was found. The shard would illuminate when held, but it would be very meek. The first time you held the White Diamond —when it was still intact— its shine lit up the entire cave. The diamond as a whole emitted sparks of endless magic dust that landed all over your hands and all over your silk, translucent robe. The shard alone that you held in your hand at this very moment does not behave the same if not thoroughly meddled with.

“...his heart is the true yielder of the White Diamond…

and he will save a Keeper’s soul…”

It was midnight, and the sudden knock to your shop’s locked door spiked the fear in your nerves. It could be Ahriman’s soldiers —or Ahriman himself, coming to seize that last shard. You are defenseless without your magic, your wand and spells will never be enough to fight him or his men as they were granted power by Belial and were under his control. Belial’s spirit would only grow stronger, and soon, fragments of his consciousness would live within their souls. You feared that when you answered the door, you'd look straight into Belial’s eyes, like you did before when you sought to capture him. It was you who battled him with telepathy —the gift of your magic— and loss, your soul almost being eaten by him. Taking a deep breath, you unlock the door, sliding the latch off, you release some air, right before opening the door, just enough for you to peek. 

But you would be met with nothing but the darkness of night. “To who’s knock have I answered?” you’ve counted the few seconds of silence —twenty long seconds, before a hand slightly pushes the door open. “You mustn't enter without your answer. To who’s knock have I answered?”

It was a man, and he would clear his throat before he sounded his response, “I am looking for the sorceress Y/n.”

He tried to push the door open, but you’d keep it still with your hand from the inside. “To who’s knock have I answered?”

“I am Mingi. I’m the son of the head witch of Celeste’s manor.” 

Celeste —the name given to you by the Gods as a Keeper. You were one with the celestial bodies, their light giving you power to look into the minds of mortals and immortals alike, and control them. But you no longer had that power with you. “Inside.”

You spread the door open, finally seeing his full figure. He was dressed in black, a long coat and a homburg on his head. You meet his eyes that were the color of silver. You knew him, and his mother most of all —the only mortal that knew of your true self, the witch you’ve entrusted your treasures, crystals, and manor with, head witch Verbena. Your manor was a shelter to young witches who attend collegiate courses for sorcery, alchemy, and psychomancy at the mystic academy. You used to visit when you had the time, dropping off pastries for the witches, and for the little boy that ran through the halls to ask if you had brought his favorite. The little boy who asked for lemon chiffon cake, was now the man who stood before you. 

“Why do you seek me?” you ask, rushing to lock the door behind him. 

“You do remember me, right?” his voice was deep, yet anxious. “You knew my mother too.”

“Yes I do, Mingi.”

“Mom was killed by Ahriman’s soldiers.”

You were suddenly breathing thick air, your huffs becoming audible amidst the silence. “Verbena…” with your feeble utterance, Mingi removes his hat, revealing his fawn-colored locks, then he discards his long coat, hanging it over his forearm. He wore a black suit underneath, posh looking with silver motifs all over.

“I was called here by…” he avoids your eyes, looking for his next words within the cracks of the floorboards. “It was a voice in my dreams. I know it sounds crazy but—”

“Mingi, nothing will ever be crazy in our world.” you interrupt him, a soft chuckle leaving your lips as you speak.

“Right.” he clears his throat again. “The voice told me to go here. I know this used to be the town's favorite bakery, the voice was showing me that and told me to find the missing piece.”

Your eyes dilate, realizing he might be sent by Ahriman to steal the last piece of the diamond. “Mingi, who do you bow to?”

“Me? I-I bow to the Keepers.” he stutters, and you took a minute for yourself to grasp the tone of his voice and his mannerisms. 

“The truth, Mingi.”

“I am telling the truth, sorceress.”

You find it pleasurable for him to refer to you as sorceress, you figured perhaps he must know you were a Keeper yourself. If you had your magic, it would be easy for you to tell whether he was being honest. But now you have to rely on your mortal instincts. 

“Then, what is the missing piece?”

His eyes wandered around again for mere seconds before he sighed, “I don’t know for sure. My dream was quite discreet with the details.” he utters, eyes finding yours. 

You watch as his gaze falls all over your features, examining your very stature. He motions as if he was about to say something, but then he hesitates and decides to not do so anyway. You walk closer to him, taking the coat off his forearm. 

“Follow me.” you say as you walk to the back of your shop, into your room. 

You could hear his heavy footsteps against the wood floor, creaking slightly. When you got inside, you realized you had forgotten to turn off the lights at the main area of the shop, “Sit down and settle yourself. I’ll be right back.” you placed his folded coat on your bed before you went and closed the lights. 

It only took you a minute or two, but when you came back, Mingi was standing next to your workbench, where you had laid the diamond. 

“Don’t touch that!” you kept your voice quiet, avoiding creating any noises that would draw in soldiers or punishers. 

“I’m sorry.” he utters, dropping the wand in his hand that he used to poke the shard. 

You walk over to him, picking up the wand. You were an inch apart as you stood from lowering yourself to the ground. You prod the end of the wand on his chest as a threat. 

“I apologize, sorceress. I’ll keep my hands to myself.” his soft utterance made you gulp, for how matter how mellow he had intended for it to be, his voice was still deep, like Cordelia’s oceans. 

“Sit down. Anywhere’s fine.” your back was already facing him when you spoke. 

You heard your lounge chair squeak a tad, then silence followed after. You walk back to your workbench where you’ve laid out books and old scrolls, a few wands from the wizards that were executed by the Fountain of Tears, and a stack of papers —a map standing out amongst all of them. It’s a roamer’s map. You’ve met a wayfinder in one of your expeditions before. He was of tall stature, alike Mingi —but unlike the shadow dressed man, Yunho wore white and a cloak that could conceal anything beneath its material. He gave you this map just because it “felt necessary”. The roamers map shows everything within its area of perimeters —it takes up about the size of a country— and moving sites will change the map’s scope. 

“Sorceress, can I ask you something?”

Your head averted from the map, snapping up at him. “Surely. Ask away.”

He nods, once again looking away like he’s forgotten his question. Though, it wouldn’t take him a while until he asked you, “You aren’t a mortal, are you?” you nod to his question, and he nods along. “You look exactly the same as when I was a kid.” 

“Mingi, i’m…” you thought for a minute, thinking back to Verbena. Such a kind-hearted and honest witch. She’s raised Mingi all her life. You figured, you should trust him like how you did with his mother. “I’m Celeste.” 

His reaction was calmer than what you had anticipated, he’d reveal just why quite soon. “So, that’s why you look like the portrait of Celeste in mom’s room.” he looks right into your eyes. “Why weren’t you with the other Keepers?” 

“My magic is long gone, Mingi. Leaving the life of a Keeper means leaving the power granted to you too. I’m as equipped as any witch out there.” he nods at your words. You pick up the diamond shard on your workbench, holding it up for him to see. “This is the missing piece —of the White Diamond.”

He stared wide-eyed at the shard, taking in the way it shone softly in your fingers. “I— it’s real?”

“And the folktale about the mystic society being born out of the White Diamond is real, it’s our story.” 

He stood up from his seat, still inspecting the shining diamond. “And it is you, Celeste, who shattered the diamond?” you breathed in, getting yourself seated at the edge of your bed. “When I was a kid, my mom would always tell me that Celeste had such a warm heart, and that she loved the mortals —you were all those things in our town’s folktales.”

You look away for a brief moment, wearing a soft smile as you reminisce about the kind of boy Mingi was. He shouldn’t be that different as a man —you think to yourself before bringing your gaze back to him. “Yes. I was all that —I believed all life on Earth deserved to be blessed with magic. Magic —it allows for one to truly understand the nature of the world.”

The corners of Mingi’s lips would rise. Then, he slid his hand beneath his suit at the area of his chest. He pulled out a red stone that hung from his neck, an amulet —and a familiar one at that. “My mom told me that my dad left this for her when he died but, I still don’t know what its purpose is.” his hands moved the back of his neck, reaching for the lock of the necklace.

He struggled for a while, and so you stood up and walked over behind him. He was startled to a fleet, but once he felt your hands undoing his necklace, he eased himself. You remove it from his neck once the lock is undone. You brought it closer to your vision, its back resting on your palm as your thumb brushed over the stone. It shone brighter as your skin glided on its surface, like the shard, only that this stone is red and slightly orange in the core. From the way it behaved in your hand, you could tell the stone was not in its purest form and was manipulated by sorcery, a spell of some kind.

“And your mother never mentioned anything else about it?” the stone remained in your hand, twinkling and glowing with every swipe. 

“She said it’s for our protection. From Belial.”

“I see. It’s blessed with a spirit ward.”

The necklace would revert around Mingi’s neck, along with the warmth of your hand that sent currents throughout his body. He spent his whole life fantasizing about the tale of the Keeper, picturing himself as a Keeper, protecting and creating life, serving the people for the greater good. He was raised by a witch that honored the Keepers with her whole life, having been a close ally to one. Verbena was a witch rescued from Belial’s minions by Keeper Zephyr, and would serve great help with protecting the wizards and witches by keeping them in refuge. Mingi was born after the war with Belial, and it was also when you gave up being a Keeper. Verbena owed you her life, because it was from you that she learned how to brew potions of any nature, use any spells with ease, create talismans, and most of all, you entrusted her with your manor —and what used to be the Keepers’ headquarters. Ever since the war with Belial, the Keepers had agreed to guard the different bodies of the world. The oceans, the sky, the animals and the plants, and the people. Since then, the manor was unoccupied, and there would be no other wizard or witch worthy of your credence but Verbena. Mingi has heard all the great things about you, feeling almost as if he was undeserving to be in your premises, let alone your presence. His eyes never leave you as you move from behind him, back to where you sat. 

“When I found the White Diamond, it came with… a prophecy.” you avert your eyes from his, setting your gaze on the tiny slit of your window that displayed half of the moon. “It was about Ahriman, though we'd never known it back then. But it also told me that there would be a hero to come.” you look back at him, right into his silver irises. 

Mingi whose young eyes you’ve met, and now he’s returned to seek for you, wearing clothes that made him one with the night —he wore the darkness. And maybe, his heart truly is the yielder of the White Diamond. 

“What’s taking him so long?” he questioned, like how he would when you could still lay a hand on top of his head. 

You laughed. He would turn out to be a bit bewildered, but he’d smile, huffing out once but never laughing wholly. “Maybe he’s already here.” you chuckled when he shrugged, finding his actions adorable. “Then, Mingi, you must assist me. Your dreams brought you here for a reason.”

“Right, sorceress. I will do as I am told.”

You walked back to your workbench, urging him to come along with the tilt of your head. He towered over your figure, looking down at the variety of articles, looking down at you. Then, you were the one who had to kneel to meet his eyes, but now your head leaned backwards, looking up at him as you shared your plans. You would share your failures as well, and the hurdle of being unable to restore your powers, not knowing how it was even possible. 

“Perhaps an incantation or spell would work?” Mingi’s overt suggestion only evoked a sigh from you. 

“Believe me, I’ve tried everything. I won’t be able to regain my magic without any of the other Keepers. But we won’t be able to escape and meet any Keepers without that magic either.”

“Let’s visit the well. Maybe I might be able to help.”

“Really?”

“Really, sorceress. I wish for you to allow me to at least try. I promise none of us will get hurt.”

You spent the night with him, preparing for your little endeavor. You remember spending a whole night’s sleep by the well, crying to the Gods. It mustn’t be that difficult, yet you had no idea of how you’d be able to return to your Keeper-self. It only added to the weight of your sorrows, already a heavy load from the destruction of the mystic society and the loss of thousands of wizards and witches. When the people need you the most is when you’re unable to grant the aegis you had promised them. 

The sun had just woken up when you and Mingi had set out to head to the Keeper’s well. You were both equipped with just enough in case of a mishap —bringing the shard along with you. You took the liberty of exiting from the back of your shop that led to a deserted alleyway. There were still a few eyes roaming around the area, but not very threatful ones. Reaching a more populous area, you stick close to Mingi, your hand holding on to the sleeve of his coat. 

“Take my arm.” he says, and you would do just that, entangling your arm around his. 

At a sudden instance, an Ahriman soldier catches your attention from the corner of your eye. If you weren’t so vigilant, you wouldn’t have caught up on the way he looked at the pair of you.

“Ahriman’s soldiers roam this area. You really should’ve left the coat.” you whisper to your company. 

And he whispers back, “Oh, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” 

“It’s my trademark.”

“Tradema—” your query was cut off by a loud and excruciating bang, and a small fire building up at the little shack you and Mingi stood by. 

“Sorceress, this is where we run.” he takes your hand in his, pulling you along with him, but you would only reach a meter before one of the soldiers came lunging at you. 

Mingi was quick to react, drawing his blade from its sheath. His forearm catches the man by his chest, his blade moving to a speed the mortal eyes could never follow. A heap of blood escapes the soldier’s mouth as Mingi penetrates his abdomen. Another soldier came to strike, but this time you took care of it, ducking and booting his calf making him lay flat on his back on the ground. That’s when you whipped out your wand, casting a spell on him that made his mouth foam. Three other men would come running your way, and Mingi would rush in front of you to shield you from them. He takes one man by the arm, and it fascinated you. The man’s arm was out of reach, but it would seem as though a mass of wind blew the man to Mingi’s reach. And he was moving at a speed of no wizard. He kills off three men with little trouble, and when he turns to you, you have your eyes laid on him whilst also having a man's throat in your hand and you’d strike the man with the same spell you used earlier.

“Let’s take a run, shall we?”

“After you, sorceress.”

Just before the other soldiers came, you two had already disappeared from the site, running off to the mystic woodlands. Reaching the Keeper’s well meant following a maze-like path, or else, you won’t be able to go through the barrier that conceals it. It was an enchantment of protection by Keeper Fauna. 

“That’s awesome.” was all that Mingi could utter once explaining to him how to get to the well. 

You had the map in your hands. Yunho had marked the pathway you were to take, a thought for a thought, he knew you’d need it eventually, but he only took that extra step because you’re his favorite Keeper. 

“You have to stick close, we can’t stray away from this path, not even a single step.”

“And the animals?”

“You won’t have to worry.” your eyes find his own, looking up at him the same way you did back in your room. “They know how to sort rotten souls from good ones.” 

Mingi nods, taking a breath of the heated air. He takes off his coat, feeling the warm morning all over his body as sweat builds up all over him. A Keeper’s eyes are reserved —you repeat to yourself, but you’d be watching him through your peripheral as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the clean side of his coat’s sleeve, then he removed his gloves, wiping his palm and the back of his hand on the sleeve. 

“Won’t you remove your cloak? it’s getting real hot.” 

You profusely shake your head, “I’ll be fine.”

He gives you a small smile for a brief moment before his eyes leave you. He started wiping the sweat on his neck, throwing his head back to wipe thoroughly. You felt a little silly just standing there, so you went and got yourself seated on an outcrop —a large rock. You could feel his eyes pinned on your figure as you moved yourself. Your back was facing him, allowing for you to have room to finally realize how hot it actually was. So with a sigh, you unfasten your cloak, allowing for it to fall down, leveled with your waist. The fabric hung onto the back of your elbow, your collar bone and bare arms now exposed. From the back, Mingi could only stare. Your top was cropped just above your waist, and the rest was covered with black, translucent silk, but maybe too translucent. You feel Mingi’s presence next to you. He sat in the opposite direction, but was right next to you. His bottom was aligned with where your knees rest, so he could see all of you, now from the front. You tilt your head at him, and he’d do the same, raising his brows. You shake your head, suppressing a giggle. Somehow, he captures your eyes. The silver shine in them was pure allure to you. It was like refined dark magic, lulling you, putting your surroundings to a stop, yet it was so beautiful. You feel a soft breeze against your face, softly drawing your hair back. You shy away from his gaze because of the sudden motion of nature. When you look back at him, your smile drops. 

“Mingi…” his irises glowed a different color, and it went back to silver when the breeze had gone away. “You are not a mortal, are you?”

With a slight shrug, he tells you, “I’m not sure honestly. I know I have abilities mortals normally wouldn’t have, but I only know my mother. I have no idea where my powers hail from —quite possibly from my father, but I don't know him either.”

He shoves his folded gloves on to his pocket, and you’d see a few scars all over his hand, some worse than others.

“How about you, Keeper Celeste?” you blink once, you were never used to being called that name. You’ve been Y/n for so many years. You hum back to him to question what he was asking you for, so he’d add, “Where the Keepers from?”

You wore a bitter smile, eyes wandering on the grimy ground. “I know the folktales told people that we fell from the sky, and it’s true —in some way. We were created by the Gods. They were giants that lived in the heavens. The Keepers were molded by… they never told us what, but that was how we were made. We were sent down when we were a decade old, to protect Earth.” you could feel the tears from the back of your eyes, so you’d close them for a brief moment. “We were children. I was a child too before I was a woman. But I never knew what being a child meant. Even if we were small, we were at our most powerful state of being. Our powers were fresh, and so were our minds. Nothing could manipulate us because our faith was with the Gods. That was until we lived a century. We realized that the Gods are sloth personified. They create beings to do everything for them, and they would do it just so they wouldn’t get blamed when the world turns to ash. They live through the faith of people. Once people stopped believing in them, they’d shrink into useless mortals. They’re just as selfish as demons.” 

Mingi kept himself quiet, basking in the way your voice harmonized with the sounds of the woodlands. His eyes urged you to keep talking as they softened. 

“That’s why I chose to live within the mortals and gave up being a Keeper. There was no way for me to die —other than cutting through my throat or stabbing into my heart— but I could give up the power. So I did that. My immortality is my curse, and I coped with baking, you know the rest of the story.” 

“You’re a great baker.”

“I know. You loved my sweets.”

“Believe me, I still do.”

You laughed amongst yourselves, thinking back to the good old times. No war, no extreme offenses, no conflicts. Just a life of bliss and magic. “I didn’t miss being a Keeper, well, not until now.” Mingi had his bottom lip in between his teeth, marveling at your features.

“Sorry, but, I can’t help but ask —how old are you?” you chuckle softly at his query. 

“Almost ten thousand years. I stopped counting when I hit six thousand. It’s too many numbers.” a laugh went past your lips seeing his mouth agape at the revelation. 

“And I look older than you?” his little quip only had you dispensing another guffaw.

Getting yourself composed, you reply to him, “Well, if I counted correctly, you’re about the age of thirty, am I right?”

“Spot on.” 

“You look twenty-one and thirty at the same time.”

“Hearing that from you, I'm thinking maybe I might actually be immortal.” 

He looked up to the sky, once again exposing the skin of his neck. The closeness allowed for you to see how spotless his skin was despite being a kind of vigilante, which proved to be a lot of work. He seemed to already be known to Ahriman and his soldiers, claiming his black coat is his trademark. “We can’t say for sure. You must last a century before claiming yourself immortal.”

“I will last a century. I promised my mom I will protect—” he stops himself, huffing briefly before he speaks again. “—the Keepers.”

“You did?” he nods at your little question. “You were such an ambitious child.”

“Still am.”

“Ambitious, or a child?”

“Can it be both?” his shoulders rose to a shrug, making you titter for the nth time. 

You were soon headed to the well, wasting no time to stop for anything. This path was truly one for wonders as it concealed the both of you from the rest of the world, all except the creatures of the mystic woodlands. Mingi kept himself close by walking right behind you, though he thought it would be better if he was beside you instead —he just couldn’t risk it. Soon, his hand would find itself on your shoulder as you walked through the trees, tracing each of your steps with his own. It was quite the trek but relief would wash away your exhaustion once you spotted a tiny cluster of wisps. They ward off any uninvited guests, and Mingi —despite looking intimidating— was welcomed by the gentle spirits. 

“Wisps?” his low voice chuckled against the little kisses the wisps gave him. 

“They’re very dear.” you mumble as more wisps came to you, playing with your hair and placing soft touches on your cheeks. 

Mingi’s eyes glistened with the glow of the wisps, and he watched as one hovered on your palm. You bring it close to your face, eventually giving it a sweet kiss. 

“I wish I was a wisp.” you hum in question of his utterance.

“Wisps are spirits that were taken for granted. Powerful, but was subjected to the consequences of life, suffering death before their spirits were able to spread love and wisdom in the world. They’re nice, but I'm pretty sure they’d prefer to be like us, you know, living.” he understood pretty easily, a little disappointed, but quite amused that you didn’t get the hint with what he said. “I love them.”

You relaxed the muscles of your hand, raising it up a tad and letting the wisp fly off to its friends. Ahead of you, finally, is the Keeper’s well. Your curiosity was at its peak when you remembered Mingi said he wanted to help, to try at least.

You walk over to the well, your hope dwindling with every step. The wisps had consoled you through all instances of you breaking down over numerous feeble attempts of procuring your magic. This time you hoped, that the presence of Mingi would change the course of this venture you’ve gone on for decades now with no success. 

Once your toes were only an inch away from the well’s body, you stopped, looking into the well, it was a ritual for you. Maybe your powers would peek back at you. 

“Are you alright?” Mingi’s voice sounded of worry, now with both hands resting on your shoulders.

You breath in the cool air of your surroundings, magic dust floating away from within the well with a soft inviting glow. “Lead the way, Mingi.”

You saw the movement in his throat as he gulped, making his way around the well and standing across from where you had anchored yourself. His blade leaves its sheath again. Your eyes were glued onto the alloy that shimmered with the illumination emitted by the wisps and the well itself. He holds it over the opening of the well, and his amulet —it hangs onto the quillon of the blade. “I wanted to test out something I’ve read out of the books, or maybe, this is just some stupid idea I came up with.” he mumbles the last part, but you were able to read his lips. Still, you trusted him. 

He closes his eyes, and he chants. From what you understood, it was an incantation, typically used in the area of fishery. Sounds odd for Mingi to be using such a spell, but you just stood there and allowed for him to work his magic. 

His grip on the blade loosened, and by every finger he detached from the grip, the blade got heavier, and heavier, until it fell. You heard the strong gust of wind as it continued to fall. 

“I wonder what the Gods are saying about this war.” it had been a while since the blade was dropped into the well.

Your anticipation had diminished completely. “Mingi, let’s just go.”

“I do hope they recognized the Keepers’ sacrifices.”

Tears threatened to fall from your eyes. “Mingi, we have to go before we get ambushed—” 

“But then again, the Gods are none of our concern—”

“Mingi!” there was a slight crack in your voice, speaking as you fought the urge to break down again. “We must leave this place, now.”

“But I'm not done yet, Celeste.” 

“Do not call me by that name, Celeste will never come back.” the tears swelled in your eyes, and you’d swallow your misery to deter from crying. “It’s impossible, Mingi.” your firm voice softens to one that is gloomy and reflects your despair. 

With every step Mingi took closer to you, you’d only come close to breaking into a weep completely. A tear would trickle down to your jaw when he takes hold of your hands and makes you turn to the side to face him. You lower your head as the tears pour themselves out of you, you were breathing with a stutter. Mingi’s hand that was further from the well moves from your hand to your shoulder. Soon, you were laying the side of your head on his chest, the hand on your shoulder shifting to the back of your head whilst the other was entwined with yours. You felt Mingi’s heart thumping loudly in his chest, then he takes a deep breath and releases your hands at the side where the well was next to you both. His free hand hovers over the well’s opening. He was chanting again, but it was one you could not recognize even if you were hearing it right in your ear. You move away from Mingi’s body, watching his eyes change color like before. From silver to gold. The golden shine of his eyes reminded you of a pair that was very dear to you. 

“Zephyr…” you utter to yourself, but only you would be able to hear. 

Mingi was fully focused on his work, and you would hear that strong gust of wind again, now growing louder instead of the other way. Mingi stops his incantation, and looks into your eyes. 

“Say it with me, Díno tin písti mou stous anémous tis aioniótitas.”

Zephyr’s language. “Díno tin písti mou stous anémous tis aioniótitas.” and your faith was with Mingi. 

“Catch the blade Y/n.” 

You hear the wind yelling, and it was getting louder. With a foot on the rim of the well and a hand over the well’s mouth, you were able to grab the blade by its grip as it came flying out. Mingi’s amulet blazed an angry red, and so did the well. He led you back to him by grabbing ahold of your free hand. You still held the blade the same way you had caught it from the well. 

“Now hold the stone. Chant it again and close your eyes.” 

Mingi frees your other hand so you could touch the amulet. You enclosed it in a tight grasp as you closed your eyes, and with the wholeness of your soul, you chanted, “Díno tin písti mou stous anémous tis aioniótitas.”

You lose your breath for a moment as the stone sparked in your hand. A strong flash of light struck your vision. It was like the whole world went back to being a small ball of light within the emptiness of space. The Gods have created such a beautiful world, but it was all for show. They act with no care, the care they had was for their vanity only. Then you were back to the moment you were molded from fine clay and the flesh of man, back to the very moment your power was bestowed to you. 

“You serve the good, and only the good, and you will work to neutralize the evils from the very depths of hell, and you are never to betray your fellow Keepers, you shall love, but never turn against each other.” 

You look around, seeing the younger selves of the other Keepers. And then there was Zephyr whose eyes glimmered with the gold the Gods would flaunt to each other and their servants. He was far, yet his voice spoke to you, loud and clear. He tells you, “Guide my son Celeste. He is the true Keeper of the winds and time itself. Believe in him, Celeste.”

Everything disappears, turning into dust. Zephyr’s words echoed in your mind and the image of his eyes never left your head. 

“Celeste…” it was clear to you now. “I’m here… can you hear me?” Zephyr fell in love with Verbena, and their love bore a child. Mingi truly is immortal.

“Y/n!” you woke up, gasping from the shock of being awoken from such a profound dream. 

You’d be even more shocked to find yourself on the ground with Mingi, him holding you closely in his arms. Mingi sets his hand on your jaw to hold it, gently guiding your head towards him so he could see you. You were in your true form. Before him was an image, surreal and captivating, enchanting him with the way your skin warmed up his cold hands. The night was cold, but you were as warm as day. And you felt like you were reborn. You meet his eyes, and he sees the entirety of the universe in your gaze —the planets and constellations he only read about in books. 

“You’re beyond the beauty the tales make you out to be.” you hear the utterance in his mind. He seemed to have forgotten that you could read minds. “I’m so lucky.” you chuckled at his buoyant thoughts that just kept running. You wanted to confirm Zephyr’s message, and so you’d dig deep into his psyche. His whole upbringing flowed throughout every facet of your memory. And it revealed more than what you had intended to know. 

You still held the stone in your hand, and you and Mingi’s surprise, the stone was no longer red. It had turned colorless, much like the shard you had with you. 

“Mingi, this amulet, it’s a piece of the diamond.” Mingi loosens his embrace, allowing for you to sit up. 

“Yeah, I see.” you examine Mingi’s face. His brows were furrowed, indicating that he was utterly clueless. 

“It’s Zephyr’s shard, Mingi.” he looks back at you, with not much change in his expression. You hold back a smile. You speak to him with your mind to tell him, “Keeper Zephyr is your father.” his eyes grew wide and his hand clenched the skin of your bare arm. 

“Really?”

“Really! he told me himself, when I was in a trance earlier.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to get ahead of myself.” you communicated solely with the voice of your minds, then you would hear his velvet voice again, “I read about the Keepers all the time as a child, and even now. It stunned me how similar my powers are to Zephyr, but I thought maybe it was just a coincidence, and that there were others like me.” 

Your hand finds its way on his cheek, your soft fingers gliding against his skin as your hand goes up to fix his hair. “There’s only one Keeper of the winds and time, Mingi.”

He wore the same expression of astonishment as before. “Me?”

“Yes, you’re a Keeper.”

“So I am immortal after all.” you hear his thoughts again, making you giggle.

“Yes Mingi, you’re immortal.” 

He just stared at you, right into your eyes. For a short while, his thoughts were empty, just basking in your warmth and ethereal presence. You were a being of high power that everyone else believed were only true in folktales. But Mingi’s faith was with you from the beginning, and now your faith lies with him. 

“Is it bad that I want to kiss you?” you flick your tongue over your top lip, a smile forming on your plush lips as you watch his eyes linger on them. 

This was the moment you admit to having been enamored by him, right from the night you spent with him even if you had done nothing but administer your plan and prepare yourselves. His flawlessly structured face, his tall stature, his voice, his willingness to protect you —you had gone long without a lover, and maybe now’s the time. 

“Kiss me.” 

He was careful, and a lot gentler for the size of him. He was bewitched with the feeling of your lips against his. He kept repeating in his mind, “I hope this isn't a dream.” as he continued to kiss you, making you chuckle against his lips for a short while —a very short while as he chased the sensation of having his lips, and his tongue against yours. 

“Mingi.” you spoke to him with your mind, not being able to escape the feeling he’s ensnared you in. “We have to get going.” he keeps going for a few more lengthy seconds. He pulled away, leaving the two of you hot-faced and panting. You were both still lost and enthralled in each other’s eyes, then you’d talk to him, this time, with your voice audible. “Seriously now, we must go.” your mellow voice made his eyelids drop once, and he’d plant another soft kiss on your lips before pulling the both of you off the ground. 

“Can you stab me? just so I could be sure this isn't a dream or some sort of hallucination.” you titter at his words, the palm of your gentle hand playfully hitting his chest. 

“It’s real!”

Suddenly, his hands were all up in your hair. “Look, your hair, it changed color.”

You watch with awe as he moves strands of your hair around. “It’s my true form, Mingi.”

“It’s a crazy form —driving me crazy, that is.”

After a shared guffaw, you were back on track. Now with your magic restored, it would be easier for you and Mingi to move onto the arduous steps of your journey. You had a long way ahead of you, and a new Keeper by your side. He wasn’t one that was molded by the Gods and put through rigorous training by being thrown into a dragon’s cage, but he was one with a pure heart, and it set him apart from the rest of the Keepers. He understood human nature to its core with the blood of a mortal coursing through him. And he wasn’t one to give up, because you found out that it took him thirteen years to configure his magic and be able to use it without losing control. And unlike Ahriman, he wasn’t a vengeful soul. He only wished that there’s a future for the mystic society, for the world. And he would keep saving it, just so the people of the future won’t suffer the same fate as him and many others, mortal and immortal alike. 

“And he saved a Keeper’s soul…” 

not proofread, not planning on doing so either so :D