#hmm what else. it's a blur. and also very embarrassing to recall even though this is all True

[thebirdandhersong]

Sitting up straight and rigid because the Realization actually hit me that I gave him the letter. Whatever possessed me to give him the letter?? But at the same time: I wrote the blasted thing because I meant for him to READ the accursed letter, so checkmate to me, I guess. Rest in pieces

[spencers-renaissance]

Rain is a Chance to be Touched Ch.1

this arid world has turned my deep heart dry

This is the first chapter in my new ongoing hotchreid fic! Please click here for the fic summary, full tags, trigger warnings, more information etc.

Chapter Summary: follows S5E1 and Spencer's depression and disordered thinking is introduced.

TW: depression, disordered thinking, loneliness, the events of s5e1 (guns and knives)

Word Count: 3.4k

RCT Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

SPENCER

"She simply said this arid world has turned her deep heart dry, there was just one way she knew of to finally feel like she was free, and it was 1400 feet beneath the cold and stormy sea." — Erin Hanson

Spencer’s entire body feels heavy as he drags himself into work, and it’s not exactly a good sign when he can’t even find the energy to press the button for the right floor; he just stares pitifully at the array of numbers as if the elevator will read his mind and resolve the issue for him. Eventually, he brings himself to move his finger the short distance, cold metal colliding with cold flesh, and the doors shudder close, catapulting him up several storeys towards his fate.

Some might call the emotions Spencer’s experience typical burnout, far too common in the FBI and even more so in units that deal directly with horrific crime on the regular, but he knows it’s more than that. His entire life is operating in a minor key, he’s functioning entirely on auto-pilot, and chunks of his day are a blur, almost impossible to recall. He knows he’s depressed. Knowing such a fact, however, does little to cure the actual problem. He has no idea what to do with information like this except bottle it up and shove it as far down as possible while pretending as much as possible that absolutely everything is fine.

Emily and Derek are laughing about something as he approaches their group of desks. Only weeks ago he would’ve been crushed when they don’t so much as look over to say hello, but now he’s glad to not have to fake a smile, invent a story to tell about his weekend, pretend he’s not currently being held together with slowly peeling sellotape.

Instead, he focuses on feeling grateful that no one’s commented on him arriving a whole hour later than he used to as he unpacks his messenger bag. It’s not like it’s his fault he can’t pull his exhausted body out of bed in the morning, but since he’d rather not disclose such sorry information and finding an excuse is way too much effort, spending the morning in solitude seems the only option.

He doesn’t really understand how he’s gone from being a genuinely happy person, thick as thieves with everybody on the team, to this. It’s almost as though somebody’s cut the rope tying him to the others and now he’s drifting away, sinking without everyone else’s buoyancy to keep him afloat. He can see them all still tied together, barely seeming to notice their drowning team member, clearly not missing his presence.

This misery over his inevitable isolation, though, is his own fault: he can’t believe he let himself forget his place. He’s useful, good to keep around for his intelligence, his reading speed, his problem-solving skills, but it doesn’t go beyond that. Spencer is not friendship material. And he certainly isn’t relationship material.

The day starts off slow, everyone burying themselves in their paperwork, but Spencer finishes it far too quickly for it to really serve as much of a distraction. Depressingly, it’s still miles slower than he’s used to. Since his pile of consults seems too exhausting to even look at, he decides another coffee is very much in order.

“Hey, Spence,” JJ says happily as soon as he pushes his way into the breakroom. She’s leaning casually against the counter as she drinks her coffee, reading through what looks like case notes at the same time.

“Hi,” he says, trying for a smile but he knows there’s no way he could possibly match her relaxed grin. Instead of trying to converse, he just heads straight for the coffee machine, fixing his eyes on the steady stream of coffee pouring into his mug already piled high with sugar.

“You alright?” JJ asks, sounding a little suspicious. Not concerned, Spencer notes, just suspicious.

“Hmm?” He looks up and catches her eye before deciding he should probably answer verbally. “Yeah, yeah I’m good.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been acting a bit off the past few weeks.”

Spencer sighs. Maybe this is an opportunity to actually communicate his feelings. He doubts JJ will be able to help but really he’d just like a bit of comfort: he’s in so much pain that a hug would feel really nice right now. And besides Penelope, she’s probably the team member he’s most comfortable with. If he’s going to share with anybody, it should be JJ.

“I’ve been having a bit of a hard time, I guess,” he admits, looking up as his left-hand fidgets on the hot ceramic side of his coffee mug. He resents how vulnerable his voice sounds, he’s giving far too much of himself over to hands he’s not sure he can trust, but there’s nothing he can do about that now.

“Really?” JJ sounds surprised. Spencer recognises the tone as that of anyone who has a certain perspective on him realising that he also has feelings alongside his intelligence, and it hurts. “I’m sorry, Spence.”

Spencer just presses his lips into a thin line and nods awkwardly in thanks.

“I mean… at least you’re not going through what Hotch is,” she offers, completely unhelpfully. “He’s still trying to cope with his divorce and isn’t seeing Jack as much as he used to. Derek was almost killed by the Reaper just a few months ago, Emily only recently lost a childhood friend — I mean, the whole team has been through a lot. Keep your chin up.”

She smiles at him, patting him on the shoulder, before leaving the break room and heading back to her office, leaving Spencer standing in the middle of the room like an idiot. He wants to shout that he was literally poisoned with anthrax only a month ago, if they’re tallying bad things happening as a method of tracking who has the right to be miserable. The others might be going through a lot, that’s true, but it doesn’t lessen any of the pain thudding in his chest and stirring in his stomach.

As he walks back to his desk, he realises he’s learned one thing: opening up = not a good idea.

As completely fucking miserable as he might be, there’s exactly one person in this world who doesn’t deserve to be burdened with any of it, so he carefully tucks it away in his pockets and plasters on the mask he’d perfected so many years ago. It might be a little rusty, after all, it’s been little used in recent years, but it works just as well as it used to do when he pushes the door open to Penelope’s office.

“I bring blueberry muffins,” he says as cheerfully as he can muster, and something inside him does warm as Penelope’s face lights up, squealing a little as she reaches her arms out eagerly, making grabby hands at the paper bag he’s holding.

“Oh, you have no idea how much I love you,” she moans, keen to rip the bag open as he pulls up a chair next to hers.

“I think I do,” Spencer chuckles, and it’s one of the only genuine reactions he’s given in months, “mostly because you tell me every day.”

“Mm, that’s right,” she concedes through a mouthful of warm muffin, pointing a finger at his chest. “I love you even more than I love coding.”

“That’s a lot,” Spencer says, trying for serious but he can’t stop a fond smile slipping across his face.

Penelope swallows her rather large bite of blueberry muffin and passes him his one. “It is,” she says. “How are you, anyway? You look tired, poor baby.”

Spencer looks down for a moment, schooling his expression for a second before he forces himself to look back up at her. “Yeah, I didn’t… didn’t sleep well last night, I guess.” He tries for a reassuring smile but he knows it’s more of a grimace.

Penelope’s face immediately morphs into one of grave concern. Spencer knows that that’s just the way she is, melodrama and fierce protectiveness is virtually her brand at this point, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t any less agonising to see, or the anxiety of being found out any less paralysing. He decides not to give her any room to actually address it.

“I’ll be fine, Penelope, don’t worry,” he says, turning away to brush some muffin crumbs off the desk and into his hand, purely so he doesn’t have to attempt another pathetic smile. “A good night’s sleep tonight will fix me right up.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, still looking far too worried for Spencer’s liking.

“Of course, Pen.” He feels sick at lying to her, but he has no idea how to broach any of the tumultuous emotions raging inside of him, especially after JJ shut him down so brutally. “It’s only a bad nights’ sleep.”

He’s saved from her inevitable continued line of questioning by Emily poking her head round the door and asking for Spencer’s opinion on a consult.

While getting out of bed in the morning might be an almost impossible task at the moment, the idea of getting into it at night seems rather depressing, really. That’s probably the reason he’s still at the office, despite the time nearing 8 o’clock and exhaustion settling into every muscle fibre of his being. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that it’s just a little more time in close proximity to one Aaron Hotchner.

Of course, he’d had to accept the fact that he was maybe, just a little bit in love with his boss a long time ago. He just refuses to admit that he’s this embarrassing about it. Perhaps staying late to spend more time with someone you like this much wouldn’t be so weird if there was a reasonable chance of conversation — if he ever even saw him — but there isn’t even that: Spencer sits and works quietly at his desk, Aaron sits and works quietly in his office.

Today, though, today his lingering finally pays off.

Aaron is on his way back from the photocopier when he stops by Spencer’s desk. He doesn’t see him coming, though, is the thing: he has no time to try and make himself look even a smidge less miserable or to school his surprised yet utterly lovesick expression.

“Won’t you want to be heading off soon, Reid?” he asks, clearly curious as to why Spencer remains at his desk when there’s no real work to be doing, but he cleverly paints it in a light-hearted tone. Even though Spencer is completely aware of what Aaron’s doing, he doesn’t feel attacked or under pressure.

“Oh,” Spencer says unintelligently, stammering a little as he scrambles desperately at a somewhat coherent reply, “yes, yeah, I’ll get going soon.” He doesn’t want to lie when he doesn’t have to, so he doesn’t try and offer an explanation for his staying late, and he knows Aaron won’t push. He manages an almost entirely genuine smile, though, which must count for something, even if it’s only because he’s hopelessly in love with the man leaning casually against his desk.

“Right then,” Aaron says, offering a small smile in response, letting his hard exterior drop in the nearly empty office, and even though it’s nothing special, not really, Spencer carefully files it away as his heart pitter-patters against his ribcage and his stomach pools with warmth. “See you tomorrow, Reid.”

Spencer just nods in response and gathers his things, placing them carefully in his messenger bag and shrugging his jacket on before walking out of the building. When he glances back, just as he pulls the glass door open, Aaron is watching him carefully. He doesn’t turn away but instead offers a small wave, which Spencer returns bashfully, blushing scarlet in the elevator and on the walk out of the HQ and during the whole trek down the street and sat on the metro train and on the final stretch home. He fumbles with his keys and curses himself for being so goddamn pathetic.

He doesn’t consider it for long, though, because he’s utterly exhausted and his tired bones collapse on the sofa, and who is he to try and get them to move again? Sleep is a mercy.

🌧

The case is gruelling and stressful enough without the endless and constant worry about where on earth Aaron is. He never turns his phone off and Spencer can’t think of a time he’s worked a case without him, not properly; he’s always the first one at the office, the first one on the plane, the first to jump out of bed towards the chance to make a real difference in the world. It’s so out of character for him and it’s utterly distressing.

Nevertheless, he focuses all his attention on the job; on protecting Jeffrey and Tom Barton, on bringing justice to the perpetrator when they inevitably find them. He offers lame and desperate excuses for Aaron not being there, all the while knowing full well that none of them are likely. Something is wrong and he’s powerless to help.

Emily tells him why. He sort of forgets how to breathe.

Getting shot in the leg while simultaneously petrified for the livelihood of the person you’re in love with is inconvenient at best when trying to talk down an unsub and protect a victim and eventually fatal at worst, but somehow he half-manages and Tom escapes unscathed, though he isn’t quite as lucky with the unsub.

That’s what matters, really, isn’t it? That others are safe, even if it means he’s in danger? After all, Tom Barton has lives to save and a son to raise, a wide social circle, and a loving family. What does Spencer have? No, it’s much better that he’s the one hurt than anyone else.

Of course, once the adrenaline of the situation starts to wear off and medics arrive on scene, he realises quite how badly he’s hurt. Already feeling woozy, energy seems to seep out of him as roaring, raging agony takes its place. It’s the first time he’s ever been shot and it’s worse than he could have imagined: no amount of studying literature and anecdotal evidence could prepare him for the feeling of a small metal ball tearing through the flesh and muscle and tendons — though, hopefully, and judging by the amount of blood he’s lost, no arteries or large blood vessels — of his thigh.

His team arrives, minus Emily and minus Hotch, and they’re concerned, of course they are. That is, until he presents them with someone they see as much more important, someone whose life is worth something, someone they care about deeply being hurt. And they leave.

He doesn’t get a chance to tell the medics that he doesn’t want narcotics, so the ride to the hospital is a blur of morphine and voices talking to him, though he can’t quite piece together what they’re saying. He wonders vaguely where everybody is, whether Hotch is alright, whether he’s about to die, but no real emotion is attached to any of these thoughts, they just… are.

He’s rushed into surgery almost immediately after he arrives at the hospital, and the next thing he’s aware of is a dull, ever-present, agonising ache in his upper thigh and exhaustion settled into his bones like his body is pain’s home, fatigue’s resting place. The last time he’d blinked himself awake in a hospital bed, blinding pain burning in one part of his body or another, Derek had been sat by his bed, eating jello.

There’s nobody by his bed this time.

A PCA pump is resting by his right hand but he doesn’t touch it. Clearly, nobody from his team has informed the hospital staff of his previous addiction; he doesn’t even know if they’re at the hospital; if they know what’s going on. The morphine he’s already had is going to be hard enough to deal with, he can feel the future cravings itching beneath his skin already, scarred-over track marks simmering away.

It’s over twenty-five minutes of lying helplessly on a hospital bed in a cool, impersonal room, feeling a certain kind of emptiness sitting in his stomach, before a nurse comes by. She looks pleased enough to see him awake, but he doesn’t care about her satisfaction, he cares about his team, about Penelope, about Aaron, and he’s too exhausted to do anything about it.

“Good, you’re awake,” she says cheerily and for once, he doesn’t try and conceal his despondency. It’s oddly freeing. “I’ll get the doctor to come and explain the situation.”

She bumbles out of the room, clearly not fazed by Spencer’s expression, so he resumes staring at the wall, allowing his thoughts to wander, still not managing to attach much emotion to them other than a miserable sort of emptiness.

The doctor is nice enough, making sure he understands his injury and the procedures he’s had done, as well as the recovery ahead of him, but he just can’t bring himself to care. It’s as though this is the last straw; this is the proof, the evidence to win the case he’s been fighting in the court of his mind. His team doesn't care. His life is worthless. He will always, always be alone.

JJ stops by briefly. This feels like it should be a consolation, but it isn’t. He learns of what’s happened to Aaron, what his family is going through, and suddenly he feels selfish: how dare he demand and crave attention when Aaron is far more hurt and injured than he is? When he’s far more important and far more deserving of the team’s attention? Self-loathing creeps up his throat and settles into grey cotton wool that won’t melt in his mouth.

Spencer doesn’t know how to react to the incredibly overwhelming events of the day, and JJ doesn’t seem to have time for this. “Right, Spencer,” she says, visibly impatient with his emotional floundering, his lack of verbal response, “I need to go. We need to sort this out for Hotch. We owe it to him.”

She leaves, and all Spencer can think is how much more worthless not being able to work on his case makes him. If he can’t even work to save the man he loves; if he can’t strive effortlessly to protect him and make him happy, then what is he doing here? Aaron will be furious when he finds out Spencer laid in bed lazily instead of diving headfirst into the case.

No. That’s not true. He’ll be sickeningly nice about it, while on the inside suppressing his disappointment, and Spencer will feel even more guilty, he’ll be even more irate with himself, and life will seem just a little bit bleaker.

He’s discharged a few days later, and nobody has visited, barring JJ’s fleeting, impatient stop by. He goes home in a taxi and struggles up the stairs on his crutches, almost glad he didn’t have many personal items at the hospital. Then again, that was because he was completely isolated. And if he did have people to bring him things in the hospital, then he’d probably have someone to help him up the stairs too.

It’s a moot point, really. He dives straight for the non-narcotic painkillers he’d been prescribed as soon as he sits down on his dusty couch in his messy apartment, desperate to relieve at least some of the agony throbbing in his leg still. Clearly, the universe decided he wasn’t in enough pain already; that the unrequited love and the growing depression and the recurring stomach cramps and clenches in his chest weren’t quite sufficient.

He knows the team is working flat out on the Foyet case. But even Penelope, who probably works the hardest of all of them, has had time to send him an encouraging text message promising to pop round as soon as she can. Other than that, his phone is dry and his heart slowly freezing over.

Truthfully, he’s not sure how much more of this he can stand. He’s feeling the same way he did as a child: isolated, othered, hurt, and utterly, utterly alone. When he’d joined the BAU and was welcomed immediately into the arms of a family, he promised himself he’d never feel like that again. He would never, ever allow himself to sink so low; not when he was surrounded by so many people who proved day in day out how much they loved him. Surely, feeling like this would simply be impossible.

For once, Doctor Spencer Reid is proved wrong. And it burns, festers, and screams like nothing else.

Chapter Two

taglist:@criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch (taglist form)

(I'm tagging my usual hotchreid taglist but let me know if you would not like to be tagged in this fic OR if you'd only like to be tagged once it's complete! Either fill in the taglist form again or DM me.)

[paganinpurple]

A Feline’s Family - MariChat May 2019

Tired. So tired. It's only 10pm. Work is killing me, I'm sure of it. 

If I die, work sus.

Buy Me A Coffee?

AO3

Chapters (If there’s no link, it’s not written yet)

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10

11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18  19  20

21  22  23  24  25  26  27  28  29  30  31

Day 23 - Pillows and Blankets

Just because he wasn’t Chat Noir all the time didn’t mean he wasn’t Chat Noir all the time.

There were certain things about having spent so long as Chat before he had let Marinette and then her parents in on his secret that seemed to have skewed his appreciation for some of the same things that Plagg loved.

Soft pillows beneath his head, warm blankets around him. Cosy material against his skin and a delicious spot of sun shining down on his torso from the skylight above him.

Warmth.

The blessed warmth that had finally returned to him in full. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Marinette was the source of most of that warmth. He glanced over at her sleeping face –relaxed and gorgeous– despite the spot of drool currently threatening to drip from the corner of her mouth. He gave a soft chuckle and carefully wiped it away with his thumb, causing her to nuzzle her face further into the pink pillow they both shared. He carefully shifted a bit closer to her, gingerly reaching back out to stroke her arm as he considered how she would react if she woke up with him slinking into her snug little bubble.

He thought back to how timid she’d seemed last night when she’d first suggested they share the bed. Even though she had appeared more relaxed than he was when they had first gotten in, he wasn’t sure how much of her confidence was down to her delayed illness and the related lack of inhibitions. Maybe if she woke up feeling renewed, his presence would become a shock.

He balanced himself precariously between the pros and cons of her waking up in a marvellous cuddle-puddle with him. The pros involved the enchanting warmth, the scent of her hair and her supple slightness against his own body; the cons, his own deep-burrowing insecurities and possibly an outrageous physical reaction from the startled girl as she woke.

He was just recalling how much her embarrassed shoves and other attacks had been escalating lately when she surprised him with a violent shiver from beneath the duvet. His arm was wrapped around her with haste and he swore the movement of it blurred before his very eyes. Delicately, he cradled her against him, leaving plenty of space on her side of the bed. That way, he reasoned, she wouldn’t feel trapped if she woke up and instinctively tried to pull away from him in shock.

He felt a tug at his chest and glanced down at the small hand twisting into his shirt lightly, sincere affection once again melting through him as a wave of love with a slight hint of embarrassment flooded his mind. She continued her assault on the fabric, frowning slightly when she didn’t seem better able to grip the material to pull him closer. Instead, she slunk into the last available sliver of space between them, nuzzling his collar bone with her nose. Her only sound was a slight grumble when his sudden shaky breath disturbed the hair hanging against her face.

“M-Marinette?” he said breathily.

Another sharp shiver was his only answer and this time it was followed by a continuous shuddering as her body fought to warm off the invading chill seeping into her very bones.

He tried to reach above him to grab the huge cat pillow she kept on her bed, hoping to position it against her back like a second body to keep all of her heat from escaping, but her hold on his shirt tightened as if he were trying to desert her and she didn’t agree with his departure at all.

He quickly examined the death-grip of her fingers and made a half-hearted attempt to pry them away before the whine that left her throat had him abandoning that idea in an instant.

“Plagg!” he whisper-shouted with urgency.

“Hmm?” grumbled the familiar voice of his kwami sleepily from somewhere on the bookshelf above his head.

“I need to transform.”

“Wh-?” Plagg cut off with a yawn before popping his head over the edge of the shelf, “What time is it? I never heard the akuma alert go off.”

Adrien glared at the tiny creature. “It’s not an akuma and it’s not even that early!” he said in annoyance. His eyes widened and trailed the area around him for a beat before he added, “Probably.”

“Then why…?” Plagg said, trailing off with a grin as he noticed the way Marinette’s fingers were attempting to infuse themselves into the fibres of his clothing. “Oh, I see. Isn’t this the kind of thing you’d usually kill to have happening between you two?”

“Not when she’s freezing, and I can’t move to reach anything to help her!” he spluttered indignantly, averting his eyes from the smug little god.

With a brief shrug from the kwami in response, Adrien called for his transformation, the fabric Marinette was holding onto disappearing in the process of becoming Chat Noir and releasing him from her sleepy constraint.

She fumbled for him and in turn he moved quickly, pulling the duvet up to her chin and tucking it in beneath her back to trap in as much heat as he could. The cat pillow was snuggled in against her back as well, another defence against any pesky draughts that might try to attack with a chill.

He had barely finished his little nest when a small hand clutched at his bell and hauled him back down to the mattress. The high-pitched yelp that he expelled would have been hilarious if he’d heard it from anyone else, and he was extremely thankful that Plagg was vocally-challenged right now because of his transformation.

Refusing to give him an opportunity to remove himself from her clutches, Marinette unleashed another sleeping sneak attack and folded both of her arms around his middle. Her hands met somewhere around the small of his back and from the feel of it, she had interlocked them to keep him from pulling away again.

“Purr,” she sighed dreamily before a scowl slowly began to adorn her face instead. He smiled as she began to gently nudge his chest with her temple.

Taking his cue, he concentrated until he could feel his chest rumble and a gentle hum accompanying it. Relaxing himself once the purr had become instinctive, he allowed his eyes to flutter closed again, his lashes feathering against his cheeks, and found himself drifting off to sleep once more.

*

Eyelids flickered and twitched as a strange sound reached his ears.

Chat opened his heavy lids again to the sight of dark raven locks and caught the overpowering scent of flour in the air, but he was no closer to understanding why he had woken this time. With a smile, he buried his nose in Marinette’s dark hair and that strange sound from before repeated again.

With a wrinkled brow he slowly dragged his head from the pillow to see if he could spy a source and whipped round when he saw someone from the corner of his eye.

At the foot of the bed sat Marinette’s mother, her eyes dewed, hands clasped over her heart against her floury apron. Her lips were turned up in an amused smirk and when she saw him staring at her in horror, Chat heard the sound again, as yet another muffled chuckle escaped her.

“Sabine!” he wobbled, “I can explain! I-”

“Shush! My goodness, don’t wake her!” she said, palms out towards him in an attempt to calm him down.

“Huh?,” he whispered, perplexed, “I don’t understand. Aren’t you mad?”

…

Well, he’d never been on the receiving end of that look before.

Sabine often used a unique way of alerting Marinette or Tom to the fact that they were being ridiculous over something trivial that they had managed to build up in their head, and it was unbelievably simple. She would simply give them the most deadpan look she could muster, face still and unimpressed. Then, after she had held it for several seconds to make her point, her left eyebrow would raise the most miniscule amount, like a non-verbal version of a sarcastic, “Really?”

That exact eyebrow ascension was being directed at him right now and Chat had never felt quite this stupid before – though for what, he wasn’t entirely sure. It was also kind of amazing how Sabine could make him feel that way, yet never once make him doubt that she loved him as if he were her own son. His own father had often made him doubt his love for him, even back before his mother had gone missing. Back when everything had been “good” at home and magic jewellery was but a twinkle in his imagination.

“Uh, sorry?” he told the woman, feeling like he needed to explain his reasoning, regardless of how sketchy it might seem, “I’m in her bed. We’re not even supposed to be sharing a room anymore, and we’re sharing a bed right now.”

The look never faltered as she continued to silently question his intelligence.

“Not that I want you to be angry, but isn’t that how a mom is meant to be when she finds out something like this?”

Her facial wargame was interrupted when Marinette shivered suddenly and cuddled in tighter to Chat’s loosened embrace to rebalance her dropping temperature. The action reminded him that he still hadn’t explained the reason behind the situation, something he intended to rectify immediately.

“We caught colds,” he summed up, “It’s warmest up here so we decided to share the heat. It’s never happened before, and it won’t happen again. I promise.”

Sabine snorted in a very Marinette-ish way, before a smirk appeared on her face. “Never?” she asked.

Chat felt his face redden more steadily with every second. “We’ve never shared a bed before,” he said, voice tremulous and weak.

”Well, that’s a surprise,” she answered, her eyes at once expanding in shock, “Tom and I were sure the two of you must have been, given how comfortable you are with sharing your personal space during battles and patrols.”

“What?”

“In particular, that picture Nadja’s network got during that little heatwave we had made me think cuddle naps were a normal thing.”

“That was before we knew our identities!” he squeaked, remembering how much Ladybug had lamented dozing off against his chest after a reporter had snapped them in the couple-y position. The questions hadn’t stopped for months.

“Oh? And has something changed since then? …Really?”

Glancing down at the sleeping enchantress next to him, Chat wondered if Sabine might have a point. Had things changed? Part of him hoped so. After all, Ladybug had claimed not to have any feelings beyond friendship for him back then.

Buy Me A Coffee?

[taexual]

HOLIC - 47 | jb x reader

pairing: Im Jaebum x Reader

genre: enemies to lovers au | roommate au

warnings: angst

words: 2.9k

disclaimer: i do not own the gif, please let me know if it belongs to you, so i can give proper credit

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Your first stop after you wrapped up at work – and didn’t kill anyone in the process! – was Mark’s bar. You had a feeling Jaebum wouldn’t be there – and he wasn’t – but you were hopeful to, at least, learn a little more about which friend he was staying with. You hoped it wouldn’t be Jackson – you didn’t have anything against him but, after having run into him when you were with Jiho, you still felt embarrassed and, honestly, ashamed – but, after Mark poured you a drink and told you that he hadn’t seen Jaebum in a while, you realized Jackson was going to be exactly the person you’d have to contact next.

“I fucked up,” you told Mark, two shots in. “I really, really did.”

Judging from the sympathetic look on his face, he seemed to understand what you were getting at. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I do,” you said, recalling the last time you’ve gone to Mark to talk about what was bothering you when you should have really gone to Jaebum. “But not to you. No offense.”

“None taken,” Mark replied and, echoing your thoughts, added, “it’s Jaebum you should be talking to anyway.”

You merely nodded, lowering your head afterwards. “Yeah. I’m working on that. He’s not exactly making it easy for me to contact him right now – which is fine. I deserve that. A-and, at this point, it doesn’t even matter if he’s going to forgive me. Maybe I don’t even deserve that—”

“No, hey, d-don’t say it like that,” Mark cut you off, albeit reluctantly. He wasn’t going to pick sides—that was far too childish—but he had to admit, his judgment was somewhat clouded by his decade-long friendship with Jaebum. “You hurt him by not telling him about this but, aside from that, you didn’t actually do anything wrong. I think this is something that talking can solve.”

You didn’t reciprocate Mark’s positive attitude. But, thinking about this objectively, you figured that if you’d have been less upset with yourself right this moment, you would have probably agreed with Mark. There was nothing inherently wrong with wanting to establish your career the way you did – publicity was a key element – and yet you’d felt uneasy about Jiho from the very beginning, so nothing could have justified your reasons for leaving Jaebum in the dark about this part of your life.

“Well, I just want to talk to him so he’d stop overthinking this. If he doesn’t forgive me, that’s fine. He just needs to know what really happened,” you said, toying with the edge of your shot glass, the vodka inside of it looking remarkably dull. Not even alcohol could have pumped the much-needed adrenaline into your veins right now. “I didn’t keep quiet about the whole ordeal to hurt him. I kept quiet because I’m stupid and I should be—”

“Okay, listen, this is a bar, so I get my fair share of customers who try to drown out their self-pity in drinks,” Mark interrupted, taking the shot glass from you. “And, usually, I don’t interfere but you’re a friend, so I’m going to have to cut your supply short.”

“Mark—”

“No, this is it. No more vodka. No more wine,” he replied, his voice almost terrifyingly strict. “Take a deep breath, get up, and go do what you came here to do.”

You sighed, spinning around on the barstool and then climbing off of it. You leaned against the bar – a miserable expression on your face – ready to stand up, but not quite ready to leave to look for Jaebum just yet, even though Mark was right. You had come to his bar to find a way to boost your courage and find a way to contact Jaebum – you shouldn’t have deviated from the plan, no matter how appealing the thought of drinking into oblivion seemed.

“I just—God, I never should have let this get this far,” you mumbled despite yourself and then, after seeing the pity in Mark’s eyes – because he didn’t have what else to say – clenched your hands into fists. “But you’re right, yeah. Of course, you are. I fucked up and I need to fix this—do you… uh, is there any other way for me to get in touch with Jaebum? He’s ignoring my calls and texts.”

“Of course he is,” Mark said. “I’d say to just wait it out but it looks like you’ve waited enough. And you probably have a point – the more space you give him, the deeper this will get into his head.”

“I don’t want it to,” your face was in your hands. “He doesn’t deserve this. He didn’t do anything wrong to be suffering. That’s why I need to talk to him but I—shit, I don’t know how to reach him.”

“Explaining and letting him decide sounds like a good, mature decision. That’s what he deserves,” Mark decided. Hearing his tone take a turn for the happier – he obviously supported your plan – provided you with the much-needed courage. “I-I guess I could call him to see where he is.”

You didn’t think it was fair to ask him to do this and yet, since Jaebum wasn’t staying with Mark, you knew you’d have to ask someone to help you find him so you nodded gently and lifted your eyes to his.

“Could you, please?” you asked. “Just find out where he is, don’t even mention me. I’ll—I will do the rest myself.”

Mark nodded in response and leaned down to pick his phone up from underneath the bartop. He didn’t appear hesitant as he dialed the phone number and you were grateful for that. Perhaps enlisting the help of Jaebum’s friends and, thus—to put it aggressively—getting his friends to plot against him, wasn’t the fairest way to solve this, but, at this point, the lines between what was fair and what wasn’t had blurred so much, you couldn’t even see them anymore. You were willing to take any sort of measures to get to talk to him.

“Hey,” Mark said into the phone after a few seconds, and, even though you couldn’t actually hear Jaebum’s voice over the noise of the bar, his presence was suddenly so much closer and you felt your stomach clench in anticipation. “What’s up?”

You weren’t sure what Jaebum replied with but, judging from Mark’s grimace, it wasn’t something pleasant.

“No, I’m fine, yeah,” Mark said. “I just called because I picked up a few extra shifts and I thought I could do with a familiar face or two in the crowd, you know what I mean? You busy this—oh, with Jackson? Are you, uh—oh. Do you—okay, you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. Well, call me if—hmm, yeah. Okay. Bye.”

The conversation didn’t seem particularly enjoyable and even Mark himself seemed surprised by how short it was.

“Yeah, he’s not in a very good mood,” he told you then, putting his phone back. “But I don’t think it’s because of you. Apparently, he’s with Jackson and the creative process isn’t going well. I’m assuming he’s writing—”

“—a song, yeah,” you closed your eyes for a long moment, resisting the sudden urge to slam your forehead against the bartop and stay face-down in this bar until… well, for as long as Mark would let you. “He might not be struggling because of me but I’m still part of why he’s struggling. I have to—that’s not good. I need to see him. You said he’s with Jackson?”

“Yeah, he said he’s at the studio,” Mark replied. “He’s probably staying at his loft, too.”

“I’m not really sure how I feel about getting the cops called on me if I show up there unannounced,” you bit your lip, your mind swarming with various plans. “Maybe I should try calling Jackson first to see how he feels about helping me.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t like to have you arrested, either,” Mark said. “Calling seems smart.”

You nodded, your hands already shaking just from the thought of having to talk to Jackson again. A part of you already knew you would have to do that even before Mark found out about Jaebum’s whereabouts but you still didn’t feel any more prepared for it.

“Thank you,” you said to Mark then. “For everything. I know Jaebum is your friend and you should despise me by default but—”

“Oh, come on,” he shook his head. “That’s kindergarten rules. We’re all adults here. We help each other out, especially if we can see that two people are obviously meant to be together and they need some outside force to help them find their way back to each other.”

A sad smile appeared on your face as you asked, “you really think it’s that simple?”

“I do,” Mark confirmed. “And it is. It’s our anxiety that overcomplicates everything.”

Having spent your whole life philosophizing about every single decision you’ve ever had to make, you couldn’t quite imagine what it was like to live life differently. To just follow the path the universe laid out for you without questioning if every step you took was the right one. To not suffer from anxiety each time you ended up taking a step in the wrong direction. It all seemed foreign to you.

“Hmm. Thank you for that tidbit of wisdom, too,” you said. “And for the drinks. And for—you know what, just thank you for being born.”

Mark laughed at this and gave you a quick salute when he saw you head towards the exit. “Good luck!”

Calling Jaebum a thousand times over proved to be remarkably easy in comparison to dialing Jackson’s number only once—even if you still had alcohol lingering in your bloodstream. That was probably because, when you called Jaebum, you already knew he wasn’t going to answer. But with Jackson… well, he could pick up the call. And then you would have to actually open your mouth and find the words to say. Words that would efficiently explain why you’d acted deceptively for so long – although, the more time passed since Jaebum left, the more convinced you were that you’d have needed a psychology degree to understand why you allowed yourself to take this secrecy so far – and would also convince Jackson to help you get in touch with Jaebum.

You even debated writing a speech but realized that Jackson would probably see right through you. As someone who worked with music for most of his life, he was probably fairly adept at telling when people were reading their notes and when they were speaking from the heart.

Your heart was terrified, however. Terrified and most decidedly mute. You didn’t know what to say – begging seemed like a great option – and you were scared of Jackson turning you down. He was, at the moment, your only bridge to Jaebum because you weren’t quite ready to break into Jackson’s house and talk to Jaebum face-to-face without anyone’s help. Jackson was your plan A and you were afraid of the lengths your plan B was going to make you go in order to achieve the same result.

“Hello?” Jackson’s groggy voice picked up your call. He was a huge ray of positive energy when you saw him for the first time, so it was almost concerning to hear him so serious.

“H-hey,” you started and, not bothering with an introduction, headed straight to the point, “you probably know why I’m calling.”

“I—yeah,” Jackson said. He must have recognized your voice—or, at least, the desperation in it. “Jaebum—he’s… well, he’s here. He’s with me.”

Your heart was really giving its all at pumping blood. You could feel your pulse in your temples, thud-thudding against the telephone you kept firmly pressed against your ear as if your heartbeat could have asked the question you were afraid to voice.

“Can I… talk to him?” you managed, your voice breaking and vision blurring.

“I’m not—I don’t know,” Jackson said and, before you could begin hyperventilating, he continued to explain, “we’re back at my place. The… the writing didn’t go so well, so he’s locked up in my guest bedroom. Last time I checked up on him, he was frantically scribbling something on paper, so I’m—yeah, no, he’s busy.”

Incoherent scribbles on paper could have been a very accurate description of what you were feeling – and thinking – at the moment, as you clutched the sheets of your bed with your free hand.

God, this was precisely the sort of ill-timing that made people give up on each other: you’ve kept quiet while Jaebum needed you to speak up, and now that you were finally ready to talk, Jaebum didn’t want to listen. You could almost smell the end – the ultimate end – and notice the shades of red flames in the horizon – although you couldn’t be sure if that was just your heart or your entire life burning up.

You couldn’t let your wrong decisions ruin the one right one. You couldn’t let the pain of yesterday annihilate every promise of tomorrow.

“Listen…” you started, the ball of regret in your throat making it difficult to get the words out, “I told him. I just—I didn’t even get a chance to follow up anything I’ve said with a proper explanation because he just bolted straight out of the door. And I… I don’t think it’s my stubbornness that’s forcing me to call him every five minutes just to see if I could make him see things from my point of view. That’s not it. I do think I owe him an explanation but he deserves the right to decide which way he’s going to be looking at things. In any case, I need to talk to him and I—h-he shouldn’t be staying locked up at your house, Jackson. Not because he thinks I did something I didn’t actually do—”

“But you did do something,” Jackson cut you off but his voice was gentle. He sounded like he wanted to help and, while you really wanted him to do just that, you also felt like you didn’t deserve his kindness. “You lied to him about what was going on in your life. And this might have been, arguably, one of the most important experiences ever for you, you know what I mean? You cut him out from this big part of your life, he’s—well, he has a right to feel hurt.”

“He does! But, God, I don’t want him to,” you were suddenly talking much faster, trying to race the tears that were coming. “I want to give him my reasons—I-I selfishly want him to hear all of my excuses. So, then maybe he could focus on hating me instead of feeling hurt. I’m the only one that should be suffering here, really—”

“No one should be suffering,” Jackson declared. “This isn’t a Shakespearean tragedy. Far from it, in fact. I… Jaebum sort of overworked himself today, I don’t think he’s slept the night before. Although, God knows, he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. B-but I assume you do, too.”

“I—well, it doesn’t matter,” you lowered your eyes, scanning the wooden tiles of your bedroom floor. You’ve stared at them before but never realized how foreign and completely unfamiliar they seemed even despite living here for months. “All of this is my fault, anyway.”

Jackson exhaled and remained silent for a beat or two before finally saying, “I will think of something.”

Your throat had suddenly dried up as you croaked out, “y-yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I promise I’ll find a way for you to talk to him.”

The sudden feeling of hope was like a jolt of electricity and you leaped to your feet, your lungs taking advice from your heart and going into overdrive as you struggled to find enough time to exhale before you needed to inhale again.

“Jackson—I—oh, thank you,” you spoke rapidly. “Thank you so much, I—”

“I can’t promise that he’ll listen, though,” he warned – which was fair. “But if he does, then—well, just remember to tell him everything you’ve told me that night, okay?”

You had a feeling Jackson meant one part of your conversation with him in particular – the part where you admitted you loved Jaebum – and you nodded furiously before realizing he couldn’t see you.

“I will,” you promised. “I’ll tell him everything. Every single thing. I will not stop talking until he’s sick of me. I just—I need him to know that I—”

“Good,” Jackson cut you off, helping you realize that you were already starting to say the things you should have said to Jaebum. “I know he wants to see you, too, but he’s far too upset to admit that right now. I’ll call you later, okay?”

The supportive tone in Jackson’s voice almost caused the tears that had pooled in your eyes to stream down your face in a pathetic shower of sorrow. Both Jackson and Mark had been so supportive of your relationship, you were afraid to think that they might have been more hopeful about your future with Jaebum than they should have been.

“Yeah, okay,” you said, sitting back down on your bed to hopefully slow yourself down. “Look after him for me, please, okay? Make sure he eats and gets some sleep.”

“I—” he started to say but your unexpected request seemed to surprise him. “Yeah, of course. I will. Take care of yourself, too, yeah? Everything will be okay.”

“Hmm,” you exhaled slowly. “I hope so.”

      chapter directory

[astarisms]

sacrilege

pairing: natan word count: 1875 warnings: suggestive themes, profanity notes: this is just a part of a church camp au me and @crowbie came up with. maybe they’ll be more in the future but for now, have this.

Natalie woke up with one pounding headache, zero memory of the night before, and, after counting twice to make sure, eight hickeys.

In short, she was very confused and very sick.

She took an ibuprofen and moved slowly until it began to kick in. Her headache didn’t go away, but it became bearable. She tried to use foundation to cover up the evidence of her night, but that didn’t work as well as she hoped.

She chewed on her lower lip before pulling her hair over her shoulders and situating it to hide them. When she walked back into her room, Laila was doing her makeup.

Natalie shifted, wondering if it could have been her. She didn’t know how to ask without bringing attention to the fact that she had eight glaring pieces of evidence as to how her night had gone.

It was embarrassing to not remember who had left them.

��So, Laila…” she started, figuring she might as well try.

“What’s up, McAllister?”

“Did you... do anything uh, fun last night?”

“Fun?” Laila asked, arching an eyebrow at Natalie through her mirror. Natalie shifted her feet as she remembered that night in the lake a few weeks ago. “Not really. Heard you did, though. Way to go.”

“Oh.. Haha, yeah… Hey, can I borrow a scarf?”

What was that supposed to mean? Natalie wondered as she exited their shared bunk, winding the thin black material around her neck. She was able to breathe a little easier, knowing they were covered now, but she still didn’t know who had left them.

*

“Hey, Lucifer!”

He had his nose stuck in a book, as per usual when he wasn’t wrecking havoc and corrupting the youth, as Michael would have put it. He didn’t acknowledge her, but that was also typical. She knew he was listening.

“Paradise Lost, huh? That’s funny. I didn’t know you could read anything intellectual,” she joked, a grin splitting her face. He looked up at her then, with an eyebrow raised, and her smile slipped a little. She quickly forced it back up, though it was less genuine than before.

“Say, um, I was just wondering, for no particular reason, it just seems like you’d have some experience but also guys who look at porn as often as you are usually compensating for something so maybe not—”

“What,” Lucifer said through his teeth, “do you want, kid?”

“Right, right. I was just wondering if you’d ever sucked someone off before.”

“...What?”

“You know,” she said, gesturing vaguely.

“No,” he replied, closing his book and sitting up. “I don’t think I do. Please, enlighten me.”

“You know. Like… oh, forget it. I thought I could count on you, Lucifer,” she pouted, being dramatic to try to make him forget the subject. Clearly, he didn’t know what she was talking about.

“That was your first mistake, kid.” He reopened his book, and she sighed, walking away.

*

“Hey, Kristi—”

Kristi turned her nose up and walked right past her, sniffing indignantly. Natalie supposed that had something to do with the whispers she’d heard that morning about what she’d done last night.

So, not Kristi, then. Not that she had much faith in that option anyways, but it was nice to have the confirmation.

“Thank God,” she whispered to herself, then had to stop to wonder if God would even want her thanks anymore.

*

“Michael, my man! What’s… going…” Natalie trailed off as she took in the state of the head youth pastor. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink and in fact, was in a very sour mood.

“Not now, Gingersnap,” he said, snappy and short. She held her hands up in surrender.

“Sorry to bother you,” she conceded, and his eyes softened.

“Hey, look, I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I’m just… not feeling great this morning. If you need something, try Raph or Gabe, ok?”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

Not Michael, then. Again, she whispered a quick thank you.

She really didn’t know what she would have done if it turned out that Michael was the source.

*

Natalie went through the remaining potential suspects in her head. Mike was too soft, she decided. He would never leave anything like that on her, let alone so many. Raphael was gay. Gabriel was in love with Anthea.

Ipos and Sheila were among some of the only faces she remembered clearly from the night before, but they were pretty dedicated to each other. She’d already asked Lucifer, so that left Zadkiel, but the thought of asking her unnerved her more than it should’ve.

And, if it had been Zadkiel, there was no way she would’ve let Natalie go all morning without reminding her of it.

There was her answer there, too. It couldn’t have been Zadkiel.

But by her deduction process, it couldn’t have been anyone. Who had hickey’d her?

*

Natalie flopped into the chair across from Lucifer, groaning and muttering to herself. He ignored her, keeping his eyes glued to his book. She huffed a little more, shifting in her seat. Several minutes passed before he acknowledged her.

“Did you want something?” With the prompt, she opened like a dam. There was hardly a beat between him finishing his sentence and her beginning hers.

“I did something last night… And I don’t remember who I did it with.”

“Sounds like you have a problem, but I don’t remember opening up confessions.”

“That’s Catholics, you jerk.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Because you’re a youth pastor and you should let me unload on you.”

“Is that so?” he asked, turning a page slowly and fighting a grin. “You did plenty of that last night.”

It took her a second to catch his meaning, but when she did, she gasped.

“It was you!”

He lifted his eyes to hers finally, raising an eyebrow.

“Why did you pretend you didn’t know what I was talking about this morning?!” she exclaimed, snatching his book from his hands and whacking his arm with it.

“Because it’s fun to watch you squirm.”

Another double entendre, and she blushed. Lucifer smirked, plucking his book back.

“I was drunk! You took advantage of me,” she accused, fighting the warmth on her face and in her belly.

“You didn’t seem to mind being taken advantage of. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Natalie sputtered, placing her hands on her thighs and bracing herself as she leaned forward.

“Of course not! I was drunk. I don’t remember anything. What did you — did I — did we—”

“No,” he said, and his eyes were dark as he copied her position to meet her in the middle. “I stopped even though you were begging me not to, kid.”

“I—” Natalie’s flush deepened, “I don’t believe that.” He sat back, shrugging nonchalantly.

“Believe what you want. I’m the only one who was there who remembers what happened. You didn’t seem to think I had anything to compensate for last night, though.”

She choked, recalling her earlier words to him. He gave her that smug look she found half infuriating half extremely attractive, but she stayed silent. Her mind and her heart raced, trying to put together the pieces he’d given her and come up with a sufficient response.

“Why… I mean, what happened? What, um… started it?” she asked, half afraid of the answer but needing to know. She remembered joining him, Ipos, Sheila and Zadkiel in the woods. She remembered the bottle of wine, and there were fleeting glimpses of others’ faces.

But other than that the night was a blur.

“We were playing truth or dare after you got drunk on the blood of Christ.” He sounded amused, but Natalie moaned and buried her face in her hands. Oh, yeah, she was definitely sure God didn’t want anything from her now.

“And…?” she prompted, through her mortification.

“You’re something of an antichrist when you’re drunk. Did you know that? You’re a fearless little motherfucker.”

That was a compliment from him, and she blanched. Oh, gosh.

“What did I do?”

“Let’s see, let’s see…” He was enjoying keeping her on edge, and she was just about ready to strangle him. “You slingshot Michael’s dick with a rock you found. You jumped off Hangman’s Ridge into the lake. You made out with Zadkiel. You stole Dad’s Bible.”

“No,” Natalie gasped, but Lucifer was undeterred.

“You tied Gabe’s laces together and made him trip in front of Anthea. You tied Uriel to the flagpole.”

“How even— you know, I don’t wanna know how I did it. Is that… Is that it?”

Lucifer smirked. Natalie tensed.

“You flashed me, and we ended up in a bush hiding from Michael.”

“What… What did you dare me to do?” she asked, in a small voice. Some of what he’d said was actually pretty funny, but her head was still pounding and she couldn’t pull apart the good from the bad yet.

“You dared me to kiss you. And I don’t back out of dares, girl.”

There was some part of Natalie that was relieved that that was it. Another part of her, however, soured at his words.

“So it was part of a dare?” she asked, leaning back.

“Were you expecting something else?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. “Just… didn’t think all of this would just be the result of a silly dare, that’s all.”

“Silly, hmm?” He stood up, crossing the little bit of space between them until he was right in front of her. He slipped his finger beneath the thin scarf wrapped around her neck, and she went still as he unwound it.

“What are you doing?”

“Just taking a look at my handiwork,” he said, dropping his voice to match the breathy quality hers had taken on.

The hickeys started high on her neck and disappeared below the high collar of her T-shirt. He ran his thumb over one of the visible ones, and she shivered. He lowered his mouth to her ear.

“You know what I think?”

“...What?”

“I think… you were hoping for something more.”

“Wh… No, I wasn’t.” She wasn’t very convincing, and Lucifer was so close she felt him smirk against her ear.

“Are you sure? Drunk Natalie is fun, but all that’s gotta come from somewhere. I know Sober Natalie isn’t the devout little Christian girl I thought she was 8 weeks ago.”

“I…” She trailed off, hazy as his tongue traced the shell of her ear. She felt warm all over, and she couldn’t remember the taste of his lips but she wanted to.

“Natalie.”

“Hmm?”

There was a pause, deliberate and drawn out to make her squirm. He exhaled and her fingers curled into fists on her thighs.

“It’s time for service,” he finally said, and straightened up as a rush of kids passed by the window towards the small church housed at the edge of the camp. “You might want to pull yourself together first. You’re looking a little like you’ve been doing something you shouldn’t.”

He winked, and walked around her towards the door.

Natalie sat, shellshocked and unmoving for several beats.

“You jerk!” she finally yelled, once she’d gathered her wits about her. He was already out the door, but she heard him laugh nonetheless.

[eerythingisshaka]

Some Weeks Are Better Than  Others Pt. 2

(Mind your Business)

M’Baku x Reader

*Part 1* *Part 3*

Plot:  You and M’Baku have to be apart for a business trip you are taking.  Leaving him sucks for you both, but career is important and he supports.  But the trip is a lot more than a test of your value to your job, but to your relationship as well.   

Word Count: 3.2K

Warnings: Computer Love, interruption, disrespect.

*Previously*

You hadn’t texted M’Baku yet and it was a little later than you anticipated getting back.  That fat ass would make for a great comfort to you but a FaceTime will have to do.  You step out, toweling down and wrapping a robe around you.  You sit on the bed, grabbing your phone up, and going to his name.  It rings, and rings, which is odd because you thought he would be nipping at the bit to get in touch with you by now.  You get a text then, ‘Hang on.  I’ll call you right back’

You lay back on your pillow in annoyance, wondering what the hell he is doing.  With the day you had, you still found time to call him, but here he is delaying things when you could be asleep.

Your phone rings and you pick it up, revealing his face smiling widely, sitting on the edge of you guys’ bed,

“Hello, my lady love!  How are you?  You look well, did you just shower?”  He can’t hide his excitement which makes you feel rejuvenated with energy.

“I did just get out of the shower.  I feel best now than I did all day.” You say letting out the deepest breath you’ve taken all day.

He furrows his brow, frowning, “I’m sorry (Y/N).  Was it anything serious?  There’s no shame if you have to come home early, you shouldn’t break yourself for this.”  He says with paternal concern.

You shake your head, “No it was just a long day dealing with people, but I made it somehow.  I don’t want to talk about it right now though.  I miss you…”

You hear him groan in angst, “I miss you too, my heart.  This place is colder without you, even with the record high temperatures.”

The summer has been sweltering, and you’re both kind of pansies about it.  You smile weakly, feeling a little emotional but not wanting to show.  You all have never been this far apart before and nothing about the trip has made this an easier transition.

“You look adorable in your bonnet, baby.  Is that a new one?”  He inquires.

You chuckle Cardi B-like, tugging it down a little further, “Yes, I don’t use my home bonnets in public areas so this is my travel bonnet.  Just a cheap little thing.”

“Hmm, well you make it look very chic, my God!  The birds out here are shaking.”  You both giggle at his silliness.  M’Baku never fails to make you feel like you won the lottery.

You guys pause for a moment just looking at each other through the screen.  “I got the dishes done earlier.”  He says, raising his eyebrows with a sly expression on his face.

“Is that right?  Well they weren’t going to do themselves so…”  You say cooly.

“Oh Hanuman!  Why are you being cruel to me.”

“I’m not being cruel, just saying you did something that needed to be done.  Do you need kudos for that?”  You say, picking a piece of lint off your robe.

“That is true.  When I was doing them, I thought about how you can never keep your hands to yourself while I can’t defend myself.”  He says leaning forward, biting his plump bottom lip.  “You come up behind me, grabbing my waist….”

“Yeah, and I’d gyrate on that ass while you’re doing them, yup!”  Putting on an extra hood accent.  You swear you more gangsta than him.

His whole face smiles at your antics, “You say, ‘They better be spotless or I’ll have to teach you not to cross me, eh?’  And you do a terrible Wakandan voice, I die every time!”  M’Baku laughs with his whole body: eyes closed tightly, head shooting back, teeth on full display and mouth wide enough to impress a dentist.  

“Whatever, I can take you any day.  Have you screaming uncle in a minute, punk.”

M’Baku looks at you, leaning on the desk, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb, eyes glazed like his mind is somewhere else for a second.

“What’s up with you?”  You ask.

He shrugs, “Oh nothing, if you haven’t thought of it by now, I might as well call it a night then.”  

You squint at him suspiciously, “What the hell are you talking bout?”

He screws his face up while hunching before continuing, “It’s just that I thought you were going to give me a prelude to your thankfulness for me handling your chores...”

“Is that so?  My chores?  My diet doesn’t require nearly as much dishware to prepare so I don’t get that.  But at any rate, I believe that was reserved for when I get back home.”

“Yes, but I need something to hold my motivation.”  He says, drawing out his thoughts slowly  “It’s very challenging to go through the day without you here, I’ve almost forgotten what you look like-”  He squints, dramatically peeking at your on the screen.

“Oh please!”  You jeer at him, laughing.  “Don’t be dramatic, M’Bop.”

“Ohhh, and you have the nerve to call me that from a distance when I can’t get my hands on you, you are a tyrant.”  He says, practically purring.

“I do what I want, and what I want right now... is for you to tell me how bad you want your hands on me.”

M’Baku gives a full belly laugh.  “Oh really?  You’re challenging me to go first eh?”

“It’s a demand, get it right.”  You say with HBIC attitude in tow.

He nods, speechless, as he starts to sit up.  “I could show you now,”  he looks down at his lap, then quickly back up to you.  “But like I said, I have almost forgotten you.  Now, your voice is softly kissing my ears, but your body, your body? Is still a blur...”  He says covering his eyes with one hand, reaching out for the other.

Shaking your head with a cheesing grin, “Well we can’t have that.  Ok, what do you miss about this?”  

“Your ear?”  He questions as you tug at your lobe.

“Yes, I am showing you my body little by little so you can recall what you like about each piece.”

He shake his head smirking at your silliness.  “Ok, my darling.  Ah yes, my love’s ear.  With it, she listens so intently to my stories regarding my day, my transgressions, and my achievements.  Whilst holding you close, I whisper into it, intoxicated by the scent of your curls.  Whenever I am close to it, I am closest to you”

You nod approvingly, “Mk, sir.  Pretty good.  What about...this.”  Reaching your hand in front of your face, giving it the you-can’t-see-me shake.

Leaning back and rubbing his beard he says, “I have never know such strength from such small things.  When my hand envelopes yours, I feel safer and more at ease despite the comparison of them.  The purest feeling of being blessed overwhelms me when I hold it to my lips.  And when you take the time to graze it along my face, my body, I am powerless and embraced with surrender.”

You look away from the screen a second as heat begins to catch your cheeks.  

“Was that getting to be too much for you, darling?”  He says grinning like the devil incarnate. “Oh hush, you know what the hell you tryna do!” Fanning yourself, you graze your fingers down your neck.  “What about this?”

“Mmm, I think that’s your favorite actually, my love.   The tenderness of your neck possesses me to drown my face into it like a lap dog.”  He chuckles at the thought.  “And your squeals of playful bliss in reaction is a treat to behold, and I wish to witness, over and over again.  I’ve also left a many marks there, so it’s practically got my name on it.”

“Boy...stop!”  You spout in fake protest because you knew it was true, tucking your mouth in frustrated embarrassment.

His sights are set straight on you as he rest his hands on his thighs, “I also miss those lips, the ones you are biting on now.  Not only do they speak motivating orations to build me up, they know just where my weakest points are; using their power for my pleasure, bending me to my defeat.”

You feel your heartbeat starting to build, suddenly you are quite thirsty.  You twist a little as an ache begins to build, “M’Baku…”

“Just like that, my love.  Those same lips speak my name, in a way that makes my relatives back home sound ignorant in their pronunciation.  It sounds most sincere coming from you.”

You cover your eyes as you feel sweet angst from the man you love.  What you wouldn’t do to teleport to him and bring him in between you.

“Now what am I supposed to do with all that?  Hm?”  You angle your phone down as slowly untie the sash.

M’Baku laughs, lays one of his sizable hands on the crotch of his shorts, “Yes, I think that’s the most prose I ever got out before you’d pounce me to either shut me up or relieve your lust.”

You start at the top of your robe, revealing one of your breasts.

He lets out a low pitched, guttural moan, clutching at himself, “Is it cold, my love?  Or just joyful of my presence?” M’Baku says.

“Mm, a little of both I think,” you say huskily as you squeeze your arms together, making a more dramatic cleavage, feeling around your rising peaks.  

“I miss the way you react to me, when I'm caressing them. The shake of your body when I am speaking in tongues in reverence of their ethereal beauty.”

Closing your eyes, you imagine just that. His encompassing mouth smiling as he hovers over you, keeping his gaze locked on you as he lowers his tongue across your areola, before he siphons your soul out of your chest. You hear him groan for a moment and look down to see him having made himself more comfortable, shorts around his ankles.  His thighs a perfect spread creating an almost exaggerated thickness of his thighs as he sits on the edge of the bed, beginning to stroke in front of you.

“You are so beautiful, beyond any measure in this world,” He say breathlessly, gripping the top of his hair in distraction to keep from busting too fast.

“ohh, I miss your hands being on me.  Trailing my back when you think I’m asleep to arouse me.  The grip you put on my hips when you’re filling me from the back.”  You reach down and pet yourself at the thought, angling your device towards your center. “You see how you’ve got me right now, baby?”

M’Baku leans forward, rubbing his beard with hunger as he licks his lips instinctively.  “This is better than the Food Network.  You’re getting this riled up over me?”

You laugh a little at his remark, “All for you.  Shine that dick up for me, baby.  I need you to match this moisture.”

He reaches for y’alls personal lube and works it in.  He makes the task look effortless, when you get a good cardio workout whenever you work his tool.  His 6’5 frame is an obvious tell of what he works with, and it is a marathon, not a sprint to wear him out.  The slicking sound of he made as polished his pipe  just about sends you over the edge.  “Ah, (Y/N), you’re holding back on me.  I want to be inside you.  Go within yourself so I can feel your walls surrounding me.”

You slide a couple digits inside of you, biting down your gasp as you look down at your man hypnotized by your body.  

“I can practically taste your excitement, darling.  My lips enveloping your clit as you buck in sweet agony.”

There is a thud in the background.

You sit a little straighter, “What was that?”

M’Baku shakes his head, “Don’t worry about that, probably a car door closing next door. I want you to come for me, quickly.”

You look down at the screen.  M’Baku’s face is perspiring a little; you see the sweat on his neck and chest and you imagine your hands gripping his shoulders as his length pummels you.

“Ohhh, I wish you were inside of me now,”  You gasp as you angle the phone to show your fingers penetrating your vulva.

“(Y/N), Hanuman’s sake, look at that full, pretty pussy.  You’re making this too difficult for me, I can’t--”

Soon, you hear the door being banged on, the sound of barks causes you to drop the phone.

“M’BAKU!! What was that??!!” you yell, covering yourself before picking it back up.

“Uhh, uhh…” M’Baku, has his shorts back on, covering his front, talking at the door in yoruba.  “I said give me 30 minutes at least!”

“What was that, M’Baku?? Do you have someone there?!”

He comes up on the camera, “(Y/N), I would not have a reason to lie to you.  But I did omit something before I got --”

The door bursts open, four of his tribesmen come in, chanting some drunken song in yoruba.

“Oh my God, M’Baku! I told you not to have them up in there! You can’t follow my rules for one day?!”

M’Baku is speaking to them, pushing them back out of the room.  One of them points down at him, saying something that makes the others laugh and wave at you through the screen.  M’Baku, covers himself again, yelling at them and pointing out the door as they scatter.

Closing the door, M’Baku comes up to the screen, “(Y/N)...”  He draws it out like a purr, trying to coax you into forgiveness.

“No! Don’t say my name like that, what the fuck was that about!”

He bends his head, sighing. “They came unannounced.  I didn’t have a chance to turn them down since they were banging at the front door, barging in.”

“And you didn’t tell them no?  I thought you were their alpha or whatever, they don’t listen to you?”

“Theeyyy dooo…”  He says screwing up his face, “But I figured, they’d be gone before you called, and I lost track of time…”

“Why would you keep this from me? I may have been ok if you had just texted me with the heads up!  I got my tits and ass all out, talking dirty, what if they heard??”

“Enough!  They were wrapped up in their show downstairs, they didn’t even know I was talking to you.  And as far as them coming over, you’d never go for it, I know you.  When they are here, you bang pots and slam doors, catching the cleaning-bug as soon as they are there until they leave.  You can’t stand them!”

“Because they eat us out of house and home, keep using up the toilet paper and when they leave, it’s like a damn hurricane hit the living room!”

He gives you a look of contempt, “Are you done?  Really, because you are upsetting yourself more after the day you had with this non-problem.”

“Don’t fucking dismiss me, M’Baku.  I just don’t wanna come home to a pigsty when I get back.”

“It’s not like it isn’t one when you’re here,” he says under his breath.

“Nigga WHAT?”

“Hanuman sake, please, can we calm down and get back to something more pleas--”

“Ask them for a show then!”

You hang up on him.  No way in hell you bustin’ open after all that foolishness.  M’Baku brought his entire crew to your spot on day one!  Why wouldn’t he even tell you though, doing some cam sex while they are downstairs, is he crazy?

You lay under the covers pouting.  Any fun you hoped to have on this trip is looking less likely by the minute.  Now even your man is bringing problems on you.

M’Baku paces the floor a couple seconds after the call ended.  He wonders if you have gone mad all of a sudden.  To go from the throes of passion to biting his head off is a feat only you could master.  There was no way he would be groveling for forgiveness right now.  This was his house too, he had every right to have company over, no matter who it was.  The Jabari are his lifelong mates, what sense does it make to have to ask permission for family or friends to come by.  

He makes his way downstairs, to see only two of his friends left and they were heading out of the door.

“Akoje!  What’s going on, why are you leaving?”

They look at each other a moment in the doorway, then back at him, “Come on, M’Baku, you need privacy, you should’ve just told us.  Plus, we don’t need to be on your lady’s hitlist.  Thought not being here would make it a chill night but she finds a way.”  The other Jabari laughs at this.

M’Baku peers down at them, “Ok, keep the comments light, eh?  But I finished with her, I didn’t say leave.”

The other Jabari starts now, “No, you did not finish….” causing him to be elbowed in the ribs by Akoje as he giggles.

“Alright, Enache, mind your business.  That seemed to be the only problem today was no one minding their own business!  I asked for half an hour!”

“Ya, to take a shower!  But that was Enache’s fault, he wanted to play Uno, and couldn’t find the cards so he decided to sniff you out.”

Enache huffs in disagreement, “It was Ogoro!  That’s why he left out so quick.  He didn’t hear your water running so he just said, let’s ambush, he isn’t doing anything!  I respect your relationship, M’Bop.”  He says with puppy dog eyes.

M’Baku’s eyes practically jump out of his head at their knowledge of his pet name.  “HOW DO YOU KNOW--” he kisses his teeth throwing his palm out in their direction. “ Oh whatever! And don’t go lying under my roof.”

Akoje is shocked, clutching his pearls, “Honest to Hanuman!  It’s wonderful!  We hadn’t seen you fall this hard under someone since the Panther!”

“All right!  GET OUT!”  M’Baku goads them out with his booming voice as they scatter laughing and barking out to their cars.

M’Baku leans on the door as he takes a deep breath.  Suddenly he is exhausted, so it was probably for the best that the guys left.  He walks over to sit on his couch.  Chip bags open and remnants scattered on the table.  Half drunken and empty beer bottles line the edge and carpet by the furniture’s legs.  M’Baku leans forward rubs his face in frustration before getting up and going to the guest bathroom.  He opens the door before quiky shutting it, clutching his nose.  Whatever happened in there is hopefully flushed and just needing to air out, but a disaster definitely erupted.

M’Baku decides that the mess will have to wait until tomorrow, it was already approaching midnight and his job starts in the morning at 6 am.  Heading up the stairs he makes his way to the bedroom to take a quick shower.  After toweling off, he heads for the bed, covers feeling cool against every inch of his skin.  His body begins to wind down from all of the sexual frustration and Jabari disrespect, but is not used to the extra space in his bed.  He is still mostly on his side, but feels over to yours, imagining your curves as his own personal skyline.  He reaches for his phone to check, but nothing is on it from you, just a couple of memes from the other Jabari clowning him endlessly.  He sets it back down, turning toward where you would be.  He was already remorseful, especially since you were right, but he didn’t want to bar his guys from visiting, that is just rude.  He takes a deep breath, drifting off to hopes of tomorrow being better.  

*Part 3*

Other Works:

King Kil’mawalls

N’Jadaka’s Helpful Hands

T’akia

Commencement Day

The Ragtag

@sweetpeachjones  @hairhattedghooligan  @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @universalbri

[taintedkibou]

beauty & vice - part five

[can be read on Ao3 as well] [part one] [part two] [part three] [part four]

“Mi-shi-ma.”

Mishima recognized the cheerful voice, but he only saw a blur before he was pushed into the dark tool shed. The wood was cracked and splintered, letting in slivers of light. Not enough to see his attacker. “Kurusu…?”

“Hmm?”

Mishima shuddered at the warm breath ghosting across his neck. “Wh…What are you doing?”

“I tripped.” The soft chuckle that followed the obvious lie was far from innocent.

‘Bull!’ Mishima took a shaky breath, releasing it slowly. “I already told you, I’m… I don’t—I’m not scared of you!” No, that wasn’t right. The door creaked open before he could correct himself, flooding the small space with light. Mishima would describe the look on Akira’s face as hauntingly terrifying, but he felt no fear, just as he’d been told. 

Akira licked his lips, a wolf circling its prey. “I always knew you weren’t. I need your help, Yuuki.” He slipped an arm around Mishima’s shoulder, keeping just an inch of distance between their bodies. “What do you think happened to Kamoshida? Do you really believe he had a change of heart?”

“Yes,” Mishima blurted out without a second thought. “Because—” He emitted a sharp cry of pain after biting his tongue.

Akira’s fingers gently squeezed Mishima’s shoulder. “Because…?” he prodded.

“I set up an unofficial site. I meant it as a joke, but people have taken it seriously.” Apprehension forgotten, Mishima dug out his phone and pulled up the proof of his efforts. The mobile layout had a color scheme identical to the one chosen for the “calling card” delivered to Kamoshida. Tapping a few links, Mishima held the higher for the other to get a good look. “A few names were left by people suggesting their hearts needed changing. Those same people came back later to say that it happened!”

Akira chuckled softly as Mishima bounced in place.

“I wanted to show you and Sakamoto. You guys seemed interested in Kamoshida’s case. But… I guess you already found it.” Mishima peeked up at the brunet with shy admiration. “I’m not sure how you do it—”

“All in due time,” Akira interrupted, giving Mishima’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’ve had my eye on you for quite a while now, but Ryuji thought you were still innocent. I’m really glad I don’t have to give you a roundabout explanation.”

“You needed my help…?” Mishima reminded him.

Akira’s eyes shone. “Yes. I’m taking Ryuji with me to take care of a few corrupted hearts tonight, but I need you working on a bigger project.” He used his free hand to pull something from his jacket’s pocket.

Mishima gaped at the note dangling in front of him. It was an original “calling card”, but the recipient was not Kamoshida. ‘Which means…!’

“If you’ll make a few copies of these for me, it’ll really be a great help. There’s also something else, but... it can wait until the end of the month.” The contemplative look on Akira’s face vanished, replaced with exaggerated glee. He was indeed glad for Mishima’s help, but with all his brand new toys, he had to put on a show. Leaning down, Akira pressed his lips to Mishima’s cheek, feeling it slowly grow warmer. “Don’t get caught, okay?”

“Yes,” Mishima rushed out, slowly accepting the “calling card”.

Akira gave Mishima another “good luck” kiss on the afternoon of May 31st. Which may have been a mistake on his part, but he had no intention of taking it back. This one was on the lips. The short brunet became frozen in place, the stack of papers almost slipping from his hands. They were smaller than Kamoshida’s, printed on a firm cardstock. Akira used his index finger to hold them in place, waiting for Mishima’s brain to come back online.

“Stop doing that!” the smaller teen hissed, drawing himself away.

Akira plastered on his best smile, “I can’t help it. I love teasing cute boys.”

Mishima’s eyes grew impossibly wider, the calling cards rustling as he trembled. “That’s not… funny. Anyway… I need to go.” He pointed over his shoulder, unable to take his eyes off Akira’s smiling face. “If I stay too long, they’ll figure out the camera is on a loop.”

“They won’t,” Akira argued. “You’re too smart for that.”

Mishima was already backing away with slow, calculated steps. Akira’s smile was blinding, made worse by the afternoon sun shining high above his head. Mishima had no interest other than the weird friendship they already had, but this person was toying with his emotions in a horrible way. With a quick bow, he disappeared to complete his task.

Humming softly, Akira headed in the opposite direction.

—

Sir Madarame Ichiryusai, a great sinner of vanity whose talent has been exhausted. You are an artist who uses his authority to shamelessly steal the ideas of his pupils. We have decided to make you confess all your crimes with your own mouth. We will take your distorted desires without fail.

The argument between the thieving artist and staff member meant nothing to him. Akira’s main focus was Madarame’s body language. Of course Madarame would be upset; his evening was being threatened. No. Akira needed another sign that the Shadow was on full alert. Madarame’s previous stomping came to a halt and he appeared almost relaxed despite the threat looming over his head. That was what he was looking for. Akira browsed through the exhibit, slowly making his way to the exit. Once outside, he tried not to skip back to where the other two waited.

Ryuji straightened from his slouched position immediately after spotting him. “Well?”

“He read it,” Akira hummed. “Since he’s not at the house, let’s enter the Palace from there. Less chance of being caught.”

“This ends tonight,” Yusuke told them, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Ryuji grinned, bumping shoulders with his boyfriend. “We’ll show ‘em.”

Akira trailed behind the couple, bottom lip caught between his teeth. It did nothing to hide the excitement brewing in his eyes or the wild smile still spreading across his face. It was now or never. The sooner they ended things, the more time he would have to play with his favorite boys.

xxx

Even though they entered with a mission to complete, Joker decided to test his new ability one more time. He started them from the bottom floor where Shadows were somewhat weaker. The creepy zombie chicken whined at him and Joker lifted his hand to his mask. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what he'd felt last time. Fear. Rage. Protect what's mine. He ripped the mask free. Apsaras remained and Succubus joined her. Joker let out a breathless laugh. "The power of thought really is amazing."

Skull shared in his excitement with a loud hoot, and Fox reprimanded them both in a stern voice.

Luckily for them, bullets were Onmoraki’s weakness. A few shots from Joker downed the creatures, leaving them vulnerable to an all-out attack. Pleased with the results, Joker marched forward.

After making their way to the central garden, the small group took a break in the nearby safe room.

"How do you remember their weaknesses?" Yusuke inquired, katana flat on the table they sat at. Ryuji leaned back in his chair, eyes locking on their leader.

Akira brushed his hair from his eyes, using his mask to conveniently hold them back. Ryuji smirked at the action. "It seems pointless to just say I remember. I think the Persona I can summon tells me. I carry everything we've faced off against so far, so they remind me what hurts them." He sighed deeply, lowering his head. "It sounds stupid."

"It does," Yusuke hummed, never one for mincing words. "But considering all that I've seen—everything that I'm experiencing... I'm willing to believe you." He reached across the table, covering Akira's gloved hand with his own, and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You are very strong. Joker."

Akira inhaled sharply and Ryuji righted his chair with a laugh, "I was wondering when that perverted side of you would make an appearance."

Akira opened his mouth to argue, but was silence by a sharp squeeze to his hand.

"If I recall, Ryuji..."

Ryuji's smug grin melted right off his face and he sunk deeper into the chair to hide from Yusuke's voice. 

"You were the one that provided Akira with an oral service all because—and I quote—you wanted to shut up him up." Akira looked across the table, smirking at the blond's embarrassed blush. "We're all perverted," Yusuke sighed, slowly removing his hand from Akira's. He folded both arms over his weapon. "Maybe that's what drew us together."

A moment of silence followed, hanging thick and heavy in the air. Joker slammed his hands down onto the table, pushing himself up out of his seat. "We won't get anywhere moping around. We don't have long to go.” And with that, they took the quickest route—traveling through safe rooms—to make their way to the to the highest level traveled.

—

Fox would have enjoyed racing through a landscape similar to M. C. Escher’s Relativity print, had it not been for the annoyingly bright gold surrounding them—blinding them—at every twist and turn. In addition to the maze that was the room itself, another riddle soon barred their way, and it came in the form of Madarame’s most famous painting.

The “Sayuri” was his specialty. Fox knew every detail about the painting and helped guide Joker towards the right path after eliminating the fakes, though they were all probably counterfeit.

After freeing themselves from the maze, the trio of rogues rushed down a hallway of insurmountable vanity. Madarame’s portrait lined every inch of the walls. Skull faked throwing up as Joker pushed the heavy double doors that would lead them to their destination, and the Treasure.

Chaos greeted them in the Main Hall. Skull walked into Joker’s back when their leader stalled, making him aware of the blaring alarms. He stepped out from behind him, surveying the area. The oversized display area was surrounded by guards, all running back and forth with no apparent destination. Looking up to the rafters Madarame’s Shadow screamed at, Skull saw human-shaped silhouettes, but then quickly reminded himself that the Shadows of a Palace always appeared humanoid until their masks were ripped off.

Madarame only noticed their presence when Fox called out to him. “Meddlesome vermin,” he growled. “They’re everywhere!” He stretched out his arm to the guard on his left. “Is this what you’re looking for?” Tucked beneath the masked Shadow’s arms was a golden frame. Madarame smirked, eyes aglow, as he stared down his nose at the small group. “I suppose I can grant you a gift before you die—a glimpse of the genuine “Sayuri”…!”

Fox took a step ahead of the others, moving closer to the man he’d once called his foster father. “Genuine…?” The painting he’d treasured for most of his life really was… fake?

Madarame nodded at the Shadow and the guard moved forward, flipping the golden frame into an upright position. Gone was the gentle plume of lavender smoke that covered the bottom half of the painting. It revealed that the subject of the painting cradled a baby dearly in her arms. The reverent, caring look on her face was for the baby she held.

Fox’s eyes widened behind his decorated mask. He’d known Madarame helped his mother, but had still been too young to remember her before she passed. In a fit of rage after not delivering a painting on time, his mentor had spat at him: “Her skills and talents were quite astonishing. That’s why I decided to look after her. The only reason I took you in was due to my ties with your mother! You belong to me! If you have even a fraction of the talent she did—” A conversation he had never shared with Ryuji, for fear that he would’ve killed the real Madarame.

The painting, however—Fox could practically feel the love emanating from it. A mother’s love. “Mom…!”

It was a surprise reveal, even to Joker, but he left the theatrics to Skull. The blond released a loud, drawled, “hah?!”

Madarame’s condescending look returned as he gave them another long-winded explanation. “Indeed it is. This was painted by your mother. It’s a portrait of herself. A woman who knew her death was coming painted her last wishes for the son she would leave behind.”

Skull stepped forward, electricity crackling beneath his boot, eyes alight in rage and a desire for destruction. “You stole something that personal?! You’re lower than scum!”

“Call me what you wish!” Madarame’s Shadow roared. “Your mother and the artwork she created—they’re all my works of art! That goes for you as well, Yusuke! I’m going to reap you for the sake of my future.”

Gaze unwavering, the katana wielder stared at the golden figure directly across from them. He chose to ignore their enemy addressing him as a personal object. “I’ve heard that you destroy your “art” once they outlive their usefulness… Did that include my mother as well?”

With all the research done, that thought never once crossed Joker’s mind. Her death was the result of a seizure. Madarame proved him wrong. “—if I don’t call for help and leave her be, I could obtain her painting with no strings attached.”

Joker moved on instinct, reaching out to cover Skull’s trembling fist with a hand. His actions were also to ground himself. “You’re a thief, and a murderer.”

Fox inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. There was no point doting on the past. Even if Madarame wasn’t the foul man standing before them, his mother would never have received proper health care. He could now tell himself her life was better; peaceful. That still didn’t excuse Madarame—Shadow or not. “Thank you, Madarame,” Fox chuckled, hand resting leisurely on the hilt of his sword. “You were kind enough to share the truth with me.” The blade was eased out of the scabbard. “It’s unfortunate that every reason for me to forgive you has disappeared without a trace.”

Having been looked down on, Madarame’s Shadow threw another temper tantrum. His features distorted as they expanded, and the trio of vigilantes found themselves staring at five separate paintings.

“Now you think you’re art?” Yusuke scoffed, fully unsheathing his blade. “You’re a despicable fiend who wears the skin of an artist.”

—

Battling Madarame was tedious and frustrating. Every piece of himself was weak to different attack types. The mouth regenerated on physical attacks; the eyes, to elemental skills. The nose was the easiest to drop. The right eye went next.

Skull was aiming for the left eye when something suddenly washed over him. It felt like spider webs clung to every inch of his body and he brushed madly at his arms. That’s when he noticed the black of his outfit was even darker than before. It was almost as if he were covered in shadows.

Something about Shadow Madarame's sudden “attack” on their teammate didn't sit right with neither Fox nor Joker. Skull swung his arms to get rid of the dripping black ink. His hair was as pitch black as the rest of his attire. "What the hell was that...?" Skull muttered, spitting ink after it dripped into his mouth. He faced the floating pieces of a face, eyes narrowed behind his messy mask. "What the hell did you do to me?!"

The left eye regarded him briefly before the mouth soared down to attack. Skull held up his pipe in defense, but the bulky frame still bowled him off his feet. He knew for a fact that he was strong enough to take a hit and keep moving—some of his own attacks required a sacrifice to his health—but now he felt weak where he was sprawled. The frame reared back, only to snap forward, the mouth open wide. Skull jerked, feeling the teeth cut through his clothes and sink into his flesh. And then the pain was gone. He looked to Fox first, an apology in his dark eyes, before turning to stare pleadingly at Joker.

Fox's katana clattered to the ground after slipping from his fingers. Joker couldn't look away from the empty eyes that continued to stare blankly at him. Skull's body fell lifelessly to the ground after being released, a dark liquid pooling with the previous ink. Joker watched the blood spread, growing brighter and brighter the further it flowed from the ink blotches.

"Ryu...ji?"

Fox's voice sounded distant in Joker's ears. Red, red, red. Skull was dead, all because of him! No. He turned to stare at the paintings that were now melting into a puddle of ink. From it rose a figure. Madarame. Ryuji would never get up again, so why should he? Joker saw red, and then... darkness. 

—

"...ra. Akira! Stop! Akira, snap out of it!"

Joker blinked away the darkness, squinting when the gleam of Madarame’s Palace assaulted his eyes. Madarame lay at his feet, cowering, something dripping onto the ground near him. The source was his glove, stained black. The only thing black in this world was the ink this charlatan artist produced and Joker hoped he tried to rip out the Shadow’s heart.

Shifting his gaze from the sniveling creature, Joker found Fox sitting in the pool of ink and blood, Skull cradled in his lap.

Joker bared his teeth in a silent snarl directed at Madarame, but Fox's desperate voice stopped him from lashing out.

"He's not going anywhere. Joker, I need you to think. There has to be a way to... to wake..." Fox tightened his arms around the lifeless frame. "I can't live without him."

Joker took a step back, closing his eyes in thought. If they took him from the Palace in his current state, there would be no bringing him back. 'Bring back... revive!' "I'm so stupid," the trickster sighed. He opened the right side of his jacket and reached into the darkness. A small bead was held between his fingers when he removed his hand. "Arsene." The gentleman Persona appeared in a flurry of feathers and dark laughter. "Keep an eye on him."

Madarame whimpered and covered his head.

Joker hurried to where Fox sat, taking a knee near Skull's head. He cradled it gently, slipping the bead past his lips. He whispered an apology after having to force it down his throat, drawing his hand away with the hope that it worked. The diagonal rips in the blond's outfit slowly began mending themselves, working their way upwards until Skull drew in a sharp, shuddering breath. His mask pushed aside, Yusuke clung tight to his lover, breathing in deeply the unique scent that was Ryuji and the leather of his outfit.

Skull ripped off his mask, wide eyes staring up at Joker. "Did I...?"

"Don't," the brunet hissed. Pixie materialized at his shoulder. She fluttered down, pressing a kiss to Ryuji's forehead, before disappearing once again.

Ryuji was very familiar with the winged Persona and knew she aided in his recovery process. After three failed attempts to free his right arm, he pushed at Yusuke’s shoulder with his left. "Oi. Let me go."

"Never," the artist whispered, voice barely audible where his face was buried against Ryuji's chest.

"You have to." Ryuji ran a gentle hand over the dark locks. "This is your fight. He's your demon. You need to face him, one last time." 

Yusuke ducked out from beneath the hand, placing a kiss to its palm, and reluctantly released Ryuji. He pushed himself back onto his feet, reaching down to offer Ryuji assistance. Another gloved hand appeared beside his, courtesy of Akira. Ryuji grinned and accepted both, springing up when they pulled him.

—

Even in his last moments, the Shadow spouted nothing but nonsense to Yusuke.

“No one cares for true art… All they want are easily recognizable brands!” Madarame’s Shadow tripped over his own feet and fell, still holding tight to the original “Sayuri”. Yusuke calmly strode up, each step slow and deliberate. “I’m a victim in this too! Wouldn’t you agree?!”

Never had Yusuke felt such a strong urge to raise his hand against someone, but he buried the dark desire, and stopped his advances right at Madarame’s spread feet.

“The art world revolves around money after all,” the Shadow babbled on in explanation, hoping to be spared. “You can’t rise up without any money…!”

Akira dug his heels in after wrapping both arms around Ryuji. The blond still managed to drag him several feet as he snarled at the vain creature. “Why are we listenin’ to your bullshit?! You belong in the depths of hell then, because none of the money you own is yours! Yusuke is suffering because of you! Some of your former students committed suicide after you ruined their lives!”

“Ryuji.” Yusuke smiled placatingly over his shoulder at the blond.

Ryuji calmed, only to snap at Akira instead, hissing ‘pervert’ even though he made no attempt to remove the arms around his waist.

“That’s why… Yusuke, you should understand! Being a poor artist is truly miserable!” Madarame clutched “Sayuri” protectively against his chest. “I just didn’t want to return to that life!”

Yusuke’s eyes burned a deadly silver as he stared down at the sad excuse for an artist. His kick to dislodge the painting was light. Once it was out of harm’s way, he pressed the heel of his boot against the Shadow’s neck. “Don’t you dare speak of the world of art.” Each word was laced with ice and the promise of painful death. He shifted his stance, forcing Madarame to tilt his head back as he put more pressure into his foot. “You’re done for, along with this abomination of a world.”

Ryuji found himself sharing in Akira’s excitement—the brunet practically rutted against his back. This was a Yusuke whose company he could definitely enjoy.

Yusuke removed his foot, only after leaving Madarame with the strict order to confess all his sins and crimes. As the Shadow caught his breath, he stooped down to collect the “Sayuri”.

"There are others like you," Madarame hurriedly stated, pushing himself into a more upright seated position.

Akira stepped out from behind Ryuji at that reveal, a wary look darkening his features. “Who?”

“Does it matter…? I had to increase security, because everyone kept trespassing!" The sudden surge of anger left Madarame feeling hollow and he sighed softly, his posture crumbling, along with his form. “Sayuri” was gone. He had no Treasure to keep the museum open. As more of his form melted away, the Palace began falling around them.

“Yusuke!” Ryuji shouted, holding out a hand. Akira stood ahead of him, warily eyeing their surroundings as more and more of the building continued to fall.

Yusuke rushed ahead, ignoring Madarame’s pleading cries behind him.

xxx

In the time that he'd known him, Ryuji had no recollection of ever seeing Yusuke cry. The tall brunet had one arm wrapped around Madarame's Treasure and his free hand clutched the end of Ryuji's school jacket. His head was lowered, but Ryuji could hear the soft sniffles. Akira stood several feet away, hands in the pocket of his school slacks as stared in the opposite direction gave them their privacy.

"Yusuke." Ryuji pried the hand from his clothes, only to have Yusuke latch onto him instead. He smiled. "Hey. C'mon. We're going back to Akira's. I already told my mom. We'll talk about everything—" His gaze cut to Akira's profile. "—tomorrow."

Yusuke wordlessly nodded. With a deep breath, he raised his head.

Ryuji couldn't hold in his laugh and received a chastising frown for his efforts. "Because your face is the same even though you were just crying!" He used their joined hands to pull Yusuke in, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "My cyborg boyfriend." Yusuke didn't reprimand him for his actions of public display, which was all the proof Ryuji needed that he was exhausted. "Akira. Let's go."

Akira looked away from Madarame's house to assess the couple. Yusuke leaned against Ryuji's side, trying his hardest not to be obvious how much he desired the contact. Ryuji masked his worry behind a wide grin. Akira thought his mask to be perfect, but now he wasn't so sure. These two were a force to be reckoned with. They were putting cracks in his facade.

With a small smile, he shortened the distance between them. Akira clapped Ryuji on the shoulder as he passed to take the lead. They were going to his apartment after all. 

—

Yusuke released Ryuji after they crossed the threshold of Akira's apartment. Safe room. A small smile tugged at his lips at the comparison and looked around for somewhere to set “Sayuri”. Akira's hand covered his and Yusuke was surprised he had no objections when the painting was pried from his fingers.

"I have a workroom," Akira told him. "It'll be safe in there."

Yusuke nodded. He felt unsure of his emotions, considering everything that took place in that horrid Palace, and feared that his voice would betray him, so he remained silent during preparations for sleep. When Akira pulled out the futon, Yusuke tugged at it until it was released. He took the brunet's hand instead and led him into the bedroom.

Ryuji was sprawled diagonally across the bed. Despite their previous argument, Akira now realized his mistake; he was too invested in this couple. Instead of “Ryuji”, he saw “Skull”, bleeding out on the Palace floor. Akira felt his mask develop another crack and fought to free himself from Yusuke's hold.

"We're all scared, idiot," Ryuji sighed. He sat up, pushing aside the covers, and spread his arms wide. "Unless you're a shitty sleeper that rolls a lot, there's enough room here for all three of us."

Akira took a deep breath, exhaling it slow enough that his mask could repair itself.

Yusuke put all his efforts to waste, shattering it with the softest kiss against his lips. "Thank you," he whispered.

Ryuji grinned at Akira's bewildered expression. It really was great seeing the bastard knocked down several pegs. He hopped from the bed and swooped in, easily lifting the troublesome transfer student onto his shoulder. Akira protested as well as flailed, glaring up at the couple after being unceremoniously tossed onto the bed. His temper was ignored and Ryuji climbed over him, settling at his back. Yusuke turned off the lights before slipping in in front of Akira. His hand ghosted over the slender hip, curling around Akira's back.

“I was going to congratulate you on not getting hard because I picked you up," Ryuji mumbled against the nape of Akira's neck. “But I can hear your heartbeat."

"He's not." Yusuke's ankles were tangled with Akira's, his leg conveniently trapped between the other's thigh. He could feel no stir of arousal.

“I’m angry, that’s why,” Akira spat. "This seems very unfair." A lie. Anger was the only emotion he could conjure to hide his nervous excitement; Akira was quite content with his current predicament.

“Life’s not fair, idiot.” Ryuji hummed and threw his arm over Akira's waist, chin hooked over his shoulder. "Go to sleep, pervert."

Akira had no idea how long it took before he managed to fall asleep, but he had the fleeting thought that he felt more at home trapped between these two boys than he ever did in his family house. It was only after burrowing his way against Yusuke’s chest and having Ryuji’s arms tighten around him that Akira felt his subconscious slip away. Even if he didn't dream tonight, it wouldn't matter; he was living it. 

[part six] (end game...)