#how is Rumple any worse?

[captain-huggy-bear]

Fishbowl Blues

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, talk about blood/injuries

Summary: You're more stressed and worried over Quinn's busted lip than he is.

Notes: I really hope we're all wrong when we're speculating that Quinn is feeling self conscious of his lip because he is handsome all the time, and he's too good a captain to feel self-conscious. I also hope he heals quickly because I bet its a bitch to eat with.

Also i'm on X-Mas holidays from teaching sooooo feel free to send me your Quinn (and maybe also Jack) thoughts.

You're right at the glass when it happens, a front row seat to the way the stick smashes into his face and the way Quinn slams into the ground in response. Your hands press to the glass urgently as you try to look around the bodies on the ice to see what the damage is. Even as the jumbtron jumps between filming him on the ice and filming you at the rink side. It's not the first time he's been injured on the ice, but usually he pops back up almost immediately, has a sarcastic word for the linesman or complaint and then continues on. Shrugs it off as if its nothing. A few bruises, a little cut, nothing more, nothing less.

Not today.

Today all you see is Quinn down on the ice for longer than he should be, a puddle of bright red, oxygenated blood contrasted against white ice. You push to the side until you can see him clearer as he pushes to his feet, mouth bleeding, hand pressed to cover it. Your eyes lock through the plexi, yours wide, worried, his grimacing in some sort of attempt to reassure you as he skates away across the ice and down the tunnel. It was not, in fact, very reassuring.

It's the worst 15 minutes of your life so far, you feel physically sick knowing you can't follow him, but wanting desperately to, to know if he's okay. Your mind thinking up 101 different possibilities for how damaged he might be. Had he lost teeth? Was it his lip that was split? Was his nose broken? A jaw? A cheekbone?

When he finally skates back out on the ice, fishbowl on, you're worry dials back a step or you think it does, that underlying buzz is still there under your skin. You no longer feel sick as you watch him skate confidently across the ice, score a goal and keep pushing through the rest of the game. The worry doesn't disappear entirely though, you're still unsure what the damage is, but know its enough for them to want him to cover his face from any more harm.

You also know your boyfriend, you know what he's like. He'd keep playing even if his arm was hanging off, it's just the way he is, so the fact he's skating fine doesn't actually reassure you. If anything it worries you more that he's hiding how hurt he is.

When the game ends you're one of the first to rush to the locker room, bouncing on the balls of your feet with nervous energy until you see him. Beanie back in place to cover his curls, suit more rumpled than it was when he arrived at the arena hours prior.

"Quinn..." The buzz of anxiety and adrenaline comes back full force under your skin, your hands shaking as your leg bounces.

"I'm okay..." It's mumbled, barely audible, he winces at the pull on his lip as he tries to talk, stitches stark against his lip. He's swollen, bruised, and clearly in pain but still tries to reassure you as you gently cup his face in your hands. He doesn't want you to worry, can see it in your face, the way our hands shake as they hold him so gently like he might actually break apart from a single touch. He hates it, hates feeling so fragile when he's normally your rock.

"Stop talking, you're going to pull your stitches." You scold him even as your eyes well with tears at how painful it looks. His chuckle at your teacher voice coming out quickly cut off by a hiss of pain, stopped short before it can grow. It's worse than you thought, his lip split in two, held together by a line of stitches. There's bruising under his nose, across his cupids bow and his mouth is swollen to the point where even that looks sore.

He wants to reassure you but talking hurts and he knows you just need to fuss over him, so he lets you brush your thumbs across his cheeks, lets you kiss his nose and chin gently. He lets you lead him out to the car, but refuses to let you carry his equipment.

"I'm driving," you hold your hand out expectantly, waiting for the keys, and he just raises a brow before opening the passenger side door, holding it open for you and waiting. He loves you, but he's not incapable of driving and as much as he'll support your fussing to a point, he'll draw the line here. Especially when he can see you're still shaking as much as you try to hide it.

"Quinn, you got the shit beat out of your face, just let me drive home!" Your hands make their way to your hips, brown furrowed as you glare at him. He can imagine that's the same look you give your high school students when they're being particularly difficult, but it's not working on him.

"No, not happening. Get in, sweetheart." It still hurts to talk and maybe he's a bit quiet with it, trying to move his lip as little as possible, but he's not spending the next god knows how long mute.

"Quinn..." The worry on your face is so clear that he almost considers giving in, you're nervous, you're worried, hell, he might even say you're scared. But, he knows he's okay, or at least, okay enough to drive. He's trying not to think about brushing his teeth or eating dinner right now. Fuck, he just wants a burger and he knows that's an impossibility...or some salty fries...fuck.

"I split my lip. I'm not an invalid." It's the shortness of his tone, the annoyance starting to breach the surface that has you giving in. You want to fuss, but you can see it, this is the hill he'll die on and you can compromise on this. For him. You can compromise for him, if it helps him keep a sense of strength, a sense of masculinity after a shitty day.

"Okay..." you slip into the passenger seat and let him do your seatbelt for you, knowing he needs to feel useful and not being entirely sure you'd manage with how much your hands are shaking. You try not to watch him as he drives, but still find yourself looking from the corner of your eye. You catch each wince, each grimace and it only makes it harder for you not to fuss. Makes that panic in your chest start to rise again as the minutes tick by, the drive feeling so much longer than it is.

Still, you resist talking, resist fussing, even as you can feel the tears welling again because fuck, you'd been absolutely terrified tonight. It's as Quinn pulls into his parking spot that your head presses back into the headrest behind you, eyes blinking back tears as you stare the roof of the car. Hands clenching and unclenching in fists in your lap as you try to will the tears back.

He's watching you from your peripheral vision, hand reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear, even as you bite your lip hard to try to keep the tears at bay. You fail absolutely spectacularly.

The tears come streaming thick and fast down your cheeks, quicker than you can brush them away as you start burbling on. The fear, the worry, the anxiety and stress of the game finally boiling over in the safety of the parking garage.

"This is so stupid, you're the one who got hurt...you s-should be crying, n-not me." You feel ridiculous, even as you can't stop the tears from coming, "why am I c-crying, this...this is s-so s-s-stupid..."

If it's possible it makes Quinn love you even more, the way you love him so much that a high stick to the face has you more stressed out than him. He doesn't love the tears, but fuck, he loves how much you care.

"Hey, hey..." it's a soft murmur, interspersed with a few hisses of pain which don't help your tears any, even as he pulls your face towards his, fingers brushing the tears from your cheeks and rubbing softly across your bottom lip which you've bitten nearly to bleeding point. "It's okay, i'm okay...eating'll suck for a while and fuck, i'm going to miss kissing you, but i'm okay, baby..." He actually might be most upset about the fact he can't kiss you when he comes to think of it. He can handle soup for weeks, can handle mint toothpaste stinging his lip, but not kissing you? An actual crime against him.

"B-but, what...what i-if you..." You're stopped in your tracks by him lightly smushing your cheeks together.

"No. No...we're not doing what ifs, not happening, sweetheart, okay?" He lets your face go, fingers combing through your hair, brushing gently across your forehead and down your jaw.

"I..." you're still inhaling sharply with every word, almost hiccuping, the panic still there, if slowly easing down. He hates it, that you're this upset over it. It makes him want to wear a stupid bubble all the time, just to avoid how you're looking at him right now.

"Look at me." There's a pause where he waits for your breath to ease a little, the sharp inhales starting to smooth out with each brush of his fingers , "I'm okay and i'll be okay next game and the next and the next...sure i'm about to get reallllll grumpy without being able to kiss you and, sure, i'm going to be a pain in your ass for a few weeks, but that's not worth your tears, baby."

"I c-can...I can still kiss you though, right?" It makes him huff out a laugh, the way your wet, wide eyes look at him like you're only just realising that you too are going to be punished without kisses from Quinn for weeks.

"Yeah, baby, just, avoid the lips, yeah?"

"O..okay, I can do that." You nod your head to yourself as if you're considering the logistics of it all, which you are. You're contemplating all the places you can kiss him pain free: his forehead, cheeks, nose, jaw, chin...

Quinn watches you for a minute, the redness of your eyes, the way your chest has stopped heaving and for a minute he forgets it all.

"Let's go instead, yeah? I'm okay."

It's quiet, the way you sort yourselves out for the evening. You potter about to reheat some soup you made the other day for him, while he changes into comfy clothes. You eat quietly together, you watching him intently as he eats, every wince noted but the panic isn't there this time. You can breathe, you still hate the fact he's hurt, but the feeling of impending doom is gone, the dread, the fear, it's been eased by his insistance that he's okay.

Quinn navigates brushing his teeth, it takes him twice as long because of how careful he has to be, but he manages. Finally, lying down next to you and pulling you into his arms feels like a reward. The way you curl into him, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder and jaw as you tuck your head under his chin, it makes him feel normal for the first time since he took a hockey stick to the face.

The remaining adrenaline of the day slips away with every rub of his palm against your back, every rise and fall of his chest underneath you, every steady thump of his heart. He's okay, and maybe you're scared he won't be next time, but you knew what you signed up for when you started dating a hockey player. Besides, he's worth every single second of fear.

[soleilapproves]

burnt out reader crying about her grades while being fucked by ex convict!Sukuna / alternate title: Sukuna discovers empathy.

Notes: fem/afab!reader, NSFW, angst to fluff (I think), comfort. This is related to the burnt out reader x ex convict!sukuna prompt I posted earlier.

main masterlist

Everything was so overwhelming. From the rumpled sheets beneath your rocking body to the dimness of the room- Sukuna said he’d rather keep the lights off. Something about coming too soon if he saw your face.

You were spent. Mentally and physically. You didn’t have the energy in you to moan, only letting out breathless pants as Sukuna’s cock roughly moved in and out from your spasming hole. You had come long ago by his fingers so all you were waiting for was for his release so you could leave his apartment and sleep in your own bed as soon as possible.

Sleep.

Something you had been missing for days, trying to cram in everything as much as possible for the back to back exams in the coming weeks. Normally, Sukuna’s voice would’ve had you hypnotized with how deep his moans sounded, but you just weren’t there today. You were glad the lights were off- his ego wouldn’t have been able to handle your ruminating expression. Eyebrows furrowed and all.

Your mind kept flashing you the image of the grades from your mid term exams- C, C, D, B-. These grades are not what you see on a scholarship student’s transcript, but you only had so much mental strength left in you to keep studying. Guilt seeped into the discreet crevices of your contemplation- did you even like your major? Gone were the days of your ambitious past, back when you were an academic force. A storm in the grade curve.

Now you’re just a husk of what was once a great feat.

And then it happened, one tear. Two tears, and then a whole flood of them. Your pants turned into whimpers and wails.

What were you doing with your life? The person you were three years ago would’ve slapped you if she saw the present. Your life had come to an all time low. It was always said that the brightest flames burn out the fastest.

Everything felt like it was being held together by a delicate cloth, and now it was beginning to tear from the seams, spilling out everything you were trying to control. At this point there was nothing left to hold on to. Your body shivered as you removed your hands from Sukuna’s biceps that were caging your body to hug yourself.

“Shit, am I fucking you that good?”

His question made you wail harder, prompting him to cum into your sopping cunt. Even the man who had crept into the most intimate parts of your body didn’t know how you felt. It felt worse knowing that you both didn’t even have any romantic feelings towards each other, simply using each other’s bodies for sexual gratification. An escape from whatever the real world had muddled you in.

Your tears just wouldn’t stop flowing and Sukuna was starting to get concerned.

“What the—did I go too hard?” The room was dark but it was enough for you to see that he was leaning closer and closer to your face, too concerned to remove his limp dick from inside you. You pushed his face away with your small hand but the man was as persistent as a stone hedge.

He pulled out and flipped you both over—your small body now laying on top of his hard, muscled one. His bulky arms wrapped tightly around you as you sobbed onto his shoulder.

“What are you-“

“Just shut up. You can go back to your place later.”

Staring up at the ceiling with a hand on your head, he began to wonder what led him to do that. Every woman he had fucked in the past was kicked out the second he was done with them but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to treat you like that. He didn’t think that it would’ve been possible to treat someone like this. Not after all his years of being a criminal.

Maybe it was because you were in a vulnerable state right now or maybe it’s because you’re at a point in your life where you just need some kind of stability. Even if it veils toxicity. He never knew about whatever was on your mind because you simply never talked about your life with him. Just texted him that you wanted to see him, fucked him, and then left. If it weren’t for your arousal all over his lower half, one would think that you were simpler never there.

He unexpectedly begins to rub up and down your naked back and pulls up his blanket to cover you when he notices that you’re shivering.

The scent of his sweat and body wash mixed together clouded your senses of both smell and judgement. You didn’t say anything and just held him tightly, trembling arms almost choking his thick neck. For now, he was your oasis.

[ceilidho]

prompt: vegas wedding (ghost/reader)

-

Your fingers trail over to the other side of the bed and touch something solid.

It jolts your body back into itself, mind awake when you register the heat of warm skin where there shouldn’t be skin. Not next to you in bed. The other side of your bed is usually cold to the touch, the sheets still pressed and tucked in place, undisturbed because you tend to stick to your side. They’re rumpled now, the sheets; tented under the body next to yours. 

You open your eyes only to instantly shut them. There’s an ache in your forehead that throbs when the sunlight filtering in through the gap in the windowblinds hits your eyes. You remember drinking the night before, but not much more than that. Actually, you don’t remember much from the night before besides getting dressed up in the hotel room with your friend before parting ways in the casino. 

Getting out of bed feels like it takes every ounce of energy left stored in your poor, aching bones. You turn on your side ever so carefully before shimmying out of bed, woozy enough when you stand up that you have to grab onto the bedside table to keep from crumbling into a ball on the floor. 

It sparkles in the light when you happen to glance down. One big, gaudy rhinestone in the centre and then a band of diamonds all the way around. It’s heavy on your finger, accentuated by the emotional weight and repercussions of it that threaten to actually make you topple over this time. 

“No, no, no, no,” you whisper to yourself, trying to pull it off and wincing when it doesn’t budge past your knuckle. Too small. You must have really shoved it on the night before. 

You wince at the thought of how much work it’ll be to take it off. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt though—it catches around your knuckle, but rests perfectly when you push it back down to sit on your finger like a ring should. 

The man under the covers—it’s an assumption, you’ll admit it as you don’t know for sure that it’s a man—makes a noise, shifting in his sleep. Your blood coagulates in your veins as your head whips over your shoulder to watch him carefully for any sign of wakefulness. For the first time since waking up, you get a glimpse of the man probably wearing a ring matching yours and he—well, he really takes up his side of the bed. 

The big lump under the covers doesn’t move as you stare at him. You don’t allow yourself more than a glance, charting the slope of his back muscles and the top of his dirty blond hair. He lies on his stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow facing away from you, obscuring his face. Probably better for you.

Still fighting the urge to scramble out of the hotel room with your things, you allow yourself one smug moment. He’s handsome, whoever he is—you’ve certainly pulled worse. More to your credit, you somehow talked him into getting hitched in Vegas. His back rises with every breath; you stare for a while and wait for the periodic soft, gruff noises that he makes in his sleep. When he turns over onto his back, you muffle a squeak when the covers tent under his barely covered morning wood and slowly back away and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

The shower doesn’t help at all; it just prolongs your panic attack that worsens every time you glance at the door and imagine the man sleeping in your hotel bed waking up on the other side. It does feel good to wash off the grime from the night before, however, scrubbing every nook and cranny of your body. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when you come out, only a complementary hotel robe wrapped around you. You freeze. Big shoulders undulate when he rolls them back, stretching them out after a long night’s sleep. When he stretches an arm up to scratch his upper back, you almost whimper at the way his arm bulges. 

“Thought you could sneak out, is that right?” he grunts, his accented voice rippling down your spine. You hadn’t expected it to come out of his mouth, not this large, blue collar-looking man with his muscled pectorals and the bit of pudge around his middle, softness that comes with labour and not vanity. He drags his hand over the scruff growing on his face, only slightly darker than the hair on his head.

“…I’m not really sure what to say,” you blurt out, reflexively tightening the belt cinching your robe in place. Conscious that your day-old clothes are still sitting in a pile on the bathroom floor, nothing underneath your robe. 

The man stares at your chest like he knows it too. “‘Course you do, love. Probably would’ve skipped off if I hadn’t gotten up, tail tucked between your legs.” His stare flicks down to your legs then, eyes growing heated, half-lidded. You frown.

“That’s how this goes, isn’t it? We, uh, do…this…that…last night or whatever,” you stutter out, face hotter than you’re comfortable with it being, “and then we go our separate ways. That’s what I’d expect from anyone.”

“‘Anyone’ isn’t wearing my ring on her finger,” he points out, tilting his chin towards your hand. You hide it behind your back. 

“That was an…” you clear your throat, “unfortunate detail. I can fix it though, I swear, just…just give me your email or something and I’ll send you the papers.”

This is precisely the most uncomfortable moment of your life. Thus far, anyway. You’ve had worse things happen to you, but as far as uncomfortable things go, little else comes close to subtly implying that you’ll serve a man whose name you don’t even know divorce papers. It’s certainly not what you expected from a weekend girls’ trip to Vegas.

He tilts his head, eyes locked on you. “Don’t worry about all that, love.”

“Why? Do you—I can give you my email address instead, if you want to…if you have a lawyer friend that’ll help.”

“No. Don’t need help with something that isn’t gonna happen.”

You can feel your temper getting the better of you. This whole weekend is shaping up to be a bigger headache than just the hangover you’re nursing. “A divorce—I’m talking about getting divorced, if that isn’t clear.”

“It is. It just isn’t happening.”

He’s being far too casual, unconcerned with your fists clenching at your sides, eyes lazily sweeping you up and down. He yawns like a big cat. 

“What are you talking about?” you hiss, taking a step towards him. Trying to seem intimidating even though your heart is beating erratically in your chest. “You can’t just say no. This shit happens and then—why wouldn’t it happen? It’s just a divorce!”

“Don’t believe in divorce, love. I gave my word.”

His words hit you so hard that it briefly rocks you out of your headache. “That’s so—that’s so stupid! It’s practically an annulment anyway! We didn’t even, you know—” your voice drops to a whisper, embarrassed, “—consummate it.”

“Maybe didn’t get to the whole course, but we didn’t do nothing,” he teases. A subtle thing, barely a twitch of his lip to let you know that he’s toying with you. Men like him toy with their prey like cats with a mouse. 

He probably isn't wrong. You might remember it with time, but he looks like a man that’s seen you naked. It’s an infuriating look. 

“Look, I’ve got—my friends are probably wondering where I am anyway.”

“Give ‘em a call; you can tell ‘em you spent the night with your husband.” No mistaking it now, the heat in his eyes. Nor the blankets bunched in his lap in lieu of his clothes, a fact you’d been carefully not letting yourself focus on for fear that you’d wind up just staring at his crotch. 

Like you are now, helpless to do anything as he drags the sheet away, letting it slip off the bed. His thighs are dusted in dark, coarse hairs, wide enough that you could comfortably sit on one of them. He gives one a pat too, beckoning you towards him. 

“Come back to bed,” he suggests, dick resting red and heavy against his stomach, big enough that you know you would’ve remembered having that inside you even if you’d blacked out. “Let me wake my wife up the right way.”

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Lay the Table With the Fancy Shit

Prompt Day 13: Family Dinner | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Future Fic, Established Steddie, Open Secret Relationship, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?, It's The Harringtons, And Uncle Wayne

Eddie peeks through the curtains, and so far, the driveway is still empty. 

"Anyone?!" Steve hollers from the kitchen.

"Not yet!" 

This is the first Christmas that they're having both sides at their house, and it's a little nerve-wracking. They didn't think the Harringtons would accept the invitation. Historically, they haven't. They've always been in Spain. London. Hawaii. 

Anywhere, except where their perfect only child and his weird shadow have been.

And even if Steve's never shown it, Eddie knows that's been disappointing, though not unexpected. 

But, Steve kept extending the offer.

And this year, they said they'd come. 

Eddie doesn't trust it. He's more scared they'll no-show than he is that they'll show up and be assholes. Assholes? Assholes, Eddie can handle. But deliberately getting Steve's hopes up just to hurt him? Unforgivable. 

Steve's drawn from his rich kid upbringing, and set the table fancier than it has ever been in their house.

Eddie hears a door slam. He peeks out: Wayne. 

"It's just Wayne," Eddie yells, and that sounds wrong. Wayne has never been just anything. His love and presence is constant. Him showing up is not news, it's just any other week, holiday or not. 

Eddie hears a second car pull in, and it's them. 

"They're here!" Eddie screams, and Steve appears in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Really?" he asks, grinning. 

"Really," Eddie confirms.

Steve is smoothing down his sweater, as if it might be rumpled, but it's definitely not. He's perfectly put together, as always.

Eddie's slightly concerned about Wayne being out there alone with them. Wayne's not gonna take any shit, and definitely won't forgive as easily as Steve has always been willing to, that's for damn sure. If they so much as look at either of them wrong, Eddie's sure Wayne will be willing to start an all out war. 

Steve goes to the door and opens it before anyone has the chance to even ring the bell.

It's not like Eddie hasn't met them. He has. In short, very controlled bursts. They call Eddie Steve's roommate, and honestly, it could be worse. If they want to pretend that's all he is to Steve, Eddie can live with that, if Steve can.

They have a support system, more than most are lucky enough to have, and if the Harringtons can't get on board, then so be it. Steve's mother kisses both of Steve's cheeks, and his father shakes his hand, and so far, so good. 

They've made it inside without any bloodshed. 

Steve takes his mother's coat and introduces them to Wayne, who gives the bare minimum of a greeting, and Eddie feels frozen to the spot.

Why this year? Why now? 

He's suspicious, and scared. Terrified, honestly. 

Are they going to try and put a wedge between them? Do they have the perfect, marriageable girl that they're going to try to sell Steve on? Finally tired of this unacceptable detour that is a life with Eddie "The Murderer" Munson?

Anything is possible, and Eddie hates that he's expecting the worst.

It might be fine.

He hopes it'll be fine.

Eddie doesn't know what to do with himself. Roommate Eddie, reporting for duty.

The first chance he gets, after the forks go down, he excuses himself and flees.

Eddie is sitting on the bed in their bedroom. There's a familiar knock and Wayne steps in, closing the door behind him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Eddie says, and he is. Just uncomfortable. "What's going on out there?"

Wayne laughs, "Polite conversation."

Eddie grins towards the floor, and Wayne sits next to him. 

"It'll be fine, kid."

It will. Eddie knows that. They'll leave, and life will go on.

"Does Steve seem happy?" Eddie asks, because that's all that matters. 

"Yeah," Wayne answers. "How 'bout you, kid?"

"I'm good," Eddie says.

"You sure?"

He's pretty sure. He just wants Steve to be happy, and wants him to have a good relationship with his parents. Even if that means he's the roommate in the most unconvincing lie ever told.

Wayne has left him alone, and Eddie is still sitting there, when he feels eyes on him. He looks over, and Mrs. Harrington is standing there looking at him through the cracked door. 

Eddie freezes. 

She comes inside and shuts the door with a heavy click.

Eddie swallows.

"Eddie," she says, and he nods, as if he's confirming that he is, in fact, Eddie. 

He's suddenly hyper-aware of their bedroom. Specifically, their co-mingled shit all over. They didn't clean up, because that felt like it'd be an unspoken bad omen for them not showing up. Either way, Eddie doesn't have a fake bedroom down the hall. It's just this. His stuff on one nightstand, Steve's on the other.

She sits next to him.

Eddie sits up straighter, ready to take whatever she's about to dish out. He'll take it, if that means Steve won't have to.

"They're watching the game," she says.

"Good," Eddie replies with a nod.

"We know, you know?" she asks bluntly, and Eddie wants to bolt. He has to force himself to stay. Eddie assumed, though. Steve's not dumb, and they aren't either.

"Yeah," he says.

"We're waiting for him to tell us," she says, and Eddie is flabbergasted. 

"Huh?" he says.

She laughs, and it makes him feel a fraction more at ease.

"He can tell us," she states, plain as day. There's no beating around the bush, "It took a bit, but we're ready now. Whenever he is."

Eddie hopes that's true. Fuck, does he ever.

"Thank you," he says, and feels kind of dumb, but he is thankful. Big time.

"He was a sad child," she comments, seemingly changing the subject. 

And Eddie stares at her. Steve? Sad?

"Lonely. He learned to fake contentment," she clarifies, turning to look at Eddie, smiling ever so slightly, "But I don't think he's faking it anymore."

Eddie bows his head, smiling to himself.

He made Steve Harrington happy. How the fuck did that happen?

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🍽️

Notes: Title from Tolerate It by Taylor Swift.

[ddejavvu]

hotch hiring spencer to tutor his (college aged) daughter, and hes so impressed with how much theyve been studying and how hes helped her grades, until one day he walks in on one of their "study sessions," but they're not really studying at all.....

Aaron knew there'd be no better person to turn to than Dr. Spencer Reid when his daughter began struggling with her college course load. You're having trouble studying efficiently, you spend so much time at your desk scribbling down ineffective notes that you forget to eat, sleep, and take care of yourself. He's worried about you, his heart aches for his baby girl, so he asks Spencer to start coming over on Saturdays to help you.

It works great. Not only do your grades skyrocket, but your mood does too, no longer sullen from having no free time or sleep schedule. You're back to your old self, maybe even happier now, and Aaron can't hold back the smile on his face as he ascends the stairs, an array of your favorite snacks in hand.

Spencer's inhumanly obsessed with cheez-its, and your own snack of choice is held in his other hand. He thinks the least he can do to thank Spencer is feed the man, seeing as he's so skinny sometimes his snug sweater vests are loose. You swing the door shut during your study sessions, at Aaron's own request, because he couldn't hear the television downstairs over the sound of your chatter. He doesn't think to knock, he's sure the creaking of your door's old hinges will be enough of a sound to break you out of your study stupor.

"Y/N, Spencer, I brought- oh my god."

Your dad's voice nearly goes down a full octave, sending your stomach swirling. He speaks low when he's mad, and watching you scramble out of Spencer's lap and straighten your wrinkled top, you're sure he's livid.

"I- uh, Hotch," Spencer babbles, but you smack the back of his hand to get him to shut up. He runs his fingers through his hair instead, combing out the strands that you'd mussed while licking over his bottom lip.

"Dad!" You chime, "Um- I'm sorry, we- I didn't know you'd come in. We just- we were studying, but then, I- I got distracted, really, it wasn't Spencer's fault, we- I just- I-"

"Stop." Aaron shuts his eyes, snack bags now shoved carelessly onto your bedside table as your dad brings a hand to his face. You're sure this is scarier than any situation Spencer's ever faced before, including aggravated unsubs and near-shootings.

Your dad buries his face in his hand, one large enough to cover his features. It's almost scarier not seeing his stern face; you wonder if his eyes are glowing red.

"Hotch- sir, I'm so sorry." Spencer tries again, and your dad holds up his free hand to silence him. He doesn't need to be told twice, or- thrice, and he closes his mouth.

"How long have you two been doing this?" He asks, muffled by his hand in front of his face.

"Only two weeks. Or- Saturdays, only two days. Just- this time, and, uh, the last time."

"It started last week?"

"Yes." You confirm, nodding even if he can't see.

"Are you studying?"

"Yes." You promise, smoothing out a rumpled study guide and hoping he can't hear it, "Uh- this is our- well, my break."

"Fantastic." Your dad drawls, finally dragging his palm down his face and looking you dead in the eyes. It looks like it almost hurts him to do so, and you feel residual pain in your stomach, churning away again.

"I suppose there are worse people you could be doing that with." He muses carefully, "Though I wish you weren't doing it at all. But you're in college."

"I am," You nod.

"And you're an adult."

"I am."

"And I can't tell you what to do anymore."

You stay silent, not wanting to push your luck.

"Okay. There's nothing I can do," He decides, face still more stoic than when he'd entered, intent on giving you snacks. If he'd had known you'd been eating Spencer's face, he would have saved them for later.

"Don't do it here." He pleads, "At least not while I'm here. And- and while I'm here," He warns, looking at Spencer this time, "This door stays open. Understand?"

"Yes, dad." You nod, and Spencer echoes it with 'sir' as a replacement.

"Study." Aaron narrows his eyes at the both of you, pointedly jamming the door stop beneath the door until it's practically punching a hole through the wall where the knob hits, "If your grades drop again, this is over."

"Yes, dad." You call again, waiting until he storms off down the stairs to even breathe in Spencer's direction.

"Oh my god," Spencer groans, burying his face in his hands, "Oh my god, that was- that was awful."

"He didn't say no!" You point out, grinning at the blushy man beside you, "That went, like, a thousand times better than I was expecting."

"At least I don't have to hide it anymore. Do you know how hard it was for me to pretend I wasn't putting the moves on his daughter while we were in Dallas this past week?"

"I know how hard it was to pretend I wasn't tonguing his agent during dinner last night," You shrug, grinning at Spencer who looks like he's not quite ready to be relieved yet, "No more secrets for either of us, pretty boy."

[booksooks]

Oh oh!! Shiggy w/ a gamer gf but shes also super social?

(𝑵𝑶𝑻) 𝑺𝑶𝑪𝑰𝑨𝑳

Author's note: this was a request from an anon (🩸anon hi sorry this took so long) im not sure if this is where you wanted this to go but! here we are :)

Content: Shigaraki being jealous and a little manipulative, oops.

Word Count: 1342

Summary: Shigaraki doesn't like it when you talk to other people.

Shigaraki watched you chatter to someone over your headset in annoyance from across the room. Whoever you were talking to must have been the most interesting person in the world, he thought, because otherwise why were you straight up ignoring him? You were supposed to be paying attention to him. Were you mad at him? Were you trying to send him some weird, wordless subliminal message by keeping your back turned to him, talking to anyone but him? (To be fair to you, you had never done anything like that before, you were fairly good at communication.) 

Shigaraki shuffled his feet awkwardly behind you, trying to get your attention via vibrations in the floor that you… most definitely didn’t feel. Your feet were tucked underneath you on the legs of the chair, and even if you were solidly against the ground, it was not. Enough. 

Was he not enough?

The thought squeezed at his heart, hard, and he didn’t like it. It made his neck itch, made his hands feel like they were being torn apart from the nails and - oh wait, that was just him, picking at hangnails. Your giggle, quiet but still bright and bubbly, broke him out of his thoughts. He looked down at his fingers, red and raw and irritated, and he shook, trying so hard to not bring his hands up and itch and itch and itch and itch- 

Fuck it, he decided, nails digging into the soft, scarred flesh of his throat. This couldn’t be worse than you ignoring him. He didn’t like feeling this way, this anxious, this… left out. How the hell did you stand talking to people like that anyway? It wasn’t fair; if he couldn’t get the damn words out in real life, how could you? Over the internet? It wasn’t fucking fair. 

Shigaraki paced around in the minimally empty space behind his gaming chair, because at least you had the decency to come to his room, to play those stupid, attention-stealing games, (under any other circumstances he would tell anyone, who would have the lack of common sense to ask, that those were some of his favorite games and why in great detail). But you were still ignoring him, it wasn’t fucking fair, and he wanted to throw something. 

Actually. 

Not a bad idea. 

Shigaraki looked around his room for something to toss at you, something that wouldn’t hurt, necessarily, but something that would grab your attention. A pen sat on his rumpled bed sheets for whatever reason. Perfect. He snatched it up carelessly and chucked it at the back of your head. Only it didn’t hit the back of your head, it hit the back of his chair, making the fabric bounce ever-so-slightly before it smoothed out. You briefly turned around to look at him, curious, and still yapping. 

“Hold on,” you mumbled to whoever was on the other end. Shigaraki saw you hit the mute button. “What’s up? Need something?” 

Yeah, you. Need your attention, your touch, your scent, your-

“What? No.” 

You stared at him for a bit longer, suspicious but not enough to deter you from turning back around and unmuting yourself. “Sorry about that.” 

Shigaraki saw red as he faintly heard a guy’s voice on the other end, laughing. At him. Indirectly, of course, there was no way he knew what he was laughing at, but still. Shigaraki wanted to press all five fingers against the monitor, against your headphones, the tower, fucking everything just to get, and keep, your attention on him. Why hadn’t he said he wanted your attention when you asked? Because it was fucking pathetic, that’s why. No grown man should have to beg for attention from his partner. That would be ridiculous, childish, and Shigaraki was damned if he’d turn into some pathetic, sniveling, begging wimp just because he couldn’t handle you talking to someone else. 

He was scratching again. The sound of his nails, clipped but still sharp, against his skin was overwhelming, the dull, hrrrgtz hrrrgtz hrrrgtz making his stomach churn. No, it didn’t, he was lying. What made his stomach churn was the fact that you were so easily chattering away to someone online when you had a perfectly good boyfriend, right there! For all your wants and needs. 

Fuck you. 

Shigaraki stormed as quietly as he could over to you, and without thinking,  yanked his chair away from the desk. You yelped, outraged, as your headset was ripped from your ears, and your ass slipped forward and off the chair, landing on the hardwood floor. 

“Woah, what was that? You good?” Came the voice over- fucking Christ, was that Discord? You weren’t even playing a 1v1 a fucking one-round-only piece of shit game with some shmuck, and he hadn’t even noticed. That had to change. Shigaraki slammed his hand flat against the screen and watched in delight as it started to crumble from the inside out, the other person’s voice dying out from the inside of your headphones. He only felt minimally better. 

“Tomura, what the hell?” You asked, sore of ass and indignant of attitude. “What the hell was that? I was talking to someone.” 

“Yeah, some fucking idiot,” he snarled, picking you up from the floor under the arms, carefully, he didn’t want to decay you afterall, and just about threw you on the bed. You were too surprised to even fight back, only letting out a small, “woa-mfh?” when you landed. You glared up at him, confused and disoriented and-  fuck you were cute. 

Shigaraki smiled, he knew it was nowhere near comforting, and crawled into bed with you, pushing you back onto the pillows before collapsing on top of you with a satisfied hum. He felt you, stiff and full of apprehension beneath him, and that just wouldn’t do. 

“Fucking relax, would you?” He huffed, trying to bury his face deeper into the crook of your neck. It was safe, there, dark and warm and it smelled like you. So yeah, safe. “You’re stiff as a board.” 

“Are you going to explain what the fuck just happened?” You asked, disbelievingly. “I was talking to someone-”

“Yeah, like I said, a fucking idiot. He doesn’t deserve your time.” Shigaraki was pouting, he knew he was, but he didn’t care. He deserved your attention more than anyone else. 

“And you think you do? After the stunt you just pulled?” You were angry. Or at the very least annoyed as hell. 

Shigaraki stayed quiet for a moment. “Yeah.” 

“Fucking hell.” 

Things were silent for a few minutes, the only sounds being your breathing and his, mingled together. Shigaraki had even started to relax, letting his eyes fall closed when you spoke up again. 

“You can’t- Tomura, you can’t just demand my time and energy when I’m busy, and expect me to drop everything for you.”

Shigaraki felt his lip curl. “Why not? I’m your boyfriend, I should be your top priority.” 

“Okay, but I have a life, and friends. You get to talk to your friends, why can’t I?” 

Oh. Shigaraki hadn’t thought of that. Especially not in the way you had framed it. Was he in the wrong here? Should he apologize? Shigaraki scrunched up his face and thought back to all the visual novels he had ever played, all the manga he had read. Usually, when someone fucked up, for lack of better words, they apologized. That’s right. So…

“I’m sorry,” he grunted out against your neck. “For… being so aggressive.” 

He felt you shift beneath him, tilting your head one way and then the other in thought. “Just… don’t do it again, okay?” 

Shigaraki nodded subtly, wanting nothing more for the whole apologizing part to be over and done with.“Fine.” 

It was another few seconds before he felt your arms wrap around his shoulders, and he sighed softly, feeling you loosen up and melt into his mattress. Finally. He felt, more than heard you utter a quiet, “love you,” before you settled back into silence. 

He had your attention. “Love you too.”

End Notes: thanks for reading!

AO3 Link

ABSOLUTELY NO ONE HAS MY PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WORK TO ANY SITE.

[soloroomies]

lifemate (Chapter 12/ Sakusa x f!reader)

summary: the aftermath of your argument with him word count. 3.4k cw. marriage pact au, smut, fluff a/n. hi guys! it's finally the end of the story! thank u for everyone who's been waiting and enjoying this first fic of mine bc I really enjoy writing this, too!<3 see u on my other fics! ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

Masterlist

As you slowly regain consciousness, the first sensation that hits you is the dull throbbing in your head. The room is dimly lit, and you squint against the soft light seeping through the curtains. Your mouth is dry, and there’s a sour taste lingering from too much alcohol. Your body feels heavy and sluggish, weighed down by the remnants of the night before. You blink a few times, trying to orient yourself. Fragments of last night’s events start to trickle back. Right. This is Tami’s hotel room.

You hear a sound from the bathroom, then Tami steps out. “Hey, you’re awake! Wait,” she says, grabbing a water bottle from the desk and fetching something from her bag. She hands you the water. “Here, drink this.”

She orders room service for breakfast, then sits next to you and places an ibuprofen on the desk beside you. “After you eat, if your head still hurts, you can take this, okay?” You nod while drinking from the water bottle she gave you. Your head is still throbbing. “Do you have a makeup remover?” you ask. The makeup on your face feels uncomfortable and greasy, and you can sense a breakout looming. Can’t wait to clean this all up.

“Yes. It’s all in the bathroom. There are also some toiletries from the hotel. You can use those,” Tami replies.

“Thank you.” You quickly get up from the bed and head to the bathroom. Removing your makeup, washing your face, and brushing your teeth, you feel a relief within you. Taking a shower would be refreshing, but you remember you didn’t bring any clothes and you don’t want to wear the same dress after showering. So, you decide against it.

When you step out of the bathroom, breakfast has arrived. You and Tami start to eat together. Thank goodness the throbbing in your head begins to subside. You sip on the coffee while zoning out, lost in thought. There’s too much to think about, and your mind feels cluttered with last night’s events and the lingering emotions.

Tami clears her throat and looks at you.

“You,” she begins. 

“What?” you stare at her dumbfounded.

“Do you want to tell me something?” she asks, her eyes searching your face for answers.

You press your lips together, considering whether to tell her or not. Well, she noticed that something’s wrong anyway. 

"I’m sorry for last night. I didn’t mean to be irresponsible like that,” you say, sighing and covering your face. “We were supposed to just have fun.”

Tami looks at you, concern written on her face. “Look. You can tell me anything. I’d be happy to help…” She holds your hand. “Kiyoomi contacted me last night. He’s worried about you.”

Shit. Kiyoomi. Taking a deep breath, you decide to tell her everything. Starting from the moment you got closer to him as a friend, to when you began sleeping together, meeting his family, your encounter with his past hook-up, and the arguments that followed.

Tami listens attentively, commenting occasionally, raging when she hears about what that woman said to you, and frowning when you confess your guilt about ‘potentially’ having romantic feelings towards him.

“Girl,” she sighs, “Don’t say ‘potentially’. You do have feelings for him.”

You groan. “That makes me feel worse, honestly.”

“And why do you have to feel worse?” she asks, confused.

“I just… That complicates everything. How am I supposed to be okay with him being with another girl?” Frustration oozes out of you. “I guess I was okay before with our rules. But now…” You rumple your hair with your hand.

Tami squeezes your shoulder. “Hey… He might return your feelings, y’know?”

“Tam. It’s just… I’ve never seen him like... have 'feelings' with anyone before. I don’t know what’s in me that might change his way.” Tears start to well up in your eyes.

“Don’t say that!” Tami hugs you. “There are tons of reasons,” she mumbles against you. 

Stepping back, she observes your face. “I’ll tell you this honestly. With everything you’ve done, he really might return your feelings.”

“I don’t know, Tam. I feel bad. I– I should’ve controlled my feelings better,” you say, looking away from her.

“No, really. Listen to me.” She looks you dead in the eye. “You can’t avoid him forever, right?”

You shook your head.

"It won't be easier too if you choose to completely let go of your feelings for him. So…" Tami continues. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself for whatever Tami is about to say. “Before you decide anything further like divorcing him,” you widen your eyes at that. That actually is an option. But, for whatever reason that just feels so wrong. “Just tell him how you feel.”

Instantly, you close your eyes and huff. 

“Hey! He knows that you feel weird about something. Maybe he has his own assumptions, too. If you tell him, there’s one possible outcome that you might like.”

“Yeah, but there are other outcomes too,” you counter.

“Even if he doesn’t return your feelings, what’s the worst that might happen? You really think he could be that mean to you?”

At that, you can’t say anything. She’s right.

“This is Kiyoomi you’ve known since high school,” she reminds you.

You remain silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. This is Sakusa Kiyoomi—someone many label as blunt and insensitive. But you know him better than that. He has never harbored ill intentions. If anything, the last six months of your marriage have further shown you just how understanding he is, how you can rely on him for so much. Every quiet gesture and every quiet word of reassurance.

“I’m not trying to force you or anything. Just… think about it.”

“No… you’re actually right, Tam,” you say. 

“Wait,” you froze as you remembered something. Something important. Suddenly, you’re on your feet.

“What?!” Tumi hurriedly followed you to get up.

“What time is it?” Urgently, you look for your phone, and find it on the desk beside the bed. It’s fucking dead. You pull your charger from your bag and charge it quickly.

Tami takes her phone, “It’s almost 1.”

“Fuck. His match.” You grab at your hair in frustration.

“Wait, I fucking forgot too! When is it?!”

“It’s at 1pm,” you say with resignation.

“We can still go there! Let’s–”

“Shit! I forgot.”

"What again?!" she looks at you incredulously.

“I’m fucking stupid. His match is at 11am today.” You unlock your phone, seeing his missed calls and texts, and drop to your feet. How in the hell could you forget this? For whatever reason everything seems to be getting worse. 

Tami crouches down beside you and puts her hand on your shoulder. “Hey, I'll take you home. At least you'll be there when he comes back,” she says, helping you up. Then, Tami starts to quickly pack up her things, checking out from the hotel, and you both get in her car.

On the way home, the weight of missing his match settles heavily on your chest. It just further validates that something is wrong. Doubt gnaws at your thoughts, whispering that perhaps you are blowing things out of proportion. 

When you finally reach home, you embrace Tami in a hug. She will return to her town as soon as she drops you.

“Thank you so much, Tam,” you say.

She nods and hugs you back. “I just hope everything turns out fine for you.”

You smile at her. “I’ll definitely keep you updated.”

As soon as you enter the apartment, you realize that Kiyoomi isn’t home yet. Quickly, you get in the shower, washing everything from the night before, trying to calm your mind. Afterward, you head to your room, put on some clothes, and start drying your hair with a towel while checking the news about the match on your phone.

It turns out that MSBY lost. 

However, the good thing about this V. League Division 1 match is that the team who lost will not be eliminated immediately. Every team will have the chance to compete with each other. The standings are ranked by total points, and so far, MSBY is expected to qualify for the playoffs. Their score is quite superior. But, you understand that a loss is a loss and Kiyoomi is very ambitious about this. You’ve even seen how he reacted the last time they lost. Coupled with the little quarrel between you both that you’ve caused, you really feel bad for him. You had decided to confess to him, but seeing the situation now… postponing it seems like a better choice.

You walk out of your room, intending on snacking from the fridge when you notice Kiyoomi’s gym bag in the living room. Shit. It wasn't there earlier. You look closer to confirm it. Why didn’t you hear anything? A sudden panic washes over you as you quickly turn to head back to your room, only to find Kiyoomi standing before you, his expression inscrutable. Is he angry? You wrestle with the dilemma of explaining your absence or consoling him about his match. Frozen in the moment, mouth slightly agape, you struggle to find anything to say to break the silence. Anything.

Suddenly, Kiyoomi runs to you and hugs you tight. Your eyes widen. Out of all the reactions you predicted from him, this is not one of them. Your hands are still in the air, frozen, trying to process his action. He steps back and looks at you in the eye, his hand caressing the side of your hair, eyes exuding warmth and concern. He grabs both of your hands and kisses them. “Please,” you hear him mumble between the skin of your hands. You’re about to ask what he means when he continues, “Please don’t leave me like that.”

You stare at him, feeling guilty about sneaking out and not coming home last night. “I…” you try to explain yourself, but still can’t find your words. He holds your face gently.

“I’m sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to say anything to hurt you,” Kiyoomi says, gazing intently at you, eyes glistening.

The truth is, Kiyoomi can't seem to think straight about anything other than you. Despite just losing an important match, it feels like a mere afterthought in his mind. He wants to berate himself for his lack of focus during the game, but how can he when your absence is what truly feels like a glaring mistake? This one match may be important, but his urgency lies in returning home to see you. He aches to beg for your forgiveness and release the pent-up feelings he's kept hidden. And now, you're here. In your shared home, the place that used to be his sanctuary, now feels incomplete without you. It's not just a living space—it's a home because you're in it.

You bite your lip, the emotions you’ve been trying so hard to conceal start to spill. “No, Omi. I’m just…” you begin, breaking into tears.

Kiyoomi guides you to the couch, where you both sit face to face. Considering all your options, you decide to confess. Right. Now.

“I want to be honest with you,” you finally muster up the courage to confess, your voice trembling with emotion. “I was jealous. I was jealous of that woman the other night. And I’m sorry if I’m jealous when I’m supposed to allow you to be with anyone you want but…” Tears start to well up in your eyes, the weight of your emotions becoming too much to bear.

Before you can finish your sentence, Kiyoomi silences you with a tender kiss, leaving you bewildered.

"I don't want anyone else but you," he interrupts, his eyes filled with sincerity. He takes your hand, placing it gently against his cheek as he continues, "There's nothing between me and her. It's always been you that I want. Just you."

As his words sink in, you're left speechless, your mind reeling with disbelief.

"I thought I wasn't enough for you. That’s why I initiated the rules," Kiyoomi admits, his vulnerability breaking down the walls between you. You’ve never heard him like this before—he always seemed so sure of himself in everything. “You kept trying to date other people not too long before New Year,” he continues, pain evident in his eyes. “I didn’t want you to feel trapped with me.”

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You both had been struggling with the same insecurities, trapped in a web of misunderstandings and doubts. Tears fall from your eyes as you wipe them away. 

"Omi, that's how I feel about you," you finally admit, voicing the unspoken thoughts that have plagued your mind. “I just don’t want to burden you with me as your option.”

“What?” he mumbles in disbelief.

You nod, a soft giggle escaping your lips as you lean in to kiss him.

As you both kiss, what started as a slow, tender embrace gradually intensifies into a passionate exchange. His lips move from yours to your neck, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. Gasping for breath, you grip his side, silently communicating your desire. Catching the unspoken message in your eyes, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you bridal style to his room.

You both continue to kiss with you sitting on his lap, your hands trembling slightly as you undress him. He reciprocates, removing your clothes with a fervor that sends shivers down your spine. His hands find your breasts, kneading them hungrily before his mouth latches onto your sensitive skin. You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Omi..."

He hums in response, his voice a low, comforting vibration against you. He gently lays you on your back, eyes never leaving yours as he slides your pants and panties down. His fingers slip inside you, each movement deliberate and electrifying. He peppers kisses along your neck. “How do I deserve you?” he mumbles as he earns another moan from you, your back arching off the bed.

“Omi. I want you. Please. Now.”

His gaze is intense as he replies, "Anything you want," before kissing you deeply, his hands swiftly removing his own pants. Kiyoomi is about to grab a condom from his drawer when you stop him.

“No condom,” you whisper, smiling softly at him, not knowing the effect you have on him.

Ensuring you're ready, he slides his fingers into you again, making you gasp. He then begins to stroke himself, positioning at your entrance. "Please, Omi," you babble, barely coherent. As he finally enters you, a harmonious moan escapes both your lips. It always feels so good—you're no stranger to it. His stamina, coupled with his blessed size… he can always make you feel heavenly. But there's something about feeling him with nothing between you, being able to feel him fully, that sends waves of raw emotion crashing over you. You grab his face, pulling him closer until your noses touch.

“Omi, you feel so good.”

“You too, baby. Always so tight and warm,” he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. His eyes lock onto yours, as he increases his rhythm. Each thrust pushes you closer to the edge.

"I'm close, Omi," you say, breathless, your body trembling beneath him.

He sucks his thumb briefly before rubbing your clit with it, your moans escalating. "Ah! Omi!"

"Good, baby," he mumbles, his words punctuated by tender kisses. Your body tightens, and with a final cry, you come hard around him. 

You hold his face while he continues to thrust. This is the first time he feels you raw, and the moment he enters you, he’s afraid he’ll combust right away. Thankfully, he doesn’t. But you just feel so good and look so beautiful beneath him. He can’t believe his luck at being able to love you this way. Love. He feels it prickling on his skin. He’s never been one to cry during sex, but he feels like crying now. 

You caress his hair, your lips finding his neck, and it’s enough to send him over the edge. He pulls out just in time, his release spilling onto your stomach. The two of you lay there, panting and spent, the room filled with the quiet aftermath of your shared intensity.

Kiyoomi lifts you gently, carrying you to the bathroom with him. He cleans your body thoroughly, keeping his touches innocent while kissing you occasionally. You’re still drying your body with a towel as he steps out of the bathroom. 

When you return to his room, you notice he’s changing the bed sheets. He pulls you back onto his bed as he finishes, keeping your body flush against his. It’s funny how he used to maintain such a distance, but now, he can’t keep his hand off of you. 

Kiyoomi looks at you adoringly. “Hey.” His voice is soft, pulling you from your thoughts.

"Hey." You shift your whole body to face him, tangling your legs with his.

He looks at you with a mix of adoration and regret. "I’m sorry for not being clear with my feelings all this time."

“Me too," you admit, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

"I guess sometimes I do feel afraid at how fast my feelings escalate with you," he confesses, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I… I think I love you, ___."

Your eyes widen, the unexpected declaration taking your breath away. He quickly adds, "You don’t have to say it back. I just want to put that out there." He caresses your hair as he gazes at you like you hold the moon.

A tender smile spreads across your face. "I think I love you too, Omi." Realizing how new this is for both of you. He has never felt anything remotely close to this, and neither have you. 

The joy in his eyes are unmistakable. Kiyoomi pulls you closer by the waist and kisses your shoulder. “I’m sorry too for making you upset with what I did with Hiyori,” he mumbles against your skin.

You sigh, the memory doesn’t sting as much now. "I guess it’s alright. I didn’t know better either, choosing to avoid you when I should’ve been honest."

“Are you jealous of the fact that she used to be with me?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Um. Not exactly. I mean, everyone has their past, right? It’s more about the way she leaned close to you and touched you? It’s just… I know for a fact that you’re really particular about your personal space except with those you’re very close with.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize that,” he says, frowning in disappointment with himself.

"It’s okay, Omi. You used to be close with her before, so you might not have noticed. I was just insecure because I didn’t know how you felt about me." You look away, feeling embarrassed.

He gently holds your chin, turns your face back to his, and kisses you tenderly. "I’m sorry. I’ll be better," he promises, wrapping you in his arms.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, "We should have a honeymoon."

Surprised, you giggle. “Really?”

He hums in agreement. “And restart our wedding night too.”

You look at him incredulously. “How?”

"Maybe you can try on that white lingerie gift first," he suggests, his eyes twinkling.

You gape at him and swat his arm playfully. “What the hell?! You remember that?”

He chuckles, kissing your cheek. “Matter of fact, I really want to see you in it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Okay, baby. Tonight,” you agree, kissing his lips.

The next morning, you receive texts from Tami.

Tami: hey   Tami: are u feeling better??   Tami: is everything good?

As you read the messages, Kiyoomi pulls you close, kissing your shoulder from behind.

You: so much better   You: everything’s good   You: thank u sm, Tam. I owe you tons   You: also   You: it’s late but   You: thank u for the wedding gift. he loves it.

Not even a minute later, you receive her replies.

Tami: OMGGGG   Tami: TOLD U!

You giggle at her response. Kiyoomi peeks over your shoulder, smiling at the texts. You put your phone down and turn to him, marveling at how right everything feels. Seeing him in the morning like this is something you’ll never get used to. If you told your high school self about today, she would laugh. There’s no way you could have predicted this outcome. Making a marriage pact with your high school friend and actually doing it, only to find a love you thought you’d never experience. It’s one of the best decisions of your life, no matter how crazy it sounds.

Kiyoomi kisses your neck and looks you in the eye. “So?”

"Hm?" you murmur, still lost in your thoughts.

“Does Maldives sound good for our honeymoon?” he asks.

You lean in, kissing him softly on the lips. "It’s perfect, Omi."

Taglist: @wolffmaiden , @fiannee , @nightlydream , @choizzn , @peachyaeger @crxm-dollx , @marisabel14 , @yunskook, @reimiiko, @megumuro

[perlelune]

Tag, You’re It | Ethan Landry | x.

Happy, carefree college days meet their abrupt end when every guy who approaches you mysteriously turns up dead.

Warnings: NON-CON, Stalking, Bimbo!Reader, Clueless Reader, Loss of Virginity, Incel Ethan, Cheerleader Reader, Skin Carving (w/knife), Canon Typical Slashing, Voyeurism, Kidnapping, Forced Masturbation, Filming, Blackmail

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Panic ripples through you as Ethan’s body heavily drapes over yours, his lips stealing yours for yet another ravenous kiss. 

Hopeless, your fight or flight instinct kicks in. 

You bite his lip with all your strength.

The metallic tang of Ethan’s blood spills over your tongue. 

He hisses, jerking away from you. He lets you go and air finds shelter in your lungs again.

Ethan grips his jaw, his face scrunching.

When his tongue sweeps over the blood dripping from the cut on his mouth, a dark laugh leaves Ethan’s mouth. 

The look he gives you sends a chill across your spine.

You retreat to the furthest corner of your bed, bringing your knees to your chest.

A tremulous whisper rises from your throat.

“Ethan…I think you need to go. I d-don’t feel safe right now.”

You suppose you should try to get up, dash to the door. It’s what common sense dictates. But for some reason, you’re frozen in your spot, drenched in sheer denial of what just transpired - almost transpired - on your bed. 

“Don’t feel safe? I’ll be so good to you,” he defends, spreading his fingers towards you. Bile climbs up your throat. You recoil, making yourself even smaller to avoid his touch.

Hurt paints itself over Ethan’s boyish features at your reaction. 

A contemptuous laugh bursts from his chest.

“You think any of these guys ever cared about you, ever saw you, really saw you?” he asks, his voice deeper and scarier than before. Your mouth goes slack as he continues. “Do you think any of them cares what you think or how you feel? That they’re interested in you because you’re such a great conversationalist or because you’re so funny or smart? They’re not.” A shudder slithers through you. The crimson tear on his bottom lip shimmers as his mouth stretches in a slanted grin. “All of them only want you for one thing. They just want to show you off, use you, fuck you and then t-”

A slapping echo resonates across your room as your hand flies in the direction of Ethan’s cheek.

For a while, a deathly silence blankets your room.

Ethan’s reddened cheek pulses as his gaze widens.

His head turns slowly.

He gapes at you, seeming as stunned as you are that you struck him.

You can’t remember the last time you hit someone. Maybe you never did.

But Ethan’s cruel words sank into you like a knife, jabbing at your deepest insecurities. The fact that they poured out of a friend makes it all so much worse. 

“Get out of my room, Ethan, now. I mean it or I’ll…scream for help.”

He glares at you one last time before getting to his feet.

A sigh floats from his lips as he crouches to pick up his backpack.

You tense when he pauses on the threshold, his gaze on you unusually hard. 

“In time, you’ll understand. I’m the only guy for you…just like you’re the only girl for me,” Ethan says matter-of-factly.

When the door clicks shut after his departure, you jump from your bed. Wobbly fingers rush to snap the lock back into place. 

Your short-winded breaths fill the room, coalescing with the wild hammering of your heart.

As your legs weaken underneath you, you collapse against the door. You tuck your legs against your chest as tears skip down your cheeks.

You glance at your phone from across the room. It’s lying across the mess of rumpled sheets. The very same sheets Ethan pushed you onto.

Your insides lurch.

A fresh wave of tears gathers in your eyes as your lashes flutter shut.

There’s nothing you want more than to call your friends right now, hear a familiar voice, feel a warm embrace…but you can’t.

He made sure of that. 

So you let your sobs grow louder as you wrap your arms around yourself as tight as you can. 

It’s a blessing you don’t run into Ethan the following week. To your astonishment, he doesn’t attend any of the classes you two share, most notably Econ and Psych 101. You find yourself staring at the empty seat he used to occupy a lot of the time. Every time you do, a confounding blend of emotions stirs inside you, one you still haven’t fully untangled. 

Part of you is hurt, of course. You never imagined such a side lay dormant in Ethan. It was like he turned into a different person that night. And the things he said to you…your chest twinges whenever you remember the utter viciousness of those words.

Those are the kind of things you’ve heard from others before. But you never expected in a million years to hear them coming from him.

Yet another part of you…feels guilty. What if it’s like Mindy suggested one time? What if you caused that by leading him on, sending him signals without meaning to? 

You always tried your best to be a good friend to Ethan but maybe he misread things you told him or even the way you acted around him… and you ended up becoming a bad friend instead.

The heartbreak that glistened in his eyes that night is still etched in your mind. You hurt him, and you loathe that you did. Despite what happened, you can’t help but still care about him. 

You can’t forget the moments you shared together, how he was there for you when you needed it most. You hate the idea of one awful moment ruining your friendship. 

You also refuse to believe this is who Ethan is. It can’t be. His emotions must have gotten the better of him. Maybe he too feels horrible about the situation. After all, he's all but disappeared this week. Hopefully in time, you both can apologize to each other. 

One day perhaps. Because right now you can barely stomach the thought of being anywhere near him.

The events of that night are still so fresh. 

Engulfed in your gloomy musings, you bump into someone else. The books in your arm scatter across the hallway floor. 

You crouch to pick them up and so does the other person. 

“It’s okay. I got it.”

The sound of the familiar voice has your head snap up.

Emotions swell in your chest as a warm smile you’ve sorely missed crowds your line of sight.

“Hey, it’s been a while…” Anika gingerly remarks.

For a while, you soak in her presence. You grow overwhelmed, the plethora of things you wish you could say to her scorching your lips. 

Then the harshness of reality crashes upon you. 

You can’t talk to Anika. You can’t talk to anyone. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, on the cusp of scampering in the other direction but Anika’s hand on your arm stops you. You flinch at the light touch.

Anika’s forehead puckers. She retreats her hand and cocks her head sideways.

���Is something wrong?” she inquires, her soft tone laced with concern.

Hasty words roll off your tongue. “No. Nothing’s wrong.”

Anika’s scrutiny prickles your skin. It’s obvious she doesn’t fully believe you, her stare lingering on the hickeys Ethan peppered over your neck. You self-consciously brush your fingers over them.

You’re thankful when she doesn’t address them and switches topics. 

“You know there’s a party for Chad and Mindy’s birthday this week,” she reminds, gauging your reaction.

“Yeah, I know.”

Of course, you know. How could you forget? Every year, you used to look forward to it. You even have an alarm for it on your phone. Before everything, you even discussed potential plans to go on a group trip to Chicago.

You can’t see yourself being a part of that now.

“They’re both really hoping you’ll be able to come.”

You nudge a feeble smile on your face.

“I’m late for cheer practice, Anika.”

“Whatever’s going on…You know I’m always here for you, right?”

You freeze. A terrifying echo in a deeper voice swells in your mind.

I’m always here for you, you know that.

Collecting your books from her hands, you rush past her as she tosses you a sad look.

“I gotta go. Tell Chad and Mindy I can’t make it. I’m sorry.”

You don’t glance back as you head to the locker room, afraid you’ll fall to pieces if you do.

You just changed into your cheerleader outfit when your phone vibrates. You sigh, hoping it isn’t Chad again. He’s been blowing up your phone nonstop within the last few days. You surmise he’s also trying to convince you to attend his and his sister’s birthday. 

You can’t even face him right now. What if he suspected something? You shudder to think how he’d react. You can’t see it boding well for Ethan. 

Chewing on your lip, you retrieve your phone from your gym bag. 

You swipe your thumb down to open the notification floating atop the screen.

A video fills the screen and your gaze bulges at what you see. 

Your fingers wobble around the device, your mouth falling open in horror.

A crying Quinn sits on a chair in a dusky room, tied up with thick ropes and her mouth covered with duct tape. Smudged mascara streaks down her freckled cheeks, her pleading gaze seeming to dive right into yours. 

Your breath hitches as you watch Ghostface skulk around her chair, his sharp blade tracing the side of her neck while she sobs. 

Dread twists your insides.

A string of messages appears below the video.

Come to this address alone right now or she dies.

Tell anyone and she dies.

Call the cops and she dies.

Tick, tock, princess.

You shake your head, a wave of queasiness clutching your senses. 

Not again. 

You frantically copy the address included in the message before pasting it into your ride-hailing app. 

The app indicates that your driver will arrive in five minutes outside the gates of campus so you make a beeline for the exit door.

You gasp as Alana blocks your path, standing akimbo in front of the door with a scowl on her face.

“Are you seriously leaving right now?” she asks, her shrill, accusing tone like a whip. “We’re about to rehearse the new routine. The next game is in three weeks.”

You shrink, your features scrunching apologetically.

“I’m sorry, Alana, but… something came up. Something important.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Are you really…You know what?” She tosses her hands up in the air, stepping to the side to make room for you. “I give up. I’ve had it with you and your drama.” She narrows her icy blue eyes at you. “If you leave today, don’t bother coming back.”

“O-Okay,” you stammer, your gut sinking. Cheerleading was the one thing you had, the one thing that wasn’t going completely off the rails. Now you don’t even have that anymore.

Suppressing the budding tears behind your eyes, you take a deep breath and take a firm stride towards the door.

Alana’s jaw drops when you remove the bow in your hair and throw it at her feet.

She gave it to you when you joined the team.

You don’t look back as you brush past her and shove the door open.

“I want my uniform back on Monday,” she hisses.

Your chest clenches, but there’s no time to process yet another crushing disappointment, all your thoughts turning to Quinn.

She needs you right now. 

So you race across campus as if your feet were on fire.

You all but lunge inside the car waiting for you, mumbling a quick ‘sorry’ to the man who casts you a dirty look. You slip him an extra twenty so he drives a little faster, heart pounding wildly against your ribcage.

He ends up dropping you off in front of an abandoned theater.

You get the heebie-jeebies as you peer at the building with the crumbling facade and shattered lights. Diving inside it requires every ounce of courage you possess.

Fearful steps lead you to the lobby. The eerie stillness around you makes your nerves sing.

You steal a glimpse at the popcorn machine, the spider webs you spot inside sparking a shiver through your frame.

You slink through the wide open doors of the first hall you see. Stomach tight, you drag your feet forward. The freezy winds fluttering through the room skate across your skin as you enter. 

You rub your arms, nervousness growing at the sight of the empty theater seats.

You swallow the lump nestled in your throat. You truly are on your own.

After a quick survey, you find Quinn, bound to her chair amidst the center stage.

Relief floods your insides.

You sprint directly to her and climb onto the stage.

The first thing you do is remove the duct tape covering her mouth.

“Quinn! Oh my god, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

Her bright green eyes follow your motions in silence as you begin untying her, a little taken aback by how easily the ropes come off, requiring barely any effort to yank loose.

Once you’re done, Quinn stands up and rubs her wrists. 

“Quinn?” you repeat, worried by her strange quietness. Maybe she’s too traumatized to speak. 

She cracks her neck backwards, stretching it before her gaze lands on you again.

Her lips stretch in a slow, wide grin. 

She then bursts out in laughter.

Your brows knit as you fall back, confused. Your voice trickles out in a tremulous whisper.

“W-Why are you laughing?”

She slants her head to the side.

“You were right, big bro. She actually fell for it,” she says before letting out an impressed whistle. She chortles. “Not a very bright one, is she?”

“I mean, I told you she would.”

You whirl at once, shocked to hear the last person you’d expect to find here. You tremble as you come face to face with Ghostface.

Befuddlement has you blinking. You could have sworn you heard an all too familiar voice rising from behind the mask.

“W-What’s going on?” 

Ghostface chuckles then removes his mask. The air is knocked from your lungs when his identity is revealed to you. You feel as if the entire world just fell on top of you.

“What going on is that you’re fucked, princess,” Ethan states, a terrible smile spreading onto his lips. “Well, not quite yet…” His lecherous gaze drags over your quivering frame. “But we’ll get there eventually.”

Tears well up in your eyes. 

“Ethan? No…”

His smile broadens. “Yes,” he replies, seeming to relish your reaction.

Your lip quakes as a shuddering sob spills from your throat.

“You’re Ghostface?” you whimper.

He shakes the mask in your face before tossing it away.

“Well, duh,” he chimes. A glint of excitement bounces in his chestnut orbs. “You should have seen the way Connor and Tyler squealed like pathetic little pigs when I stabbed them over and over…” Bloodlust distorts his features. You back away, a fear like no other gripping your throat. “…And over. That was hilarious. Especially Connor. Fuck, it felt good to kill him. That conceited, condescending alpha bro.”

“Why?”

“Because they had no business touching what’s mine,” Ethan replies like it’s obvious.

Your eyes widen as it sinks in that Ethan’s referring to you. On instinct, you leap off the stage and start fleeing in the other direction.

Your mind short-circuits with the onslaught of troubling facts, the chaotic drumming of your pulse filling your ears. 

Ethan is Ghostface…and Quinn is helping him. They even appear related somehow.

You don’t want to believe it but there’s no denying what you witnessed with your own eyes.

Before you can get too far, an abrupt pain blooms at the back of your skull, sending you keeling over the edge of the stage. You wail and curl on the floor, the agony numbing enough to keep you from rising again.

Twirling a baseball bat in her hand, Quinn bends over you. Her form blurs in your sight as you groan.

“Oh, poor thing. I hope I didn’t hit her too hard. You okay, sugar? How many fingers am I holding up?”

She waves her hand in front of you.

“F-Four,” you mindlessly answer.

She perks up at that.

“Attagirl. She’s all yours, big bro. I’ll give you two some privacy.”

Ethan nods at his sister - a fact your mind still grapples with - before crouching next to you. He picks you up and cradles your head against his chest. You feebly punch him and he mutters against your temple, “Shh, princess. Don’t fight it.” A rag is suddenly pressed against your mouth, its cloying scent invading your nostrils. Your lashes turn heavy. Your punches grow even weaker till you slump against Ethan. “There you go. Good girl.” 

Spots of darkness creep the edges of your vision until it’s all there is…darkness, and the dwindling echo of Ethan’s sickeningly tender voice mooring you amidst it.

You awake in a strange and obscure bedroom, the only meager light coming from a single window above you. You wince, your head heavy as you move it. As soon as you try to shift on the bed, you realize something is restricting your wrists’ range of motion.

Gasping, you look up. Your stomach sinks as you take note of the metal cuffs binding you to the headboard of the bed.

Your gaze lowers. 

Panic swells in your chest when you see Ethan standing at the foot of the bed.

A smirk decorates his mouth as he watches you struggle.

“Ethan, why am I tied up?” you squeak, almost afraid to know the answer.

You tense as he climbs on the bed, crawling his way to you. Hovering above you, Ethan places his hand on your cheek. 

“It’s much better that way, princess, so you don’t hurt yourself trying to escape,” he explains like it’s the soundest logic in the world, despite how insane this is. 

“Look, Ethan…” you start, carefully pondering your words. Who knows what he’ll do if you say or do the wrong thing? He’s killed people and he could just as easily kill you. You force a quivering smile onto your face. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I had no idea. Please, let me go. I swear I won’t tell a soul.”

Caressing your cheek, Ethan hums, “Oh, I accept your apology, princess and I know you were too stupid to notice…” He bends over you until his mouth skims over your earshell. “But I’m still gonna fuck you.”

Ice spills into your veins. 

Ethan collects the single stray tear sliding over your cheek, bringing it against the seam of his lips with a wide, satisfied smile.

“No, Ethan, please, I’ve never…” you beseech, tugging at your restraints again. Utter helplessness engulfs you as you realize how trapped you are.

Excitement waltzes in his orbs, his eyes crinkling. He cradles your face and smiles down at you endearingly.

“Really? So I’m your first? God this is even sweeter.” He slots his lips over yours, ensnaring them in a slow, heated kiss. The salt of your tears coats both of your tongues. When he lets you breathe again, his forehead falls against yours. Elation drips from his deep, enamored timbre. “You really are my dream girl, you know that?”

He kisses you again, silencing every protest with his mouth. Ethan maps his hunger for you all over your body, sprinkling scorching pecks over your neck, chest and navel and slowly undressing you at the same time. He grabs your boobs and starts fondling them, his tongue swirling over your nipple. 

An uncomfortable heat begins to bloom between your legs, your breathing growing uneven. 

As you feel Ethan’s hard-on press into your thigh, adrenaline rushes through your blood.

“Ethan, don’t…” you beg, your helplessness reaching a peak as he slithers down your frame and parts your thighs. 

He slides your panties to the side. Your heart leaps.

Ethan’s gaze flares devilishly. You only get a glimpse of brown curls before he dives between your legs. 

Words falter on your tongue. Your mind blanks with pleasure as his tongue traces maddening patterns over your bundle of nerves, endlessly teasing it. Broken moans roll off your tongue.

Chest heaving, your back arches on the sheets.

“Fuck, your pussy tastes even better than I imagined, princess,” he lauds, the vibrations from his voice rocking through your core. Your breath catches as coils tighten in your belly.

Ethan devours your cunt until you see stars, coming on his mouth with a sudden shout. He greedily purrs against your folds and licks your arousal as it rains on his tongue.

Before you can even recover from your haze, Ethan sinks one finger inside your wet heat. Your breath hitches at the intrusion.

A sinister chuckle leaves his lips.

“You’re so goddamn tight. You really are a virgin, aren’t you?” He hooks his finger inside you, drawing a sharp hiss from you. He smiles down at your squirming form. “This is perfect. We’re gonna be each other’s firsts. Kinda romantic, right princess?”

Ethan groans, seemingly frustrated as he shifts against you.

He leans back and begins undoing his pants. Your stomach clenches. You kick your feet and sob, despair raging inside you. Ethan unleashes a deep, weary sigh before seizing your wrists and slamming them into the headboard.

A pain so intense rings through your bones, you’re shocked your wrists don’t shatter on the spot. You let out an ear-splitting scream. 

He cocks his head, pity flashing across his face.

“Stop moving so damn much. You’re gonna hurt yourself, princess.” You gape at him through your tear-streaked vision. How can he say that when he’s the one hurting you? A soft smile stretches his lips as he squeezes your wrists even more, making your bones grind against one another. “And scream as loud as you want, pretty girl. No one can hear you here.”

You whine as he releases your throbbing wrists. 

His thumb then traces your shuddering mouth. Ethan’s teeth sink into his lip. He cups your face and rasps, “Fuck, I wanted to take it slow…But my balls feel like they’re about to burst, princess.” His pupils inflate with lust. “Why do you have to sound so fucking hot?”

It’s all the warning you get before Ethan hastily lowers his pants and buries himself inside you in one blunt thrust. 

The searing pain steals the breath from your lungs. You feel as if you’ll tear, Ethan’s thick girth stretching you to your limit. The cuffs slice into your flesh as you yank on them desperately. 

“God, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he says, his voice hoarse with need. 

“Ethan, please, it hurts,” you beg, tears streaming down your face. 

He peppers tender kisses over your damp cheeks. 

“It’s okay, princess. It only hurts at first…I think.” He unleashes an awkward laugh. 

Ethan drags out of you before shoving inside you to the hilt again. You wail, your core burning at the friction. 

He starts moving, his rising grunts mingling with the wet slap of his skin into yours.

The bed rattles loudly underneath both of you.

Your watery eyes rise to the ceiling in search of a fleeting escape. But Ethan doesn’t allow you that, corralling your jaw so you’re forced to peer into his hungry gaze.

“Stay with me, princess,” he orders, squeezing your jaw painfully whenever you try to look away.

He wraps your legs around his taut hips, piledriving into you. You jolt as he hits a spot that makes your mouth part in a soundless scream. 

Forehead resting against yours, Ethan pounds inside you faster. He reaches between your bodies, pinching your clit. Your vision flickers, your legs turning liquid as you come apart around him. Ethan moans as your walls tighten around his cock. When you come back to yourself, shame fills you. You never wanted this. In fact you hate it. So why is your body surrendering to him so easily?

More tears flood your vision.

“I guess that makes us official,” he chuckles against your temple. “We’ll have to tell everyone the good news.”

He nuzzles your neck and you feel sick. 

His low tone vibrates against your flesh as he warns, “And don’t even think about trying to get away from me. Because if you do…” He pauses, his hips snapping into yours even faster than before. “I’ll kill every single one of your little friends and make you watch while I do.” He grins down at you, fondling your cheek. You choke on a sob. Ethan hums, fingers digging into your ass, “I’ll start with that bitch Mindy, then Anika…and then that asshole Chad.”

“Do you understand, princess?”

He fucks you harder and you whimper. When you stay silent, his large hand wraps around your throat, your pulse thrumming beneath his palm. 

Ethan’s jaw clenches, his eyes darkening.

“Answer me when I’m talking to you,” he rumbles, his bruising grip on your throat dangerously tight.

“I-I understand, Ethan,” you sputter. 

A wide smile blooms on his features at your agreement. His hold on your neck slackens. Soon after, his pace slows, his thrusts turning sloppier. He goes still above you, his dick twitching inside you. You shudder as a sticky warmth glazes your walls. 

Ethan nestles his head in the crook of your neck. He purrs in pleasure, still sheathed inside you as silent tears skip down your cheeks.

You wished he’d move away, let you process the horror of what he just did to you. Instead he rolls both of your bodies to the side and hugs you tight against him. You cringe as Ethan sprinkles soft kisses over your face, lingering on your lips.

He then traces the heart-shaped scar he carved on your chest during that awful Halloween night before placing a kiss on it too.

His knuckles sweep over the apple of your cheek, pure bliss painting his features. 

“Good girl,” he praises.

~

[satancopilotsmytardis]

Reforged

Pairing: Shigadabi

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Commissioned by @moonlightcrazyphoenix (who you should all give a huge thank you to for letting me go wild and absolutely cook with this one). Dabi was the first born prince of his father’s kingdom, and then his magic failed. Now he is nothing but an unwanted specter who haunts the castle halls, with no hope of a future ahead of him, save maybe his youngest brother someday sitting on the throne instead of their father. But when a border skirmish brings refugees into their castle and a new practitioner so powerful he is knighted nearly on the spot into his life, that absence of hope begins to wane. 

Contents: Royalty AU, Fantasy AU, minor character death, suicidal thoughts, BDSM, master/slave dynamic, impact play, intercrural sex, cumming untouched, grinding, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, size kink, degradation, humiliation, praise kink, genital piercings, non-human genitalia, double penetration, anal fingering, anal sex, blow jobs, cum swallowing, aftercare. 

Word Count: 37,035

The only thing worse than being the former crown prince, is being the former crown prince that has to convince his own fucking guards to let him go to the throne room when he hears that there's been another attack. 

"Your father said that you shouldn't concern yourself with matters of state," The harpy man tells him, his wings a red cloak along his back. 

His father, the title makes him want to risk sparking up the barest embers of magic in his blood and try to destroy them both, doesn't think he should know about matters of state or any other kind of business in the kingdom because he won't have any part of it. He just wants him to learn how to melt into the background as his siblings are at least able to be used for a purpose. Fuyumi will be married off to some other kingdom to make certain that theirs grows. Natsuo will become the court medic once his schooling is finished, ensuring that there is no one that the royal family has to rely on for their health. And, of course, Shoto will be king some day, his magic outpacing all of theirs by miles. Dabi, now so named because his magic burned out when he was still just a child, is useless. He has no great magic to his name, his body cannot be trained to become a revered warrior, and his burns make him far too ugly for any noble of another kingdom to ever want to take him as a spouse. He has no value, so in his father's eyes, the least that he can do is pretend to not exist at all. 

"I am still a member of the royal family and a citizen of this kingdom, Takami." He snarls, pushing past the knight. "If there was another attack, I want to know about it." He hears the shorter man sigh but he doesn't dare try to stop him again as Dabi enters the chamber and moves off to the side of the dais at the front of the room. Only his father, Shoto, and Fuyumi have chairs there, the latter two much smaller and further off to either side of his fathers, but both of them are sitting there. Natsuo is nowhere in sight, but he thinks that he can chalk that up to the fact that some of the villagers who have come to speak are already at least partially bandaged. If they came with more people to make their report and if those members of their traveling party are in worse condition, then his brother will be in his ward making sure that they are receiving care. 

A man with wild brown hair is standing at the front of the group. His clothes are rumpled, frayed on the edges, creased, and there are smears of dirt clinging to them, but the cut of the outfit and the material of it tells Dabi that he must have been a merchant with a decent to moderate income. Clearly one who had enough standing in the village to be appointed the speaker for them as he addresses his father. 

"--three dragons, one with scales of bronze, one as black as pitch, and one as green as the hills that they decimated. They arrived just as sunrise began, hiding in the long shadows that were cast across the land, and they destroyed every farm, every field. They tore up the roads and ate our livestock." 

"Did the creatures speak? Were they sent by their master?" 

"I do not know anyone among us who conversed with them." 

"Did they retreat of their own accord?" His father presses. 

"No, your majesty." He half turns and gestures someone forward. From the crowd comes what looks to be a farmhand with wild white hair that is barely being contained by a tie, broad shoulders, pale skin, ruby red eyes, and scars cut in over his eye and one lip. He is missing three fingers on one hand and has a rope of burn scars going down his other arm that discolor his skin to a deep reddish color unlike the purple hue that Dabi's show. "This young man," and yes, even with dirt on his face, he does look younger than himself. Maybe Natsuo's age if he had to guess, "Tapped into a wealth of magic as they came for his farm. His destructive talent was able to injure the silver dragon and they fled." 

That has his father's eyes going sharper, interest piqued. "Where did you learn to hone your talents, boy?" 

"I did not." The farmhand's voice is raspy, like he hasn't spoken in several days, but it does not waver and his spine does not bow in the wake of having all of the king's attention on him. "I was cornered and I wanted to protect my land. I would have done it with a pitchfork if necessary, and then I felt it well up inside of me. It withered everything I touched." 

His father considers this. "As the damage to your village is being assessed and repaired by our druids, you will remain in an encampment inside of the palace grounds. You, young man, what is your name?" 

"Tomura Shigaraki, your majesty." 

"No member of my kingdom who can do such damage to a dragon will go unassessed. You will be accompanied by my knights to our scholars. Have you any family?" 

"No, your Majesty. I was an orphan from Ylunburg. I turned eighteen last spring and made my way to Ontsall to make a life for myself." 

Well, that guy is fucked. Or should be thrilled. Depends on how much he liked being a farmer because he definitely won't be one anymore. If his magic was really that strong, then he'll be part of the guard in a matter of days. If he can prove his magic can stay that strong consistently and it wasn't just it awakening for the first time that drew out such massive power, then he might even end up like Takami and the other guards that his father keeps closest to ensure that they always have their most dangerous resources close by.  His father starts giving more orders about where he wants the encampment to be set up, the number of soldiers and druids that he wants taken to Ontsall to see to the rebuilding efforts, and Dabi is bored again. He doesn't have anything to do with this and this simply means that his father will be in a foul mood for the rest of the week and that both of his brothers will be painfully busy until this matter is seen to. Which means that he's better off going to his chambers and occupying his time pretending to be a scholar than it will be spent shadowing them where he might distract them from their duties and bring his father's ire down on himself. 

Dabi turns and leaves as orders are still being doled out, and Takami, for all his protests before, doesn't even bother to shadow him. What assassin worth anything would try to kill the discarded prince that the king would pardon them for dispatching when the deed was done?

///

Dabi doesn't pay the refugees much attention for a few days. They are being integrated the best they can be on the castle grounds. Most of them are farmers, and they take wagons out to the nearest neighboring fields to help do the day's work there, before coming back to meals prepared by some of the additional refugees and their own kitchen staff to help ensure they are doing well. Natsuo and other healers make certain that no one is severely hurt, and Dabi is bored. He is almost always bored, but at least he's able to be bored without a shadow for a few days because Takami is apparently off assessing the farmhand. He would rather be bored alone than bored with that fucking bird following him around and talking his ear off. He was an orphan too, and he can't shut up about how happy he was to be taken in by the crown and given purpose. Dabi has set his wings on fire more than once just to shut him the hell up. 

But apparently five days of a reprieve was all he was going to be able to get as the harpy barely knocks before entering his chambers. Dabi is just glad he's sitting at his desk reading instead of lounging around in bed so he can at least pretend to be busy with other things. "I will have you thrown in the stocks for two days if you enter my rooms without knocking again, Takami." 

"My apologies, your highness." He says without an ounce of sincerity and far too much cheerfulness. "But you won't have to suffer my company much longer." 

"Oh? Is my father finally having you tarred to match your garish feathers?" 

"No, I'll be going out to help patrol the border after such a brazen attack. I'll be leaving immediately, but I wanted to take a moment to make sure that I introduced you to your new guard." Dabi finally looks up as Takami waves in the other person lingering in the doorway. The farmhand from before must have had more natural ability than Dabi even thought he might because he is cleaned up. His long hair is tied neatly into a pony at the base of his neck, and he is wearing the same gleaming armor as Takami, his spine straight, and his injured hand must have either been healed or new arcane prosthetic fingers must have been added to help his gloves fit correctly on both hands. He definitely looks more handsome like this and certainly looks to be Natuso's age now that he's closer to him. "This is Sir Tomura Shigaraki, the newest knight in your father's court." 

Dabi snorts softly, but he's not expecting Shigaraki to address that. 

"Is there something amusing about this, your highness?" 

He does his best not to bristle. "You've spent at least five minutes with the pigeon. You can't tell me that it's not a joke after that." 

"Ignore him," Takami says, turning to the new knight. "He's always saying nearly treasonous things. He's bitter, but his father considers him harmless. You only need to ensure he is either in his rooms or that you're accompanying him when he moves throughout the palace. Otherwise, you're free to go about whatever business you please within the castle walls." 

"...I see." 

Takami shrugs at the other's tone and then waves at Dabi over his shoulder. "See you around, matchstick!" Before he exits the room. Tomura Shigaraki closes the door behind him and the wards lock into place, sealing them off so that their voices will not carry past the door and so the small gem sat at his throat will glow if anyone tries to enter without his permission. Shigaraki stands with his hands behind his back in front of the door, at his post the way that no other guard has ever bothered to do for him once he woke from his coma. They had all known their lives were of more value than his, and their time could be better spent doing things besides watching after the worthless spare prince. Shigaraki will pick up on that soon enough and leave him alone for hours at a time, only coming in to follow the servants who bring his meals or when Dabi has to signal to him to open the wards that his magic is too weak now to do himself. He is more a prisoner in this castle than a prince. When this knight learns that he is nothing more than his jailor, he will stop being so attentive. 

It's quiet for several hours as he goes back to his reading, but when he finishes his book and stands to return it to the shelf, Shigaraki speaks again. "It is a joke." 

"Excuse me?" Dabi wasn't expecting him to speak, let alone respond to his barb from earlier. 

"This position, your father's guard. It's a joke. He couldn't bring his own magic any higher so he finds those without anyone else and brings them into his circle and elevates their positions. All of his guards are orphans from the war with the Demon King and his dragons. They worship him because he offers them status and a brotherhood while he makes an orphan of his own firstborn son through his neglect. It is a joke, and you should be so lucky to have the last laugh." Red eyes on his, unwaveringly. Dabi may flirt with words that could be construed as treasonous, but no one in this kingdom considers him a threat. Someone powerful enough to be knighted in just five days since his magical abilities awakened would be taken much more seriously than him. 

"Do not speak about my father or this kingdom in that way again, or he will have your head." 

"But not you?" When Dabi doesn't retort immediately, Shigaraki keeps looking right through him with those too-sharp eyes. "Because your word doesn't mean as much to your father as one he hardly knows would? Because mine comes laden with magic?" 

Dabi doesn't deign to reply to him, huffing softly before he turns to his bookshelf again. Why bother telling the man something he already knows to be true?

///

Tomura Shigaraki is infuriating in a way that none of his other guards have been before. For one, he actually comes to his room each morning when Dabi wakes to ensure his meal has been brought in and he's awake at a reasonable time. After two weeks he starts to come and wake Dabi earlier than he used to, well before his breakfast is brought and makes him come outside with him as he trains the forms that the other knights must have taught him. 

"Your training is not my problem." Dabi snaps at him. He may not have a real position in the kingdom, but he is a prince. He gets to do what he wants, he doesn't have to follow the whims of his servant.

"You are going to rot away into nothing in that bedroom." Shigaraki tells him. He, Dabi has surmised, hates to wear his armor. It impedes his speed and he doesn't need to be slow when his magic works when he has contact with the thing he is looking to destroy. He has opted only for the uniform tunic and pants, some leather bracers, and a short sword on his hip if he has need of it. He will wear the armor when he is expected to attend court, not that he ever will be while he's assigned to his babysitting, but whatever. 

"Then let me rot. At least the bed will be a comfortable tomb." 

"You are pathetic." 

Dabi's face burns at the man's insult. Everyone in his kingdom thinks that, if they bother to think of him at all, but that doesn't mean that he should be spoken to without even the barest bit of respect. "I am your prince--" 

"You have been discarded and seek to make nothing of the station you were left with. You do grow your mind, but to no end. You have all of the wealth and ability to create a new life for yourself within the confines of the enormous shadow your father has left for you, but you do nothing. I will not pretend to guard someone who so blatantly tells the world that they believe their life is as worthless as all of their naysayers do. You will find something worthwhile to occupy your time, or I shall occupy it with my own activities." He continues to move through his forms, and Dabi can see the rippling of his muscles beneath his clothes. He is thin, weak, his training stopped when he was ten years old, and the training he did for himself stopped when he burned as his magic burst bright one final time before turning to only the smallest of embers. "When you were a child, they said that you were the jewel of the kingdom, did they not?" 

"That jewel shattered a long time ago." He hisses. 

"So?" Shigaraki turns to level him with that look again. The look in his eyes that Dabi doesn't know how he hides from his father. The look that tells him that he blames the crown for the war, for whatever battle took his parents from him, for them not having the people in Ontsall to protect the village that resulted in him being trapped here as a knight instead of carving out a life for himself as a farmer on the land he was so desperate to protect that he awoke magic in himself at nineteen. A look that tells Dabi that he hates him as much as he hates the rest of the royal family even though he is capable of doing nothing-- "Diamond dust can still return people to life." 

He turns back to his exercises and those words sit with him for the rest of the long day. 

///

Dabi has not had to consider what he would do with his life for a very long time. He thought that he would just be this, a prisoner in his father's castle, trying to make himself small and unnoticed until Shoto was old enough to be crowned. When he takes over, he's already told him that he'll be free to do what he pleases. If he'd like to go on to become a scholar, then he will be able to do so, if he'd rather just move to one of their country estates to live out his life in peace, start a business, master an artistry, marry, whatever he pleases. He's promised similar things to each of them. He doesn't want to use their lives as tools the way their father has. He wants them to be happy. It's to that end, that he has been trying to delay Fuyumi's potential marriage as long as possible. She doesn't want to be sent off to some other kingdom to push out babies like their mother was. She wants to be a scholar far more ardently than Dabi does. She would become a teacher if she were able to. The children of other nobles need to be taught. She could do so without seeming to lower her station. Natsuo does want to be a healer, but he wants to be a field medic. He wants to go out and make sure the soldiers that are actually fighting on their borders as the Demon King continues to try to spread his influence to this half of the continent are taken care of. He doesn't flinch at the potential danger. But Dabi is just... nothing. He isn't anything worthy of attention or consideration. He has no ambitions to pursue when his father no longer controls his life. He just wants to... be allowed to exist. He doesn't want to have the shame of being the broken prince forever hanging around his neck. But those thoughts are something soft and weak that he will not lay bare for anyone else to see lest he end up mocked for them again. So he keeps his mouth shut and goes to visit Fuyumi. 

She often ends up locked in her room as well when she's not being paraded around to other visiting royalty and potential suitors. She studies and practices her embroidery. Her magic is the same as their mother's, as Natsuo's, imbued with a near unbreakable preference for ice than any other form. And since she is not to ever be a warrior, she is expected to use her magic as an artform rather than a weapon. She isn't a dressmaker, but she works with them closely as they design her elaborate wardrobe. She helps determine the style and cut of the dresses she will wear because before the bolts of fabric can be cut and stitched into clothing, they are brought to her, and she embellishes them with eternal, unmelting embroidery of frost that glitters like she's woven diamonds into the fabric whenever she moves. 

Shigaraki, as he follows him everywhere, follows him to her room and stands at the door as he joins her at a small table. She keeps the fabric in her lap as she works. "What's wrong, Toya?" His siblings are the only ones who call him by that name, and only when they aren't in front of their father. He stopped being worthy of it the moment his magic failed him, according to Enji. 

Dabi would prefer to have this conversation in private, and tells Shigaraki, "You're dismissed." 

"I am not supposed to let you out of my sight when you are outside of your chambers." The knight says unwaveringly. 

"That is the problem." 

"He can't be worse than Takami?" It's only half a question. 

"Takami worships our father, this one is a hypocrite who has about as much love for him as you or I, but is still following his every order to the letter." 

"I am doing my duties." 

"And he's always talking back to me!" Dabi snaps, half turning in his chair to glare at the other man. 

Fuyumi, the bitch, decides that's at least a little funny as she tries to cover her mouth to pretend she's coughing instead of laughing. "Sir Shigaraki, surely you have started to be taught court etiquette?" 

"I have, your highness. However, I was also explicitly told those courtesies are not to extend to your older brother as he is not a member of the court." 

Dabi's ears would have been bright red with his humiliation if they weren't so badly burned. "You're a bastard and someday I'm going to see you drawn and quartered!" 

"You're a moping sod who isn't worth the breath in his lungs." Shigaraki snaps right back. "Apologies for the outburst, your highness." 

Fuyumi's mouth is hanging open. Takami is never professional with either of them but his informality is in a joking and arrogant way. 

"You see!?" Dabi stresses. "He's probably going to slit my throat in my sleep!" 

"That would be far too much effort for someone like you. I just have to wait for you to burn yourself out again." He hums, "Or hang yourself. I suppose that you couldn't get the job done with fire the first time anyway." 

"Sir Shigaraki!" He's glad that Fuyumi is up out of her seat, her face also flushed with her indignance and rage. "Regardless of what instructions my father has given you, you will not ever speak that way to my brother in my presence! For your disrespect you will receive twenty lashes!" 

Dabi hasn't ever heard his sister sentence someone to corporal punishment. She and Natsuo normally try to hide their own servants' fuck-ups so that their father doesn't give them those kinds of punishments. But, well, maybe she is more scared of him actually finally going through with the suicide that has been sitting at the edge of his mind for years. Maybe she is scared that their father ordered Shigaraki to demoralize him until he just took himself off the board so Enji wouldn't have to bother to do it himself. 

"I'll see that he gets them." Dabi says firmly before she can rescind the order. He had wanted to talk to her more, but this takes precedence. 

Fuyumi looks like she's already regretting the words, the color draining away from her face. They all wonder if being raised by a warrior king has permanently tarnished their very souls, but she usually tries to stay above it. Tries to keep herself as pure as snow. But even she can't be perfect all the time. 

Shigaraki, for all of his backtalk, doesn't look particularly moved by the declaration, though he supposed if he grew up in one of the workhouses in Ylunburg, he's probably received so many lashes that the sting of them will be familiar. He still opens the door the way he's supposed to and shadows Dabi as he goes down to the dungeons. There are guards on duty, but they aren't holding anyone in the cells for now. He bypasses them and goes over to the instruments that are used on the enemy soldiers that are brought here; he doesn't know the name of all of the instruments that are used and he doesn't want to. Torturer's work is not something that he will let occupy his mind. But he does have the option between a flogger, whip, or switch. He chooses the switch because he knows that someone untrained with the former two is more likely to hurt themself when the leather recoils than they are to actually hurt their target. 

Shigaraki looks around the dungeon as he gets the switch and then follows him up to his room silently and Dabi feels his heart starting to race. He's never actually done this before and when they're in the room with the door locked, he suddenly feels incredibly out of his depth when Shigaraki has to be the one who turns to him and catches the gem at his throat to actually seal up the wards around the room. The other man is shorter than him, by a couple of centimeters, but it doesn't feel like that matters at all when he has those red eyes so intense on him. 

"Do you even know how to use that thing?" His voice is lower, rougher, and Dabi does his best to keep his spine straight. 

"Remove your tunic and get on your knees." His voice isn't nearly as steady as he wants it to be. 

Shigaraki lets go of the gem and moves to the center of the room, stripping away his bracers, outer tunic, and the long sleeved shirt he was wearing beneath it, letting Dabi see the layers of muscle he was certain were beneath the cloth, but also far more scars than he thought there would be. He must have been at one of the orphanages that also loaned children out for factory work. That's the only explanation for the scars that continue up his arm and over his shoulder, the gash that is taken on the other side closer to his collarbone, the pockmarks on his skin that must have been from hot rivets being sunk into him. It must have also been where he lost his fingers as well, though he keeps on the glove that holds the prosthetics in place as he bares his torso. 

He turns away from Dabi and sinks to his knees, his hands against his thighs once he's swept his long hair off of his back, showing Dabi that he has two massive scars here as well, carved down from the tops of each shoulder blades to the small of his back in jagged, but parallel lines. There is not an inch of this man that has not been touched by some misfortune. Dabi's palms start to sweat as he feels the weight of the switch in his hand. The vindication that he received for finally getting to silence Shigaraki's backtalk is not as strong as his disgust for himself as he wonders what exactly he's trying to do now. His father is cruelty and violence. He and his siblings have tried to distance that from themselves so ardently. Even Shoto, a knight himself, avoids a fight if a conversation can be had instead. He shows mercy instead of cruelty. The world their father has made for them is cruel. So they choose to be kinder. Dabi has never had an ounce of power over anyone else since he was a child. Is this what he's going to do with it now just because he can?

"You are so very weak." Shigaraki says without raising his head. 

And that sends him over the edge. He tightens his grip on the switch, stalks forward the few steps he needs to close the distance, and he brings the switch down across the other's back. The loud crack of the leather meeting skin doesn't do anything to make him feel stronger and he throws the instrument to the ground in nearly the same move as he stalks over to his bed. "Yes!" His voice is raw with his fury, with his emotion, and he hates himself for it. He hates the way it tears from his throat and makes his eyes burn even though he can no longer shed tears as freely as he did when he was a child. "I am weak!" He screams, turning to face the knight. "I was strong for so little of my life and told that I wasn't worthy of my breath for the other half! I'm nothing! No one! I will die more unremarkable than you would have if you'd stayed a farmer because at least you would have provided something to the kingdom! My sentence is to make myself smaller and smaller until I'm nothing so that my father can be free of my stain on his legacy!" 

Shigaraki stares at him for a long moment and Dabi hates having his eyes on him. 

"Get ou--" 

"Pick the switch back up." The other's voice is hard and robs Dabi of his anger, his indignance, his sorrow. It hollows him out all over again. When Dabi doesn't move, Shigaraki keeps speaking. "Pick it up. You have nineteen more lashes to deliver. If you can make me bleed, then you will have proven that you have more strength in your body than you or your father believe you do. And if you cannot manage it, I will show you how you can forge it instead. If I am to stay in your company for the duration of my time here, then I will have you less pathetic company than you are right now." 

"Y-You don't get to order me around! I'm the prince!" By all the stars in the sky, why is this man, "You are asking to be punished!" 

"I am asking you to prove that you are capable of completing a single task that is not reading a book!" Shigaraki snarls back at him. "I am hoping that you have not been so completely and thoroughly broken by your father and your failures that you cannot even imagine a world in which you become something more than those things have made you believe you are. Pick. Up. The. Switch." 

Dabi hesitates. For a long moment he wants to tell the other to leave, wants to go back to Fuyumi's room and have her switch guards with him until the end of however long this lasts. He never wants to have to look Shigaraki in the eye again because he knows that if he has to see those red eyes filled with any more disgust then they already are now, he just won't be able to survive it. He used to hate how his father never looked at him after his magic failed him. He used to try anything to get his eyes to turn to him. But the first time they had, two years after he awoke from his coma, there had been nothing in them. No disgust, no anger, no disappointment, he had simply looked through him and moved on. He thought that had killed something deep inside of him, but having Shigaraki looking at him now with so much barely-contained contempt has dragged out his corpse to be burned again. His fingers shake as he reaches back down and picks up the switch. 

Shigaraki huffs and lowers his head again, hands fisted against his thighs. "Move it along. I don't have all night." 

Dabi doesn't feel any more steady or sure than he did a moment before as he takes his position behind the other man again. He tightens his grip on the switch as he realizes that there's not even a mark from the first hit, and tries again. The impact makes the switch sting the seam running over his palm and once again Shigaraki doesn't flinch. 

"You'll have to hit harder than that." 

"Shut up!" He snarls and tries again. It shakes up his entire arm as he hits the other man. He doesn't let himself stop, he goes again, and again, and again, his eyes burning with his frustration, his helplessness, his arm getting weaker with every hit. Until Shigaraki is standing up, catching his wrist, and taking the switch from it. There's blood on the ground, but it's not from the knight's back, it's dripping off of Dabi's face as a sob slips from his throat because he really is as pathetic as the guard said. 

"That was twenty-seven." Shigaraki says, "and I'm not bleeding." 

He tries to pull his wrist from the other's grip, but he's too weak to manage that. "Let go of me." His voice is soft now, he doesn't have any of his anger left inside of him. 

"No. You couldn't make me bleed, so now I get to reshape you. That's what you agreed to. Or are you a liar as well as a waste of space?" 

Dabi didn't know he could feel worse than he already did, but his gut sours with shame at the idea of not even being able to keep his word. He's not sure that he has anything at all left to him but the voice that so few even fail to acknowledge when he does speak. He grits his teeth. "...'Reshape' me how?" 

"You went seven over. Strip your clothes from the waist down." 

Dabi pales sharply. "Absolutely not--!" 

Shigaraki's other hand catches his chin, those eyes hot and dangerous on him as he forces him to meet his. "Your back is stapled together." He's seen him getting out of bed in the morning with only his undergarments on, there is very little mystery left of his body. "If I give you the hits there, you'll split open. Even if I avoid the seams, you're so thin that taking the hits over the bones will leave you unable to move. Your thighs are the only place with enough muscle and without any burns. I can give you your seven there, or I can give them to you over your back, and when you cannot move, you can explain to anyone who bothers to come check on you what happened." 

"You'll--"

"Maybe receive a slap on the wrist if you lie about our wager. But your father will be more keen to believe my side of the story." He takes the switch from Dabi's hand and waits. He could refuse. He hasn't been in pain since he burned. He doesn't hurt. He's a ghost, not even worthy of being noticed by the gods of misfortune who are so keen to throw their blessings to all. He could refuse. Why does he need the respect of this man? How much more could he lose from his father? What does it matter if he lets one of his servants beat him black and blue? He's already a worthless, broken thing. It makes his humiliation burn hotter in his veins than it ever has before when he reaches to start to undo his belt. 

Dabi strips his boots, his pants, thinks he might be able to stop at that, but one glance at the hard lines of the other's features tell him that he has to remove his undergarments as well. His own tunic, thankfully, is long enough that if he holds the hem, he can preserve a modicum of his modesty. 

"Bend over the edge of your bed." Shigaraki orders him like he hasn't made this situation embarrassing enough. He wants to protest again, but it won't do him any good. He goes over to his bed, takes a breath and bends over. After a moment, he hears Shigaraki's boots against the floor, moving closer until they stop behind him. He will not cry out. He will not scream. It is seven hits. He will be able to take that. It cannot hurt more than the beatings his father gave him throughout his training or his burning. "Hold out for as many as you can. But if you need me to stop, tell me." 

Dabi clenches his jaw shut tight and braces himself. He is already displaying so much weakness. He is not about to beg for mercy. 

The first hit comes across the back of his thighs and instantaneously becomes a line of white-hot agony across his skin that has fresh, bloody tears trickling down his cheeks. 

"One," Shigaraki counts in an even tone while the crack of the switch is still echoing around the room. Dabi barely has the chance to breathe before the second comes down, a little below the first, closer to the staples that curve around the middle of his thighs. This one hurts just as badly as the first, maybe a little worse, but it's hard to tell when the switch coming down against him is such a singular, blinding pain. "Two." 

The next one comes down just below the curve of his ass, and so much higher makes his whole body flinch as that hit definitely hurts worse than the first one. "Three." Oh, by the gods, he's hitting him harder each time. Dabi presses his face into the bedding so that it will muffle any sound that might try to slip out of him. When the fourth overlaps the first hit he can't help his toes curling and the way his body squirms involuntarily as the pain radiates out from his skin, stinging at first, but blooming into a deep throb that he knows will put bruises on the pale parts of his flesh as dark as his scars. "Four." It hurts. It hurts so badly that his stomach feels tight and sick. He doesn't think that he's going to be able to last the final three. He thinks that if he does, he'll just fall apart right then. 

And then Shigaraki's hand moves to the hem of his shirt. His ass had been at least partially covered by his tunic, but he pushes it up now, his hand cool and his skin rough as he runs it over the curve of him, up to press against his lower back, that touch so sharply different from the painful ones against his thighs that he's left gasping. 

"There. You're doing better than I thought you would." The tone in his voice is different than Dabi has ever heard it before. "See? You must have some amount of pride left if you hold your word so sacred." He moves his thumb over the base of his spine and that soft touch, the words mingling with the pain coursing through his skin, puts a hazy confusion in his mind that fogs his focus. "Can you take more, little prince?" 

He should back out now. He already is hurting so much. He should tell Shigaraki off for touching him with a hand that isn't trying to inflict violence. But that hand and the words before are like a balm. They insulate him from some of the thrumming agony in his skin and make it easier for him to just manage to nod his head, his hands fisting tightly in the sheets. 

"These will be harder." The knight warns as he takes his hand away. Dabi doesn't bite his tongue only because he's scared he might bite it off. The fifth hit is so hard that Dabi swears that he is pushed forward on the bed slightly and he can't help the soft cry that he lets out. "Five, shhh," his voice is still much calmer than it was before. Soothing as his cool hand goes to the back of his thighs again and that feels horrible and wonderful all at the same time as the chill of his skin takes away the blood bright heat that is coming from the welts blooming from his hits. "Only two more. Show me that you have some resolve left in you." 

He hates how much easier it is to brace his body for the pain when he knows that he's doing it to earn Shigaraki's approval. It feels different to earn this than it does to have his siblings’ that comes out of obligation and nostalgia. Shigaraki gives him another few seconds to tell him to stop, but when he doesn't speak, his hand draws back again. It takes three agonizing seconds before the switch comes back down against his skin and he howls this time with how hard it hits him. 

"Six," but there's such satisfaction in Shigaraki's voice. "Just one more, little prince." He can't even find words to answer him, he only manages a soft whimper that makes him feel so incredibly small and pathetic. He hears the switch whistle through the air a split second before it cracks against his skin again and Dabi can't help the other pained cry that comes out of him. "Seven," the hand goes back to his lower back and Dabi lets out another miserable sob against the sheets. "There, you kept your word." He hears the switch hit the floor and can't help flinching slightly again. "Stay there." Shigaraki instructs like Dabi can move at all. 

The other man moves around the room for a moment and Dabi tries to find his voice enough to tell him to go. He doesn't know how he can survive being any more humiliated and pathetic than he feels right now. He doesn't want to have to wait to find out. But before he can find his voice, the other man is back and murmuring. 

"This is going to sting a little." He doesn't wait and the next second a cool, wet cloth is being gently pressed to his stinging thighs. He bites his lip hard to keep from squealing, but the pain of having the pressure on his skin is easy to ignore when the coolness of the cloth and the soft little circles that the other man starts to rub against him feel so good. Dabi just thinks that the knight might be cleaning up the blood off of his skin, absolutely certain that his thighs have to be torn to ribbons from how badly they hurt, but he refreshes the coolness of the towel with a spell after a minute or two and he realizes that the man is just trying to soothe the hurts. 

That is working a little too well, he realizes vaguely as between the pain, the relief, and his body's exhaustion, there is a new feeling tingling through him. 

It's not helped when the knight murmurs, "You did such a good job. I thought a little prince like you wouldn't be able to handle one, but you made it all the way to seven. You should be proud of yourself." 

Dabi doesn't think that it's pride that is in him when all of the sensations against his body have his cock twitching against the soft sheets. Mortification goes through him and he doesn't know what to do with himself when that feeling only makes his cock harden faster instead of chasing the ill-gotten arousal away. He hopes that with his body pressed into the bed and his thighs pressed tightly together that the other won't be able to see it and he can find his voice quickly enough that he can get the other man to leave so he doesn't have to show any more weakness. 

"Where I'm from, we have a code that we live by. 'Endure what you can, destroy the parts of you that fail, reforge what you need to move forward'." The words are spoken softly. The touches against his skin are soft. "You've endured for years. Now I've broken you. All you need now is to forge yourself into something stronger." Dabi is not expecting just how strong the other man is or how easily he's able to roll him onto his back before he can make him stop. He fumbles to try and hide himself, but it doesn't work, the other's eyes falling to his hard prick before he can tug his shirt down over it. But there's no contempt left in those eyes when they look at him now. Now there's a... heat in them that doesn't help the way his shameful body is feeling so needy. "Or perhaps you need a firm hand to help with that too. Tell me, little prince, has anyone ever touched you like this before?" 

No. No one but his kin has ever struck him. No one has ever deigned let their hands linger on his body the way that Shigaraki's are as they run over the uninjured tops of his thighs before they curve back around to touch the welts that have formed on his skin. His fingers press in a little and Dabi makes himself so weak, surely loses the thinnest thread of respect he managed to gain by suffering through each hit, when he lets out a weak moan, the wound caught between agony and bliss as his cock curved up against his stomach from the sensation. He got a few stolen kisses, once. He was seventeen and attending a ball that was supposed to be full of suitors for his sister, but one noble's son had taken an interest in him, he brought him off to the side and had kissed him until Takami had tracked him down. He must have told his father what happened, because the noble's title and lands were stripped, Dabi ended up locked in his chambers for three months being served the same slop and moldy bread as their prisoners, and his room was spelled dark as the dungeons, so that when he was able to leave it, the world outside of his room hurt twice as badly. His father, without saying a word to him, had made it abundantly clear that he was absolutely not allowed to pursue any form of love. That would bring attention to him. He was supposed to disappear. 

He manages to shake his head. Shigaraki is one of his father's knights. With his magic, he can get away with things that Dabi will never be able to contemplate.

"Do you want me to keep touching you, little one?" His voice is warm and drips over his skin like honey, even as his fingers press to remind him how much pain he just brought. "I think you've more than earned a reward for being such a good boy taking your first punishment." 

He doesn't feel like he's being good, but being called that makes more of that sticky, needy heat, like the sticky blood that he thinks must be going tacky on his thighs, warm his insides further. He wants to be rewarded for everything that he's endured so far. His throat is still too tight to find his voice, but he manages a tiny nod and that has the knight climbing into his bed with him. He murmurs a spell, bringing oil over his fingers, as the other hand pushes his shirt up beneath his arms so his ruined skin and needy cock are on display. Just being looked at with those red eyes at the most intimate part of his body makes him tremble and shiver. 

"Impressive someone so weak can also be so cute." Shigaraki murmurs as his wet fingers trail over his cock. Dabi has had his own hand there before, but it's very, very different to feel those sensations of pleasure spilling over his nerves when it's someone else touching him. He bites his lip harder because he's scared that he'll moan too loudly, that someone will somehow hear it past his wards and come in and stop this before he gets the other's hand completely fisted around his body. His hips jump up when the knight runs a single finger along his underside, from root to tip, flicking his head when he reaches it. Beyond humiliation when that has a bead of precum starting to form there. "So sensitive, little one. Not going to be able to last long when I have my hand on you." He hates how quickly and succinctly the other has assessed his need. But his hand doesn't fist around him to let him have that pleasure. Instead his hands go back around his aching thighs and Dabi humiliates himself further when he moans loudly as fingers press firmly into the forming welts and sends pain that goes sour-sweet over his nerves. "Wonderful," and the word sounds like it's been drenched in his sincerity, as he says it. "You're already becoming something new. Maybe you will be worth my time after all." He shifts on the bed, taking his hands away from Dabi's skin, and for one horrible moment, he thinks that the knight might have been playing him. He already got him to allow his body to be so debased, but maybe he wanted the further humiliation of knowing that Dabi was begging for more despite the pain that came before. Maybe he wanted to be able to go tell his father that he ordered him into his bed so that he would end up locked up in the dark again so he could pursue the interests that he would rather instead of having to deal with him all of the time. 

But Shigaraki doesn't leave the bed, he just flicks open his belt and opens his trousers. Dabi's mouth goes dry as the other reaches inside and uses his oil-slicked hand to begin pumping his own cock, bringing himself to full hardness and showing Dabi that he is not only weaker than the knight when it comes to their muscles, but that his cock may be the more pathetic side of average or that Shigaraki's is simply far, far bigger than a cock has any right to be. Not only big, but pierced with a ring curving through his head that Dabi cannot imagine the pain that it must have taken to have it put there. He's only ever seen women in court with their ears pierced. He didn't even know that jewelry could be added to that part of the body. Shigaraki gets himself hard, and then his hands shift to Dabi's ankles. His nerves peak as he worries about something so big being forced inside of his body, but the knight doesn't spread him wide or hook his legs over his shoulders. Instead, he brings Dabi's ankles together and makes him bend his knees up towards his chest, forcing the aching skin of his thighs to be stretched as the lower half of his legs are then over-directed so that they are twisted to the side, allowing the other man to see his handiwork. 

"There, just like that, little prince. Since you liked the sting of them so much, and since I want you to soak in this revelation, I'm going to bring you your first pleasure right here." Dabi has touched himself before. He knows what the kiss of an orgasm feels like, but he is not about to protest any of that out of fear it might get all of this taken away. He doesn't quite understand what the other man is saying, but he murmurs that word again and fresh oil is spilling down between his thighs, enough of it his skin feels slippery over his injuries and it's dripping over his sensitive balls. Shigaraki holds his legs as he moves forward, kneeling on the bed as he feeds his cock between Dabi's stinging thighs. He lets out a gasp, the movement bringing the pain back to the forefront of his mind, but it is unable to stop him from also whining with the pleasure that goes through him. He didn't know pain and pleasure could mingle like this. Didn't know that he could be so pathetic as to want both and the sweeter words that are coming from the man who inflicted the pain as well. But he doesn't protest at all as the other pushes between his legs and then pulls out nearly all the way before he pushes back in again slowly. The movements don't allow the pain under his skin let up in the slightest, but it doesn't matter. Each sting of pleasure races through him before it reaches his cock and turns to pleasure as it tingles up from his root. 

By the second thrust, he's letting out a breathless gasp of arousal as it happens. It's all heightened by the fact that Shigaraki won't stop talking. 

"Squeeze your thighs tight, little one. That's it. Let me feel how badly your muscles shake as I fuck you right here. You can cry, baby boy. You can moan and whine. I like those sounds that you're making. I'd ask if that feels good, but you're staining your shirt with how much your cute prick is leaking." He never stops moving as he's speaking, never relents in the pleasure-pain that he's soaking Dabi's whole body in, and he doesn't know if he's going to be able to survive this. He's felt an orgasm come on before, but never without his hand around his cock. He tries to fumble to reach for it. Shigaraki catches his wrist and pins it to the bed, all but growling, "No, little one. You're going to cum just like this. You've already shown me that you can find your resolve, now show me how pretty you are as you break." 

Dabi wonders if he should be embarrassed by how immediately that makes his cock twitch and his balls draw tight before his orgasm is rushing through him. He doesn't know if the pleasure has ever burned brighter than it does when he's coming apart as Shigaraki keeps fucking his swollen thighs harder. He moves and moves, every thrust pushing his pleasure higher and higher-- he didn't know that the pleasure of his orgasm could ricochet all through his body again and again even after his balls are empty and his cock can't spill anything else. But he feels so, so good as the ache keeps building between his thighs as it takes so much longer for Shigaraki to get his fill, the tops of his thighs slapping the injured bottoms of his own so hard he nearly squeals again as he fucks into the press of them that he tightens manually by squeezing them together in his rough grip as the head of his cock peaks out from between them, the ring cool against his skin, before his cum is splashing over Dabi's skin. 

He's trembling on the bed, still gasping for breath as the other man lowers his legs to the bed again. His fingers go to Dabi's soft cock and he starts to tease and stroke him, making his nerves sting fresh and him choke out a sob as he shakes his head weakly. 

Red eyes are so soft on him as he falls apart. "Okay, little one. Let me clean you up." And he does. He brings back the towel and Dabi takes note of the pitcher of water he brought to the nightstand. He uses the cloth to clean the cum from their skin and to make sure that his thighs are a little more soothed. Then he reaches into Dabi's bedside drawer for the medicine Natsuo makes to help keep his seams healthy and unswollen from how the staples can irritate his skin. He takes some of that on his fingers and rubs it into the welts across the backs of his thighs. The medicine soothes some of the ache and Dabi is so confused when, as the pain lessens, he feels like crying even more than he did before. 

It takes a few minutes before Shigaraki is done with that and then he's reaching for Dabi's soiled shirt. "Alright, let's get you out of--" 

Dabi shakes his head weakly. He just wants Shigaraki to go before he falls apart completely. The knight praised him for finding his resolve before and he wants to hold onto it but the tears feel like they're so big and heavy in his chest. He needs to let them out or he might combust again. He was always a crybaby. His siblings used to make fun of him for that until his life became so terrible that they couldn't deny that he had so much sorrow that it was unfair the gods took away the ability for him to shed it without also shedding blood. "... you can go." His voice is so small and shaky as he tries to make himself sit up. He can't manage though, everything from his waist down feeling like it's being lost in the ache of his thighs. 

"No." 

"I don't need your pity! I don't need you to baby me! You got what you wanted, you humiliated me! Just leave me alone and go tell my father that you've finally turned the unwanted son into nothing but a--" He can't fight the sob back. 'Whore' had crossed his mind. But the fact he had gone to bed with Shigaraki, that he had enjoyed it, reminds him too sharply of his mother and how their father treated her until her mind shattered apart. Oh gods, is that what is going to happen to him? Will he be sent away somewhere just like she was? He brings a shaky hand to his mouth to try and cover it because he might not be able to fight the sobs that are coming out of him, but he can do his best to muffle them. 

He's not expecting for the knight to shush him gently and shift on the bed. He sits with his back against the headboard and pulls Dabi into his lap, hand gentle as he makes Dabi tuck his face into the crook of his neck even though he's smearing blood all over his skin. "Little one, you have never had my pity, only my contempt. You do not even have that now." He presses his face to the top of Dabi's head, and he wonders if he is entirely delusional when he thinks that he feels the other man give him a kiss there. "You have endured half a life of disgrace at the hands of your father and his kingdom. Now I have brought you down to the lowest point you could reach and raised you back up to the brightest pleasure you've ever had, have I not?" 

Dabi feels his face heat and he hides it more against the other's skin. He didn't even touch his cock as he fucked his thighs. But it... had felt better than he'd ever managed to make himself feel with his hand tight on his length. 

"We can keep finding those highs and lows when we're alone, little prince. But afterwards, I'm going to help you find a way to live in between them without letting you believe the way you are treated outside of these walls has been earned. You may have lost your magic and your standing in your father's court, but you are still alive, princeling. You still have time to become something greater than those things could have ever made you." His hand is gentle as it strokes along his back. "You can cry, sweet one. It's natural to mourn for the ways we've suffered." 

Dabi doesn't want to fall apart, but the sobs come anyway, wracking and deep. He sobs and sobs and Shigaraki doesn't mock him. He doesn't leave. He holds him close, kisses his skin, and looks at him like he might be seeing something... precious for the first time when he considers him. Perhaps what's more astounding is that when the seams under his eyes are swollen and the bed is stained with blood, the knight still doesn't leave him. He wipes up his face, spells the bedding clean, and applies medicine to his face as the tub is filled with steaming water. He makes sure that Dabi is clean, that the medicine is applied fresh to his thighs again, and then he strips his own clothes and climbs back into the bed with him. He presses kisses to his face, across his shoulders, and gives him more soft, sweet words before he draws Dabi back into his chest and lets him sink deeply into the most restful sleep that he thinks he's had in over a decade. 

///

Things are so very different after that. Shigaraki's contempt for him in their day-to-day conversations is no longer so strong. It only increases when he sees his spine begin to bow under the weight of the disinterest that the rest of the world gives him. When he falters and starts to sag, the knight brings him back to the room. He shuts the wards around them, and he has Dabi strip naked for him. He had protested at first and Shigaraki had simply turned and left the room. He came back the next morning as his duties required, but he had not spoken a kind word to him. Dabi had held out for a day more before he'd been stripped and waiting for the other on the morning of the third day. Shigaraki didn't hit him. He made him kneel on the floor and let the other rest a boot on his back until his knees were aching and all of his limbs were trembling from trying to hold the position for so long. It wasn't until the sun started to wane through the windows that Shigaraki had him look up from the floor and had taken the boot from his back. He had Dabi open his mouth as he undid his pants and took out his cock. He wasn't even hard at the time, but he slipped it inside of his mouth anyway. His knees were still hurting very badly, but he was able to stay like that for a long time until the pain became distant and there was a... foreign pleasure that started to press in along his body. He hadn't ever known that pain could become pleasure so intense, but as he felt his jaw stretch and go numb as spit started to dribble past his lips, his cock had hardened more rapidly than Shigaraki's. The other man had put his boot on his crotch. He hadn't applied any pressure to make it hurt, and after he was leaking against the sole of his shoe, he let him start to hump into the press like he was nothing but a desperate dog that was misbehaving. 

Shigaraki assured him afterwards that he wasn't though. He let him cum, had taken himself from Dabi's mouth and had cum across his face, letting him taste someone else's cum for the first time. Dabi had been so embarrassed by the mess he'd made, by how ready he was to debase himself further, but the knight had easily picked him up when his limbs were too weak to carry himself, and had brought him over to the bed. He cleaned him up again and when Dabi had been trembling, terrified that he was going to leave him alone in the shame that was saturating his whole body, he had crawled back into the bed and gathered him close. 

"You don't need to be scared, little one." He told him, his breath soft and sweet as he all but sighed the words against his skin. "After all of the more subtle cruelties you face each day, craving these ones, like this? Where you know that you're safe and when you know that you won't be pushed beyond what you can take-- that's alright. You can have this and enjoy it, princeling." His hand cupped his cheek and he made him look up at him, meet those red eyes that had a flicker of something in them that was softer and more... worried than he'd ever seen in the other's expression before. "You are still the prince. One word, and I will stop anything we may be doing. One word and I won't ever touch you again. You know that, don't you?" 

He wasn't sure at the time, but he had nodded anyway, unable to trust his voice. 

Shigaraki had drawn him tighter to his breast and had kissed the top of his head again. "You can stay like this a while, Dabi." He'd told him. "But not forever. You will have to find a way of existing outside of these moments. I won't be able to find you forever if you turn into a ghost each time my attention is elsewhere." 

A ghost. That's what he thought of himself for so long. Ever since he burned. He died with the loss of his magic, he thought. And since then, he has only been a specter haunting the halls of the palace. He wasn't wanted, but no one could figure out how to exorcise him yet.

It took another few days of nothing sexual happening between them before Shigaraki had come and woken him before the crack of dawn. He'd brought him a page's vestments, and had urged him out of bed. He'd half expected the man was going to make him polish his armor before he violated him in the stables or something, but instead he had asked to see what he had learned before his coma. The forms felt horrible. He remembered how his body used to move through them, how he used to be able to train, but he didn't have the same muscles, the same flexibility, the same stamina that he'd needed to do so without embarrassing himself. 

But Shigaraki had only nodded to himself and then brought him back up to his room to bathe and prepare himself for the rest of the day before the servants would bring his meal. 

Dabi wasn't sure what the other man was planning, but he was already prepared to go back to bed by the time he'd finished his breakfast. For once, the knight did not complain about the laziness of his schedule because he said he wanted to go to the refugee camp that afternoon anyway. He left and Dabi slept.

/// 

It's a week later that Shigaraki comes into his room before dawn again, and he pulls the sheets tighter over his head, trying to hide in the blankets. 

"I am not going back out to embarrass myself again! I'm sleeping!" 

"You are not embarrassing yourself by resuming your training, you are embarrassing yourself," Shigaraki is so much stronger than him that he is easily able to rip the blankets from his hands and pull them back to expose his body to the chill of the air. "By allowing yourself to waste away in this room. Your father will not allow you to partake in political meetings, let you pursue a knighthood, or grant you permission to study any school of artistry in any official capacity. But you are the one who has chosen to instead do as he wants and let yourself become nothing but a memory of potential. Just because your magic is gone does not mean that you have no worth. Warriors without magic make a difference on the battlefield everyday. Artists without it are able to create masterpieces that hang in your family's gallery for centuries. And even the common man can bring concerns to the court and make a difference." 

"Why do you care so much what I choose to do with my life? You don't even like me unless I'm degrading myself and letting you cum across my skin." 

Shigaraki's expression does fill with a lighter contempt than it had when he'd first been assigned to him, but that still makes Dabi feel unbearably small. "I care," he says, "because a member of the royal family should not be squandering the opportunities that he was given by his very birth, even if they are not the ones he was promised then. I certainly enjoy the moments you let yourself submit to me, but even if you hadn't been so worked up after your first punishment, I would still be pursuing this goal. You are pathetic as you are now, but you have the potential to be more. I am not someone who can let such potential go wasted." 

Dabi tries to wrap his head around that, annoyed as he can't tell if he's starting to blush because he was just insulted again or if it's because the... reassurance that Shigaraki really does want him in their encounters helps to soothe a deep ache in him that he didn't have a name for. He manages to not embarrass himself by addressing any of that and instead asking, "What goal?" 

"The goal of turning a discarded ingot into a sword. Get up, get dressed. You will be decisive and sure by the time I am finished with you." 

"And when exactly will that be?" 

"If you manage to prove yourself to be worth my efforts? Perhaps never." 

Dabi isn't expecting the way that makes warmth take root in his chest, but it does. Takami was his guard because he was a lazy piece of shit that wanted to stay in the castle as much as possible so he could flash his feathers at his father like he was hoping to take a mate. No other guard had ever chosen to stay on as his. Being assigned watching him was considered insulting since he was the thing in this castle that was worth so little it really didn't warrant being protected. They wanted to move onto bigger and better things. But Shigaraki just implied that he would stay. That things could be... Dabi isn't sure if the things that he's doing with the guard can be considered 'good', but they certainly are different, and Dabi... likes that difference. Things could be different like this for a while.

"You're insufferable and I should have you thrown in the stocks." He says as he gets out of bed and takes the page's clothes he's handed again. 

"You would miss me if you left me there. Dress." 

"Can I at least eat--" 

"No. No sense in wasting the food in case you throw up." 

"What the fuck am I going to be doing that could make me puke?" 

///

Shigaraki didn't deign to answer him and instead brings him down to the training grounds as the sky begins to lighten from pitch to the deepest blue. But Dabi is surprised when they are not alone on the training grounds despite the early hour. A man is standing there. He is blond with a strong build, a livid scar splitting his forehead, and a shock of short blond hair, wearing peasant's clothes. Dabi bristles. No one but the castle staff and their knights should be here so early, and for one sickening moment he wonders if he's about to be killed. But Shigaraki catches his arm when he draws to a stop and pulls him forward. 

The blond man hears their footsteps, Dabi's dragging as his panic builds, before he turns and smiles. "Yo, Tomura, what's up?" 

"I hope that you didn't have any trouble getting over here?" Shigaraki asks when they are no more than a meter from the stranger. A stranger to him, but clearly someone that Shigaraki invited. 

"No problem for me, man." He eyes Dabi. "This the prince?" 

"One of them. Dabi, this is my friend, Jin Bubaigawara. Jin, this is your new trainee." 

"'Trainee'?" Dabi bristles, turning his attention completely to Shigaraki. "I'm not going to be trained by a--" the word catches on his tongue as he realizes the rudeness of it and is leveled with a dry look from his guard. "Person who does not have formal training himself." 

"You're in luck then. Jin does has formal training. He was a soldier since he was your youngest brother's age. His injury has kept him off of the battlefield for a few years, but he's still able to use his unique abilities to help train others." 

"Oh," he feels his face flush slightly. "My apologies, thank you for your service, Sir Bubaigawara." 

The blond man laughs uproariously and Dabi's embarrassment only grows at his complete rudeness. "'Sir' never had that before. You can just call me 'Jin'." 

Shigaraki lets go of Dabi's arm and takes a step back, letting the other man start to speak. He asks Dabi how much training he received as a child, how often he exercises now, what he remembers of his sword forms, and then he nods. He gives Dabi one of the training swords and casts a spell. It's beyond strange when he sees the other man's shadow separate itself from his body and stand across from him, the shape of it morphing from Jin's mirror to one of his own. He hesitates, glancing at Shigaraki, but the knight is just watching with those assessing red eyes. 

"Go ahead and run through your practice maneuvers like you would against one of the dummies." Jin instructs him. 

Dabi does his best, but he feels slow and uncoordinated as he brings his sword against the body made of darkness that is shaped like him. It feels as solid as his own body each time he strikes it and there is a brewing discomfort in his chest as he lands the weak blows against it. When he finishes the set he takes a step back. 

"Good, now, this guy," Jin pats the shade's shoulder, "is going to do that exact same sequence against you and you're going to try to defend. While you do, you'll be able to see exactly how you were moving before. Try to pay attention to that too while you avoid getting your shit kicked in." 

Dabi doesn't feel all that confident about that, but he's glad he was at least given a warning before the other spurs the conjuration to life. The first blow he blocks is already testing his strength. His arms are so weak after the first round of his maneuvers that he doesn't think that he'll be able to block the blows throughout the whole set. He's slow, but so is the shade. The power that it strikes him with makes his arms shake, but it doesn't knock the training sword out of his hands the way that his father used to. He knows the moves that are coming, he sees the way that the shadow trembles between moves, how long it takes between each form to move again like it's already exhausted. He sees how he looks to others as he tries so hard to do what they were asking him to, and he doesn't know if he'll manage it. But he gets through the shade's set without letting a single swipe go under his guard. 

"Perfect, now we're going to switch again. Look for the weaknesses in your defenses, and see if you can exploit them." 

And on this goes. Jin has him try until his arms are so heavy that he can't even lift them and then he spends an additional hour showing him how to improve his footwork so that his attacks aren't so easily and blatantly choreographed. But he gives Shigaraki a thumbs up and the knight looks vaguely pleased himself before he turns to take him off to the castle as the sun rises high overhead. Dabi is exhausted and sweaty as they get back to their room, and Shigaraki rewards him for his hard work by letting him bathe before he feeds him some of the food that his servants bring. When he wants to get back into bed, he allows that too, having him spread his legs so he can move between them and dip his head down to his skin. 

Dabi is a whole new kind of humiliated when he kisses his hole well before the knight has ever deigned to put his mouth against his lips, but he can't deny himself the pleasure that goes through him as he licks inside of his aching body. 

///

The training sessions with Jin continue, first every other day, but as Dabi starts to actually be able to move after each, they turn to each day. And every day he learns a little more. His muscles get a little stronger, his steps more sure, his speed better. It takes months of training, but he improves. He even gets to the point where Jin or Shigaraki themselves will spar with him. Jin always goes easy on him, always just barely tapping him with the sword when he slips and isn't able to block. Shigaraki always makes sure to strike him just short of breaking skin. But the pain reminds him sharply to do better next time, while the soft touches as Shigaraki rubs the medicine into his skin in the privacy of his chambers remind him that the knight is never doing this for cruelty's sake. He can make this stop at any second with just one word. But he never does. He wants to less and less as he has to order new clothing because his shoulders are widening, has to have larger meals sent to his room because his stomach is no longer concave as he wastes away beneath his scars. He is growing. He is... getting stronger again. It becomes easier for him to hold his spine straighter. He wonders if he should be ashamed that it is also so easy to let himself bend it whenever Shigaraki demands, but the pleasure that comes in the moments he lets the other control him completely banishes that thought from his mind. 

///

He didn't mean to go three months without seeing his siblings, but Shoto is extremely busy with matters of the war and court. Natsuo has been constantly making potions and healing any soldiers who are brought to the castle as the skirmish that started in Ontsall continues to rage. Fuyumi is the only one he can see, and that's only because the worsening skirmish had gotten to the point that potential suitors are being brought to her instead of her being sent off to distant kingdoms to court favor. He may not have meant for the last time he saw her to be when she sentenced Shigaraki to twenty lashes and sent everything that has happened between him and his guard into motion, but when he enters her chambers and her cheeks immediately pink when she sees Shigaraki following behind him, he realizes that she must not be over her reaction to his cruel words even if Dabi has had more than enough time to get over them. 

"Don't worry about that, Fu," he says as he crosses the room to sit at the table they always sit at when he comes for a visit. "He didn't even feel them. Damn bastard didn't even bruise." 

He doesn't think his sister looks all that relieved about that, her eyes moving away from Shigaraki and locking on him, widening with her surprise. "Oh-- Toya, you look... good." 

Healthy. Solid. Less like a ghost than he did before. His body may always be disfigured with the evidence of his magic leaving him, but he is not the specter that used to come and haunt her rooms when she was free of her own duties. He looks real again. He feels real again. "I've been entertaining myself since our father has no need of me." 

"I'm glad," she sounds it, but her eyes do flick to Shigaraki again and she makes herself straighten her spine. It would be improper for her to apologize for doling out the punishment that she did, but her nature and guilt are making it difficult for her to hold her tongue, clearly. 

"Sir Shigaraki," he calls to the guard who is maintaining his post at the door. "I believe you owe my sister an apology. The last time we were here you were extremely disrespectful using that language in front of her." 

"Toya, no--!" 

"You're right, my prince." Shigaraki's voice is measured, but warmer than it normally is in front of others. Respectful, but so falsely that Dabi is certain that he is going to be punished severely when they find a moment alone again. He bows to his sister, and Dabi is a little jealous that the other man hasn't ever done so for him, before he speaks again. "You have my sincerest apologies, Princess Fuyumi. My behavior the last time we saw each other was unwarranted and extremely disrespectful. If someone had spoken to my sister the way I spoke to your brother, I would have demanded a far worse punishment. Your grace and decorum are truly something to behold and I hope that I may be worthy of what I have been shown of them some day." 

Dabi would have immediately bitched at him over the massive amount of horseshit that apology was when he knows that Shigaraki probably would have been more impressed if his sister had given him a worse punishment after his backtalk last time. But instead he is gaping at the other man as his sister raises a hand to try and cover the tiny gasp that comes from her throat. 

"Sister? What sister?" Dabi demands, finding his voice first as Shigaraki straightens back up to maintain his position at the door. 

"You told the king that you were an orphan. That you had no family." Her voice is more terrified than indignant like his own. "If he discovers you lied to him in front of the entire court--" 

"My apologies, I've told neither you nor the king a lie about my family. She is not my sister by blood, which is the only way the laws of this kingdom recognize kin. But we were raised together. I dried her tears, I bandaged her skinned knees, I watched her grow until I was not allowed to be at her side anymore. I got work and tried to protect my farm so that I might be able to bring her back to my side one day." He stops speaking for a moment, his teeth clenching and a muscle twitching in the side of his jaw as he swallows the words that they all know he wants to say, but that he cannot without letting his tongue slip and potentially showing their father the same disrespect he so casually showed Dabi the first time they were all together in this room. Knights in the king's circle are not allowed relationships outside of it unless directly condoned by their father. Those relationships, historically, have only been to sire children along with another of the kingdom's strong magical bloodline. A foster sister that cannot bring the kingdom more power is not someone he will ever be allowed to try to find again. "She is not blood, but she is kin." Is all he says instead. 

Three months of letting the man train him, debase him, pamper him, and he still knows nearly nothing about him. 

"How old is she?" Fuyumi asks.

"She would be fifteen now. She was always working for one of the textile factories in the city, so even once I had my farm, I wasn't able to purchase her contract to get her away from there." 

"Textiles?" Dabi sees the gears turning in his sister's head faster than his own and he hesitates. But yes, that could work. "That's fascinating. You know, Shoto's sixteenth birthday is fast approaching. The ball that will be thrown will be quite a spectacle with people visiting from far and wide. I've been granted permission to gather some extra hands to assist me while I work on crafting my dress. Does your sister have any skill with embroidery?" 

Oh they are all going to be in so much trouble if Enji finds out about this and Fuyumi is definitely letting her guilt drive her generosity. But, well, Tomura's eyes are bright and glimmer in a way that makes Dabi's stomach swoop a bit. He can't quite name the look there, but it seems to be a good one, because when they are alone again in his chambers, the punishment he doles out for his insolence in public is very light before he's letting Dabi grind himself into his pillows while the other watches him, actually letting him reach his satisfaction this time as he does. 

///

It takes another week, but the day that Shigaraki's foster sister is supposed to arrive, they go down to the gates near the refugee camp. Jin and Atsuhiro, the merchant who spoke for the rest of the village, are also there, waiting. Jin, apparently, met Shigaraki and his sister when he was stationed near their orphanage, and is equally as excited to see the young woman again. And with the castle preparing itself to be stuffed to the brim with the foreign dignitaries and their own servants, Atsuhiro offered to let her stay in the tent that Shigaraki had assigned to him before he ended up in the kingdom's service. Dabi feels strange waiting at the gates for this with Shigaraki and the people he calls friends. He and Jin get along well enough during his training, but he is supposed to be the prince, even disgraced, he shouldn't be down in the refugee camp waiting to see a servant into the palace. He'd even told Shigaraki that he could stay in his room while he reunited with his sister so he could see her without having to worry about shirking his other duties, but the other had promised him five lashes if he wouldn't get dressed and come down with him. 

Five lashes are hardly an issue now, more of a tease than anything, but Shigaraki's eyes had gone hot on him when he'd been so defiant about that and he had climbed into his bed with him, his hand reaching down into his sleep clothes to stroke along his thighs, murmuring that if he could take the hits there so easily, that perhaps he would have to put them against something more sensitive. He had fondled him for long enough that Dabi was starting to go breathless and squirm, before delivering a firm tap against his sac that left him gasping in a whole different way. He'd gotten out of bed then, but he had a feeling that was not just an idle threat. He's not sure how much he's going to enjoy that punishment when he eventually earns it, but each punishment comes with a sweeter reward. Hands petting over the hurts, lips kissing his skin until it's humming instead of screaming with his pain, and maybe, someday, Shigaraki will deign him worthy of bedding him properly. He has access to plenty of tomes, he knows how men tend to join themselves when they wish to. He wants to know what it will feel like when Shigaraki finally decides he's worthy of having his massive cock inside of him. It's a thought that has him hard when he's alone in his room at night, desperately trying not to touch himself because he has a feeling that he'll be punished for that if Shigaraki finds out that he's done it. 

Shigaraki's posture is already perfect, but he seems to try to straighten more beside him, and that tells Dabi that he is slouching. He used to have good posture, but after nearly a decade of being told to make himself smaller and less regal, his spine began to bow. He is having to learn to hold his head high again. So he straightens and waits. The gates are open today, they open most days, to allow people to come and go, attending to their various businesses around the grounds and in the city beyond. That means it's impossible to tell when the young woman is going to come through, and they end up waiting, the three other men chatting and trying to involve him in their conversation for well over an hour before they hear a loud, 

"Shiggy," in a feminine voice ringing out around the grounds. 

Dabi has never seen Shigaraki slip in public. Even in their private moments, he is always so in control. But in this one, he sees the emotions flood across the other man's face. He sees the way the smile lights up his eyes first, sees how it splits his features, and he moves. He breaks his post to rush, in step with Jin, over to the young woman who is throwing her hood off of her head. Her hair is a little past her shoulders and yellow as wheat, bright topaz eyes matching with thick, dark lashes framing them, and a smile of her own that is so bright that the sun may be hidden behind the clouds today because it knew its radiance would not be able to eclipse her joy. She all but leaps into Shigaraki's arms and holds onto him so tightly as the knight clings to her as well, lifting her from the ground as he hugs her. They're too far away now for Dabi to hear what they are saying, but as Jin reaches them too, the woman reaches to bring him into the hug as well. There is a sinking in Dabi's gut as he watches this all happen. Joy like this is so rare in his world, in the kingdom. The war has been raging for nearly a century and a half, fought by his father's father before him. So many die or are separated from the people they want to be with in the pursuit of a victory that will help to bring all of this suffering to an end. But there is no end in sight. It was something that he'd had to start thinking about when he was next in line for the throne, but now that responsibility lies with Shoto. He doesn't know how his youngest brother could possibly find a way to bring peace to the kingdom, so he supposes he'll just have to hope that when he becomes king, he can at least bring a bit more of this kind of joy here instead. 

The three have to move out from the middle of the road to stop impeding traffic, but that spurs them to move back over to him and the merchant. Shigaraki's eyes are still bright when he approaches him. "Toga, this is Prince Dabi, my charge, and Dabi, this is Himiko Toga, my adoptive sister." 

"Hello!" She curtsies to him but pops back up very quickly. "It's nice to meet you!" 

"Nice to meet you too, your... brother has been so excited to bring you home." 

Toga grins, one of her arms around Shigaraki's waist and her body pressed into his side as her eyes move from him to take in the rest of the palace grounds. "This looks like it will be a great home." She tells Shigaraki. 

Shigaraki's eyes are on his when he tells her, "It is certainly better than I first thought it would be." 

///

Their days change again now that Toga is in the castle. She often sneaks out of the camp early in the morning and waits with Jin for them at the training grounds, wearing trousers and a tunic, her hair tied up into two uneven buns. She trains with a dagger more than a sword against the shade he conjures for her. Her dress is already scandalous but apparently even the two strange men he's come to know are aware that she would never be able to get away with carrying around a sword. But Dabi can't help his confusion as they pause for a break on the third day after her arrival. 

"Why are you learning to fight? Now that you are in my sister's employ, you will have all of the protections of the castle and guards-- as soon as the ball has ended." 

Toga gives him a strange look and the expression is at least partially mirrored on the faces of the other two as well. "Everyone should know how to fight." She says.

"No, they shouldn't," Dabi tells her carefully. "That is why my father has such strict laws and recruiting practices for the armies of the kingdom. He may not always do good, but he is always trying to do right by the people of his kingdom. He wants to ensure that the violence of the war does not seep into every aspect of our citizens' lives." 

"And what happens if your armies fail?" Shigaraki says his tone harder than it has been in a long time and his eyes flat and cold. "If your guards cannot hold the borders, the way they so often fail to? Then enemy forces will flood those villages. They can pillage, plunder, devour, rape, and inflict other violences and horrors on your citizens that have no way of protecting themselves. When the dragons come to the borders, those people are lucky if they are eaten before the demonic soldiers swell through the streets. They know it too. The amount of times people are found hanging in their own homes because they couldn't bear to endure or fight to live or flee is disgusting." Shigaraki's voice is cold and furious when he speaks and Dabi is left staring at him. "Everyone should know how to defend themselves. A soldier's training should be imparted to everyone alongside their basic education so that even if the crown fails, the people will not be so easily trounced and subjugated  by whoever comes to take their place." 

Dabi struggles to find words. Shigaraki is always spouting off things that are near treason when they are alone, but this kind of challenge against the crown and the way their military is run is actually treacherous. If anyone heard him speaking like this, he would be lucky if he only had his tongue cut out. It feels unnatural, and the other man doesn't even flinch, but he brings his hand across his face anyway. "Do not ever speak of the crown being overtaken again. Words like that breed misfortune and the darkness in the hearts of our enemies." 

There's not even a mark on Shigaraki's cheek, and his eyes are cold when they meet his again. "Yes, your highness." 

"If your sister wants to learn to fight, that is her prerogative." She shouldn't be doing it and it could get her ostracized and potentially fired from her position if her unladylike decorum is brought to the attention of anyone else, but it is her choice, so long as she can keep it hidden. "But do not make the mistake of thinking that your knighthood allows you to speak so freely about matters of state." 

"Yes, your highness." He turns his attention back to his sister who looks like she'd very much like to gut him with the dagger in her hand for his treatment of her brother. But Shigaraki makes her shift her attention back to her forms and Dabi resumes his own training. His hand feels wrong for the rest of the day, but he had to do it. Has to show Shigaraki that he cannot be so blatant in his disrespect. If he becomes too comfortable making his criticisms with him, then he could say something inappropriate in front of the wrong person, and he wouldn't even have a chance to try to save him, his father's wrath would be so immediate and complete. The thought of the knight being lost to him is something too heavy in his chest for him to endure. So he has to learn. He has to stay safe. 

Though the rest of their training is tense, when he returns to his rooms with Shigaraki, the other man doesn't turn the punishment back on him. He just catches his wrist before he lets Dabi go to bathe. He holds him and looks at the palm that came across his cheek and then he brings it to his face again, this time to press a kiss to his skin. But he says nothing and he lets go of him almost immediately after, moving to take up his position at the door again. Dabi hopes that means that he understands why he did it. 

But after his bath, he's allowed to eat and study for a while, until Shigaraki urges him to visit his sister so he can see his own again as well. Toga, when she's not practicing with a blade, is working hard. The young woman doesn't have the wealth of magic that Shigaraki has, but she does have her own unique ability. She is able to mimic any spell cast in front of her if she has a drop of the caster's blood. Apparently trying to mimic something beyond her abilities can leave her unconscious for days and may even kill her if the spell manages to work at all, but taking a drop of Fuyumi's blood on her tongue allows her to cut his sister's work in half as she can go bolt by bolt with her over the many layers of fabric her gown all needs embroidered. She is more than happy to prick her finger each day to be able to get her work done more quickly, as it will give her dressmakers breathing room to ensure that the final piece is everything that will be expected of all of them.  

And while she and Toga work, the young woman talks and talks. She seems to have so many things to say, so many questions about what it's like to be a princess and prince, what their life in the castle is like when they're not attending court, what their court is like. While Shigaraki seems to have nothing but contempt for the entire world that he has found himself in since his abilities awakened, Toga is all bright curiosity. 

"You don't have meals together?" She asks as she sits on the floor with the bolt laid out in front of her. His sister currently only has one worktable in the room, but he believes she's having another made if Toga is going to stick around to continue to help her with her craft. For now, the polished floor is the only other place in this room that is large enough for her to get a meter of the fabric in front of her to create the repeating pattern reliably. 

"No. The king takes his meals either alone or occasionally with his advisors. When I am not entertaining, I take my meals in my room, as does Toya." 

"We always take all of our meals together." Toga tells them. "In the main hall, everyone gathers to eat and talk. It's almost like a festival every night." Which is higher praise of an orphanage than Dabi had really expected, but he supposes, given her and Shigaraki's close bond, that even if the people running it weren't kind or warm, the children stuck there forged their own bonds. "Since Prince Shoto's birthday is coming up, will that be a big festival?" 

"It will be a celebration." Fuyumi says with a tentative smile. "There will be a formal dinner and some dancing and mingling, but it won't be a festival. Our brother is spending most of his time embroiled in his military studies and our father wants to put the border skirmish to an end swiftly. Unless that manages to be settled before Shoto's birthday, he will only allow an evening of revelry before they both resume their work." 

"Oh, that's boring. You all barely get to see each other, right? It sucks that you're not going to get to spend more time with your other siblings even on a special occasion." 

Fuyumi's smile is a little fractured when she looks at Toga. He doesn't know when the desire to have a family that is whole and healthy crystalized in her, but it is something she longs for, and he can see how much it's weighing on her to not have it now. "The four of us spend time together whenever we can. And Toya still comes to visit me, so what else can I really ask for? We're at war." 

"You could ask for better company," Shigaraki says, speaking for the first time in hours. "From what I hear, Prince Shoto has a far fairer temperament than Dabi." 

"I am more than fair enough for you, you pompous dragon slayer!" He snaps automatically, but there is further relief in him at just hearing the other's voice again since he reprimanded him this morning. 

"I haven't killed any of the dragons I've fought so far." He says pointedly. 

"Shoto certainly has a kinder temperament than Toya." Fuyumi, the traitor, agrees. "Do you two have any other... siblings?" 

"Oh yeah," Toga tells her happily. "We've got big sis Magne, she's a few years younger than Jin, and Spinner, he's Tomu's age and left a few months after him. He got to stay close by though, so I could still see him when neither of us were working. He promised that he'd come visit soon too." She says, looking back at Shigaraki. 

"He should come around for the party. Magne too if she's not too busy with her own responsibilities. The knights are supposed to have time afterward on their own for their hard work. We can spend time together and catch up." 

"Okay!" Toga beams at him. "I'll make sure to send them a message." 

It's still months off, for his and his brother's birthdays, but if she wants to send mail that far south then it's probably good to send that information out sooner rather than later. Half of the knights on the guard, the older ones who have been here for longer, will be off duty during the festivities, encouraged to try and find suitable potential partners who will be able to bring more magic and status to the kingdom, while the younger ones like Shigaraki should be free of their duties for three days two days after the festivities themselves once the foreign guests have left. If they want to see their other friends from the orphanage, then that's something that Toga has every right to request, even if Shigaraki might get a talking to from his father if he doesn't determine Shigaraki's friends to have any exploitable power. 

"Are you liking it here?" He asks Toga. "Your asshole of a brother has been glowering since he arrived." 

"Shiggy gets really serious about work." Toga says automatically. "But he's a lot more fun when he's off the clock! He and Spinner love to play games at festivals and bars. He usually puts people off by smiling and laughing too much." 

"Am I not allowed to enjoy myself?" Shigaraki sounds a bit amused by her declaration. 

Dabi suddenly wonders if he's ever even seen him happy before. He thought that... Shigaraki was enjoying himself when he's made him degrade himself. But maybe the satisfaction he takes from his body isn't real the way that he thought it was. Maybe it was just... nothing. Maybe it was just a way to pass the time and find physical satisfaction that he couldn't get as easily as he could before he was trapped in this castle. 

"When you're cackling like a demon? No. It's off-putting." Toga tells him. She is very personable and cheerful, so she keeps the conversation going for as long as Fuyumi can let their visit go on before she has other things to see to for the day.

///

"You're getting good at that," Shigaraki tells him, his hand petting through his hair as Dabi kneels on the stone floor of his bedchambers, the guard's cock sunk as deep into his throat as he can take it. It still makes his eyes burn like they want to prickle with tears on the edges, but the weight of the other in his mouth and the taste of his skin is something that Dabi is scared he's going to start to crave. Oh, if anyone ever found out how much he likes to be on his knees for Shigaraki, he thinks that he might die. Shigaraki calls him a whore sometimes and his skin gets so hot, but if the kingdom knew what he was doing, then even death wouldn't be able to restore his lost honor in their eyes. But he likes having his mouth full, likes how Shigaraki's hand cards through his hair and moves around to cradle the back of his head, not forcing himself any deeper, but just... holding him. Dabi can't help looking up at the other through his lashes, his body and chest so full of warmth as he sucks and swallows around him the way that he was taught. Shigaraki's eyes meet his and he sees... something flicker through them. He doesn't know what it is, but he doesn't want to think about it. Not when he feels so heavy and so very light at the same time. He just wants the evidence of the other's enjoyment coating his throat and tongue. Dabi continues to work his mouth over his length, letting himself sink into the movements more deeply each time, his own arousal the only thing that keeps him from sinking into deep satisfaction as his mouth moves.

Shigaraki spills down his throat, not warning him before he does, just keeping him in place when he's deep inside so that Dabi will swallow away the salty, bitter stream of his cum as it splashes down his throat. It wasn't a flavor he liked at first, but now, he savors it, moving his tongue against his skin for a while longer after he's finished spilling to ensure that he has every drop of the other's release in his mouth. The knight makes him pull off once he's softened again and Dabi whines quietly when he's allowed to rest his cheek against his thigh as his hand continues to pet through his hair. The softness that comes after he's finished being disciplined makes his need so much higher and he doesn't know if he'll be allowed to cum today. He slipped during his training today and pulled some of his staples from his seams. They are bandaged over right now to keep him from bleeding, but new soldiers came in needing treatment. Shigaraki sent word to the healers, but no one has arrived yet, and Dabi would prefer it if they didn't until after they've seen to the wounded. His injury is from his own inability to get his training right, they deserve the attention more than him. He doesn't know if he deserves to feel good either when he wasn't able to perform the way Shigaraki expects him to even though he's getting stronger, and he doesn't dare ask. He still feels good now, even without an orgasm, he doesn't want to risk ruining that by getting more beratement for his uselessness if he begs for more. 

Shigaraki keeps stroking his hair as he murmurs, "Such a pretty blush on your cheeks, little prince. Lift your shirt for me." 

Dabi bites his lip to keep from whining. He's only wearing his shirt right now and when he's kneeling like this, it's only just long enough to cover himself up. But he reaches for the hem anyway with one hand and pulls it up, fisting the fabric against his stomach as his cock is chilled by the air of the room. 

"So cute how hard you get just having your filthy mouth used." His voice is still soft and the hand is gentle, but Dabi turns his face more into his leg so he doesn't have to look up at him and see whatever that flicker was in his eyes again. Maybe he's tired of this game. Maybe the contempt will turn to disinterest, pity, or, worst of all, indifference the way that everyone else's eyes have always turned when they look at him. He doesn't want to invite those looks because he thinks, after having these past few months of Shigaraki looking at him, he will shatter apart completely if it does happen. "Show me how cute your face is when you cum, baby boy." 

He wants to immediately put his hand on his cock, but he knows better, "Thank you, sir." He wants it, but he has to prove that he's good. He knows what he's supposed to do, how he's supposed to act when Shigaraki is the only person who has ever deigned to give him this. 

"You're being such a good boy today, sweetheart." His hand is so soft in his hair and his voice is so warm. "I think you've earned a reward. Do you want to sit in my lap, precious? Or do you want to stroke yourself?" 

That has him peeking up at the other man. His eyes are still bright on him, for now. "...I'm not... in trouble?" 

Shigaraki frowns at him, fingers stopping at the nape of his neck. "Why would you be in trouble, beautiful?"

"... We had to stop." 

That has his brows furrowing too and then the other hooks a hand under his arm and pulls him up, pulls him into his lap. "Princeling, people get hurt training. I'm sure that you had your fair share of pulled muscles and broken blisters even back when you were little. You're not in trouble." Both of his hands come to cup his cheeks and keep him looking at him. "I always tell you why you're being punished, don't I?" 

Dabi manages a small nod. 

"You're not being punished, little one." His thumbs are soft when they move over the lines of staples in his cheeks. "I just wanted to enjoy you being so cute." 

Dabi feels his face warm, but the words don't fully remove the tightness in his chest. Knights aren't forbidden from finding other company as long as they can do it discreetly, but Shigaraki has been taking his duties so seriously that he's barely ever away from Dabi's side for longer than to rest at night. He could have other partners. Ones who are actually cute instead of ruined the way he is. Ones that he doesn't need to punish at all because they can be good for him all the time. Shigaraki must see the flicker of those thoughts behind his eyes, because his are even softer on him when he carefully moves his hand down to his cock, stroking him so that he stays hard even as the mess in his head makes it difficult for him to focus. He very rarely has Shigaraki's hands on his body like this and the sharper spike of pleasure has him squirming slightly and whimpering. 

"You could have anyone." The words are weak and miserable. He could. Like Fuyumi, like Shoto. His magic is so strong, his father will want Shigaraki to have children, lots of them probably. He might even let him have a male lover if he agrees to sire those children with a female one. But he doesn't need to have him. The broken, useless prince who he has to train to be as good for him as he wants him to be. Someone who, if anyone discovered their entanglement, he would be reprimanded and Dabi might... he thinks that his siblings would at least argue for exile rather than execution. His father would never want him distracting one of his knights. They would never see each other again if anyone discovered them, and his... heart breaks at the thought of not having Shigaraki in his life anymore. He's only had Shigaraki for a few months, but if he had to go without him, he doesn't know if he would survive it. He needs the other man. He wants him to be in his life because his life, for the first time in years, feels worth holding onto. Losing that would break him in a way that he couldn't bear to experience. 

Shigaraki's other hand moves to catch his chin and make sure that he is looking at him even though he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and close out all that is happening to and around him. He doesn't want to look the other in the eyes and be told that he is only warming his cock until he can get a new assignment. That he exists like this because the other man was simply bored. And then Shigaraki speaks, "I chose you," and makes Dabi's heart swell so full that it takes away all of the echoes of grief that he was trying to claim before they'd even come for him. "You're mine, little prince." Shigaraki's voice is not as steady as it was before, there's a growl to it, a possessiveness that has his grip tightening against his skin and sending sharper pleasure spilling out over Dabi's nerves, the words and touch making him twitch against the knight's palm.

 He feels how much Dabi likes those words and the hunger in his expression goes ravenous. He lets go of Dabi's length and moves his hands to his hips, letting him rock forward against his thigh. Shigaraki's thighs are thick and muscled, and the texture of his trousers adds another intoxicating sensation when he's allowed to grind into his lap. Dabi's whole head feels dizzy with heat. This is a reward because Shigaraki knows how much he likes to be allowed to cum, but also how much he likes to be made helpless and small in his lap, so needy for his pleasure that he'd debase himself by humping his leg like a dog. 

Shigaraki lets him move, lips ghosting over the smooth skin of his cheek to kiss the blush there before he's murmuring, "That's it, little one. Why would I ever want anyone else? My pretty little princeling who was so lost, but who has shown me every step of the way how badly he wants to be more than what he was forced to be. My sweet boy who always takes his punishments and learns to be better. My darling lo-- my darling," he corrects the word, moving his thigh up against Dabi to distract him from the slip, "who won't ever be the jewel of the kingdom again because I am going to selfishly keep you all to myself. I am going to tear down this world to make a place perfect enough for you to sit, my precious prince. How could you ever doubt how deeply my affection goes, little one?" He asks, face nuzzling into his neck. "Perhaps you do need to be punished. I know that those lovely eyes are sharper than that when they are open and attentive." 

"No, no, no," he can't be punished now. Not when the words are putting pleasure under his skin as sharply as the frantic movements of his hips, getting easier with each one because he's starting to leak all over the other's pants with his desperation to cum. 

"'No', you don't want to be mine? Or 'no', you're such a desperate little whore that you don't want to stop?" 

"Don't stop," he whines, his voice breathless and thin. 

Shigaraki presses a kiss to his neck like he isn't disgusted by his scars. "Oh, my precious one, it is a miracle that you were not born a commoner or you would have ended up a harlot. A miracle that you were born a prince and made to wait all of these years so that I could be the first one to get to experience your pleasure. A gift to get to train your needy body to adore my touches instead of letting you be tainted by less worthy hands." 

Dabi has wanted a lot of things in his life. He wanted to be a dragon slayer. He wanted to grow his magic beyond his father's expectations. He wanted to recover from his injuries. He wanted to even just be acknowledged by the court afterwards. He has wanted so much and so ardently that Dabi thought that would be all he was for the rest of this life. But none of those aches can compare to how much he wants Shigaraki. His touches, the words, the idea of... of belonging to someone if he can't even belong in his own kingdom. He wants someone as devoted to him as the other man says he will be. He would kneel at his feet and take any punishment that he's earned for the rest of his life if he could have this. 

But he's selfish, and he asks for a little more as he tries to turn his face to Shigaraki's, his mouth panting and desperate, and seeking out his skin. He's never been allowed to put his lips on his body save for along his cock. He hasn't been allowed so many things during their entanglements even though he wants them so badly, and when he turns his face to try and get a kiss, he is not given it this time either, putting a stone back in his guts. 

When Shigaraki pulls back to look at him though, all of the heat is still there. "Not yet, precious. Not until you've chosen me too." 

"I want you." He tells the other, his fingers digging into the muscle of his chest as he tries to cling to him. 

"I know, little one. But you can't choose me yet. Not until you know every inch of who I am." He presses a kiss to the edge of his lips and moves his thigh again. "For now, all you have to do is choose to let yourself have your pleasure." 

"Please," Let him cum, let him in, he just wants it all. Tomura holds him closer as he dips his head again to his neck, pressing a soft kiss to his throat as his hands move over Dabi's skin. One hand up to his chest, fingers teasing at his nipples, the other helping him keep the rhythm that brings his pleasure higher and higher. When he manages to cum, it's when his body is trembling and tight, his need an ache inside of him as Tomura strokes his skin. 

They lay together in his bed and that sends a heavier, sweeter pleasure through his veins as he lets himself cling to the other man, their chests pressed together, his nose against the other's collarbone. Tomura's hands move along his back and his hair, petting him as Dabi's breathing goes steady again. 

"...You never talk about yourself. Jin and Toga tell me more about you than you do." His voice is so small as he clings to the other, his fingers touching the deep scars that are carved into Tomura's back that he still doesn't know how they got there. 

Tomura's hands tighten on him too. "You will know everything about me when it's time, then you can decide if you want to be with me afterward." 

"When?" He doesn't want to keep waiting. The skirmish on the border will end eventually. Takami might take his post back and Dabi won't be able to see Tomura anymore. 

Tomura shifts so he can take one of Dabi's hands in his own, fingertips running up his before he threads them together. "When someone new sits on your father's throne. When this kingdom is not rotted from that poisoned root. When you can stand tall and choose who you want to kneel to and what your future will bring." 

Dabi holds onto him tighter. "I want a future with you." 

"Then we will walk the halls together. Everyone will know that you are mine and that all of my devotion belongs to you. Our future will stretch out into an unending line of possibilities." Red eyes on him, no flicker of hesitation or insincerity in them. 

"It's so far away," his throat is tight. Years until Shoto takes the throne, more before his father dies. How can the other be so certain that he will still want him after all of that time? "He could send you away at any moment." 

"I would tear down this entire world before I let anyone take me from your side, my prince." 

Tomura kisses his knuckles and Dabi believes him, but he's about to beg for a real kiss. One against his lips, but he manages to change the direction his tongue wags. "How did your back get hurt?" 

The other man rubs his thumb along his knuckles for a moment, and then he lets out a shaky breath. "It never did. Those aren't scars, precious, they're something I was born with." 

They're so deep and the texture of them makes the muscles beneath feel strange under his other hand. "Does it hurt?" 

"No, but it could be more comfortable." 

Dabi touches the mark and feels a strange shifting beneath his shoulder blade. He's about to ask what he means by that when a sharp knock against his door has both of them tensing on the bed. 

"Toya?" Natsuo's voice comes from the other side and Dabi's entire body flushes even as his stomach swoops with his fear. They can't be seen so disheveled together. Shigaraki takes his hand from his own and taps easily into his magic to clean their skin and his pants as they both sit up. They both move swiftly, not daring to pause to exchange any further words. The knight pulls his shirt, tunic, and bracers back on as Dabi pulls on his pants, leaving his bandaged side exposed as if he'd just left the shirt off after being bandaged. Shigaraki looks so put together that Dabi could believe that nothing had been happening between them just a moment before, but he aches with the need for it back. The future they were imagining, the honesty the other man was giving him, it made something inside him ache so keenly that he doesn't know how he could have lived without it before now. 

When he's sitting on the bed, not looking like he was just being debauched by his guard, Shigaraki lowers the wards around the room and goes to open the door. It's been at least two months since he's gotten to see Natsuo in anything but passing, and though his brother looks tired already from a long morning with the soldiers, he still has a smile for him as he moves past Shigaraki and greets him. 

He only seems to notice that Shigaraki is not Takami, but he doesn't pay the knight any other attention as he helps to close the wound on his side. Dabi is happy to see his brother, but he can't deny that he's mourning the loss of closeness that was between he and Tomura when, by the time Natsuo leaves, it feels like it would be unnatural and jarring to try and find it again. He will get it, get to know every inch of the other man, when Tomura has decided he's earned it. He can work for that and wait patiently when there is nothing he can do to speed it along. 

It's only as he's going to sleep that night after Shigaraki has left that Dabi realizes that this is the first time in nearly a decade that he is looking forward to the future. 

///

Dabi is not a morning person, but getting up early to train each day has at least become routine enough that he isn't as aggressively unhappy about it. It's better now, anyway, because Tomura will wake him with kisses to his brow and cheeks, affection to get him to start the day in a less cranky manner than before. However, even if he's gotten used to being up early, that does not mean that he is prepared for Toga bounding over to them as soon as they step foot onto the training grounds, beaming and immediately catching Tomura's hands so that she can bounce around as squeal. 

"Big sis and Spinner are coming to the party!" Her voice is too loud and joyous for this time of the morning and even his knight seems to think the same as he pulls his hands from hers so that he can level a flick that makes a loud thump against her forehead. "Ow!" 

"We already knew they were coming to the party. I wouldn't have had you send the invitation if I didn't expect them to attend." He informs her with a dryness that is usually reserved for when Dabi is having one of his low days and he wants to get him moving again. 

"Yeah, but they're already on their way!" Toga tells him, pulling a letter from the pocket of her vest. 

That piques Shigaraki's interest more than her outburst did and he takes the letter from her hand so that he can flick it open. His eyes scan the contents quickly, "That is good news. They should be able to get a room at one of the local inns and rest there from their trip. I'll bring you some of my coin tomorrow. I won't be able to greet them until I'm no longer on duty, so when they arrive, make sure that you give them the gold for me." 

"Okay!" She's still practically dancing through her forms as they get back to their sparring, but at least she's not talking at a mile a minute while their blades cross. 

Jin and Shigaraki step off to the side to talk, watching as they spar. Probably discussing what they'll need to work on next. Dabi isn't about to say that he has anywhere near the knight or former soldier's prowess with a sword, but he is getting better. If someone pulled a sword on him now, he would be able to defend himself now instead of having no recourse but begging for his life. But Shigaraki and Jin stay talking for a while as he and Toga finish their set, both having moved a little further away from them in a clear sign that they don't want to be bothered. When Toga sees that, she pulls him down into the sand pit so they can lay on the soft ground, her finger tracing patterns into the earth. He tries not to shiver. It's getting colder as winter proper sets in. Their kingdom is blessed with more mild ones than those up north, the first of usually barely half a dozen snows often coming around his and Shoto's birthdays, but it is cool enough now that, as the sweat dries on his skin, that he is starting to feel that chill more acutely. 

"I can't wait for you to meet them!" She tells him. "Big sis is so cool and strong and Spinner likes to read too when he's not playing cards or dice with Shiggy. They're going to love to meet you!" 

"I'm sure that your friends will just be excited to see Shigaraki again. How long has it been for the three of them?" 

Toga hums. "They got to see each other in passing a few months ago, but they didn't get to talk. And they're going to want to meet you too! He's been saying forever that he wasn't ever going to get involved with someone until after the war was over, but just a few months with you and he changed his tune." She snickers and Dabi's whole body goes cold from something other than the chill. 

The blood drains from his face as he sits up. His stomach swoops. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lies. "Shigaraki is just my guard." That's all the rest of the world can know about him if he doesn't want the other man to be taken away from him. He wouldn't ever be allowed to hold onto him if anyone else knew.

"What? Wait," Toga pushes herself up from the ground as well. "You aren't dating? But he's so in love with you--!" She slaps both hands over her mouth with a distressed squeak as Dabi's head whips around to look at her. The flurry of emotions that go through him feel like they're impossible to distinguish from one another.

But all he manages to croak out is, "What?" In the wake of her declaration. 

"Oh no, don't tell him I told you!" She says in a hushed voice, even though it could have been a scream with her desperation in it. 

"Did he say that?" Hope is the one that swells big enough in his chest that he's able to name it. 

"I'm not supposed to tell you if you don't know."

He thinks that might mean 'yes'. Love? His eyes turn to find Tomura speaking with Jin across the training grounds. His expression is grim and determined, a far cry from the softness that he gets now whenever the other comes into his bed. They still haven't kissed. The other man hasn't ever sunk inside his body. He has never said those words to him. But it warms him to the place where the embers of his magic burned out years ago when he thinks that the other could mean those words. When he can really believe that the future that Tomura pictured with him when they were tangled in his sheets is really, truly, something that he wants to. He never thought that he would be allowed to have love bloom in his chest, not until after his father was dead at the very least, but this is something precious and wonderful that he wants to cradle deep inside, secret it away into a small soft part of his heart so that no other hardship or cruel hand in the world will be able to reach for it and shatter it apart. 

He sees Tomura and Jin break off their conversation and come over to the two of them, and Dabi hopes he can keep the aching emotion off of his face as he looks up at the knight. 

"Get out of there. If that sand gives you an infection, your brother will have my head." His tone is cool and unimpressed. So easy for him to pretend to still have the contempt, even tempered, that he held for him at the very beginning of their entanglement. A ruse for the rest of the world to keep them far from the truth that he wants to believe is really living in both of their hearts. 

"If anyone ever gets to take your head," he says with a haughtiness that doesn't feel nearly as natural as it once might have, "it's going to be me."

Shigaraki's eyes flicker. That shadow and then the big inconceivable emotions that Dabi hopes that he'll someday always be able to name in his lover's eyes. "I'll hold you to that." But then Jin starts talking about the next set of exercises that he wants to teach them and he pushes himself into the training even harder than before. Tomura's love is not based on this. He wanted him to be alive, didn't want him to waste away, readying himself to die at any moment the way that he had been before they'd met. He believes everyone should know how to fight so that the strong enemies that they fight won't be able to hurt them the way that he must have seen so many hurt before. But he thinks that the other man would love him still even if he decided not to continue his training. So long as he dedicated himself to something else. This is as good a thing as any though, as he waits for that wonderful future that they envisioned together to come about. 

///

The last three weeks before Shoto's birthday finally actually sees his brother return from his post. He is taller than he was the last Dabi saw him, his height now, which does leave him pouting because that probably means that he's going to grow to Natsuo and their father's height. He doesn't have the responsibilities as the oldest, and now he's going to be the second shortest in their family like he needed another slight against his pride. 

"I'm going to cut off your feet." He tells Shoto when his younger brother catches him in the hallway as he's coming back from his training with Shigaraki. 

"My bones will keep growing," Shoto replies evenly without a pause. It is improper and his father would certainly have something to say about it, but Shoto doesn't hesitate to move into his space and give him a hug. His magic leaves half of his body unnaturally cold, and the other half sweltering with heat, the sensation so unique and strange that he can never forget it, and that makes his chest ache. It's been four years since he was able to give his brother a hug, but neither of them dare linger long out of fear of one of his father's more loyal knights spotting them. Shoto won't be reprimanded for speaking to him, but Dabi could end up punished again for distracting his attention, no matter how briefly. "What are you wearing, Toya?" He asks as he sees his training clothes. He hasn't dressed like this in front of his brother since he was barely five. 

"I've been training again," he stands up straighter as he says it. He might not ever be a warrior like him, but he can be something. He can learn how to stand upright and not embarrass their family name any more than he already has. "How has your training gone? You haven't only been fighting at the border, have you?" He is supposed to be training with the other younger soldiers. He could have been knighted immediately, like Shigaraki had been, but Shoto had insisted on entering the school for this nation's warrior mages and going through all of the years of training from a page onwards. He didn't want to use his family name to advance through the rankings without being able to see what exactly the soldiers he would someday be commanding had to go through as well. It's something that their grandfather had forced Enji to do when he was a boy, so this ended up being something that Shoto had been able to argue for when he turned twelve. He's only two years away from his graduation now, and when he does, he will be able to be crowned if his father chooses to step down then, else, Shoto will be able to command their soldiers himself as he takes up a more prominent position in the war room. 

There is a tightness around his brother's eyes when he speaks again. "Not the whole time, no." He doesn't offer him more than that at first, and Dabi worries that he'll get nothing more. That the time away from each other and with Enji dripping poison in his little brother's ears has made him believe that Dabi is not worthy of knowing the truth of what is happening in their kingdom beyond these walls. "We've lost ten miles and the line is still wavering." He says after a moment and sinks Dabi's stomach like lead. "I'll only be here for a day or two after the party. My school is being asked to offer more support to make up for the knights that we lost." 

"How many-- Who?" His father's knights number, he thinks, around fifty now. A dozen are always kept close to the capital to ensure that no one ever manages to get close to the castle and do damage when they might be unguarded. The others are scattered across the country using their heightened arcane abilities to support their foot soldiers and keep the tides of battle in their favor. 

"Eleven, so far." Shoto tells him, his face pinching further with his unhappiness. "Takami was lost in the last battle." 

Dabi stares, convinced for a moment that he's heard his brother wrong. That damned, lazy, irritating bird was the fastest soldier in their army. Nothing in the world has ever been able to touch him. He always used to say that his great speed was to make up for the fact that as soon as he was off duty, he would do nothing else but laze about. He always used to complain that the war needed to end soon so that he could have a long life of doing nothing afterward. Dabi will not pretend that he was fond of the knight and his attitude. How he belittled him with a smile and worshipped the ground that his father walked on, but he won't pretend either, that he didn't in some way think that the harpy would outlive him. That his arrogance and the ability to back it up with the incredible feats of magic he could weave through his feathers wouldn't keep him alive until long after Dabi was finally thrown away when his father figured out a way of doing so. 

Shoto seems to know that the news isn't something that he will have an easy time grappling with, and he squeezes his shoulder with his cool palm. "He protected my classmate when he did. Another harpy. He'll carry on the hard work while Keigo gets to rest forever now. I'm sure that he's still having the last laugh now." 

Dabi still doesn't know if he believes that, or if he even wants the comfort that Shoto is trying to extend to him. He didn't even like Takami. He hated him more than he even hated Shigaraki at the start of their association. Maybe he doesn't have to like someone to be shaken by their death however. "Maybe. Will you be going back to the fighting when you leave then?" 

"Maybe. Right now we're mostly focusing on helping to execute evacuation orders and provide healing where we can." If they are already losing so many knights, the chances of them having to go into the frontlines again, if not the older students who are a bit closer to graduation, isn't out of the question. The war is something that happens far away and that has been going on for so long that Dabi forgets sometimes the brutal, ugly shape of it. He forgets that Shoto might not get to become king if he does not survive what it throws at him and the thought of losing his brother, of losing the chance at the kingdom having a future without his father at the throne, sickens him more than whatever flicker of grief went through him at the loss of the other knights. 

He reaches for his brother's shoulder in turn and squeezes too. "Stay alive." 

"I'll do what I can." He says just as evenly, mismatched eyes steady on him. They hear other footsteps coming from down the hall and they release each other, Shoto straightening again. 

"Happy birthday." It's still a few days off, but he isn't sure he'll even be able to speak to Shoto the day of when his father will surely be hovering over his heir and trying to keep Dabi sinking into the shadows of the party. 

"You too." No one remembers his birthday comes so near to Shoto's. No one has celebrated it in years. Dabi is sure that their father deliberately keeps his siblings far away from him on that day so they do not imply that they are happy that he is still seeing the years pass by when he could have stopped embarrassing his father and their kingdom by dying ages ago. His brother breaks away from he and Shigaraki, moving swiftly down the hall so that he has turned the corner before the people approaching can see he was even in the same area as him. 

He and Tomura make their way back to his chambers and when the door is shut and sealed with the knight's magic, Dabi simply begins to strip away his clothes so he can clean the sweat and dirt from his body as he does every day after his training. He's not expecting for the silence coming from the other end of the room to be so stark and complete. Usually Tomura talks to him when they get back to his room. He tells him if he did well or if he has any particular area for him to focus on improving. He asks if he wants his meal sent up, or if he is going to study for the day, or he... tells him if he's going to give him a reward or punishment that he might not have been able to have otherwise. But today he's very quiet and Dabi has only stripped his shirt before he's turning to find the other maintaining his post at his door, looking across the room at the large windows. The sky is covered in thick clouds that rolled in a few days ago and have not broken since and they are as deep and inscrutable as the expression on his face. 

"Tomura?" 

His lover's eyes turn to him, but there is still a pause before he speaks again. "Your kingdom is losing the battle." 

"We've lost territory before." They've won it back too. The Demon King's armies are tenacious, but they are not absolute. Decades of this war and they have held the line. The lives lost, the battles fought are something to mourn, of course. He just knows that the thing that is tightening his throat is a different fear. "... Has my father said that he is going to send more knights?" Because if Tomura goes, if he loses him, then Dabi doesn't know if he'll still believe that there's any reason to keep fighting at all. 

"... He's mentioned it." He holds Dabi's gaze and then they are so much closer as his feet eat up the stones between them as Dabi rushes into his space, fingers tangling into his shirt and holding onto him tightly. Tomura's hands come up immediately, wrapping around his waist and back, pulling him close and pressing their foreheads together. 

"Don't--" He can't tell him that he isn't allowed to leave. He doesn't have that kind of power. His father will move his soldiers as he pleases, and no matter how much Dabi feels he belongs to Tomura, the other man does not belong to him. 

Tomura hugs him closer and Dabi clings to him. "You are the only one who will ever be able to make me leave." It's a lie, but it's a kind one, a beautiful one, as they hold each other so tightly that Dabi lets himself believe that nothing will be able to tear them apart.

///

The night of Shoto's party is a bit bigger than he and Fuyumi had originally told Toga and Shigaraki. The formal dinner and mingling in the great hall is what was expected, but there are even more dignitaries present than he thought there would be, though now he understands why. If they are fighting at a loss right now, then it will be all the more important to sure up supply chains and to try and get Fuyumi a beneficial engagement. She looks stunning, of course, the work that she and Toga did on her dress is awe-inspiring. Every movement or flicker of torchlight sends the frost glittering across the layers of the pale grey fabric. Shoto is wearing his ceremonial armor and looking so much more grown up in it, like he's finally used to the weight of it, like he might not notice it as much because he knows how to wear his real armor into battle now. Natsuo is dressed similarly to Dabi, both of them in smart, respectable clothes that suit royalty, but Natsuo wears a broach on his breast of a skeletal hand, the hand and the forearm cast in pewter with the radius mended with a sliver of gold going through the center, the mark of a healer that he shows off well. Dabi has no armor or sigil to show that he has an artform he's studied to mastery, but he does, only for occasions like this, get to wear a simple gold circlet on his head. He's changed out his staples for gold today as well, and Tomura's hands had been so gentle and sweet against his skin as he helped him replace the ones he wears each day with these. He pressed kisses to his seams and cupped his face in his hands and stared at him like he was worried that might be the last moment they would ever spend together. There is a fear settling in his gut that Shigaraki has been ordered to leave with Shoto after the party, but he didn't want to tell him until after they spend time with his friends tomorrow, and that does keep him from really tasting his food at all during dinner. It fills his ears with cotton as people speak and soft music drifts around the room. 

Tomura stays by his side. He is his guard after all, even if he's certain, from the number of attractive women who come wearing necklaces with prisms, marking them as skilled practitioners of magic, that his father told him to mingle. If he's planning to send Shigaraki off to die, then he might want him to pick a partner, or a dozen, to try and ensure his strong magical bloodline remains. Shigaraki is polite to the women who approach, but he sends each of them off very easily by saying that he is on duty and unable to entertain. When they ask for when he will be available next, he simply tells them that he is unable to make plans for any time after the party. Easier than saying that he will have  time off for the next few days and that he would rather see his friends instead of spending time with any of them. 

Dabi is already painfully bored two hours after dinner. He isn't being spoken to, everyone present more than knowing not to associate with the spare prince. There is dancing going on at the center of the room and his chest warms as he sees his brother approach one of his classmates, a blond boy who doesn't seem to have any qualms about baring his teeth in a snarl and snapping at the crown prince when he asks him to dance. Even then, the blond does accept the invitation even if he's still complaining about it as he's taken to the floor. He's certain that his father will have a lecture for Shoto after the fact, but it is his birthday, he should be allowed to do whatever he likes today. 

"My prince?" He glances over at Tomura, wondering if someone has finally caught his eye, only to find the guard moving in front of him and offering his hand. Dabi immediately feels heat flood to his face. This is beyond improper. He cannot dance with his knight. He isn't even supposed to dance at all, not when that will draw attention to himself. Tomura's look does not waver as he holds his hand out. "Indulge me." 

And when has he ever been able to resist doing whatever his lover has asked of him? That sinking in his gut, the thing that tells him that Tomura is preparing for the worst, makes him even more desperate to hold onto what he can right now. He has been absolutely desperate to soak up as much of his lover's time and attention as he could for months now, and he knows the second he has to go without, none of those memories will ever be able to hold him together. He can't stand to let something like this slip through his fingers. He gives the other his hand and lets him take him to the center of the room as the music changes. 

Dabi knows this dance, he knows every dance. He has always enjoyed dancing. He taught Fuyumi, Natsuo, and Shoto, but he hasn't been allowed to do so in public for eight years. This is a very structured one, only allowing partners to touch their fingertips together throughout most of the song, until the end when the leading partner pulls the following partner close and dips them to the floor, their foreheads allowed to touch, a kiss allowed to pass between them if appropriate. It's a dance of restraint and desire, a dance that often is done at the start of a courtship, at weddings, and when one wants to show off their devotion to their partner. Dabi is certain that this song was only set to be played because his father had hoped Fuyumi would select a suitor to dance with tonight. He's certain he did not want his oldest and youngest sons to be standing on the floor with a male partner preparing to show the entire kingdom that their hearts do not beat in the rhythm that he tried to force beneath his boot. He's certain that they will all be punished severely for it, but as his eyes meet Tomura's when their fingers touch, he knows that any punishment he receives will be worth it for the few minutes that they have like this. 

The music starts and the room slips to his periphery. Tomura leads. It's beyond impropriety. Even disgraced and discarded, he is a prince. He should never be openly subservient to his knight. He doesn't care. He wants everyone to know how wonderful his lover is at keeping him close, at showing him where to step next, at how to move forward when he spent so very long standing still and letting the world bury him in that spot. Tomura has made him something new, made him a person again instead of a ghost. He made 'Dabi' as real as Toya was. Love, that's what Toga had said. Love. It's living in his chest, aching to escape him, and every movement of their bodies to the song as their eyes stay locked over their joined hands, makes him desperate to let it out. He is in love with Tomura. He hasn't dared to tell him that even after all of these months, but he cannot keep them inside anymore. 

When the song comes to an end and Tomura pulls him in close, when gravity shifts as the other's hair falls around them in a curtain that blocks them off from the rest of the world, when their foreheads touch, Dabi breathes, "I love you." 

And red eyes go so stricken, haunted, as they gaze into his own. "Dabi--" 

The warning bells begin to ring before he can say anything else. 

Panic surges through his chest. Those bells are only rung if a dragon has been spotted flying towards their home. The last time they rang was thirty years ago, when his father stood on the highest parapet of the castle and brought out a fire so brilliant and complete that people believed that somehow there was a sun setting in the east and west at the same time as he turned a beast made of flames to ash. People around the hall start to panic, but as he wants to straighten up, Tomura holds him tighter, his other hand going to the floor. Dabi isn't expecting the loud crack that fills the air. The symphony of them as the floor all around them starts to crumble and people begin to scream as they fall into it. Some only lose their footing as they try to flee, others are sunk into the earth and stone to their knees. He shifts, pulling himself from the other's arms so he can see what is happening more clearly, but when Dabi is out of his arms, Tomura puts both hands against the stone floor and that cracking sound comes again. The floor contracts, the people who were trapped inside of it are screaming all the more loudly as bones crunch and blood blooms across suits and dresses. 

"Tomura," his name is croaked as he realizes that this is his doing. His magic leaching out to hurt the guests. His magic which has swallowed up Natsuo to his waist, Shoto and his date as well. His head reels to try and find Fuyumi and he does spot her-- with one of Toga's familiar dagger's to her throat as she uses his sister as a shield from his father who is trying to melt the stone he has been trapped in. 

"Traitor!" His father snarls through the din of panic all around. Traitor. Dabi's chest feels like it's full of glass shards. Traitor. He always made his hatred of the kingdom so plain, but he-- His eyes burn. How could he have ever been so stupid? The weak, pathetic, discarded prince. He must have been such an easy target. Why kill him when he could use him to bring more insurgents into the castle. Why not just use him for everything that he could? Shigaraki's hands are still on the stone as his eyes turn to look at his father before the stone crunches again. It moves again. This time dragging people to the side of the throne room so that there is an open aisle between the throne and the doors. 

"I am not a traitor, Enji Todoroki." No one has addressed his father by name without title in decades, and hearing it almost makes his ears sting like the first time he heard the rough, common language of swears after years of careful tutoring. Shigaraki straightens up and brings a hand to the collar of his breastplate. His magic passes over it, withering the metal to nothing but rust, before he curves his fingers into it and pulls it from his body. It clangs loudly against the floor as the other straps and bits of metal fall as well. Until he is standing wearing entirely unfamiliar clothes. Black leathers in a cut that leaves the entirety of his back exposed, that leave his arms open to the air and without protection, thicker plates of black armor curving over his sternum and along his pecs and over his stomach, wrapped around his thighs and padding his knees. And then his hair begins to grow, lengthening to the middle of his back and being pushed aside as his shoulders roll and the sound of tearing flesh fills the room. Dabi stares at him as deep red scales start to inch across his cheeks and forehead, black horns of bone jutting jaggedly from his head, his pupils growing slitted and large fangs filling his mouth, a tail and wings blooming from his skin, the tail lizard-like and bladed at the end, and the wings massive and the deepest red as they flare out behind him. 

A dragon. One powerful enough that his magic could disguise his true nature. There are more screams coming from inside of the room and Dabi's eyes search frantically. Why have none of the soldiers broken free of the shattered floor? Why are the alarms still ringing but nothing is being done? He finds his answer as his eyes catch on familiar black shades that have moved up behind every soldier that is in the hall, blood pouring crimson across their armor as Jin slits their throats as he slips in from the secret entrance behind the throne. The entrance that only the royal family and their knights know about. The only soldiers spared are the young ones– the ones from his brother's school who are being restrained by them. 

Shigaraki turns his attention to the king, moving over to him. His father throws out his hands, trying to incinerate him, but the massive wall of flame that Dabi knows will swallow him up as well, is caught against his palm, his own magic bursting over every inch of the flames and extinguishing them into nothing but a cloud of ash that coats the entire room and his skin. Dabi and most of the other people who are trapped in this room are left coughing as it fills their lungs. "I am not part of your kingdom. I told you when you first tried to knight me that I only wanted to return to the border. You bright me into your home. You demanded each inch of my life in service of your kingdom even after I had already done the grace of sparing a village. My father always said you were a mortal so hungry for power that you could not see reason or extend mercy. I came to your court hoping that you would prove me wrong and instead what do I find?" He raises his voice as the warning bells are suddenly and completely silenced. 

"A kingdom ruled by a tyrant! A king that forces his subjects to their knees, who searches for the powerful and ensures that they have so little that any scrap that the crown offers them convinces them of the kingdom's benevolence instead of its cruelty! A monster who forces his children to be pawns until he decides that they are not worthy of life! How many times did you offer me your daughter's hand if I used my own to slit your first born son's throat?" Shigaraki snarls, looking so monstrous and inhuman for a moment that Dabi is only staring at him and doesn't hear the words that he's spoken as he wraps that deadly, destructive hand, fingers tipped with long black talons, around his father's face. 

"What?" There is a coldness. A numbness inside of him that is spreading throughout his whole body. 

Shigaraki's tail flicks, his wings pull in tighter against his back. "Seven. Offered to me each month I stayed in his service. Tonight was the last night the offer would stand. After tonight, he would send me to the frontlines, select your sister's suitor, and reassign a new guard who would not be given the option. I trained you so that no one would be able to slip a dagger between your ribs so easily, little prince." 

Dabi wants to say that he's lying. He wants to cry out that he betrayed him, he wants to pick up a sword and try to kill a dragon the way he always thought he was meant to when he was a child. But he is silent. His siblings are silent. The whole room is deafening with it. None of them can argue because that is precisely the kind of thing that his father would do. 

The doors to the main hall burst open, sending fresh screams through the room as they do. He gets a glimpse of the hall behind and sees red smeared across the floor, more guards laying limp against the stones as a dragon woman with scales of deepest black across her wings, tail, and in patches across her skin, with vibrantly red hair, a warhammer slung over her shoulder, and with crimson splashed across her skin steps into the room alongside another dragon, his hair lavender and pulled back, scales green and covering all of his exposed body, giving him a far more extreme resemblance to the dragons in their true forms than he's ever seen on humanoid features, carrying a sword that is nearly as wide as he is and just as long. They are barely across the threshold before Toga is squealing, 

"Magne! Spinner!" As she breaks away from Fuyumi, leaving his sister unguarded and, seemingly, unharmed. He moves immediately to her, half scared, as he runs past some of Jin's shades and Shigaraki himself, that one of them will stop him. Neither of them doo and he and Fuyumi cling to each other as Toga runs right over to get hugs from both of the dragons who entered the hall. 

"Hey, hatchling," Magne says, ruffling her hair as she gets her hug before Toga bounces over to Spinner to give him his hug as well. Fuyumi is shaking in his arms, her breath coming out in bursts of frost. The dragon-woman lets out a low whistle as she pokes at some of the cracked stones as they step deeper into the room. "Geez Shig, you know you've gotta live here after we're done, right?" 

"That remains to be seen." Shigaraki tells her, though his voice is a little warmer, his composure more settled than it was a moment ago. "The city?" 

"We secured the defenses with Atsuhiro's explosives. He's keeping an eye on the grounds in case anyone decides to try and cause trouble.

"Good. Bring him to the dais." 

Magne moves up to his father, taking thick iron cuffs that are etched with runes that Dabi knows will take away his magic. His father tries to move, tries to set a spark, but Shigaraki lets out a burst of his own magic against his skin, creaks opening across his temples and forehead, sending streams of blood slipping over his skin, but not taking his head from his shoulders the way he makes it so clear that he could if he wanted to end this right now. Oh god. They're going to kill him. They're going to take the kingdom. His eyes search frantically for something. The doors are still wide open, but Toga is standing there with Spinner, beaming and talking at a mile a minute, asking him how he is and telling him about her time in the castle. Either of them could tear them to pieces before they could slip out, and the entire room is filled with Jin's shades, all of them taking on his appearance. Two, he said he could make up to two other people at a time. Can all of his shadows make more and more of themselves the same way? Is he the army of demonic soldiers that their warriors have spoken about for so many years? It's a horrifying realization that comes for him as he understands that his father might have forced Shigaraki to stay here, but Dabi brought Toga here. He didn't speak up about Jin. He encouraged the other man to reach out to his friends. He brought about his own kingdom's destruction and he did it between Shigaraki's kind and cruel touches. Did it while he was on his knees for him, the other knowing that this would end with him bending a knee or dead even if he didn't accept his father's invitation to do it himself. 

Shigaraki reaches out a hand towards the throne as Magne locks his father's arms in place behind his back. "Iguchi, come help her. Do not grow complacent now." 

Spinner breaks off from Toga, the young woman pouting as she's left to push the doors shut behind her. They grab his father and Dabi's stomach sinks as the dragon turns to face him. He tries to push Fuyumi behind him, but she doesn't want to move. Even though she's shaking badly, even though her magic is not nearly as powerful as their father or Shoto's, at least she has magic and clearly she seems to think that means she needs to protect him. Dabi didn't have a sword with his formal attire. He isn't worth having even a ceremonial one in his father's eyes, but there are dead knights scattered across the floor and he all but dives down to get one, moving back up in front of his sister just after she has sent a flurry of icicles at Shigaraki. He doesn't even bother to destroy them like he did their father's flames, just bringing his wings around the front of his body and letting them patter against them, shattering against the scales and leathery membranes harmlessly. But as he pulls them back, Dabi puts the tip of the sword against his chest, to a place where the strange armor he's wearing has a seam he hopes he can sink the blade past. Tomura wraps his hand around the blade, not seeming to care as it cuts into his palm, his strength enough to hold it still no matter how Dabi tries to drive it deep. 

"Dabi," He hates the way his eyes burn when the other man says his name, soft and careful the way he does when he's checking to make sure that a punishment hasn't gone too far. 

"You used me." 

"I did not. Nothing I needed to take your father's kingdom came from you alone. Your father opened the grounds to Atsuhiro. He gave me access to the palace to sneak Jin past the walls. Your sister's guilt and good nature allowed me to bring Toga to work here, and your kingdom's customs around celebrations made it easy for me to bring the rest of my friends here to do our work. I used my connections to you for none of it." His voice is still so gentle. "I know that does not lessen the betrayal of my actions. I am going to give you an opportunity to set this right. Come to the dais. Bring the sword." He lets go of the blade and turns his back on him as he moves towards the other end of the hall. 

Dabi looks around the room desperately for a way out of this. For something that he can do that will allow him to get he and his siblings out of this mess unscathed. But all around him he sees his panic echoed in the faces of the other trapped nobles, the bodies of everyone who was meant to protect them scattered across the floor. Toga catches his eye from the door and she beams at him, her teeth a little too big and too sharp, as she waves him forward. He feels as trapped as he would if he were rooted to the shattered floor as he has to step away from Fuyumi's side and move across the ground towards the throne. 

Shigaraki moves up the steps, but he doesn't take a seat in his father's chair. He stands in front of it instead and then brings his hand to the floor again. The stones crack and reshape themselves, forming two one foot wide two feet long stone pillars that come up to his waist when he stands between them. He gestures at one of them and Dabi's stomach sinks as his father is brought to it. He sees now that Shigaraki's touch must have destroyed his father's tongue, his lips soaked in blood and deep cracks moving across his lips the way they are his other skin. That is the only reason he has remained so quiet throughout this so far. The two other dragons pull his father forward and make him kneel, forcing his head down against the stone and Magne keeping him there as she weaves a spell that makes his flesh be pulled down until, even with all of his father's physical strength, he cannot move from the floor. 

When he is secure, Shigaraki turns to him and his eyes are different. Those slitted pupils, the scales that creep along his cheeks. They are foreign and strange, but the... emotion in them is so achingly familiar that Dabi's entire chest feels like it might collapse in on itself. "I told you that when someone else sat on your father's throne that we could have a future together. I told you that I would give you everything once you knew me, once you could choose me with no secrets laid out between us anymore. I am Tomura Shigaraki, dragon, ward and heir to the Demon King. If I get to choose anything that could come in my future, I would choose to share it with you." He holds his gaze as he speaks. Holds it as he moves to the other pillar he'd made. "But you have to choose me." He kneels down, sweeping his long hair over his shoulder and flattening his wings to the floor so that his neck is exposed as he begins to lower his head to the stone. "You can take that sword and kill me. If you do, my people will retreat, harming no one else as they go." 

"What?" Magne's voice is loud and unhappy. 

"Uh, Tomura--" Spinner sounds decidedly more wary. 

"Are you out of your mind?" Jin snaps in their direction. 

It's only Toga who coos, "Oh, that's so romantic!" 

Shigaraki ignores all of them, looking up at him from where he is kneeling. "Or you can put an end to your father's tyranny and the war. Let me ascend to the throne and we can have the future together that we both were dreaming of. I will spare your siblings. I have seen their kindness, I know that they will not become him and I would not break your heart by doing them harm." Endure, break, reforge, that’s what he has told him before. Tomura holds Dabi's gaze for another few agonizing seconds and then he sighs softly and lowers his forehead to the stone, his eyes slipping shut. "Choose, little prince." 

Dabi is left standing, stock still, between the two pillars. Shigaraki's friends are eyeing him, eyeing their leader, but he sees in their pinched expressions that they didn't know that this was part of their leader's plans. He doesn't know if they'll listen to him if he does bring the sword down across his neck. But when he steps between the pillars and tightens his grip on the sword with both hands to hide how badly he's shaking, none of them actually move to stop him, even if their eyes do flick to their leader fearfully. One swing and he can slay a dragon. He isn't sure that he'll really be a hero to the kingdom, not like this. But his siblings, he looks out across the room and finds that their eyes are on him, their expressions worried, drawn, and fearful as well. But not angry. His sister still immediately tried to help protect him when Shigaraki approached them. They won't turn on him. If his father is kept in those cuffs, if his tongue is gone-- Shoto could take the throne tonight. They could have a coup of their own and make certain that Enji Todoroki could never hurt any of them ever again. They could kill the heir to the demon king's throne. They could--

He is standing beside Shigaraki, his hands shaking around the sword, wondering if all of the training he's done over the past few months is even enough to give him the strength to cut through flesh, when he glances at his father. He has not had that man's eyes on him in nearly five years. Hasn't had to see that bright blue that looks back at him from the mirror set into a face that hates him. that is screaming his loathing even as he is on his knees, bound, bleeding, and powerless and still thinking that Dabi should not be standing here. That if he had killed him himself, strangled him to death in his coma, slipped a dagger into his ribs any night as he slept, poisoned his food and dealt with the investigation Natsuo would have demanded, then he could have avoided this situation. He sees the hatred in his father's eyes that is bred from his belief that someone like him should never have been forced to put his fate in someone like Dabi's hands. He sees the hatred on his face and all of the hurt, the fury, the helplessness that he has been drowning in for so many years swells inside of him again. That used to be so thick that it choked out the air in his lungs and left him drowning for years and years as he waited to just finally die. It was Tomura's eyes looking at him, breaking him down, dragging him out of those dark waters, that forced him to build himself back up. 

He tightens his grip on the sword so much that his staples pop free of his seam when he brings it down, the force of it splitting skin and clanging against the stone making his arms shake. 

There is a long moment, his heart pounding in his ears as he watches and waits. His father's body goes limp and blood pours over the stone and down the pillar as his head drops to the floor and rolls down to the bottom of the dais. He is staring at his father's corpse, uncertain what he should feel as he looks, until Shigaraki's hand, tipped with sharp claws, but still as gentle on his skin as they are when they run through his hair, catches one of his wrists while the other hand takes the sword carefully from his grip. 

"Your fight is over, my love." He says softly. "And you've ended the war. Now you only need to keep moving forward. Do not let him bring you low ever again." 

The words don't fully sink in past the haze that is filling his mind, but the kiss that Tomura presses to his forehead he can feel. 

///

Despite what Tomura said, Dabi can't manage to do much for... a while after he kills his father. He remembers what happened afterward in fits and starts. He remembers Tomura taking up his position in front of the thone and doling out orders to his people. Many of the nobles who were uninjured were brought back to their rooms to be held until he subdued any rebellions that would surely spark across the country as their people discovered that the castle had been taken and the king killed. His siblings were also brought back to their rooms, save Natsuo who was escorted to help heal the life-threatening injuries of the nobles who had been caught in the collapsing floor. Over the course of the next month, things had been tense and horrible. But by the end of it, the castle hung the flags of the Demon King, of Tomura Shigaraki as he was allowed to ascend to both thrones and unite their empires once he proved to his own father he had successfully taken the kingdom. Dabi's gut had been sour with fear that Shigaraki would have he and his siblings executed after that, the way his ancestors always killed all of the former monarchy's families when their territories had been claimed. But that wasn't what happened. Shoto had been brought into meetings about the matter of the state, his siblings had been allowed to visit him so long as they were escorted by at least one of Shigaraki's soldiers. They didn't blame him. The kingdom as they knew it was lost, none of them were royalty anymore, but they were not being mistreated. He still couldn't bear to look any of them in the eyes when they came to see him though. 

Shigaraki sometimes comes and knocks on his door. "Princeling," he still calls him. 'Precious', 'little one', 'my love', he calls to him from the other side of the door, asking if he can come in, if he can see him. Dabi cannot raise the wards on his room to keep him out, but he never enters without permission and when he can't do anything but greet his voice with choked-off, muffled sobs, the new king retreats. He doesn't force him out of his room like he did as his guard, doesn't ask him through the door about the future that he promised him, and Dabi waits for the knocks to stop coming, both eager and dreading the day that might come. The knocks don't stop though. Toga comes to his door too. 

"Come ooon," She whines, leaning her bodyweight against the wood. "Even Fuyumi will hang out with me again. Shoto's fun too! We can go train together." But when he won't answer her either, she huffs and leaves the door behind. 

It takes him a long time of wallowing, of stress, of his siblings coming and him seeing the changes in them. How his sister stops wearing such elaborate dresses that she has slaved over making and instead starts to wear the more severe, simple cut of a scholar's robes. How Natsuo comes with a backpack and tells him that he is going out to the former frontlines to heal soldiers who are being sent home instead of tending mostly to stuffy noses and rich nobles who are worried about the lines that crease their foreheads. How Shoto tells him, "We're going to be okay," and see in his mis-matched eyes that he believes it as he talks about the different ways that Shigaraki is trying to restructure the kingdom now that they won't be under the constant strain of this centuries-long war. Takes him seeing how the three of them are starting to hold themselves up straighter the way he saw in himself when Shigaraki had been encouraging him to grow for him to understand that he is trying to do the same thing to the kingdom. That he meant it when he said that they could have... unending possibilities stretching out in front of them. 

It takes him time before he's ready to dress himself well and to hold his spine straight. For him to go to his door and reach for the handle himself, convinced for a moment that he will find the door locked and will realize that this was all a sick game. But the handle turns and he's able to step out into the hall. Jin is sitting on the floor playing cards with Spinner, but they both stop and look up at him as he steps out of the room. 

"Dabi," Jin sounds almost relieved as he pushes himself up from the floor. "What's going on? Is everything okay?" 

"Am I... not allowed to leave my room?" 

Jin blinks at him. "What, no, of course you can. Uh, you just... haven't in a while. I thought you might need something." 

"Can I still go where I want?" 

The other man looks more uncomfortable now. "Uh, yeah, man. You can go wherever you want. You're not a prisoner here." 

"Okay." He starts to walk down the hall, half expecting the other two to follow him. But he just hears hushed whispers behind him, not any footsteps. He keeps walking. He has a good idea of where he needs to go to find what he wants.

When he pushes open the door of the throne room, he finds that Shoto, Magne, Atsuhiro, and a handful of other dignitaries are present and discussing matters of state. Shigaraki is sitting on his father's throne, wearing his leathers and a new crown, one made in a style that does not seem like it was fashioned the way that his or his siblings' were made, this one weaving around the horns that stick out from his hair that is free and wild around his face and down his back. He only means to slip inside, and at first, only the people closest to the door seem to take notice of him as they glance his way. He can take up a position at the edge of the room and wait until they've finished their conversation before he says anything. But then Shigaraki's eyes find his and Dabi is breathless again. He didn't know that he could starve for a look like that. Didn't know that his heart could break and come back together at the same time.

Shigaraki's wings flare and that stops the person speaking mid-sentence. "Your majesty?" 

"Clear the room." Shigaraki's voice is as clear and self-assured as it always has been and before Dabi can even think about it, he's moving. Not to the edge of the room, he's pushing his way past the other people in the hall. The floor has been repaired, there's not a trace of blood anywhere, no smell of that and ash clogging his nose like the last time it did when he was standing in this room. 

He passes his brother who catches his arm and that is the only reason he's able to tear his eyes from Shigaraki's face. Shoto searches his face but then lets go of him before he looks back at Shigaraki, giving him a glare that is black with his unspoken threat. The dragon sits unmoved on the throne. Shoto moves with everyone else towards the exit, and by the time the doors are shutting and Shigaraki is waving a hand through the air to seal the room, Dabi is right in front of him and the fog in his mind is so absolute that he can't make sense of anything anymore. All he knows is that desperate, searching look on Tomura's face that he's suddenly certain that he must have seen on his own face a hundred times before. 

It's so easy for him to sink to his knees. To kneel in the place where he beheaded his own father so he can look up at the lover he didn't truly know but still found a way to fall for anyway. He lets his head bow, his neck bared the way Shigaraki's had been. The man? Dragon? King? Doesn't say anything for a long moment and Dabi finds his voice shakily instead. "I haven't done anything for months. I haven't trained. I've barely eaten. Some days I don't get out of bed until the day has become night again." His voice is hoarser, croaked out each one the longer that he speaks. "I've let myself be nothing again. I can't be something without you." His eyes burn. "I need you to make me good. I need to be punished--" 

"Princeling," Tomura's hands reach for him as he shifts forward on the throne, his hands tipped with sharp, wicked claws and filled with a magic that could shatter him apart in an instant. But his voice is so warm and desperate. "You are not nothing. You have always been something, and I'm so sorry that I ever made you think that you had to be mine to be worthy of existing. You are everything, my love. You are a gem no matter who may behold you or not." He makes him tilt his head up so that he can see him again. "You are allowed to grieve. You are allowed your anger, hatred, all of the emotions that you have felt in this time. I will not punish you for that. Not when I only want to hold you close if that is something I am still allowed?" His thumb strokes over Dabi's cheek and he doesn't know how it's taken him so long to understand that he couldn't possibly want anything else. 

When Tomura pulls him up into his lap this time, it's so he can bring their lips together in a kiss and all of the heaviness around Dabi's heart falls away. Tomura helped him heal when he first arrived in the kingdom. Now he's cut out the root of the disease. Now all of their land will heal too. He doesn't have to feel so much pain for being the one who helped to administer that medicine. 

Tomura kisses him hard, deep, and doesn't let him go. His mouth is rough against his lips, desperate to taste him, and Dabi is doing his best to follow his lead. He has never been kissed with so much desire before, and certainly never by anyone who has teeth as sharp as Tomura's, but he doesn't care. All that matters to him now is that he is being given the kiss that he wanted so much. It comes to him with the vaguest flicker of recognition that the other man knew the betrayal was coming from the moment they met. From the second he brought their relationship into something more than guard and prince, he knew that Dabi would find out about his betrayal. But he didn't want him to think he'd used their relationship, his love to manipulate him. So he had made him wait. Until he would know that the first kiss they shared would not be tainted by the betrayal. That this could be real and perfect as their mouths move against one another and Tomura's hands pull him so close to his skin as Dabi tries to figure out where he can touch him when his body is so different from what Dabi would have expected. 

Tomura's hand moves to the back of his neck, cupping his head in his palm the way he always does, as if no time has passed since the last time they shared his bed. "I love you. My darling, my princeling, my precious sapphire. How I have longed to have you right here on this throne. You were always meant to sit here, my love." 

His face heats, the softer words stoking the embers of his desire as well as the meaner ones do when he's being punished. "Can we still... be what we were before?" Not when they were in public. Tomura isn't his servant anymore and he doesn't ever want him to be. But in private. The way they would lay together, the way the other looked at him like he was everything. The love that bloomed out between them like a tangled mass of vines. Could they hold onto that even though Tomura has two entire kingdoms and could have whatever he wants from either? 

"Of course we can, precious." He tells him, resting their foreheads together. "I told you, there is not a force in this world that could make me leave your side but you." 

And tells him with that sentence he meant every other one he'd spoken before that. Dabi is even more desperate when he tangles his hands in the other's thick, wild hair and pulls him in for another kiss, not caring if he splits his lips on the other's fangs. Tomura doesn't begrudge him his passion. He gives it freely and easily, his hands moving over Dabi's body, finding all of the places that he always has before that he knows bring the heights of Dabi's pleasure even higher. 

"Mine," he says, the words almost a plea between their lips. "I chose you?" 

"Yes, love." Tomura promises. "Yours. No one will ever take us from each other." 

Dabi keens with his need. It's been months. Months of loneliness, of guilt, sorrow, anger, and fear. And in a matter of minutes it all drains away. He is left with nothing in his chest but the love that he has been carrying for the other man for so many months now and the desperation to finally, finally be able to have every inch of the other's love in turn. It's been months, but he still knows how to spread his thighs around Tomura's and let himself rock against them. His body still sends a spark of pleasure through him as he does that has him moaning as his lover, his king, slips his tongue into his mouth. Tomura doesn't reprimand him for being so needy that he would put a harlot to shame, he rocks up into him, letting him feel that he needs him just as much, though there's a flicker of confusion in his mind because his lover feels bigger than he was the last time he had him. Was hiding in his human visage making him smaller? By the gods, will his body even be able to take him if he's any bigger? 

He doesn't have a chance to think about that when Tomura's sharp talons move to so deftly and carefully start to unbutton his tunic and Dabi realizes that the other wants to give him the other part of the intimacy that he promised right here. On his father's-- on Tomura's throne. In the throne room. His face burns as he pulls away far enough to speak. "Tomura, here?" 

"Where else? Oh, my darling, I am going to have you over every inch of this castle if you'll let me. Until your body is always aching so sweetly for my touch you'll need to be trained again to remember how to be more than my pretty little consort." 

The words, the knowledge that the other wants him so much, makes Dabi's entire body hotter and has him biting his lip to hide the whimper that wants to slip out of him. He lets the other undo the buttons on his tunic and slips it from his shoulders, before his hands are reaching for Dabi's shirt. Sharp claws tease against his skin as he brings that fabric up over his head, red eyes taking in every inch of him that is exposed as if he's seeing Dabi's body for the very first time and can't help the hunger that the sight of him is stoking. His hands move over Tomura's chest, over the dark leathers that cling to his body and look so different from the clothes he used to wear before. He's lovely. Has always been lovely, always been so confident and held himself like he could never forget his own importance no matter the position he held. Dabi knows now why that was, but seeing him in his own clothes, self-assured and in the position that he belongs in in a way that Dabi doesn't think he ever could, somehow makes him even more attractive. 

As the cool air of the room bites at his naked chest, he can't help rolling his hips again, trying to put more pressure against his cock that is hardening so rapidly, desperate for pleasure after months of nothing but the aching void that swelled through him. Feeling his need aching between his legs already has Tomura huffing with his amusement, his hands going to the edge of Dabi's pants before he courses a bit of his magic through the seams to send the panels of cloth fluttering away from his skin. Even with the doors sealed and the room cleared, Dabi's face burns as he's left completely naked in the throne room. 

"Don't be embarrassed, little one," Tomura purrs. "Anyone who sees you would be lucky to do so-- until I pluck their eyes from their skull for daring to take the sight of you for themselves." 

"Monster," that's what he was always told about dragons. That they crave violence and destruction down to their very souls, that they and the monsters at their command must be destroyed so that the mortal races could live in peace. But the way that Tomura's claws are prickling his skin, the way he offers up his devotion to him so completely and with such a violence is doing something unholy to his mind. It has him shivering with his want, his cock hard and flushed already, curved up against his stomach and trapped between their bodies. The leather that Tomura is wearing already feels so soft and well-made, but against the over-sensitive head of his prick, it is making him even more desperate as he sees the obscene droplet of pearly white get smeared against it as his hips move to try and get more faster. It's been months and months of wanting. He isn't sure that he can wait any longer without losing his mind. 

"For you, my love? The worst of them." He agrees without hesitation, letting Dabi's fingers fumble over his shirt, looking for where it must close, for some way of getting it off when the other man has such massive wings in this form. He doesn't find that place, but the other man only leaves him fumbling for a moment, desire and amusement shining in equal measures in those eyes that he has grown so used to having on him, but are still a little strange an foreign now that his pupils are different. But he reaches back and unclasps the closings around his neck and at his lower back, then letting Dabi's greedy hands take away the leather from over his chest. His body is familiar and foreign too. The thick muscle cut over his chest and stomach, the scars he has grown so familiar with are the same, but there are scales now, crawling over his shoulders and down his back, creeping over his sides and curing along swells of muscle, though his center is left exposed and the same color as his skin has always been before. Dabi's fingers hesitate, but his lover does not rush him as he brings his fingers to the edge of those scales for the first time. They are cool under his touch, cooler than the rest of Tomura's body, and so smooth. He can feel the toughness of them beneath his fingertips, the intricacies between them through the places where they overlap. They glitter in the low light of the room, almost as if lit with a fire from within each. 

They're beautiful. Tomura was always so beautiful, but seeing him how he was truly meant to be shows Dabi how little he understood of what could be beautiful before this. Tomura's hands are solid and grounding as they curl around his hips and pull him in closer, rolling his own up to meet his body. "You're so needy, little one. So excited to be rewarded after so long?" A question that doesn't require an answer, but Dabi's whole body aches from how much he missed this kind of play that the other taught him. 

"Yes, please," his face burns even hotter. "I want you, your majesty." 

He is not expecting the way that the words make Tomura's eyes flash and his wings flare. Not expecting how they have him crashing their mouths back together as his hands move over his skin, one going down to his cock and stroking him once dry before he's murmuring his arcane word between their lips so that the next movement comes slick with oil, letting him squeeze Dabi so roughly his mouth is opening on a loud, wanton moan that gives the dragon more room to press his tongue inside of his mouth and lick out every sound of his arousal that is gasped against his lips. 

"Oh, my pretty little whore. Going to have you made my consort officially," he strokes him quickly, roughly, the way that he would when Dabi earned a reward for his good behavior at times when he knew a meal might be coming soon or when he had plans to be elsewhere in the palace and knew that he didn't have time to break Dabi into pieces slowly. "Going to have the entire kingdom know that you are mine and that you will always be at my throne, either right here, spread on top of it with my cocks buried into your tight, desperate body, or with you between my knees, showing everyone how comfortable the former prince is doing nothing but stretching his jaw and swallowing my cum." 

The filthy words are bringing his pleasure higher, his body shivering with it as his nipples pebble and his hips move desperately up into his hand again and again. He would never survive the humiliation of that, but Tomura's filthy words always make him so needy. There are gut-punched sounds of his pleasure slipping out from between his lips that are certainly not becoming of former royalty, but he can't quell them as he begs, "Tomura, please, please, please, feels so good, please!" Because he hasn't been given permission to cum yet, but he is beyond desperate for it. He might need it more than his next breath. 

"Such a good boy for me. Finally coming to see me, finally letting me touch your pretty skin again. Oh, my darling, I am going to have you right here, so many times that I will have to carry you from this room, so completely disheveled that anyone who passes us in the hall won't even be able to recognize you from the look of bliss that will be carved into your features. You can cum, my love, and you can do so knowing it is the first of many you'll receive at my hands today." 

It's the words more than any friction, no matter how wonderful that is too, that makes him go over the edge almost immediately. His balls tighten and all of the stress and pent-up frustration that has been sitting at the edge of his mind is released in a perfect splatter of white that covers their stomachs as stars dance behind his eyes. His moan echoes around the room, chasing away every awful memory that lingers in this place from a lifetime of his suffering. Tomura kisses his slack, panting lips, his cheek, down along his jaw, and over his neck. But his hands don't stop. He said that he wouldn't and Dabi knows how to ask for him to if he really, truly desires that. But he doesn't. Even though his cock is softening now, and the pleasure on the edge of his nerves is starting to sting because his body is being asked to accept more, he doesn't care. He would take every inch of this sweet agony if it means that he can have every inch of Tomura joined with him as well. He's wanted this for so long. He can't bear to stop now and have it slip through his fingers again. 

"Beautiful, baby boy. I missed seeing how lovely you are with your face twisted with pleasure. I can't wait to see how your mouth falls open when I'm filling you up." He murmurs the words against his shoulder as his tail, long, lined with spikes along the top of it, wraps itself carefully around one of his thighs. It feels like a serpent, corded with such thick muscle that make it feel so solid in a way that he'd not expected. But he can't protest the sensation when Tomura is careful not to let any of the sharp parts of his skin scrape over Dabi's. He brings his legs wider and coaxes him up in his lap even more so he can kiss his collarbones and the hand that is soaked with his cum and the oil can move further between his legs. 

He has had Tomura's fingers in his hole before, his tongue too, but there's a sharp prickle of fear as he remembers that the times before the other man did not have wicked black talons curving from his nail beds. But when his fingers circle his rim, he doesn't feel those against his skin. The pads of his fingers are only rough with the callouses that he is so familiar with. He's moaning again as the other man sinks the first finger in without hesitation. His nails curve into his shoulders as that fresh pleasure sparks his nerves hot and aching and he feels the way the muscles ripple as the dragon's wings flare out again. He tries his best to loosen his grip, scared that he's caused the other some kind of discomfort. 

"Here, sapphire." His other hand is still tipped with claws as he wraps his fingers around Dabi's wrist and pulls him until their chests are pressed together and they are sharing every breath, bringing his touch over his shoulders and back along the place where he used to be able to feel the scars-- not scars. The place where his wings emerge from his back. The texture of the scales there is somehow even tougher than it was on his front, but the membrane that stretches to connect those scales to the first joint of his wings is leathery and soft. Tomura shivers again, letting out a low, rumbling purr through the air as he lets him touch a part of his body that feels so delicate, but that he saw could not be damaged so easily. Dabi moves his hands over this place gently, carefully, reverently, amazed that he can have this closeness from a creature that he thought for all of his life only could find pleasure in destroying. 

Tomura presses another finger into his body and crooks them. He strokes his walls and makes Dabi rock his hips into the touch, makes him settle into a slower rhythm than before, but still keeps him moving like that as he is so desperate to get more. He makes him want it. Makes him need it even though he's still aching from his first orgasm as his cock starts to fill again. He's biting his lip hard enough he's surprised it hasn't split under the abuse from how roughly his teeth meet it. His whimpers join Tomura's purrs as more kisses are peppered over his skin because he fills him with a third finger, a fourth, and makes sure to spread them wide inside of him. So wide, stretching him more than he ever has been before and murmuring his spell to bring more oil to his skin twice more. Until it's dripping out of him and he can feel it soaking into the other's lap. 

"Tomura, please," he whines. He knows the other is larger than his fingers, but this stretch is so obscene and his cock is aching so sharply from how hard he is again. If he isn't given what he's wanted for so many months now, he isn't certain that he'll get it at all before he's as disheveled as his lover has already promised to make him. 

"So eager for me, my love?" He teases, his fingers pushing in deep and crooking all of them hard against that special spot inside that the dragon showed him. The spot where, with enough attention, he can make Dabi's orgasm crash through him even if he doesn't ever touch his prick. He rocks against him again, another shattered sound of his pleasure breaking apart in his throat as his eyes burn. Tomura has brought him to tears in bed before. He doesn't know if he should be surprised that when he's preparing to have every inch of him so completely for the first time, that he might do so again. "I should have known you would be. Your cute little hole always was so hungry for more. So desperate to be made full that it never even crossed your mind that a prince might demand to put his cock inside of his servant's body instead." Dabi's face flushes at the suggestion. No, he hadn't ever thought of that. He had been surprised the first time Tomura had deigned to wrap his lips around his cock the way Dabi was always so eager to do for him. It was a different desire, a shame that would hang around his neck if anyone had found out about it then, but he hadn't ever wanted Tomura beneath him like this. Not when it always felt so good to have him touching him in these ways. 

"Just want what you give me, your majesty," his voice is so thin when he says it, but he can't find any other words to help express his need. He just needs and knows Tomura has to be the one who decides when he's earned having it. 

The words seem to push that over the edge, getting a growl out of the dragon as his fingers push against his prostate again, nearly pushing Dabi over the edge for the second time, only managing to hold off because the fingers are withdrawing just as quickly. Dabi's hands fly down to the other's clasp so that he can open them and free his cock, swollen beneath the leather, in the hopes of having it replace the hollowness left behind by his digits. Tomura lets him open his pants, but he reaches inside. Dabi's breath catches in the back of his throat as he takes himself out. 

Like the rest of his body, Tomura is changed in his true form. The thick, long cock that he had grown so familiar with is now two. Two cocks that are so big that his head feels dizzy as he looks at him. The top one has the familiar ring through his head, and the bottom one has a strange ridged texture like snake scales running along the underside of it, both of them emerging from the dragon's pelvis, from an open slit, slick fluid dripping over them from pressing out of his body. Dabi has wanted him so badly, but just seeing him has a fresh whimper slipping out of his throat. 

"Shh, little one," Tomura raises a hand to cup his cheek sweetly again, the filthy one instead going to his cocks as he makes a show of stroking them, showing Dabi how he can't close his fingers around both at the same time when they're against his palm, thumb teasing along that strange texture that sits along the underside of the bottom one. "I know that this is a lot, but you can handle one, I know you can. My pretty boy has been begging for it for so long, I know that he has the resolve to take what he's been asking for." 

Just one? Dabi swallows down his nerves and manages a small nod. He can try for one. Tomura presses a kiss to his temple before he uses a hand and his tail to get Dabi shifted higher up on his lap, steadying his upper cock so he can lower his body down onto himself. Dabi feels the metal of the ring that has been pierced through his head, warmed from his skin, rubbing around the sensitive rim of his hole. Every nerve ending tingles as he does his best to stay relaxed. He has wanted this for so long. He never thought he would get it like this, the other's anatomy so much stranger than what he's grown accustomed to, or here on the throne, but he will not complain about it if it means that he can finally have all of the creature he has tied his future to. 

Tomura's eyes meet his and he rests their foreheads together again, eyes hungry and searching his face for every flicker of emotion that passes it as he sinks Dabi's body down onto his cock. He is so happy that the other took such care in prepping him because Dabi thinks the rigidness of that metal and the thickness of his lover's cock might have torn him apart if he hadn't. He still feels like he might split in two as he's slowly slid further and further along his length until he feels the second one wet and hard, pressing up against him, nestled between his cheeks. Tomura fills him up and then smiles so sweetly at him. 

"So perfect for me, darling." He murmurs, his hands rubbing over his skin soothingly. "So tight and warm. Perhaps it was good you gave me time to get this country's affairs in order, because I don't think I'm going to be able to slip from your body for weeks if I can have you so warm and tight like this in my nest." He rocks his hips up, just a bit, into Dabi's but he might as well have sent an earthquake off beneath his skin. The moan that he lets out is so loud that he's certain that the wards won't stop the sound from passing through the stone. His fingers are scrabbling over scales and skin to try and get a tighter hold of the other man as he starts to babble, 

"Tomura, ah, ah, Tomura!" Because he asked for it, begged for it, but he couldn't have ever imagined how it would feel with him inside. He sees fresh stars when the other man chuckles softly and brings his hands to his hips. The muscles in his arms tighten as he lifts Dabi up, until only his head is just inside of his hole, the hard metal of his piercing so different and solid in its texture that he doesn't think he'll ever be able to stop noticing it, before he lets the force of gravity and just the slightest coaxing of his muscles, bring Dabi back down onto his length. Dabi would be humiliated that just the first real thrust has him spilling his pleasure between their bodies again, but he can't be bothered to care when his orgasm makes his insides squeeze even more tightly around his length, prolonging that pleasure. 

The dragon laughs, but the sound is bright, not mocking. It doesn't sour the ecstasy that is still in his veins as he continues to be moved. "Gorgeous. You're going to scream my name when I fill you with my cum, aren't you, precious? Won't be able to help it. How many times was I so tempted to let the wards drop so that everyone in the entire castle would hear how loudly you moaned whenever I let you taste my cum or when I had my fingers sunk into your tight," he moves him down harder on the word and makes Dabi's toes curl, "eager hole? Too many, sapphire. I would have stayed in your bed until every guard in the castle came to tear me away from you just so I could hear you sing so sweetly for as long as possible." 

Dabi didn't think that one could die from pleasure, but his seems unending as his muscles soften again, but are still so sharply oversensitive and aching as they are moved over his lover's cock. He isn't sure that anyone could survive this, dragon or not, but oh, how this would be a wonderful way to go. If Tomura could have killed him like this, then he almost wants to go back in time and reprimand him for not doing so sooner. He can feel the other's talons starting to poke against his skin again, his movements growing faster and more certain as Dabi doesn't protest being bounced in his lap like a toy. Perhaps other royalty demand that of those who serve them, he could never even imagine it when Tomura was his. It probably says something unflattering about him that he is so excited to become that for the other man in turn. He would give up making himself anything else if he could always be the one warming Tomura's bed and being an eager home for his thick, perfect... cocks. 

Nerves flutter in his stomach through the breathless haze of pleasure that is living inside of him. But he wants to bring Tomura's as high as his own body is going. Wants to make sure that this is just as good for his lover as it has been for him. If he is going to be the king's consort, then he's going to be the best one that he can be. He's going to have every inch of him the way that he was promised. 

"Tomura," The movements slow and his kisses sweeten when he says his name. 

"What is it, little one? Too much?" 

He manages to shake his head and steady himself against the other's chest as he reaches back to touch the second cock. He is heavy, the same heaviness that he has always been against his palm before, but the scales along his underside are new. They're rigid, but there aren't any sharp gaps between where they meet, the skin as velvet and soft as the rest of his length, though there's a distinct chill to this part of him than the top of his length. "I want all of you, your majesty," he begs, uncertain if his body can even take all of him. He already feels so stretched and so good with one of his lover's cocks inside of him, but he wants to make sure their pleasure is matched, beat for beat. He has already cum twice, he can bring the other off with them inside to bring them to even ground again. 

"Are you sure, princeling," he nuzzles against his cheek. "This is your first, is it not?" 

His face flushes, but he hasn't ever really hid his inexperience from the other man. "Show me what I have to look forward to getting used to, Tomura." 

"You really are perfect for me, precious." The words are cooed as softly as the sweetest 'I love you' as the other shifts his body up again, until only his head is stretching his hole, and then he forces himself to retract his claws again so he can reach down. Dabi lets some of his nerves be washed away as his lover makes more oil slick his skin. He has taken such great care to never hurt him and he doesn't believe that he would give him this now if he thought that he might. Tomura slips two fingers inside alongside his first cock and stretches his rim further, but this isn't too much yet, isn't making him doubt what he wanted so badly before. Tomura's eyes are on his face again, watching him for any flicker of discomfort that might pass his features. He doesn't want to stop, will take anything that he can get, and somehow feels more embarrassed when he leans in and gives the dragon a sweet, closed kiss against his lips as he gently rocks his hips back so he can feel his other cock rub against his skin. 

Tomura's eyes are heavy with his own affection as he slips the fingers from Dabi's body and reaches to steady his cocks again. He presses the second head to his hole now and tells him, "Breathe for me, my love," waiting for the stream of his breath to start slipping from his lips before he pushes up. Dabi feels a slight ache at his rim as the blunt head presses against him. For a split second, he doesn't think that the other man is going to fit. That he will have to stop and Dabi will learn that no matter how much his lover has encouraged him and helped him not think of his body as completely useless, that it will fail him here too, always failing him when he wants something so keenly. But then his head pushes inside with a pop and stars explode across his vision. 

He had thought he felt full with one of his lover's cocks inside, but as his rim is made to stretch so wide, each ridge of the other's scaled cock creating a unique and stunning pressure as it goes inside of him and can still  be felt against his walls there, he loses space inside of him that his lungs used to breathe. When he sinks down, when Tomura pulls him down with his hands and tail, he ends up so deep inside his guts that there isn't room for his lungs to expand anymore. He is drowning, pulled under from how completely the joining of their bodies has allowed Tomura's to possess his own. There is no escaping his fullness. No way that he could ever let himself think past this moment that they are brought together in their entirety, nothing separating them anymore. 

Everything. This is everything. He could never ask for more. He won't ever need to. Tomura will give this to him forever. He'll train his body to be good for this, to be his perfect consort, and Dabi will show him his devotion each day. He brought him love, warmth, light into his life no matter their rocky start, no matter that they were not supposed to be this to one another. He will bring that light into the kingdom. He won't ever make Dabi regret choosing him over the life he was born into and that had been filled with so many years of cruelty before him. 

"You're so pretty when you fall apart for me, baby boy." Tomura's words are sweet when they brush over his cheek before his tongue is moving across his skin. Catching the blood that is dripping over his cheeks because he is so overwhelmed by the fullness inside and how every inch of him is being given fresh pleasure as he begins to move slowly again. "So brave taking so much your first time. Is it good, sweetheart?" 

Dabi can't give him an answer in words, he just chokes out a sob as he feels that ring rubbing against his prostate and making his cock, already so oversensitive from his previous two orgasms, swell to half hardness again. 

"You have to answer me, baby, or I'll have to stop." 

"Don't stop," he's never heard his voice so weak before, but managing the words at all has the other moving him over his cocks more surely. 

"There. That wasn't so hard was it? I know that you're going to remember how to behave so well for me, but if you slip again," they're both breathless with their arousal when Tomura promises against his skin, "I'll have to punish you, little prince." 

He'll take any that he gets when he starts to move his hips down in time with the other's thrusts. He's so blindingly full, his body so tight with pleasure that he didn't even know he could experience, that he has to bring his lover to this same place as him. Tomura sees his eagerness and lets out another growl, his wings flaring, his tail tightening around his thigh, as he meets the movements with harder thrusts of his own. Seeing his wings flare like that has Dabi's fingers curving back into the place where they connect to his back and whatever restraint that the dragon was holding onto is gone. 

Their movements are frantic, each one never letting Dabi's body completely adjust to the feeling of his cocks sinking deep inside of him. He still feels so small and so tight. He can't get to full hardness, not when his pleasure is so complete and centered inside of his hole as his thighs get slicker with each thrust that sends more oil dripping out and mingling with the slick from Tomura's roots and his precum as it starts to fill him. His throat is raw from the litany of sounds he is letting bounce against the stones, only drowned out when Tomura's lips are on his and his tongue is devouring every inch of his mouth, letting Dabi taste his own blood because the dragon can't seem to help himself and keeps licking it away from his skin. 

"My sapphire, my princeling, my consort, mine," he snarls against his lips, the movements growing even rougher. "You are worth more  than any treasure that will ever enter my horde. More perfect than any kingdom I will ever rule. Mine, until you banish me from your side." 

Dabi clings to him even tighter. "Never." He won't ever give him up, won't ever make him leave. Tomura is his future, the only one that he has ever been able to look at and want so fiercely that Dabi would take up a sword and fight through any army that might ever think to come and take it away. "Mine, forever." 

"Forever, love." Tomura agrees. 

Neither of them can speak more after that as their movements devolve into something so frantic and needy that Dabi doesn't doubt that he will have bruises on his skin from how hard their hips are meeting and their fingers are clenching onto each other's skin and scales. But it's beyond worth it when Tomura lets out a snarl as he slams Dabi onto his lap and sinks his cocks inside as deeply as possible. He didn't realize that the dragon's release would make him feel even fuller, but he is blinded by the amount of pressure that builds inside of him as he is soaked with his cum, the fluid spilling out of his hole even when he's being plugged by his cocks. Dabi doesn't have any cum of his own left, his cock twitching and stinging with pain as bright as his pleasure as his third orgasm crashes over his nerves and leaves him limp and panting against his lover's chest. 

It takes a long time for their breathing to steady and for the dragon's cocks to soften and slip out, his cum spilling from Dabi's body because it can't close up fast enough to even try to keep it inside. Their cum all over the throne, the smell of their sex permeating the air. Scandalous. Blissful. Tomura presses another sweet kiss to his temple and gathers him in his arms, his wings curling around their bodies to block him from sight. 

"Come now," he murmurs. "It has been months now that I've longed to have you sleeping soundly in my bed, for you to be the first thing I see when I open my eyes each morning. I will have that now, and when you wake this evening, hungry for more, I will have you again." 

Dabi doesn't know if his body will be able to handle having Tomura again, but the other man has always been able to find the right ways to push him, how to make him better. He trusts him to know this too, hiding his head against his collarbone and clinging to him as he's carried to the secret door behind the throne. No one should be in these halls, so no one will be able to stop them from going to Tomura's chambers so his lover can make good on his words the way he always has before. 

Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, consider shooting me an ask or leaving a comment!

[suddencolds]

Atypical Occurrence [2/?]

hello!! 10 drafts and (exactly) 3 months later, I am finally back with part 2 of Atypical Occurrence 😭 You can read part 1 here!

This chapter is a little personal to me. I don't tend to linger on writing scenes like this (in part because they are a little difficult for me), so it took awhile to hammer out the dynamic I wanted. That said, here it is at long last!!

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves. Here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! :)

—

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit, and certain revelations)

—

There’s a grocery store that’s a ten minute drive from Vincent’s apartment. Yves picks out ingredients for chicken soup, two different kinds of cold and flu medicine, a new pack of cough drops, a few boxes of tissues, a small thermometer. All in all, it’s less than a thirty minute excursion—something he’s done many times before in uni, where everyone seemed to catch something in the middle of exam season, and a house visit was just a short walk away.

Chicken noodle soup isn’t difficult. He’s made it a hundred times—he’s experimented with a dozen different variations of it. He puts the groceries in the fridge, washes the vegetables, and gets to work.

While the soup cooks, he half watches it, half busies himself with cleaning the apartment—loading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesn’t fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries he’s gotten, vacuuming the floors with a vacuum cleaner he finds tucked behind the fridge.

Then he shreds the chicken, chops a round of fresh vegetables to add to the broth, and waits.

 It’s comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. It’s dark enough outside—the sun fully set, the clouds heavy overhead—that the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve.

Yves likes cooking. He doesn’t actively enjoy doing chores, but there’s something comforting to how mindless they are. It’s an appreciated distraction. 

The rain outside is loud enough that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him.

Yves jumps.

“You’re up,” he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wear—his hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place.

Yves watches him take everything in—the pot on the stove, the chopping board set out on the counter, the empty paper bags from the grocery run flattened and stacked into neat rectangles.

“And you’re still here,” Vincent says.

“I made soup,” Yves says, by way of explanation. “It’s chicken noodle. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for trying something new.” He reaches over to lift the lid off of the pot of soup. Steam wafts up from it, carrying with it the faint scent of the aromatics he’d added—thyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. “Actually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so it’s almost done.”

Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. “Did you leave to get groceries?”

“Earlier, yeah. You weren’t kidding about your fridge being empty.”

Vincent frowns. “I can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?”

In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yves’s mind right now. He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“Soup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. It’s barely any work at all.”

Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: “That’s an oversimplification.”

“Not really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,” Yves says. “Thanks for letting me use your kitchen—though, technically, I guess I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission. I’ll clean everything up, by the way.” He’s done dishes along the way, so there isn’t really much to do besides rinse off whatever’s left, load up the dishwasher, and store whatever’s left of the soup in the fridge.

“You don’t have to,” Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. “I can clean up. It’s my apartment.”

“If you think I’m letting you do household chores while you have a fever—”

“It’s not that high,” Vincent interrupts, perhaps a little stubbornly. Yves lets out a disbelieving laugh. He leans over the counter, shifts his weight forwards on his feet to press the back of his hand to Vincent’s forehead.

It’s concerningly hot, still, which isn’t a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yves’s hand is a giveaway on its own.

“It’s definitely over a hundred,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll have you know that I bought a thermometer.”

For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. “That was an unnecessary purchase.”

“Are you admitting that I’m right?”

Vincent just frowns at him, which—Yves notes—isn’t exactly a denial. “Fever or not, there’s not much I can do except sleep it off.”

“You can go back to sleep after you’ve had something to eat,” Yves says. “What was it that you said? That you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday?”

“...You won’t leave unless I eat, then,” Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question.

Yves smiles at him. It’s not a wrong conclusion. “Exactly,” he says.

—

In between the hallway and Vincent’s kitchen is a small dining area, furnished with a high table and two high chairs. Yves waits until the noodles are cooked just enough. Then he turns off the stove, unrolls a placemat to lay out on the dining table, and carries the pot over.

He gets everything he needs: two bowls, two spoons, some of the fresh parsley he’d chopped earlier, for garnish—and lays it all out.

“I can help,” Vincent says, for maybe the third time. 

He’s seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like he’s perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. It’s just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to help—even at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like he’s always finding some way or other to be useful. 

Yves says, “When you’re not running a fever, you can ask me again.”

When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincent—who is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Yves says.

Vincent blinks at him. “It would have been rude to get started on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Yves says. “I made it for you.”

He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time he’s made it—light and comforting. It’s just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasn’t cooked for Vincent before—not formally, at least, other than the dish he’d bought to Joel’s potluck—so it’s a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite. 

It’s worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if he’s done something wrong—if perhaps, it isn’t to Vincent’s taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. “Is it okay?”

“It’s really good,” Vincent says. “I can see why Mikhail said what he said.” 

“What?”

“That your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.”

Yves laughs. “So does that mean you’ll forgive me for trespassing?” 

Vincent smiles back at him. “I’ll consider it.” Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearly—they’re slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. There’s a little crease at the edge of his eyes which shows up when he smiles.

Yves is caught off guard, for a moment. The tightness in his chest is nothing, he tells himself. Certainly not a crush that he shouldn’t be allowed to have. 

A crush. That’s new, too. It’s ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks it’s probably supposed to make him better at this—what better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?—but instead, he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, finds himself stumbling over the most basic of pleasantries. 

Of course, he has no intention of acting on his feelings. Vincent is attractive, yes—but he’s also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesn’t get credit for. He’s thoughtful enough to entertain Yves’s friends, to have lunch with Yves’s siblings, to fly all the way to France to meet Yves’s family.

But all of that is inconsequential. None of it is going to amount to anything, because Yves knows how to keep his distance. Because Yves needs this—the perks of their fake relationship—more than he needs to indulge in any inconvenient crush. Because he knows enough to know how things would turn out if he were to say something.

That’s the thing. Vincent isn’t cruel. It’s for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that he’d drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and that’s what makes this so much worse—Yves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached. 

Now that they’re sitting across from each other, in Vincent’s apartment, having dinner, Yves thinks—a little selfishly, perhaps—that this is the best that he can ask for. It is all that he can ask for. Far better to keep up the pretense entirely, far better to pretend that this is all just for show. When they put an end to this arrangement—someday, inevitably—Yves will thank Vincent for everything, and then they’ll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things.

It’s quiet, for some time. Yves finishes his bowl first, heads over to the sink to rinse it off, and positions it neatly in the lowest compartment of the dishwasher. When he gets back, Vincent is spooning more soup into his bowl. Yves allows himself to feel a little relieved to see that he has an appetite.

“It’s been awhile,” Vincent says, after some time. “Since anyone’s done this for me.”

“Made you chicken soup?” Yves says, a little puzzled. “If you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.”

“No,” Vincent says. His expression is unparseable. “Just— since anyone’s looked after me, in general.”

“Oh.” Yves finds his mind is spinning. “How long have you been living alone?”

“Since university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.”

“Because you like the privacy?”

“It was just simplest.”

Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhail—the conversations they’d have to have to figure out groceries, to alternate cooking dinner and doing dishes, to manage transportation. He has a studio apartment now, too, but he’s over at his neighbors’ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesn’t really get lonely.

“You have a pretty spacious kitchen,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I used your pots and pans. I’ll wash them, I swear.”

Vincent takes in a small, sharp breath. Yves looks up just in time to see him twist away from the table, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth.

“hhIHh’IIKTS-HHuhh-!”

“Bless you!” Yves exclaims. Judging by the way Vincent keeps his hands raised over his face, he assumes that there are going to be more. He rises from his seat, heads back into the kitchen in search for—ah. Six boxes of tissue boxes, stacked neatly into a block. He tears off the thin plastic film around them, removes a box from the pile, and pulls off the tab.

When he gets back to the dining table, Vincent is ducking into steepled hands with another—

“hhih’GKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hh’DDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh… Hh… hh-HH-hh’yIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!”

The sneezes seem to scrape painfully against his throat, for the way he winces in their aftermath. He twists away from Yves to cough lightly, after, into his shoulder, his eyes watering. “Bless you!” Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. “Here.”

Vincent takes a tissue from the box, blows his nose quietly. When he emerges, lowering the tissue from his face, his eyes are a little watery. He eyes the tissue box. “Did you buy these earlier, too?”

“I did,” Yves says. “I picked up some medicine, too. I didn’t know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuff—your fridge was getting pretty empty, by the way—in case you needed it.”

Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if there’s something he’s trying to understand. Finally, he says, “Do you do this for all of your friends?”

“What?”

Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. “Cook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.”

“Sometimes,” Yves says. He’s certainly no stranger to stopping by to help—sometimes with homemade soup, or tea packed tightly in a thermos, or something else. Then again, that was easier to do back in uni, when everyone lived within a twenty minute radius. “It depends on what they need.”

“So this is just a Yves thing.”

“What? Showing consideration for my friends?” 

“Showing consideration is one thing,” Vincent answers. “You could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.”

“I guess that’s true. But at that point, I was already here,” Yves says, with a shrug. “It seemed logical to check up on you.”

“Well, now you’ve checked up on me,” Vincent says. “So you can go.”

Yves supposes this is true. 

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Vincent says, “It’s late. I assume you have things to get home to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Yves says.

Vincent says nothing to that.

But Yves gets the message, even without him saying it. If Vincent is the type of person who prefers to be alone when sick, Yves won’t take it personally. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome—arguably, he’s already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to.

There’s leftover soup in the fridge—enough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of this—and Vincent’s apartment is reasonably well-stocked now. He has something to take if his fever gets any higher; he has all the basic supplies Yves could think of off the top of his head.

And Vincent is a lot of things, but he isn’t irresponsible. He’s shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. There’s no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longer—no reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than he’d like to admit.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go. But at least let me clean up first.”

He does dishes, leaves the cutting boards and the pot out to dry on the drying rack, transfers the soup to smaller glass containers to store it in the fridge. He returns the vacuum cleaner to the storage closet he found it in. Then, as promised, he gathers his things—not much, just his phone and his car keys—and heads toward the front door.

Vincent follows him to the door, presumably to lock it after he leaves. 

Yves steps outside, lingers for just a moment on the doorstep. The car is parked close enough that he hadn’t bothered to grab his umbrella, but now it’s dark out, and it’s raining just as hard. 

“I left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,” Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. “The medicine’s in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Don’t come back to work until your fever’s completely—”

It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesn’t think, just reacts—he reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely. 

“Woah,” he says, steadying him. “Are you—”

Vincent’s hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yves’s touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders rising and falling not as soundlessly as usual.

Yves swallows past the alarm he feels percolating in his chest. Had he been about to pass out? Just how high is his fever right now? “Vincent—”

“Sorry,” Vincent manages, through gritted teeth. He makes an effort to regain his balance, to move away. He sways on his feet, and Yves feels the panic in his chest rise anew. 

He reaches up and slings an arm around his waist. “Hey,” he says, trying for reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yves’s touch. 

Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. “I think it would be best if you laid down,” he says. “Do you think you can walk?”

Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

“Sorry,” Vincent says, again. “I… didn’t expect it to be an issue.”

He’s frowning, hard, as if he’s upset with himself, though Yves can’t quite piece apart why he’d have reason to be. “Hey, no apologizing,” Yves says. “Save your energy for walking.”

Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until he’s in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. It’s a short walk—down the hallway and then off to the left—but Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat.

It’s not until Vincent is settled on his bed, the blankets pulled loosely over him, that Yves allows himself to let go.

Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do right now is leave. But it isn’t about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did.

“Are you warm enough?” Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue.

A nod. 

“Do you need me to get you anything else?”

Vincent shakes his head.

“Okay,” Yves says. “I guess I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, then.”

Vincent will be fine, he tells himself. At the end of the day, they are only coworkers, and Vincent is one of the most independent people he knows. If Vincent doesn’t want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. “Text me if you need anything, I mean it.”

He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, then—

There’s a hand on his sleeve, tugging.

Yves goes very still.

When Vincent notices what he’s done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s burned. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, again. And just like that, he’s back to how he always is—his expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. “I’m sorry.” But Yves doesn’t forget what he’s seen. “You can go.”

Yves’s heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincent’s forehead. At the physical contact, Vincent’s breath catches.

And for a second, Yves wonders if he’s made a mistake—if maybe Vincent doesn’t want to be touched, right now. If he’s misread the situation; if Vincent wants him to go, after all. He opens his mouth to apologize.

But then Vincent shuts his eyes. The tenseness to his expression eases, almost imperceptibly, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Oh, Yves realizes. His head must hurt—Yves suspected as much—but if he’s not mistaken, the expression on Vincent’s face right now is…

Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincent’s temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincent’s eyes stay shut, but the furrow to his eyebrows loosens, and his jaw unclenches, just a bit. The change is minute, almost imperceptible. If Yves weren’t paying close attention, he might’ve missed it.

As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now.

Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincent’s hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully.  He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertips—quick and erratic—slows. Until Vincent’s breathing evens out, until the hurt in his expression dulls. Until the tension in his shoulders eases.

By the time he finally withdraws his hand, Vincent is fast asleep. Yves fetches a new glass of water for his nightstand, changes out the plastic bag lining the trash can, and lines the cough drops and medicine up at the edge of Vincent’s desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing.

Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work.

—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he wakes at Vincent’s desk, it’s to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shoulders—probably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head. 

Behind him, there’s a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yves’s chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehow—too quiet, for its proximity. Muffled.

It’s dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincent’s digital alarm clock, the pale green digits cutting into the black. He hears the rustling of blankets, followed by another short, painful intake of breath.

The sneeze that follows is stifled into something. Even stifled, it sounds uncharacteristically harsh—all force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best.

“hH’ih’iNNGKkk-t!”

Yves blinks. Then he leans over the desk to flick on the lamp. Dull golden light suffuses the desk, bright enough to cast Vincent in form and graying color. 

“Are you okay?”

At the light, Vincent’s eyes widen. He looks—stricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. “Did I—” he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath he’s taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. “—Did I wake you?”

Yves opens his mouth to respond. Before he can think up a convincing excuse, Vincent shakes his head dejectedly, as if he already knows the answer.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.”

Quiet. As to not wake Yves, presumably. The revelation causes an ache to settle somewhere deep inside of him, heavy and inexorable. Yves is more than certain that this flu is already miserable enough on its own, even without the added challenge of having to be quiet about it. He wants to say, do you really think that’s what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own?

“You don’t have to be quiet,” is all he manages, instead.  It’s a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesn’t make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds. 

It’s the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhausting—forceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly. 

“Can I get you anything?” Yves asks, when Vincent is done coughing.

Vincent just looks back at him, unmoving. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he looks perhaps more exhausted than Yves has ever seen him—really, he looks as though he hasn’t slept at all. He’s seated with his back against the headboard with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. One of his hands is clenched loosely around it, pinning the corners in place. 

“Tea?” Yves offers, because it’s better than saying nothing. “Water, cough drops. A cold compress?” Vincent doesn’t say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. “Extra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?”

“Water… would be nice,” Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprised—he had half expected no answer at all. At Yves’s split second of hesitation, Vincent’s frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. “...If it’s not too much trouble.”

Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway.

It’s dark. There aren’t many windows in the hallway to let in light from outside, but once he gets to the dining room, it gets easier to see. Judging by how dark it is outside, there are probably a few hours left until sunrise. It’s still early, then. Early enough that it’s quiet, around them—no traffic out on the streets, save for the occasional car, headed to who-knows-where; no neighbors going about their early morning routines; just the steady trickle of rain on the windowsill. Yves rinses the cup out in the sink, shakes it dry, and fills it again.

When he makes it back to the bedroom, it’s unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasn’t moved at all since Yves left the room.

Yves crosses the room to hand him the glass. Vincent blinks up at him, a little blearily.

“I got you water,” Yves says, unnecessarily.

Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to hold it with just one. Yves looks away as he drinks.  

When Vincent lowers the glass at last, Yves takes it from him and sets it back into place onto the bedside table. He straightens, turns to face Vincent again. “Any better now?”

Vincent nods. It’s quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stopped—the room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” 

Yves hums. “To be honest, I didn’t either.” He stifles a yawn into one hand—he’s still a little tired. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must be tired,” Vincent frowns, looking him over. “You came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?” 

“What?”

Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. “I’ve fallen asleep there before. It’s not very comfortable.”

Yves thinks he shouldn’t be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. “It’s not that bad,” he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. “My neck would probably be sorer if I’d slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.”

“You could’ve taken the couch instead,” Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. “It would probably have been wiser.”

“I wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,” Yves says, because it’s true. “Besides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That can’t have been comfortable either.”

“It’s not just about that. You—” Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: “hh-! hhiH’GKT-sSHuh! snf-!” He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. “Hh…  hh’IIDDZshH’Uhh-!” 

“Bless you!” Yves says, startled.

Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. “You shouldn’t have slept so close to me. I really don’t want you to catch this.”

He’s frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, it’s somehow Yves that he’s more worried about right now.

Yves isn’t particularly concerned about that—he has no shortage of  sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, he’ll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasn’t done before. Still, Vincent looks so—well, so tornby the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him.

“How about this?” he says. “If you’re so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then we’ll be even.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s a terrible deal for you.”

“I’ll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,” Yves says, with a shrug. “If this means I get free cough drops out of it, I’d say it’s a win.”

He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincent’s bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like he’s resisting the urge to say something—to tell Yves to move further away, probably.

“Relax,” Yves says, reflexively. “It’ll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.” 

He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincent’s forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still.

“Your fever’s worse than before,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand.

“It’s not.” Vincent’s eyes are still shut. “The temperature is just higher because it’s night time.”

The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. “You know,” he says, “that’s not very reassuring.” The blanket around Vincent’s shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincent’s shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. “Are you feeling any better than before?”

Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though he’s trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. “I…”

“You can be honest.”

Vincent’s jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him.

“My head feels heavy,” he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. “And my chest hurts.” He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. “I’m… not used to getting sick like this.”

Yves’s hands still. “Like what?”

“In any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,” Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himself—his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched—everything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion.

Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, it’s the small, impulsive thought that wins out.

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, next to Vincent. The mattress dips under his weight. 

Vincent has always been taller than him, but sitting down like this, they nearly see eye to eye. It’s a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent haven’t been physically intimate outside of the times where they’ve had to prove their relationship to an audience. But when he thinks back to how Vincent reacted to Yves feeling his forehead, or Yves carding his hands through his hair—if he hasn’t misread, it almost feels like—

Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. “I’ve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.”

For a moment, Vincent stays perfectly still. Yves has five seconds to overthink all of his actions over the past twenty four hours. 

Then Vincent inches closer, ever so slightly, to lean his head on Yves’s shoulder.

Yves curls his arms around him. There’s the slightest hitch in Vincent’s breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closer—as if he’s allowed himself permission, at last, to let go.

His whole body is concerningly warm. “You’re burning up,” Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincent’s hair.

“...I figured,” Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. “Whoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.”

Yves laughs, a little surprised. “Careful. You’re going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.”

“I can’t help it if it’s true.”

Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesn’t think he’d be able to list them all if he were asked to. It’s different, though, being so close to Vincent—so close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincent’s chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yves’s neck—like this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing.

Would dating Vincent be like this? Would this kind of exchange be given and received as easily as anything? Yves wills himself not to think about it. This is nothing, he tells himself, but a simple offering of comfort between friends. To think otherwise would be disingenuous.

They stay like that for some time. Time slows, or perhaps it expands or collapses—really, Yves would be none the wiser. The whir of the ceiling fan and the light rain on the rooftop a constant. When Vincent pulls away at last, it’s to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve.

“Hh-! hhIH’IIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!” 

“Bless you,” Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isn’t done.

His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. “hHIH’iiGKKTsSHH—! Sorry, I— Ihh-! hHHh’DZZSSCHh—uH-!”

“Bless you again,” Yves says, reaching past him to hand over the box of tissues on the nightstand. He holds out the box for Vincent to take.

Vincent turns away to blow his nose. When he returns, he’s a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasn’t gone away.

“When I asked you to come over,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to stay.”

Yves blinks. “Is it so strange for me to be here?”

To that, Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Yves looks out the window, where he can see the skyline, off in the distance, the dark form of the apartment building across the streets, the street in between lit dimly with golden streetlights.

“A little,” he says. “When I was young, if I got sick, it wasn’t really a big deal.”

At Yves’s expression, he amends: “That’s not to say that my family didn’t care, because they did. No one spent too long in my room—better to not risk catching it, if they could help it—but back then, if I didn’t have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.” he shuts his eyes. There’s a strange expression on his face—something a little more complicated than wistfulness.

“We had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows. But if I was running a fever, my brother always made sure to keep the heat on.” His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. “Sometimes he’d stay outside my door to talk about his day. He was the class lead, back when he was in high school. It was always something inconsequential, like which of his classmates he liked and which ones he held a grudge against, and why. Almost always for the smallest reasons, like someone borrowing a pencil and forgetting to give it back, or someone tossing the ball to him in gym class.”

“Were you and your brother close?” Yves asks.

“Close is relative,” Vincent says. “I never really knew how to—inhabit his world, I guess. When I moved to the states, and when I decided to stay here, part of it was out of some sort of defiance. I didn’t want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.”

He shuts his eyes. “But I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldn’t have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. It’s strange how that works.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Yves says. He’s always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesn’t mean they’ve always seen eye to eye on things. “Sometimes it’s less about what they say, and more about the fact that they’re saying it.”

Vincent nods. “They all cared about me in their own way,” he says, at last. “I don’t think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When you’re a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.”

“Do you regret it?” Yves asks. “What?”

“Not appreciating them more, back then.”

Vincent smiles. “I was just a kid. I suppose it’s natural that I didn’t know better.” Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. “I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Do you ever miss being part of a large household?”

“It’s peaceful on my own,” Vincent says, at last. “I usually don’t mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.”

He hasn’t asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherie’s potluck, Vincent had seemed to believe that the only way Yves could possibly be interested in him was if the information could serve their fake relationship, somehow.

The realization settles him. Perhaps Vincent has shared this because he knows Yves cares.

“Your apartment is nice,” Yves says, trying to ignore the insistent beat of his heart in his chest, which all of a sudden seems to want to make itself known. “I can see why you would like living here.”

Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “It’s not the same, of course. As home. Though that’s a given.” Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincent’s done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? “When I’ve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not for…”

He looks over to Yves, now. Yves knows what he means, knows how to fill in the rest of the sentence: not for the reason you’re here, now.

“I know I’ve intruded a little,” Yves says, with a laugh.

Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “I wouldn’t consider it an intrusion,” he says. “You’ve helped me a lot. I just—I’m a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.”

Your first time over. Yves ignores—well, tries to ignore—the implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasn’t confirmed anything, and it’s not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the public’s eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I like seeing you,” Yves says.

Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. “Even bedridden with a fever?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Of course.”

“I’ve been terrible company,” Vincent says. “And even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?”

“Vacuuming is therapeutic.”

“You said that about cooking, too,” Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?”

“It’s not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.”

“I’ll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,” Vincent says, deadpan.

Yves laughs. “It’s like I said,” he says. “I like spending time with you. Even—” To steal Vincent’s words from earlier. “—bedridden with a fever.”

Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously. 

“Though, I promise I won’t intrude for much longer,” Yves tells him. “I’ll probably head out in the morning.” He’s almost done with the work Vincent has on his desk—he’d fallen asleep checking over one of the income statements for discrepancies. A few hours should be enough time to make sure that everything is in order. He still has work at eight—he’ll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late he’d slept, but that’s nothing new.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. “You must’ve had other evening plans.”

None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He can’t say things like that if he wants to keep this—well, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincent—to himself.

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says, instead.

“What?”

“I didn’t just do it for you.”

Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. “Are you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?”

“It’s like you said,” he says. “I’ve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesn’t happen often, right? When you didn’t show up at work, I…” The next admission feels a little too honest—but there’s a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. “I was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

Vincent nods. “I get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fake—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. “I wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I would’ve spent the entire night worrying if I hadn’t come.” He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s a little selfish, I know.”

Vincent’s eyes are very wide.

“Anyways,” Yves says, with the sinking feeling that he’s said too much, “you should try to get some more sleep.” He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow that’s leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. “It’s still really early. If you’re planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.”

“Yves,” Vincent says, from behind him.

“Hmm?”

“...Thank you.” 

When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy.

Yves’s heart stutters in his chest. Fuck.

(On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.)

—

At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while he’s at it, and heads off for work. He yawns through half his morning meetings, adds an extra espresso shot to the coffee he snags from the break room.

The text arrives halfway through the day, just before he’s intending to head downstairs for lunch.

V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didn’t mean for you to complete my work along with it.

Yves smiles. He’d emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterday’s late-night work session before he’d left. Vincent must’ve seen it.

Y: some genie i met told me your wish was to have your work done before the deadline

V: What are you talking about?

Y: he also told me you were very stubborn about not redistributing your assignments to anyone else  Y: so you can’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands

V: Yves.

Y: feel free to check it over for errors :)

[heartseungs-archive]

better than gold | l.hc

genre ➳  historical au (early 19th century), fluff, angst, friends to lovers pairings ➳ nobleman!haechan x fem!reader word count ➳ 16.4k (added more after proofreading...) warnings ➳ mentions of alcohol, violence (threats), classism info ➳  this is the first installment of boats against the current, an 00 line series! click here to read the other works :) 

the present: august, 1912

The grandfather clock's heavy toll resonates throughout your house's wooden walls, quickly shocking you awake from where you lie sleepily on your desk. It is not the first time the heavy family heirloom has done so, and despite your protests, your father insists on keeping it.

Outside, the sky is pitch black, only illuminated by the lonely moon. You hear the faint chirping of crickets from far away, and you wonder if he’ll be coming today.

As if spoken into existence, you hear a rustling below you, definitely made by something much larger than a wild rabbit. Leaning your body out of the window, you look down to see a familiar face staring back up at you.

“You’re early today,” you say.

“Will you believe me if I say I missed you too much at the party?” Despite how the darkness prevents you from seeing his expression, you know a mischievous grin decorates his lips.

Even though it definitely isn’t the first time Donghyuck has attempted to scale the walls of your home, it still makes your mouth turn dry. You watch nervously as he deftly moves from the trellis to the carved marble eaves of your window with ease of experience. Donghyuck’s definitely strong enough to hold on even if he loses his footing, and smart enough not to get himself killed. Still, he’s usually slightly tipsy from his parties, and you are not sure if it is the best idea to have him climbing structures unattended in the middle of the night. Though it isn’t the brightest idea, you’re half ready to leap from the window after him if he falls.

Five minutes later, Donghyuck is standing in your bedroom, clothes and hair slightly rumpled, and a triumphant grin on his face.

The first time he had done this, you had almost been out of your mind with fear. Both for Donghyuck, and at the thought that someone could walk in at any time. Had one of the maidservants, or even worse, members of the family, discovered him here, the both of you would have been as good as dead.

No matter that Donghyuck had been your best friend and confidante from before you could even walk. In society’s eyes, you were an unmarried woman, and him a bachelor. And those two did not mix, especially not unchaperoned in a bedroom close to midnight.

“What are you thinking about?” Donghyuck has made himself comfortable by your fireplace, sinking into the armchair which he always complains is much too stiff, while you chide him for his poor posture.

You shake your head. “Nothing much. How was your week?”

“You know me, Y/N. The usual.”

The usual meaning alcohol, women and cards. The reality wasn’t as bad as you presented it to be, of course. Donghyuck wasn’t some sort of degenerate, unlike some of the men you had actually met. He was just a flirty, reckless fool with too much time on his hands, and an avid passion for red wine.

“Did any poor girl come after you this time for breaking her heart?” You inquire, amused.

“Well, I did get champagne poured on my head by a very angry woman. I think her name was Hana?” Donghyuck complains, his lips settling into a pout.

“Honestly, you should figure out by now that you can’t just flirt with women and leave them hanging. It’s not a nice thing to do, you know?” You chide slightly, but you don’t hold it against Donghyuck. He’s never given anyone false promises, making it clear that he was there for a good time. His dalliances have also never gone beyond honeyed words and occasional meals. It’s not his fault that feelings often get entangled, and unreciprocated. Still, his life would be much easier if he didn’t constantly have a string of jilted lovers out for his blood.

“But it’s fun,” Donghyuck replies nonchalantly, and you roll your eyes. “Enough about me. What has my dearest Y/N been up to?” He asks, leaning forward to hear you better.

Your shoulders sink a little, and Donghyuck immediately notices it. However, he remains silent, waiting for you to begin speaking. “I’m not sure what I could tell you, since I’m stuck in the house every day anyways. I hate to say this, but your visits are the most exciting part of my week.”

Even though that should make Donghyuck happy - he enjoys spending time with you, after all, and vice versa - he knows that isolation is taking its toll on you. He feels irrationally angry at your parents, but bites his tongue. He knows you don’t like it when he speaks ill of them, even if he knows this is unfair to you and he’s technically right.

It’s his fault, after all. If the both of you hadn’t been photographed together by that gossip newspaper, your father would likely have never lost his temper. Even if Renjun’s estate was safe, anyone could have come in during a party.

Donghyuck should have known better. Done better.

It’s been a month since you’ve been confined at home, and three weeks since Donghyuck started his weekly wall-climbing escapades. Before this, the both of you would meet almost weekly. Once your virtual house arrest started, Donghyuck found himself missing your presence, as if a hole had opened in his life with nothing to fill it.

For you, the confinement had been more mind-numbing than anything. Besides your daytime lessons, you found yourself dawdling aimlessly around the house, with little to do, and desperately missing the city.

Donghyuck notices your expression gradually get more desolate, and he immediately snaps himself out of his thoughts. He’s here to make you feel better, not act as a walking reminder of your missing freedom.

“Well, I’ll try to stay longer, then. Be grateful. Not everyone can have the honour of being in my presence for such an extended period of time,” Donghyuck states cockily, and you laugh at him.

Just like that, he’s lightened your mood, despite the sombre nature of the conversation. It’s something he does easily, coming up with a witty jab to amuse you.

You’re sorry to see Donghyuck go when he finally leaves two hours later, his face considerably less flushed after he had sobered from the alcohol. You had also forced him to down two glasses of water and some biscuits, so he wouldn’t wake up tomorrow with a splitting headache. Even stuck at home, you want to do what you can to care for Donghyuck’s well-being. At least his house isn’t that large of a distance away from yours.

Had this been three years ago, your parents would have allowed him to stay over in a heartbeat. Now, he’s more like some sort of fugitive, every interaction with Donghyuck reduced to clandestine meetings.

Still, times change so very quickly, shifting like quicksand. You just pray Donghyuck and yourself won’t get swallowed in and lose each other along the way.

the past: september, 1897

Donghyuck doesn’t like crying people.

He would rather his classmate throw a tantrum and kick him, than cry in his face. He decides that he especially doesn’t like girls who sob quietly and sniffle afterwards, refusing to speak to him for the rest of the day. It makes Donghyuck feel bad, and that’s his least favourite feeling.

He wants to say that he didn’t mean to spill milk all over your new satin dress, but he supposes he did mean it if he was the one who decided to start running around the playroom. Donghyuck thinks you might be even more upset if you found out he told a lie to you. The teacher looks like she’s at a loss, and Donghyuck feels as if he needs to take matters into his own hands, and make amends.

Just so you don’t cry again and make Donghyuck feel guilty, or at least that’s what he tells himself.

The drawing that Donghyuck hands to you twenty minutes later is colourful and messy, almost symbolic of the boy sitting across of you.

“I did this for you. I’m sorry for ruining your dress,” he mumbles, looking down nervously at his sock-clad feet. Pretty Y/N, it says, underneath a clumsily-drawn stick figure of you. And in the far corner of the paper lies another figure, almost as if exiled. Stupid Donghyuck is scribbled next to a drawing of himself, deliberately made much uglier with downturned eyebrows and a jagged mouth. Your eyes widen at his description of himself. The teacher said that was a bad word, you can’t help but think.

Despite your tear-stained cheeks, a little smile pokes out from the corner of your lips. Still, you don’t say anything, causing Donghyuck’s heart to begin speeding up in nervousness. Unbeknownst to himself, he is anxiously tapping his feet on the ground, waiting for you to respond.

“I…like the drawing. And I’m sorry your milk was spilt,” you mutter to yourself, but Donghyuck’s keen earns pick it up. He smiles a toothy grin at you, happy to be forgiven. Across the classroom, your teacher watches fondly, smiling to herself. The both of you spend the rest of the afternoon together, after you ask Donghyuck if you can borrow his pencils to add to the drawing.

From that day on, you and Donghyuck are inseparable. Donghyuck is almost like a magnet glued to you, following you around wherever you go. He’s the one to both steal your snacks and share them with you, the one who teases you but also hits another boy for making you cry.

Your parents eventually recognise the little boy who walks out of class with you every day, hand in hand.

“Who is this, Y/N?” Your mother asks sweetly, leaning down to match your heights.

“He’s my friend. Donghyuck.” Donghyuck knows to bow politely despite his young age, and you can tell from the slight smile on your mother’s face that she’s already pleased with him.

‘Would Donghyuck like to come over for lunch today?” Your father asks.

“We have ice cream. Our cook used to work at an ice cream parlor,” you whisper conspiratorially in Donghyuck’s ear. His eyes widen immediately, and he looks at you eagerly. Ice cream is one of Donghyuck’s favourite foods, but he’s rarely allowed to have it.

“Well, then I guess it’s settled. The both of you can sit in the back with the nanny.”

The kindly-looking woman who is Donghyuck’s nanny helps the both of you into the car. You still remember the first day you had met her, where you laughed at Donghyuck for needing a nanny to follow him around.

“Don’t your parents pick you up from school, Donghyuck?”

“They’re very busy with their business. My nanny is the one who spends time with me at home,” Donghyuck had mumbled, looking down at his hands. His expression was strangely sorrowful for that of a seven-year-old boy.

“Well, you can come over after school, if you want. I’m sure your nanny will agree.”

And that marked the start of countless sun-lit afternoons spent at your family home, until Donghyuck became a regular, fixed presence in your life even as the both of you grew up.

february, 1908

You could not wait for this night to end.

The idea of a debutante ball was glamorous and had drawn you in at first. After all, it sounded like a dream. A ball celebrating your transition to eighteen years of age, from child to adult. You had spent the months before devoting time to lessons to prepare, endless hours given to ballroom dancing and etiquette.

However, the long-awaited night itself had passed by in a rapid blur of conversations with strangers whose names you did not remember, and dances that left you dizzy and slightly breathless. You had missed out on dinner because of the constriction of your dress, and it left you starving two hours later.

You muttered a polite excuse to the group that you were standing with, making a beeline for the gilded doors leading towards the balcony. You had expected more from alcohol when trying it for the first time, but the champagne had only left an uncomfortable flush in your cheeks that was quickly cooled by the night air.  Growing up had been a little disappointing, if you could say so yourself.

“There you are.” The intrusion of someone else’s voice causes you to jump in shock before you quickly relax once you realise who it is.

Donghyuck was dressed in a fine suit, tailored neatly to his lean figure. Still, he would probably outgrow it before the year ended. Within the past two years, Donghyuck had grown rapidly, now over half a head taller than you, his shoulders widening much too quickly. His speaking voice had faded into a low honey timbre but retained some of its childish cadences, especially when he got excited. You almost didn’t recognise his voice at first, considering the last time you heard it was much too long ago.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” Donghyuck’s arrival at your debutante ball is a pleasant surprise, considering his family had embarked on a grand tour of Europe just a few months ago.

By right, he should have been in Florence at this very moment. You hadn’t expected him to return until next summer, instead having to fill the Donghyuck-sized gap in your life with his postcards and your carefully written letters. Telephoning was difficult, especially when Donghyuck was constantly travelling from province to town to city.

Looking at your best friend properly now, Donghyuck seems slightly different, older. The way he carries himself is more confident, as if he’s at ease with himself. He’s grown up, you realise, and self-consciousness overtakes you. Maybe you still look like a child next to him, unsurely dangling on the precipice between maturity and childishness.

“Do you really think I would miss your debutante for anything? I just need to join them back in Vienna next month.” His voice is painfully familiar, but hearing it in person is so much better than over the phone.

You felt Donghyuck’s absence more than you allowed yourself to acknowledge, you realise. Having him next to you makes it easier to breathe, even if your corset is much too tight.

“I missed seeing you, you know,” Donghyuck says, and you turn to him, breath hitching slightly. The both of you rarely exchange any terms of affection, if any at all. The last time you told Donghyuck you missed him was perhaps over a decade ago, when he had been sick and missed coming to preparatory school for a few days.

You hope there aren’t any eavesdroppers in the vicinity who might misunderstand. Within your own private circles, you and Donghyuck are safe. Almost everyone knows the both of you have been attached at the hip since young, and no one jumps to conclusions. But here, with the curious, judging eyes of strangers? You cannot help but be scared, for both yourself and Donghyuck. Still, you nod, a silent acknowledgement of Donghyuck’s statement.

Just then, you hear the faint sounds of applause and cheering coming from the ballroom, and you realise the clock has just struck midnight.

“Happy birthday, Y/N.” Donghyuck is the first to wish you, ahead of your family. He looks slightly nervous as he pulls something out from his jacket pocket, and you look over at him curiously.

“I got you a present while I was in France. It reminded me of you,” he murmurs, and the sight suddenly reminds you of that exact moment in kindergarten when he first handed you that drawing.

The blue velvet box is sleek and elegant, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. It opens neatly to reveal a matching bracelet and necklace, a little sun charm fashioned in gold and diamond dangling from the end of both. You don’t miss the symbolism of it, and look up at Donghyuck.

“It’s lovely. Can you put it on for me?” Donghyuck nods, and the air feels strangely tense, charged with an unfamiliar energy. His hands are gentle as he places the necklace gently around your neck, only fumbling slightly before it's set in place. The cool metal is jarring against the warmth of your skin, and you shiver slightly, though you’re not sure if it's from the metal or from Donghyuck’s fingers accidentally brushing against the nape of your neck. He moves to your wrist then, and your eyes are drawn to his cuff links.

They are in the exact same design as the jewellery he gifted you, just slightly smaller. He did that on purpose, you realise, and notice the mirth in his eyes. No one will notice, unless they look closely at both you and Donghyuck.

It feels intimate, like a shared secret between the both of you.

A small proof of your friendship with him, for you to know, even if no one else does.

He finally steps away from you once the bracelet is secured, and you lift it up to observe it carefully. Despite the lack of light, the pendant gleams brightly, almost as if imbued with its own glow, a sun in itself. A little piece, a reminder of Donghyuck, to carry around wherever you go.

It had simply been a lucky coincidence that the debutante ball fell on the exact day of your birthday. However, looking at Donghyuck now, standing next to you on the balcony, you’re suddenly infinitely grateful for the stroke of luck that allowed it to happen.

march, 1908

Donghyuck absolutely detested carriage rides, especially when they were with someone whose presence he did not enjoy.

There were still five more hours to Vienna, but Donghyuck already felt exhausted at the idea of what he would have to endure once he reached. The excitement of the grand tour had been diminished by the ever-looming presence of his parents, and he knew that their demands would only increase once he returned home. After all, he would be formally considered an adult.

He decides to stare absentmindedly out the window, at a dazzling landscape of white and green. Donghyuck’s attention inadvertently drifts to the entire reason he had even left in the first place.

It had not been easy to convince his parents to allow him to leave halfway through their tour of Florence, especially when the city had been the location for many of his father’s meetings. Meetings where Donghyuck’s presence had been required. However, once introductions had passed, Donghyuck found himself no different from a piece of furniture, more ornamental than functional in nature.

Of course, his parents were unaware of the true reason Donghyuck so desperately wished to return home.

He had found the opportunity when his father needed documents delivered to their home address, and someone to approve said documents. Donghyuck had volunteered with little hesitation, even if it meant rushing a ten-day journey within four. He had little sleep, both from moving from train to train and forcing himself to keep awake to finish the work he had promised his father.

His fatigue seemed to melt away, however, when he saw you in that pearl-white ballgown and matching gloves, hair pinned in a chignon with feathers interspersed in between.

The delight in your eyes when you saw Donghyuck made him feel as if every single snide comment made by his father meant nothing, minuscule compared to the faint smile on your face as he placed the necklace around your neck.

Donghyuck had been hesitant at the atelier, unsure if it was too much. Perhaps you didn’t want a gift so clearly associated with him, even if the both of you were close. He was grateful now, however, and thought that the sun pendant looked so much more beautiful on you than it ever did on him.

He found it strange that before your debutante, he had been fine with just exchanging postcards and letters detailing your days. Months had been spent like this from city to city, as he took in the sights and sounds of a place so very different from home.

However, the memory of your presence now remained fresh in his mind, and Donghyuck found your absence even more noticeable. As far as Donghyuck knew, you had never been to another country, much less a separate continent. You would have taken in the architecture with starry eyes, and dragged Donghyuck around with you to savour as many cuisines as possible.

He decides to close his eyes, and pretend that you are sitting in the same cabin across from him, travelling together.

may, 1909

You are nineteen when everything comes crashing down.

“You should thank me, Lee Donghyuck. I just saved your life.”

‘I could have handled that on my own,” Donghyuck mutters petulantly, and you throw a questioning glance at him. The moment he had become an eligible bachelor, Donghyuck was quick to gain the attention of many women, owing to his natural charm. Of course, he easily soaked up the attention and relished in it, quickly becoming the centre of parties.

One lady, in particular, had been notably persistent, and you almost admired her for her efforts. She had shown up consistently at every party Donghyuck had thrown or attended, staying for hours and attempting to strike up a conversation. When that was unsuccessful, she extended her reach to Renjun and Jeno. It definitely didn’t help that she seemed to appear everywhere they went.

“She would have still been tailing you if I hadn’t come,” you huff, striding into the main hall of your family estate. Donghyuck follows in after you, an amused smile on his face.

“Oh, what would I do without you, Y/N? You’re my saviour from the immense threat of overly eager noblewomen. How should I repay you?” He has a hand over his heart, sighing dramatically, and you roll your eyes at Donghyuck’s theatrics.

“One day, you’re going to regret it. If I find your cold, dead body in an alleyway because you angered the wrong person, I won’t be the one to avenge you.” The both of you walk into the familiar archway of your house, Donghyuck smiling at the familiar housemaids that make up your staff. He has already been a consistent presence since young, and most of them have seen both of you grow up together.

“Well, I think it would be more likely that you’re the murderess out for my blood-”

“Y/N. You’re home. Your parents would like to see you immediately. Apologies, Mr Lee. I’m afraid you’ll be unable to stay for lunch today.” Your senior housekeeper, Ms Kim, has a stormy expression on her face, and your eyebrows furrow in concern. Furthermore, her switch from calling Donghyuck by his formal name fills you with a sense of unease. Why doesn’t she meet his eyes?

Donghyuck looks at you, eyes questioning, but you are just as clueless as he is. Evidently, your parents must want to speak to you about something important.

“Alright. I’ll see you another day, Y/N. Also, Ms Kim, just call me Donghyuck, please. As you always do.”

His tone is casual and light, but there’s an undertone of worry.

Even though Donghyuck knows there’s no reason you would be unsafe in your own home, the atmosphere feels strangely heavy suddenly, foreboding. Ms Kim remains silent as Donghyuck strolls back the way he just came in, and that only causes your panic to rise further.

“Your parents are waiting in the sitting room, Miss,” she states lowly, before quickly rushing off.

You’re equal parts curious and scared as you make your way up the marble stairs.

“Y/N, darling, you’re here. Take a seat.” Your mother’s term of endearment when she sees you come in allows your heart to lighten up a little. But even then, worry is evident in the set of her eyebrows. Your father, however, is an entirely different story. His expression is stormy and unfamiliar to you, and reminds you of the scolding you received as a child when you had crossed too many lines.

“Is there…something wrong? I was out with Donghyuck and we had a slight mishap. i didn’t mean to be late.” Your unease causes you to shift nervously, posture remaining stiff, despite how the plush couch invites you to sink into it. There’s a pause, and you look at your father. It’s evident he wants to say something.

“You shouldn’t meet the Lee boy from now on. He isn’t allowed to visit, either.” You know your father is referring to Donghyuck, and you look at him, visibly alarmed. Your parents have always welcomed Donghyuck to your house, and they are aware of the friendship between the both of you.

Your mother senses the shift in the atmosphere of the room, and quickly attempts to mediate.

“What your father is saying, Y/N, is that you should try to interact less with Donghyuck-I mean, Mr Lee, from now on. It would be easier for both families if the two of you maintained a distance.” Her words are stilted as she looks at you, gauging your expression as it shifts from confusion to disbelief.

The laugh that escapes you comes out nervous and forced, your eyes darting rapidly from your father, to your mother, and then back.

You force yourself breathe, to remain calm, even as you fiddle with your fingers in your lap. However, your voice comes out slightly strained.

“Donghyuck’s my childhood friend. He comes over every week. I thought the both of you were alright with his presence. Why so suddenly-”

“Because we did not know that goddamned boy was Lee Haechan!” Your father’s voice is booming, the sudden increase in volume causing both you and your mother to flinch. It takes you a while to process Donghyuck’s formal name, the one he uses with strangers. Evidently, there is a lapse in communication, and your father’s outburst puzzling you further. Just then, the butler comes to the door. “There is a call for you, sir.” Your father leaves enraged, and the silence that falls over the room is heavy.

You look to your mother desperately for some sort of clarification, and she sighs wearily. Tears are budding at the corner of your eyes, and you hastily blink them away.

“Your father found out about Donghyuck’s identity at a business function a week ago. We were unaware that Donghyuck was the only son of the Lee family.”

“Does that mean something?” You had always been aware of Donghyuck’s family history, where his ancestors had ties to this place from over a century ago. He didn’t speak much of it, only telling you bits and pieces.

“As you know, Y/N, our family is relatively new. After all, it was your grandfather who earned his fortune here. Your father and the Lees have a relatively tumultuous relationship, to say the least.”

Your confusion begins to clear up barely, but you’re not sure if for the better or worse. Since you were young, you’ve heard the whispers follow your parents, and subsequently you, round. That families like yours, the nouveau-riche who earned their wealth barely half a century ago, are nothing compared to the aristocracy. That your presence and others diluted the nature of high society itself, instead bringing disgrace with their lack of pedigree.

You’ve always paid little mind to it, however. After all, there are plenty of families that would be considered nouveau-riche, most of them equally as wealthy and powerful as the ones that hail from the aristocracy. The whispers have gradually dwindled over the years, and you believed it to be a poorly-conceived notion by certain adults reluctant to let their social status be infringed by those considered beneath them.

And you know that Donghyuck pays little mind to it, if any. In fact, you’re not sure if he’s even aware of the distinction, considering the nature of your friendship.

“I know you and Donghyuck have known each other for a long time. However, we do not think Donghyuck’s parents would be happy about this if they found out. It would be easier for both of you if you maintained a distance. Both for you and Donghyuck, and for your families as well.”

Your mother’s words cause you to realise that you’ve never been formally introduced to Donghyuck’s parents, or even met them. While you have been over to his house, it was only when his parents were absent on their business trips, or when he threw parties with hundreds in attendance.

Donghyuck has barely mentioned them, and you fail to recall any piece of knowledge about his parents. You wonder if they are aware of you, Donghyuck’s best friend since childhood. The sudden imbalance has been made glaringly obvious by your father’s words, and you’re not entirely sure what to do with the new realization.

The thought that you might be non-existent to Donghyuck’s family, the people he’s closest to in the world, leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Your mother seems to sense the turmoil unfolding in your mind, and looks at you gently. “Take some time to think about it, Y/N. Your father and I will be out for dinner tonight. The telephone will be free to use if you wish to make a call.”

You can tell she is apologetic about her words and that of your father’s, but you can’t bring yourself to reply just yet.

Later that evening, you’re nestled in the armchair of your father’s office, telephone across you. Donghyuck is likely done with dinner at this very moment, and perhaps resting in his room.

You must look rather ridiculous to the staff, having sat in here for an hour and yet nowhere near making a call. Still, hesitation tugs at your movements. What will you even ask Donghyuck?

As if to end your dilemma, the telephone rings loudly.

You hastily pick it up, and hear a faint static buzzing before a honeyed voice comes through.

“Hello. This is Lee Donghyuck. May I speak to Y/N for a brief moment, please?” His voice sounds excessively formal and stilted, so different from the tone you’re used to. It causes a smile to make its way onto your face, despite the situation.

“You’re speaking to her right now, Mr Lee,” you reply, and hear Donghyuck huff a laugh from across the receiver.

“Very funny, Y/N. I was half-terrified that your father would be the one to pick up. Care to tell me what happened today after I left?” Donghyuck is simply curious, but you are unsure how to broach the topic.

“Donghyuck?” He hums in acknowledgement.

“My father talked to me today. About the situation between both of our…families. Did you know about it?” Dead silence fills the room, and you can even hear Donghyuck’s breathing still.

“If you are asking whether I was aware that our families are bitter competitors and refuse to interact with each other, then…” Donghyuck’s voice trails off, and you bite your lip out of worry.

“Then?”

“Then yes.” Donghyuck’s voice comes off almost sheepish, and you feel pressure building up at the front of your head.

“Do your parents know who I am?” You finally ask the question that’s waiting on the tip of your tongue. After all, your parents have known Donghyuck since he was a child. Surely his mother and father are aware of you, his best friend of over a decade. Even if friendships between the opposite sex aren’t exactly considered orthodox in proper society.

“They know…I have a close female friend,” he mutters, and it comes out in bits and pieces, that you almost strain to catch it.

“A close female friend.” The four words leave an unpleasant taste in your mouth as you sound them out, even though you know Donghyuck doesn’t mean them to be demeaning. However, it feels humiliating in a way, especially since you’re aware of how the exact same term is used to describe Donghyuck’s fleeting, romantic entanglements.

There’s a beat of silence over the phone, until Donghyuck exhales sharply. You’re gripped by a flash of anger, and then it disappears, leaving doubt and a grim look on your face. Your other hand lies in your lap, and you don’t even realise you’re wrenching your skirt so hard that it crumples.

“Y/N, listen to me, you know how my parents are-”

“No, Donghyuck, I do not know how your parents are. If you may recall, you’ve barely told me anything about them. Or about your family at all, really.”

Your words come out clipped, and you quickly slam down the receiver, ending the telephone call. It’s not even out of anger, really- you think you might just be more fearful of Donghyuck’s reply.

All these years, you rarely prodded Donghyuck to share about his family, unless he offered the information up himself. You knew he had a younger sister and several cousins. After all, it was obvious that the boy did not enjoy sharing much about them, and you guessed that he likely had an estranged relationship with them. For you, it was enough to know that he was from a family similar to yours, inhabiting the upper echelons of society.

Donghyuck was your best friend who grew up with you, spent summers at your house, and the person who your parents treated like a son. That was the only person he needed to be. Even when your father lost his temper, the rage was not directed at Donghyuck, but rather how he was convinced that Donghyuck’s parents would never have allowed such a friendship to blossom.

You wonder what lies Donghyuck must have told them, then, to be able to spend so much time with you unhindered. Unease plagued you at the idea that Donghyuck intentionally omitted his identity from your parents as well, even if it was not malicious in nature.

It made you feel as if your friendship with Donghyuck was something to be embarrassed by, an illicit secret that brought shame onto both of your families.

Maybe he perceived it that way too.

july, 1909

“I’m busy today, Renjun.”

“With checking another one of your father’s ledgers? We both know you don’t enjoy it anyways,” Renjun mutters under his breath, and you glare at him. To give the boy credit, you were eager enough for an excuse to escape the workload that came with being the oldest child and heir.

“Fine. Dinner at the Waldorf Astoria, is it?”

“Yes. At seven. Don’t be late.” He hangs up before you can even reply, and you stare at the now silent receiver. The way that Renjun speaks is the same way he conducts his relationships and friendships: the barest of what is necessary. Still, his curtness is refreshing compared to so many of the people you’ve met, who seem to have no end to their honeyed words.

You think of a boy with never-ending flowery words and witticisms, and determinedly push that thought away immediately.

Three hours later, you stride into the grand lobby of the Waldorf Astoria, heels clacking softly against the marble flooring. The restaurant is one of your favourites, and a smile of recognition appears on the hostess’s face as soon as she sees you.

“Miss Y/N. Good evening. This way, please.” You follow her into one of the private rooms, wondering why Renjun didn’t come out to get you himself. Despite his cold exterior, Renjun prefers to save the waitstaff their trouble, even if it is part of their job.

A sense of foreboding enters you when you push open the door, and you understand why the moment you see who’s sitting at the table.

Lee Donghyuck, hair combed back immaculately and suit clinging to frame, stands up and rushes to block you from leaving when you turn towards the exit.

“Let me through, Haechan,” you say through gritted teeth, looking at the wall past his head. The use of his formal name causes Donghyuck to flinch as if struck, and an apology almost escapes you.

“I haven’t seen you in two months, Y/N. Sit down and we can talk about this. Please,” Donghyuck’s voice is pleading, insistent, and it causes you to pause. Almost. You levelled your gaze at him calmly.

“And what did you tell your parents to meet me today? Did you say that you were meeting Renjun? I’m not sure what they would think if they knew you were meeting a close female friend in a private room at such an expensive restaurant.”

As much as you do not want to use Donghyuck’s parents against him, you’re not quite sure how to deal with him. Lee Haechan, Lee Donghyuck, your best friend. It keeps blending together, leaving you confused.

Donghyuck swallows and steps away, and you think that this is it. He’ll let you go, and the both of you will never return to whatever friendship you had before this. He’ll become a friendly acquaintance at most, considering the both of you will see each other much too often. Especially once he takes over his father’s estate and so do you.

“I told them I was meeting [L/N] [Y/N]. My best friend.”

Donghyuck’s words hang in the air, an invisible hand that stops you from pushing open the door.

“I told them we met in kindergarten and that I visited your estate every day. I told them I’ve known you for twelve years, and that we met every week. And that your parents know me. I told them everything.”

You look at Donghyuck, not daring to breathe.

“Wouldn’t they be angry?” You ask, eyes searching his. Donghyuck allows a small smile to appear on his face, before his eyes turn serious with sincerity once again.

‘Not any less angry than they would have been if I told them earlier. I’m sorry, Y/N. For not being honest from the beginning. I was scared.”

Donghyuck looks so young suddenly, eyes wide and anxious as he looks at you. Every bit a grown-up in the eyes of society, and yet so very young to you. He’s the boy you’ve always known, the seven-year-old who made a painting to apologise to you for ruining your dress. Your heart softens just a little looking at him, guilt creeping in. You’re unfamiliar with his parents, but anyone who can put a damper on the sun himself must be a force to be reckoned with.

The reason Donghyuck loved coming over so much must have been because of them, then. Because his home was hostile and unwelcoming, and he found solace in yours.

Your shoulders relax from their tense posture, and Donghyuck immediately notices it. His expression lightens a little as well, as he senses your rapidly-changing emotions. He steps closer to you, until the both of you are less than a hand’s breadth away from each other.

Up close, you can see the mix of doe-brown and raven-black in Donghyuck’s eyes, and the freckles that scatter haphazardly across his skin. His face is so very familiar to you, and seeing him again after two months of absolute silence hits you like a punch to the gut.

“Donghyuck, I didn’t-”

He grabs your hand, quickly cutting you off. Unease and guilt floods you, but you’ve never been as good at stringing words together as Donghyuck.

“It’s alright, Y/N. You don’t have to apologise for anything.” His voice is comforting, a soothing balm to the emotional turmoil in your heart. You nod quietly, not sure how to continue.

“Now, sit down, will you? I ordered all your favourites and I can’t possibly finish them by myself,” he jokes, and you follow Donghyuck as he pulls out the chair for you, hands exerting gentle pressure on your shoulders.

Later, you watch as Donghyuck eagerly digs into the red velvet cake, even before you get to do so. You had introduced it to him a few years ago, despite his insistence on ordering ice cream instead. Needless to say, you were quite sure you had convinced him to enjoy it, or perhaps he just gave in after your repeated pleading.

He hums contentedly, and your heart surges with fondness. You’re not sure how you had actually thought that Donghyuck could be reduced to a mere acquaintance, the years of friendship diminished. However, you couldn’t be more glad that he was now here, opposite you.

The city is still buzzing when you and Donghyuck leave the chandelier-lit hallways of the Waldorf Astoria, and Donghyuck tugs insistently on your arm.

“Come on. Let’s get you home.” He cranes his neck out towards the road to look for a taxi, but you extend a hand to halt his movements. Donghyuck flashes a questioning glance, and you smile reassuringly.

“It’s still early. We can stay out a little longer.” Donghyuck nods, acquiescing to your request. After all, the one most likely to have a curfew is you, rather than him. Although your parents think you’re out with Renjun and trust him to an extent, they’d rather not have your whereabouts unknown until late.

“Jaemin told me about a place near here the other day. Let’s try to find it.”

You follow Donghyuck down numerous winding alleys until you think the both of you might be in an entirely different district. By the time he pauses, the both of you are slightly out of breath and standing in front of an elevator with faded wooden doors. The lift is likely older than the both of you, judging from the way its doors open jerkily.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure this is safe?” Regardless, you follow Donghyuck into the lift.

“You should trust me more. Do you think I would want your parents to dislike me even more by making them think I was responsible for your untimely death?” He says it casually, but you know your parents’ rejection must have hurt more than Donghyuck is willing to let on.

“I’m sure that if they found you and my dead body, they would rather believe I caused my own death than pin you as guilty.” It’s a weak attempt and not one you entirely believe, but you hope it comforts him nonetheless.

Donghyuck doesn’t say anything, instead choosing to squeeze your hand gently. At some point along the way, he had gotten tired of having to look back to check if you were keeping up, and had instead chosen to grab your hand and drag you with him.

“I wonder how Jaemin found this godforsaken place,” Donghyuck muses.

“It’s probably for his photography. You know how he’s always running around the city looking for new places.”

Just then, the elevator lurches slightly before halting, and you stumble in a moment of shock.

Your impending fall is halted by a pair of arms that are most definitely not yours, and you turn to find yourself less than a hair’s breadth away from Donghyuck, whose eyebrows are furrowed in concern.

“Are you alright? You should be careful with those shoes.” Donghyuck’s referring to your heels, the ones that you wear for sit-down dinners and definitely do not use for exploring abandoned buildings with your best friend.

However, you find yourself unable to focus on Donghyuck’s words, and instead, the warmth that emanates from the hand he’s placed on your waist. He’s much too close to you for comfort, and your mind is beginning to blank.

“Y/N?” His words snap you out of your brief daydream, and you quickly step away from him, blood rushing to your cheeks. Warmth floods you, your heart beating unstably, and you’re quite sure it’s not just from all the walking.

You welcome the chance to leave the tiny, cramped lift and put some space between you and Donghyuck, despite having absolutely no idea where the both of you are. A slight breeze provides respite to your flushed cheeks, and Donghyuck follows after you. The both of you are on a completely empty rooftop, and you immediately head towards the edge.

“You can see the entire city from here,” you say as you lean over the parapet. The lift brought you much higher than expected, allowing you to be flooded with the sight of New York’s stunning skyline. It’s a pretty view, and you’re filled with a sense of quiet peace as Donghyuck stands by your side.

It’s beautiful,” you exhale, and at Donghyuck’s lack of response, turn over to him. Your eyes immediately meet, and there is an unfamiliar fondness in Donghyuck’s starry-eyed gaze.

“Yeah, it is.” Donghyuck says lowly, eyes never leaving yours. The air feels charged with a strange energy, crackling with tension. If you utter a word, it might just be broken. First the lift, and now this. Your heart has been hammering against your ribcage endlessly, and it seems absurd that it might be because of Donghyuck. He’s the person you trust with anything, the one who you’d willingly get lost with. Yet, his gaze now makes you feel like a cornered animal, and you find yourself unable to formulate a coherent response.

“Donghyuck, I…” Your voice trails off and he smiles slightly, instead moving closer until your shoulders touch. The both of you stand side by side, eyes fixed on the radiant lights that make up the city.

However, your wristwatch quickly serves to dispel the peace of the moment, as you quickly dart a glance at the time.

“Donghyuck, we’ve got to leave. I told them I’d be out with Renjun until a quarter past ten.” You hook your arm around his and quickly pull him back in the direction of the lift.

Once the both of you are back below, however, Donghyuck’s quick to hail you a cab.

“Aren’t you getting in?” You ask, confused, staring at Donghyuck who remains standing outside. He smiles down at you gently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before you can even register that it has slipped out of your bun.

“I don’t want your staff to see us and get into trouble. I’ll make my own way back.” There’s a slight disappointment in Donghyuck’s voice, and you’re not sure if you should tell him that you simply do not care if Ms Kim sees Donghyuck sending you back and reports it to your parents.

“Drive safely, please,” Donghyuck directs to the driver, handing him the fare with a look that tells you not to protest. The driver nods, and you turn back to look at Donghyuck, still standing on the pavement. His familiar figure brings a smile to your face despite your tiredness as he lifts up a hand to wave.

The ride back is spent in solitary quiet, for Donghyuck is not here to fill up the chatter in the space.

That night, you sleep more soundly than you have in weeks.

the present: september, 1912

“We’re done for the morning.” Your tutor, Mr Park, is a kindly, middle-aged man, and you've grown especially thankful for his presence since you’ve been confined at home.

You gather up your things, bowing to him as you get up from one of the many plush armchairs in your father’s library. You’ve decided to make it your mission to finish all the books that fill these shelves, and so far your progress is halfway there. No matter that you spend hours reading every day.

“Y/N. Take the afternoon off.” Mr Park’s voice cuts through the stillness of the library, and you turn to look at him questioningly.

“Even my best students preparing for Harvard don’t study as much as you do. Take a break and spend the afternoon in the city. No young lady should languish at home.”

The twinkle in his eye tells you that Mr Park will hide you sneaking out from your parents, and you immediately get up.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t consider your students languishing at home if they were male,” you retort, a bemused smile on your face.

“That’s because they are much less sensible than you are. Home confinement would do most men a world of good.” His remark causes a grin to appear on your face, and he waves you off. You do not argue further. After all, there are only five or so hours before your parents return, and you plan to make the most of it.

The entryway is noticeably quiet as you make your way down the marble stairs, purse in hand and shoes changed to favour a pair more comfortable for walking.

Besides the close housekeeping staff, no one else knows of your father’s anger at you. Well, besides one other person, of course.

“Y/N!” Your younger sister, Miyeon, appears in the hallway right as you are about to leave. Her eyes are alight with curiosity, storybook in hand. Panicked, you run over to hush her.

“Lower your voice, Miyeon-ah. I need you to help me keep a secret. Can you tell Ms Kim I’m very sick and would like no one to disturb me in my room?”

“Unnie, are you sneaking out?” She whispers conspiratorially, and you flash a grin at her.

“Yes. To see Donghyuck. But you can’t tell anyone, because Donghyuck and I are…planning a surprise for everyone. Okay?”

She nods eagerly, but her lips quickly soften into a pout. “I miss Donghyuck. Will he come to visit soon?”

A sharp pang of guilt enters your heart as you peer down at her forlorn expression. Donghyuck’s always treated your eight-year-old sister especially well, keeping her entertained when you’re too overwhelmed by her hyperactivity.  He’s as much an older brother to her as you are her sister.

“He’s been very…busy. I’ll ask him to visit as soon as possible, okay?” She hums in agreement at that, and you smooth your hand over her hair gently. Miyeon does not need to know of the enmity between both of your families, and your now-fraught relationship with your father. You want her to have as good a childhood as possible, and there’s no reason she should be involved in it.

It is only when you are standing at the driveway that you realise you’ve made an oversight. Although your father didn’t explicitly restrict you from leaving, he told the driver that you were not to be driven anywhere at any cost, effectively preventing you from making the thirty-minute trip down to the city centre.

Walking will cost you at least two hours of your precious time, but you suppose you have no choice. The weather is welcoming, at least, and you decide that you’ll try to make the most of it and enjoy the scenery. After all, the fresh air feels much better than the stifling air of your room.

Twenty minutes in, you’ve finally made it out of the gated community where your family’s estate is located in. The road here is gravelly, and you stop yourself from tripping a few times.

A car comes up behind you, and you pause as it comes to a stop right in front of you. Your heart fills with apprehension. You’ve heard about people getting robbed or kidnapped on the roads, but it’s bright daylight and this path is relatively safe. In fact, you’ve walked it hundreds of times.

When a man steps out, you’re entirely prepared to run, until you recognize the familiar silhouette.

“Renjun?” You immediately walk over, and he waves in greeting. Renjun rarely leaves his estate, especially in the middle of the day.

“I needed to head into the city to collect some art supplies. Saw you and figured you needed a ride.” You smile gratefully at him and immediately get in. Renjun’s car is pristine, and the leather seats are plush against your back.

“I haven’t seen you in weeks. Haechan told me you were stuck at home.” You nod, allowing a sigh to escape.

“My father got angry. You know how he is. I decided to sneak out today.”

“Which is why you’re walking three miles?” You roll your eyes at the sarcasm in Renjun’s tone.

“Yes, but now that I have you, our dear Renjun, to send me, my journey will be cut short,” you simper sweetly.

“Did I forget to tell you that I charge a fee? I’ve found a new calling as a taxi driver.”

“We both know you’d rather die than allow strangers to get into your precious car.”

Despite your constant bickering, you missed Renjun more than you’d care to admit. Especially since he would tease you about it to no end.

“Well then, where to?”

“Anywhere. I’m just glad to be out. I can go with you to get your art supplies,” you reply, and Renjun arches an eyebrow.

“You don’t want to see Haechan?”

You shrug. “He doesn’t know I’m out today and I have no way to find him. Besides, I just saw him last week.”

“Last week?” Renjun asks, confused, and your breath hitches. You didn’t mean for it to slip out.

“Well…Donghyuck may have….done some wall-climbing.” Renjun lets out an incredulous laugh, shaking his head. He drums his fingers on the wheel, humming silently.

“The both of you are ridiculous. Haechan mainly, but you too.”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly, and you turn to Renjun. “What?”

He doesn't reply, instead smiling one of his stupid smiles that say I know better than you do. There’s no way to get Renjun to divulge his thoughts unless he wishes, and so you leave him to it. You don’t think it’s that ridiculous. If Donghyuck was the one stuck at home, you would probably risk breaking your neck for him too. And it was likely the bigger sacrifice, considering how his room was a floor higher than yours.

The rest of the drive is passed in comfortable silence, Renjun quietly humming to a jazz song you don’t know the title of. The familiar brick-and-mortar buildings enter your vision, and the car drives past men in bowler hats and women in bonnets. Compared to the quiet isolation that exists within the suburbs, the city buzzes with a frenetic energy that screams liveliness, and it hits you like a tidal wave after all the solitary afternoons spent in your family’s garden.

The art supply store is much larger than you expected, with a ceiling that extends all the way up, leading to a skylight. Renjun is evidently familiar with the place from the way he weaves from shelf to shelf, and you follow quietly, observing him at work. Renjun is secretive about his art, even to his close friends, and you only get to see his works displayed when they are displayed at galleries or sold at auctions.

He’s quick to arrange for the materials to be delivered by the end of today, and the both of you head to the exit.

“Well, this is where I have to leave you now. Have fun, but stay safe.” The way Renjun talks to you makes you feel like a little child, but that’s just how he is.

“We haven’t seen each other in so long. Are you not free for a meal?” There’s disappointment evident in your voice. As much as you do not mind spending time by yourself in the city, you would much rather have Renjun by your side.

“I wish I was, but there’s a meeting with a sponsor I can’t miss. I can send you home again, though. Can you meet me here in two hours?” You nod in assent, watching as Renjun strides down until he eventually disappears around a corner.

It’s just you now, and the bustling streets of New York City. This is the most lively area of the city, with art galleries and restaurants littering every street. You’re drawn to one, in particular, its elegant marble arches and stained glass fixtures taking your breath away. When you step in, you’re immediately surrounded by commotion. It’s unusually crowded for a gallery, and from the attire of everyone around you, it’s likely no typical event. You grab a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray as you weave through the crowds, attempting to find a less crowded area.

You eventually pause in front of a winged sculpture that takes up most of the space in its display case.

“Enjoying the exhibition?”

“Well, I suppose you could say so.” You don’t turn around to view the source of the voice, too enraptured in reading the description that accompanies the figure.

“And you’re not going to say you came here to find me?” The voice is cocky, but slightly petulant, and all too reminiscent of someone you know. You turn around sharply, eyebrows furrowing.

“Donghyuck? I didn’t know you were here-”

“Yeah, I figured, considering how you made a straight beeline for the gallery instead of me. Why didn’t you tell me your parents let you leave the house?” There’s a note of hurt in his voice, and you grin slightly. It’s almost adorable, but also comforting, having the knowledge that Donghyuck values your presence as much as you do his.

You make your way over to him, ruffling his hair slightly. He bends down reflexively for you to do so, and it makes you feel like you’re a young child again. It’s something only Donghyuck can do, you think. He represents every part of your childhood, and makes you feel as if you’re young again, without a care in the world.

“I snuck out,” you whisper proudly, and Donghyuck raises his eyebrows, slightly impressed. As far as he knows, he’s the rule-breaker out of both of you.

“Anyways, what are you doing here? You’ve never been one much for art.”

“My family’s the one organizing this exhibition and the auction later. As their only son, I have to be here,” Donghyuck replies, and you nod in understanding. Despite his frivolous nature, he still fulfils his duties to the utmost extent, and you suppose that’s why you’ve never chided Donghyuck for his occasionally irresponsible actions. If anything, you’re more worried about his liver and his general health from all the red wine and sleepless nights he has.

“Then…are your parents here?” You ask nervously, fiddling with your hands. You’ve never met Donghyuck’s parents, and you’re not sure if you want to. You’ve seen them in the newspapers, of course, and in passing at important events, but never long enough to draw any notice. Though they’re definitely aware of your presence, it seems they’ve decided to ignore it as a minor inconvenience. Similar to how your parents treat Donghyuck now, you think.

Donghyuck shakes his head happily, however. “They’re out temporarily to settle some stuff for the auction, so it’s just me helming the event. It’s about time for lunch, though.” As if coordinated, your stomach rumbles, and Donghyuck lets out a laugh at it.

“My treat for lunch. To celebrate my best friend’s temporary freedom,” he teases, and you smile up at him.

Before the both of you can exit, however, a man strides in. His eyebrows are thin and pinched, much like the rest of his features. There is a certain unwelcoming air to him, and you notice Donghyuck turning imperceptibly stiff.

“Ah. Haechan. I was wondering where the golden boy of the Lee family was.” His voice is haughty, belying sarcasm, and you immediately decide that you don’t particularly like this man. There’s something about him that spells malice, as if he’s deliberately out to get you.

“Mr Park. A pleasure to see that you’re doing well,” Donghyuck returns with a sickly sweet smile, one that you know is entirely false. It’s the smile reserved for the people he likes the least, and you’re rendered even more curious about who this Mr Park is.

“And who’s this lady friend of yours?’ Mr Park says, turning to you. The way his gaze looks you up and down makes you shudder slightly, and Donghyuck immediately steps forward. However, you’re determined to not back down.

“The name’s Y/N L/N,” you bite out, eyes narrowed at him.

“Y/N L/N? I believe I know your father. Still, what are you doing running around with a boy like Haechan?” There is an almost predatory glint in his eye as he takes in the both of you, and you’re sure he’s aware of the not-so-well-concealed feud between both you and Donghyuck’s families.

“If you excuse us. Y/N and I are rather busy. Especially if you consider the prominence of our families,” Donghyuck’s low tone is condescending, betraying a hint of danger, and it's something you’re unused to.

You realise that this is Lee Haechan, heir to a major business conglomerate and the reigning king of New York high society. The front he shows to everyone else, that gives him a sense of notoriety. His palm is warm against the small of the back as he guides you out of the room, but the both of you are not fast enough to escape Mr Park’s last comment.

“Busy, huh? I wonder what your parents will say when they find out their son is playing in his own version of Romeo and Juliet as the male lead.”

It takes you a while to figure out the meaning behind Mr Park’s words, but they settle into you with a feeling of unease. Not the idea that Mr Park thinks you and Donghyuck are romantically involved- that’s the least of your concerns. But is that what your friendship with Donghyuck is destined for? Tragedy?

Donghyuck seems to sense your emotional turmoil and smooths his hands over yours. “Don’t think about what that guy said. He just spews whatever nonsense comes to mind. My parents don’t like him either.” The smile that you give Donghyuck is shaky, but he’ll take it.

“If anything, I would be Juliet. I’m not daft enough to drink poison just because I thought you died,” he states, and you roll your eyes. However, your heart feels a bit lighter, and you’re able to pass the walk to lunch in comfortable silence.

Later that afternoon, Donghyuck watches silently as you get back in the car with Renjun and drive off. He would offer, but he’s not sure if his showing up would only further undermine your parents’ impression of him. Sometimes, he feels almost like some sort of parasite, clinging to you until even your relationship with your father has become increasingly tense. Still, he can’t seem to detach from you for too long. You’ve been such a big part of his world for as long as he can remember. He’s not sure what he would do to fill the space if you disappeared.

He may have also lied to you about Mr Park, but hopefully, you’ll never know that. Donghyuck feels oddly protective over you, even though he knows you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself. It’s probably just because you’re one of the few genuinely close friends he has, and he can’t afford to lose any.

When Donghyuck finally returns to the gallery, the people present are much more sparse, everyone already heading out for dinner.

“Lee Haechan. Where were you?” His father’s voice is low and cuts across the shadows of the room, and Donghyuck almost trips on his own feet out of surprise. Of course. Mr Park, that desperate ladder-climber. He would do anything to curry favour with Donghyuck’s father.

“I see you still refuse to address me by my birth name. If you have to know, I was with Y/N.”

”That wench again? Mr Park informed me of what he saw today. Stop fooling around and get your head back on straight.”

Donghyuck feels his jaw clenching, fingers curled into a fist. You’re no wench, as much as his father likes to call you one. But his father thinks anyone is below him, even his own son and wife.

“She’s my friend.” Donghyuck finds his voice wavering, and he hates it. Twenty-one, and yet he still feels fear at the sight of his father. It’s a painful relationship they have, really. His father cannot abandon him because Donghyuck is his heir and more than capable enough, even if he despises him. Besides, no respectable member of the gentry should have to endure the shameful scandal of a runaway son. And Donghyuck refuses to abandon his mother and the life he has now outside of his father.

But every time he finds himself close to the limit, it’s always about you.

“She’s a competitor, you idiot. I may not like the girl, but I have an ounce of respect for her being smart enough to have my only son wrapped around her finger as such. If you tire of the women you have, I’ll send more.”

“How dare you-”

“I dare, Haechan, because I’m your father and the only reason why your sorry little life and that of your mother’s still exist. And my power extends outside as well. Don’t make me do something you’ll regret. It would be a pity if the family lost their oldest daughter, don’t you think?”

The air seems to hush, a deathly silence overtaking the hall. Donghyuck can feel his heartbeat slowing, his anger cooling to a numbing fear as he takes in the implications of his father’s words. He knows his family does have unsavoury ties to the less respectable areas of society, but he’s always chosen to ignore it. Donghyuck’s not sure how far his father is willing to go to do what he deems necessary, but the idea of finding out causes his mouth to turn dry.

To lose you….that only spells two consequences, none of them good. And he’s not sure if your family is enough to protect you, wealthy as they are. He knows your parents. They are kind, even if they’ve distanced themselves from him. Compared to his father, yours is nowhere as cold-blooded. But he would be devastated at the thought of anything happening to you. It’s two birds with one stone, he realises. To topple his business opponent, and reign in his son.

In that moment, standing in that gallery with the man who raised him, Donghyuck feels so very helpless. He’s angry at so many things. His father, the situation the both of you are in, and himself. For not being good enough to protect you, for being the reason why you fell out with your father, for putting you in danger each and every single time he seeks you out.

It’s a terrible time to have this realisation, but Donghyuck loves you. He realises it when he’s pacing in his room later that evening, his father’s threats looming over his head and causing anxiety to rake its claws in him.

Of course, he loves you as his best friend, the one who’s been by his side since he was young and provided a respite away from the cold home that he had grown up in. Still, it seems that there’s always something more, something missing. Donghyuck doesn’t have anything to rely on, considering his parents had a loveless marriage.

However, looking at your family, and looking at you, he thinks he might understand love a little more.

Of course, he would fall hopelessly for someone who had grown up with so much care and affection to give.

The moments where he sees couples on the streets, and wonder if the both of you look like them even if you’re not hand-in-hand.

That night on the balcony, when he thought you were the most beautiful person he had ever seen in his life. And the time on the rooftop, when he wished to just lean into you, and close the distance.

Donghyuck realises that he’s loved you for most of his life, even before he knew what love was. His name may mean the sun, but he finds himself orbiting around you instead.

The use of Romeo and Juliet feels ironically bitter now, and Donghyuck scoffs at the impossibility of the situation. His love isn’t enough to untangle this web of threads that the both of you are stuck in, unless he cuts through them entirely. You’ll get hurt, but at least you’ll be free. It’ll be as painful as cutting his own heart out, but Donghyuck would gladly place your safety above his.

Fifteen years is a long, long time to love someone. Yet, Donghyuck now feels as if all the time in the world would not be enough to love you.

november, 1912

He’s not coming today, Y/N.

When it hits almost two in the morning, that’s when you give up. It’s been two months since you’ve last seen Donghyuck, and since he stopped coming to your window in the middle of the night. You shouldn’t be disappointed- It must be tiring for him, and you’ve gone longer than that without seeing Donghyuck. Still, you can’t help the sense of dread that pervades you every single time you stand at your balcony, and his familiar face isn’t in sight.

You’ve been able to call Renjun and your other friends, but they’re disappointingly sparse with updates about Donghyuck, besides the usual of him at parties. It’s like he’s still normal to everyone, except you. You’ve tried calling Donghyuck’s estate, but you’ve always given up in fear of his parents being the ones to pick up. You had once left a note for his housekeeper, but it seems that it didn’t exactly get through.

You stare up at the ceiling from where you are in your bed, head swirling with thoughts. Maybe he’s busy with his work. After all, that’s likely the most plausible reason. Despite that, unease settles in you, and your sleep is fitful.

The midday sun greets you once you wake up, and you’re surprised at how late you’ve woken up. Lunch is already halfway through when you’re down, your father at the head of the table.

“Good morning,” you say slightly drowsily as you settle down and pour yourself a heaping cup of coffee, and your parents both smile slightly at you, your father moving the bread basket over. Throughout the past few months, you suppose his initial anger and worry about Donghyuck has mellowed somewhat.

“Y/N. Tell the driver to bring you where you want from now on,” your father mutters, and you almost drop the sugar cube out of shock.

“What?” You look up at him incredulously, unwilling to believe that perhaps, you might be allowed to leave.

Your mother smiles kindly at you, though her eyes are sympathetic. “Your father was just scared of the rumours surrounding you and Donghyuck. But they’re gone now, and we haven’t seen the boy in a while. Besides, you’re an adult now. As your parents, we can’t stop you from doing what you want.”

You can’t stop the grin that makes its way onto your face, and you immediately engulf the both of them in a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll be sensible, I promise.” Breakfast forgotten, you immediately run up to your room to get ready, unaware of the words your parents exchange with each other.

“I know Donghyuck is a good and kind boy. But he’ll bring trouble everywhere he goes, with that father of his.”

“He makes her happy. Let them figure it out.”

Despite your parents’ discouragement, your first course of action is to find Donghyuck. By the time you leave, it’s in the late afternoon, which means the weekly parties will start at any time. If you’ve estimated the weeks correctly, it’s Renjun’s turn this time.

The drive down to Renjun’s house is far, but scenic. He had deliberately chosen the very outskirts. of the suburbs, and bought the land surrounding the property as well, so as to ensure only greenery would be seen. You think his estate is the prettiest, though yours comes to a close second.

When you reach, people are already beginning to mill about, and you’re grateful you dressed appropriately. It takes you long enough to make your way past the gardens, to the main foyer, and then down a few side hallways to reach the room that Renjun saves for his close friends.

“Hello, everyone. Missed me?” Your voice is playful as you walk in, and Renjun immediately sits up, a smile lighting up his features.

“I didn’t think you’d actually make it. Congratulations on your freedom.” He passes you a glass of Sauvignon, so dark it almost looks like blood. Jeno lifts his glass to you in a silent toast, grinning. Your eyes scan the room, but you frown. “This is Donghyuck’s favourite wine. Why isn’t he here finishing it all?” Your tone is light, but you’re genuinely wondering where the man has run off to, considering he’s rarely separated from Renjun.

However, Renjun’s expression looks almost sheepish, and it makes you even more confused. He places his hands on your shoulders gently, steering you in the direction of the couch. “Donghyuck’s a little preoccupied. He’ll be back soon.”

Renjun seems insistent, and so you leave him be. However, one hour and six poker games later, you’re starting to get genuinely concerned.

“Renjun, can you bring me to Donghyuck?” You ask, and Renjun looks like he’s been put in a difficult spot.

“Renjun. Where is he?” Your tone is serious now, and the man in front of you lets out a sigh, looking resigned. He gets up, waving a hand for you to follow him. “Down that hallway. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You’re equal parts fearful and baffled. It’s Donghyuck. What would you have to fear? You turn the corner, and hear coquettish giggles coming out of a room. You roll your eyes. Renjun was just being dramatic, after all. This is nothing that you’re not used to, even if you find it slightly distasteful.

When you knock on the open door, signalling your presence, the two women sitting next to Donghyuck immediately look up, before their eyes widen in realisation. Donghyuck straightens and leans forward, his eyes slightly hazed over by alcohol but still aware of your presence. You stare at him from where you are standing, eyebrow raised.

“Who are you?”

That is the one question you’re not expecting, and your posture immediately straightens. “What? Donghyuck, you must be really drunk. It’s me, Y/N.” Your voice is still light, unaware of the situation, and Donghyuck swallows, looking at you directly before he speaks.

“Ah. What’s the heir of the L/N family doing in this room? Unless…you would like to join?” Donghyuck’s mouth is curled in a smirk, and it causes a sour feeling to appear in your mouth. What sort of game is he playing here? Donghyuck’s never made you feel small, or put you in a spot.

And yet, now, the situation is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. The two women are staring, doubtful of what to do. You feel slightly humiliated, and you’re not sure how to bridge the gap between you and him.

“Could you leave us, please?” You tilt your head meaningfully at the two other women in the room, who thankfully, leave without much hesitation. Donghyuck seems sad to see them go, a petulant pout on his face.

“If you just wanted me to yourself, you could have said so,” he says snarkily, and you roll your eyes. “Donghyuck, this is ridiculous. Why did you do that?”

“Why not? It was funny. Also, my name’s Haechan. Not Donghyuck.”

“What? Donghyuck, we’ve known each other for so long. Whatever prank you’re playing, cut it out.” You’re completely bewildered now, eyes piercing into Donghyuck from across the room, while he remains relaxed, legs spread out comfortably on the chaise. He swallows, and it seems like it’s the first time you’ve seen him hesitate in the past ten minutes or so.

“It’s not a prank. I’m tired.” You’re frozen at the door, and haven’t moved from it since you stepped in.

“If you’re tired, you should rest-”

“Not physically. I’m tired of you. Our friendship. Whatever. It’s annoying. I was having fun and then you ruined it.” His words don’t make sense to you at first, considering the implausibility of his statement. You laugh in incredulity at first. This must be some poorly-conceived prank he came up with. After all, he has gone too far by accident before, but you’ve always been quick to let him know. However, it’s hard to contain your own infuriation, especially at his careless words.

“Are you…are you serious?” He shrugs. “Yeah. I’m sick of it.”

This prank is exceedingly cruel, even for him.

That’s when the cold tendrils of fear begin to surround you. The fact that he might mean what he’s saying, that this isn’t some stupid joke his poor, half-addled brain conjured up. His expression is painfully earnest, and your throat constricts uncomfortably.

“Donghyuck, if I did something-”

“You didn’t do anything. I just don’t want to be associated with you anymore. It’s difficult, you know? And exhausting. We weren’t meant to be friends anyways.”

Your heart is breaking, but you’re sure only you can hear it, judging by the nonchalant expression on Donghyuck’s face. “Alright. I understand.” Your hands are trembling as you quickly turn on your heel. However, before you move past the threshold, you find that there’s still something you want to say.

“You know, it was difficult for me too. But I thought it was worth it. With you. I’m sorry you found it exhausting.”

You run out of the room before your tears can escape, leaving Donghyuck behind.

Unluckily enough, you collide right into Renjun. “See, Y/N, I told you not to go because I didn’t want you to get upset- are you crying?” His voice holds a note of surprise.

“Hey, listen to me. Donghyuck really does love you. He just has a terrible fucking way of expressing it. I’ll talk to him,” Renjun says, and you pull away from him. “What?”

“Don’t you have romantic feelings for him? I just didn’t want you to get hurt-”

You shake your head vehemently. “Renjun, where did you get this from?”

“I thought it was obvious to everyone. But that isn’t why you’re crying?” He’s just as muddled as you are now, and you’re still unable to wrap your head around everything that’s happened and what Renjun is saying.

“He told me he got bored and tired of the friendship. And essentially doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. That’s why I was crying. Still am, actually.”

You watch as Renjun’s face gradually transforms from confusion to anger, and you would feel scared if you were on the receiving end. However, you feel strangely comforted. “That guy must be drunk out of his mind. Don’t take anything seriously, okay? I’ll talk to him. That idiot-”

You extend a hand to grab Renjun’s arm to stop him from making his way to Donghyuck, smiling a watery smile at him. “Renjun, it’s okay. Drunk words are sober thoughts, right? I kind of understand, even if he could have been a little nicer about it. I’ll just go back home now. Don’t worry about me.”

From the way your smile wavers, Renjun knows nothing is alright, but he can only watch hopelessly as you go, unsure how to mend the situation. When Donghyuck barely mentioned you and refused to partake in any conversation involving the mention of your name, Renjun had thought it strange, but ignored it.

Now, he understood. Something was very, very wrong.

There was only one person he could seek clarification from. And so, despite your protests, he stormed towards the sitting room that Donghyuck was in.

When he sees the boy in question, he scoffs angrily and storms over. “Stop drinking already,” he mutters, wrenching the wine bottle out of Donghyuck’s hand. Occasionally, the sight of Donghyuck tipsy is amusing, but now he just seems pathetic to Renjun.

“Cut it out, Renjun. Are you here to ruin my fun too?”

Donghyuck’s being mean on purpose, but Renjun’s already much more prepared to handle the situation. He’s always been more emotionally mature than most and wonders how heavy a blow this must have been for you.

“Don’t tell me to cut it out when you’re the one who messed up. Y/N just ran out of here crying, and I want to know what the hell is wrong with you,” Renjun says determinedly, and Donghyuck looks up at him, cloudy eyes temporarily replaced with regretful sobriety.

“She cried?”

“You’re sorry now? I’m not surprised, after what you said to her.” Renjun knows he’s being harsh, for Donghyuck must be hiding something, but he can’t help it. You’re his friend too, even if he’s close to Donghyuck.

Still, he wants to help to mend whatever it is. Because he knows that you’re one of the people that Donghyuck loves most in the world, even if the boy resolutely refuses to admit it.

Donghyuck sinks back into the couch, eyes closed. Renjun’s heart softens a little at the sight. This is the most defeated he’s seen Donghyuck in the decade that he’s known him. It’s a tendency of Donghyuck’s, to keep his problems to himself. Renjun understands because he’s done it before too.

The fear of being a burden is a heavy one to carry. He supposes for Donghyuck, it’s even worse because he doesn’t have anyone at home to rely on. And everyone expects the sun to keep on shining, day in and day out.

“Come on, Donghyuck. Out with it.”

“God, Renjun, you know I don’t mean any of what I said. It’s more likely that Y/N would get tired of me, honestly.” Donghyuck lets out a laugh at his own words, but it comes out bitter and forced.

“It’s my father. He made certain…threats. I cut Y/N off to keep her safe.” Renjun immediately understands the meaning behind Donghyuck’s words, but even then, he furrows his eyebrows.

“God, you’re an idiot, Lee Donghyuck.” His eyes open slightly then, and he looks at Renjun.

“What? No, Renjun, you don’t understand. My father can and will make good on his threats-”

“I know exactly what kind of person Mr Lee is. I don’t think pushing Y/N away will do anything at all. If your father wanted to make a move, he would have a long time ago. Besides, if he did anything now, the culprit is obvious. You don’t actually think Y/N is helpless, do you?” Renjun realises that the idea of you getting hurt has sent Donghyuck into a panic, muddling his judgement.

“Of course she’s not helpless, but she’s no match for-”

“Think about it, Donghyuck. Y/N’s family is one of the richest and the most powerful in the entire of upstate New York. The both of you may think that you’ve been able to keep your friendship under wraps, but her family has her under heavy protection. You think your father has connections? So does hers. There are eyes everywhere in this city, on you, her, and you both. She has plenty of people to protect her. Your father would be asking for retribution if he tried anything.”

Donghyuck finally falls silent then, mulling over Renjun’s words. There’s a sense of relief as he realises you’re no longer in danger. After all, that was his only goal. Even though Donghyuck doesn’t reply, Renjun knows that his words have gotten through somewhat, from the way that the clouds in Donghyuck’s expression have cleared up.

However, another realization quickly sinks in, and Donghyuck’s eyes fall dim again.

“God, then the things I said-”

“You broke her heart, you idiot. Go and find her, before she decides she’s done with you for good,” Renjun says, and Donghyuck turns to him sharply, a confused look on his face.

It is then that Renjun realises how for as oblivious as you are, there is no one more ignorant than Lee Donghyuck himself.

“Y/N’s in love with you too, just in case you haven’t realised.”

Donghyuck looks completely disbelieving, and Renjun tries not to roll his eyes. The both of you are much too similar, he can’t help but think. “Just ask her yourself.” Donghyuck curses under his breath, before grabbing his jacket and running out of the room, and Renjun watches as he goes. 

As much as Renjun is tired of seeing the both of you dance in circles around one another, he wonders if just maybe, this time, the both of you might get your happy ending.

Donghyuck’s mind is blank when he stands underneath your window, the cold air quickly making him clear-headed. He’s trembling, and it’s not from the cold air whipping around, but rather his nerves. He tries not to shiver as he goes through the familiar motions of throwing pebbles against your window.

Five minutes pass, and then ten. With each second, Donghyuck’s heart falls further and further down, and he’s not sure if you want anything to do with him at this moment. Still, he’ll stand here the entire night, if it means he can have a moment with you.

Just then, the door to your window cracks open, and Donghyuck’s breath hitches. You’re still wearing your dress from earlier, but your hair is mussed and your makeup is mostly gone.

Donghyuck thinks you look breathtaking.

It seems that once he confronted the full weight of his feelings for you, they’ve only intensified. He supposes that explains why there’s a strange pressure in his chest whenever he sees your face, and it’s like the breath is stolen from his lungs.

You remain silent, expression unmoving as you stare down at Donghyuck. He finally collects his thoughts, and looks up at you beseechingly.

“I need to talk to you. Can I come in?” You seem to pause, expression stricken, before nodding. Donghyuck exhales loudly in relief, but he hopes you didn’t catch it.

You can’t help but keep your eyes fixed on him as he makes his way up the familiar bricks. As much as you remember his words from earlier, you can’t help but be concerned for his safety. You refuse to admit that his presence here has allowed the tiniest tendril of hope to snake into your heart.

Donghyuck immediately drifts in the direction of your fireplace, even as his eyes remain firmly lodged on you, and you realise he must have been freezing while waiting for you.

However, he seems considerably tense as he turns back to you, eyes searching and assessing. You make a deliberate effort not to show any outward emotion, but you know that your eyes are still red-rimmed from earlier, and there are still visible tear tracks.

“I thought you made your opinion quite clear. Are you here to go into even more detail?” The words come out firm, and Donghyuck tries not to flinch. You have every right to be angry, after all.

“No, it’s not that. I swear it’s not that. I’m here to apologise. And if you decide that you don’t want anything to do with me ever again, that’s okay. I’ll go back right out the way I came.” His eyes are pleading, hands wide open in supplication.

You don’t say anything, and Donghyuck takes it as a positive affirmation for him to keep going.

He has to do this.

“I got…scared,” he confesses, and you arch an eyebrow slightly, waiting for him to continue. But your heart is already shifting towards forgiveness, and you’re not sure if it’s foolish.

“I thought that by pushing you away, I could protect you from my father. I know that I’m wrong now, and I’m sorry. For what I said, which hurt you, untrue as it was. I didn’t think any of it through.”

There’s so much fear and anxiety in each sentence that escapes Donghyuck, and you wonder how much he must have thought about this. About how to protect you in the only way he could, even if it meant hurting you in the process.

Even then, you’re not prepared for what he says next.

“You’re one of the most precious people to me, and I’m not exactly the most clear-headed when it comes to the ones I love.”

There’s a pause, and it feels like the world has tilted on its axis.

“You love me?” You ask, eyes wavering as you search Donghyuck’s for even a hint of deceit.

Yet, you think you already know the answer. Away from the events of today, Donghyuck’s love for you is painfully obvious from everything he does.

He immediately strides over, hands cupping your face gently as he leans down until his face is level with yours.

“Of course I do, you beautiful, brilliant woman. How could I not? I would never tire of this,” he whispers, and your heart constricts delightfully.

You’re not sure if Donghyuck can hear the audible thudding of your pulse, but you feel as if the room is spinning, and he’s the only thing grounding you. You think about what Renjun said in the hallway. The line between platonic and romantic love was so very, very fine. And it muddied so often, so easily, for you and Donghyuck.

Right now, with him in front of you, you think that perhaps, the idea of crossing that line doesn’t sound so bad.

You swallow, head tilting up to look at him. Your best friend, Donghyuck. The person you loved the most, and the only one who could make you laugh and cry with just a few simple words.

‘When you asked if I wanted to join you, in that room. What if I said I wanted to be the only one?” You ask, your gaze aimed directly at Donghyuck’s.

When he takes in your words, his stare darkens briefly, before quickly softening. He steps impossibly closer, until you can feel the warmth of your body against his.

Your lips are so very close to his now. You think your breathing might have just stopped.

“Then you’ll be the only one. Always have been,” he mutters, before closing the distance between the both of you.

When Donghyuck kisses you, it feels as if a piece of your heart has finally settled.

His lips press against yours insistently but gently, and you find your hands making their way up to grip the lapels of his jacket. You’re bending backwards slightly, and might have lost your balance if it wasn’t for the steady grip of his hands, one on your waist and the other on your cheek.

Donghyuck kisses you languidly, as if he has all the time in the world to do so. You find yourself smiling into the kiss, but bite back a gasp when his tongue slips into your mouth briefly, almost teasing.

You pull back, flustered, hands lightly pushing at Donghyuck’s shoulders. Your cheeks are bright red now, but you can’t help but miss the phantom feeling of his lips on yours. Donghyuck smirks now, much more confident, and you refuse to meet his gaze.

Your wide eyes and messy hair, courtesy of Donghyuck, has something softening imperceptibly in his heart. He smooths a palm over your hair, and strokes a thumb over your cheek fondly. A small part of him still thinks he’s dreaming. Still, he knows that this wouldn’t be something he could conjure up by himself.

You’re everything he’s ever wanted and needed, and Donghyuck refuses to let you go if you’re willing to stay.

“I meant it when I said you were the only one. I was fearful that I would scare you away. I know I say stupid things sometimes, and I make bad decisions. But thank you. For not running away, and staying. Fifteen years ago, and now.” The sincerity in Donghyuck’s voice is startling, but comforting all the same.

“You’ve stayed for me too, Donghyuck. I don’t think you realise how much other people love you. you have so much love to give, but it’s okay to receive it sometimes,” you reply, looking at the boy in front of you, the one who carries too much doubt and worry and hides it behind a smooth veneer of cheer and mischief.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way Donghyuck squeezes your hand gratefully tells you that he’s heard you.

The soft sound of voices drifting from outside causes you to freeze, until you realise it’s just Miyeon being put to bed by the nanny. You let out a breath of relief, and Donghyuck smiles gently.

“It’s late. I should go.”

However, just as Donghyuck’s about to make his way back down, you find yourself filled with a sense of reluctance. You don’t want to let him go just yet.

“Hyuck. Stay the night,” you say, and he immediately halts, backtracking into the room. His gaze is doubtful, as he processes your words.

“Like here? With you?” You nod, and it’s almost amusing how it’s Donghyuck’s turn to turn slightly red.

“You act like you didn’t stay over so many times when we were kids. Even though my parents made you sleep on the floor, you’d always pester me to let you get into the bed instead.”

“It’s different now, Y/N.”

“Not that different. You’re still my best friend, Hyuck. We just also happen to be in a relationship,” you state as you tug the blanket over your waist and grab a pillow to pass to him, turning off the lights.

Donghyuck eventually makes his way to the other side, and you turn until the both of you are facing each other while lying down. His features are soft in the dim light of the room, and you run your finger over his profile, pausing briefly at the freckle on his cheekbone.

“Well, then I suppose being romantically involved entitles me to some liberties.” His voice is hushed, filling you with a sense of anticipation.

“Like?” Your voice is muffled, slightly sleepy as you lean into the pillow, but curious.

“Like this,” he whispers, before pulling you towards him by your waist and peppering your face with kisses. Your giggles ring out in the quiet of the room, but they’re quickly silenced by Donghyuck kissing you again. You eagerly reciprocate, lips moving against his in a perfect cadence, and you can’t seem to stop smiling.

It’s easy, being in love with Donghyuck. Almost as if you’ve done it your entire life.

That night, the both of you fall asleep with your limbs tangled together, barely visible in the dim twilight of the room. Your parents may be furious, but you find yourself unable to care, not when you can hear the sound of Donghyuck’s heartbeat from the way you lean against his chest.

After all, what you and Donghyuck have is better than gold, and you wouldn’t exchange a single thing in the world for it.

[i-still-got-love-for-you]

hi!

could you please do a reader x jason grace fic were reader was severely injured and barely survives?

(feeling a bit angsty hehe)

Soon You'll Get Better

Jason Grace x gn!reader

910 words

cw: god i hope im doing the angst thing right, there IS fluff bc i would cry if there wasn't, i really hope its gender neutral tell me if it isnt, once again verb tense grammar that might only bother me

a/n: thank you for this request!!! i had so much fun writing it <333 hope you like this!

Rocks were raining down like deadly raindrops from the sky. It was getting harder and harder to dodge them, and your lungs were burning from the running. The Laestrygonians weren't letting up. Percy's story of the "Dodge Ball Game of Hell" came to you at that moment. You were sure this was worse.

You were cursing your godly parent, wishing you had Hermes' gift of speed at that moment. At the risk of slowing down, you looked back t see how close the giants were. They were slowly gaining on you, and a random burst of adrenaline made all your pain fade away.

Blood was pounding in your ears, feet hitting the ground in tune. Just beyond some trees, you could see Half Blood Hill. The force field around it wad your haven, the only way the endless storm of rocks would stop.

You were climbing the hill now, falling and scraping your knees in the rush. Your hands were shaking and covered in scratches and the rocks were getting closer and closer-

You felt a pounding on the back of your head just as you saw Peleus. You stopped in your tracks as you made eye contact with the dragon and promptly fell over. The last thing you remembered were a pair of black glasses.

─ ୨୧ ─

Jason was panicked. It was a feeling he was unfamiliar with, numb and lightheaded and unable to think about anything other than you. He had found you at the border, surrounded by boulders and bleeding from your head.

His brain immediately went into autopilot. Checking for a pulse, carrying you to the infirmary. He was promptly kicked out by Will Solace, who stated he was “hovering worse than a moth near a lamp.”

He could hear the shuffle of feet through the door, sometimes broken by the sound of voices too muffled to be of use. Then, he heard someone yell, “We’re losing her!”

His heart dropped. His whole body might have gone with it, had he not quickly moved to a chair. Losing you? How?

Thousands of thoughts flooded his brain, words he wanted to say, things he regretted, his future with out you. The latter were the scariest of them all, each one more depressing than the last.

Him slowly falling into madness, him isolating himself from the rest of the world. Dying alone, him doing something stupid in his grief that gets him killed.

His nose prickled, warning him of the tears pooling in his eyes. Oh god, what if these are your final moments?

The door opening snapped him out of his downward spiral. He shot up out of his chair and wiped away the tears about to fall. Will looked tired. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced, his hair rumpled, and he was swaying slightly.

“She’s stable, but we put her into a deep sleep so she could heal with minimal pain. We wrapped her head to stop the bleeding, but only the nectar we gave her is going to heal her,” he informed the son of Zeus.

Jason sighed with relief, “Thank you, Will. So much.” He went around the boy to enter the room, pausing as he saw you.

You laid lifeless, the bandages on your head almost obscured your face. Hundreds of tiny scratches littered your arms, sure to scar. Jason didn’t care, all that mattered to him was that you were alive and you wete going to wake up.

He took your hand as he sat beside you, and the scabs he felt made him sick. The nectar might have healed up the smaller things, but the marks you still had were remnants of worse cuts. You almost died. You had almost left him. Permanently.

─ ୨୧ ─

Right next to you was where Jason was for the next three days. Holding your hand and praying to any god he could think of were the only things he did. It took a lot of convincing (and a threat to kick him out) by Will (and Nico) to get him to eat something.

It was on the third day that you woke up. It was a particularly sunny day, but with it came midday heat. Not that Jason noticed. Because what point was looking at anything other than you? What was there to feel other than the black hole in his heart?

When your fingers squeezed his hand, he shot up in his chair and called Will over. The son of Apollo rushed over just as your eyes opened, immediately asking you how you felt and if there was any pain.

Over and over, you assured him you felt nothing. He leaned over and removed the now bloodstained wrap around your head. “I’ll leave you two alone,” he announced with a small smile on his face.

You turned to Jason and damn near fell out of the bed trying to hug him. He caught you and positioned you back on the mattress, half his body going over you. He chuckled, thankful you couldn’t see his teary eyes.

"Gods above, I missed you," he exhaled. Maybe his arms were a bit too tight, but you weren't complaining.

You laughed, "How long was I out?"

"Um..." He hesitated, not sure how to proceed. "Three days?"

Your brain stopped working for a second, processing the number. "Well then, superman, we have a lot to catch up on," you whispered as he caught your lips in kiss.

[catcze]

Like babe can you imagine domestic life w/ Wriothesley;;;;;; like yeah living with and working beside him in the Fortress of Meropide literally in the bottom of the ocean isn't how you thought you'd find love, but goddamn here you are.

like like like;;;;;;; Think about when you both have to get up early to see to the papers and the admin work around the Fortress. Wriothesley is already at his desk, today's newspaper in his hand while he momentary forgoes the documents he has to see to today.

There's barely any indication that he had been in bed with you less than an hour ago, face smushed into the juncture of your neck and mumbling half-slurred words. The Wriothesley then is hard to see as the one sitting before you now: working clothes on, eyes sharp and awake, mouth set into a hard frown as he reads. Awake as if he had been up since the early hours of dawn.

The only thing that gives him away is the bed-headed messiness to his hair, which only grows even worse when you ruffle it as you near. "Good morning, darling," he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. "Finally awake, I see."

"Just barely," is your eloquent grumble, plopping down to sit sideways on his lap, still careful not to jostle the teacup in your hand. Unlike him, your clothes are still rumpled and creased, and your hair is undoubtedly a mess. Probably even worse than his. Sleep is still calling to you, despite the start of the work day, and you yawn before you can even take one of the documents on his desk.

Your lover, quick as ever, takes your momentary distraction to steal your teacup and take a sip of its contents, humming in delight even while you exclaim.

"Hey! Make your own tea!" You try to grab the cup back from him, but he pulls it just out of your reach. With a scowl you try to smack his chest, but he doesn't even wince.

"But you always make the tea just perfectly, darling." But still, with a kiss pressed to your temple, he returns your tea to you, and you petulantly sip down more than half of the cup in one go, side eyeing him all the while. Wriothesley just tries to contain his smile, pulling you close while he continues to read his paper.

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟏𝟑   ❛ 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 ❜   |   RENZO'S HOUSE, NAKAWE, OCTOBER 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

Leonor knew she was imposing. Although with permission, she let herself into the most private circle of Renzo’s life, one from which he had barred her for months. There hadn’t been any negotiating it, and she couldn’t say whether that made it better or worse. Rather, she hadn’t tried to go where he didn’t seem to want her. She also hadn’t tried to discover whether it was a matter of wanting at all. He did want her. He had, with clarity and audacity, from the day they met. She’d seen how he treated people that he didn’t want but had yet to experience that kind of terrible disregard from him.

❧ i don't recall when these ideas came to me and melded together but i'm glad they did also hopefully goes without saying but there's time weirdness that'll be addressed subsequently ! also 2x maybe i’m wrong but there aren’t enough bj fantasies given how much some enjoy giving them, idk idk

𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

Leonor knew she was imposing. Although with permission, she let herself into the most private circle of Renzo’s life, one from which he had barred her for months. There hadn’t been any negotiating it, and she couldn’t say whether that made it better or worse. Rather, she hadn’t tried to go where he didn’t seem to want her. She also hadn’t tried to discover whether it was a matter of wanting at all. He did want her. He had, with clarity and audacity, from the day they met. She’d seen how he treated people that he didn’t want but had yet to experience that kind of terrible disregard from him.

Still, for all they discussed, the red lines and boundaries of their own relationship went without remark—either unspeakable or so self-evident as to require no demarcation. Leonor believed most of the time that it was the latter. She knew that her life had steadily cohered around his. The rhythm of it attracted her, able to fill the grave-silent vacuum where her own had once been. Although it had, important distinctions remained. Now, waking up in his bed, surrounding by what looked to be all of his worldly possessions, knowing he allowed her to be there because she needed him that much, because he cared about her that much, she suspected at least one distinction had blurred irrevocably. 

Just as quick as the realization took hold, so too did the understanding that it didn’t bother her. She noted she was alone in the room. That meant something. She took in the sight of everything bathed in daylight, from the careless stacks of books to the rumpled clothes strewn on the floor to the overflowing boxes shoved into the small room’s corners. It had seemed peculiar to her that he lived in the guesthouse instead of the perfectly suitable villa to which it belonged. Looking around, she began to appreciate why he would make such a choice. For anyone else, it would have been silly or, worse, performative. Leonor, rolling over into the pillows that smelled like him, felt she now unlocked some deeper knowledge of everything he had ever told her about himself—like she could feel what he felt when he claimed to be so uncomfortable and discontent in places other people might kill to experience. In that, yet another distinction dissolved. 

Renzo hadn’t answered the phone when Leonor called, and his flippant prerecorded message sounded cruel as it played. Her hope had been reassurance—comfort, really—in the clarity he tended to offer. Instead, the sound of his voice disheartened her further. Her mind raced all night without guidance to quiet it. It chased away sleep, banging together gut-wrenching thoughts with insistence and urgency. The idea of her mother’s belongings cast out into the world, ripped away before she could claim them for her own sentimental needs, felt just as discordant as the haphazard crashing of cymbals. She had grasped onto half-formed notions of how to retrieve these mysterious belongings, but a plan refused to cohere. Even after crying as she hadn’t in weeks, the burden of emotional exhaustion didn’t slow down the pace of her thoughts.  

She slept much better in Renzo’s bed, even if it was the first time she’d ever been in it. 

He was a private person and, anyway, she had eagerly brought him into her house. His opinion mattered to her as soon as he set foot inside; he liked the artwork in her dining room so much that she'd immediately gifted him one of the large pieces, frame and all. It perplexed him, as if he wasn't sure what he would do with it. 'You don't collect it?' she asked him. He shrugged. 'That's what everyone asks. I should smarten up, huh?' Leonor had imagined his home full of art—obscure, iconoclastic finds, too, not the low-hanging fruit. That exchange and several others kept her curious about what his home looked like.

Luckily, she was the nosy kind of curious. She asked around without shame on a couple of occasions, wondering aloud where he lived and what his house was like. She did know his address. He’d given it to her driver, at the end of long nights or when he left her house in the afternoon. All it told her was that he lived in a quiet, star-studded neighborhood that was the new money equivalent of her own. That wasn’t surprising, even if she imagined him in a trendy downtown apartment rather than one of those high-walled coastal villas. His friends offered less-than-colorful descriptions of what was inside. They seemed confused by the question, even. ‘It’s just a house.’ He wasn’t much for decorating. They went over to drink and smoke and and gamble and watch films. She could imagine it well enough, a gaggle of off-duty actors squished together on a big couch. What kind of couch, though? That was the root of it—she could imagine Renzo’s eyes lighting up at the sight of an old, ugly sofa in a dusty secondhand store, but she couldn’t quite picture him bringing it home with any purpose or intent. In the same way she inherited a house designed for someone else, she supposed he simply occupied someone else’s dream home. 

As it turned out, that was the case. Imposing fences, dense foliage, and locked gates hid all the houses on the street from view. Leonor had initially noted the averageness of the house itself, but she soon found herself more intrigued by the discovery that he resided in the guesthouse instead. She'd cast a glance back at the main house looming large and empty, then laughed as she turned back to the little doll’s home Renzo preferred. Inside, Leonor flipped on every light she encountered as she wandered around. She had felt a strange, sheepish delight that he wasn’t present to observe the way her eyes lingered on every detail. It was greedy, but she wanted to see everything that was his. 

The guesthouse possessed a neutral, modern style that didn’t represent Renzo very well, but he had made it his own. His old shoes piled up in the entryway. The living room, small to her but an open cavern in reality, bore the colorful imprint of his time spent there. VHS tapes clustered around the television set. Evidence of card games past littered the coffee table, along with books, a full ashtray, abandoned bottles of lukewarm beer. Leonor smiled at the little potted cactus. In the music nook, a record collection sat with a couple of guitars. Leonor envisioned him stretched out on the solitary lounge chair, reading the book tossed at its foot, making use of the hard candy or rolling papers on the side table in between chapters. She took one of the candies as she passed by, leaving behind her wrapper with those already discarded. 

The staircase led directly to the single bedroom. Leonor had been able to see in the moonlight, and she soon felt a tug of unease.  Even more than downstairs, Renzo’s bedroom looked like the sanctuary she had suspected his home must be. It was cluttered and overflowed with belongings, some collecting dust and others arranged as if he would return to them any minute. His very life was here. It fit in a single room. Some of it spoke for itself, and others were inscrutable symbols of stories she had yet to hear. What was it like, she wondered, to both live with such sentimentality and to be so without roots? For a moment, she had wanted to turn around and leave, as if she hadn’t earned the right to such an intimate look at him. Instead, she pulled the door shut and crawled into the unmade bed. 

Walking into the house, the nostalgic scent of stale smoke sunk into fabric greeted her. A fleeting recollection of climbing into her mother's personal car sprung to mind in response. The same smell clung to the sheets and pillows, melded with the sweet, earthen scents Renzo wore. She could all but hear her grandmother’s voice ranting about the acerbic stench she loathed, for reasons both hygienic and spiteful, but Leonor found the familiarity comforting. It smelled like her mother’s embrace the morning after a big fight, when she came inside from the balcony with a tired, apologetic smile on her face and last night’s smoke still in her hair. An ocean breeze blew inside from the open doors, and it ruffled Leonor’s hair as she turned to face the view. The water was barely visible through the foliage, but its shimmering in the distance was unmistakable. She listened to the wind, and the quiet city whisperings it carried, and soon felt at home.

As Leonor descended the spiral staircase the next morning, the sound of voices alerted her yet again to the fact that she was imposing. Renzo’s plans for the weekend hadn’t included her. She was supposed to be away and, in any case, he had mentioned meeting a friend. It didn’t occur to her as she’d pulled on her underwear and selected a shirt from the floor to wear—and only that, crucially—that he could be meeting someone at home, right now, while she slept her way from morning to early afternoon. Possibilities flashed through her mind as her steps down the staircase slowed. It could be someone important, like his agent, who sounded dour even on the telephone. Or, it could be a familiar face who would see her bare legs and just laugh. She decided to risk it and managed to pad all the way over to the sunken sitting area before Renzo looked up at her. 

“How’d you sleep?” he asked as she regarded his guest, a stranger, with a quizzical look.

“Hard,” she replied. "Knocked out.” 

Renzo chuckled, and the man sat across from him piped up, “Hey. I don’t know if you remember me. Jim.”

Leonor stared at his face. He was possibly the most non-Uspanian looking man she had ever seen, and his accent supported that notion. Still, she couldn't remember where she might have seen him. His was a forgettable face, too. “I don’t, sorry. Nice to meet you—again.” 

“Jim’s a photographer,” Renzo added. 

Leonor nodded. He looked like a photographer, and he looked like the kind of photographer that Renzo would befriend. Nonetheless, she feigned dismay, announcing, “Oh, no, I better go hide, then—!”

“Editorial, mostly,” Jim clarified with a laugh. “Yeah, I dabble in photojournalism, but strictly the kind that’s, you know, real news.” 

The conversation lulled while Leonor turned her attention back to Renzo, nudging him with her toes until he reached up to help her climb down onto the couch. Although Jim watched them, he may as well have not been present at all. Leonor wished he wasn’t. Buoyed by the satisfaction of having achieved a new kind of intimacy, Leonor hoped to float down the stairs and right into Renzo’s arms. She wanted a tour of the house, and she wanted to take her time in every part of it. In a sense, the day was halfway over, and it could have progressed like all of the sleepovers before it, making up for lost morning hours with late night ones. Renzo maintained late-rising night owl's hours, and Leonor was happy to follow him into bed and out of it irrespective of where the sun might’ve been sitting in the sky. Today, he was awake early with a friend, and Leonor had to settle for conveying her disappointment through expression alone. He smirked at her while he squeezed her thigh, and she took that as a wordless promise. 

Nestled between him and the couch, Leonor turned her attention back to Jim. “Jim, have you done anything I would recognize?” 

“Maybe,” he began, “But—”

“And you’re from Simerica, too?”

Jim chuckled, and Leonor felt Renzo react to that with his own amused scoff. 

“I met Renzo at the Beverly Hills Hotel,” Jim explained. “He walked into my shot and then told me to go fuck myself. Southern charm, this guy.”

Although there was affection in Jim’s tone, Renzo protested this characterization while Leonor snickered. It was believable, but perhaps that was the problem. “He was being a bitch about it. I wandered by. So what?”

“It was my first Interview job! I can admit I was a teeny bit on edge,” Jim retorted.

Again, they fell quiet while Renzo tended to the cigarette he’d been holding and Leonor observed from where she lay against his chest. 

Jim looked on. His expression shifted into one of careful concentration. He asked without any prelude, “Can I photograph you?” 

It wasn’t a question she couldn’t have anticipated, but Leonor was still surprised. She wrinkled her brow and cast another glance to Renzo before trying to clarify what Jim wanted. “Me?”

“Both of you. Together.”

“Um … When?”

“Now? Today. I have my camera right here.”

“It’s up to you,” Renzo murmured to her.

Indeed, Jim’s camera sat on the coffee table, perched atop a stack of tapes leftover from whatever difficult movie-watching decision Renzo had last made. Leonor looked at it, imagining the shuttering of its lens as it pointed toward her. What kind of photographs did Jim have in mind? She didn’t know what his work looked like, although his association with Renzo offered clues. He wouldn’t have befriended someone whose art he didn’t respect, and Renzo was just as well-acquainted with posing for cameras as Leonor herself. Had Jim taken photographs of him before, aside from whatever unintentional cameo he’d made when they first met? Polaroid flashes went off constantly during their nights of partying, but that, much like the hounding flashes of paparazzi, differed from what Jim was proposing. He wanted to photograph them in Renzo’s home. He would want a performance of candidity, that elusive desire of everyone in his profession. They would be relaxed, together, his object being their relationship, not either of the two individuals that formed it. It wasn't lost on her that he asked for a photo shoot while they ignored him in favor of each other.

Jim’s question, with Renzo’s gentle and immediate yielding, brought yet another once-sharp distinction into soft focus. 

“Well …” Leonor meant to forestall announcing a decision, but her tone gave it away. Jim smiled as she said to Renzo, “We do look good together. Not too many good quality daytime pictures, are there? Hm.”

Jim was eager to seal the deal. “Just a casual offer,” he insisted. “Just for fun. Perk of having interesting friends.”

Leonor nodded. He must have taken pictures of Renzo before. He acted like a bashful schoolboy with a surprising report card whenever she found photos of him to coo over. 'Put it away! It's embarrassing.' Those photographers had success with him, managing to coax out the version that played well with others and didn't resent his blessings. Fancy pictures taken by a friend would be something different. Perhaps Jim's photos had been monochrome closeups that turned his large, green eyes into a soft, warm gray and made even more pronounced the sharp lines of his face. Although she had seen countless photos of herself, she couldn’t fully see how she would fit into that frame—what they would look like together, through Jim’s mechanical eyes. 

“No publication? Nowhere?” she asked, forcing herself back to the concrete specifics. 

Jim shook his head. “I’ll give you prints to keep, and you can do whatever with them.” 

She felt a flutter. It was the kind of ingenuous excitement that always appeared with embarrassment nipping at its heels. What would she do, frame one and put it on her bedside table—stick it to her refrigerator with a cute magnet, tuck it into the sun visor of her car, keep it in her purse alongside her credit cards and notes-to-self? Even if they felt silly, there was nothing ridiculous in those suggestions. Her desire for what Jim offered was sincere. That, coupled with the subtle feeling of Renzo nuzzling his cheek against her hair, confirmed the suspicion she had awoken with less than an hour ago. Somehow, today was different. Every day after would have to be as well.

Surprised by the softness of her own words when she spoke, Leonor affirmed, “Okay, then. Sounds like fun.”

TRANSCRIPT:

[Leonor murmurs]

[Camera shutters, indistinct voices]

RENZO (O.S.) | Open your mouth—

[Birds chirping, Leonor laughs]

RENZO | How’d you sleep? LEONOR | Hard. Knocked out. [Renzo chuckles]

JIM | Hey. I don’t know if you remember me. Jim. LEONOR | I don’t, sorry. Nice to meet you—again.

RENZO | Jim’s a photographer. LEONOR | Oh, no, I better go hide, then— JIM | [laughs] Editorial, mostly. Yeah, I dabble in photojournalism, but strictly the kind that’s, you know, real news.

LEONOR | Jim, have you done anything I would recognize?

JIM | Maybe, but— LEONOR | And you’re from Simerica, too? JIM | I met Renzo at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He walked into my shot and then told me to go fuck myself. Southern charm, this guy. [Leonor snickers]

RENZO | He was being a bitch about it. I wandered by. So what? JIM | It was my first Interview job! I can admit I was a teeny bit on edge. [Laughter]

JIM | Can I photograph you?

LEONOR | Me? JIM | Both of you. Together. LEONOR | Um … When? JIM | Now? Today. I have my camera right here. RENZO | It’s up to you. LEONOR | Well … We do look good together. Not too many good quality daytime pictures, are there? Hm.

JIM | Just a casual offer. Just for fun. Perk of having interesting friends. LEONOR | No publication? Nowhere? JIM | I’ll give you prints to keep, and you can do whatever with them.

LEONOR | Okay, then. Sounds like fun.

[sentientgolfball]

Forget Yourself

SO sorry it's been so long since I've posted any writing. I've been very busy with work and swim and crocheting ghouls

18+ MDNI

Read here or on Ao3

Word Count: 3959

Pairing: Raindrop

Tags: Sir/mean Rain, forcefem, subby Dew, dubcon (kinda?? idk I'm tagging it to be safe)

Summary: Rain gets Dew a little something to make him pretty.

“You want me to what?” 

“Put it on.” 

Dew stares dumbfounded at Rain. He’s too nonchalant about this. He’s sitting in the chair across from the vanity, dress shirt half unbuttoned, suit jacket rumpled, and legs slightly spread. Dew can’t believe it. Rain is staring at him expectantly as casually as if he asked him the weather. As if he didn’t just say—

“Put on the dress Dewdrop.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing when he says it this time. 

He’s joking. He has to be. He’s baiting him so he can snap a picture and send it to the others to laugh at. He swallows, throat dry as he challenges Rain’s cold expression. He’s stubborn. He’s not going to let Rain get the better of him. 

“I won’t ask again, Dew. Put it on or leave.” 

Both of those options sound horrible. He doesn’t want to put the dress on, he doesn’t even look at it. But he was the one who followed Rain back to his room after their little night on the town. He could’ve gone to bed, could’ve trailed after anyone else, but he picked Rain. How was he supposed to resist when he was in that dark suit? The little bit of makeup making his eyes pop. The way he squeezed Dew’s ass and muttered filth in his ear while they were walking back to the Ministry. He can’t be blamed for following Rain like a little lovesick puppy. 

Now though, he almost wished he would have taken Mountain up on his offer to visit his nest. Almost. He still hasn’t decided if getting hunted through the woods by a feral earth ghoul is better or worse than this. He has half a mind to turn away, but the shadow in Rain’s eyes keeps him rooted in place. Rain quirks an eyebrow. Waiting. 

After what feels like an eternity, Dew glances at the dress. It’s laid out on Rain’s bed. It's black, perfectly matching Rain’s suit. Strapless. Small. The back is cut out. He briefly wonders if Rain raided Aurora’s closet for this. He looks back to Rain. 

“What if I don’t want to?” 

“You do,” Rain replies coolly. 

Dew opens his mouth to retort, but he can’t find anything. Rain wouldn’t stop him if he walked out, he knows this. But the way he looks at him feels like a test. Like he’s daring Dew to turn and run. A mouse caught by the cat. 

He can’t. 

“What,” he clears his throat, “what happens if I put it on?” 

The corner of Rain’s mouth twitches up, “You’ll get to be my good girl.” 

Dew’s head snaps back to stare at Rain, mouth slightly agape and a blush dusting his cheeks. There’s no way he heard him right. 

“What did you just say?” 

Rain’s fangs flash in the low light of the room, “You’ll get to be my good girl. You want that right? You want to be good for me?” 

There’s not much that can leave a ghoul like Dewdrop speechless, this is one. It’s no secret Dew desires praise, aches for it. Let’s himself be broken down in every way just to be put back together with soft hands and softer words. This feels different though. This feels like a trap. A threat. Rain is luring him in and he’s utterly helpless to his siren song. 

Still, he refuses to go down without a fight. He steps over to the bed. He can feel Rain’s eyes burning into the back of his head as he rubs the fabric between thumb and forefinger. An image of himself in it flashes through his mind and he hates the way he can feel his pants get just a bit tighter. He looks over at Rain. He’s sitting with his head resting against his knuckles, expression unreadable. Rain is patient. He’ll play this game all night if he has to, won’t give up unless Dew turns and leaves. 

“Go ahead and undress baby. It’s not going to put itself on.” 

Dew wants to throw it at him. Tell him he’s not doing it. Instead, he begins to unbutton his shirt with shaking hands. Maybe if he just focuses on Rain’s watchful gaze he can ignore the dress. Maybe if he puts on a good enough show Rain will forget about it and fuck him into the mattress. So he goes slow with it, dragging his hand down his torso once the last button pops open. He doesn’t tug it off, not yet. Instead, he unbuckles his belt, sliding it from around his hips to clatter to the floor. He doesn’t break eye contact with Rain when he drags his zipper down. Not even a blush from him. He almost looks bored watching Dew strip. It annoys and arouses him at the same time and he hates it. He shrugs his shirt off before sliding his pants off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. 

He stalks towards Rain, ignoring the slight tremor in his legs. He stops in front of him, standing in between his spread legs. He peers down at him with a grin, hair falling over his shoulders. 

“C’mon Rainy. Forget about the dress, you’re just gonna have to take it off me later.” 

Rain stares up at him, stoic. Silent. Dew huffs. He’ll get a reaction out of him. He knows all his soft spots. He makes a move to climb into his lap, but Rain grabs his wrist. Hard. He squeezes and Dew can feel his heartbeat. His eyes flick up to meet his. He’s scowling now, dark eyes somehow darker. Still, he doesn’t say anything. It makes Dew feel weird. He can handle degradation, praise, annoyance, genuine hate but it’s the silence that’s making his skin prickle. He feels the need to fill it, feels like maybe if he talks enough he can get something out of Rain. 

“Really? You don’t want this?” He scoffs “What have you done with my Rainy? He’d never pass up an opportunity to get his hands on me.” 

Silence. 

“If you take that suit off I’ll stick my tongue in your gills so deep you’ll be able to taste me.” 

Silence. 

“C’mon, we can go down to the lake. Let you use that big, thick tentacle on me.” 

Silence. 

Dew feels insane in the worst way possible. He prides himself on his mouth, the filth he can spew from it, loves watching his partner blush and squirm. But Rain isn’t. He’s not doing anything. He’ll take the faintest twitch, a hum, an eye roll, as long as it’s something. If Rain isn’t reacting then what’s the point? Why is he still here? If Rain isn’t interested in him then why does he want to stay? To prove himself maybe. Prove that despite the coldness Rain has given him since they entered his room he can get him to bend. He knows what he needs to do to get that and he hates it. But he hates the silence more. 

He sighs, “You’re really going to make me put it on, aren’t you?”

Finally, Rain speaks “I’m not making you do anything, baby. You clearly want this.” 

His eyes flick down to the tent in Dew’s boxers. 

He blushes, heat spilling down his throat and over his chest “That’s not…it’s because you’re in that fucking suit. We’ve had this conversation before fuck off.” 

Rain coos “That’s why I need you to put the dress on baby, you’ll be such a pretty accessory for me.” 

Dew’s cock kicks hard, the thin material of his underwear doing little to hide it. Rain huffs the faintest laugh. 

“Come on baby, don’t you want to be pretty for me?“

A million different responses zap through Dew’s head. 

No. 

Go fuck yourself. 

I already am pretty. 

You wear my hand as a necklace, what more do you need? 

But the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a mumbled “Yes.” 

Rain tilts his head, eyes narrowing, “What was that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Yes, what?” 

He swallows. He knows what Rain wants him to say. He knows because every time Rain gets like this Dew can’t help but resist. The word always burns and he isn’t totally sure if it feels good or not. He hates the way it makes his blood boil while simultaneously making him wet. 

“Yes…sir.” 

“Good girl,” Rain purrs, “Now hurry up. You’ve wasted enough of my time.” 

Dew steps away from Rain, standing before the bed. He can feel his heart pounding when he picks it up. He slowly turns it around so the back is facing him. He takes a deep breath before lifting it to slip it on over his head. He barely gets his arms raised though before Rain clears his throat. Dew turns to look at him, expression a mix of annoyance and questioning. 

“I believe I told you to undress.” 

Dew cocks his head, “I’m literally standing in my underwear.” It hits him the moment the words leave his mouth. 

“Oh. Oh, come on you can’t be serious.” 

“Didn’t even have to tell you, good job,” Rain smiles, “Go ahead.” 

“Fuck you.” Dew hisses as he slides his boxers down his legs. 

Rain gives a hum of approval once Dew is fully naked and something in him twists. He hasn’t heard that familiar little sound all night and suddenly he feels like he’s starving for it. He wants more of Rain’s approval. Part of him is still apprehensive about the dress, but the other part doesn’t care now that Rain is finally looking at him like he’s worth something. 

He’s still shaking slightly when he begins to put it on. It slides on easily, a little tight, but not uncomfortably so. He adjusts it around his chest until he’s sure it won’t just fall off. He turns back towards Rain, arms crossed over his chest. He keeps his eyes forward, he doesn’t want to risk catching a glimpse of himself in the vanity mirror. He’s scared of what might happen if he does. 

“Happy?” He glares at Rain. 

“Come here.” He holds a hand out. 

Dew hesitates but doesn’t protest. He walks over to Rain, his typical perfect posture gone. He’s slightly hunched, arms still over his chest. Protective. He grabs Rain’s outstretched hand and is very roughly pulled to stand between his legs. He nearly falls over with the force of it, catching himself on Rain’s chest. 

Rain smiles at him, eyes half-lidded. He brings his other hand up to cup Dew’s face, brushing his thumb over his cheekbone. 

“You look beautiful.” 

Dew’s heart stutters. It’s not the first time he’s heard him say it, but something about it in this context makes his head swim. But then he’s ripped from it with a sudden zap of pain. It takes him a moment to process what the fuck just happened. He brings his hand up to his cheek and he can feel the heat radiating off it and he quickly realizes. Rain slapped him. He blinks and shakes his head. He hadn’t even registered it until he felt the sting. His revelation must be clear as day because Rain laughs at him. 

“Out of it already are we? Did you even hear me?” 

Dew shakes his head, hand still running over the mark. He occasionally pushes down just to feel it burn. 

“I said that was for wasting my time. Now you have to make it up to me baby.” 

Dew doesn’t even have time to respond before he feels Rain’s hand grip the hair at the base of his skull. Rain knocks his knees against the back of Dew’s with enough force it makes his buckle. He hits the floor hard, unable to catch himself from the suddenness of it. When he goes down it causes Rain to pull on his hair and the noise that comes out of him is utterly pathetic. He stares up at Rain, chest rising and falling rapidly. Rain tugs again. 

“Be a good girl and show me how sorry you are.” 

All of the fight Dew had earlier is gone. Melted out of his ears with how fast Rain’s demeanor changed. He gives up, gives in. With shaking hands, he unzips Rain’s pants and pulls the waistband of his boxers down. His cock springs free, bobbing and slapping against his stomach. The only sign he’s even been affected by the night's events thus far. He’s already wet at the tip, beads of pre dripping onto the floor. He scoots ever so slightly to sit closer on the edge of the chair. 

“Go on.” He shakes Dew’s head minutely, tugging his hair again. 

Dew swallows hard, throat clicking before he darts his tongue out. He flicks it over the tip, chasing the dribbles of pre. Tasting just to taste. He wants to tease but he knows Rain won’t let him, not when he’s like this. Any other night Dew would push his luck, make the inevitable punishment worse, but he can’t. Not when Rain’s fried his brain with a mix of praise and degradation. He feels floaty. 

Rain’s thighs flex under Dew’s palms, bringing him back to the ground. He scoots forward on already aching knees to wrap his lips around the tip of Rain’s cock. He suckles on it until another drop of pre hits his tongue. He drinks him down, savoring him. He doesn’t get long though before Rain begins to push his head down with the grip he has on his hair. Dew lets him, relaxing his jaw and throat so Rain can feed it to him. He doesn’t stop until Dew’s nose is nestled in the dark curls at the base of his cock. Drool dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. Rain wipes it off with his thumb and coos. 

“There you go, knew you could be such a good girl for me.” 

Dew moans and the vibration goes right through Rain’s dick, making him shudder. 

“See I told you you wanted it. Just needed a little encouragement didn’t you baby?” Rain flexes his hips, shoving himself in that much further. 

He starts to fuck his throat, slowly at first. Barely pulling out before pushing back in, more of a grind. He twists his fingers through individual strands of hair, twirling them around his fingers before pulling. Every tug sends a jolt down Dew’s spine. His hips twitch forward of their own accord, seeking any friction on his aching cock. 

Rain is happy to oblige. Dew gasps, gagging on Rain’s dick when he feels the rough sole of his shoe press against him through the dress. He pulls off of him with a pop, looking up with big eyes as he sucks in air. Rain tsks and grips the underside of his jaw, applying pressure at the hinges. 

“I try to give you a reward for being so good and you disappoint me. How sad.” 

Dew tries to respond but all he gets out is a weak little sound before Rain pulls him in, shoving his cock all the way down his throat. He doesn’t start slow this time. He holds Dew’s head still while he thrusts into his mouth. Dew’s claws dig into the meat of Rain’s thighs, trying to focus on keeping himself relaxed and open. Obscene wet noises fill the otherwise quiet room. Rain can’t look away from the fucked out look on Dew’s face, eyes half-lidded and glassy. He applies just a touch more pressure with his foot. Dew jolts forward from the sensation, making the tip of his cock rut against the leather. He groans and Rain’s eyes flutter closed. 

The little bit of friction is enough to clear his head, but nowhere near enough to actually get him off. He becomes acutely aware of the way the fabric of the dress clings around him, sticky and wet. Dew huffs a breath of air through his nose and swallows around Rain. He’s able to keep his reaction in check save for the way his hand tightens in Dew’s hair. He does it again, licking across the vein on the underside of his cock this time. 

Before he knows what’s happening he’s being pulled off Rain. He forces him to look up at him. A mix of drool and pre makes his swollen lips shiny. The yellow blaze of his eyes is nearly consumed by black with how big his pupils are. 

“Come here baby stand up,” Rain coos. 

He gets up slowly, knees screaming as he does. He’s sure if he looks down he’ll see bruises already forming. The thought alone makes his stomach twist tighter. He goes easy as Rain pulls him into his lap. He wiggles his hips just a bit feeling his cock press against him. Rain’s hand holds his hips, fingers trailing dangerously close to the hem of the dress. Dew can feel the faintest prickle of claws against his skin. 

“You’ve been such a good girl for me, you know that?” 

Dew nods with a hum. 

“Words baby. I need to know you’re still with me.” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Come on you can do better than that.” Rain squeezes his ass. 

Dew’s breath hitches. It takes him a moment to find his voice. “I have…I’ve been a good girl for you sir.” 

Rain grins, fangs glinting. Predatory. “Do you know what good girls get?” 

Dew shakes his head, not trusting his voice. Thankfully Rain allows it this time. He gasps when he feels Rain’s fingertip press against his asshole. He kisses across his gill scars before bringing his lips to Dew’s ear. 

“Good girls get my cock.” 

Rain traces around Dew’s rim before pushing it in. Dew fists his hand in Rain’s dress shirt, clinging to him while he slowly works that finger inside. He curls it, searching for the spot that will make Dew keen. It doesn’t take him long to find it, years of practice making it easy. Dew lets out a choked little moan, grinding his hips down to make it sink in farther. 

Rain decides to take it further, pulling the first finger out until just the tip is inside. When he pushes back in, a second finger is added, stretching Dew more. He curls his fingers, thrusting them in and out and reveling in the wet sound it produces. He doesn’t drag it out though. He scissors his fingers, working Dew open as quick as he can stand. It's not much longer before he’s pulling out of him and wiping the slick that coats his hand on Dew’s thigh. 

Rain hoists the material of the dress up to rest on Dew’s scrawny hips, exposing him. He lifts him just enough to brush the tip of his cock against his hole. Dew squirms in his grasp, trying and failing to sink down on him. Rain digs his claws in, a warning. By some miracle Dew listens, stilling his movements to let Rain guide him. He makes a pleased noise, sucking a mark in the space between his jaw and ear. 

All at once he shoves Dew down onto his cock. He yelps at the suddenness of it, but Rain doesn’t give him time to adjust. He sets a brutal pace, thrusting up into him. The chair creaks with the force of it. Dew whines with each pass over his prostate, arms wrapped tight around Rain’s shoulders. 

“That’s it, baby girl. Taking me so well.” 

“Rain.” Dew gasps, rutting his hips against his stomach. 

Rain huffs a laugh. “What is it? Need a hand on your pretty little clit?” 

Dew clenches hard and it nearly makes Rain choke. He takes that as a yes, shoving his hand under the fabric of the dress. Dew bucks forward the moment Rain wraps his hand around his cock, giving him a firm squeeze. He twists his fist around his head, gathering slick. He strokes him quick and short, pulling reedy little moans from Dew. 

It’s all so much so fast. He never really recovered from how Rain’s demeanor kept changing. The way he’s driving into him is such a sweet mix of pleasure and pain it makes him feel like he’s burning. The hand on his dick just adds a layer of sweetness to it all that makes his balls draw close to his body. The final nail in the coffin comes when Rain whispers into his ear. 

“Look at you. Look how beautiful you are sweet thing.” He tugs his hair, making his head turn. 

For the first time that evening, Dew sees himself. He makes eye contact with himself in the vanity mirror and it makes his brain short circuit. His hair is a mess. His cheeks are red, flushed, he can’t tell what’s blush and what’s from Rain smacking him. The dress is bunched up enough he can see Rain fucking into him. His eyes are half lidded and glassy. He looks fucked out, absolutely debauched. He catches Rain’s eye and it’s over for him. He cums without warning, gasping and spilling all over Rain’s knuckles. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl, so wet for me.” Rain strokes him through it, milking him until he squirms from overstimulation. 

“Clean up your mess baby.” Rain doesn’t give him a moment to recover, bringing his hand up to Dew’s face. 

He doesn’t hesitate. He lets his tongue unfurl, wrapping it around Rain’s fingers to suck his spend off. Rain watches his eyes roll to the back of his head when he tastes himself. Rain curses under his breath, hips slamming into him one more time. He cums with a low, drawn-out groan. He grinds against him, driving his release deep into him. 

He pants heavily, head resting against Dew’s shoulder. He can feel Dew shaking and he presses kisses all over his exposed neck and collarbone. He rubs his hands up and down his back, muttering genuine praise between each press of lips. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much for indulging for me Dew. You did so good for me, took it all so well.” 

Dew whines, clinging harder to Rain. He runs his fingers through his hair, soothing the ache in his scalp. The feeling of claws gently scratching relaxes him, going limp in Rain’s hold. Dew nuzzles into his neck and breathes deep. 

They stay like that for a long time, long enough that Rain goes soft and slips out of him. Neither of them wants to move. They should, Rain’s suit needs cleaned before it stains and Dew needs to get into something more comfortable. But they’re hesitant to break the hazy, warm spell. Eventually, though Rain sighs and presses another kiss just below his ear. 

“Come on spark, we can’t sit here all night. Let’s get you clean.” 

Dew hisses “Says who?” 

“Says me,” Rain laughs. He stands, picks Dew up, and walks with him to the bathroom. 

He takes care of him quickly, yet efficiently. He cleans him up with a warm, soft rag until he feels him sag. He rubs a soothing hand over his bruised knees the whole time. He gets Dew dressed in one of his hoodies and a pair of his boxers, kissing over his face when it pops through. He peels his suit off and dumps it into his laundry bin. He’s usually more conscious of his clothes, but he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment. Dew picks up the dress off the floor and hands it to him. 

“Rora’s gonna kill us if it stains.” 

Rain smiles at him. “Well, it’s a good thing Mist knew why I needed to borrow it.” 

He wishes he could take a picture of the look on Dew’s face.

[eloves-writes]

heyyy

i couldn’t find a navigation on ur profile so if you feel uncomfortable with this request please ignore it🙏

ok how about quickie with sej in janitors closet at the academy🫣

i am feral.

-anon

babygirl very very little makes me uncomfortable on this hellsite these days😭 also i don’t have a navigation rn because i’m lazy and i suck! will work on it, sorry, thanks for this request, i am also feral for sejanus plinth🤞🏻

warnings: smut, swearing, p in v sex, exhibitionism (my signature move atp), perhaps slightly ooc sejanus but that's neither here nor there

mdni, 18+ content under the cut

you didn’t know quite what had gotten into the usually mild-mannered boy as he thrusted into you, your legs wrapped around his waist as he pushed you up against a shelf of cleaning products.

one minute you’d been sat in the academy dining hall, suggestively licking your spoon clean of dessert as you gave sejanus plinth your best fuck-me eyes, as had become customary during any interaction you had with the boy. you didn’t even really know him that well, but something about him made you feral. he was so big, so manly. so powerful. you needed him. bad. and you were not above slutting yourself out to him at any opportunity in pursuit of this burning desire.

it was working. today was his last fucking straw, forcing sej to finally lose his composure and calmy demand to speak with you outside, then roughly dragging you to the janitor’s closet as he had wanted to do for weeks.

now his thick cock was buried deep inside of you. “you like that, y/n? this what you wanted?” he taunted, withholding his own moans.

you tried to string together a sentence but you were struggling. “yes, sej,” you managed before letting out a loud whimper.

sejanus smirked, pulling out of you and slowly pushing back into your wet cunt in a way that had you gasping with arousal. “you want everyone to hear you, doll? yeah? you want them all to know what a slut you are for the district boy, huh?”

grabbing fistfuls of his messed-up hair in desperate search of support, you quietly moaned something that resembled an embarrassed yes.

sejanus pulled a face and rammed his cock into you with more force than before, earning a resounding moan and knocking several bottles off of the shelf behind you.

“say it,” the boy growled without softening his brutal thrusts. looking directly into his warm, lust-filled eyes with redness creeping into your cheeks, you obeyed.

“want them to hear you fucking me, sej. want them to know how good you’re doing it.”

sejanus smirked. “good little slut. let ‘em hear you then, princess.”

at that request, you let out the whimpers you so badly wanted to let out and the sound reverberated off the cement walls of the tiny closet, producing a vulgar euphony of your escapades.

there was no doubt that everybody in the hallway could hear it too. you made sure to moan sej’s name particularly loud so they knew exactly who was fucking you so hard.

you soon came over his cock, letting him finish inside of you and stuff your panties in his back pocket like a trophy. as you left the room in much worse condition than you found it, sej placed a claimant hand on the small of your back. he kept it there as he walked you to class, your lipstick smudged, both of your clothes rumpled, his hair untamed, rumours catching like fire in every corner of the academy about the plinth boy and the y/l/n girl in the janitor’s closet.