#i lost my sanity at the darkness chapter

[tarryrodriguez]

I was playing Adventure Mode with a friend and Monster! Maxwell came out.

They're a family now.

Max is the doggo.

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake’s Farewell: The Day Gotham Let Him Go

They searched for him for months.

When Tim Drake disappeared, the entire Batfamily unraveled. One day he was there, saving Gotham alongside them. The next? Gone. No explanation. No note. Just silence. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Damian—they all assumed the worst. Kidnapping, foul play, an elaborate plot. Because Tim Drake doesn’t just leave.

But he did.

Months later, they found him. Not in a dark corner of Gotham. Not held captive by some villain. No, they found him in a small, quiet town in Europe. A place with cobblestone streets and flower boxes in every window. Tim was there, in a cozy house with a garden out back. And he wasn’t alone. He had a child—a bright-eyed little one with dark hair and a curious smile. The moment they saw the kid, they knew.

Kon.

The clone Tim made, after all those failed attempts to bring Kon-El back. Tim had finally succeeded. And he was raising this child alone, quietly, away from the chaos of Gotham.

The confrontation wasn’t what they expected. Bruce tried to argue, voice low and rough, that Tim was too young for this. “You’re barely out of your own childhood,” he said, the words falling flat even as he spoke them. He knew the truth: Tim had never really been a child.

Tim’s response? Calm. Firm.

“I raised you out of your grief. I was Robin because Gotham needed me to be. Because you needed me to be. But this isn’t what I wanted for my life. I’m choosing my happiness, Bruce.”

They didn’t know how to respond to that. Because Tim was right. He’d given everything—his childhood, his innocence, his sanity—for a city that never gave back.

Now, he had a family. A child who wasn’t burdened with masks and capes. And a life. A real life. One where he spent afternoons in the garden, mornings at the café down the street. Where he wasn’t “Red Robin” or “Tim Drake.” He was just… Tim.

There were signs of something else, too. Little things. An extra coffee mug in the kitchen. Another pair of shoes by the door. A faint, easy smile when he glanced across the street, as if sharing an inside joke with someone they couldn’t see. They didn’t press. But there was a quiet presence in Tim’s life, woven into the edges of this new chapter. Someone who helped build this safe haven, this peace.

And Tim had no plans of returning to Gotham.

“I’m not Red Robin anymore. And I never will be again.”

They didn’t understand at first. Not fully. How could he walk away? How could he choose this life, this quiet happiness, over the mission? Over them?

But deep down, they knew. They’d always known Tim’s heart wasn’t in it the way theirs was. He wasn’t like Bruce, who could never let go. Or Jason, who burned with restless fury. Or Dick, who carried hope like a torch. Tim had been the glue holding them together, but it had come at a cost. And now he was finally healing.

“I’ll still be family,” Tim promised. “I’ll visit. Holidays, special occasions. But this? This is my life now. You can’t take me away from my happiness because you need me to stay. That’s not fair.”

They wanted to argue. But what could they say? Tim had always been the rational one. The one who saw the bigger picture. And he was right.

Bruce’s voice softened. “You’re happy.”

Tim nodded. “I am.”

And in the end, that was all that mattered.

The Batfamily returned to Gotham, a little quieter, a little heavier. They’d lost Red Robin. But they hadn’t lost Tim. And as much as it hurt, they knew he’d finally found the peace they could never give him.

Some heroes leave the fight not because they’ve lost hope, but because they’ve found something worth living for.

Tim Drake had given Gotham everything. Now, it was time for Gotham to let him go.

[theorist-fox]

Takes practice

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposting from AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2

In my feel-good romance era. Usually more of a slap me pull my hair touch me there, there, there - no more talking. But not today. No SIR.

The bit regarding the satellite phones and telemarketers was inspired by the first chapters of Shadowed by Tarajanee. Absolutely adore that work and I thought those scenes at the beginning were lovely!

Word count: 13k

Summary: Simon is deployed for the first time since the beginning of your relationship. Instead of finding purpose in keeping the world clean, he finds it in keeping himself alive, because he's never been this eager to come home.

18+

CW: smut!!! dry humping, mutual masturbation, thigh fucking, P in V. Fluff, this is very fluffy. Soft Simon Riley, Simon is absolutely fucking whipped. Self-deprecating thoughts, intrusive thoughts, angst if you squint so don't squint and you'll only get yearning and love making.

Masterlist 🦊 | Series Masterlist 🦊

Simon doesn’t remember your eyes.

He’s been clawing at his face, both literally and metaphorically, because each time he closes his eyelids to succumb to exhaustion, he sees your face.

And you’re pretty. So much. He envisions the curve of your smile and how your lips part to give way to your teeth. The lines at the corners that scrunch your nose and how it flushes when it’s too cold out. He has memorized the shape of your brows for every expression. Knows the line of your cheekbones and how they swell under your eyes when you smile.

Your face is lovely, even when he conjures it in his head. But when your form breaks through the mist, he gets startled every time. Because he can’t see your eyes.

It's like a mock picture of you. A mimicry gone bad. You’re there, fresh and real, whispering sweet words to him, tossing a quip, or moaning breathlessly as he remembers the way he’s fucked you, but your eyes are carved out. Blank spots instead of the windows to your soul, like everyone always seems to chatter about.

Sure, he remembers the shape of your eyes, and if he takes deep breaths, cancels out Johnny’s blabber blaring from his cot, and enters a deep meditative state, he might be able to draw their outline.

But it’s the shade he misses. Are they sapphire, dark, and cryptic? Or frostbite blues. Emerald, maybe. He ponders, but he’s not sure. Brown, like his? Chocolate, with swirling hazels like golden speckles. Stormy grey. Charcoal black. Amber. Gold. Fucking crimson.

He doesn’t know.

But it's only been three months since he left.

And it’s been six months since Simon has taken you on his bed and fucked his name into you. Six months since he’s finally tasted your skin and imprinted your flavor on his tongue. 

It’s your fault, he thinks, if now everything he eats tastes bland. Nothing sweeter than the salt of you. The dichotomy is not lost on him. He’s a rational man, and figures easily that skin can't be sweet, especially not after he made you sweat by pounding you into the mattress. Yet he might have lost a marble or two after that, because now not even honey can compare.

Which is why he’s moved his things in your room. Just because it’s bigger, he told you. No other reason, really.  

Fucking liar. 

But again, you’re as saccharine as you taste. And maybe not as naïve as he thinks. Because ever since that night, six months ago, your hands often intertwine with his own when you guide him to bed – your bed. 

And that’s how he found a nightstand full of his things on the side closer to the doorway of the room. There’s the book you’ve lent him and a re-filled plastic bottle of water right next to it, one that he should probably throw away like you constantly tell him. Something about microplastics, but fuck if he knows. Because ever since that night, he’s lost a bit of his logic, a lot more of his sanity: you can speak for hours on end and he wouldn’t hear a damn thing if not for how your voice vibrates against his eardrums, sending tingles down his spine. 

Surreptitiously, his things have started to appear in your room. He doesn’t have much, a phew photos of his family are shuffled with your trinkets. Plain, white frames stuffed in between your smiles on pictures you’ve taken with friends. 

A frame of his medals, the ones you insisted he kept, nailed to the wall next to your PhD certificate. 

Tidy, onyx wardrobe polluted with pinks and greens. Breathable cotton and faux furs. Fuzzy fabrics that leave a rainbow of synthetic hairs on his clothes. He doesn’t bother to pluck them off, it’s just another piece of you he’s lucky to carry around.

His old bedroom turns into a storage room. Filled with boxes of forgotten things and broken appliances you can’t be bothered to fix. 

And he promises to tinker a little with the vacuum, so you won’t have to spend money on a new one and use your savings for your guilty pleasures. That book you saw when you went out together for groceries? Consider it yours. The cooking classes you wanted to attend at that restaurant you’re always raging about? He’s already bought you a pristine new apron. 

And maybe he’ll take you there, too. Ask for a more secluded table where he can still spot the door, so he can also uncoil the muscles of his back and use his eyes only to look at you, instead of having them dart around for dangers.

But fuck, he can’t do any of that now. 

It’s his first mission after that night, six months ago, and Simon is already feeling withdrawal symptoms. You’re worse than morphine on a dying man; you leave him aching for something he knows he can have because you're so obviously there, but he’s so stupidly far away.

And he can’t even tell you where he is. Can’t even give you some peace of mind. Can barely call you, because Johnny’s been hogging the satellite phone to talk to Lord-knows-who.

The Scot is not selfish, Simon knows he would only have to ask, and the bulky device would practically materialize in his hand. But Simon also knows that if he dared, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Because in the years spent in the task force, he’s never needed to call anyone. 

Can’t call the dead, now, can you? 

And now, popping a question like that would only raise suspicions. It would have his mates up his arse until his head would split in half.

But it’s been six months since that night. Three months since he left. 

And that pocket of time he’s managed to spend with you, uninterrupted, almost made him accustomed to civilian life. To the lack of his mask and the AC of the flat breezing against his face. The taste of homecooked meals. The constant presence of another soul (a beautiful one at that) in his same space. 

With you, he’s never parched – of anything. You feed him mind, heart and body, showering him with that innocent love you so easily dispense, allowing him to bathe in it. 

He’d listen to your never-ending chat for days. His mind has always roared with sounds, yet the more noise you make the more you silence it. Baffling, really, how he’s spent his whole life looking for quiet and found it in the loudest person on earth.

He’s always sated with your kisses, your words, your quick mind and razor-sharp wit, your moans and your mewls, and God, anything you were willing to give. Your lips, your spit, the juices he makes you drip, and the ones he makes you spray. He dreams of cupping your clit with his mouth as he ravages your cunt with two thick fingers until you’re splashing on his tongue. He’d drink you dry, if you’d let him. 

And oh, you have. 

There’s  the wonderful catch. These are not wishes; these are memories. Too real and fresh ones for them to be just another one of his daydreams.

Finally, after three months of pondering – or better, yearning – he realizes that every skin-prickling migraine his mates would induce is worth the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

He’s disgustingly sweaty. He tugs at the lip of his collar and grimaces when he feels the cotton unstick from the dampness on his chest. 

Johnny's sitting idly, enjoying the few days of break from mayhem. Just a handful of hours allowed, really, enough to get them back on their feet – tactical planning, refill of their resources. Boring shite like that. But at least it’s a breather all right.

“Got the phone, Johnny?” He grumbles.

And Johnny would love to act as none the wiser, but his eyes peek from behind the sketchbook he holds in his hand. The smirk that curls at his lips has Simon roll his eyes. 

He makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers, giving him a pointed look. “Johnny.”

“L.T.” He responds in kind. “Callin’ the landlord?”

Simon levels him with a deadpan look that could freeze the desert they’re stuck in. “Sergeant.”

Bastard’s too cunning for his own good.

Johnny drops the sketchbook immediately, showing the lieutenant his palms in defense. The cheeky bastard that he is doesn’t manage to conceal the absolute fascination in his eyes. He’s studying his superior as if he’s staring at another species.

And Simon doesn’t blame him. He’s like a sock that’s been turned inside out, the negative image of himself. All that gloomy energy turned blinding light, ever since he’s had a taste of what life could be with you in it.

But alas, no one wants to have the Ghost up their arse, so Johnny looks around the messy area around his cot and plucks the girthy satellite phone out of it.

Simon picks it up by pinching the tiny antenna on its side. It prompts Johnny’s smirk to broaden. 

“Haven’t done anythin’ with it.” He quips, letting it hang in the air for a second longer. “Or have I.”

Simon grunts a noise of disgust. “Spare me.”

He finds a secluded spot in the area they're occupying. There's nothing around them but the rubble of a city that has been torn by war and time. The sight is dour, and the silence echoes a dark past he hasn’t witnessed. Even so, the remains of the buildings are tall enough to offer their lot some cover. 

He slides with his back against a wall, knees spread wide. 

He knows your number by heart, his thumb presses each button with newfound resolve. Only when he brings the phone to his ear, does his determination falter. Because he hasn't contacted you in any way, shape, or form for three months. So, what if you’re livid, now? You’d have every right. He’d understand if you’d rip him a new one through the receiver. He just hopes you didn’t spend these days rethinking your choices. 

God, you’ve infected him with this overthinking bullshit.

“Hello?” Your voice breaks through the fog in his brain, like a hand wiping mist from glass, and his own breath threatens to choke him. He’s speechless for a moment, forgetting how to function properly.

Just your voice has sent his mind into overdrive - burnt his synapses to ashes. 

He reckons he’s completely fucked.

“Hello?” You repeat, sounding a little more annoyed. 

You grumble something about telemarketers having lost the decency to call at a reasonable hour. And when he doesn't answer again, he hears you sigh. Your voice gets all clinical, then, as if you were trained to repeat the same script over and over. “Listen, if you’re trying to sell me somethin’, my husband’s not home – he takes care of that stuff.”

He snorts.

“Your husband?”

Silence.

There’s a sort of shifting sound, he gathers you might have removed the phone from your ear and checked for the number on the screen. He can practically see your eyes squinting at the phone.

He hears you gasp, and he hints at a smile. Fucking hell, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s done that.

“Simon?” You venture.

“Hello, love.” 

You squeal, and he pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. But he’s tired of lying to himself – his heart is soaring. 

"Christ. Made my ears ring," he deadpans.

You chuckle, sighing afterward, as if a weight has been lifted from your chest. God, you’re a dream to listen to. If only he could also look at your face right now, just bask in the way your smile would light up the room. 

“Serves you right,” you chide him, as if that could ever be a punishment. “Could’ve called a little earlier than three months in. Was already looking for a new flatmate.”

He’s eternally thankful for the skull mask, even if it’s soddened with his sweat because if anyone were to walk by, they wouldn’t see how his face has softened. 

“Yeah?” He sniffs, “Made a new flyer and all tha’?” 

“Oh yeah,” You agree flippantly. There’s a shuffling sound that reminds him of bedsheets. “Made sure to add my boyfriend left me as a footnote.”

The corners of his lips twitch minutely. 

“Thought it was your husband who wasn’t home.” He retorts. “Got a stash of ‘em, then?”

Your chuckle is a breath of fresh air. He wants to have it imprinted in his eardrums, replacing the aggravating tinnitus. 

“Oh, y’know,” you sigh dramatically. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Keeps things interesting.”

“Gotta have a chat with the lad, then.” He taunts, “Set some rules.”

“Good luck with that. He rarely listens.”

He hums fondly. It’s all he can give you, right now. 

He’s new to this, relationships have never been his forte. For the first time in his life, he’s having someone else guide him. It’s hard, he won’t deny it, having another set of hands grasp the wheel, instead of his own. But he’s letting you, however slowly. You’re understanding, and you’re allowing him to leave his foot on the brakes. You never push him, you go at his pace – even if it’s blatantly annoying, how sluggish his movements are. Yet you don’t seem to mind, and he’s eternally grateful for it.

“How…” You start. He can tell you’re unsure, whether or not you can ask these things. Whether or not he can answer them. “How are you?”

His eyes soften. 

“Good,” he reassures you. “’S hot.”

You hum. “North Africa.”

He clicks his tongue. “No.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Middle East?”

Eh.  “No.”

You gasp. 

“You’re throwing me off guard, aren’t you? You said it’s hot, but it actually isn’t.” You say cleverly, even if you’re aware it’s most likely untrue. “North America, then. Like - Canada.”

“Drop it, maybe.” He offers gently. “Making a fool o’ yourself.”

“Alaska.” 

“Love.”  He warns, but his voice is kind. “Wastin’ time.”

“Mh, the script has changed, I see.” You tease him, and he can tell you’re smiling, by the way your voice comes. “Thought you were gonna hit me with the classified.”

“Like to keep you on your toes.”

“Been on my toes for three months.”

His heart clenches a little. He doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want you to live on the line like that. He wonders if you’ve ever felt like this, in the four years he’s lived with you without having anything tethering each other, if not a casual friendship. Were you ever afraid when he left for his deployments? Or is this new to you, like it is for him?

“Fixed the vacuum, by the way.” You tell him lightly, as if sensing the tense air your comment has instilled. 

He silently thanks you for breaking the silence when he couldn’t. A gentle huff of relief travels through the receiver. 

“What was the problem?” He asks, even if not really fussed about the state of the thing.

“Fuck if I know.” You shrug. “Gave it a few whacks and it started working again.”

He fails to keep in a huff of laughter. “Fucking hell, ‘s tha’ what you’ve been doing, then? Hitting appliances?”

“Fixing appliances.” You correct him. “And stress baking. Lots of it.”

“Work’s botherin’ ya?” 

“S’fine.” You sigh sweetly, as though that could give him some peace of mind. “Everything’s fine over here, you don’t have to worry.”

Selfless angel, you are. He would have to be daft not to realize that you’re probably leeching your heart dry at the thought that something might happen to him. He feels like a fool for not having contacted you sooner, even when he had only a minute to spare.

His pride be damned.

“’M sorry I didn’t call earlier.” He apologizes, because the least he can do is hope you forgive him for being like a baby deer on ice about all this. 

“You called.” Your voice is soft. “’S what matters.”

He knows what you mean. He’s alive, that’s what matters. He’s faring good enough to chat with you, that’s what matters. He’s missing you as much as you’re longing for him, that’s what matters. 

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His offhand runs across his face and he has to rip his own head out of his arse before the thoughts overwhelm him. 

How can he put you through this?  He should’ve left three weeks in, four years ago; should’ve let you share your home with someone more reliable, one who didn’t have a blade oscillating above his neck.

And yet at the same time, he can't let go of you. 

You’re so good to him, you’re the drop of water in a life that’s always felt arid. You made his barren heart flourish without even trying – he didn’t think anyone could, he thought he was bound to be frozen soil, not a garden. But here you fucking are, with your tiny watering can, nourishing the earth and causing it to sprout.

He’s selfish. He is. There is no karmic balance in his reasons. The scale tips in his favor through and through, because he’s sure you’re not gaining anything from this relationship, if not a spike in anxiety and its hand around your neck.

“How long?” You ask, seemingly unable to bear the silence.

"Few weeks." He croaks and clears his throat when he notices how cracked his voice sounds. “Be back in three. Could be two, if things go to plan.”

The silence on your end is deafening. Unwittingly giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“Countdown starts, then.” You reply with that sunshine in your voice. Sunbeams through ominous clouds. “Gonna tally the days on the wall with one of your can openers.”

He snorts. “Lotta money to fix.”

“We can put ugly wallpaper over it,” you propose. “So the next person to rent the place will remove it and a whole kidnapping slash ghost story will spread around the neighborhood.”

You’re crazy, he thinks, but not unkindly. His heart squeezes in his chest.

“Fucking numpty.”

“Fucking numpty, or fucking numpty, derogative?”

He smirks. “Former.”

“Wonderful.” You say with a pinch of a smile he can’t see, sounding all smug.

However, nothing nice can last forever, not in Simon Riley’s plane of existence. He spots his captain approaching him, fiddling with the boonie hat in his grasp while his other hand lazily dries droplets of sweat on his forehead.

“Gotta go.” He mutters. Waits a bit. Shuffles through his thoughts and decides to swallow his pride, because you deserve at least that much. “Missed you. Still do.”

You're silent for a moment longer before you give him a last glimpse of your voice. The one he'll hold onto like a lifeline for the next three – hopefully two – weeks. 

“Miss you too.” You say gently. “Come home soon.”

And he’s back suddenly. 

Earlier than expected, at that – one week only. Price was all business, a few days after he caught him sneaking a phone call. Telling him things like “Need you at HQ. Work with Laswell, make sure classified intel stays classified”. And when he questioned why would he send his sniper and lieutenant to do a job an analyst should do, Price answered with a curt “Because I can trust you”.

Honestly, what could he have said to that? Even if it smelled fishy from afar, his reasoning sounded mostly reliable. Because you would send your most trusted to deal with sensitive information, right? And if Simon were a bit more daft and a bit less intuitive, he would've shrugged it off. 

But it was plain as day when his boot landed on British soil, duffel bag in hand. When his phone pinged after he turned off airplane mode, and a text popped up:

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off for the jet lag. 

That he realized the ploy his teammates had concocted. To be honest, he wasn’t as resentful as he thought he was going to be. There was lingering thankfulness – somewhere, deep below layers and layers of stoicism.

[You]: Time zones aren’t that different. 

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off to just rest, then. 

[You]: Not that tired. 

[Unknown number]: Never took you for one to question orders. 

[You]: Never took you for one to put personal life before our job. 

Simon waited patiently under the overhanging lip of the hangar. The Kevlar of his glove crinkled as his fingers curled around the hand of his duffle bag. The rain creates a gentle buzz against the metal.

It took a while for the other bubble to appear, as if the other person – most likely Price, judging by the vocabulary used in the texts – was thinking about the right thing to say.

And the right thing it was, when the words fluttered on Simon’s phone screen.

[Unknown number]: About time you put yours first, though. 

Simon, for once, agreed.

────────────

The keys slide into the keyhole with familiarity. He turns it three times, content to see you’ve locked the door all the way. When he steps in, the flat is quiet, but he isn’t expecting otherwise. It’s late at night, the hands of the clock that’s hanging above the telly mark somewhere around three in the morning, but it’s too dark to be sure. 

He's ever so gentle when he closes the door and gingerly sets the duffle bag at his feet. 

The first thought popping in his head it’s you. You’re not expecting him to be back so soon, and he has this trepidation in him that wants to command his feet to the door of your bedroom only to see how you’d react to his unexpected presence.

But he takes a moment to digest this new feeling. 

It's hard to realize that, finally, you're not dreading something. For the first time in an excruciatingly long while, Simon isn't afraid. While his brain is rigidly wired in a way that makes him refuse to acknowledge his vulnerabilities, the heart knows best.

And he is scared. He’s always been scared, ever since his mother granted him the possibility of walking this earth. Being excited to live has never been his strong suit, but he’s learning. He’s trying. 

Takes practice, to accept you’re worth your happiness.

So, as a novice learner, it’s a little jarring to realize that when his feet land on the hardwood floors of this house, there's no need for fear. He can tuck the dread away, stuff it in a pocket, and close the flap, all the while being sure no harm will come his way. Certainty that with you there’s no need for all that, for vigilance – he can unravel the knots, and simply feel what comes, because it's not going to hurt him. 

You could never.

Hooking a finger under the hem of the balaclava, he snatches it off his head and lays it on the shelf next to the doorway. It’s soaked in rain, but he’ll wash it tomorrow. And he’ll use your fabric softener, so it’ll smell like your sheets. 

The flat looks awfully dull with the lights off. The bright colors are mere shades of grey, and while he’ll never admit it out loud, he truly thinks the orange of the eastern wall brightens the room as you've told him. The thought itself baffles him – Simon Riley now knows a thing or two about home design. You’ve changed him in ways he never expected. 

However, the thing that shocks him even more than his newfound knowledge of home interior embellishments, is when the smell of baked goods bullies its way into his nose. His mouth waters in a Pavlovian response. 

Right.  

Stress baking. 

He kneels to unlace his boots, before toeing them off gently, making sure they won’t thud against the floor and disturb your sleep. Then, he practically floats to the kitchen, still unbelieving at the idea that he gets to come home and find delicacies as such ready to eat. Sometimes, in the span of life he decides to call the “Before you”, he’d snatch a few MREs from the stash in base and eat them once back in his flat. 

Easy, quick, and edible. Even if they taste like cardboard.

And now he gets to walk into a kitchen that smells like blueberries and buttercream and black tea. He gets to grab a lumpy muffin from the tray on the kitchen island and sink his teeth in its golden and blue fluff. The flavors erupt on his tongue, from the saccharine spongy cake to the sweet tang of the blueberry juice as the fruit bursts under his teeth.

He selfishly hopes your stress baking will last for a few more days.

Nevertheless, while he’d gladly eat the whole tray if it were up to him, there’s something he craves more than a full stomach. And you're currently waiting in the other room, probably tucked under the duvet because the British weather tonight is rigidly cold. 

He shrugs off his wind jacket and drapes it over the backrest of a kitchen chair. He can’t afford to take any steps backward. The coat rack is just a few paces back from the kitchen, nailed to the wall near the entrance, but he really doesn’t care. That handful of seconds is too precious to waste.

The steps he takes through the dark hallway are measured and silent; years of special forces training have taught a man his size how to be what his callsign implies.

Discreetly, he turns the knob, trying to make sure he won’t wake you with a startle because the door has barged open. However, the one caught by surprise it’s him. Because you’re not asleep, even if it’s three in the morning. 

Oh, he wants to give you a proper earful – sure, he's not your father, and if you're so keen on staying awake up until this hour on a weekday, then it's your funeral. 

Does it help school the unruly necessity of keeping you as healthy as can be? Absolutely fucking not. You’re a heathen and he hates you for it. 

But now you’re resting your back against the headboard, cross-legged on the bed. Satin blue navy camisole paired with matching shorts, big headphones on your ears, and your laptop on the mattress. You’re typing away. He’s sure you’ve pushed back an assignment from work and now you’re running out of time.

The room is dark, the only light being the screen of your computer casting your silhouette against the wall behind you. It’s silent aside from the patter of rain on the windowpane – you haven’t closed the blinds because Simon knows you love the moon flooding your room with gentle light. However, tonight the clouds are dominating the night sky, but the lampposts across the street are doing what the moon can’t, and you seem to favor that over complete darkness.

It’s clear you haven’t noticed him yet, music blaring in your ears and eyes focused on the monitor. But he’s seen you all right. And your eyes are cast downward, your lashes like annoying curtains depriving him of what he's been missing for the past three months. 

In spite of how muffled his movements have been, you seem to notice a shift in the air. Something that makes your skin prickle, a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be in the same room, nor in the same flat – not now, at least, when he should be mummified in Kevlar and breathable cotton somewhere in the desert. He's secretly proud of how easily you seem to feel fluctuations in the environment. Makes him take a breath of relief, that your reflexes aren't dull even when your senses are already busy.

You lift your head swiftly, and he helps you focus on him by flicking up the light switch. The sudden brightness makes you squint, but you blink it away and finally clock him at the door. 

And your eyes are the color of the sun, he thinks. How could he forget, that they’re the color of a bonfire when it's cold out. Of yellows, oranges, and those occasional sparkles of green when the wood is not dry, but still burns to keep him warm.

Realization paints your face with stunning colors: darkening cheeks, eyes shaped like crescent moons under the pressure of rising cheekbones. Mouth curving beautifully, and it seems to catch your teeth. The smile stretches your lips abruptly, morphing your face in spare seconds.

He sees it happen in slow motion. You rip your headphones and carelessly toss them on the bed, your laptop is skewed to the side so quickly that he instinctively reaches out a hand to prevent its fall. Thankfully, the stars are on your side tonight, and the balance tips it on the mattress, instead of the floor. 

You’re a little hurricane, scurrying off the bed and kicking off the sheets. Getting on your feet and almost slipping in the attempt to reach him in as little time as possible. A tornado of limbs envelops him in the blink of an eye. He barely has time to react that you’re already coiled around him like ivy– arms, legs, and all.

Luckily, the doorway is right behind him, and he manages to tumble back and lean against it. Your arms are vines around his neck. Your legs are roots encircling his waist. You seem to grow on him, supplying his wretched heart with the sap of life you carry – symbiotic. He feels like he can breathe again and has been doing it wrong all this time.

He helps your balance by keeping a firm hold around your waist with his arms, encapsulating you in his warmth. Lean fingers spread on your back, yearning to touch as much as he can reach.

“Easy,” he rumbles. His voice is hoarse because whatever reaction he'd imagined, all this fussing surely wasn’t it.

Your fingers thread through his hair and tug lightly at his scalp. He’s silently apologetic because it must be wet with both rain and sweat, and he's sure the smell wafting from him isn't exactly cologne-worthy. But you don't seem to care, because after you've thoroughly inspected the crook of his neck, your face comes back into view.

Your eyes are the color of joy.

“Welcome back.” You whisper, as if it’s a secret between you two. And you kiss him because surely you must want it as much as he does. A flutter of lashes brushes his cheekbone when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. Nails scrape at his scalp in the gentlest of ways. 

Simon feels your smile before he sees it. “You taste like blueberries.”

And he exhales against your lips. “Found ‘em waiting for me in the kitchen. Baked for an army, y’ have.”

You peck his lips once more, as if you couldn’t fathom a second longer without having them on yours. “Figured you’d be hungry. MRIs can’t be that tasty.”

"MREs,” he corrects. “And you’re right. They ain’t.”

Simon is not sure he’s ever received such a warm welcome, or such warmth in general. He’s not going to complain, of course, but that doesn't mean it leaves him any less rattled each time.

He gently sets you down at the edge of the mattress, standing between your legs – which you’ve pliantly spread to make room for him.

You gesture with your hand from left to right, "Potato, Po-tah-to."

"One is food, the other is medical equipment," he deadpans.

You glare up at him, as if to ask what the hell he wants now – it's three in the morning. Can’t be arsed to correct vowels at three in the morning.

“Potato.” You enunciate it better now, and it steals a lazy grin from him. “Po-tah-to.”

After having flicked your forehead at your insistence, he reverently lays his hand on your cheek and spreads his fingers into your hair.

“Alright?” You ask him.

“Mhmh,” it’s his only reply.

If only to feel you more, he guides your face to his belly. You seem to appreciate the gesture because you're already nuzzling his shirt, fisting it at his back for good measure. Simon feels your back expand and deflate under his palm when you breathe. Feels the rhythmic thump thump of your heart at his fingertips.

You’re life in its purest form. 

Face first into his abdomen, your voice is obviously muffled, but he hears it clearly anyway. "You smell like a sewer, mate."

He snorts, and lightly tugs at your hair, enough to make your head tilt back. He squints his eyes at you. “Cry ‘bout it, mate.”

Simon bends at the waist as you chuckle. Places a kiss on the crown of your head. Your eyes flutter closed and so do his. 

For a moment, there’s nothing but you two. The world muffles its noise to favor the sound of your breaths. The rain patters against the windowpane. Your laptop has gone into standby mode so now the screen is dark. The mellow light on the ceiling, a pale yellow, is like your discreet personal spotlight. 

Then, he reluctantly pulls away, and you chase him for more, pouting when he doesn’t seem to come back. But when he starts to undress, your scowl is easily replaced by a lazy grin. To increase the dramatics of the moment, you lean back on your elbows and wiggle your brows at him, “Well, well.”

You’re not subtle at all with the way your eyes follow a trail down his back, how the muscles fold when his hand reaches to the collar of his shirt and pulls it off his head. Curves and muscles and the indent of his spine. Skin freckled with scars you never ask a thing about because you're kind and you’re giving him time to open up on his own.

He’s put on some weight ever since your relationship has transitioned into something more meaningful, including feelings he still doesn’t have the guts to acknowledge. His abs are not as defined as before, they’re tucked under a layer of fat he’s not really accepting as of lately. The scar running across his stomach and its other companions only add to his self-deprecating streak.

He eyes you briefly as he unbuckles his belt, searching for what he’s sure is going to be a grimace, but he's met instead with the stupidest look he’s ever witnessed. Slow blinking at his form the more he undresses himself. Lips parted as if you’ve tried and failed to catch your jaw.

And that gives him the right to take those thoughts and shove them into the fear pocket. Sew it shut. No need to fear a thing, if you look at him that way.

You bite the tip of your tongue between your teeth. "Givin' me a show, lieutenant?"

The corner of Simon’s lips tugs upward and the sudden self-hatred sublimates under the warm adoration in your eyes.

“Cheeky little thing,” he rumbles, letting his khakis pool at his ankles. He steps out of them and shrugs them off when they catch his feet. 

One last step, and he’s already hooking a finger under the hem of your blue camisole, slowly lifting it up. There's an impish gleam in your eyes that promises trouble and he would love nothing more than to drown in whatever disaster you're planning.

He stands between your legs only in his underwear and after you’ve shut the laptop and placed it on your nightstand, your hands immediately come to rest on his stomach. Simon sighs at the touch.

“You’re a menace,” he says gently when you drum your fingers up to his chest.

Honestly, he hopes you don’t care if he smells like a cocktail of grime and sweat and rain, because, as much as he wishes for a hot shower, the sight of you melts whatever need away. 

Your eyes travel downward, taking a generous eyeful of him. However, he knows you’re not just ogling; you're searching him for wounds. 

Bandages. 

Sutures. 

Anything  that might tell you whether he's hurt or not. 

Obviously, Simon knows you want to ask. But you’re sensible when it comes to his job. In spite of the jabs about all the “Classified” he’s given you as answers, he knows you don’t hold a grudge against him. He also doesn't like to bring work at home, taking pains to leave his safe space untainted by it – instead, he lets you do the detective work yourself. 

A sweet sigh leaves your lips when you settle on the fact that he's unscathed, and you lift your arms up to help him take off your top.

"A menace?" You quip, feigning offense. "M’not the one looking naked and yummy."

“You’re about to.”

You don’t look away from his eyes when his fingers pull your top up and off. The camisole is gently removed past your head, the satin leaving your hair a little staticky. 

“A menace,” he murmurs once more, his tone softer now as he tosses the garment in a vague direction.

You wrap your arms around his waist, propping your chin on the hollow between his ribs, taking in his face as the sight that it is to your eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to question why, and just basks in the adoring attention and in the well-deserved skin-to-skin contact.

"How was it this time?" You ask gently.

His arm drapes over your shoulders, slowly stroking at your skin. A tender kiss to your hairline has you automatically sighing. You do it every time he kisses your head. He's mentally taken note of how his lips press a button of sorts that makes it all wash away, like suds under the jet of water.

“Same as always,” he murmurs, keeping his tone low and soft for your ears only. 

You hum in acknowledgment. "So?"

He smirks, a curve hidden in your hair. “Classified.”

You scoff and playfully slap his butt. He pulls back with a newfound glow in his eyes.

“Not Full Metal Jacket, if you’re wondering.” 

You hum, deciding to play along. “Spies involved?”

He snorts and tucks a rogue lock behind your ear. “Sure.”

You poke his chest as you make your definitive guess. “Three days of the condor!”

His eye twitches when, amongst the myriads of films you’ve ever watched in your life, you quote the one with the CIA involved. He has to flatten his face into something more neutral. Surely yours was a clear shot in the dark that somehow hit the right spot – even a broken clock is right, twice a day. Still, your blind guess doesn’t leave him any less distressed.

“Sorta.” He offers through gritted teeth.

And you don’t push any further, sluggishly resting your cheek on his belly.

"Were you more Robert Redford?” You mumble with half-closed eyes, "Or Faye Dunaway?”

Relief washes over him and he can’t help but huff. Plops a hand on top of your head and smooths down to the ends of your locks, rolling them between the pads of his fingers.

“Faye Dunaway, love.” He rumbles. “No question.”

You playfully tighten the hold around his waist, and with a tug, he's pulled down onto the bed. Simon knows he could easily win whichever battle if you’re the opponent, but he’ll always pretend to struggle just to humor you. He’s careful though, so he props himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you with his bulk. 

Gently, you kiss his nose but he doesn’t pull away, instead allowing the kiss to be reciprocated on your cheek. He reaches out for the switch next to the headboard and turns off the lights. 

Your eyes are the color of a summer’s night. 

They’re dark but twinkle with starlight. Pupils blown and the glowing halo of your irises around them like an eclipsed sun. The light coming from outside seems to favor you, creating shapes around your face able to turn you into a dream made reality.

“I’ll call in sick tomorrow.” You tell him, nose to nose. 

“Won't bother anyone, will it?” He asks mindfully, although he cares very little if your co-workers might get a little miffed about your last-minute call.

You shake your head softly, causing your noses to brush. “Nope, they’ll understand.”

And so, he unfolds, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. Your head is guided by a big hand to rest on his chest. He fits you perfectly into his side, making sure every piece of you adheres like glue to his skin.

“Y’need a shower?” You murmur in his skin, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers are tracing mindless patterns on his chest, skimming over hair and the odd scar here and there.

“Tomorrow,” he replies quietly. “Sleep now.”

“Alright,” you whisper. “Wake me up when you do, yeah?”

“Sure.” He says, looking down at the top of your head. He leaves a kiss in its ruffled mess.

“G’night, love.” He breathes. 

You murmur it back, and fall into your slumber.

────────────

Simon opens his eyes with his heart thundering in his chest. He doesn’t know why, and likely pegs it to mere habit. Three months stuck in hypervigilance will have your body unconsciously overreact at the most subtle of changes, even if there are none.

There’s too much light in the room for it to be night, and a single look at the window tells him the sun is just shy of rising. 

During the night, you must’ve moved around and he must have followed you, because now he has your back to his chest. An arm slung around your waist, the other tucked beneath your neck. 

He gently tugs the duvet a little higher, over your shoulder, and spends the next few minutes just looking at how peaceful you look.

Next to a killer. 

His stomach churns wildly. 

You’re home,  his heart says. You’re not a killer here. 

A shame, truly, that his brain doesn’t agree in the slightest. Two organs fighting like separate entities, and the whole brawl is happening inside of him, mercilessly tearing his flesh apart. 

But it’s already broken, isn’t it? What else is there to shred. 

Yet he’s home and you’re comfortable next to him. So how broken can he be, really?

Torn. Shredded. Lookin’ like you went through the grinder and barely came out of it alive. 

He forces his eyes shut and buries his face in your hair, nuzzling your nape. 

Pretty thing, she is. Who the fuck d’you think you are, mh? 

A sharp inhale. Breathing you in. You smell sweet enough for the sounds in his head to buzz out. Not silent yet, but quiet enough for him to have a breather.

You don’t know how long it takes for his body to expel the exorbitant amount of adrenaline produced in three months of deployment. How his back cracks when it hits the comfortable mattress of yours and his bedroom, after having spent way too much time packed like a sardine on sordid cots or much-too-small sleeping bags.

How he fucking hates it, when you feel so soft and untouched, while he has more scars than bloody years on his back. 

Not right. Ain’t fucking right to you. 

His hand snakes from your waist to follow the curve of your arm. He follows the bulge it makes under the comforter. The rain has turned into a light drizzle, allowing the sound of his skin brushing over yours and the shuffle of the blanket to echo in his ears.

He scoots impossibly closer, pressing your back against his chest hoping your skin would mold with his. Nose buried in the crook of your shoulder; kisses light as breeze following the length of it. 

You smell so good you disarm him. He sighs as if he’s been utterly defeated, lost a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting. 

His mind hushes, finally. His heart unwinds itself – springs let loose, pulse calm. 

There’s you. The way your breaths come. Your limbs stirring at the gooseflesh left by his kisses. The rising sun lapping at your skin. The rise and fall of your back. 

It’s calm.

Your head turns slightly, looking over your shoulder. You must only see his eyes, lazily glancing at you through pale lashes.

Yours are a dawning sun.

They’re soft and gentle, pale yellows and blues, peeking above the sheer horizon of sleep you’re trying to overcome. Idle, slow, but most welcome.

“Hey,” you croak, blinking the drowsiness away. “You okay?”

He hums a quiet yeah in your skin. Hasn’t even noticed his hand returning to your stomach and pulling you in, angling you against his lap. 

And fuck him, but he’s sporting the hard-on of a lifetime. 

He knows you’ll understand that he’s been deprived of such pleasures for three months, but it doesn’t make him any less embarrassed. A hand in his pants, while he hid somewhere more private in the middle of nowhere was a temporary fix that fixed very fucking little. Especially not after having been spoiled by you.

Simon doesn’t necessarily want to fuck you, now. Sure, his dick might have a head of its own, and he wouldn’t complain against it were it to happen, but he still has control of his actions. And now he just wants to feel you, whether inside or out doesn’t matter – as long as it’s you.

Nevertheless, he isn’t expecting you to have much different plans. Naturally, he isn’t going to protest.

Your ass tentatively presses against his length, the satin of your shorts sliding easily along the cotton of his boxers. You’re still so sleepy – he sees you digging a knuckle in your eye, nostrils flaring as you let out a big yawn. 

Were you aware of what you were doing, or were you being a goddamn minx?

“Well, good mornin’,” you murmur, a lick of a smile on your lips. “Brought me a souvenir from bumfuck nowhere?”

Minx it is. 

He snuffs out a chuckle by harshly pressing his lips against your shoulder, sewing his lips shut. Unfortunately, his chest rumbles against your back and you catch it before he manages to catch himself. 

Your hand goes to rest above his own on your stomach, fingers intertwining. 

Soft skin on both sides: palm to your belly, knuckles to your hand. He’s sandwiched in bliss. Three months away, barely any contact, and all he apparently needed to alleviate some wounds was just a handful of hours spent asleep in your presence.

His lips part slightly. Kisses turn wetter and teeth bite at your neck, his tongue darting out to subsequently soothe the ache. Your hand has already guided his own to your breast, and your mouth is breathing sounds he’s missed.

And he tells you, because why should he hide a thing from you.

“Missed ya,” he croaks, voice a little shaky for reasons unknown. He could look in his head (or his heart) and find them – surely, they’re there. But he figures the present feels much better than the jumbled mess inside.

Reasons can wait.

“Let me feel you, yeah?” 

Your head bending backward to his face is the answer you give him, back pressed flush against his chest. You guide his hand up and squeeze it around the fat of your breast to assert your approval. 

But he’s not satisfied with that. Needs your voice to tell him it’s alright, that you’re not under some sleep-induced spell. That you’re fine with having him feel you, and you’re not just offering yourself because he’s been away for so long and you want to give him some sort of reward.

Simply, that you want him as much as he wants you.

His voice is raspy and low, “Words, love.”

"Please," you whisper and vigorously grind your ass against his groin. “Touch me.”

He hisses and presses forward too, meeting your movements. 

He’s still a little out of it, senses overrun by the general fatigue clinging to his muscles as the aftermath of deployment, his bones weary and getting accustomed once more to the comfort of a bed instead of a cot. 

Mind absolutely quiet.

He flicks his thumb over your nipple. Rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Your shuddering breath prompts him to pull at it, and it causes you to arch your back off of him, pressing further against his painfully hard cock. 

He grunts against your shoulder, hand busy teasing your breasts and hips rutting against the plump flesh of your ass. You grind back against him, working in tandem to relieve at least some of that ache. 

Each movement is a languid stroke of fabric that gives him enough pleasure to cause his resolve to falter. When he turns your head sideways, leaving your tits to grasp your jaw, he loses it. Your flushed cheeks, lower lip trapped between your teeth, the whites of your eyes still a little red from sleep.

Lips on lips, slotting together like magnets. 

Too long. 

Too damn long. 

Sure, he kissed you when he came back, a bunch of hours before. But this is a whole other thing. The connection behind it, the pinch of your brows conveying the same desperation he has. Hands grabbing at flesh, bodies grinding against each other. Tongues dancing privately. Eyes closed to shut the world out. Moans and pants, dotted with the occasional curse slipping from his lips when the length of his cock catches the cleft of your ass.

His palm slides down and crosses the threshold marked by your shorts. He’s awfully delighted to find out you have nothing underneath them. Feels blessed when his middle finger slides down your cunt to find it impossibly wet. 

“Oh - Simon,” He hears you whimper, and he almost comes in his briefs then and there because he has no right to hear you say his sullied name with such devotion behind it. 

Seemingly feeling the need to respond in kind, your arm blindly reaches behind, and you slip it between your butt and his groin. Your hand is soft as it palms his cock, the cotton of his boxers an annoying barrier. 

The tip is leaking tremendously, and he should be embarrassed about the obvious wet spot he must be sporting on his briefs. However, he can’t even manage to concoct the thought that your fingers are already fumbling with the elastic band of his underwear and finding their way in.

Simon shudders when your warm hand curls around his shaft. 

You glide your hand up, collecting precum on your palm, before sliding back down again – velvet skin being pulled over the head to steer clear of overstimulation, and then down once more. Similarly, he crooks his finger to gather your wetness and uses it to roll idle circles around your clit. 

And it goes on, and on, and on, and on. It’s slow and drawn out, both of you wanting to reach that high but at the same time don’t – cutting off pleasure doesn’t seem fitting, when both of you have been starved of one another.

He bends the arm beneath your neck to pull your head back, next to his own, cheek to cheek. Simon’s hips jerk to blatantly fuck your fist, yours flow with the movement of his fingers circling your clit, stroking yourself against his hand.

He starts getting antsy, however, when he notices that he can’t properly reach you. Can’t have you unravel on his fingers like he’s done so many times before. Simon wants – needs – to see you unfold and squirm under the pressure of his hand. Needs to have you cream on his fingers – as simple as it’s primal.

He murmurs against the shell of your ear, “Need to stretch you out, love.”

And – goddamn you, you whine. Your hand doesn’t stop its languid movements, but it further slows down, as if you needed all of yourself to cooperate and form a single thought.

“Jus’ do it, I missed you.” You whimper, breathy and high-pitched. “Won’t hurt much, I promise.”

Simon sucks in a sharp breath, closing his eyes because your voice has gone straight to his cock and he needs to disassociate for a second to recollect himself.

You’re a temptress, even in your loving, tender desperation. And how sweet it is to know that he isn’t the only one craving those intimate touches he can only give you. You’ve had your fair share of relationships and lovers, but has he? Some quick ones, enough to get rid of natural aches. Definitely not with a connection so deeply ingrained. 

And he tastes, then, the beauty of mutuality. Of giving and receiving. 

He retreats his hand and prompts you to do the same. Helps you take off your shorts and pulls his cock out of his underwear. He holds you still with one arm around your waist, palm flat against your lower belly to angle you better. 

Gingerly, he guides the tip to your slit, dragging it upward until it catches your clit and you hiss, and then down to your hole. Back and forth, happily realizing that he has, in fact, made you wet enough to make it hurt less. And while he tends to be open to many requests made under the bedsheets, anything that causes you pain is a huge, firm no in his book. 

Which is why he’s a bit hesitant now, pressing chaste kisses against your shoulder, trying to soften the ache that will inevitably come. A juxtaposition, really, to his cock dragging a raw, slow dance down your cunt.

It’s then that you turn your head in the pillow to groan against the fabric, and your legs clamp together and essentially choke him between the plush of your thighs.

The sensation is initially a sharp jolt that makes him spout a series of curses under his breath. But then the glisten of your cunt mixed with the precum you’ve diligently smeared all over him, with your folds and your plump thighs wrapped around him in a warm, wet hug – he sees the appeal. 

And thrusts. Shamelessly – once, twice, thrice. Snapping harshly, only to draw back slowly. Grunting to your skin. Chest vibrating against your back.

“F – fuck,” he manages to choke out, wringing his eyes closed to regain some control over his actions and failing spectacularly.

Your moans don’t help. They perfectly align with the slap of his hips against your ass, with the wet noises of your sodden cunt against his cock. It’s as filthy as it’s fucking wonderful, and he’s terribly afraid he’ll finish before he can even fit the head inside of you. 

The grip he has around your waist only tightens, leaving you breathless by the second. Simon has his mouth next to your ear, giving you the privilege of hearing even the smallest breaths he exhales. 

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispers, panting from the effort. 

Curiously, he takes a peek over your shoulder as he fucks your thighs, catching the flushed head of his cock stroking your clit and appearing each time he thrusts in. It’s fucking debauched and he loves it to bits. So much that he groans and rolls his eyes, struggling not to paint your thighs with his spend.

“Need to fuck you,” he hurries, choking on the words. “Now, love.”

Rapidly (and reluctantly), he pulls out of the pillowy, snug space your thighs had inadvertently created for him, almost hissing when the cold air hits the sensitive skin of his cock, coated in yours and his arousal. 

“On your back, swee’heart,” he gently guides you down, adding a brisk yet tender “C’mon.”

And you comply, feeling almost like a ragdoll in his hands. Lips parted and slick as they form small Yes’s to convey the same ache he feels. It takes him less than a breath to place his mouth over yours again. 

As he hovers above you, thick arms on each side of your head and chapped lips crashing against your own, he slots his hips between your legs. The softer flesh of the inside of your thighs is still wet from when he’s buried his cock between them. He feels the fluids stick to the skin of his hips.

Taking his time, he lets a hand wander down your chest, flowing to your belly until his fingers reach your core – where you’re wet, and warm, and still pressing up against his cock, searching for friction.

He plunges a finger inside, making the movement of your hips stutter and your mouth gasp at the sudden intrusion.

“Gotta stretch you out," he repeats languidly, because he cannot - for the life of him - put words into sentences without thinking about the structure beforehand.

He’s aware he’s big. It used to chub up his ego when he was younger and brash, but now he can’t be arsed about it. Big or small, he’s learned that it’s how you use it – and to be frank, he hasn’t used it much before you.

But he knows it’s going to hurt if he just puts it in with little to no preparation. He hasn’t seen you in three months, and you can trust him when he says he’s as ravenous as you are and can’t bloody wait to be inside you where he’s warm and blessed – but causing you pain? When it can be avoided so easily (and he can make it feel good, too)?

Absolutely not. Categorical. 

He wants you to indulge in the blissful touches and the highs he can bring. Needs you to associate him to kindness and soft breaths and how much he hungers for you – he'll gladly eat you up, but only if you say so. 

“’S not gonna hurt,” you mumble again, sounding a little drunk in the effort to convince him. “Please.”

Your eyes flutter to him, and they’re this dark pool he can’t seem to navigate. Lust overflowing like fat, miry tears that can’t fit in the space of your sockets, and then something even darker – longing. You’re looking at him as if it's the first time you’re seeing him.

He gets it, then, how good you’ve been at hiding it so he wouldn’t hurt at the thought of hurting you. He must've unconsciously taught you a thing or two, by wearing stoicism, neutrality, and more tangible skull masks. 

You’ve missed him body and soul. 

You’re there, eyes heavy and full, begging for him to come back to you. 

How long have you been waiting for me like this? 

“Oh, love,”  he breathes and kisses you again.

A long finger inside, pushing against the place he knows makes your eyes water.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, thumb steadfast on your clit, as if he could apologize just by using his fingers because words tend to fail him when he needs them the most.

And so, he slides in his ring finger too, feeling the momentarily tight fit and the subsequent way you relax to welcome him. Your lips part to sharply breathe in, eyes scrunching close at the stretch. He can feel your hands stiffen against his back until they travel up his spine and tangle through shorn blond hair. 

You’re keeping him close, with your forehead pressed to his almost to the point of pain. Your noses are in the way of the onslaught you’re causing on his mouth. Strained, heavy pants brush his lips when you part from him to breathe, before lavishing him with attention again.

You’re always good with words. You always know what to say, and yet you’re being extremely quiet – it worries him more than the look you have in your eyes. 

“M’sorry.”

For being away. 

For not telling you where I was. 

For leaving you to wonder whether I’d come back, or not. 

For not calling. 

I’m sorry. 

“M’so sorry.”

My girl.  

His hand cradles the back of your head as if he could get you any closer, and he fucks you with his fingers.

“Don’t be,” you reply, your voice so faint and lost in the sounds of your bodies he has to perk his ears for it. “You’re home.”

My sweet, sweet girl. 

And he buries his face in your neck, leaving wanton kisses that have very little erotic power to them. He’s just trying to taste you, really. Trying to commit you to memory again, conveying fierce apologies to your skin. 

He can feel you clench around him, almost sucking him in, each time his fingers reach deep.

“Fuck, need to see you come.” He murmurs to the skin of your neck.

Thumb aching, he replaces it with the heel of his hand. A continuous and tortuous curl of his fingers inside of you, palm cupping your cunt and rolling against your clit. His cock aches when you whimper and stifle it by biting into his shoulder. A sharp exhale. Skin sweaty and pressed against his chest. Hands tugging at his hair. 

“Don’t-” You croak. “Just- just fuck me, Si.”

He groans because stop being stubborn, will ya?

“I’ll cum the moment I get in, swee’heart.” He tries to reason and almost loses it at the raunchy, squelching sounds caused by his fingers between your legs. "Lemme take care of you before tha'."

But it's like talking to a wall.

"'s fine, love. I don't care, yeah?" Your hips move against his hand, but at this point, he gathers it's just a natural body response to pleasure. “You’ll take care of me tomorrow, and the days after that.”

Just when he’s about to rebut, you sandwich an arm between your bodies and curl soft fingers around his cock. The simple act makes him stop his motions, and he feels you pulse and clench around his fingers.

“Please.” You whisper, voice like silk. 

He crumbles, then, at the sight of your eyes. Watery and glossy and wide – lust a long-forgotten thing. 

He nods briefly when he surrenders. A jerky movement of his jaw as he swallows thickly. Doesn’t dare to avert his gaze from yours when he retrieves his hand and loves to catch how your brows pinch at the sudden emptiness inside. Sloppily, he coats his stiff cock with your wetness with a few weak pumps.

His eyes stay on you, as he goes in blindly, guided by touch only, and drives the tip to your hole. Tries to gauge your thoughts by the expressions on your face, and fails miserably, for once, at keeping his own concealed.

Barely aware and in control of what his face is conveying, he gathers you must appreciate it because you shift your palms to cradle his cheeks. He doesn’t know why you do it because there’s nothing on this godforsaken planet that could make his attention swerve to any thoughts but how beautiful you look when your lips stroke his own with featherlight pressure.

And he slides in, comfortably easy. Feels your puffy lips stretch to welcome him whole, inch by inch. Piece by piece of him, in every way you want to interpret it. 

His jaw is locked tight because as soon as your walls envelop the head of his cock, he already feels himself shutting down. His eyes close – he can’t afford to look at how you morph for him. How your pussy swallows the first inches of his cock, puffy clit begging to be touched and lavished. How your mouth parts against his own to yield soft moans and breathy whispers that encourage him to please, please, please go deeper. 

He can’t. Stubbornly thinking he must last long enough to give you some pleasure or it will all be worthless. And so, it’s a repetitive dance: an inch in, and a full pull out. Stop. Another inch, and pull out. 

It’s driving him fucking mental.

“Let go,” you say, tearing his head out of the gutter. “Look at me, and let go.”

He can’t exactly decide whether you’re being the devil on his shoulder, or an angel sent from heaven – either way, the aim is to ruin him. Yet it doesn’t matter when he opens his eyes, and you look so beautiful his heart cracks, with a thin layer of sweat on your brow and the sheen of his spit on bitten lips. 

You don't have to tell him twice at this point, because the way your hands force his face steady so he keeps his eyes on you does most of the trick. His resolve crumbles at breakneck speed.

He bottoms out, pushing his pelvis flush against yours. Your eyes roll back at the same time, legs going stiff and tight around his hips. He does a tentative roll that causes the coarse hair on his groin to press against your bundle of nerves.

"Fuck," you breathe, your voice cracking at the edges. He echoes it right after you, or at the same time – he's not sure, but in his defense, he's not confident about a single thing right now.

If not how absurdly scorching you are, all wrapped around him.

With that, he hooks one arm around your waist and tucks his other hand behind your head. He holds you close like you might slip away, and he’s sure as hell not taking any chances.

He fucks you slowly, deep thrusts that fill you up all the way, and greedy love bites on your neck. Open-mouthed kisses at your throat, sliding up to your jaw and cheeks, all the way to your lips. Truthfully, he’s both trying to get his senses chock full of you, and keep his mouth shut so no words spoken while in ecstasy escape.

The slap of his hips against yours drowns the taps of the morning drizzle against the windowpane. He’s got your face buried in the crook of his neck, and your pants echo in his ears like a fucking promise that threatens to unravel him.

Each thrust has him fully sheathed inside of you. It fills him with primal pride and fuels his pleasure, because you take him so fucking well he can't help but think he's modeled you in his perfect image. He grunts against you and tugs at your hair out of sheer desperation to hold on – just a little longer.

But you’re swearing in his ear. Breathless fuck’s whispered like a curse and a vow at the same time. You shift your hips to change the angle and that makes him hit even deeper and he swears he hears you whimper in that telltale way he knows well.

He lifts your hips up and hooks your legs over his shoulders.

And he absolutely rams into you.

“Christ I missed you.” He rumbles and his voice cracks while your moans rise in pitch and your nails scratch his back. “Fuckin’ thought of you," Thrust. "Every bleedin’ day.”

He’s rambling now, intoxicated on the feeling of you. His words are slurred and strained and, deep down, there’s a more sober version of Simon Riley cursing at himself for speaking his heart out.

Luckily, it’s drowned by the slap of flesh against flesh and the wet sounds of your cunt milking him dry. 

Finally, he thinks, he's using his strength not to wield a heavy M4 or to ram against hostiles, but to fuck you on his cock – knee-deep in the mattress for leverage.

He lets go, like you asked.

He murmurs in your ear (Fuckin’ beautiful), words alternated with heavy pants (An’ all mine) and the animalistic grunts of a man cocooned in bliss (All fuckin’ mine).

His hips stutter and he knows he’s close, but you’re not even nearby, in spite of how he can feel you clench around him, sucking him in. And God, the guilt that fills him almost makes him stop even if he has that sweet, sweet release just around the bend.

But you won’t have that, naturally. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, clammy and sticking out weirdly because he’s sweaty and hot. He feels his head being shifted to the side, so you can look into his eyes.

And oh, how can you look at him like that? How is he even deserving of it – fuck you and your relentless ways to crawl under his skin and make him feel like he’s worth a damn, with your eyes glossy and hooded. A thick veil of admiration, fondness, and you. 

You, you, you. 

Where have you been all his life, with this color in your eyes?

“Come inside.” You plead tenderly, breathless and raspy, as he pounds you into your own bed. Your fingers smooth back rogue strands that are sticking to his forehead. “Please come inside.”

And you crush his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. One that marks his demise. He’s falling hard into your embrace, figuratively and literally, too.

He uses whatever shreds of strength he has left to ram into you as if his life depended on it, punching gasp after heaving gasp out of your beautiful lips into his hungry mouth.

It works like a spell because he feels the familiar pressure building at the base of his cock. Syrupy hot warmth runs down his legs to the tips of his toes. Tingling. Tightening. Burning so good he thinks he's melting within you.

Suddenly, his head spins, and he groans in your parted lips as he ruts into you one last time – until he has you filled to the brim. His eyes slam shut as he spills inside of you – cock pulsating and hot. 

His high takes its sweet time, canceling out all background noises and only leaving your sweet breaths to fill in his ears, and the pounding of his heart. 

Simon unceremoniously drops on you like dead weight, allowing your legs to return around his waist. His lips slide off yours until his head is tucked in the crook of your neck. He’s absolutely spent, but there isn’t enough fatigue in this world that could keep him away from you. You’re sweaty and he’s worse, but he doesn’t see why, in the haze of his orgasm, he shouldn’t have his lips reach every inch of skin he can.

His kisses are lazy – a stark contrast from the desperation he’s displayed until now. 

He feels safe. He feels at home, still buried deep inside of you, feeling the come that couldn’t fit inside ooze out and onto the bedsheets. A bummer to clean, he’ll realize when he’ll get his sanity back.

And he wants to tell you so many things when he feels your hands skimming down his back in a soothing dance. Wants to tell you how you’ve flipped his life, with the ease of tossing a coin – heads and tails. Opposites so striking you should be deemed a witch. 

He was in deep fucking shit before you offered your smile. Inching closer and closer to dead-ended alleys and dark, murky thoughts that could only lead to dreadful places.

You gave him something to yearn for, something to miss when he's away, and something to cherish when he's here. 

There’s nothing he can do to return the favor but love you in equal measure. 

It’s not the first time the word love has come up in his head when his mind was lost in memories of you. And while he’d rather not dwell on it now, while you hold him to your chest as he comes back to his senses, he knows the time will eventually come.

Yet he doesn’t dread it. Not one bit.

Fear pocket sewn shut. Finally. 

He lifts his head to look up at you and finds you doing the same – he’s sure he’s thoroughly fucked in the best way imaginable. 

“I’ll take care of everything later,” you say, reading his thoughts. “You okay?”

It takes him a while to respond. Mental gymnastics to reawaken the parts of his brain that are still tingling in the afterglow. 

“Never better, love.” 

“Sleep?” You offer, as if he isn’t still buried inside of you and effectively crushing you under his weight. 

You don’t seem to mind, and so he trusts you and doesn’t either.

His eyes are half closed as he slides down to rest his head in the valley of your breasts. "Y' didn't cum," he mumbles, leaving an open mouthed kiss on the fat of your tits.

Your fingers brush through his hair to keep him close, and when your nails scrape at his scalp he feels gooseflesh rise along his arms. 

"'S fine," you whisper gently, and he's struck by the earnestness in your tone. But then you quip, "I'll have ya on your knees tomorrow."

And he scoffs. "Makin' it sound like a punishment."

You purse your lips and land a kiss on the crown of his head. "Then stop complaining."

He grunts something he himself can't even discern. 

“Y’need to piss first.” He grumbles mindlessly, as if the thought of you standing up annoys him but he knows a UTI is even more aggravating.

You snort. “Charming."

And he responds in kind. "Chivalry's dead anyway."

There's a few seconds of silence only broken by your quiet chuckle. "I’ll wait for you to fall asleep, then ‘m off to the loo. Deal?”

He grunts in agreement, liking the compromise you’re offering. “Deal.” 

And his head stays quiet. Sleazy hands and raging voices cease, silenced under the thunder of your heartbeat.

“I missed you.” He thinks he hears you whisper, your voice thick and wet. He closes his eyes with his head on your chest. “’M so happy you’re home.”

────────────

Simon wakes up with shy sunbeams peeking through the blinds and brushing his brow. You must’ve closed them when you woke up, to shield him from the sun.

He blinks idly, momentarily lost in that phase between sleep and waking life, still unsure of where he is. His mouth is pasty, and his eyes struggle against sunlight. The duvet is up to his chin, and it smells of grapefruit-scented softener, and of you. The pillow is a little wet, and he embarrassingly notices that it’s because he’s drooled on it – he smacks his lips once, twice, but his tongue might as well be a dried-up cinderblock.

It has been a long time since he’s slept like this. Since his mind has shut down and left him alone. Since his night has gone smoothly, sleep comatose and dreamless – nightmare-less.

And you’re not there, but that’s okay.

Because he hears your music from the kitchen, kept at a low volume so you won’t wake him up. The clanking of utensils frames the beat, pans and pots being moved around as you hum to yourself following the melody. The smell of eggs, sausages, potatoes, and fresh veggies – a full English. Wafts of that disgusting coffee you drink in the morning intertwined with the softer notes of the tea you’re brewing for him.

You were right: he is home.

And he can’t see your eyes, but that’s okay too.

He guesses he’ll never remember their exact shade, Simon’s fine with it. No better thing than to discover you once more, each time he gets to come home.

They change with you, following the flow of whatever you allow to show, and of what he’s learned to read. They’re the color of that life he’s unwittingly always looked for. That life promising a pocket of peace for himself. Chock full of love and nice things he’s always been deprived of.

A balm to both his ancient and newest wounds.

He has never shared a single story about his past, never told you why his body is like a tattered book whose tale is as horrific as it looks. But you don’t mind, and he doesn’t know why because he’s firmly set on the idea that you must know someone inside out to be sure you care.

And it’s then that it hits him, that you do know him – better than anyone. You know the man he is. You want the man he is now, the man he will be one day – as mental as it sounds to him. His present, and his future. And sure, his past might have made this man you know, but he’s not the same Simon under his father's thumb or the one felled by Roba’s tortures.

Although he’s not sure he can reopen certain sutures without the wounds bleeding all over the floor, he'll try. He’ll clean up, if he must, knowing that you’ll help him have each injury scab over again. 

What baffles him is that you’re not saying he has to. You’re saying he can. And this choice you’re giving him is a privilege he’s never had the chance to bear.

He can tell you everything, and you’ll listen. He can keep it to himself, and you’ll stay, accepting that there will be places of him you’ll never venture – and to you, that is fine.

As long as he stays, too.

There are no words he can use to express his gratitude. He can only love you – and it might take him a while to acknowledge that he’s capable, but he already does love you.

You appear at the door as he’s lost in his own head, still tucked under the duvet. Strips of sunlight cross your form, curving around the beautiful shape of you.

“Good morning, you.” You say, with a smile that reminds him of the sun.

Lazily, he offers one of his own to you. It’s lopsided and he thinks not quite as beautiful. 

He hopes you forgive him for it: takes practice to be happy, and he’s still learning.

And so, he smiles, and looks at you like you're the most tangible form of joy he's ever witnessed. 

His voice is raspy from sleep, and soft from you.

“Mornin’, love.”

[painted-flag]

OF FLOWERS AND DEATH - aemond targaryen

Chapter 16: Every Little Thing

☾⋆⁺₊✧ dark elf!Aemond Targaryen x f!human!reader series. ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series masterlist. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ word count: 4.3k ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series warnings: 18+ depictions of violence/gore, eventual smut, warfare, sickness/disease, some moments of misogyny, and mentions of alcohol consumption. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ Death's hand extends towards the unwilling.

You carefully put on an intricate gown made for you. As you were back at the capital, you had worn their elvish clothes for the first time since you left on the trip. The journey to Lake Rosemange was spent in your more modest human clothes. You had thought it was a welcome feeling, but it did not hold a candle to the feeling you had wearing the soft and luxurious elvish fabrics. Amara had chosen the gown as you broke your fast with them in your room. It had been a while since you could speak to them and was refreshing. 

“Imagine her surprise when he returned with another’s undergarment in his pocket!” Liriel had spoken. The two had been catching you up on courtly gossip. As much as you wanted to not partake in such gossip to maintain a more elevated persona, you could not help but revel in it. The scandals all lured you in. It was far more entertaining than any town square shows put on where you had lived. 

As Amara tied the laces on the back of your dress, your gaze swept up to your bed. Within the pillowcases lay the scouting record and book found in Cole’s room. Thinking of it made your throat close and muscles tighten. When Amara stepped back and went to join her wife on the settee, you sucked in a breath. 

“I think I’ll choose my jewellery for the day.” The underlying meaning behind your words was not lost on the two elves. You wished for a moment of solitary peace. They got up from their seats and bid you a quick goodbye. 

When they had left, you made your way to the vanity. While scanning over your options, your eyes kept moving toward where the scouting log and Cole’s book were kept. Your fingers brushed over the cool metal of a necklace you found particularly pleasing and knew it would compliment the expanse of the bare neck that was exposed from the dress. You put it on and then walked to your bed. 

The items were calling to you. You shakily pulled them both out from under the pillows and laid them on the plush blanket of your bed. You dragged your finger across the black cover and ruminated on the information Aegon had gathered. The whole night was spent drifting in and out of sleep. You were reeling from the information. Cole was one being you knew was not trustworthy. He was slimy and vile, but was there really enough hate in him to be a purveyor of the dark arts? 

You were caught between multiple points. You wished to mourn; for your father, Lyra, and everyone else who had perished from the taint. Yet your body was pulled towards your duty as a healer and passion as a researcher to find a cure no matter the cost, regardless of your health and sanity. Then, more recently, another point had driven itself into your chest. It was a matter of a single blue eye that threatened to swallow you each time you gazed into it. The point, driven like an anchor, pushed you overboard and into murky waters; pulling you down from all those other cares to think of nothing but him alone. 

The gods had been cruel, exceptionally so, to test your patience by sending such a siren call in the form of Aemond.

You once again scanned the items in front of you. There was something there. There is some underlying meaning behind the discovery of this information. It was a trickery. The scout's log showed Cole’s presence in the area and the book was damning that he was capable of some kind of evil – or at the very least an untrustworthy interest in darker things. The main cause of your distress was Aemond’s possible part to play in all of it. He and Cole were nearly inseparable, always talking to one another. There was a strong bond, one which would naturally lead to sharing information between one another. 

During your thinking, a knock on the door jolted you out of it. While you normally would have made haste to hide the items, your brain had been working overtime as of late. It led to you not caring much at all anymore. You looked over your shoulder to see Aemond walking into your room. You turned your head to the bed, keeping your back facing him. You could not look at him. 

Cole likely played a part in hurting – nay killing – your father; to which Aemond could have known about it.

It would suit Aemond not to tell you. The taint was a burden on both kingdoms. He could use you for your talents, recognizing that they may have made a mistake in killing your father before he could find a solution. He planned to have you make the cure, or at least get close, and then dispense you. Your kingdom would be none the wiser of such misdeeds and a conflict would be avoided. The elf kingdom could use the cure on themselves only and sit back as your people died out. 

That was the ultimate goal of the Great War so many centuries ago – at least what had been taught to you. 

You steeled yourself and crossed your arms to soften your emotions, “What can I do for you, your grace?” You wanted him to leave before you broke down – before you confessed all that you discovered and demanded an answer. Though you knew, it was far too late to go back. His presence alone weakened you. You were beholden to Aemond and thus unable to keep anything from him.

“I was coming to check on how you were settling back in,” Aemond answered. You wanted to scoff at his possible fake care, but at the same time fall into his arms. The supposed dichotomy between the two mocked you with similarity. 

“Everything is good, my things have been unpacked.” You responded as you looked out the large windows of your room and towards the garden. 

“I did not mean your things,” His footsteps sounded closer as he walked further into your room, “I meant, how are you handling everything? With Lyra…” 

You sucked in a breath and held back the tears that threatened to spill. Your lungs shuddered, but you remained steadfast in your bubbling malcontent. You could sense him standing at the bottom of the three steps that led up to the loft area of your room where your bed and personal study were. 

“I’m still mourning,” You then turned to face him and looked down upon his form. Seeing him, the unadulterated care in his eyes and softened face made you question your knowledge. Surely, this could not have been all a ruse? Surely he is not such a good actor as to make you fall for these falsities.  

“Of course, I–” Aemond had begun, but you cut him off. 

“But I’m mourning my father as well,” Aemond gave you a questionable look, as the last conversation with your father ended on the mutual understanding that he could still be alive, “I know he’s dead.” 

“Why would you say such a thing?” Aemond placed one of his feet on the steps as if to walk up to you, but saw you take a step back. Your flinch looked as though it slapped him, for he took his foot off the step and moved his hands behind his back to show he was not a threat. His eye seemed to flit about your room with nervousness. 

“You told me there were no reports of humans in that area in the last century and I was stupid to believe it.” Your voice was just above a whisper and cracked by the end. It was not fair to accuse him of what you were thinking, but in your grief, you made stupid decisions. 

“I told you the truth of it. What would I gain by lying to you?” Aemond responded. 

“A victory. My father murdered by Cole then another human to use for a cure and then dispose of when the time comes. Once done, you can protect the elven kingdom and watch mine burn, as some kind of late victory from the Great War.” It was wrong to throw that at him, so terribly wrong; especially how he had poured his heart out to you on why such a war started. However, your mind was clouded with mismatched pieces of evidence that you struggled to string together coherently. 

A shift was made in Aemond’s continence, “You think this is some plot to destroy your kingdom? You accuse my good friend and ally of murder?”

“That day in the forest, when you saved me, you told me that every little thing is out to kill.” It felt so long since that day, but truly only a month ago. The way his sword was aimed at your neck came back into your mind, vivid and clear. He had only spared you, just slightly, and you were supposed to be thankful for it. Like not killing you was a gift. Perhaps, he should have just done the job and been rid of you. Now, the same look you gave him after such a threat was directed at you; confusion, shock, and a little bit of fear from Aemond. 

“There were plenty of times in which I could have killed you, but I didn’t. Now I know you are angry and confused but…” He paused and backed up, his eye darting around to not look at you, “I revealed parts of myself to you that…” His voice got caught in his throat.

“Words said in heat are often more destructive than battles.” It was a whisper, as if he was recalling it from a deep memory from his past. His hands tightened into fists and he leaned on the balls of his feet, “I have told you the truth as you are my friend. Let us not fight when tensions are high. We shall talk later.” 

You wanted to scream at him, to lug one of the pillows on your bed directly at his head. How could he be so reasonable? Gods, why was he so reasonable? You wanted confrontation. With it, you could get answers. However, all Aemond did was look at you. His face held traces of grief but still had pieces of reverence. It was heavy, the way he gazed upon you with such fondness and an equal amount of intense emotional pain.

Aemond nodded before swiftly turning to exit your room. His hair swerved with him. The sound of the door closing, bordering on a slam, was what broke you. Tears escaped your eyes and you had to hold up your body on the bed from collapsing. 

Clarity instantly washed over you in one giant wave. Aemond had been nothing but forthright with you – especially since he revealed the origin of his scar. He was rude at first, but there was a perfectly clear reason why. Yet, you had taken that and thrown it in his face. The wave of clarity that washed over you swept back into the ocean of your emotions, leaving behind a shell in the sand of your mind. 

The shell shined and held a simple truth within it. The answer to the one burning question that was always piqued when Aemond would look or talk to you. It always bugged you, that you could not find a reason why your heart would beat quicker and heat would wash over your face. 

You were falling in love. 

It was not what you expected. All your life, a simple path had been laid in your mind. Meet someone, gradually come to like them, and then eventually build the foundations of love. It would be calm and come slowly. There would be time to adjust to it. The motions of the ocean would gently lick at your feet as the tide rose over time. 

Yet, Aemond came and built up a storm; water eroding rock and pummeling the sand. While violent, his storm would never harm you, but you had just harmed him. You could not say you were in love, but there was no denying that it had begun to wrap you in its embrace. 

You shoved the items back under your pillow haphazardly and then moved quickly down the steps and toward your door. You needed to get out of that room – to get away from what just happened. You shakily walked down the dark stone hallways of the castle and towards the laboratory.

Here, you could think clearly and devise a plan to apologize to Aemond. 

You walked to the main study desk and rested your hands against the worn wood. You looked out at all of the items and ingredients laid on the surface, including some of the recent samples you collected from Lake Rosemagne. 

While looking at the ingredients that composed all your recent experiments, including the one that successfully halted the taint, all you could think about was what the book found in Cole’s room and the scouting record. Images of the pages moved across your vision when you had flipped through it. The page you had stopped on with the mortua terra flower and a crude sketch of Lake Rosemagne settled in you. 

Your eyes squinted as you took in all the items in front of you. There was a scratching at the back of your brain; an itch that got worse and worse. It was there, like the forgotten phrase on the tip of one’s tongue. There was an answer clawing at you through a murky haze. Your gaze moved from the vials of lakewater that were collected, then moved to the mortua terra flower, and then it drifted towards another table in the laboratory. 

In a small vase was the elf azure flower. It had been your preferred perfume scent when you came to this kingdom. There was always a vase full of them in the lab, you had made sure of it. You had noticed them growing in the forest when you came back from a short trip out to your home with Aemond. His words came to mind when you glanced at the budding flowers. 

Giēñagon syt se gīs.

Cure for the soul.

That was the elf superstition. Yet, wisdom oft comes from superstitious knowledge that had been passed down for longer than earth's memory. Like a shot arrow, an idea hit you like never before in your life. 

Of course.

Of course, it makes so much sense.

You had been correct in assuming that a cure would need two big components that cancel one another out. At first, it was the poison against poison, which only lasted for a few seconds. Then you tried using dark magic against itself, which halted the spread of the taint in both plant and body but was not a definite cure. What if you used another arena to fight in? Instead of using the infected host as a fighting ground for the potion to act against, would it not be worth it to have the fight be in the potion itself? 

The mortua terra plant against the elf azure flower. The mortua terra was a symbol of death, but the elf azure meant light. 

In Cole’s book, you saw a drawing of what looked like the outline of Lake Rosemagne with the mortua terra flower and a myriad of weird symbols and sketches. If you used the lake water as a base – for it is believed to have balancing powers – it would have to make some form of an impact as they were on opposite sides of the magic spectrum.

This was truly a new frontier for you, but you were determined to follow it through. You wasted no time in expertly assembling all of the ingredients you would need. Your hand grabbed a nearby stick to transfer the flame from one of the torches on the wall. You lit up the bottom portion of a holder for one of the empty cauldrons. Then you took a sample of water from Lake Rosemange and brought it to a calm simmer. 

You followed out with the rest of the ingredients that made the complete base for your last experiments that had been tweaked by Daeron to be stronger. The whole time, your hands had been shaking slightly and you had to take a few breaks to calm down. This morning and the day prior had been a whirlwind of emotions. They compounded in you, but you swallowed it all down to do your work. This was not a brew you wanted to mess up. 

The last step was the two flowers. You put on gloves to handle the mortua terra and plucked a few of the petals off of it, which gleaned a light purple in the dull torchlight.

Just as you were going to place them in the brew, the door to the laboratory opened. Your back was to it, but you could tell that this time in the mourning was around when Daeron would start his day and assumed he had come in.

“I’ve just had the biggest epiphany. It was all wrong, well, it was all correct as well. It's hard to explain, but I think using the water from Lake Rosemagne in combination with mortua terra and elf azure has the possibility of making real change,” You received no response, but truly it did not bother you. So much of your attention and energy was going into this. 

When the silence dragged on, you continued, “This just might work, Daeron. Gods, what if it does?” You plopped the dark petals in the water and went to reach for the azure. After, you would need to cut your hand. 

“I did not think you would figure it out so quickly.” It was not Daeron’s voice, but a deeper, more venomous one. You halted in your ministrations and turned around. There Cole stood with a look of wroth in his eyes. In his hands was his tome and a copy of the scouting papers. He had been in your room and you could not help but wonder just how often he had done that before.

He held up the items, “You think I'm stupid enough to not notice these went missing?” 

You swallowed hard and backed against the desk. There was no other means of escape for you except the other door on the other side of the room that led to the sick hall. However, its distance was just far enough that if Cole were to run he would get you before you could even call for help. 

“You said it, not I.” You spoke. There were a million scenarios that came into your head. Ways he would kill you, possibly knock you out to take you away and torture you. There was no happy ending – not even a tame one. His actions confirmed an underlying suspicion of yours. He not only was dabbling in the dark arts but had something to do with the taint. 

“You think you’re funny?” He stepped forward. 

“From time to time, I do have some good quips. What the hell were you doing in my room?” You confronted. On the inside, you were quaking like a leaf, but you could not show it. Cole would not see your fear. 

“I could ask you the same thing. This book was in my room.” Cole responded. You could not out Aegon as your accomplice, you could not stomach putting him at risk any more than he was for helping you. This was your burden, not his. He was only being a good friend. 

“What are you doing with a personal journal on dark magic?” You hit him back with that one. His gaze darkened and he dropped his held-up arm with the items still clutched feverishly. 

“I’ve told you before, humans should stop trifling in matters that do not concern them. Bad things can befall such… unsuspecting souls.” You could not tell what it was, but there was some underlying meaning beneath his words; a sick joke embedded in his malcontent. 

You were in danger. You could feel the imminent dread claw its way through your body. In the corner of your eye, there was a wooden box on the table that held a bunch of loose-leaf pieces of parchment, ink bottles, and quills. You and Daeron shared similar scattered minds and often needed to quickly jot things down and could not wait to find your journals lest the idea slipped from your mind. 

If you could grab that and throw it at him, it may give you enough time to run to the door and get away or at the very least scream for help in an area that may be heard. He seemed to catch on to your wandering eye and clue together what you were thinking.

In a split second, he dropped the items to run to you, but by then you had grabbed the box and thrown it at his face. The ink and flying parchment temporarily blinded him and you made for the door to the sick hall. 

After just a step, searing pain hit your side. You stumbled and stopped running, the air in your lungs having been knocked out by the force. You felt a weird mix of pain and numbness. Looking down, you could see the hilt of a dagger poking out from your side. Your shaking hands reached down to feel the escaping blood. You looked back up to see Cole with a curled sneer as he observed you.

Cole moved forward. You barely stumbled back by the time he used one hand to grip your throat and hold you in place while the other went to grasp the knife’s handle. 

“Your kind lives for so little, yet take so much.” He drove the knife further into you which caused you to cough violently at the intense anguish. Cole released his hold and you dropped to the ground among the strewn-out mess you made. All you could do was sob out, every ability to move your body had stopped.

He kneeled to be in your vision, “You will bleed out, just like your father.” 

Ice washed over you. He not only played a part in the creation of the taint, but he had murdered your father. Likely because he had been near Lake Rosemagne – one of the vital ingredients in the cure. It made you feel sick that he died simply for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

A genius who strived to make a difference by helping people had been killed by a coward. 

“You fucking bastard,” You coughed out. You made a futile attempt to move towards him, possibly hitting him, but it was difficult to even move. 

“Ah, but at least I’ll live. As an added benefit, it's laced with the taint.” Cole taunted. As if stabbing you was not enough, he had put some of the taint on it to be sure you would die. There was no limit nor measure of hate this elf would not cross. 

Another thought came to you. Aemond had been telling the truth and had no clue about your father's murder. Most of all, he had no inkling to Cole’s misdeeds. The closest member of his council was seeking to kill the world for reasons unknown to you. 

He will never know, you thought. This was it. You were dying. Cole pulled out the knife that had been stopping most of the blood flow. He then stood up and made his way to the exit, giving you no more words. 

The fucking coward could not even see it through before leaving the scene. 

You needed to warn Aemond and everyone else. You needed to pass on the idea for the cure. As much as you wanted to get Cole for what he had done to your father, that held little importance when compared to the rest of the realm. Your hand waved around the floor to find a quill. You scrambled for some parchment and dragged the tip of the quill through a blot of spilled ink. Your hands could not still, but you wrote with a frantic nature as you bled out on the ground. There would be no time to write out a step-by-step guide, but some hints would do. 

Mother’s flower, 

Lake water, 

Every little thing, 

You hoped it would be understood by Aemond. You could not risk outright writing that Cole was a traitor for fear that he would see it and immediately hide the evidence. With this, at least there was a chance. The flower that Aemond’s mother adored, the azure, in combination with the lake water was the key additives to the previous experiment. The final line was more personalized, hinting at the words of advice he had given you – aimed at exposing Cole. Your vision became darker as spots clouded it.

He would piece it together, you knew he would. 

You turned around to lay on your back and stretched out your arms. The parchment you had written in was clutched in your hand. You closed your eyes and waited. This was not how you ever thought you would go out. Like many, you had hoped it would happen at the end of a long and satisfying life in which you went to sleep and never woke up. 

You were too young for this, but alas, Lyra was also young and your father was too kind for the deaths they faced. 

Nothing was ever fair. You took in one last breath; a slow inhale where you could smell the floral scent of the azure flowers that filled the room. Shortly after, you exhaled your last breath. With it, your consciousness fled.

Chapter 17: The Winds of War Preview

Again, that was not unusual. However, when he knocked again with a little more force to make sure he was heard, Aemond was surprised by the slow creaking it made as it opened. It was ajar, which was unusual. His fingers gripped the handle and he pushed it open. His gaze was lowered and noticed the strewn about papers at first. His brow furrowed as he scanned the area further until… 

Gods no… 

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[tired-truffle]

Even the Gods Cry For Us

A Viktorxfem!reader fic

Chapter Word Count: 7.4k

Epilogue

Tag list: @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @potatointhedirt @dedicated2viktor

"When the rest of the world won't have you, I will. Let your worries and insecurities die against my lips. Remember, you are welcome here. You are always, always welcome here." - Maxwell Diawuoh

Masterlist

“Mommy,” the little girl said as her mother tucked her into bed. “Can you tell me the story of Miláček and Viktor tonight?”

Her mother smiled, seating herself on the side of the girl’s bed, her fingers trailing across her daughter’s cheek. “Of course, sweetheart.” 

The girl leaned into her mother’s touch, and she began. “A long, long time ago, the goddess Miláček was a mortal woman with extraordinary but uncontrollable magic. It is said that she came from another universe, and the strength of her love for Viktor drew her across space and time to be with him.” 

“How did she love him if she didn’t know him yet?” The little girl interrupted. 

Her mother chuckled. “Some things are just meant to be.” 

When her daughter remained silent, she continued. “Their love was a force that transcended words, pure and unbreakable. But as their love grew, Viktor got sick and his body began to weaken and wither away. Despite Miláček’s ability to see the future and her powerful magic, she was unable to stop his decline. In a fit of desperation, they turned to dark forces to ensure he would live. It cost them the life of a dear friend and left them unprepared for an attack that would start a war between the upper and lower cities - nearly claiming Miláček’s life. As she had been desperate to save him, so was he to save her. He brought her to a man renowned for his barbaric practices, and she lived at the cost of her sanity.”

“Fleeing together, they carved out a home in the far reaches of the lower city. With Viktor's newfound powers, they found some semblance of happiness as he used his abilities to heal those who sought his help. But the high price of harnessing dark forces to keep Viktor alive began to take its toll. He became corrupted by their power and if left unchecked, would have brought about the destruction of the world in his relentless pursuit of perfection.”

“Viktor had transformed into something unrecognizable; the Machine Herald. In this new form, he left Miláček behind, consumed by his obsession with ridding the world of choice and eradicating emotion to achieve a false sense of peace. But Miláček refused to give up on him. Though he was too far gone in this plane, she could absorb the arcane, and willingly gave up her life to save him in death.” 

“She became the goddess of the afterlife,” the little girl said smugly, pleased that she knew that key fact. 

“That she did.” Her mother stroked her hair. “With the arcane power that she absorbed, she was able to save Viktor’s soul and create an afterlife for all the other lost souls stuck in the nothingness that was death. One day, she’ll bring your soul to rest there as well.”

The girl frowned, disliking the idea of death at all, even if it was peaceful. “What about the bad people? When they die do they go there too?” 

Her mother nodded. “Even the bad people, everyone gets a chance to atone and rest, but only if they are willing.”

*~*~*

What had started as a small group had grown at an exponential rate. Souls started to gather at your sanctuary and you expanded, growing more land and homes for them to stay in. You felt their presence like a million pinpricks of light, each soul a unique constellation in your ever-expanding universe. Your consciousness stretched across the sanctuary, a vast network of awareness that allowed you to peer into every nook and cranny. You saw the newly arrived souls, wide-eyed and trembling, as they took their first steps into this strange new world. You heard the laughter of those who had found peace, their joy rippling through the air like a summer breeze.

But not all was serene. In the eastern quarter, a heated argument erupted between two souls over a trivial matter. You gently nudged their thoughts, soothing their anger and reminding them of the sanctuary's purpose. The conflict dissipated like morning mist under the sun.

At the borders, you sensed a dark, roiling presence - a soul so twisted by hatred and fear that it would poison everything around it. With a heavy heart, you reinforced the boundaries, denying it entry. Some souls were beyond your help, at least for now.

In the misty forests to the north, you felt a faint, confused energy. A lost soul, unable to find its way. You reached out, your essence forming a glowing path that only they could see, guiding them home.

Near the tranquil lake, an ancient soul flickered weakly, its sense of self barely a whisper. You enveloped it in warmth, offering a choice. The soul's relief was barefaced as it chose to let go, merging with the roots of an old willow tree. Its contentment hummed through the leaves, a soft lullaby for the younger souls nearby. There had been many souls who’d met a similar fate, to old to remember who they were, more than happy to become one with nature, to find peace.

It was as easy to you as breathing, all tasks able to be accomplished simultaneously without conscious thought. It allowed you to stay you, to focus on those you cared for most - your main consciousness remained with your loved ones. You didn't perceive them as pinpricks of light or constellations like the other souls, but as the flesh-and-blood people you remembered.

“Ah, Mila?” Vander’s gruff voice spoke up from behind you. You turned to him, his brows furrowed and his lips set in a thin line. “Do you have a minute?” 

It was strange to see him like this after weeks of swimming through his emotions and knowing him as a half-beast half-man creature. He was so…normal, in comparison. 

You nodded once and turned back to Sky, your game of tik-tac-toe half-finished in the dirt. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” 

Sky smiled at you, inclining her head. “You know where to find me.” 

You followed Vander to the shade of a towering silver tree, its leaves shimmering like liquid moonlight in the gentle breeze. The bark was smooth and cool to the touch, almost metallic in texture. As you leaned against it, you felt a faint hum of energy coursing through the trunk.

Vander cleared his throat, his weathered hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. The movement was so uncharacteristic of the usually stoic man that it had you feeling wary. But you waited, giving him time to gather his thoughts.

“I have no right to ask you this after everything you’ve done for us,” he started, his fists clenching at his sides, “but I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

“This is about Silco, right?” You’d been wondering when he’d come up, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it too.

Vander nodded, jaw tight. “As much as I hate what he did to Zaun and…my daughters,” a sore spot for him, you could feel it rolling off him in waves of anger, “he never gave up on our dream; independence for our home. And he raised Powder. While I disagree with his methods, he treated her like one of his own when I couldn’t be there for her.” 

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’ve got enough on your plate and I don’t want to add more, but he’s just…floating out there. Knowing him he’s miserable and blaming himself for everything. We all made mistakes in the war with Piltover, and I blame myself for turning him away. I’d like to right that wrong, if you’d allow it.” 

“You’d like me to bring his soul here?” 

“I would be responsible for him,” Vander added, “like I said, you’re busy enough.”

“Well, there are no weapons here, or Shimmer, and even if there were it’s not like he could kill anybody,” you said consideringly. “Sure, why not? I’ll go find his soul and set you two up with a private space. You’ll be able to come and go as you please but he won’t until you feel he’s ready to be out among the rest of us. And if you need any help I’m here, I’m not as busy as I look.”

Vander’s face softened, hope filling his eyes as the tension eased from his shoulders. “Really? Just like that?”

You grinned, wide and all-knowing, your hair floating around you. “I’ve actually been thinking about it for a while. Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, if they want it. And I saw what he meant to you, how much your fight weighs on you. I want you to be able to rest knowing you did everything you could to reach him.” 

"Thank you," Vander said, his voice thick. "You don't know what this means to me."

You reached out, placing a hand on Vander's shoulder. For a fleeting second, you caught a glimpse of the tangled web of relationships that defined Vander's life - threads of gold linking him to his adopted children, a frayed but unbroken cord stretching towards Silco.

"I'll begin the search immediately," you assured him, and you weren’t one to break a promise.

Despite initial doubts, Silco's progress surpassed all expectations. In what would have been a few months in Runeterra time, he ventured out amongst the other souls, closely monitored by Vander. Each small step taken settled a long-tormented piece of Vander's soul, bringing a sense of peace that he never would have rested otherwise.

*~*~*

“Who else is with Miláček and Viktor?” The girl asked, though she already knew the answer. Whether she was delaying her bedtime or honestly interested in hearing the story remained to be seen. 

Her mother would indulge her, for now. “The friend they lost in their attempts to save Viktor’s life was a guiding force for Miláček, and she joined them in the afterlife.”

*~*~*

You found Sky lounging by a pond, her toes dipping into the water that sparkled like liquid starlight. As you approached, she looked up with a smile that could outshine the sun.

"There you are! I was starting to think you'd forgotten about our rendezvous," Sky teased, patting the soft grass beside her.

You settled down, your legs tucked beneath you. "As if I could ever forget you," you replied, bumping her shoulder playfully.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching as fish darted through the water, leaving trails of glowing bubbles behind them.

Sky leaned back on her elbows, her wild curls catching the light. "You know, I never thought the afterlife would be so...peaceful. I always imagined it'd be one big party, celebrate for eternity and all that."

You laughed. "Who says it can't be both?" With a wave of your hand, upbeat music began to play, seemingly emanating from nowhere and everywhere.

Sky's eyes widened in delight. "Show-off," she said, but her grin betrayed her amusement. She stood up, offering you her hand. "Care to dance, oh mighty goddess of the afterlife?"

You took her hand, allowing her to pull you to your feet. As you began to sway to the music, your feet barely touching the ground, you felt a surge of joy. It had been so long since you'd allowed yourself this simple pleasure, to just be in the moment with a friend.

"I missed this," you admitted. "I missed you."

Sky's grin softened. "I missed you too, Mila." She spun you around, your laughter mingling with the music. "But we're here now, together. And we've got all of eternity to catch up."

*~*~*

“There was also their friend who died ending the war. He and Viktor had been in conflict in life, but in death, they mended those bridges.” 

*~*~*

Once Jayce had been ready, weeks after they had settled, he’d joined Viktor for what must have been days as they hashed out their issues. While you didn’t listen in, you had an awareness of their conversation, there was only so much privacy you could give when their existence was tied to your consciousness. They spoke of the past, of the rift that had grown between them. Their words flowed like a stream, sometimes rushing and turbulent, other times slow and contemplative. All streams inevitably come to an end, and understanding bloomed between them like the wildflowers at their feet. You felt the shift in the air, the easing of tension, and you knew they would be alright.

Of course, Jayce jumped right back into being himself. As soon as he returned, arm slung around Viktor’s shoulders, he’d insisted you and Sky join them at a campfire. Though surprised that Viktor had agreed, you were remiss to miss an opportunity to spend time with your friends - like how it had been before everything went to shit.

You gathered around the crackling fire, its warm glow casting shifting shadows across your face. Jayce had insisted on building it himself, regaling you with tales of camping trips with his mother as he expertly stacked the logs. The flames licked at the evening sky, sending sparks spiralling upward to join the ever-present stars.

Viktor sat beside you, his legs stretched out before him. On your other side, Sky lounged on a bed of impossibly soft moss that seemed to have sprouted just for her comfort. Jayce stood nearby, proudly surveying his handiwork, before settling down to complete your circle.

"I must admit," Viktor said. "I never thought I'd find myself enjoying something as…primitive as a campfire. The Undercity had garbage bin fires, but I would hardly count that as an enjoyable experience."

Jayce chuckled, reaching for a long stick to poke at the embers. "There's something primal about fire, something that speaks to the soul."

"Or maybe," Sky interjected with a mischievous grin, "you just like playing with sticks and pretending to be useful."

You laughed as Jayce feigned offence, clutching his chest dramatically. The banter flowed easily between them, years of tension and misunderstanding washed away by the healing waters of the afterlife.

As the night deepened, you found yourself leaning against Viktor, his arm draped comfortably around your waist. Sky regaled you with increasingly outlandish stories of her adventures in the sanctuary, each tale more impossible than the last - you would be sure to check on the cavern filled with massive bats, no good could come of that. Jayce, not to be outdone, countered with his own exaggerated exploits.

This was what you had fought for, what you had sacrificed everything to create - a place where souls could find rest, where old wounds could heal, and where love could flourish unbound by the constraints of mortality.

As if sensing your thoughts, Viktor squeezed your hip gently. You turned to meet his gaze, seeing in his eyes the same contentment that filled your heart. No words were needed; in that look, you shared a lifetime of understanding.

*~*~*

“And then there was Miláček’s mother. Though her soul had been scattered to the far reaches of the universe when Viktor, in his conquest, burned her soul out of her body, Miláček never stopped looking.”

“Did she find her mommy?” The girl asked, clutching her sheets tight to her chest. To be without her mother was simply unthinkable. 

Her mother placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “She did.”

*~*~*

Not everything was perfect, getting used to your abilities had taken time and had caused many a headache as you learned how to shut out the thoughts and feelings of thousands of souls. Viktor was still healing, he had good days where he’d spend time with Jayce as they worked on numerous projects for your corner of the afterlife, or hours spent laying in the grass together, peacefully watching the clouds go by. There were also bad days where he’d shut himself inside, be unable to look you in the eyes, become withdrawn. But you were there for him, and you gave him space when that was what he needed instead. It would take him time to heal and you were more than willing to give that to him.

As soon as you’d gotten a grasp on your new powers, you’d set out in search of the pieces of Charlotte’s soul. You searched tirelessly, but Charlotte's soul fragments eluded you, too small and scattered to pinpoint. As you probed the furthest reaches of your domain, you stumbled upon a flickering presence - a tiny soul, lost and alone.

You drew closer, your ethereal form coalescing around the frightened soul. It was a child - a little girl with large, curious eyes and messy brown hair. Her essence quivered like a candle flame in the wind. You enveloped her gently, whispering soothing thoughts as you guided her back to the heart of your sanctuary.

As you materialized before her, the girl's eyes widened in wonder. "Who are you?" she asked, her hands held close to her chest.

You knelt down to her height, smiling softly to reassure her you were a friend. "I am the guardian of this place," you replied. "A sanctuary for lost souls. But you may call me Mila. It's wonderful to finally meet you, Elowen."

"You know my name," she whispered, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "Are you…are you an angel?"

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Not quite. But I'm here to help. I’m…friends with your mother."

Elowen's gaze darted around, taking in the misty forests and glimmering lakes of your realm. "You know my mama? Where is she? I tried to find her but she was gone and I was all alone. Is she mad at me?"

"No,” you said with a gentle resolution, “she is not mad at you. If she could be here she would, but that’s what I need your help with. I'm searching for her, Elowen. Her soul has been scattered."

The girl's eyes lit up, hope blooming across her face like the first rays of dawn. "Really? I can help? How?"

"Your connection to your mother is strong. It's a beacon that can guide me to her. Will you let me use that bond?"

Elowen nodded eagerly, her small frame practically vibrating with excitement. "Yes! Please, I want to find Mama."

As you linked your consciousness to hers, you felt a surge of emotion - love, longing, and a fierce determination that belied her young age. Through her eyes, you caught glimpses of Charlotte - a warm smile, gentle hands braiding Elowen's hair, the sound of laughter and quiet humming echoing through a lamp-lit kitchen.

These memories were like breadcrumbs, leading you down a path you couldn't see before. You sensed the first fragile thread of Charlotte's soul, humming with a familiar energy.

"I can feel her," you murmured, your form pulsing with renewed purpose. "I'm going to find your mother, I can sense her now, thanks to you."

"I'm coming with you!" she declared, her small hands balling into fists at her sides.

You shook your head, your essence rippling with concern. "It's too dangerous, Elowen. The journey will take me to the farthest reaches of this realm and beyond. You need to stay here where it's safe."

Tears welled up in Elowen's eyes, her lower lip trembling. "But she's my mama! I want to help!"

Your heart ached at her distress, but you couldn't risk her safety. An idea sparked in your mind, and you gently took her hand. "Come with me. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

You guided Elowen through the sanctuary, the ground beneath your feet shifting and changing with each step. As you approached a sunlit clearing, you spotted who you were looking for.

Isha sat cross-legged in the grass, her hair adorned with small blue flowers. Before her, a makeshift arena of twigs and leaves housed two large beetles, their shells glinting in the soft light.

"Isha," you called to her. The girl looked up, breaking into a wide grin when she saw you. "This is Elowen. Would you mind if she joined you for a while?"

Elowen clung to your side, her earlier bravado fading in the face of meeting someone new. Isha, however, was undeterred. She waved enthusiastically, beckoning you closer.

You gently nudged the hesitant girl forward. "Isha, can you show Elowen your game while I'm gone?"

Isha nodded vigorously, her smile wide and welcoming. She jumped to her feet and extended her hand to Elowen.

Elowen glanced back at you uncertainly, but you gave her an encouraging nod. "Go on," you urged. "I'll be back before you know it."

Elowen hesitated for a moment longer before Isha darted forward, grasping her hand. She tugged Elowen towards the makeshift arena, already demonstrating the rules of her bug tournament.

As you watched Elowen's reluctance melt away, replaced by curiosity and the beginnings of a smile, you knew she was in good hands. With a final glance at the two girls, now huddled over the beetle arena, you had one more stop before you set off on your quest.

You found Viktor in a secluded glade, reclining against a gnarled oak tree with his eyes closed. You crept forward, barely disturbing the grass beneath you. With a mischievous grin, you prepared to materialize and surprise him.

But as you slipped into your corporeal form and reached for his shoulders, Viktor's eyes fluttered open. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "I knew you were there," he said, warm with affection.

You pouted, your planned surprise foiled. "How? I was being so sneaky."

Viktor chuckled, reaching up to cup your cheeks. "Your presence is unmistakable, miláčku. I could never miss it."

He pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You melted into him, giggling against his mouth. You could kiss him a thousand times and never tire of it. But as you pulled away, the reminder of your impending journey settled over you like a heavy woollen cloak.

"I found Elowen, and I used her connection to her mother to feel Charlotte's soul," you said, watching him carefully for his reaction. "I'm going to find her, to bring her back."

Viktor's body tensed, his eyes clouding with a familiar guilt. You took his hand, squeezing it gently. "Come with me. This is your chance to make things right."

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the ground. "I…I don't know if I can face her after what I did."

You held his chin in your fingers, lifting his face to meet your eyes. "Viktor, you've carried this burden for so long. Charlotte wouldn't want that. She'd want you to help her come home."

He took a shaky breath, squeezing your hand. "You're right," he said softly. "I owe it to her to try. To face the consequences of my actions."

"We'll do this together," you promised. "Every step of the way."

As you prepared to set off, Viktor's determination seemed to grow. He straightened his back, his chin lifting with resolve. You didn’t necessarily need him to go with you, you would be fine on your own, but he needed it - needed to feel part of the solution so that his guilt would stop eating him alive.

You and Viktor set off on your journey, your bodies shifting to their ethereal forms. Viktor glowed with the light blue of your magic, and you grew until he became an orb in the palm of your hand. Your skin melded with the darkness of space, your hair becoming the stars themselves.

As you traversed the far corners of the celestial landscape, you encountered wonders beyond imagination. Nebulae bloomed like tropical flowers, their swirling gases glittering with hues of violet, emerald, and gold. You passed through the heart of a dying star, its final pulses of energy washing over you in waves of a bittersweet goodbye. Comets streaked by, leaving trails of fire that scorched your fingertips.

You followed the tenuous threads of Charlotte's soul, each fragment a faint beacon calling out across the vastness of space. You found the first nestled in the core of a nascent planet, reaching through rock and debris to pull the shard free.

“It's…beautiful,” Viktor spoke for the first time since leaving the sanctuary, full of awe and reverence.

You nodded, carefully transferring the fragment to him. "Hold onto it for me. We'll need to gather them all."

Viktor's glowing form pulsed in surprise as the shard rested at his centre. "Are you positive I should be the one to carry them? I am the reason she is like this in the first place."

You pulled his form up to your lips, placing a light kiss against the glowing light of his soul. "I trust you, Viktor. Completely."

He didn't speak, but his grip on the soul shard tightened ever so slightly, a silent promise to guard it with his life.

You ventured on, collecting more fragments from the most unlikely of places. One shard spun within a storm of glittering sand, another floated in a pool on a desert planet.

Finally, after what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, you collected the final shard from the corona of a distant sun. As Viktor carefully added it to the collection he carried, the shards began to resonate, humming with renewed energy.

Exhausted but triumphant, you returned to the sanctuary, shrinking down to a more manageable size. Viktor's orb expanded, taking on his familiar shape once more. The shards of Charlotte's soul hovered between you, pulsing with a soft, iridescent light in the shaded glade.

With reverent care, you gathered the fragments in your hands. They felt warm, almost alive, as if they recognized your touch. You closed your eyes, focusing your energy on knitting the pieces back together. The shards trembled, edges reaching out tentatively towards one another like shy dancers at a ball.

But something was wrong. The fragments refused to fully merge, repelling each other at the last moment like misaligned magnets. You furrowed your brow, redoubling your efforts. Sweat beaded on your forehead as you poured more power into the process, willing the soul to become whole again.

The shards spun faster. For a heart-stopping moment, you thought you'd succeeded. But then, with a sound like shattering glass, they flew apart. You stumbled back, chest heaving, as the fragments settled into a loose orbit around you.

"Damn it," you grumbled, frustrated beyond measure. To have gotten her back at long last only to fail at the final step…

You tried again, and again, each attempt more forceful than the last. But no matter how much energy you expended, the result was always the same - a brief flicker of hope, followed by bitter disappointment that coated the back of your tongue like bile.

Viktor watched silently, his face twisted with concern. As you slumped to the ground after your latest failed attempt, he knelt beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Perhaps," he said hesitantly, "there's something we're missing. A catalyst of sorts."

You looked up at him, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

Viktor's brow furrowed in thought. "The soul fragments, they're like puzzle pieces without a picture to guide them. They've forgotten how they fit together." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "What if they need something to remind them of their true form? Something to…glue the broken pieces back together?"

You pondered his words, your mind racing through possibilities. "Elowen," you breathed, the realization striking you like a bolt of lightning. "Of course! Her daughter - the strongest connection to who Charlotte truly is."

You jumped to your feet. "Stay here with the soul fragments," you instructed Viktor. "I'll go get Elowen."

You found the girl where you'd left her, still playing with Isha by the beetle arena. Her laughter rang out across the clearing, a sound of pure, uncomplicated joy.

You called out to Elowen as you made your way over, your voice carrying on the light breeze. She looked up from the beetle arena and a smile spread across her face, brighter than the midday sun as she scrambled to her feet.

Isha's face fell, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. You knelt beside her. "Don't worry, Isha," you said as soft as dandelion fluff. "I promise I'll bring Elowen back soon. You two can finish your tournament then."

Isha perked up at your words, her smile returning. She nodded eagerly, already planning new games for when Elowen returned.

You turned to Elowen. "I found your mom," you said, watching as hope bloomed in her eyes. "But she needs your help to put her back together."

Confusion wrinkled Elowen's forehead, her head tilting to the side like a curious sparrow. "Put her back together?" she asked.

You nodded, offering her your hand. "It's a bit complicated, but I know you can do it. Are you ready to see her?"

Elowen's small hand slipped into yours, her grip firm and resolute. "I'm ready," she declared, chin lifted high.

You led her back through the sanctuary, the trees whispering secrets as you passed, their leaves rustling in a language only they understood. Your realm responded to you, an extension of your soul that had grown its consciousness.

As you approached the glade where Viktor waited, Elowen tensed beside you. Her eyes locked onto the unfamiliar figure, wariness replacing her earlier excitement.

"It's alright," you soothed, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "This is Viktor. He's a friend who's been helping me find your mom."

Viktor stood frozen, his soul flickering with a storm of emotions only you could see. Guilt, hope, and fear swirled within him. His gaze locked onto Elowen, his past sins settling heavily upon his shoulders.

To Viktor, Elowen was a living reminder of what he had stolen - a child robbed of her mother because of his actions. The pain in his eyes was almost tangible, a counterpoint to the soft, pulsing light of Charlotte's soul fragments that spun beside him.

Elowen looked between you and Viktor as she tried to make sense of the stranger who you’d introduced as a friend. "Hello," she said cautiously, looking to you for approval. You smiled, nodding your encouragement.

Viktor swallowed hard and then inclined his head in greeting. "Hello, Elowen. It’s a pleasure to meet you."

You guided Elowen closer, watching as her eyes widened in wonder at the sight of the glowing shards. But before you could explain what they were, Elowen gasped, her small hands reaching out towards the fragments. "Mama!" she cried, tears welling up in her eyes. The soul pieces pulsed brighter at her exclamation, as if responding to her cry.

Your heart clenched at the raw longing in Elowen's voice. You placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, drawing her attention. "Elowen," you said softly, "your mama needs your help. She needs to be reminded of who she is." You knelt beside her, your eyes level with hers. "Can you tell us stories about her? About the times you spent together? It will help bring her back."

Elowen nodded eagerly, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. "Mama used to sing to me every night. Even when we couldn’t make dinner, she'd hold me close and hum my favourite songs."

As she spoke, the shards pulsed brighter, their movements becoming more coordinated. You nodded encouragingly, and Elowen continued.

She told of Charlotte working long hours in the factories, coming home with hands stained black from machine oil but still finding the energy to play hide-and-seek in their tiny one-room apartment. Of weeds they kept in plant boxes on the window sill, the only things that would grow in the toxic air.

She recounted how Charlotte would skip meals, claiming she wasn't hungry so that Elowen could have a little more, even though Elowen knew better. How she'd fashion dolls out of scraps of fabric and buttons, bringing joy from cast-off remnants.

With each story, the soul fragments drew closer, their light growing more intense. Your magic guided them, urged them to form, but it was Elowen who sealed them together.

"And then," Elowen said, her eyes shining, "there was the day Mama found that old book of fairy tales. She'd read me a different story every night. She did all the voices, even the scary ones!"

At those words, the fragments suddenly rushed together, merging in a blinding flash of light. You shielded your eyes, heart pounding in your throat.

As the glow faded, you saw her - Charlotte - whole and radiant, her form shimmering into solidity, her arm returned, looking younger than you’d ever known her. Her auburn hair fell in waves to her shoulders, matching Elowen’s. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion giving way to wonder as she took in her surroundings.

Then her gaze fell on Elowen.

Charlotte's breath caught in her throat, her hands flying to her mouth. "Elowen?" she whispered, disbelief and hope warring in her voice. "My baby?"

Elowen let out a cry of pure joy, launching herself into her mother's arms. "Mama!"

Charlotte caught her daughter, wrapping her in a tight hug. Tears streamed down her face as she buried her nose into Elowen's hair, breathing in the scent of her child. "Oh, my sweet girl," she sobbed, rocking gently. "My precious, precious girl."

A lump formed in your throat as you witnessed the reunion, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. You stood behind Charlotte, your magic fading to simmer in the background.

Charlotte pulled back slightly, her hands cupping Elowen's face. "How is this possible?" she asked. "You’re just the same as I remember, my love. How long has it been?"

Elowen pointed behind Charlotte and the older woman turned, her gaze falling on you. Your breath hitched, a tangle of emotions too complex to pull apart rendering you speechless. You opened your mouth, but no words came out - just a choked sob of relief.

"Oh, you wonderful, silly girl," Charlotte said, thick with gratitude. "Get over here."

She reached out, drawing you into the hug. You fell into it willingly as you joined the tangle of arms and tears. Charlotte's grip was strong, anchoring you as surely as it did Elowen.

"Thank you," Charlotte whispered, her words muffled against your shoulder. "Thank you for bringing my Elowen back to me. For bringing me back to her."

You couldn't speak, too overwhelmed for words. Instead, you poured your feelings into the hug, your essence wrapping around mother and daughter like a protective shield.

As you held each other, time seemed to lose all meaning. It could have been minutes or hours before Charlotte finally loosened her grip, pulling back just enough to look at you and Elowen properly. Her eyes shone with tears, but her smile was brilliant.

"Look at you," she said. "You've changed so much, my dear. You're radiant." Her fingers traced the starlight in your hair, sending tiny sparks dancing across your skin. "It's like you've become part of the universe itself."

You smiled, an ache blooming in your chest. "I've missed you so much, Charlotte," you whispered, unable to bring yourself to speak any louder.

Charlotte's eyes crinkled with understanding. "We have time now," she assured you, her hand squeezing yours gently as she gazed adoringly at the little girl still clinging to her chest. "All the time in the world."

A flicker of movement caught your eye, and you turned, searching for Viktor. But the spot where he had stood was empty. Your heart sank, a frown tugging at your lips. After everything, had he run away?

Charlotte followed your gaze, her eyes softening. "Ah," she said quietly. "He needs time, I think. This can't be easy for him."

You blinked in surprise, turning back to Charlotte. "You know?"

She nodded, a forlorn smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I remember bits and pieces. Enough to understand." She squeezed your hand again. "Tell him I'm here, when he's ready to talk. There's forgiveness to be found, if he's willing to seek it."

Relief washed over you. “Thank you.” you smiled softly. "I will."

*~*~*

Her mother glanced at the clock, it was well after her daughter should have gone to sleep. But what was the harm in indulging her curiosity just this once? “Did you know that she’s also the Goddess of Reunions?”

The little girl's eyes widened at this new piece of information. “She is?”

“She reunites souls after death who’d known each other in life. Mothers and daughters, friends, sisters, everyone with a connection are guided to each other.”

*~*~*

You kept a watchful eye on the souls entering your realm, always alert for familiar presences. Time had continued, and you had no idea how long it had been since you lived, but when you felt a distinctive energy crackling at the edges of your consciousness - chaotic, vibrant, and unmistakably Jinx - you reached out, gently guiding her towards the sanctuary.

As Jinx materialized, you noticed the tension in her shoulders, and the wariness in her eyes. She scanned her surroundings, fingers twitching as if reaching for weapons that were no longer there.

"Welcome, Jinx," you said, shimmering into view before her. "You're safe here."

Jinx's gaze snapped to you, recognition dawning in her eyes. "Mila? That glowy lady who blew herself up for the metal fortune cookie?" Is that how people remembered you? "What is this place? Where's-"

But before she could finish her question, a blur of motion caught your attention. Isha came bounding across the meadow, her face alight with joy. She skidded to a stop in front of Jinx, her hands moving in a flurry of excited gestures.

Jinx's eyes widened, her lips parting in disbelief. For a moment, she stood frozen, her gaze locked onto Isha's beaming face. Then, with a choked sob, Jinx fell to her knees, her arms wrapping around Isha and pulling her in for a rib-cracking hug.

"You're here," Jinx whispered, her voice cracking. "You're really here."

Isha nodded vigorously, her small hands patting Jinx's back. You felt a surge of emotion from Jinx - a tidal wave of grief, guilt, and overwhelming relief that pulled at her heart like a fishing hook. Her body shook with silent sobs as she clung to Isha, her face buried in the girl's wild hair - twin braids and died blue.

You stood back, giving them space.

A deep voice called out from behind you, rich and thick as he swallowed his hope-tinged sorrow. "Powder."

Jinx stilled, her body going rigid. Slowly, she turned, her eyes locking onto the imposing figure of Vander as he approached. Time seemed to stand still as they regarded each other, years of pain and regret hanging heavy between them.

Then, with a choked sob, Jinx - arms still wrapped tight around Isha - launched herself against Vander’s chest, crushing the little girl between them, though she didn’t seem to mind. He caught her easily, enveloping her in a bear hug that lifted her off her feet. Jinx clung to him, her face buried in his chest as her shoulders shook with silent tears.

"I'm sorry," she cried, her voice muffled. "I'm so sorry."

Vander's large hand cradled the back of her head, his eyes glistening. "Shh, it's alright," he soothed. "You're home now, Powder. You're home."

*~*~*

The little girl yawned, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to stay awake. “She has Viktor and all her friends, do you think she’s happy now?” 

“Yes,” her mother replied, a knowing smile on her lips. “I believe she is.”

Silence filled the small room, the nightlight casting stars on the ceiling. Just as her mother thought her asleep, shifting to stand, the girl asked one more question.

“Do goddesses sleep?”

Her mother paused, having been unprepared to provide that answer. “Everyone sleeps eventually,” she said. “Even curious little girls.”

The girl giggled, her mother placing one last kiss on her forehead before wishing her a goodnight, and departing from her room.

*~*~*

You stood atop a grassy hill, your hand clasped in Viktor's as you gazed out over the ever-expanding sanctuary. The sky above shimmered with countless stars, each one a soul finding peace in your realm.

"It's time, isn't it?" Viktor asked softly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand.

You nodded, a lump forming in your throat. "Yes, I think it is."

For eons, you had watched over the souls in your care, guiding them, comforting them, reuniting them with loved ones. You had witnessed countless joys and sorrows, rebirths and un-deaths, forgiveness and redemption. Everyone else had become one with the land, only you and Viktor remained. Now, a bone-deep weariness had settled into your soul. The weight of eternity pressed down on you, and you knew in the depths of your soul, it was time to rest.

Viktor squeezed your hand, his eyes reflecting the starlight above. "One last day," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Let's make it count."

You spent the day wandering through your realm, revisiting all the places that held special meaning for you both. You walked beneath the cascading light of the Aurora Falls, your laughter echoing off the clear waters. You ate your favourite lunches in the Whispering Woods, where the trees sang ancient melodies as you passed.

As the day wore on, you found yourselves in the Meadow of Memories. Flowers of every colour stretched as far as the eye could see, each bloom holding the essence of a cherished moment. You and Viktor lay side by side in the soft grass, watching as the petals released glowing specks that danced on the breeze. Your sparks spun around them, carrying whispers of laughter, tears, and everything in between.

Viktor propped himself up on one elbow, his amber eyes searching yours. "Do you have any regrets?"

You reached up, cupping his cheek in your palm. How many times had he asked you this? And how many times had you given him the same answer?

"Not a single one."

As twilight fell, you followed a narrow path that wound its way to a cliff face at the very edge of your realm. You gazed out at the vast expanse of the universe, an empty sea where there had once been countless souls. Now, they were all housed within your sanctuary.

You turned to Viktor, drinking in the sight of him one last time - the angular lines of his jaw, the warmth in his amber eyes, the gentle smile that had never ceased to make your heart flutter through countless ages.

"Are you ready?" you asked, almost afraid, but with Viktor, that feeling washed away under his devotion.

Viktor nodded, pulling you close. "When I’m with you? Always."

You leaned in, your lips meeting Viktor's in a kiss that felt both familiar and thrillingly new. His arms encircled you, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened. It was every moment of joy, every hardship overcome, every whispered promise and tender touch shared over endless lifetimes.

Viktor's hand cupped the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your starlit hair. You felt the gentle scrape of his nails on your scalp, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity as you lost yourself in the feeling of him.

Your bodies began to shimmer, intertwining like threads of starlight. The boundaries between you blurred, two souls merging into one radiant being.

Together, you stepped off the cliff's edge. But instead of falling, you floated, your combined energy spreading outward like ripples in a cosmic pond. Your consciousness expanded, suffusing every blade of grass, every drop of water, every piece of starlight in your sanctuary.

You became the whisper of wind, the crash of waves against the shores. You were the heat of the eternal sun and the cool glow of the ever-present moon. Every flower in the Meadow of Memories held a fragment of your shared love, every star in the sky a spark of your combined spirit.

As your energies settled into the fabric of the realm, you felt a profound sense of peace wash over you. The weight of godhood lifted, replaced by the simple joy of existence. You were everywhere and nowhere, eternally present yet finally at rest.

A small part of your consciousness lingered, a gentle guardian watching over the souls in your care. You felt their joys and sorrows, their triumphs and struggles, but no longer as separate entities. They were a part of you now, and you a part of them.

You and Viktor found your final peace, forever entwined in the sanctuary you had created. Your love story had become legend, whispered by the winds and sung by the stars, a tale of the power of forgiveness, redemption, and a love that transcended life, death, and eternity itself.

But most important of all, you were together, always and forever, and nothing could pull you apart.

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope this answered any lingering questions <3

I debated with giving them a Janet and Jason (from the Good Place) ending, but that was too sad, even for me :')

[rottenpumpkin13]

How would AGSZC react if they had to spend one week working at a retail job?

Sephiroth: His disdain for humanity is palpable. His tone is dry and clipped. His patience as thin as the thread holding his sanity together. He hates stocking shelves but does it anyway because it's less annoying than dealing with people. Every time a customer asks him to check the back for an item, Sephiroth goes back there and screams into a cupboard. He spends an hour staring into space in the break room, quietly contemplating how much effort it would take to burn the store down without leaving evidence.

Customer: "The milk was cheaper yesterday." Sephiroth: "And I was happier yesterday when I wasn't having this conversation. Unfortunately, both the milk and I are subject to the relentless march of time. The difference is the milk gets to expire quicker to escape this mortal coil."

Angeal: He's the employee everyone loves. His smile is warm, he's patient, and he genuinely seems to enjoy helping people. He's unnervingly good at handling difficult customers. A woman demanding a refund for a clearly worn pair of shoes leaves apologizing and feeling better about herself. He even offers advice to customers about practical purchases, and sneaks free samples of store-brand snacks to them.

Genesis: At first he's all smiles, ready to help and to chat up customers, ready to be completely in his element by helping them pick out items. This doesn't happen. It takes exactly one customer interaction to ruin him.

Customer: "Does this Banora White juice come in another flavor? I'm not a fan of apples." Genesis: :) *this is how Angeal has to pry a Banora White juice can from Genesis' handsbefore he uses it to hack open the customer's skull*

By hour two, he's locked in the break room, rocking back and forth, muttering Loveless passages like dark incantations. By hour three, he's rearranged all the clearance signs to spell out "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." By hour four, he quits dramatically, throwing his name tag on the floor and as he storms out, all for the crowd he assumes is watching. "Thus concludes the chapter of my servitude. Retail is a blight upon the soul."

Zack: He's a golden retriever in human form. He's energetic, enthusiastic, and genuinely excited to help customers. He's everywhere at once; helping customers, restocking shelves, cracking jokes over the intercom, but has bad habit of oversharing. A customer asks for shoe recommendations, and he ends up telling them about the curious case of Gongaga's mass foot fungus of '92. His only flaw is that he's too helpful.

Customer: "I need directions to the bathroom." Zack, with a map: "Here's the fastest route, alternate routes in case of congestion, my personal rankings of every bathroom in the store AND the key to the cupboard where we keep the good toilet paper." Customer: "But I—" Zack: "So how are your bowels?" Customer:

Cloud: Does not want to be here. At all. He's awkward, quiet, and avoids eye contact with customers like his life depends on it. He spends most of his shift trying to stay out of sight, reorganizing shelves in the most remote corners of the store. He clocks out exactly on time because he refuses to give anyone a second more of his life. When he does interact with customers, it's something like:

Customer, pointing at the register: "Are you open?" Cloud: "No, I just stand here for the ambiance." Customer: "You just lost a customer!" Cloud: "You just gained some free time to reflect on your life choices."

[carminecherry]

THE LAST TRAIN | mikey sano

this is part two of the series kill the lights

⇝ PAIRING: timeskip!biker!mikey sano x fem!reader

⇝ SERIES SYNOPSIS: after moving by yourself to tokyo, you black out at a party and wake up with a new friend. as she sweeps you up in her fast-paced city life, you feel yourself falling deeper and deeper for her mysterious brother. but something dark is brewing in the city. as his past threatens to resurface, mikey must fight not only physical enemies but the mental battle of his feelings for you. he can't resist you , but could he ever forgive himself if something happened to you? he'll love you selfishly and protect you savagely.

⇝ PART TWO LENGTH: 7.5k words

⇝ PART TWO WARNINGS: Alcohol, suggestive content (18+ minors do not interact):

all characters are 20+; Alternate Universe! Canon Divergent. a friend from university invites you to his house party. as the drinks flow, you slip into a pleasant buzz. that is until a particular masked man makes his appearance, unveiling himself.

⇝ AUTHOR'S NOTE: some world building and character introductions. I upload to AO3 first and i'm slowly but surely cross posting here. iiif you can't wait and want more, check out my AO3. more chapters coming soon! keep an eye on the tags and stay safe! <3

DO NOT INTERACT WITH THIS WORK IF YOU ARE A MINOR. BY CLICKING THE READMORE, YOU CONSENT TO VIEWING ADULT CONTENT.

You glanced over at your illuminated phone screen, soapy dinner dishes in hand and a podcast playing over your headphones. The name flashing on your screen made the corners of your mouth turn up. You and Yuuki had been chatting a little more here and there. The tone of your conversations confirmed your sense that this was purely friendship with no nuance or hidden intention. Not overthinking the messages anymore allowed you to relax. You rinsed the bubbles from your hands and wiped them on your work pants.

Unlocking your phone, the message read, 

“Party tomorrow night starting @9:00. Bring something to share.” 

You liked his message, sliding over to your calendar app to put in the details. You typed up a quick message to Emma, 

“Hey, are you going to Yuuki’s party?” 

As you were typing, a bubble with 3 dots appeared from Emma’s side. You hit send right as you received a message from Emma saying, 

“Yuuki’s tomorrow night?” 

You cracked a smile, happy the two of you were on the same page. You liked each other’s messages in confirmation.

Tomorrow was Friday, the welcome end to a very long week. The bookstore and cafe were enough to make ends meet but business was slow. Moreover, you were trying your damnedest to get a job as an interior designer. The competition in the city was fierce and your sanity and sleep were suffering. One more rejection letter might tip you over the edge.

As long as the bills are paid on time you could push through. You slid out of your work clothes, discarding the garments into the washing machine. Pulling on a light summer night set, it took the remainder of your energy to perform your skincare routine and brush your teeth. You practically fell into bed, the promise of a party conjuring imaginative scenarios in your mind as you drifted off to sleep.

***

Work had been uneventful. This was arguably worse as it meant you had been counting down the minutes until you could clock out. You had spent hours listlessly tapping on the counter with your nails. It had been a solo shift which meant you didn’t have anyone to keep you company.

You had a bad habit of getting lost in your imagination, your attention swallowed up in the pages of whatever book caught your attention.  A few uncomfortable conversations with your coworker Shinji about “ignoring customers” had left you feeling uneasy about reading on the clock. Luckily you were working the book-side of the shop today which meant you could leave work after counting the drawer and locking up. 

The minutes ticked down and the shop remained empty. You practically cartwheeled over to the door to flip the sign to “closed.” With trained fingers you count down the drawer; perfectly even. You shouted a farewell to the barista as she mopped the cafe floor. Pausing, she waved goodbye and you were on your way out. She’s a new hire and you had wanted to chat with her during the shift but had stayed dutifully at your counter. 

You had made it home in record time to change and freshen up your makeup. Last time you had felt underdressed, so you decided you wanted to show up and show out tonight. Yuuki’s a fashion guy so why the hell not. You check your outfit and makeup one last time and then you’re hustling out of the door. 

You stopped at the convenience store outside of the station and bought your “something to share”. Or, in this case, things to share. Hopefully a bottle of Jack and a 2L of Diet Coke would suit everyone’s taste. You cradle the bottles in your arms and make the train ride to Yuuki’s apartment in the city. You do your best to ignore the eyes on you, at least you’re giving them something to look at.

It only takes 20 minutes before you’re being buzzed into Yuuki’s building and riding the smooth elevator up 15 floors. There’s no mystery about which room is his. A pulsing beat is already vibrating the walls and sleek black door situated at the end of the hall. You wondered if there would be any noise complaints from the neighbors before banishing the thought from your mind. Tonight is about letting loose and relieving stress, not being the fun police. Tonight, it’s not your problem. 

You move to adjust the bottles to one arm, freeing up a hand to knock on the door. Before your knuckles make contact it swings open, startling you. A large figure is backing out, calling back to the guests already inside. At full height, your head reaches just between his shoulders. Broad shoulders that were rapidly on a collision course with your face. 

“So, two more 6 packs, some more bags of ice, and- Oh!” He dodges you at the last minute as you sidestep straight into the wall; a failed attempt to move out of his way. “Hey, sorry about that.” He steps back to give you more room. He’s even taller when he faces you. Long, silky, black hair thrown up in a messy updo. His eyes are sharp and a unique rusty-brown color that are highlighted by his thick, dark lashes. The man knew how to dress too.

He moves again to hold the door for you as you try to play off your wall collision. Before you can enter, another man casually strolls through the open door, “If you think too hard you might hurt yourself, B. I’ve got the list; you just need to carry everything.” The dark-haired man, “B”, makes a face at the figure who stands a couple inches shorter than him. 

His hair is bleached in chunks and styled with a slight wave. It’s one of those trendy, choppy haircuts that only a small percent of the population can pull off successfully. It makes him look like a vogue model. Which he could be. This man is pretty. His features are softer than the other’s. He has plump lips, round cheeks, but his eyes were the most captivating. They were large and an interesting shade of yellow-hazel. A perfect beauty mark under his left eye. Despite his cherubic features there was a deviousness to those eyes. Another hint that he may not be as angelic as he appears is the massive neck tattoo peeking out of the collar of his shirt.

“You’re paying though, Kazu, and I expect a tip.” B sneered. His canines have a sharp snaggle to them that is unique and… Attractive. “I always tip the help.” Kazu responded nonchalantly before he turned those eyes to you, looking you up and down obviously. “Get out of the way so she can go in.” B says, pulling his companion from the doorway. 

“Sorry about him, I guess you can’t buy manners.” B quips to you, earning him an elbow to the ribs from Kazu. You make your best attempt at a natural smile and manage, “It’s all good, thanks.” You duck into the party, a little out of your element after seeing such good-looking men.

You hear, “Who is she ?” in a not-quite whisper between the pair as they walk from the closing door. The intended meaning of the comment is not clear and acts as a big motivator to get a tall glass of literally anything ASAP. 

The apartment is cast in low mood lights set to smoothly fade to the beat of the music. There was a haziness to the air. Did he have a smoke machine or something? If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were at a high-end club and not a college buddy’s house party.

You make your way into the spacious living room that is already thrumming with bodies. You set your “somethings” on the table and pull out your phone to send a quick message to Emma about her ETA, social anxiety already sinking its claws into you. Before you can hit send, two hands clap down on your shoulders.

“BOO!” Emma exclaims as you whip around to face her, startled for the second time that evening. She laughs, “She’s so cute when she’s scared.” Tossing the comment over her shoulder to the man standing behind her. Draken, the biker from the other day, her boyfriend. His features are hard to read but you notice a slight tick upwards at the corner of his mouth. 

In a flurry, Emma is on you, pulling you into a big hug and spinning you around. “It’s so good to see you again! Thank god you’re here, it was turning into a total sausage fest.” She pouts, pushing you to arms length. “It’s good to see you too.” You smile. She looks you up and down, surveying your outfit before giving you two thumbs up and mouthing, ‘you look great! Wow!’.  You return the compliment with  dramatic hand movements to indicate she , in fact, is the one who looks great.  

You lean conspiratorially towards her, a glint in your eye, “Speaking of sausage fest, I just saw two absolute SMOKESHOWS when I came in!” You say in an excited whisper. The gossipy tone that can only be achieved between women. Draken chokes a bit on his drink and turns away from the two of you. His reaction draws your attention before Emma’s twinkling laugh brings it back to her. 

Grabbing you by the arm and swaying with you she laughs out, “Don’t let them hear you say that~ Their heads will get too big. I guess it’d be fine if it’s Baji, but Kazu is already insufferable.” Your eyes go wide, “Wait! Do you know them?! Uhg of course you do” You bring your hand to your head. “When will it be my turn?” you whine with faux drama. “God is so unfair in the gifts he gives to his children.” Emma gives your arm a few playful slaps leaning into you while stifling a laugh, the action drawing the gaze of a few of the other party-goers. 

Draken further turns his back to the two of you and you notice a slight bounce in his shoulders. “You have to stop. It’s too early and I’m too sober.” Emma manages. “Come on, let’s get a drink.” With that, she guides you to the refreshments table and sets to pouring two drinks.

Living in the city, you have gotten used to seeing more beautiful people than in the suburbs. But as you scanned the room, Yuuki’s apartment looked more like a runway show than a “bring something to share” house party. You thank yourself for taking the extra time to get dressed up. The extra eyes on you during your train ride had been worth it. Fears of being overdressed swiftly quelled. Emma gave a quick speech about friendship. A plastic tap of your cup as a ‘cheers’ and you're bringing the drink to your lips. 

You have to hold back a fully-body shiver as what smells like a fruity drink tastes like straight strawberry vodka. You swallow hard, the drink making your throat and chest feel warm. You turn to look at Emma who is sipping her drink like juice. You brave a few more sips before looking into your cup. You already feel like you’re getting buzzed and you gauged the remainder would spell your death. You actually want to remember tonight. 

You attempt to discreetly set your cup on the table and move to pour your own drink.  But Emma quickly notices and boos quietly at your mixology, You make your way back to the pair, a more reasonably portioned Jack and Coke in hand. 

“Not a fan of Strawberry Absolut?” Draken offers as you rejoin them. Surprised to hear the stoic man engage you first, you reply in a voice slightly too loud, “Not a fan of not remembering things.” Responding with a nod the man picks up your abandoned cup, pouring it into his. He takes a big sip and in your mind you say a silent prayer for him. Given his size, he’d probably be okay. 

Emma jumps in with a pout, “Well I LOVE strawberry Absolut. What even is that?” She asks tapping the rim of her cup to yours. “It’s a Jack and Coke.” To which she scoffs, “That’s like an old man drink.” “At least it’s a drink and not one big shot.” you quip back to which she takes an exaggeratedly big swig of her drink. The three of you chat there for a while. Your cup empties as time fades in and out like the party lights casting the walls with shadows and silhouettes. After bottoming out, you refill your drink. 

On your way back to the pair you survey the room again, the crowd growing in the time since you’d arrived. Emma’s attention moves with yours. “Say, do you know anyone else here?” you ask. Her eyes scanned the crowd, “Hmmm, most of these people are posers hoping to rub shoulders with actual cool people.” Emma’s candid take almost had you spitting your drink out of your nose. You have difficulty imagining these model-level gorgeous men and women, most of which are dressed head-to-toe in designer clothes, as posers. 

They carried themselves with an air of confidence that made them utterly unapproachable to you. You laugh a little, appreciating her brutal honesty. Her eyes turn to you as she continues, “I really just know the boys that Mikey and Draken hang out with and Yuuki, of course. Most of these other people aren’t worth the time.” Speaking of, “Oh, is he here tonight? Mikey?” Your curiosity gets the better of you.

For the last few days your mind had wandered back to the dark figure on his bike. The way his masked gaze had put you in a near flight or fight response. Truthfully, you were also curious what was under the helmet. If he’s related to Emma, he was sure to also be a solid 10. AND he has the biker thing going for him. The image of him in that leather jacket that had been tight in all the right places appeared in your mind; an image that you’d spend a lot of time with over the last week. As if in response to the memory, the familiar feeling of eyes locking onto you sweeps over you; as strong as the first time. The hairs on the back of your neck raise.

“He gave some half-assed reply when I told him about it earlier.” Emma shrugged, pouring herself yet another drink. “He knows it’s happening so he might show up.” You knew it though. He was here. As if on cue, you turn to face the now open apartment door. Three figures filled its frame. The taller figure, Baji, carried three heavy looking bags and was shoving the smaller figure, Kazu, who was noticeably carrying nothing. Kazu seemed to spit back an insult, his furrowed brow indicated they were bickering. The 3rd figure was slightly shorter than Baji but had a presence that made him seem larger. There was no mystery, that was Mikey.

It was your first time seeing him without his helmet on. You must say, your imagination had not done him justice. He had bleached hair like honey. His bangs are up and out of his face while the rest of his hair curved in gentle waves, ending just below his jawline. The light from the hallway trickled into the hazy apartment, casting his locks in a gilded glow. It almost looked like a halo. 

His eyes were different though. He was too far to see any real detail, but they were dark. Dark in a way that gave stark contrast to those of the pretty blonde sipping her drink next to you. What is gentle on her face is defined and sharp on his. He had a hollowness to his cheeks that made his cheekbones stand out strikingly in the low light. 

You’ve seen many beautiful people in your life, more after moving to the city. Fuck, half of them you see in this room tonight. But there was something special about him. He stood in front of the pair, his eyes locked with yours as he stepped through the threshold. 

Yuuki appeared as if conjured from thin air and brought Mikey in for a firm handshake in greeting. You were pulled back to reality by Emma whispering over your shoulder, “Speak of the devil.” Draken leaned down to whisper something to the blonde before moving past the two of you to greet his friend. 

You turn to Emma, eyes wide. You mouth dramatically, ‘That’s your brother?!’ She rolls her eyes and rests her head on your shoulder, “For better or worse, that’s my big brother. I’m kind of surprised he came.” You adjust to offer the softer part of your shoulder to her, turning your gaze back to the group that just entered. You jump slightly as you lock eyes with Mikey once more, your heart flutters and you quickly break eye contact, cheeks warming at being caught. 

She pulls back at the movement. Her honey eyes scanning you with an intensity, you note, she and her brother share. A devious glint appears in her eyes, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. She turns from you with intent and pours a tall cup of, you lean slightly to see. Yup, straight Absolut Strawberry vodka over ice. She tops her cup off as well before she turns back to you with a mischievous look, handing you the cup.

“Emma, please, you’re going to kill me. I feel my organs shutting down.” you whine. “Go give it to Mikey. Like me, he has excellent taste. I’ve gotta go to the bathroom real quick.” The sarcastic comment you were loading about her “excellent taste” disappears as you turn quickly, panic flashing across your skin. “I’ll go with you, girls’ code.” You offer. “Nah, just go, I’ll be right back.” 

She turns you by the shoulders and gives you a nudge of encouragement and thumbs up before disappearing in the crowd of bodies. Traitor. You walk towards the group of tall men. This is your worst nightmare. You distract yourself, the smell of strawberry bringing your gaze to the cup in your hand. A smile plays at your lips. If you ignored the fact it was straight vodka, the contrast of a scary biker sipping on a sweet, strawberry drink tickled the part of your brain that managed absurdist humor. 

The distance was closed too quickly. You were lost in your imagination and hadn’t game-planned anything in way of an introduction. You look up to meet the gaze of Mikey. You stood there, frozen. The conversation of the group fizzling out around you. You feel eyes on you and your face begins to heat. You extend a cup to him. Realizing it’s the wrong cup you quickly withdraw and extend the other, splashing a bit of liquid out with the too-quick motion. Anxiety is clawing at your chest.

He looks from you to the cup and back to you. You realize how odd it must be to be offered a drink with no way of introduction. You attempt, “Emma…” You clear your throat. “This is from Emma...” You’re drowning. At this point you can feel you’re beet red. Yuuki steps in, placing a hand on your shoulder and with a laugh he supplies, “This is my friend, Y/N. We went to university together. She just moved back to the city.” Bless him. Baji jumps in first, volunteering, “I’m Baji, it’s nice to meet you.” He seems polite, sweet despite his appearance; towering stature, sharp features and all. 

“Kazutora, but cute girls like you can call me Kazu.” he says, leaning in to invade your bubble slightly. What a flirt. “Don’t be a dick, K.” Baji says, putting out an arm to push Kazutora back to a standing position. Sensing tension forming between the two, you offer, “It’s nice to meet you two.” “It seems you already know Draken.” Yuuki continues. Draken tilts his cup in acknowledgement. “Mikey.” the final figure states, taking the drink from your hand to finalize the introduction. 

Yuuki clocks the beverage immediately and offers, “How about we get you something nicer. I’ve been saving some Patron for the night you finally made it to one of my little parties.” He gestures dismissively to the sea of bodies behind him. Little party? You survey the room to confirm he was in fact talking about this full blown rager. How humble of him you think, sipping your drink. “This will do.” Mikey says with a definite tone, signaling the end of discussion. He takes a sip from the cup like it’s water and not straight liquor. These siblings are built differently. 

Speaking of, Emma appears behind Mikey and jumps on his back in a sneak attack hug. “Heeeeyyyy Miiiiikeeeeyyyy~” She drawls. His face softens in a flash and you see the resemblance more clearly. Now that you’re closer you can get a better look. His lips have sharp corners with a fullness like his sister’s. His eyes are different though, his are more angled and a slightly deeper shade like whiskey or amber. They share the same thick lashes though. He catches you staring again and you flick your gaze to the left, only to see Draken who eyes you in a knowing way. You avert your gaze to the safety of your cup. 

Mikey swings his sister around to set her down in front of him. “Hey, Em. Good to see you’re having fun.” She nods enthusiastically. Finding Draken without looking, she leans back into his tall figure. He drapes his arms over her before saying, “Y/N works at that old cafe we used to kick it at.” This causes a stir in the group.

“Oh no way! How nostalgic.” Baji says. “Huh, I thought they closed that place after what happened.” Kazutora said in a puzzled tone. “Seems like they rebuilt and renovated. They even added a bookstore.” Draken offered. This seemed to satisfy the former who shrugged, “Hopefully it’s less of a dump in that case.” This comment earned him a slap to the chest from Baji. Kazutora turned his eyes to you, “No offense.” You wave a hand in a ‘none taken’ motion. “It was rustic ” Baji said, lacing the word venomously. You get the impression this was an argument they’ve had before. “More like rusty I felt like I needed a tetanus shot every time we went.” Kazutora bit back. 

There was a lot to unpack. This was the first time you heard any history about the cafe. Admittedly, you chose to work there purely on vibes and the fact the hourly rate was above average. Your nosy side wanted to know more. “What happened there?” You ask innocently. All eyes turned to Mikey conspicuously. Maybe the question wasn’t as innocuous as you thought. 

Mikey shrugged, “There was an incident. The place was nearly torn to the ground afterwards. I’m glad to hear they could rebuild and salvage.” It was a non-answer with no real points to ask follow-up questions without giving away your nosiness. The delivery was also not one that left anything up for discussion. You simply nod, shoving the prodding questions down.

Emma piped in, eyes closed, “We should go back~ For old times sake~” Her words were blending together. Her drink must be hitting her harder than she anticipated. Mikey gave Draken a look which was returned with a nod. Wordlessly, Draken took the drink dangling from Emma’s hand which earned him some soft booing before Emma resigned herself to snuggling into his arms. You chimed in with, “If you come when I’m working I’ll sneak you guys some cafe goodies.” 

“How long do you plan to work there?” Yuuki asked, pulling you out of a daydream of the attractive group lounging in the cafe. A harmless enough question, but you felt a sudden wave of self-consciousness. You had momentarily forgotten where you were; this chic apartment packed with beautiful, rich people. Your gaze dropped to the floor as you replied, “Oh, you know. Until I can get a foot in the door at a company.” You realize you’re being vague, but you didn't want to risk betraying how lost you really felt. 

“You’ve got a show coming up, right?” You masterfully change the topic, shifting the spotlight to Yuuki. “Yeah, I’m working on the Autumn collection now.” Yuuki says, rubbing the back of his neck, telling the group more of the details as they engage him. Happy to have succeeded in avoiding that uncomfortable line of questioning, you look around, taking everyone in. Baji and Kazutora dip out of the conversation and seem to be bickering about something new on their phones, too quietly for you to pick up. 

Yuuki draws your attention again with a sweet smile. He says, “You should come.” You blink, nodding a ‘yes’, not entirely sure what you’ve agreed to. “Typical, Yuuki. Only inviting cute girls.” Kazutora teases, rejoining the conversation. You peer past him to see Baji pacing near the door, his phone pressed to his ear. 

Yuuki claps back at the accusation, “I’d invite you, but no doubt you’d end up acting like a damn dog.” “I’ll be good.” Kazutora whines playfully. “Ask Mitsuya then.” Yuuki dismisses, smirking at Kazu. Kazutora pouts. In that moment Emma lurches from Draken’s arms and throws up directly into the pot of a neatly pruned house plant. In a heartbeat, Draken is next to her, holding her hair back, eyebrows knitted in concern. Nearby party guests turn to see what’s happening. 

“Damn, Em, party foul.” Kazutora whoops sarcastically. Mikey gives him an icy glare that shuts Kazutora right up. Baji appears behind Mikey and whispers something in his ear. Mikey turns to respond and points between Kazutora and Baji, clearly giving some instruction before the pair are making a swift exit. Baji throws over his shoulder, “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Kazutora simply winks at you as the door shuts behind them.

You wave absently at the closed door before you hear a weak, “Y/N~.” You turn quickly and kneel on the other side of the pretty blonde, still hunched over the expensive-looking pot. You rub small circles into her back. Feeling like you’ve sobered up slightly. She turns to you and cutely says, “Oops.” You can smell the strawberry liquor on her breath. You let out a small laugh and look at Draken. 

“Alright babe, I think it’s time for us to get home.” He says in a voice as soft as velvet. “Nooooo~” She protests. “I wanna stay with Y/N~ The night is yooooung~” He scoops her up. She nuzzles her head into the crook of his neck, mumbling something incoherent. He whispers in a soothing voice, “I know, baby. I know” before standing.

He turns to Mikey and they share a look. He offers to Yuuki, “Sorry about your plant. I’ll take care of it.” Yuuki brushes it off, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen my fair share of party fouls and this doesn’t even make the list.” “I can attest to that.” You add, hoping to ease any guilt Emma may be feeling. 

Her bobbing head and lazy smile give you the sense that she doesn’t have a care in the world. Draken stoops slightly to whisper something to Mikey who simply nods. With that, Draken carries a very sweet, very drunk Emma from the apartment. Before the door closes, Emma peeks her head over Draken’s shoulder and waves a goodbye to you. 

Everything had happened so fast, your senses dulled by the alcohol. It’s then that you realize your group of seven had dwindled to three. You turn just in time to see Mikey slide something into Yuuki’s pocket. You look at your friend with curious eyes. Yuuki’s laugh is strained but he takes no action to challenge the man before him. You see movement in the distance and notice a guest flagging Yuuki down. Your heart jumps into your throat as Yuuki too notices the man. 

 Yuuki welcomes the distraction. And with a, “thanks for coming, enjoy the party you two” is making his way across the room. You stand there, feeling abandoned. You chance a glance at the tall blonde standing next to you. He notices. Your mind goes blank. He holds you captive under his gaze. As if reading your mind and finding it empty, Mikey finally breaks the silence with, “Let’s sit down.” You blink, coming back to yourself. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any-” But Mikey is already on the move. 

The crowd of people naturally parts for him. He caught the eye of some guests but stares were quickly withdrawn. You trailed after him, grateful that you didn't have to elbow your way through the crowd. An edge of claustrophobia made a bid for attention in your fuzzy brain as the mass of bodies closed behind you. 

Absorbing the two of you and cutting off your way back to the door. Mikey stops abruptly, causing you to bump into his back. His back is muscular, like walking straight into a wall. You maneuver your cup to avoid a spill. He doesn’t seem to register the collision. His head turns to scan the room, locking onto something in the distance. And he’s off again, forcing you to quicken your pace to catch up.  

The crowd parts to reveal an elegant lounge sofa. The pair sitting nearest to you were deep in their flirtations. The woman is in a revealing cobalt satin dress, a dramatic slit trailing up her leg to end at her hip. Her long, chocolate hair falling in a curtain around her and her partner’s face. She’s sitting in the lap of a well-groomed man. He’s wearing a dark patterned suit and a black button-down shirt, though most of the buttons are already undone. 

The man’s hand rested high up on the woman’s leg, kneading small circles into the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. One of her hands was stroking a pattern into the silky material barely covering his chest, the other running through his short, dyed blue hair. He has an interesting design shaved into the side of his head that her fingers trace absently. It started at the temple and twisted behind an ear punctuated by several piercings. Their faces barely inches apart, conversation clearly hot and heavy. 

The PDA makes your face feel warm and you look away. Getting the feeling you were invading their privacy. Though, this didn’t seem to bother Mikey who stood, unmoving, over the couple. Perhaps noticing the shift in energy, the man’s gaze is ripped from the woman on his lap. Immediately the man is on his feet, moving to hold the woman close to his side. She seems confused, but what objections may have been spoken die when she sees the blonde man before her. 

“Mikey! I didn’t know you’d be here. It’s good to see you m-man.” The man spoke quickly, stumbling over the end of his statement as his eyes swept over you. Mikey sized the two of them up. You couldn’t help but notice how the woman adjusts herself under his gaze, angling to give a better view of her chest to the blonde. 

Her boldness surprises you, given she has the arm of the handsome man whose bones she was about to jump still wrapped around her waist. You weren’t the only one to notice, as the grip around her waist tightened. Her mouth twitched mischievously, as if a goal had secretly been accomplished. 

“Hakkai.” the blonde responded with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Turning his sole focus to the man. You too looked at him, his eyes a pretty shade of blue. He has thick lower lashes that are heavy and give him a permanently sleepy look. You wondered if he had dyed his hair to perfectly match his irises on purpose. You see now that he has a large scar over the right side of his mouth that twists slightly as he talks. The scar took nothing away from his handsomeness. If anything it made his appearance unique, hotter.

The man, Hakkai, smiled sheepishly. “Here, have a seat.” Offering him the spot he had just occupied. “We’re actually going to head out.” He says leaning into the woman at his side suggestively. At this, the woman stops undressing Mikey with her eyes and returns her attention to the blue-haired man, giving him a sultry laugh. Mikey’s face is unreadable. 

The couple walk around Mikey who doesn’t move for them. The woman brushes against him and in a voice dripping with honey says, “Bye bye, Mikey.” He doesn’t acknowledge the advance. Instead, turning to Hakkai, “Monday.” He says, emotionless. The other man freezes, “Monday.” He confirms, not meeting Mikey’s eyes. With this, Mikey nods and waves them off. The pair disappear in the crowd. Mikey sinks into the plush sofa, brushing off the parts of his body the woman had touched. Seeing you still standing, he pats the spot next to him. You sit, eager to split from the crowd, head spinning with questions. 

You run your hands over the lush velvet to calm yourself, taking in the room from your seated position. The modern lighting fixtures, not currently in use, hang high on the lofted ceiling. The dark furniture devoured what little illumination was being cast from the party lights. The silver accents twinkled prettily. 

You scanned the bodies in the crowd, form fitting suits and dresses with the occasional designer logo popping out of the mass. Your gaze drifted to your left, meeting a pair of amber eyes now alarmingly close to your face. You hadn’t realized you were swaying, leaning into the warmth of the body next to you. You snap back to reality, the proximity causing you to abruptly lean back. Some of the brown liquid spilling from your cup . “You’re pretty clumsy, huh.” He commented. “Yeah, and you have a staring problem.” You quipped back. The silence that followed signaled the lighthearted nature of your jab hadn’t landed.

You busied yourself, drying off your lap. By some miracle you managed not to get any liquid on the sofa that surely cost a month or two of your rent. “So… Bookstore.” “So… Bikes.” The dry statements hung in the air. You offer, “So, I don’t know anything about bikes. Do you like, maintain it yourself?” “Yeah, something like that…” He replies. The silence that follows makes you squirm. 

You feel like the undulating mass of people is about to swallow you whole. Reaching your limit, you rise, “...Well, it was nice to meet you... I hope Emma feels better. I’d better leave if I’m going to catch the last train.” You lie. You hadn’t checked the time for awhile. If you were more sober, this fact would have worried you. 

“I like bikes.” Mikey says. “…That’s nice.” you reply, shifting your weight between your feet. “Working on something, building it from nothing with your hands. It’s nice to have control that way. When something breaks, I know I can fix it. If I mess it up, I know it’s my fault.” He says thoughtfully. You return to your seat, Mikey’s crumb of vulnerability being snatched up. 

“So, how long have you been into them, bikes?” He pauses, responding, “I guess since middle school.” It takes a moment for you to key into the math, “And what got you into them?” “My brother did.” A hollowness to his voice. “Oh, that’s cute.” The word was one that rarely described him. “Cute?” He repeats. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, I guess I’m like picturing you playing with motorcycle figures or something.” “Not figures. I started riding when I was in middle school.” He says flatly. Maybe he did have a sense of humor. “So, what, were you like a 12 year old biker?” You tease. “Yes.” His tone is unchanging. “Stop playing. That’s, like, super illegal.” “Yeah, I guess it was.” He says under his breath a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So what, were you in a little biker gang or something?” “Not little.” He said, sipping his drink. Was he being serious? The conversation petered out. 

“Well, I for one, know nothing about bikes.” You say, hoping to fan the flames a little longer. “Wanna learn?” The question caught you off guard. He hadn’t said it in a teasing way. “Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah that actually sounds really cool!” You say, excitement unmasked. To your surprise, he rises from the sofa. You look around before you mirror the action, catching up to the blonde before he’s absorbed into the crowd.

You trailed behind him like before. The beat of the music hummed pleasantly on your skin, the sensation mingling with the warmth of the liquor from your drink. You made your way to the door and let him hold it open for you as the two of you exited. 

***

Yuuki’s eyes trailed after the two figures who had surreptitiously made their exit. A silver pair matches his. The handsome man next to him hums, “How indecent, Mikey. Making us all watch your foreplay.” He teases, bringing his cup to his lips. “Is that what that was?” Yuuki asks sarcastically. The awkward interaction of his friend and the blonde not conjuring the same image as the icy-white haired man.

“If you knew him.” The man says with a smile, leaning into the body of the man next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Either way, it’ll be interesting to see how it plays out.” Yuuki leans into the man’s touch. “Indeed.” He says with a soft smile. “Back to the festivities, darling, your adoring fans await.” The white haired man says, giving Yuuki a peck on the cheek. The romantic gesture goes unnoticed by the inebriated crowd.  “They can wait a little longer, Mitsuya.” Yuuki says in a low tone, bringing a hand up to toy with the silver earring hanging from the ear of his partner, stealing a proper kiss as the party continues around them.

***

 You stood next to the tall blonde, waiting for the elevator. The cup in your hand is nearing its end, the dangers of senselessly sipping. The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to welcome you to the mirrored space. Entering, you steady yourself on the hand rail. Using the reflective surface, you check your makeup and fix some smudged eyeliner. Mikey hits the button for the ground floor. With a ‘ding’ the two of you are descending.

You turn your attention to the blonde in front of you, doing your best to be discreet, taking in the view of his back. The fabric of his shirt is thin and taut over his muscled shoulders. There is a pretty shimmer the way it catches the low light of the elevator. You see the taper of his waist and how the dress pants accentuate his long legs among other things.

 “And I’m the one with the staring problem.” You tear your gaze from his back to see him clearly watching you in the reflective surfaces of the mirrored walls. You’ve been caught yet again, red blooming across your cheeks. He snickers.

Before you can defend yourself with a snarky comeback, the doors open with another ‘ding’ on the ground floor. He strides with intention out of the sliding doors and rounds the corner. Again, you have to quicken your pace to keep up. As you turn, you see him circling the bike from the other day. It's midnight black and glossy. The shine is the only thing that gives away its presence on the unlit street. 

He sets his cup down on the barrier between the sidewalk and shrubbery. Y ou stand there, admiring the vehicle before he beckons you over. He points to the bike, “This is a motorcycle , AKA, a bike ” You blink. Is he messing with you? “This is the seat . You sit on it.” He holds up the sleek helmet and taps on the top. Drawing out the words he says, “ Hel-met .” Your jaw dropped, a wide smile spread across your face. He was messing with you.

You decide to play along, bringing your unoccupied hand to your ear, leaning towards him, “What? Hel … Sorry, one more time?” His face is stoic but you see his eyes light up. “Helmet. It protects your head. Like this.” He wrestles the safety wear over your head before you can move away. You try to fight off the headwear in vain, protesting, “No~ my hair! My makeup!” He bites back a laugh, one side of his mouth being pulled up before it’s covered by a hand. Huffing, you pull the helmet off, cradling it in your arm. You pout. “And did you really just mansplain a helmet?”

“You might want to keep it on,” he says, fighting his crooked smile. “Even if you had left earlier, the trains stopped running about an hour ago.”  He seats himself on the vehicle. “Hop on, I’ll drop you off at home.” Warning bells cut through your tipsy brain fog. You heard your parent’s voices lecturing you about the dangers of motorcycles, and strangers for that matter. As if sensing your hesitation he adds, “Emma will kill me if she finds out I left you stranded at the party. I’m sure she’ll feel bad enough already that she had to leave early. That and the hangover she’s about to have tomorrow.” 

Remembering Emma eased your nerves slightly. Nonetheless, your grip tightened, making the cheap plastic cup in your hand pop slightly from the pressure. That reminded you, “You’ve been drinking tonight, do you really think you should be driving.” With this, he rises from the bike, walking over to his discarded cup. He gives it a hefty slosh around before presenting the contents to you. It was nearly full. “As much as I love strawberry, I don’t really like drinking at parties.” “Real party person, huh.” You shoot back, your last real hang-up flying out the window. 

“Gotta stay sharp.” He says pouring his drink into the bushes. He moves to take your cup to do the same. Before he can, you finish it in one shot, needing the liquid courage. He raises his hands, backing off as you look around for a place to discard your cup. 

Damn, you’re eternally mystified by how clean the city can be despite there being no trash cans. Seeing this, he swipes the cup from your hand, stacking it in his own before crushing them with a satisfying crunch. He discards them in the bushes, earning a disgruntled noise from you. “Someone will clean it up.” He dismisses moving back to take his position on the bike, the engine turning over. “No one would have to clean it up if you threw it away properly.” “Just keeping your hands clean, darling. Leave the dirty work to me.” He says, a tone of sarcasm peeking through. 

You huff, pulling on the helmet to cover the blush spreading across your cheeks. You climb on to the back of the bike, unsure how to situate yourself. After a moment of you adjusting, trying not to sit too close to the blonde, he grabs you by the wrist and pulls you flush to his back. It’s warm. The thin fabric is like a second skin.

“Hold on or you’ll fall off” he says seriously. Thank god you were behind him, in the safety of the helmet. You could feel your ears turning red. “R-Right.” You feel yourself getting cold feet. “Hey, you know, I never said goodbye to Yuuki.” You ramble. “I mean, you can go up if you want, but I have a feeling he’s busy playing the gracious host.” Mikey responds. “Yeah… Yeah, I guess I can just text him.” You say mostly to yourself. 

“Hey, we can just call a taxi if you’re uncomfortable. I don’t mind waiting with you.” You visualize the cost of a taxi at this time of night and that’s much scarier than riding on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle. “No. No. It’s okay.” You say, wrapping your other arm around him, signaling you were ready. 

“Where should I drop you off?” “Near the 7/11 next to the station, the one with that awful statue.” You say, steadying your voice. You feel him rev the engine before you hear it. The thrum sends fireworks of adrenaline shooting through you. You tighten your grip on the figure in front of you. “Nervous?” he teases, chuckling. The vibration mixes with the engine. “N-No.” You sputter. “You’re a bad liar.” He replies. Without another word, the two of you peel off into the night.

[shiny-jr]

🕷 impersonator [ miguel o’hara ] 

– Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Gender-neutral reader.

– Note: It’s literally just a very small Miguel post to get it out of my mind. I’ve been wanting to write something with him for a while now, and I had a totally different draft with a whole story idea that would’ve lasted a few chapters, but ultimately I scrapped the whole idea and just decided to do something small. It ain’t much, but it’s honest work.

There was something wrong about being used to placate an unhinged man who called himself a hero. Maybe it was the passionate look on his anguished face whenever his red gaze was fixated on you, or the despair that seeped into his tone when he whispered sweet-nothings, or it was just your common sense that saw all the blaring red flags, but you knew this was wrong. Miguel may have declared to everyone that he was a good guy, a hero, quite possibly even to the point of deluding himself, but some of his choices were morally questionable, and criminal at best.

The glowing red sticky strings he used to form webs were probably stronger than the thin strand of what was left of his sanity. It must’ve been some sort of last-ditch effort by his fellow spiders to present you to Miguel O’Hara, perhaps to appease his growing anger and extremity. It’s like they had offered you up on a silver platter. You, who was shockingly similar to a loved one he lost in his own dimension. You were the poor pitiful bug caught in a spider’s web, with no hope to escape.

And at first, you hadn’t even realized your fate was sealed, you were already trapped. In your own dimension, he showed up. You knew Miguel, he was a scientist at Alchemax who was a bit of a nerd despite not looking like one, and he played soccer on the weekends. And yet, after months, you finally realized this wasn’t your Miguel.

Your Miguel would gladly partake in back-and-forths where you poked fun at each other, but that stopped and he began to give compliments to you of details he never once noticed before.

Your Miguel would peer at you through the lens of his glasses and smile while resting his head on the table, but he stopped wearing his glasses and instead he stared at you intensely while only smiling whenever your attention turned to him.

Your Miguel had brown eyes that looked like honey in the sun paired nicely with his pleasant smile, but recently his eyes looked almost red at night and when he smiled he displayed fangs.

On top of all this, he seemed to forget certain dates you had planned and sometimes the names of friends and loved ones escaped his memory. The first time this happened, for a split second, you swore you saw his expression drop and his eyes widen as an ominous frown appeared on his face. But when you blinked, his expression was back to normal, a relaxed smile on his lips. He brushed off his mistake and calmly explained that he remembers now, it just slipped his mind for a moment. Was it your imagination seeing that dark expression on his face, or was it real?

What was once fleeting affection with Miguel, like awkward glances where you accidentally made eye contact, or brief and shy kisses on the cheek, also began to change drastically. It all quickly morphed into something more intense. Gazes full of desire that glinted in those dark red eyes, deep kisses that you always stopped on the very point of no return, murmurs of promises to protect you that were said in a strangely solemn tone.

It became clear that something was wrong. The man you once loved wasn’t the same, as if he were a completely different person. This Miguel was not someone to be crossed. You would soon learn that once you confront him and claim to know he wasn’t your Miguel. Well, this Miguel had tried to smoothly integrate himself into your life. However, since that didn’t work, he could resort to other methods. Afterall, as Spider-Man, he had a reputation of being effective and forceful if need be.

[141wh0re]

Chapter 1: Echoes of The Past

Summary: You've been hard at work, managing a run down pub, trying to get things back in order. It just so happens that one of your favourite regulars is also your long-lost brother. He'd been careful, enough. He only paid with cash, used his alias, and never let your gaze linger long enough to risk being recognised by you. He couldn't risk it. Yet. Older brother Simon x younger sister reader CW: Dark themes, swearing, minor angst, alcohol usage, smoking, mentions of child abuse & neglect.

3.6k words

AN: This is a forbidden, taboo romance. Spoiler alert - incest to come.

He knew it was you. He’d know those eyes anywhere, no matter how long it had been since he’d last seen you. Twenty years, ten months, and six days to be exact. And somehow, you still held most of the same characteristics you had as a little girl. 

Simon stood at the bus stop with his eyes zeroed in on your frame across the street. You were on break from your shift at the pub, smoking a cigarette. It hurt him to see you so grown up, so different, yet so familiar all the same. He noticed the difference between you, and the little girl you were when he left. 

You were taller now. No longer underweight from the years of abuse and neglect, no, you’d filled out now. Curvy hips, ample chest, and a round ass. And your features were still very much your own, though with a mix of your mother’s. 

It was as equally haunting as it was alluring. He couldn’t believe you were here, working one of his usual haunts outside of base. He thought it was too good to be true when he laid his eyes on you, standing behind the bar, looking so familiar, yet so different from how he left you. It was a decision that would haunt him until his last days, but he had to do it for you. To make sure you got out safely. 

But you were none the wiser to who he was. He could see the absence of recognition in your eyes, and he was an idiot to feel angry that you didn’t recognize him. How could you recognize him? The last time you saw him, he was an eighteen-year-old boy, scrawny, underweight, without a single scar on his face. 

She still should’ve been able to recognize my eyes.

If you couldn’t recognize him as your long-lost-older brother, you’d at least recognize him as a regular patron of the pub.

He rolled out his shoulders before crossing the damp road. His skull balaclava was secured over his features, ensuring only his eyes were visible. Rough, calloused hands were shoved into the front of his hoodie pocket, keeping a brisk gait to his steps. 

“Yes, mum. I’m fine. No, we don’t need any more food. I do know how to cook, y’know.” Simon kept his head bowed as he eavesdropped on your conversation over the phone. Mum?  But she’s- His face fell behind his mask as realization set in. You weren’t talking to your biological mother, because she’s dead. It would be impossible for you to have a phone call with a dead woman, unless you were crazy, but Simon was sure you had most of your sanity intact. Mostly. 

His fists clenched in his pockets, and he felt his jaw set in irritation. She’s not your real mother.

“I gotta go. I love you too- bye!” You quickly hung up the phone as Simon reached the doors of the bar. 

“Hey, Ghost. Fancy seeing you here,” You greeted in a chipper tone, flashing a dazzling smile in his direction.

Simon paused the moment you said his alias. His shoulders relaxed upon seeing the dazzling smile on your lips.

“‘Ey, luv. Alright tonight?” He responded in a gruff tone, trying to swallow down every emotion rapidly rushing to the surface just from seeing you again.

You nodded while drawing a final hit from your cigarette, snuffing it out against the aged, brick wall behind you. “Yeah, yeah. How are you doin’?” 

“Same shit, different day.” He shrugged, then held the door open for you, allowing you to enter the pub ahead of him. 

It was particularly dead tonight. Just the way Simon liked it, absent of rowdy patrons. A crew of men in their fifties sat around a booth, watching an MMA fight on one of the overhead TVs, nursing their pints and greasy food. 

Simon sat atop his usual barstool at the far end of the bar. It was the only spot that allowed him to keep his eyes on all exit and entry points, without feeling the constant need to look over his shoulder. 

“Double shot of Kentucky bourbon, neat? Right?” You asked, drawing his attention back to you. 

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips under his balaclava, and he gave a gentle nod. “Tha’s righ’,” He responded, attempting to keep his tone indifferent. 

He watched with rapt attention as you poured his drink. His brow quirked with mild impressment when he noticed you pour without measuring, but by counting alone. Only seasoned bartenders could do such a thing without under-pouring, and upsetting their patrons, or over-pouring and upsetting management. It was obvious you knew what you were doing. 

Seeing you like this was a stark contrast from the toddler that used to spill the juice jug all over the kitchen counter, only successfully managing to pour a third of it into your Winnie The Pooh cup, and the rest on the floor and counter. 

He wonders if you remember that.. If you remember any of the good moments of your shared childhood. 

Simon murmured a quiet, ‘Thanks’ as you set the glass on the coaster in front of him. “Kitchen closes in an hour, if you want anything.” You informed him while leaning against the bar. “Mm. I’ll take some mozzarella sticks.” 

His heart ached in his chest when he saw you flash that dazzling smile at him again. 

“Comin’ right up.” 

Simon couldn’t tear his gaze away from you while you input his order into the POS system. Everything you did now, you did with such grace and fluidity. You were an entirely different person now, no longer a shy, clumsy little girl. No. You were a full-grown woman now. 

He’d missed so much. Due to his actions, he missed out on the better part of your life. He missed your rebellious teenage years, early adulthood, and watching you become the young woman you are now. But he had to remind himself that it was for your safety. 

Everything Simon did for you was to protect you. If he had let you stay, who knows how fucked up you would’ve turned out. Had your father had his way with you, and your mother never changed her compulsive need to remain ignorant to any wrongdoings done by her husband, there’s no telling how much worse off you’d be. How much worse your trauma would’ve been, had he not called the proper authorities to have you placed in a girl’s home. 

At least you weren’t violated by the man who created you. Simon made damn sure of that. 

Simon’s thoughts were interrupted when you returned with a diner basket of mozzarella sticks. The delicious smells of garlic and Italian seasonings wafted towards his nose, making his mouth water at the sight of the fried cheese. A feeling of nostalgia tugged at his heartstrings as a memory flashed to the forefront of his mind, a memory he’d long since forgotten, until now that is. 

The distinct smells of carnival foods flooded his senses. A small hand gripped onto his larger hand, so small and so soft. Bright lights from various carnival rides and food trucks took up residence in the once vacant lot, providing fun and entertainment for couples, and families alike. Carnival music played over the speakers of the rides, accompanied by the delighted shrieks of adrenaline-addled kids. 

Your eyes were as wide as saucers as you took in the sight of all the sweets and fun that awaited you. The tear streaks that previously marred your cheeks now dried, once your big brother came to your rescue. He did what any rebellious teen would do, and disobeyed their father. The same man who made you cry by refusing to take you to the carnival to celebrate your sixth birthday, the only thing you’d asked to do, and yet it was shot down without a second thought. Simon had to take matters into his own hands to give you the birthday you deserved, a birthday worth remembering. 

“And what’s first on Bug’s Birthday Agenda?” Simon asked, lifting up your small form to sit atop his shoulders. 

You had felt as if you were on top of the world. Sitting up so high on your big brother’s shoulders, you felt as if you could touch the sky. And he encouraged you to, wanting nothing more than for you to feel the freedom of a day as a normal child, without all the fear and anxiety you were burdened to live with. The burden of being the spawn of  Bruce Riley. 

“Cheese sticks!”  You exclaimed enthusiastically. 

Simon couldn’t wipe the grin from his lips if he tried. “Mozzarella sticks, Bug. Mozzarella.” He corrected, chuckling softly. 

“How are they?” You asked, bringing him back to the present. 

“Good. Uh, yeah. Good.” He answered, clearing his throat. He felt a warmth creep up the back of his neck, feeling as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Mm.. and that’s why you haven’t touched them?” You remarked, raising an inquisitive brow while narrowing your gaze on him with a playful suspicion. 

Simon swallowed the lump in his throat. You’d completely thrown him off balance with your remark, catching him in the act. But he wasn’t about to key you in on the little secret he was harboring, at least not yet, anyway. He at least owed you somewhat of an explanation, to quell the curiosity swirling in your mind. 

“Someone… I was rather close with, she loved mozzarella sticks… she was practically convinced they were a food group in and of ‘emselves.” He admitted after a moment. 

A grin split your soft lips, and he watched as you leaned against the bar, propping your elbow on the bar, and resting your chin in your hand. “Sounds like she had good taste.” 

“Impeccable.” Simon agreed, unable to resist giving an amused chuff. 

His amber eyes flitted up to meet yours. How desperately he wanted to reminisce with you, and remind you of all your adventures with him. Simon may have been ten years older, but you were his little beacon, in the rotten pit of hell called ‘home’, you were his bright light. He never got to thank you for that, for being his light. 

“How long you been a bartender?” Simon asked just before he lifted the edge of his mask to sit just above his lips, revealing a pale, jagged scar that slanted across the top left lip, and ran until it reached the edge of his clean-shaven chin, taking a bite of a mozzarella stick. 

He didn’t miss the way your gaze flitted down to the scar. Your eyes flickered with lingering curiosity, wanting to ask the questions burning at the forefront of your mind. But you were too polite for that, having been taught proper manners from your adoptive mother. 

“Too long,” you joked, flashing him your familiar grin.

He hummed thoughtfully, amused by your response.

Simon was familiar with your work history. He’d been watching you for years, keeping track of your whereabouts. After you were adopted from the girl’s home, he hired an investigator to do some digging on your adoptive family, and ensure they were upstanding citizens who’d give you nothing but the best. The wife was a grade school teacher, and the husband was an aviation mechanic for the regional airport. And they only had one other child, a daughter a few years younger than yourself.

They’d moved around a bit to follow the money. Which was good, it meant you were being properly cared for. There were no signs of abuse within the household, and you seemed to still be close with them, if the earlier phone call was any indication. Simon was happy for you, but still felt a bitter ache from having to remove you from his life. 

But he wouldn’t do that anymore. He was happy to learn you were promoted from a shift lead to Assistant General Manager for the pub chain, and when he found out you would be transferring to the city just outside of 141’s HQ? He couldn’t help himself, he couldn’t have you just within arms reach, only to let you go again.

He’d selfishly insert himself back into your life before he ever let that happen again. 

“Not that I’m judging, but I have to ask…” You started, narrowing your eyes as you studied his balaclava. “What’s with the mask?” 

Simon’s lip twitched beneath the material. His sharp, honey eyes locked onto your gaze. Weren’t you a curious one? Though, you’d made it several weeks before asking, which is more than anyone else normally had made it.

“Hide my face.” He shrugged noncommittally, knowing the answer was likely frustrating to you in an underwhelming way. 

“Hmm..” You hummed, letting your gaze linger on the enigma of the man before you. 

“You settlin’ in alright in the city?” Simon wondered, remembering that you’d moved here only just under a month ago to start your new life.

Your bright smile tugged at his heartstrings. Your smile could light up the world around you, it always had. He was happy to see that smile hadn’t changed one bit, it was still just as bright, just as full of life as it had been when you were little. But Simon could vividly remember the days where a few of your teeth were missing at a time, having lost your two front baby teeth within a few weeks of each other. That toothless, toothy grin would forever be ingrained in his memory. 

But he noticed your adult teeth were much straighter. Perfectly straight, even. He guessed you had braces sometime in your teenage years, knowing firsthand the lack of routine maintenance due to your father’s neglect, and your mother’s inability to convince him his three children needed dental care. He wouldn’t dare pay for anything, if it cut into the cost of his booze. 

Simon needed braces himself. And that’s exactly what he did the moment he had enlisted, finding the first dentist that would take him. He had his wisdom teeth pulled, and braces put on, which finally alleviated the constant aches he had suffered through, even if it was short-lived from having a few teeth knocked out. At least he no longer had the horrid, crooked bottom teeth. 

No one has to know a few of his teeth are fake. 

“It’s going really well. My neighbours are all pleasant, and a bit older, so I won’t have to deal with any rowdiness. My younger sister and I went to IKEA, and bought a bunch of furniture to set up a cosy, little study nook for her.” 

Simon listened intently as you gushed about your new flat. It amused him, finding it endearing how such domesticity made you so happy. 

“How’s she likin’ uni?” He inquired.

“She seems happy. Said her professors are helpful, and they seem to care about their students actually being successful in their classes. Though, her economics professor seems like a prick.” 

A gruff chuckle rolled from the back of his throat. He couldn’t help but to be amused by your brash words, coming from such a sweet thing as yourself. 

Part of him couldn’t help to wonder why you’d done it. Why had you transferred to this bar? Was it for your career? Was it to help keep your sister safe?  Or did you do it in hopes to lessen the homesickness your sister would eventually feel, after the excitement of being in a new area began to wane, being so far from home for an extended period of time?  

He had so much he would have to learn about you. While you still looked very much like his little sister, you were an entirely new person. You’d lived several lifetimes without him, and he was eager to learn about the current one you were living, hoping there was still some semblance of his Bug locked in the back of your mind. Simon would pay for every one of his sins, as long as it meant he could have a fracture of the light you exuded back in his life. He’d move heaven and hell to quell the homesickness he’d felt for all these years apart, but it wasn’t homesickness for the hell he’d grown up in, it was homesickness for a person. For you. 

His Bug. 

It was busier tonight than when Simon was last here. But the night would soon be coming to a close, so he wasn’t entirely concerned about it. Most of the patrons typically left the pub just before eleven, and especially with the storm due to hit soon, people would be scrambling to get back to their homes to avoid being caught in a torrential downpour. Simon didn’t mind the rain, he’d take it over the recent dust storm he’d been caught in on his latest deployment. 

Two girls worked behind the bar this evening. He glanced around in search of you, hoping you were working tonight. And to his relief, one of the girls had retrieved you from the back office, informing you that her shift had ended. He sank down on his usual bar stool, silently observing the interaction, patiently waiting for the right moment to get your attention. It wasn’t long, because you’d spotted him before he even had to say anything. 

“Hey. The usual, I presume?”  You asked, already retrieving a scotch glass from the shelf. 

“‘Course,” he answered in a rough voice.

His throat still felt raw and scratchy from the yelling that ensued on his most recent op. The dust storms his team were exposed to didn’t help either. It left his nose and throat irritated, despite wearing his mask, and a keffiyeh. He was content to be back in a damper climate, like England. 

Somewhere that didn’t dry out his nasal cavity, and cause nosebleeds in his sleep. 

Simon took in your appearance. His sharp eyes picked up on the slight bags of your under eyes, and the way your shoulders were slightly slumped.

“Long day, luv?” He asked with a curious eye following your movements. 

You sucked in a drawn out breath, releasing it as a sigh. “You could say that.”  You answered as you set his drink on the coaster. 

“Kitchen is closed, unfortunately.” 

“Good thing ‘m only ‘ere f’r the whisky then.” He retorted, pulling a gentle laugh from you.

Simon decided not to bother you too much with the pub being busier than the nights he was normally in. The night slowly began winding down, and patrons filed out one by one. Simon’s gaze was trained on the window, watching the storm clouds open up, dumping water into the streets. Thunder rumbled just beyond the walls of the pub, and he didn’t miss the way you startled at the booming sound.

She’s still afraid of thunderstorms… 

Simon had to bite back a smirk beneath his balaclava. Even in your youth, you startled easily from thunderstorms. He had countless memories of being woken in the middle of the night to your small form scrambling into his bed, desperately seeking refuge from the anxiety-inducing thunder, and blinding flashes of lightning. 

He could never refuse you then. It was his duty to keep you safe, and soothe your fears. 

“Not a fan of thunder?” He couldn’t resist the urge to tease you. 

You shook your head with a wry smile on your lips. The register clicked closed, having finished your nightly counts. “Not in the slightest,” you answered with a soft chuckle, “It’s been that way since I was little.” 

Simon hummed thoughtfully. He glanced down at his finished glass of whisky, tongue poking his cheek beneath his mask. He knew he should get going, so you could finish closing up the pub. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to come off his stool, and especially after hearing your confession. 

“You know it can’t hurt you while indoors, right?” He tried to soothe, still keeping a humorous lilt in his smooth tone. 

“You couldn’t have convinced me of that as a child. I always feared lightning would come right through the window, and grab me.” 

He gave an amused huff, shaking his head. Simon was well aware of how difficult it was to convince you that the lightning couldn’t harm you. He’d gone as far as teaching you to count the seconds between each crackle of lightning, hoping it would ease you if you knew the distance of where the lightning was striking. It was a useful trick he picked up from an American student, in his youth, and was happy to pass that knowledge off to his baby sister. 

Lightning struck close by. Simon watched your head snap towards the window, and heard the sharp intake of breath. Thunder rumbled the pub once more, and with it, went the lights. Your hands gripped the edge of the bar, knuckles turning white when a haunted look flashed behind your eyes, and Simon could just barely make it out, but he saw it. There was no hiding the fear and anxiety rapidly rearing its ugly head. 

Shit. 

He knew that look all too well. The way your eyes glazed over, the rigidness of your spine. He’d seen it plenty of times within his career, close to two decades witnessing that look. Physically, you were here— but mentally, he had no idea where you were. But if he had to guess… it was somewhere you’d both rather not think about.

“Hey.. hey.” Simon gently started, pulling your attention back to him. “Where’d ya go, luv?”

“S-sorry. Sorry.” you chuckled nervously, shaking your head to clear your thoughts. 

The panic pulsing through you was tangible. Simon knew he had to calm you down, had to get you back to the present. In a last ditch effort, before he could even think about it, he uttered the words he hadn’t spoken in years. 

“Count ‘em, bug.” 

[deadlynightshade-and-hyacinth]

I’m Gonna Crawl

Chapter 4

The show was a multicolored blur. The bright lights sparkled and danced across the stage in candescent brilliance. The soft hues of yellow glowing around Robert’s halo. Jonesy’s calm aura glowing in orange. Bonzo, blue and vivid, his dark hair shining under the luminance and Jimmy's horror-inducing solo under hazy, purple and crimson lights. I never wavered from my spot; I didn’t want to, I was entranced. Body tingling in ways it never had, and in ways no man had ever made me discern. I chewed on my lower lip to keep myself grounded as I watched their intensity captivate the thousands of people in the crowd, watching in awe while he made love to his guitar, soft and gentle, rough and dominant.

Every song was skillfully executed, every note filled with pure, raw, unadulterated eminence. I took mental notes as I stood in an anesthetized-like trance.

“Ladies and gentlemen, John Henry Bonham!” Robert bellowed as Bonzo started his signature drum solo, before stepping off stage. Drenched in sweat, his golden curls damp and shining in the dim light off stage, padded over to me absolutely invigorated. “Enjoying the show?” He took my arm and led me to the bar where he fetched a couple of beers, opening one for me and the other for himself. “I’m absolutely parched.”

“I am in complete reverence.” I breathed. He smiled in return. I looked past Percy and saw Jimmy making his way over to us. As he walked with gusto like he owned the earth, running his fingers in his dark wet tendrils, his smile illuminating the room.

“Great crowd tonight.” He murmured to Robert as he stretched an arm to take a beer from the bar.

“Not doing your usual routine tonight?” He raised an eyebrow at him.

“I guess not.” He responded. “Pretty bird wore me out before the show.” He gave me a cheap wink, a self-satisfied smile across his smug face.

I returned the grin. “The little brunette?” My smile grew as their confusion formed. “Found her crying in the corner before the show.” I tiscked. “Shame on you, Mr. Page. If you’re going to use someone you should probably put out.” I took a swig of my beer and walked back to the stage to watch Bonzo.

“I fuckin’ like her.” Robert was shameless in his exclamation.

I found a spot beside an amp and watched the wild man pound his drums. I felt someone lightly tug on a mass of my hair as his body got dangerously close to my back. “I like chasing you.” He whispered in my ear. “But darling, just give in to me, already.”

The power I felt in this moment had the devious little devil in me running rampant. I grabbed a mass of his sweat drenched hair in my hand and pulled his face over my shoulder so my lips were at his ear. “In your dreams.” His hips twitched against me. Another involuntary and uncontrollable urge surged through me and without a thought or consideration of consequences I bit down on his earlobe, dragging my teeth across it. I released his hair and turned my face away from his.

He groaned, his hands on my hips holding me tightly against him.

I’ve lost my sanity.

“Jimmy!” One of the roadies holding his guitar yelled. “You’re on…”

Jimmy mumbled something before he let go of me and snatched his guitar from the intimidated roadie who flinched as he strode past him.

“What was that?” Percy nudged me.

“Just beating him at his own game.” I shrugged. I couldn’t take my eyes off of Jimmy and he didn’t take his eyes off me as he slung the guitar strap over his shoulder and waited for his cue.

“You know he was right earlier. He has definitely met his match.” Percy shook his head in disbelief before pinching my cheek and getting back onstage.

The band played a few more songs before Richard sidled up to me. “I’m supposed to take you to the cars now.”

“Right now?” I asked. “The show isn’t over.”

“Need to beat the crowds.” He turned and dragged me through the enormous amount of people backstage to the waiting Fleetwood's in the back drive. “This one.” He stopped me in front of the first limo and shoved me into the backseat. “Don’t leave this car.” He warned before turning on his heels and heading back into the arena.

I sat waiting patiently for about ten minutes before I heard voices approaching. I watched Percy and Jonesy get into the car behind me and Bonzo hop into another with Peter and Richard. Both cars pulled out and sped off. I looked out the window toward the stage area and watched Jimmy stride toward the car I was in. “Fuck.” I breathed. I should’ve hopped into Percy’s car before it left.

He opened the door and hopped in. “Ready.” He stated to the driver then sat quietly beside me as the car pulled out. He plucked a pack of cigarettes from the car door and took one out placing it between his lips. “Cigarette?” He offered, staring forward.

I pulled one out of the pack. “Thank you.” He lit his, then held the flame under mine.

“Anytime.” His mouth twitched. He took a drag, the smoke billowing out. “You know… Last minute changes tend to be a drag….” He murmured quietly, cigarette dangling from his lips. “This change though I find quite amusing.”

“What are you on about?” I suspired, growing vexed. What now?

“Well usually we have enough rooms for everyone working on tour with us but tonight when we get to Providence, I’m afraid we are one room short.” He finally turned his head to look at me.

“Please elaborate, this cryptic shit has gotten old, James.”

“I prefer it when you call me ‘Mr. Page.’” He bit down on his lip again, his grin never wavering.

“The change?” I pressed.

He rolled his eyes and exhaled. “Peter couldn’t get you a room at the hotel so I offered to share mine.” He grinned. “Promise I’ll be on my best behavior.” His smirk said otherwise.

“No.” I shook my head. “Peter wouldn’t have agreed to that. I refuse to stay with you.”

He gave me a look of dismay then smiled again. “Perhaps I made an extremely valid argument leaving him unable to refuse my offer.” He shrugged.

“What valid argument could you have possibly made?” There isn't a chance in hell he is telling the truth.

“Well we don’t have much time until we are in New York and time between shows is too hectic to go over every detail of what I want or…” the corner of his lips lifted into his crooked smile, “what I need from you.”

“Bullshit.” His bluff was evident. “There are three days off before New York.” It was incredible how gullible and naive he assumed I was.

“Alright, alright.” He put his hands up in surrender. “I got Richard to give the ok. Peter doesn’t know. What’s done is done, the extra room we had we no longer have.” He smirked. “He did warn you he would do anything to make us happy.” He shrugged.

“You motherfucker.” I shook my head at him.

His eyes widened. “Quite the mouth on you. I wonder what else it can do.” I folded my arms across my chest and looked forward, too annoyed to look at him without somehow inflicting pain. You can't punch him, Cali. You need this job. “Oh, come on, love. I’ll be a good little boy.” He pulled a strand of my hair.

“Fuck you.” I blurted, still staring forward.

“Only if you ask nicely.” He tried to play but I wasn’t biting. I saw him shake his head from my peripheral. “Drink?” He pulled a bottle of whisky from the door and held it out to me.

I took it without a word, twisted the top off and took a big swig. I pushed it back toward him. He grabbed the bottle, his fingers caressing mine until I pulled away. He took a swig from the bottle and grimaced slightly. “I wasn’t joking when I told you I would have you.” He murmured nonchalantly.

“And I wasn’t joking when I said, ‘in your dreams’.”

He wrapped his hand around my jaw forcing my eyes on him. “Give in, love.”

The desperation in his eyes almost made me grin. I mouthed the word ‘no’.

He gazed thoughtfully into my eyes. “You like this as much as I do.” He narrowed his eyes at the revelation. The epiphany had him reeling. His grin was genuinely childlike. And for a moment I thought I was seeing another piece of the puzzle.

“Maybe.” I shrugged and tried to pull away from his grasp but he was stronger than I was. “Let me go.” I said calmly.

He grinned and mouthed the word ‘no’.

I couldn’t help but laugh. It all felt so childish and I wondered if he too felt the same.

“Drink?” He nodded and gave me that damn crooked grin. Holding the bottle to my lips he tilted it upward. And I just let him. As the liquid entered my mouth, he slowly released me from his grasp.

His fingers traced my jawline, slowly making their way into my hair until his fingers were tangled, his palm resting against the nape of my neck. He opened his mouth to speak when the car came to a stop, we had arrived at the plane. He sighed heavily and turned away. Suddenly I felt despondent.

I started to feel that urge again, a loss of control. My hands were moving without me commanding them. I grabbed his face and held him so he was looking at me, his eyes lit up, bright and eager. “Let me do my job.” I breathed. I wanted to tell him ‘chase. me’ let me feel wanted, whole even. I don’t care if it’s in some artificial way. I want to feel your full lips against mine. I want to taste you. I wanted to feel your hands slide down my waist. Pull me by my hips… I moved my face closer to his, he sat motionless, his eyes wide, unsure.

Ground control to major tom, it looks like we’re fucked! My eyes flickered down to his lips then back to his eyes. Thoughts gone, mind blank. One moment I was in control and the next I was tracing my tongue from his bottom lip to his top. His lips parted under me; his warm sweet breath almost sinking me. I saw his hands moving toward me, reality flattening. I let go and exited the car as fast as I could.

Fucking get it together!

The cool breeze felt good on my skin. I felt refreshed, my head getting more and more clear, regaining control. I was being reckless and naive. Stupid. As I climbed the steps of the jet I looked back at the car. Jimmy still hadn’t left.

The rest of the band was in what they called ‘the club’ with drinks and food, joints being passed around, blow being cut on the table and half naked girls dancing around the unoccupied patches of space. Richard handed me a beer, clanked his against mine then wandered off.

Jonesy looked up from the piano he was fingering and grinned. “Where’s Jimmy? Did you finally kill him?” He laughed.

“Ha-ha.” Jimmy gave a simulated laugh as he walked into the room. “She wouldn’t kill me.” He stood beside me and grinned. “She likes me too much.” He pinched my ass before walking through the crowd and into the other room.

I rolled my eyes and searched for an open seat. “Come, darling.” Bonzo patted his knee. “Open seat.” He winked. I gave him a look and his face turned innocent. “I’ll be good.” He assured me. “Unlike Jimmy.” I took his offer and squeezed through the crowd and sat on his lap. “Although I can see why he can’t seem to keep it in his pants around you.” He grinned

.

“Trust me it hasn’t and won’t be coming out of his pants for me.” I heard Jimmy scoff in the other room. I need to behave. My last drink. I looked at the beer in my hand and took a big gulp.

“California, darling!” Percy leaned in. “So...” He was quite drunk and definitely stoned, his eyes red and droopy. “How’s your decision coming along?” He sloppily whispered.

I shook my head as discreetly as I could. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I whispered back.

“Just pretend I’m not here.” Bonzo was grinning at something across the room. “Excuse me, ladies.” He lifted me as he stood up then placed me back on the couch with little effort.

Percy grinned at Bonzo as he walked away then he snapped back to me and raised an eyebrow. “So…”

I merely shrugged and played it off nonchalantly.

“Oh, come on!” He was far too elated.

“Nothing is going to happen. I’m doing my job then going home.” I whispered.

He looked at me intently. “The car ride,” He held my gaze. “What did he do?”

“Nothing.” I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.

He started grinning, his eyes narrow. “What did you do?”

My heart stopped and the lie blurted out, “Nothing!”

He shook his head as though he disapproved but his happy grin gave away the farce. “Tisk, tisk.”

I looked around the room, avoiding eye contact with him. I took another sip as I scanned the crowd.

“Looking for him?” He leaned in like a southern belle wielding the latest gossip.

I gave him an exacerbated look. “No, Percy. Just trying to avoid this conversation.”

He laughed and took the beer from my hand and took a sip. “Tell me what happened and I’ll drop it forever.” His brows wiggled.

“Why do you want to know so badly?” I giggled.

“Because I must know.” He stated, his hands on his hips. “Did you kiss him?” His eyes too intense.

“No.” I said quickly to which he narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t kiss him,” I continued, “I may have… licked him?” I forced it out under my breath.

“I’m sorry?” His head was tilted to the side. “You licked him?”

I bit down on my lower lip as though biting down as hard as I could would ease the shame. “I licked him.”

One eyebrow raised. “Where?”

“His mouth, Percy.”

He grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Good girl.”

I hope you all enjoyed another chapter of this shit show I call a fic. Feel free to let me know any and all of your thoughts and constructive compliments (the office) if you heathens don’t know.

Love you all ❤️ especially @dreamcastgirl99 for making this re-happen. You’ve ignited that spark in me and I will forever be in your debt.

[player279achlys]

The golden rabbit's legacy (Hwang In-Ho/Frontman x fem! reader!)

Il-nam's granddaughter will prove herself worthy of being the next hostess, while someone becomes her loyal shadow.

CHAPTER V: the calm before the final game

Previous chapter: Chapter IV

Next chapter: Chapter VI

Pairing: Hwang In-Ho/Frontman x Original!female!Character

Word count: 1,8k words.

Summary: In the shadow of her grandfather’s dark empire, Melinoe, a brilliant young woman in her early twenties, steps into a world of blood, betrayal, and power she was never meant to inherit. As the granddaughter of the infamous Oh Il-Nam, creator of the deadly Squid Games, she is thrust into a brutal legacy that demands she not only survive but thrive as its new hostess. Determined to honor her family’s name and prove herself worthy of the golden rabbit mask, she designs games more cunning and lethal than any before.

But power comes at a cost. Beneath her calculated exterior lies a woman haunted by guilt, trauma, and the faces of those she has condemned to die. And at her side stands Hwang In-Ho, the enigmatic Front Man—older than her, cold, and feared by all, except for her. Since the day he learned of her existence, In-Ho has been deeply, obsessively in love with Melinoe. His devotion is as intense as it is toxic, a tangled mix of desire and protectiveness that pushes him to control every aspect of her life.

As Melinoe rises to prominence, she finds herself navigating not only the deadly games but also the dangerous allure of In-Ho. Their relationship is a powder keg of suppressed emotions, forbidden passion, and fraught power dynamics. He would destroy anyone who comes close to her—including a charming, younger VIP who flirts with her one too many times. Yet, while In-Ho dreams of keeping her safe in his arms, Melinoe dreams of reshaping the games into something darker and more just—her own twisted vision of justice against the world’s worst offenders.

When the 33rd Squid Games begin, everything changes. With her grandfather entering the arena as Player 001 and Gi-Hun as Player 456, the games take on unprecedented stakes. As alliances crumble and bodies fall, Melinoe must contend with the weight of her grandfather’s legacy, the manipulations of the VIPs, and the unrelenting obsession of the man who would burn the world for her.

Will Melinoe rise as the queen of the games, or will the bonds of obsession and love be the end of her?

Warnings: MDNI!!!, Afab!, angst. Sexual language. Fear of losing someone. Smut (light kinda), grumpy x sunshine, dark romance, age gap, possessive, obsessed, paranoid and dominant In-Ho, daddy issues, yandere behaviour, jealousy, violence, murder, typical squid game stuff.

English isn’t my first language, if there are any mistakes, please forgive me. :)

I want to dedicate this chapter to @bruhstories . Happy birthday and thank you for creating BET. That fanfic helped me go through my exam season without losing my sanity.

Whoever is reading this, please check her stories. They're TOP.

The compound buzzed with an eerie silence the next morning, the remaining five players awaiting the announcement of the final game. The tension in the air was almost palpable, each survivor wrestling with their own fears and strategies. Melinoe, however, found herself lost in a different kind of turmoil.

Her night with In-Ho lingered in her mind, a vivid memory that both comforted and unsettled her. She could still feel the warmth of his touch, hear the low timbre of his voice as he whispered her name. But with every moment of tenderness came the reminder of where they were—of what she had to do.

She sat on the edge of her cot, staring at the floor as the weight of her decisions pressed down on her. She had come here to honor her grandfather’s legacy, to prove herself worthy of the responsibility she was about to inherit. And yet, In-Ho had become an inextricable part of that journey, a tether she hadn’t anticipated.

The door to her quarters creaked open, pulling her from her thoughts. She looked up to see In-Ho standing in the doorway, his dark suit immaculate, his mask tucked under his arm. His gaze softened when it met hers, though the intensity in his eyes never waned.

“May I come in?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

She nodded, motioning for him to enter. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him before approaching her. His presence filled the room, a mix of comfort and tension that made her chest tighten.

“You should be resting,” he said, his brow furrowing as he studied her. “The final game will be the most demanding yet.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. “But I can’t stop thinking about what’s at stake.”

He crouched before her, his hands resting lightly on her knees as he looked up into her eyes. “You’ve already proven yourself, Melinoe. You don’t need to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” she said firmly, her gaze unwavering. “This is my family’s legacy, In-Ho. If I’m going to take it on, I have to earn it.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I can’t lose you.”

Her heart clenched at the raw emotion in his words. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “You won’t,” she said softly. “But I need to see this through.”

The remaining players were gathered in the main hall, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and determination. A crackling female voice came through the intercom, delivering the announcement they had all been waiting for.

“The final game,” the announcer declared, “is Paengi Chigi.”

Melinoe’s heart sank. She had studied every detail of this game before coming here, memorizing the rules and the deadly twists her grandfather had designed. She knew what awaited them in the arena—a life-sized spinning top battlefield with no room for error.

The arena was a circular platform suspended high above a chasm, its surface adorned with glowing markings that designated the boundaries. Each player was handed a spinning top, its edges sharpened to lethal precision. The objective was clear: knock the other players’ tops out of the arena, or they would face elimination themselves.

Melinoe gripped her top tightly, her mind racing with strategies as she took her place on the platform. Across from her, Wol-Jin stood with a determined expression, his gaze flickering to hers briefly before focusing on the task ahead.

In-Ho watched from the control room, his fists clenched as he leaned over the console. His eyes were glued to Melinoe’s figure, every movement she made filling him with both pride and fear. He had made subtle adjustments to the game—small tweaks to ensure her path was safer than the others’. But even those measures couldn’t guarantee her survival.

The game began with the deafening hum of spinning tops colliding against one another. Sparks flew as metal clashed, the players maneuvering their tops with calculated precision. Melinoe focused on her own top, her hands steady as she guided it across the arena, avoiding the traps and hazards that had claimed so many before her.

Wol-Jin’s top spun dangerously close to hers at one point, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes met. He gave her a small, encouraging nod, but she didn’t return it. Her focus was singular—survive, no matter the cost.

As the game wore on, the platform grew increasingly treacherous. Parts of it collapsed under the weight of the spinning tops, creating gaps that forced the players to navigate with even greater care. Melinoe’s heart raced as she narrowly avoided a falling section, her top skidding across the edge before regaining its balance.

In the control room, In-Ho’s breath caught as he watched her stumble. His hands gripped the console so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Come on,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You can do this.”

When the dust settled, only two players remained: Melinoe and Wol-Jin. The tension in the arena was suffocating as the two of them faced off, their tops spinning furiously as they maneuvered for the final blow.

Melinoe’s gaze hardened as she guided her top toward Wol-Jin’s, her movements precise and calculated. She could see the determination in his eyes, the way his hands trembled slightly as he realized what was coming.

“Forgive me,” she whispered under her breath, just before her top collided with his.

The impact was catastrophic. Wol-Jin’s top was sent careening out of the arena, the force of the collision triggering a small explosion that sent him flying backward. He landed hard, his body skidding to the edge of the platform. For a moment, he looked up at her, his expression a mixture of shock and betrayal.

The final blow had been delivered. The echoes of metal and destruction faded into silence, leaving only the hum of machinery and the sound of Melinoe’s labored breathing. She stood on the crumbling platform, blood trickling down the side of her face from the gash on her temple. The world spun around her, the edges of her vision darkening as her legs threatened to give out.

Wol-Jin’s top had been obliterated, and with it, so had he. She had seen his wide eyes, the fleeting shock and betrayal before his body disappeared into the abyss below. A part of her wanted to grieve, to mourn the loss of someone who had shown her kindness in this hellish arena. But she couldn’t. Not now.

He was gone.

Melinoe stood alone on the platform, her chest heaving as the sound of the final buzzer echoed through the arena. She had won—but at what cost? Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions as she stepped off the platform, her legs trembling with exhaustion.

“I won,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding in her head. “I… won.”

Her knees buckled, liquid falling from her head and the last thing she saw before everything went black was the blurred image of guards rushing toward her.

Three Days Later

The world came back to her in fragments: the sterile scent of antiseptic, the muffled sound of voices, the faint beeping of a heart monitor. Melinoe’s eyelids fluttered open, and for a moment, she felt weightless, as though she were suspended between dream and reality.

“She’s waking up,” a voice said, low and urgent.

She turned her head slowly, her gaze landing on two familiar figures. Her grandfather, Oh Il-Nam, sat in a chair by her bedside, his aged features creased with worry. Beside him stood In-Ho, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her chest tighten.

“Melinoe,” Il-Nam said, his voice trembling with relief. “You’re awake.”

She tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through her head, forcing her back down. In-Ho stepped forward instantly, his hands hovering as though afraid to touch her. “Stay still,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “You’ve been through enough.”

“What… happened?” she murmured, her voice hoarse.

“You collapsed after the final game,” Il-Nam explained. “You hit your head when you fell. We had you treated immediately. You’ve been in a coma for three days.”

Her eyes widened. “Three days?”

The door opened, and a doctor entered, clipboard in hand. He approached her bedside, his expression professional but kind. “How are you feeling, Miss Oh?”

“Dizzy,” she admitted. “And… confused.”

“That’s to be expected,” the doctor said, nodding. “You suffered a severe concussion, along with minor lacerations and bruising. But you’re lucky—it could have been much worse.”

Melinoe swallowed hard, her mind racing. “I remember… the games. The final game. Winning. But…” She hesitated, frowning. “It’s all blurry after that.”

In-Ho stiffened, though his face remained unreadable. Il-Nam exchanged a glance with him before turning back to Melinoe. “You don’t remember anything else?” her grandfather asked carefully.

She shook her head, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her skull. “No. Just the games. And Wol-Jin…” Her voice faltered, and she looked away. “He’s gone.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken grief. In-Ho’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his gaze never leaving her.

In the days following her recovery, Melinoe threw herself into her work. She had a business to run, a legacy to uphold. The games were over, but there was no time to rest. Her grandfather’s health was declining rapidly, and he had made his final wish clear: to participate in the 33rd games, his swan song before passing the torch to her.

In-Ho was by her side every step of the way. He had always been protective of her, but since her injury, his vigilance had intensified. He hovered in the background, silent and watchful, ensuring she never overexerted herself. She could feel his presence in every room, every corridor, his gaze a constant shadow.

He couldn’t forget. 

Every time he looked at her, he saw the gash on her temple, the bandage that marred her otherwise flawless skin. It was a physical reminder of his failure, of the moment he hadn’t been able to protect her. It consumed him, drove him to the brink of madness.

“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard,” he told her one evening as she pored over the plans for the next games.

“I don’t have a choice,” she replied without looking up. “The 33rd games need to be perfect. It’s what my grandfather wants.”

“What about what you want?” he asked, his voice low.

She paused, glancing up at him. “I want to honor him. And I want to make these games different.”

“Different how?” he asked, stepping closer.

“No more gamblers,” she said firmly. “No more people who are desperate or in debt. From now on, we’ll recruit the worst of the worst. Criminals. Murderers. Rapists. People who have destroyed lives and escaped justice.”

Her conviction sent a shiver down his spine. She was brilliant, ruthless, and utterly intoxicating. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, almost to himself.

She offered a faint smile. “I’m just trying to make things right.”

This one was a short one, hence why I will post maybe another 2 chapters. Mostly because I don't have anything to do (no finals, 1 week and a half free of uni).

Now another era of Melinoe will start: she will finally step into her role as a hostess and head master of the games.

As always.

Loves you, Achlys.

Taglist: @futuristicdefendorfart

[psycheetamore]

Another escape, another hunt 

Summary: Our lord has managed to get his Fremen prey into his palace. But she will not succumb to his desires so easily, even if her body wishes to do so. How he loves his game.

Tags: MDNI, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen Is His Own Warning, anticipation of smut, predator/prey - the author regrets nothing

Part 2 of 6 of my contribution to the predator/prey thrope for Kinktober of @lady-phasma - nr 1-4 are chapters of 1 story (1-3 Feyd/OC hunt related, nr 4 is the reward for our lord), and nr 5-6 is me sharing my favourite chapter that I have written to date with the hunt between Rabban/OC. The 6 bits will be posted through daily posts.

Word count: 1.8k

Losely based on chapter 11 of Choosing to Follow Destiny

His slaves were standing outside of his quarters, as the na-Baron sought entrance. 

“Is she readied?” 

“My Lord…” and the slave paused. “My lord, we could not get the cuffs on” as she fell to her knees and started to grovel asking for forgiveness.  

He kicked her to the floor and proceeded: “you are lucky. I am in a good mood.” 

Several minutes ago, the terrified slaves that had dressed the new interest of the lord Harkonnen, locked her up in a separate room in his quarters. It did not take a lot of effort to force the lock. She felt vulnerable, dressed in clothing that did not deserve that word considering how little of her frame it covered and that could be meant only for ladies of the Harkonnen night. Feeling the mark he had left on her neck, which seemed to have been treated. Her braids loosened to have her long black hear flow across her back. Horrible shackles the slaves tried to put on her. She could not allow herself to think what he was planning to do. For her sanity, and to keep control over her physical urges that seemed to long for him. She could still feel his strong fingers gracing her lips. Yet, it could not distract from the recognition that she needed to move. The longer she was in his vicinity, the more difficult it would be to escape.  

Feeling her heart throb in her throat, against the healing wound he had left, she surveyed his chambers for any weapons or other tools that could help her gain some leverage. But it did not come at a surprise that nothing was present. It could not be anything else than that he prepared for roaming around here. Fear started to seep into her bones as she started to understand the gravity of the situation she was facing. The second-best option was looking for heavy blunt objects. Something that could allow her to issue a blow and try to get away. As she was scouring as quickly as she could for such objects, she heard him arrive and talk on the other side of the door. She grabbed a plaid laying over his bed and scooted softly to hide in the darkness next to the door.  

She noticed a body drop and the door opening. This was her one chance. As he walked in, she threw the plaid over his head and pushed him, making room to run away.  

Surprisingly, he was disconnected for a blink of a moment, just enough. She did not wait for a second opportunity, and dashed.  

The hallways were as dark as his room, the night having fallen and scarcely lit. There was no distinction between the left and the right side of the hallway, so intuitively she took off to the left. 

From a distance she heard him shouting: “run. Run as far as you can. Challenge me. We both know you will end up chained to my bed.” Shivers flowed over her back. 

She ran and ran. She should find some light coming from the moons anytime now. That would give her guidance on where to go. It felt like she ran for hours, probably mere minutes. Corridors went up and down. What was this place other than a maze, she thought, completely lost and getting out of breath. Functioning on pure adrenalin she forgot her fatigue and anything else holding her back. She just ran. 

Suddenly she heard footsteps coming from a corridor she was running towards. With muted steps she backed up against the wall, carefully peaking around the corner. A chance to sip some air, and perhaps more. A guard, dressed in a black Harkonnen uniform, was paroling. He did not seem to be on high alert. Perhaps her escape did not yet reach everyone. She pressed herself against the wall, waiting for the guard to walk past, so she could overtake him. Completely oblivious the guard walked past her. It took her one well-placed kick to the backside of his knees to get him to fall on the ground. He fell on his hands and knees, but it still made a terrible noise. This would surely attract other guards or Feyd-Rautha himself, so she immediately started kicking him to the head, bruising her feet, adrenaline masking the pain it caused. It took a few kicks for him to lay flat on the ground, allowing her to grab the bat and dagger he was carrying. She started to run in the direction he came from. 

After yet another corner she took, she lost the little sense of direction that had remained. But there was no time to worry. 

She continued to run until she abruptly recognised an imposing figure in the shadows from afar. The stance, the body, the clothing: it could be no other than her captor who had spotted her, staring at her with a tilted head and black smile on his face. She stopped, froze for a second, turned around and started running the other way around. Even with her newly acquired weapons she was aware that she would hardly be a match for him in these circumstances. 

Feyd-Rautha chuckled. Feisty and spirited. He was happy to see that she lived up to his expectations. He did anticipate she would free herself from the first room, and try to make a run for it. There was a reason he did not bring guards. He had, however, imagined that he would be able to keep her in, as he had carefully removed all sharp and heavy objects. A true fighter he was dealing with. And, by god, she even managed to obtain some weapons. Lovely. She clearly had not given up just yet, just like he asked.

His hunter instinct was kick-started by seeing her flee away. How he loved a game like this. With his longer legs, boots, and overall better condition, it did not take too long before she was within an arm's reach of him. 

She heard him gaining distance on her. His footsteps grew closer and closer. She gave it her all. She needed to outrun him. Her heart was throbbing in her throat from exhaustion. She needed to push through. Or find a way out. But where? No tangible options presented themselves. A sudden ambush perhaps. Short term, but still. 

He was just steps away from her, she could hear it. She decided to push for a last final sprint, to get him to speed up as much as possible, allowing her to suddenly divert her track and use his momentum against him. In the process, she managed to dart around him, while brushing the dagger across his arm. Now standing behind him, he turned to face her. Wearing his evening clothing, but still with boots and a belt with weapons, he showed her the blood on his fingers, which came from the wound she inflicted. Yet another wound he would have her repay.

“It is a dangerous game you play, little one. I have killed for smaller offences” he said menacingly, although his face gave away the joy he felt. "How is my mark on your neck feeling?"

“Kill me” she taunted. “Let's get this over with.” 

“No” he answered. “We both know I won't do that. You are far too lovely to meet such an end. In any case not such a quick end” as he grabbed a knife from his belt in a leisurely pace. He started to walk towards her, shifting his head from left to right, seeing straight through hear face into the inner workings of her brain.

She tried to maintain their distance by moving back as he closed in on her. But there was only so much space, as she was backed against the wall.  

He tigered around her, managing to get her into a corner. “Your strike, lovely lady. I will give you one strike” as he invited her through a gesture to come at him.  

She looked in his eyes and saw darkness. This was a dangerous man, with dangerous games. He was in control. Her only way out would be to disarm him, and hold him hostage until she could get out.  

She decided to make a go for it. Holding the club in her right hand and the dagger in her left hand, her strategy would be to get him to focus on her left hand, lose the club, switch the dagger to her other hand and strike.  

But her eyes gave her away. As she tried to execute this plan, he knew what was coming. He had seen every step that she had anticipated, and before she knew it, his hard chest, just covered with an evening tunic, had pinned her against the wall. She could feel his heart beat through the nothings they both wore. She could feel the heat flowing from his body to hers, as he kept her legs in check by pushing one of his between hers. His growing groin pressed against her bottom. Her body started to respond involuntarily, creating the moisture he craved. Forcing her hand to open, he managed to release the remaining weapon and kick it away. Only now did he turn her to face him, while holding her shoulders with an iron grip. 

She tried to kick him, causing him to push his entire body against hers to keep her still. As response, she pushed her hands on his upper arms. His strength was felt as she was pinned against the wall. His solid arms, his muscular torso, the growing excitement in his nether regions. It caused a further growing excitement in her nether regions as well, the likes of which she had never encountered before.  

“Why do you resist me? You belong here. You want to be here. You want to kneel before me and take everything I have to give to you.” Vile, tainted words came out of his mouth as honey, while his lips touched her neck and ears. He started to kiss, nibbling on her ears, allowing his warm tongue to roam over the ridges of the wound that was sure to become a scar from her ear to her shoulder, claiming her, marking her as his, while holding her head still. “Don't resist” he said with a chanting voice, feeling how her breathing located to the top of her chest. With nearly nothing covering her, she started to fear he would feel the warmth and wetness radiating from her body onto the leg that he had positioned so strategically against her most sensitive area. He wrapped his arms around her back to press her against him, as he softly bit on her neck. “Don't resist. Succumb to me” he continued to chant. He felt she was slipping away, as if her legs were not providing support anymore. 

“I can't” a small voice said with a deep sigh. His mouth on these sensitive areas, his vicinity, all the vile words that had left his sculpted mouth; she started to loose control. Breathing more heavily and rapidly, which he could feel through his chest that still forced her against the wall. 

He knew she was starting to break. All it took was a bit of affection. It was quicker than he had anticipated.  

He softly replied: “you can. And you will” as he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. Pinching her bottom, awfully near her core with a mind of its own, he said: “you want to submit to me.” 

+++

Next parts listed on my pinned post

[candywraptor]

WIP Wednesday - Untitled Ruin Sequel (RadioDust)

Angel didn’t remember the first days - at least, not very well. He had fled from that foreign place - from the wide, mocking grin and the wild, unfeeling stare - and he had gone to his room. He didn’t know if he had been seen or if he made any noise as he’d darted through the halls, his head low and his arms wrapped around his middle - trying to keep himself whole, to keep the pieces from spilling onto the floor. There was only the barest wisp of memory, just a ghostly specter of a thing, of hearing the door snick closed behind him, covering him in darkness, before his legs gave out from underneath him and he collapsed under the weight of it all. He remembered the feel of unfamiliar, high pile carpet under his fingers as he’d twisted it, ripping at it, the tears coming instantly - silently at first as he’d curled in on himself and felt like his inside were trying to melt into one sick puddle in his gut.  He had ground his teeth to the point of pain, his hands raising to yank at his clothes, his fur, his hair - ripping out strands by their roots as he struggled to take a breath, his body shaking with the effort of silence.  The ceiling was falling in on him - the temple they had built, the fortress where Angel had been safe and warm and hidden inside - was collapsing all around him. The rubble was crushing, the sound of his whole world cracking in half and giving way into a chasm of black, empty nothing was deafening and it peeled his sanity away from him in ribbons, taking his mind and puncturing wide, gaping holes into his reality - into all things he’d thought he’d known, the things they had built. It was gone.  His breathing came to him then, he could feel his lungs start to inflate and it was too fast - he was hyperventilating - and somehow Angel made it to the bed. He never remembered getting up, never remembered crossing the room, but he knew he had because that was when he’d started to scream.  He’d buried his face into the pillow, drawing no air, close to suffocation - wishing for it - as he sobbed and screamed and lost himself to delirium. He was no more, no longer a person - no longer a thing with solid matter or a body or thoughts or consciousness. He was only the anguish that pressed in all around him, ripping the shrieking from his chest, soaking the blankets with tears and shaking him apart at the seams - at the ends of his soul.  It was devastation and pain like he had never felt before. It was all consuming, a gaping maw of teeth and void that left room for nothing else. He was lost to it, drowning in it, soaked in the desolation and the broken, jagged pieces of his decimated world. Glass and darkness and pain - so, so much pain. In every inch of him, in every piece of everything he was - his heart, his lungs, muscle and bone. Anguish and agony and nothing, nothing else. It was like dying. 

This is the first chapter for a squeal to Did I Ruin Your Night? (Did I Ruin You?) a RadioDust fic and also my first fic in general. It takes place right after the orphaned A Fool For Lesser Things.

Mixed emotions here but I have ideas that have been knocking around for a long while and I think I can put them into words now. Looking forward to writing Angel again!

I'm going to try and get into the habit of posting WIPs every Wednesday, too. I think it will get me engaged and I enjoy sharing. Hopefully, there will be another next week!

[juneknight]

.Be Lost. || 2.5

Chapter 1 | Chapter 1.5 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 2.5

Next chapter is the last.

*

His grin is broad, beatific. It turns teasing almost right away. He leans down and brushes his nose against yours before releasing your wrists and rolling off of you. 

“I want to be just friends for just a while longer,” he admits in a whisper. “Throughout dinner. There’s something important I need to tell you.” 

*

‘There’s something important I need to tell you’. Have more infamous words ever been spoken, besides ‘we need to talk’? His sentence infuses you with dread and a strange calm all at once. This is it. The other shoe is about to drop. Marc deciding that he doesn’t want to dominate you will be the best-case-scenario outcome. 

Worst case scenario? He’s already done too much with you to salvage the friendship, and you both will have to part ways. Maybe that’s what he meant by wanting to stay just friends for a while longer. All these thoughts spin in your brain like a cyclone, sucking up your sanity while you pick at your entree at the (expensive) restaurant Marc insisted on bringing you to for dinner. Your hand is clammy where you are clutching your fork. You consider stabbing yourself with it to end the dinner early. 

It isn’t the worst dinner you’ve ever had together (that honor goes to the miserable time you and Marc had tried double dating, each of you bringing a lackluster date and spending the whole time—as you understood it now—fuming when the other showed any hint of affection towards their partner). But this is close. So close. 

Even Marc seems nervous. He is quiet(er). He clears his throat every now and then like he is about to say something, but then just reaches for his wine and takes another sip. When he cuts himself off after one glass and moves on to water, he drinks nearly two entire glasses thanks to this procrastination-sipping. You want to scream. Go ahead and say it! Break my heart already! Just get it over with. 

When he insists on dessert, you can’t take it anymore. Over dark chocolate cake with chocolate ganache, you sit your fork down and say: 

“What is it?”

“Have you ever seen the birds outside your window?” he blurts out. You stare. He clears his throat. Another sip of water. “At your apartment. On your balcony, you have a bird feeder. I just—do you ever stop and watch the birds?” 

“Yes,” you say, twisting your napkin in your lap. “Hence the bird feeder. Why—?” 

“You have this one bird that comes back often. It’s a house sparrow—I looked it up. House sparrows are like most birds, where the males are all beautiful and the females are more plain. Except this one bird. She had a bib, like the males do, but her’s was a downy gray instead of black. She came back every day. Multiple times a day, sometimes. Maybe she had babies that she was raiding your feeder for, I don’t know. 

“But I started talking to her about you while you were gone. Because I missed you. And I always miss you when you go away during the winter, don’t get me wrong, but this time…Well I had to talk to that fucking bird, or I would have—yes, another water would be fine, thank you—” 

You glare at the waiter’s back, irritated by the interruption. Something about this strange tangent has your attention. Maybe it’s the serious expression in Marc’s eyes, marred only by a hint of something sharper. Desperation, maybe. Maybe that’s what makes his words string together, turns him into a rambler. Still, you would have him see this through. 

“Go on,“ you coax. 

“I started talking to that fucking bird, because I couldn’t call you all day, and if I didn’t talk to something, I’d go crazy. I told her all about you. The way your skin gets lit up at night when you fall asleep while we’re watching television, colors changing blue, red, brown, white with whatever is on the screen. I told her about how you can’t let your food groups touch when they’re on your plate. I told her how you laugh so hard sometimes that you snort, and that those are always my favorite laughs.” 

“This bird knows all my secrets then,” you murmur. “I hope she doesn’t work for the government.” 

“All birds work for the government. I told her about my day. Work. Friends. Traffic. Dreams. Besides our every-other-night phonecalls, this…fucking…bird was the highlight of my day. I mean that unirionically.” 

“I’m starting to get jealous.” 

“And then one day she was gone,” says Marc. “She missed the morning rush. I sat on your bed, looking out at the balcony, waiting. And she never came. She never came back. I didn’t realize it until sunset, when she’d missed dinner, that I’d wasted my entire day off waiting. That whatever happens to birds—wherever she went when she wasn’t with me—she was gone, and she wasn’t coming back.

“That made me think of you. Going away from me, going wherever birds go. Taking all these pieces of me with you, and never coming back with them. You have those, you know. Pieces of me. So many pieces. I’d say that I have one last one to give you, but—” he snorts softly, looking down at his plate, “—you’ve had my heart already.

“And I don’t mind leaving them with you. I don’t mind you leaving. I know your work is important, and that you love it. I just want to know that you’ll always come back. I want you to have a reason to always come back—to me.”

“What are you saying?” you wonder, eyes wide as moons, mouth feeling a little numb. It almost sounds like he’s—

“I’m in love with you. I don’t want tonight to be a one-and-done, and I don’t just want the sex—yes, thank you, the check is fine—-” 

“I’m sorry,” you say to the waiter, holding up a finger. “Could you give us a moment without interruptions? Very important conversation. I apologize—thanks! You…you don’t want the sex?” 

“I don’t just want the sex. Important distinction,” says Marc. He laughs a little, but it sounds weak, punched-out. “You’re scaring me a little. Everytime I went over it in my head, you said it back straightaway. Then there was usually a spontaneous firework show, maybe some birds—” 

“Doves?”

“House sparrows.” 

“Marc—” you get shy suddenly. He’s opened himself up to you, fulfilled your wildest dreams (except the thought of Marc Spector loving you was so wild that it hadn’t even been in your dreams), but the idea of opening yourself up in return was terrifying. Couldn’t he just…tell? “Come on. You have to know…” 

Marc’s jaw gets tight. His eyes fall to his plate. “I didn’t. I thought—maybe I’ve just been seeing things. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have fucking—God, I’ve gone and fucked it all up, haven’t I?” 

“No—Marc, you aren’t getting it. The way you feel—it’s the way I feel, too,” you admit, nearly at a whisper, so quiet that he is leaning closer to you across the table straining to hear your words. “I’ve felt this way all this time. A long time before I even let myself realize it. It’s always been you. It would break my heart if all that happened tonight was amazing, kinky sex—excuse me, I just said—!”

The waiter clears his throat. He brandishes a bottle of wine from behind his back. “For new love. On the house.” 

“Is it corked?” Marc asks, his eyes on your own. There is something dark in his eyes, something that makes your mouth go dry in an instant and your hands clench into fists in your lap.

“Yes, sir.” 

“We’ll take it to go.”

*

Marc goes to open your car door for you but instead crowds you against it right there in the parking lot, one hand braced on the window beside you and the other on your hip. His body throws off warmth, and you find yourself arching away from the cool metal of the car against his body, all the breath rushing out of you in a whoosh. 

“Listen,” Marc says, leaning in to nuzzle against your temple. “You have to tell me now if you have any doubts. If you do, we’ll get in the car and I’ll drive you back to your apartment, and tomorrow night I’ll take you on another date like nice normal people do when they’re in love. But if you don’t, if you get in this car, you’ll belong to me. You know that, don’t you? Your body—”

“I want it, Marc, I want it,” you breathe. “I don’t have any doubts, I promise—”

He reaches up and grips your chin firmly, pressing your lower jaw up until your teeth clench together. His thumb rests over the seam of your lips, locking them closed. Something about the simple act makes you whine in the back of your throat. “At, At. It’s my turn to talk, yeah? Be a good girl and wait your turn. 

“If you get in this car, then for tonight you’re mine. Your body, your mind. Your words and your actions. Your sounds. Your pleasure. All of it will be mine to do with as I see fit. And I’ll treat you so fucking good honey. So goddamn good. Because I know that’s how good of a girl you’d be for me. So what’s it gonna be?” He lets go of your mouth. 

“My safeword is wine.” 

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips thinning. He nods, like he knew it was headed this direction. His hand drops and finds the handle of the car door, and but he doesn’t open it. Not yet. 

“One condition,” he says. “Non-negotiable.” 

Anxious, you say: “What is it?” 

“We kiss first. Here. Now. While we’re still just us.” 

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, do it, please—” 

He kisses you, and it’s—wow. There could be fireworks, for all you know, but they’d be coming in second. Second to the taste of wine on Marc’s tongue. Second to the soft firmness of his lips. Second to the way his broad hand cups the back of your head and tilts it just-so, so that he can deepen the kiss the way he likes. Second to the way he starts to smile against your mouth. A smile that turns into a broad grin. 

“Oh my god,” he laughs. “That was the best kiss I’ve ever had.” 

“I found your bird,” you whisper shakily against his mouth. 

He pulls back, startled by your words. “You—what?” 

“Your missing bird,” you say, reaching for his hand. You place it over your racing heart, which feels like the beating of wings beneath his touch. 

[not-poignant]

Daily excerpt from today's writing, chapter 25 of Palmarosa:

‘Your naivete is very nearly charming,’ Raphael said, smiling above him. ‘Do you know how many I’ve witnessed in these moments of tumult and conflict? Almost enough to know exactly what thoughts move through your insignificant mind. I took you out of the dusty dark and restored you, saved you, and you mock me before strangers.’ ‘I want- I think I want to go ahead with the second contract. I don’t want to wait any longer.’ Raphael’s cold smile broadened. ‘If we’re sharing our thoughts, Astarion, then I think I want to punish you first for consistently breaking with our first contract. A more patient devil would wait, but I’ve been patient enough. Besides, I shan’t be too cruel. It will be proportionate, I assure you.’ Astarion was rather losing his appetite. ‘Now?’ Astarion said. ‘And if I…don’t want to commit to the second contract?’ ‘Oh, you will,’ Raphael practically purred. ‘You’ll bear my marks and bruises and you still will. Haven’t you realised that the reason no gods heed you, is that you already have one that you cannot forsake no matter what?’ Astarion stared up at him in confusion. Raphael crouched down, eyes flashing golden-amber. ‘It is the sun, my aberrational wretch. All of you fear it, but your lives revolve around it. It’s all you’ve ever wanted since you lost it, and you’ll choose it before you’d choose your own sanity. So here you are, quite mad, and watch – Astarion, my pet – you’re about to agree to the punishment, and walk with me quite willingly, and still sign your signature in blood at the end of the day.’

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (30) Journey

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 30)

Summary: Rosie struggles a bit during her pregnancy. Thinking about her own mother only makes her nauseous, and not because of morning sickness. A solution is found and nature does the rest.

Thirty Years Old

Of course, we were at Baker Street the first time the baby kicked. Not surprising since we lived there, it was the occasion rather, Timothy’s birthday.  Dad and Papa came up from Sussex to celebrate with us, and the moment I hugged Dad, a violent kick made me wince.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Dad asked worried.

“The baby,” I whispered. “It kicked. For the first time.”

Dad beamed at me, as if it was his presence that elicited this action. Papa looked proudly at him, and I just knew that this baby would be spoiled beyond belief. My parents were already besotted. Not that Marie and Daniel were less excited, but they’d been through this four times already.

***

The evidence of my pregnancy with my growing belly, didn’t stop me from marvelling in the craziness of it all. Every now and again the thought hit me: you’re having a baby!

Another thing that haunted me occasionally was the thought of my mother. How had she felt about being pregnant with a man that abandoned her? Not that I blamed Dad one bit. She had almost killed Papa, which still made me nauseous, and it stung my heart. Sometimes I was filled with rage aimed at the woman who I’d been inside for nine months. Other times, I pondered if she’d planned it all to end like it did. To save Papa’s life, sacrificing herself. The thoughts were fruitless of course, and for my own sanity, I managed to stop before I was overwhelmed with the need to know.

There was no secret that both my parents had gone to therapy before and after the Eurus business, and Dad suggested that I try it too, to get some tools to cope when the emotions got the better of me. I did, and it helped.

***

Nature is a wonderful thing. After months of discomfort and hours of agony in labour, all was forgotten once our little girl was laid on my chest. She was perfect, obviously. Brown strands of hair and dark eyes, the colour not yet established. The midwife took at photo of the three of us to send to our families in due course. 

“Best not wait too long, or Sherlock might talk Greg into giving him access, the hour be damned,” Timothy quipped.

I sighed and kissed the wonder who slept peacefully, wrapped in soft blankets.

Once the nurse had cleaned me up and I got a room, I fed my daughter, which was an overwhelming experience, and I cried through the whole event. Timothy was a calming presence and burped her when she made it clear that she was full, thank you very much.

“Call them,” Timothy urged.

***

I was anxiously waiting for my first visitors the next day. The day before, or night actually, Papa had insisted on asking uncle Myc to send a car down to Sussex to pick them up and bring them to London asap since the last train had departed hours earlier. Both me and Dad called him childish, and he finally settled on visiting after breakfast the following day.

Papa was almost lost for words when he realised that we’d named our daughter after them. It took Dad a bit longer to grasp it, and they were both teary-eyed and quite soppy when they greeted Joanna Shirley for the first time. She clearly had a thing for Papa’s voice, just like I’d always had, because when she started to wail, he talked her through it, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.

Seeing Dad holding my daughter, while Papa encircled Dad’s shoulders, made me tear up again. I was so happy for that little person who had such wonderful people in her life, to spoil her rotten, but also to teach her obscure things, comfort her and support her for as long as they could. It was like seeing my own childhood unfold in front of me. The first years I didn’t remember, and I couldn’t wait to experience that, not to mention adding my uncles into the equation. 

Speaking of…

***

The day I was released from the hospital, Timothy was oddly jittery when I asked if he’d made the last preparations for my return home with an infant.

“Of course,” he assured me.

He was a terrible liar, just like Dad.

It turned out that the forces of nature, which was The Fab Four, had taken matters into their own hands. Timothy had been in charge of making tea and ordering takeaway, while two men, I think you can guess who, did the physical work, while the brothers directed and supervised the remaking of my old room into an extraordinary nursery.

The white walls had been painted sunny yellow; the cot was the one we’d already received from my uncles, a pale green armchair stood in the corner, a bee plushie and Ted were placed on top of the duvet, and a white rug lay on the floor. Bee-patterned curtains, and my own bee-blanket, an oak bookshelf filled with my old books and some new ones, made the room feel welcoming.

“You’re all insane!” I scolded the proud foursome.

“Indeed,” uncle Myc agreed. “Nothing but the best is good enough for my grandniece.”

“And our granddaughter,” Dad and Papa said in unison.

Uncle Greg rolled his eyes at them, but he was unable to hide his pride and the love he felt for his abnormal family.

Also available on AO3

This whole chapter is a journey of its own, but also part of a bigger one, which has been a joy to share with you all.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at @helloliriels

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