#it got out of hand so now there's 4 chapters

[rivalsispunk]

Inappropriate (Chapter 4 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Series summary: Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), mention of male appendages (IYKYK), mention of female orgasm, pussy pronouns, smut smut SMUTTTT, jealous Declan, all the good stuff

Word count: 11.4k

Chapter summary: Happening across your boss pants down only spells the beginning for you and Declan, but neither of you are expecting a surprise visitor to muddy the waters.

A/N: Thank you all for being SO SO patient with this one. I could've easily released this chapter in two parts but didn't want to disrupt the flow of the story (*ahem* smut). This has had a brief edit in my hastiness to publish so any mistakes... Shhhhhh!

© rivalsispunk please do not steal, copy, or translate any of my work onto other platforms!

Chapter Four: Inappropriate

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t had an inappropriate thought or two about Declan O’Hara in the time you’ve been friends with Taggie, perhaps more frequently since he’d become your superior, but that had nothing on the unadulterated filth that had infiltrated your brain in the hours since leaving The Priory. You can barely recall fleeing down its staircase or the drive home, what unfolded at the forefront of your mind until a self-induced orgasme lulled you into a deep sleep. Now, you’re permanently marred with the visual of Declan — your best friend’s father, your boss — fucking his hand with your name on his lips. You should feel dirty. You should feel violated. You should feel the way you do when Tony Baddingham’s beady eyes drink you in across the office. Like you need a scalding hot shower and to scrub yourself down to the bone. But you don’t. You feel like somebody’s doused you in gasoline and lit a match, your whole body burnt to flames — and it’s exhilarating. 

How many times has he done it?

Was that the first time?

And why do you want to watch him do it again?

“Did ya stay late last night?” Declan asks you the next day while you’re sifting through old newspapers in search for more dirt on Rupert, at your boss’ request. “Went straight up to bed once I got back, so didn’t hear ya leave.”

Liar, you think.

“Not too late. Eleven, maybe,” you respond, eyes glued haphazard clippings across your desk.

“Not that I would’ve heard you anyway,” he continues. “Not with the wailing guitar riffs at full volume on Taggie’s stereo.”

Only then do you flit your gaze up to look at the man on the other side of the office. Acting professional after that murky moment with Declan in the hot tub was one thing, but pretending you don’t know what your boss looks like with his pants dropped and cock in hand is a whole other kettle of fish. Under normal circumstances, you’d be awkward. Uncomfortable. But now it’s as if having his secret affection has allowed you the permission to challenge him. 

“Do you have something against Bon Jovi, Declan?”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” he responds, lighting a cigarette. “But when it feels like Jon is in bed with me screaming in my ear while I’m trying to sleep, I’m inclined to think otherwise.”

Let alone when you’re dancing around all but naked to it.

“So, can we count you out of belting Livin’ On A Prayer at Bar Sinister tonight?” you chide, reminding Declan of the invite you’d all received from the Joneses. Smoke plumes from his lips as he rears back from a drag.

“Yep. I’ll not be going anyway. Got too much work to get done.” “You always have too much work to get done,” you tell him. “You have to take a break sometime.”

“That’s what sleeping is for,” he counters, a slight smirk rising from under his moustache.

“Oh, come on, Declan. It’s one night.” You’re staring at him all doe-eyed across the room and your innocence, faux or not, does the heavy lifting of your convincing. “Come to Sinister. It’ll be fun.”

It’ll be fun, you’d said, voice all but a whiney beg that zapped like a rod of lightning straight to his crotch. But Declan’s struggling to find the enjoyment in spending his evening watching a revolving door of men try their luck with you, in that impossibly short merlot-coloured dress that’s befitting of Bar Sinister’s name. First, it was Bas Baddingham; the younger, kinder, though no less leery half-brother of Tony. Declan had noticed the pair of you when he arrived, his attention magnetised to you the moment he walked through the door. Bas had you cooped up in the corner by the floor to ceiling wine racks, his frame bowing over you while you chatted. 

Declan wasn’t prepared for the twist in his stomach, nor the prickle of heat that scaled his body until it reached his cheeks while he watched you giggle with Bas, eyes sparkling under his attention. It was almost as if he were a child watching someone play with his favourite toy, unwilling to let anybody else have a turn, even though he was well aware it wasn’t his to keep in the first place. You slung another one of your dazzling smiles Bas’ way, and it was enough to have Declan beelining for the bar to order a wine and a whiskey to keep his envy at bay. After a while, Bas was called away to assist with a kitchen catastrophe. He was quickly replaced with Rupert Campbell-Black, all smiles and slime as craned his neck to whisper in your ear. Whatever words he was imparting on you — undoubtedly dirty — saw you blush, a stunning flush of fuchsia flooding up your neck to your cheeks. This goes on for a while — too long, in Declan’s opinion — and every grin Rupert shoots your way, coupled with you staring up at him all starry-eyed like you’ve been touched by the hand of God, has Declan grinding his teeth to near-dust. 

He’s too old for you, he thinks. Certainly not good enough. The journalist had already been forced to warn the former Olympian off Taggie. He ought to do the same for you. But who was he kidding? He has no claim over you. You’re not his daughter.

The idea has him downing his whiskey in one gulp.

No, you’re definitely not his daughter.

Filthy hypocritical git.

You felt Declan before you saw him, his gaze like daggers slicing into you as you spoke with Bas, then even more so when while you chatted to Rupert. In all honesty, you had no interest in either men, but you made sure to ramp up the flirty act, particularly with Rupert, because you knew how much Declan disliked him. You weren’t entirely sure why; perhaps you wanted to see whether it bothered him, or how much it bothered him, but you could never get a good enough look at him to gauge where his head was at. You weren’t even talking about yourself, save for Rupert once again trying to coax you into a dinner date. Instead, you’d geared the conversation towards your best friend, whom you knew had a burgeoning crush on her neighbour despite her failed attempts to deny it.

“Are you expecting someone?” Rupert asks partway through gushing over Taggie’s catering at a recent hunt. “Or am I just boring you?”

His question falls on deaf ears, and you scramble to make up for your rudeness. “Sorry, Rupert. What was that?”

“Your eyes have been darting around this bar like you’re watching a tennis match.”

“I’m not—”

“Trust me, you are. It’s not often that a woman can bear to take her eyes off of me,” Rupert peacocks, cheeky grin blooming at his shameless confession. “So, who’s the lucky sod?”

God, he’s nothing if not perceptive, you think, chewing the inside of your cheek. Finally, you clock Declan by the till, his eyes stuck on you while Lizzie Vereker chats animatedly at his side.

“So, are you going to tell me or are you going to make me guess?” Rupert tries again. 

Turning your attention back to him, you make a show of laying a hand on the sleeve of his navy sports coat as you lie through your teeth. “It’s nobody. Nobody worth worrying about.”

“Are you trying to burn a hole through him?” Lizzie wonders aloud, cheeks already flushed from her half a glass of wine.

“He’s just… everywhere. It bothers me,” Declan tells her, not taking his eyes off you.

“Bothers you that he’s here, or bothers you that he’s here with her?” She looks at him quizzically before her sight slices to you.

“You know I can’t stand him, Lizzie. Sorry, I know he’s your friend but, God. Always lurking, trying to shag anything with a pulse. Even that might be too restrictive to the lengths he’ll go to.”

“She’s an adult, Declan. A strong-headed one, at that. She can make her own decisions.”

“Well, she’s making the wrong one with him. He's got all the charm of a burst hemorrhoid."

Lizzie swats Declan for his off-colour description. “And what do you suggest the right one to be, then?” She’s staring up at him, lips pursed like she knows something. Like she’s pried his skull open with a crowbar and all of his dirtiest thoughts about you have leaked all over Bar Sinister’s maroon carpet.

“Someone her own age,” Declan decides, as much as it pains him to admit. “Someone that’s not Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“Someone like Patrick?” Lizzie poses, and Declan’s head whips towards her at the mention of his son.

“Patrick? My Patrick?”

“It’s not that crazy an idea. He’s a perfectly lovely boy.”

“He’s also at university, Lizzie.” Far away from you.

“Was at university,” a familiar and all-too-missed voice sounds from behind the journalist, and he just about spills his Pinot Noir as he turns to greet his son.

“Patrick!” Declan pulls him into a hug, clapping a hand against his back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had a few days between exams. Thought I’d pay a visit.”

“Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“Come on, Dad. I’m here to have fun. You should try it sometime,” Patrick jests. There’s that word again. Fun. Despite your earlier promise, so far, Declan’s having anything but. “Hello, Lizzie,” Patrick leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. “So, what are we talking about over here? Though with you Rutshire lot, I suppose the question should be who are we talking about?” he asks, taking the wine glass from his father’s hand and polishing off what’s left of the heady liquid.

Lizzie steals a quick look at Declan, who feigns disinterest. “We were just talking about that glorious young lady over there,” she tells Patrick, pointing with her wine in your direction. “Rather beautiful, is she not?” 

Patrick’s eyes narrow as he spots you across the dim-lit room, still deep in conversation with Rupert. “Isn’t that Taggie’s friend? I remember meeting her at my birthday party. Rupert hasn’t eaten her alive yet?”

“Seems she’s one of the only women in this town that’s immune to his charms,” Lizzie conveys, and Declan wonders if they’re watching the same scene; Rupert laying it on thick and you seemingly lapping it up.

There’s a soft, almost curious tilt to Patrick’s head, lip pursed over as he watches the pair of you. “She might stand a chance after all,” he announces, then he’s away as quickly as he appeared, swerving through the crowd as he makes his way towards you.

Freddie is eight minutes through Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell and the whole bar is loving it. You can’t recall a time you’ve had this much fun out, your throat is stinging from how loud, how ferociously, you’re singing along with the electronics businessman. Freddie’s off-key and lack of rhythm is long forgotten under the haze of alcohol, and even Declan has slid off his broody perch to join the sing-a-long. Before the unmistakable first riff of the song blasted from the speakers, you’d spent the last half an hour chatting to Patrick, who’d surprised his family for a weekend home from university. You’d met him once before at the O’Hara’s most recent New Year’s Eve party. It’d also doubled as his twenty-first birthday, though you’d barely exchanged more than a hello and goodbye on the night and he was yet to venture back until this evening.

The only son of Declan and Maud, and it isn’t hard to see where the majority of his genes descend from. Hickory curls wisp every which way, nougat eyes flecked with black just like his father’s. While Patrick is far more idealistic than Declan, he’s just as foolhardy and exudes the same charm. He’s funny, too, much easier to joke with than his dad, you find, and though he can’t hear what his son is whispering to you over the roar of the crowd, the way you lean into him and laugh between lyrics grates on Declan. He silently curses Lizzie for setting Patrick’s sights on you. He knows — yes, knows — she was doing him a favour, in some roundabout way, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Especially when he has an unwilling front row seat with you standing between him and Patrick. To compete with Rupert and Bas was one thing, but his own son? Even if the whole thing was complete mental game, it wears on him, reminding him how fucking absurd his affection for you is.

The bar erupts in applause as Freddie wails along with the song’s final chord, his voice landing nowhere near the note Meat Loaf intended. Beside Declan, you cheer for the businessman while Patrick hollers in a way that’s more suited for a football match

“Right then, you randy bunch,” Freddie shouts, his cockney accent impossibly louder under the boom of the microphone. “Which one of yous dares to follow after the King of Karaoke?” The machine, some high-tech gadget flown in from Asia, fades into the next song, and the first couple of lyrics from Don’t Go Breaking My Heart appear on the screen.

“Oh, Daddy loves this song!” Taggie squeals from behind you, hands coming to shake Declan’s shoulders.

“What? No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” “I’ve heard you singing it in the shower,” she says, shouldering her way between the two of you. “Both Elton and Kiki Dee’s parts.”

Declan playfully swats his daughter. “Oh, shut it, Tag. Can we have no secrets?” Their repartee makes you smile, even more to see Declan without that far-etched scowl he’s often sporting.

“Kiki Dee fan, hey, Dad?” Patrick teases, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Not enough to get up there and sing it.”

Nobody else has jumped at the opportunity yet, and Freddie’s still trying to hype up the crowd to find a taker as the instrumental track rolls into the chorus. 

“You’ll sing it with him, won’t you?” It takes you a second to realise that Taggie is talking to you. “You were saying on the way here that you wanted to step out of your comfort zone a bit more.” 

You shake your head. That’s absolutely not what you were referring to.

“I meant professionally! Not…” you gesture haphazardly to the stage. You hadn’t mentally prepared to get up and perform. It also wasn’t exactly the activity you had in mind when you thought about you and Declan.

“Oh, go on, you two!” Taggie eggs you on, hopping with excitement. 

“I’ll give you ten quid,” Patrick wagers, and Declan slices a dark look his way.

“Anyone?” Freddie is still trying, swinging the microphone around by its cable. Then, you feel a hot breath sluice over your cheek. The scent of whiskey emanating from Declan gives away the dangerous amount he’s consumed this evening, which could be why he drops his mouth to your ear. 

“I’ll do it if you do it,” he murmurs, the deep timbre of his words racking through you. You rear backwards, nearly headbutting Taggie in the process.

“Are you joking? Two seconds ago you didn’t want to get up there either!”

Declan gives a half-hearted shrug as if to say why not. “It is a duet, after all.” His gaze holds yours and walks a fine line between pleading and defiant. There’s something in it now, a dare lurking beneath the surface, like he’s waiting for you to rise to the challenge. The look hits you sharp, suddenly; a flash of lightning tearing through the dark, and one final daring tilt of Declan’s head pushes your reservations aside.

“Okay, fine.” You snatch his glass from his hand and throw back the rest of the thick amber. A swell of pride burns through his chest, watching you pitch up the courage — even if it’s liquid — to get up on stage. “Freddie!” you shout towards the host. “Start it up again. We’re doing this.”

“Woohoo!” Freddie pumps a fist in the air, winding up the crowd until their cheering and applause hit deafening heights. Between the whiskey and the support of Taggie and Rutshire, you should be amped up enough to get through one measly song. But not even the heat blooming from where Declan’s hand rests on your back as he guides you on stage is enough to distract from the terror gnawing at you. 

Despite the small set-up and there only being forty-odd people in the crowd, you might as well have been performing at Wembley. The relentless stage lights make it seem like you’re just metres from the sun and your heart is pumping a frantic, runaway rhythm that just won’t quiet. You blanch, surprised the microphone doesn’t slip from your clammy palm as Freddie passes it to you, the object a heavy weight in your hand. Just below you, Taggie pumps a thumbs up, and Patrick claps supportively. And then there’s Declan, standing beside you, his presence both grounding and electrifying as he leans in, voice low but steady as the intro to Don’t Go Breaking Your Heart starts back up again. 

“Just breathe, love,” he tells you. “The worst that happens is we both end up looking like idiots.”

The first four bars pump out of the speakers, and you barely hear Declan apprehensively sing the first line because you’re too focussed on not regurgitating the cacio e pepe you’d consumed at dinner. You’re already a beat off when you murmur through your round of the lyrics, but Declan does a fine job at making up for your lack of stage presence. He’s side-stepping to the beat, putting his hips into it and clicking with his free hand. He’s still rigid in his movements, because he’ll be damned if performing for his peers this way is a regular occurrence, but it’s all he can do to get the attention off you, to calm your nerves without pulling you into a storage cupboard and fucking the anxiety out of you. 

By the time the second chorus rolls around, you’ve loosened up enough to follow Declan’s lead, your feet no longer paralysed by fear. You move about the stage, pointing dramatically at Taggie and wiggling your body. The gesture is small, but swinging your hips in a circle has Declan stumbling over his words, his trousers tightening over his crotch. 

Ooh-ooh, nobody knows it (nobody knows), the entire bar is singing along now, and Declan’s welcome for the distraction because the song is right. Nobody knows just how far gone he is for you, and this little love song performance isn’t helping anyone. Thankfully, the music begins fading out, signally the end of your time up on stage, and you clamber down the two rickety steps to resounding applause. 

“See?” Taggie says when you return to your rightful place out of the spotlight. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You ignore your heart leaping at the base of your throat and ignore the urge to steal a glance at Declan, who’s made straight for the bar. Again.

“No, not all bad,” you give in, smiling between your friend and her brother.

You stay for one more drink and a few more songs, finally calling it a night once Charles coaxes half the broadcasting staffers into a Les Misérables sing-a-long. You and the O’Hara’s venture outside, the crisp night air pulling all of the hairs on your arms to their ends. While the four of you wait for a cab, Patrick sloughs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, an almost silent that’s better slipping into the darkness. Lighting a cigarette, Declan tries — tries — to mind his own business. But his ears prick up at the mention of you and dinner.

“What do you say?” Patrick is asking you, voice competing with the sound of tires on wet bitumen and the chorus resounding from inside Sinister. “Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up?”

The words hang in the air. Simple. Loaded.

You feel Declan’s gaze like a weight on your shoulders. You should want to go on a date with Patrick, right? You’re supposed to; he’s smart, funny and, more to the point, not nearly two decades your senior. But all you can think about is how Declan’s attention makes your skin flush, how he’s standing right there, probably watching this all unfold. You swallow, pressure mounting as Patrick’s invitation still hangs between you. A few steps away, Declan shifts, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. When you glance back at him, he busies himself with his lighter, like its manufacture is the most fascinating thing in the world. 

Would he even notice if you said yes to his son? Would he care at all?

You nod before you can second-guess yourself, your words tripping out like they’re not even yours. “Yeah, sure. Dinner sounds good.” Patrick beams brightly as a taxi pulls up to the curb. Declan’s unreadable as he stubs out his cigarette, while the energy pouring from Taggie is hard to miss.

“I’m so excited!” she whisper-shouts, her hands coming to wrap around your left arm as you approach the cab. “If this works out between you and Patrick, we’ll be sisters!”

Behind you, Declan pales at his daughter’s comment.

You and Patrick. Working out.

You and Taggie. Sisters.

The idea makes him sick.

“Is that thing broken?” Declan stabs a finger at the clock hanging in The Priory’s kitchen. He’s positive something is wrong with it. Every time he looks to the wall, the hands appear unmoving, perpetually stuck at eleven-fifteen.

“It’s working perfectly fine,” Taggie assures her father while kneading a mound of dough that would soon become dinner rolls for tomorrow’s black-tie event at the Baddinghams’. “I think the issue is you keep checking it every five seconds.” Declan shakes his head, boots scraping along the floor as he paces up and down the length of the room. “Daddy, can you stop for a moment? You’re making me motion sick.” “Patrick should’ve been home by now,” he says, ignoring his daughter while his eyes flick to the clock again. 

“He’s on a date, for goodness sake,” Taggie says, and the reminder of his whereabouts — your whereabouts — feels like an infected scrape across his heart. “Just leave him be. He’ll be home when he’s home.”

Declan barks out a laugh. “Leave him be! Thanks, Taggie. That’s just grand parenting advice. I’ll try that one with you when you’ve got kids galavanting around God knows where at all hours of the night.”

“I’d hardly call eleven all hours of the night,” she counters, and the comment stops Declan at the head of the kitchen bench. She keeps stretching and folding the dough, almost unphased by her father’s agitation. Declan smiles, just for a second, recognising that Taggie’s become far more outspoken, less inward, since having you around. He’d be proud if the situation wasn’t so infuriating.

“I’m just—” he stares at a crack in the timber benchtop. “It’s just getting late and he has to drive back to school tomorrow.” It was a cheap excuse. Declan knew full well that Patrick would have no issues making the two-hour drive back to campus, even on little sleep. In truth, he could roll in at four AM and he’d not bat an eyelid. 

But this isn’t really about Patrick, is it? No, it’s you. You, out there with his son, doing God knows what, God knows where. He could feel the weight of it— the resentment, the jealousy — settling deep in his chest. What if you’d kissed? Worse, what if you’d—No. His fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, knuckles coming up white. His mind deceives him again, and there you are, entwined in your bed sheets with Patrick, your laughter mixing with the sound of something more. The thought burns hot and quick through him, and the longer you’re out with Patrick, the harder it is to shake.

Then there’s the slam of a car door. The whine of hinges at the entrance to The Priory. Declan and Taggie both glance at each other before racing to the foyer to greet Patrick. 

“Are you guys waiting up for me or something?” he chides, unravelling himself from his navy scarf.

“No,” Declan is all too quick to answer. Yes.

“So?” Taggie, flour marring her right cheek, is just about levitating with the way she’s bouncing on her feet. “How was it then?”

“Lovely,” Patrick says. “She’s really great. So intelligent.”

Yeah, I know, Declan dares to think.

“Did you kiss her goodnight?” Taggie wants to know, gazing up at her brother like a toddler waiting on a fairytale.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from Patrick as he slings his coat over the staircase bannister. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, my dear,” he muses, thumbing his sister’s chin. 

“You know I’m going to find out from her anyway,” Taggie warns him.

“Then you’ll just have to wait until you see her tomorrow, won’t you?”

She rolls her eyes, and Declan’s stomach churns in a similar motion. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but Patrick wasn’t usually one to play coy. The only reason for his self-effacement must be because he really likes you. And, as Declan trudges up to bed, throwing a tetchy goodnight over his shoulder to his children, he worries you likely feel the same.

The date was…fine. Patrick was twenty minutes late, but it was quickly made up for with the bouquet of roses, twice the size of his head, that he arrived alongside. After a quick peck to the cheek, he ushered you into the Clubman he’d borrowed from his father for the night. The car reeked of stale smoke and the leathery wood smell of Declan’s cologne. If you allowed yourself, you could almost hear the rasp of his voice and the sharp click of his lighter. Beside you, Patrick chatted away about his literature class at university while he navigated the quiet streets, completely unaware of how his father’s presence seemed to haunt every inch of this car. You bypassed Bar Sinister and town completely, ending up at Le Petit Chêne — The Little Oak — a small, family-owned French bistro fifteen minutes down the road. The food was delicious, the wine even better, but as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but compare Patrick to his father, even though you were well aware it wasn’t fair. Patrick had that same tapered jawline, those dark eyes, but where Declan’s gaze felt like a bolt of electricity, Patrick’s was softer, warmer. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were like something familiar, comfortable, like you could just keep moving through the motions and never have to think too hard. But Declan... Declan made you feel every. Single. Glance.

Still, the comfortability and Patrick’s friendliness made it easy to lose track of time as you traded tales from your time at university and compared your favourite novels, arguing over the crux of Of Mice and Men — you find it majorly depressing, while Patrick thinks it signifies hope. You agreed, begrudgingly, to disagree, the squabble wrapping up as your date pulls up outside your flat. 

“I had a really nice night,” he confessed when you reached your door. 

“Yeah, me, too,” you responded, shrugging off his jacket he’d once again loaned you. “That restaurant was lovely. Thank you again for paying.” “You’re worth it.” Patrick shuffled from one foot to the other, the subtle movement signifying the first time you’d ever seen the eldest O’Hara child anywhere close to nervous. You knew what was coming next, with the way he looked up from your doormat with hopeful eyes, blush pinching at the apples of his cheeks. “Can I kiss you?”

You should want to kiss him, the young, likable man standing in front of you. Going against your better judgement, you said yes and tried to enjoy his soft lips against yours. His touch was gentle, one hand on your waist, the other cupping your cheek, but the spark that should ignite at having a handsome man like Patrick wanting you was missing. It didn’t help that you could still feel the ghost of Declan’s presence, like the heat from his stare was still burning into your skin. No hairs stood on end. No rush of warmth flooded your chest. Nothing like the way you felt when Declan’s gaze lingered on you just a little too long, or when your hands brushed, the way they had that night in the hot tub. The gnawing comparisons followed you into your flat once you and Patrick had said goodnight, and tucked themselves into bed beside you, marking the beginning of a long night of fractured sleep.

The next evening, you find yourself in a sea of black tuxedos and satin gowns, the clink of glasses and low murmurs of conversation filling the ballroom in the Baddingham manor as you celebrate Four Men Went To Mow dominating the winter ratings. Early that morning, Taggie called to hear details from your date with Patrick, revealing that her brother remained mum about the night you’d spent together. You kept it top-line, telling her it was fun and that there was a peck, which was met with squeals from the other end of the phone. Taggie then dished that Patrick had extended his stay in Rutshire and would be attending that night’s festivities, and whatever excitement you held for the party dissipated.

After your date, you’d expected Patrick to return to university, taking whatever fleeting attraction he held for you with him. You found comfort in that, knowing you wouldn’t have to let him down easy and that Taggie would stop prematurely planning your wedding to her brother. Yet, here he is, looking dashing in a three-piece tux and already the life of the party. So, you push any awkwardness aside and focus on the night ahead. Patrick told you he was definitely leaving tomorrow morning—no harm in enjoying his company tonight, right? You can smile, have a bit of fun, try not to think too much about it. The music plays, the conversation flows, and you laugh, genuinely, pretending for a moment that everything is simple. But through it all, you can feel Declan observing the pair of you across the grand hall. No matter the conversations he finds himself amongst, whether it be with board members about his show, or colleagues exchanging gossip about interoffice affairs, a portion of his attention is always attuned to you. He winces every time your laugh rises above the chatter and he’s desperate to know what words his son is crooning to justify such a heavenly sound. There was something in the way you looked at his son — a softness that went beyond polite attention. But who was he kidding? Why wouldn’t you be interested in Patrick? Lizzie was right. Patrick is the right choice, and judging by the smile pinching at your cheeks as you look up at him, a choice you’ve gladly already made.

After two rounds of canapes have made the rounds, Taggie manages to steal a few minutes away from the kitchen to join you and Daysee on the dancefloor for the YMCA, the three of you giggling between the iconic moves as you try to decide which of the Corinium men would be each of the Village People. Despite the low temperature outside, sweat slides down your spine and the hairs framing your face stick to your forehead.  “I’m going to get some air!” you shout, gesturing to the doors in case your friends can’t hear you above the music. As the song fades into a Hall and Oates hit, you push through the throng of guests, ignoring the way Tony Baddingham’s eyes rinse over you in your baby blue dress as you pass by him and Freddie Jones in the corridor. When you step outside, the pulse of music and chatter drifts into the cool night, mingling with the quiet conversations and laughter of guests convening among the manicured hedges and flower beds. The air is thick with the scent of damp grass and the faintest trace of woodsmoke pumping from the manor’s chimneys and many roaring fireplaces.

Down the far end of the house, you spot Declan in the shadow of one of the sky-reaching pillars. He’s still, watching the party through the large windows, light from inside flickering softly across his face. It catches the curve of his cheek and the edge of his stubbly jaw in bursts, and battles with the glow of the cigarette he lifts to his lips. Smoke curls up into the night, and only when it shifts does he finally catch sight of you. He doesn’t say a word, just lets the silence stretch between you for a few moments until you ask him, “Are you hiding?”

“Just getting some fresh air,” he says, taking another drag. 

“With lungs full of smoke?” you dare. 

The cigarette tips towards the sky as Declan smirks. “Watch yourself.” You take the cheeky lilt in his voice as an invitation to join him, your heels echoing off the concrete pavers as you walk. “Are you having fun?” he wants to know when you fall into line beside him. 

“Yeah, it’s a great party. I just hope Freddie hasn’t brought that bloody karaoke machine with him,” you say, only half serious.

“I’ll say,” Declan agrees, dark eyes still fixated on the window. Beyond it, Patrick is talking animatedly with a group of six or so guests gathered around him, all of them ogling the young scholar over their drinks like they’re the disciples to his Jesus. As if he’s just relayed the punchline to a joke, his onlookers throw their heads back with laughter, and the man to Patrick’s left claps him on the shoulder, unable to contain himself.

“People are just drawn to him, aren’t they?” Declan wonders out loud. He doesn’t mean it as a test, but he’s curious to see if you open up to him about the night before. 

“It’s not hard to see why,” comes your answer, and it’s clear you’re keeping your cards as close to your chest as Patrick.

“He’s a good boy,” Declan forges on, nudging his chin in the direction of his firstborn.

“You told me that boys don’t know what they want.”

“Not my son. He’s known what he wants since he was in the womb."

“And what about you? Do you know what you want?” The question is playful and doesn’t probe in the way you wish you could ask, but it’s enough for Declan to debate answering.

What does he want?

You.

To not want you.

“He likes you a lot, you know," he pivots, as much as the facts pain him.

“Oh, yeah?”

Declan nods. “He was out here not long ago, banging on about your celestial light.” The phrase makes him chuckle while he shakes his cigarette, ash flickering from orange to grey as it drifts to the ground.

“Celestial light?" you scoff, breath turning to fog in the air. "You’re joking. I have about as much celestial light as a flickering lamp post.”

“Don’t do that.” Any amusement in Declan’s voice is gone with those three words. 

“Do what?”

“Put yourself down. Make yourself small.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“

“Don’t you?" Declan presses, head quirked. You don't fool me, is what he means. "You don't have to do that with Patrick. Don't have to do that with me."

"And the rest of them? I'm not naive enough to think that I'm more than some young thing expected to keep quiet and look pretty. That's just the way it is. All those men in there," you nod towards the sprawling windows that separate you from the party. "They don't think anything of me. They just see me as —"

“Smart? Witty?” Declan interjects, trying to meet your eye as you toe a stray leaf that's blown onto the concrete. “Beautiful as you may be, you have a hell of a lot more going for you. Believe me.” He’s being earnest, you can hear it in the way his voice dips to barely a whisper. In this way, his words are intentional and just for you. 

You abandon the leaf in favour of his face. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Be crazy not to."

"Declan..." You don't know where your sentence is going, or why you step towards him, but you do, the confession — as minor as it is — digging into you like a hook and Declan's eyes, pinned to you, reeling you in.

"So, how was your date then?" The question throws up a wall between you. An unscalable, Patrick-shaped wall.  A red flush spreads over your chest and blooms up your neck. You don't want to talk about this. Not really. Not with him.

"Patrick didn't tell you?"

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, is what he said." There's a strangled edge to his voice, a frustration, like his son being cryptic was the most inconvenient thing in the world. "Did you —"

"There you are, Declan!" The voice has you skittering you across the pavement away from Declan, your heart tugging like you're still attached to him by that imaginary hook. 

"For fuck’s sake," he mutters, snuffing his cigarette out under his dress shoe as Tony Baddingham saunters towards you, sly smile poisoning his lips.

"And here you are," he croons your name. "Never far from Declan, are you?"

"I told ya, Tony. She's my right hand man," your boss says, and you snuff the smile threatening to crack across your face at the thought that Declan’s talking about you, needing you. He’s trying to sound aloof, but he hates watching Tony sniff you out like a wolf stalking its prey — circling, picking up every subtle scent of your discomfort, eyes glowing with that predatory gleam. 

"So, it would seem. I must admit, your show has taken quite a spectacular turn in the ratings since this one's come along," Tony continues, coming to stand beside you. His cool hand slides too comfortably around your bare shoulders, his fingers pressing into your skin with an air of ownership. You flinch and try to mask it with a forced smile, but Tony doesn't seem fazed, chuckling as he leans in closer, eyes trailing down the front of your chest. "This dress is something rather spectacular itself. How did you know blue is my favourite colour?"

"Lucky guess," you tell him, stiffening under the weight of his arm. Declan's jaw tightens, and while he's trying to stay composed, tension radiates from him in violent, crashing waves. Your eyes dart about as you shift uncomfortably — something that doesn't go unnoticed by Declan. 

He digs into his pocket, retrieving a small, stainless steel case that he holds out to Tony. "Cigarette?"

"Ah, I told the lady of the house that I would try to quit," Tony explains, referring to his wife, Monica. "But I suppose one never killed anybody." It feels like a tonne has been sloughed off you when Lord Baddingam unravels himself from you, moving towards Declan to light up.

"Thank you," you mouth behind Tony's back, and Declan returns a wink that goes straight to your warm centre. 

Inside the house, the party erupts in hoots and cheers as La Bamba starts over the speakers, and you catch sight of Daysee beckoning you back to the dancefloor from the other side of the glass. Tony begins rattling off competitor numbers and other industry secrets well above your pay grade, so you take the opportunity to slip back inside for another champagne, another dance.

Before too long, you’re swept into a conversation with Valerie and Lizzie — well, more Valerie, who is probing you for gossip from within the walls of Corinium. She’s a total fiend for a scandal. You’d heard through the grapevine that she’d told Monica Baddingham about her husband’s sordid rendezvous with Cameron Cook, and no doubt Valerie was well across the fact that Lizzie’s own husband was spending a great deal of time pants down in his dressing room with his co-host.

“Well, there’s got to be something,” Valerie whines when you tell her you tend to keep your nose out of other people’s business. 

“Oh, leave her be,” Lizzie tells her before turning to you. “How are you, love? More to the point, how’s Patrick? I heard the two of you went on a date last night.”

Jeez, word travels fast around here, you think.

“You and Declan’s son?” Valerie clarifies, tweeting at the revelation. “Handsome boy, him. God, Declan’s genes are strong, aren’t they?”

The mention of Declan has you searching for him through the windows, and you catch him just in time to see him storm away from Tony, disappearing from view until he barges back into the party with a snarl contorting his mouth. Most of the guests are too drunk to notice him stalking through the ballroom, or swipe a glass of whiskey off the tray of a waiter in one brisk snatch he doesn’t even slow down for.

“Oh, God,” Lizzie mutters, turning away from Declan as he shoves past your trio, the sleek material of his jacket scraping across your upper arm.

You call after him to no avail before Lizzie touches your wrist lightly, shaking her head. “Leave him, darling.”

“Why?” you ask, searching her face for some shred of a clue. “Lizzie, what’s happened?”

“You didn’t hear it from me —”

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Valerie squawks, her cockney twang exacerbated by alcohol. “The whole bloody country’s already read about it in the paper this morning.”

“For God’s sake, read what?”

“Declan’s wife — Maud — well, she’s got some big flashy part in some famous play in the city,” Valerie is all too excited to tell you, while Lizzie takes far too much interest in the ice melting at the bottom of her empty glass. “Three month run if it all goes to plan, the article said.”

“At least,” Lizzie finally pipes up, crimson colouring her face immediately after. “Poor Declan.”

Yes, poor Declan. 

Taggie and Patrick, who are dancing to a completely different song to the one that’s playing, are none the wiser that their father’s just come barrelling through here like a bull in a china shop. And, given that Taggie’s yet to mention anything about her estranged mother, your bet is that they have no idea about her new role, either. Your heart breaks for your best friend, for all of them, which is why you trail after Declan once Lizzie and Valerie have found another unsuspecting guest to pry information from.

The first few doors you try are no-gos: an office space that looks rather untouched, a sitting room decked out with floral upholstery complete with a couple you’ve never met going at it on a sofa, and an ornate guest bathroom. It’s not until the fifth door that you find Declan looking forlorn in the Baddingham’s library. He’s sprawled out in a dark armchair, tall frame filling it out. Legs spread like he’s waiting for someone to kneel between them.

“Hey,” you say quietly, closing the door softly behind you.

His voice is groggy with liquor when he responds, “Where’s Patrick?”

“Dancing with Taggie, I think. It’s nice seeing them together, I know she’s missed him,” you tell him, adding, “You’ve raised some good kids.”

Declan scoffs. “Dunno how. Workaholic father, absentee mother with a chronic wandering eye.” 

Your stomach dips. “I heard about Maud. Are you okay?” 

“So, everyone’s talking about it.” He sinks impossibly lower into the chair, its leather whining as he splays his arms out to his sides. The whiskey in his hand splashes over the edge of his glass with the movement. “Am I okay? What’s it look like to you?”

He looks like shit, inky hair disheveled from raking a frantic hand through it, but the frustration already emanating from him stops you from voicing it. The man just found out his wife has no intention of returning home anytime soon. The least you can do is give him some grace.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Declan snaps. “And I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. It’s…” he ponders on the right word before settling on, “Inappropriate.”

You drag your bottom lip between your teeth. “Because I’m Taggie’s friend?”

He laughs incredulously. “Yeah, because you’re Taggie’s friend. You’re my employee. You’re…” He gestures haphazardly in your direction.

“I’m…?” you prompt, taking a few trepid steps towards him.

Insatiable. Infallible. Interminable. Indomitable. How could he ever settle on just one? 

“Insufferable,” Declan eventually mutters, chasing the confession with a slow swig of his drink.

It’s your turn to laugh now. “I’m insufferable? I’m not the one that’s stalked off to sulk and—” You stop, shake your head. “Actually, I’m not going to argue this with you. If you want to sit in here alone instead of spending time with people who actually care about you, people who are actually here, so be it.” After shooting Declan a pointed look, you stalk to the door, but there’s a buzz in your veins that knows you’re not ready to let up just yet, so you turn on your heel to face him again. “And I don’t need you telling me what is and isn’t appropriate. Your moral compass is far too gone for that.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Declan wants to know, sitting a little more upright in his seat.

“You’re kidding, right? I heard you, you know. The other night. Saying my name while you were touching yourself.” Declan’s whiskey glass freezes at his lips, black eyes locked on you. “Not very appropriate considering I’m Taggie’s friend. Your employee,” you confess, throwing his reasons for not opening up to you back in his face. Your chest heaves with shallow breaths, like spilling the secret of you watching Declan come undone has stolen every bit of viable air from your burning lungs. You half expect him to deny it, but his face is blank, and his silence is aggravating. Time, what feels like minutes, stretches between the two of you, gazes set on one another while you silently duel across the library. 

“Nothing to say, Declan?” you press. “That’s a first.”

Leather ripples through the room as he stands, abandoning his glass on a side table before stalking towards you. He doesn’t stop until you’re toe to toe and your back presses into the cool wood of the door. Whiskey, aftershave and a lick of sweat consumes you as Declan regards you down his nose. “Like I said,” he croaks. “You’re insufferable.”

Your jaw unhinges as you go to bite back at him, to tell him that he’s the one making things unbearable, but then he tuts, jabbing his forefinger into his chest. “You’ve said enough. It’s my turn to speak.

“Hiring you is up there with the worst things I’ve ever done, and believe me, love, I’ve done a lot of shitty things. That night in the hot tub? Ruined me for all I’m worth. I can’t go to sleep without seeing you. Can’t go to work without wondering what it’d be like to bend you over the desk. Can’t bear to watch you bat those fucking eyes of yours at Rupert or Bas or Patrick. Then there’s Maud…” His eyes slip shut as he speaks, a small shake of his head revealing shame eroded in the space between his unruly eyebrows. “Every moment she pulls away from me is a moment that pushes me closer to you, and I hate it,” he confesses. “And seeing you with Patrick is fucking eating me alive, because what kind of man — what kind of married man — wishes the worst on his son over a woman that he has no claim over?”

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“Jealous,” Declan repeats. He can only laugh. “Did you fuck him?”

You pull back, head softly ricocheting off the wood behind you. “Did I— you can’t be serious, Declan.” “Answer the question. Did. You. Fuck. Him?” 

“Of course not!”

“No?” He sounds surprised, and you’re almost offended.

“No!” you spit. The thump of muffled music vibrates through the door, matching your heart trying to break free from your chest. 

“Why not?”

“Declan, stop—”

“No, tell me,” he probes, hot breath fanning over your face. “Is it because he’s not smart enough for ya? Not manly enough?” You divert your gaze, blurred vision locking onto some benign object in the distance, because you don’t trust yourself to keep looking at Declan. You can’t tell what his angle is, whether he’s jealous at the attention you’re getting from other men, or annoyed that you’re not interested in his son. Eventually, he cocks his head to meet your sightline, finger coming to your chin to turn you to face him. “Tell me why you didn’t fuck him.”

“Because he’s not you!” It flies out of your mouth before you have the sense to stop it, breath catching in the back of your throat as you await Declan’s next move. The energy caught in the mere inches between you continues to crackle, but the fire burning under him seems to have subsided as his shoulders fall from their tense fixture, his suit jacket sagging with his muscles. He looks down at you with heavy eyelids. He’s tired. So fucking tired. Of pretending he doesn’t miss Maud, that he doesn’t want you. That of both those unspoken truths piled together makes him feel like a right failure as a husband, as a father, as a boss. He was already broken, and your admission was the final crack that made him shatter.

Shaky hands come to cover your mouth, a barrier to keep any more secrets from polluting the fragile silence that hangs heavy between you. Declan shuffles back, just a hairbreadth. He’s got his head viced, one hand through his hair and the other gripping his jaw. “Fucking hell.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Even if it’s the truth?” He’s just barely looking at you, sheepish. Like he’s waiting for permission. Or a denial. The torture draining the colour from his face is making it hard to tell what’s going on in that gorgeous head of his.

“It’s not fair. On either of us.” 

“You’re damn right it isn’t fair. None of this is fair.” He’s back at you, crowding you against the door, one large dress shoe pitched between your platform heels. You’re certain that if he took one deep breath, his belt buckle would make impressions on your stomach. You can see the indentations in his lips, the miniscule patch of dry skin at the corner. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve exercised more restraint in the last month than I’ve ever had to in my life. You’re fucking ruining me.” 

The disclosure has thinned his voice to barely a whisper. Heat bubbles low in your stomach, the pull of wanting to close the gap between you warring with the consequence you know wait for you both if you give in. Still, the way he’s staring at you, with wounded eyes like twin black holes, how could you ever stand a chance?

It’s why you let another confession slip, for better or for worse.

“You think I don’t feel it, too?” 

Declan reaches to tuck your hair behind your ear, his hand trailing back to caress your cheek. The minute he touches you, your whole body goes lax, completely pliable for him. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and you can practically taste the liquor on his tongue. Black eyes zigzag across your features while his palm moves to cup your jaw, the pad of his thumb meeting the swell of your bottom lip. 

“This okay?” You only nod because you don’t have the strength, the gall, to betray Taggie by vocalising how desperately you want her father to keep touching you in ways you’ve only dreamed about.

“Need to hear you say it,” he urges. “Gotta make sure you really want this.”

He has no fucking idea how much you do.

“Please,” is all you manage to muster before an animalistic growl scrapes up the back of his throat and Declan O’Hara is kissing you in a way that’s going to screw you up forever.

You’re folding like the world’s flimsiest house of cards the moment his mouth hits yours, all teeth and tongues, whiskey, tobacco and him. If it weren’t for him scooping an arm around your waist to hold you to him, you’d be in a heap on the floor. Declan’s faint grunts resonate around your tongue as his own explores your mouth with fervent jabs, only breaking the erratic rhythm to suck your lip so sensually it peels a whimper from you. His arm is scorching against the bare skin that sits above the low-cut back of your dress. His hips flex into yours, and you feel the cool metal of his belt through satin. Then you feel it. His hard length, constricted by his suit trousers, pressing to your stomach. Excitement and desire pulse through you, the feeling of his arousal against you intoxicating, knowing you’re the cause.

“Ya feel that, darlin’? Feel what you do to me?” Declan asks, each word heavy with need and muffled into your neck, tongue flickering over the salty skin there. Your hands twist into his curls while he sucks a kiss into your collarbone. It pulls blood to the surface, most likely noticeable, but you don’t care. Not when Declan branding you feels so fucking good. After a few good moments, he pulls back to take you in, his lips puffy from working over your decolletage. His eyes skim over your face, drinking in every detail — the pale lipstick smeared around your mouth, your glassy eyes, the pink flush staining your cheeks.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucked out for me already.” Any shame that previously coloured Declan’s features has evaporated, the pity drowning his eyes flushed out by incessant need. He kisses you again, though it’s not so much a kiss as it’s a collision, only slowing down his movements once he’s confident this isn’t one of his fleeting, filthy dreams. It’s been so long since another person has kissed you like this, touched you like this. It’s everything Patrick’s kiss wasn’t, intimate and intentional despite the roaring laughter and music on the other side of the wall. 

Declan’s large hand leaves your hip and you immediately miss it as his fingers brush over the cool doorknob. They don’t linger, there’s no hesitation before the click of the lock vibrates through you. You don’t hear it, though. Not over your pulse thrumming in your ears. It’s a purposeful, unspoken decision to shut out everything but the heat building between you, then his hand is back at your waist, pinning you in place against the wood. The other grazes down your body until he reaches the hem of your dress, sliding it up your leg until he has it gathered in a pool of azure at your hip. Your breathing hitches at the feeling of his skin on your hip bone. Under the flood of material, Declan’s fingers find the waistband of your underwear, thumb trilling over the flimsy lace holding your thong together. Your breaths mingle, lips barely grazing while his mind runs ragged with thoughts of what colour the garment is. Black to match that sinful bra you wore to your interview? Red like the pair you were wearing in his dream last night? He hooks a finger under the elastic, pulling the panties away from your body then letting them go so they snap against your skin. You let out a sharp gasp at the sting but he’s already soothing it, one step ahead of what you’re needing. 

“I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so fucking long,” he groans. His hand finds its way under the lace material again to glide over the bulb of your arse, kneading the flesh there.

“Declan,” you whine, jutting your hips into his, desperate for friction.

“What’s that, darlin’?” Even with your eyes clamped shut you know he’s smirking, relishing in your neediness. You arch forward again but he’s far stronger than you, his brawniness keeping you in place. “If you want something, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Please,” you sigh, following up with a strangled, “Touch me.”

Declan wastes no time in finding you bundle of nerves, but as soon as he’s there, it’s like time slows to an excruciating speed, his fingers featherlight over the thin material. You’re already soaked. Have been since he started berating you about how much him wanting you was fucking him up. Declan knows it too, groaning as he applies more pressure, your slick seeping around the pad of his finger.

“Christ, you’re wet,” he grunts. “Is all this f’me?” Your head cants incessantly, mind and heart and pussy chanting more, more, more. But it doesn’t come. He just holds his finger to you, steady, waiting, like a finger on the trigger of a gun. The only relief you’re getting is from you squirming under his touch, and even then, it’s just not hitting in the way you know Declan could if he would just. Move.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and as sexy as it sounds on a regular day, under the circumstances, it almost has you seeing red. “Oh, there she is,” Declan says when you finally look at him. “Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” His eyes are glued to yours, half-lidded with a grin tugging under his moustache. It’s not a challenge. It’s a promise. He has you right where he wants you, and you can feel it in the air, thick with his quiet confidence. Your mouth goes slack when Declan removes his finger from the outside of your underwear, instead using it to push the material aside, granting himself full access to your swollen centre. Then it’s back to square one: unhurried, languid movements as he traces your folds. Up and around, not once sliding over your clit despite your unintelligible splutterings begging him to do so. Declan’s lips fall back over yours with a quiet, charged kiss as his hand comes to cup your mound completely, his tongue seeking purchase against your own. You stay like that for a moment, tongues battling each other, his hand covering your pussy like he already owns it. Every single one of your nerve endings is alight, every inch of your skin acutely aware of his presence as his moustache grazes your top lip, as his middle finger ever so slightly dips between your folds. Then finally, finally, he slides a thick finger into you and you clench around him, the unfiltered pleasure enough to never want to be without the feeling of him inside you again. You both moan, the sound disappearing into your kiss, your hand disappearing into his hair, holding him to you. 

The hard peaks of your nipples create little blue buds against your dress, and they rub against Declan’s chest while he drags his finger from your body, in and out, in and out, each movement as deliciously slow as the last.

After a minute, he breaks your kiss, letting his forehead rest against your own. “You’re so tight,” he grits, adding another finger despite his observation. The new addition allows the palm of his hand to jut against your clit, and the friction almost has you levitating. “Oh, you like that, huh?” Declan teases, pushing into you harder, faster. The change in pace has you jerking like a live wire. Totally unhinged, the world feels like it’s spinning off its axis, more dangerously the longer he keeps that unforgiving pace. All this pent up frustration and teasing and longing bucks you closer to the edge, pins and needles edging their way from your toes up your body until—

Knock knock knock.

The door thumps into your back, scaring your orgasm away with it. Declan’s fingers freeze inside you, your clit pulsating against his palm, your eyes locked on one another as you will away the intrusion. The doorknob jostles next and all you can think is thank God Declan locked it when he did.

“‘S occupied!” he growls.

“Dad? Is that you?” Patrick.

The whites of your eyes blow out as you glare at Declan, panicked by the arrival of his son — your date, not twenty-four hours earlier — as you conjugate just mere inches away. Declan lifts his free hand to his lips, pressing a single finger into the supple flesh. Shh.

“Dad? Are you in here?” Patrick asks again, trying the door for a second time. 

“Yeah, son. You alright?” Declan responds, and your eyes go impossibly wider at him answering while his fingers are still buried in your pussy. While his steely length presses into the crease between your thigh and crotch.

“Are you alright? You’ve been gone a while.”

Declan’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, leaving a devilish smile in its wake. “Everything’s grand,” he drawls, fingers slipping out of you to stake claim on your clit. The subtle movement yanks a gasp from you, a mix of embarrassment and arousal pumping through you as Declan begins to trace circles there. You’re caught between wanting to disappear and wanting more as Declan keeps talking, Irish accent laden with lust. “Just needed a few minutes to myself. Needed to…” he pauses, licking a stripe up the side of your neck before latching his teeth onto your earlobe for a hair of a second, “Decompress.”

“Mmm,” you moan, too loudly, because Declan claps a hand over your mouth to keep any more desperate sounds slipping from under the door. There’s a moment pause, and you panic, thinking you’ve given the pair of you away, but then Patrick is chattering away again, asking after you.

“Have you seen her? Could’ve sworn she came down this way.”

“Nope,” Declan lies, picking up pace as he strums your clit, like he’s getting off on holding a conversation while trying to take you to the brink of no return. “Haven’t seen her.”

The knot in your stomach mounts again, your whole body buzzing at high frequency. Patrick says something else, a goodbye, you think, but for all you know he could be speaking gibberish, the rush of blood to your ears blocking out anything that’s not Declan. 

The slight savour of sweat he’s worked up and how it tangoes with the cigarette smoke still lingering on his suit jacket.

How his mouth hangs slightly open, his tongue resting loosely against his bottom row of teeth, completely dumb for you.

The grunt wrapped in a sigh that pushes out of him when he plows two thickset fingers inside you again, and the matching moan you hum into the palm of his hand, the metal of his wedding ring cool against your upper lip.

“You’re making me crazy,” he says lowly. “Turnin’ me into someone who steals his son’s girl.” Your response comes out distorted, muffled against his skin. Declan’s hand slips from your mouth, finding its way to the nape of your neck and tangling its fingers into the frizzy hair there, the slight tension making your scalp tingle. “You got something to say, darlin’?”

“Not… his… girl,” you pant, words punctuated by Declan pumping his fingers impossibly deeper into your cunt.

“You’re damn right you’re not his girl.”

The subtext is clear. You’re not Patrick’s. You’re his. The feminist in you should balk at the insinuation but who are you kidding? Every stolen glance. Every car ride. Every solo orgasm you’ve yanked from yourself in the dead of night to the thought of him. Everything has led you to this. 

Your mascara flakes over the apples of your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut, Declan’s fingers expertly twisting and careening until the coil in the pit of your stomach is wound so tight you think you’re going to crack in two.

“Fuck, Declan,” you mewl, gripping his biceps to keep yourself steady. “So close.”

“Look at me, love. Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come.”

You could’ve fallen apart at those words alone, but you do what Declan says, gaze fluttering to his face as the butt of his hand against your clit works in tandem with his fingers until there’s a sharp and sudden snap, breaking you apart in a violent burst.

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” your expletives are swaddled by his hand yet again, eyes pricking with tears as you chase your high. Even through the blur, you see Declan grinning down at you with pride, nodding, quietly egging you on.

“That’s it, darlin’. Good. Good girl,” he whispers, thumb at the back of your head stroking tiny circles while his opposite fingers slow down with your breathing. It’s only when you stop convulsing completely that he drops his hand from your face. Your feet scream in pain as you come back to yourself, the weight of digging your heels in to keep you upright making itself known. Meanwhile, Declan slips himself from you, gently rearranging your underwear over your folds and allowing the skirt of your dress to float back down your legs. He shuffles backwards, allowing you space to gather yourself, to ground yourself, breaths still shaky as you step away from the door you’d come to be far too intimate with. You don’t speak, not yet, just watch as Declan peers down at his right hand that’s glistening with your slick, then to his left hand, where his wedding band glints under the library’s chandelier.

“Are you—” okay, is what you intend to ask, but Declan cuts you off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

“I should go find Taggie and Patrick. Can’t have them hearing about their mum through some idle party gossip,” he says, voice steady but marred with a tinge of uncertainty, as if he’s trying to make sense of everything. He maneuvers around you awkwardly, all that cockiness from moments ago melted away. He pauses at the door, the heavy silence between you so palpable. His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn it. “This was…” he trails off, eyes searching the room for the right word.

"Yeah," is all you can manage, because you can’t find the words either. For how he just made you feel like every single one of your synapses was on fire. For the way he's treating you now, all cool and distant, like he's casually asking you to grab him a coffee. Declan forces a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and nods. Just once, stiff. With one final glance, he slips out of sight, laughter and clinking glasses and whumping music replacing Declan in the room before the door clicks closed behind him. And almost immediately, you feel irrelevant and unsure of what to do next. At least, you think it best to let a few minutes pass before you leave the library, so you shuffle over to the large mirror hanging above the fireplace to take in your dishevelled form. You look utterly wrecked, all puffy lips and smudged mascara. All at the hands of Declan O’Hara.

Oh, God, you think, doing your best to wipe away the fallout of the last twenty minutes from your face. What have we done?

When you’re satisfied that you don’t look like…well, like your boss just plied an orgasm from you, you trace Declan’s footsteps and step back into the party, hoping to go unnoticed by the sparse guests mingling around you. Just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you catch Rupert’s eye at the end of the hallway — sharp, knowing. He tilts his glass of champagne towards you, slight smirk with the quiet gesture. It’s not a greeting, but an acknowledgement, and you wonder if he saw Declan leave the library, too.

If you got this far, thank you for reading!!!! Let me know in the comments what you think, and what you predict might happen next?!

Previous chapters: Chapter 1: The Interview, Chapter 2: Beneath The Surface, Chapter 3: Driving Miss Crazy

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 4

Masterlist

Previous (Chapter 3) // Next (Chapter 5) (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, panic attacks, implied prior noncon, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan was relieved to see that the boy was capable of cleaning himself up. The shower had only run for a matter of minutes, but as Rowan lingered outside the bathroom to eavesdrop – just in case he was needed - he heard the tell-tale clicks of the shampoo bottle opening and closing. Water splashed rhythmically against freshly cleaned tiles in a hum that was barely muffled by the door. Rowan waited a few painstaking minutes after the water had turned off, seizing the opportunity to practice his patience, before he knocked and reentered.

Although it was a deeply unsettling sight to see the young man kneeling naked in his bathroom, Rowan could already see that the boy’s skin was cleaner, and his wet curls still seemed lighter than when they had been coated with grease, sweat, and blood.

The shower also made clear that some of the yellow patches on the boy’s skin were not dirt, as Rowan had foolishly hoped, but near-healed bruises. Some wounds that had been scabbed over before the shower were open now, glistening red with nascent blood as the skin tried to stitch itself back together. Bright white scars danced with blue bruising, and a single drop of crimson trailed down from a recently reopened leg wound. It seemed that the boy had interpreted the instruction to clean himself up as an instruction to rub his scabs away, scrubbing at his skin until his injuries were raw.

Rowan made a note to himself to speak more clearly in the future. The next thing Rowan noticed was that the mirror was bone-dry, no signs of steam or beading water at the top of the glass. No hints of humidity hung in the air either. He felt his lip turn down in spite of himself.

“You can use hot water next time, yeah?” He offered as hopefully as he could, though his gaze was not returned. “Seriously, you can use the hot water, as hot as you can stand it. This place is great, because I only pay a flat fee for utilities. No extra charge for those long, hot showers. Feel free to sit in the hot water as long as you want. I mean, I certainly do. Anyway, you’re looking a bit cleaner now, so maybe you want to try on some of those clothes? You’ve got to be freezing after that shower. Come on, follow me back to your room.”

And the boy followed, damp hands and knees finding purchase on vinyl tiles, an unfamiliar rhythm across the condo’s floors. Rowan winced again, making sure to hide his disappointment by looking towards the ceiling. They’d have to do something about the crawling, get him back on his feet and walking with confidence. They’d also have to get him eating and drinking on his own, comfortable enough to take showers in hot water, wearing clothes by default, acting of his own will and guided by his own desires…

Rowan bit back a sigh. There was a lot to work on.

They made it back across the hall, and Rowan walked over to the file cabinet that was currently doubling as the boy’s dresser. He slid the bottom drawer open as the steady shuffle-crawl followed in behind him. Rowan’s fingers thumbed through the sweaters that he’d hastily folded just hours earlier, one after the other, a stack of cotton and polyester and sherpa promising warmth. There was a sweatshirt he remembered specifically from his clothing haul, something lined with fleece, certainly thick enough to restore a bit of warmth after a cold shower. Hands still digging through the drawer, Rowan defaulted to his rambling once again.  

“I know I set out sweatpants and a sweatshirt earlier, but there might be a warmer sweater in here. I’m going to guess you’re cold, so let’s see if-“ and as Rowan turned to look back at his guest, just to see if he was listening, his heart dropped through his stomach.

There, on the bed, the young man was presenting himself with raised hips and a carefully arched back, eyes looking up through thick eyelashes to meet Rowan’s own-

“Fuck.” Rowan gasped, and he took a step back so fast that his shoulder slammed into the filing cabinet. His hand snapped up to shield his eyes while his voice bubbled up from his chest, words coming out as an inadvertent shout. “No! Jesus Christ, no! No. Stop doing- stop doing that. Fuck, get down from there, just get down. No, we’re not doing that. I’m not going to- we’re not- just- fuck-“

Before Rowan could speak another word, the young man bolted off the bed and down to the floor, throwing himself flat against the ground so hard that the nearby furniture trembled. The sound of his bony knees hitting the ground resounded like two gunshots. In the blink of an eye, Rowan’s outburst had caused the emaciated victim to expose his scar-riddled back to the sky.

It was clear that he was waiting for Rowan to rain blows down on his skin, whether with fists or with whips, another line written in the book of abuse written for all to see. He trembled, but he was silent, utterly silent. This was routine, a punishment he’d been subjected to before. It was something the boy expected, that he waited for, that was the natural consequence to someone raising their voice.

All because Rowan had been a bit uncomfortable, and all because he couldn’t keep that discomfort to himself. He’d been given a sliver of power, a shred of influence, and he’d already resorted to screaming.

Guilt washed over Rowan just as coldly as shock had moments earlier. The sight of the boy offering himself up for punishment, moments after he’d offered himself up for use, jolted Rowan’s consciousness back into his body. He’d yelled, one of the very few thingshe wasn’t supposed to do, and had undoubtedly terrified his guest in the process. The boy’s hands were trembling where they rested, palms up, in front of him. Short gasps came from his mouth, just soft enough that they weren’t quite whimpers, but Rowan could hear the tears he was swallowing back nonetheless.

Rowan pulled in a deep breath, surprised to find that his own eyes were stinging with emotion and moisture. This was all too much. He knew what the victims endured in their abuse, he knew that he had brought a Romantic into his home, he knew all of this from when he signed the papers and looked through the PLF rehabilitation materials. But it was one thing to read the words on a page, and it was another thing to have a battered young man on his bed offering himself up for abuse.

It was the closest Rowan had come, now by himself and in his very own home, to seeing just what he’d been fighting to have dismantled all these years. It was the closest he’d been to direct complicity, to participating in the cruelty of man. It was the closest he’d been to hell on earth.

I can fix this, Rowan thought to himself, forcing another deep breath into his lungs. I have to fix this. I can smooth this over, make it better. This is what I signed up for, this is what I’m here to fix, this is what I have to deal with. I fucked up, so I have to fix it.

What better way to start than with an apology?

“I’m sorry,” Rowan hissed through his teeth as he fought to control his volume. He wasn’t going to yell again, no matter how hot the adrenaline felt in his veins. “I shouldn’t have yelled, and you’re not in trouble. You’re not in trouble, I promise, it’s all okay. You’re okay. You’re alright. Everything’s alright.” Rowan’s heart was pounding so heavily in his chest that it was hard to swallow his volume back. His head felt heavy and his hands tingled with the panic seizing his nervous system.

Yet Rowan knew that he was not the most terrified person in the room. No matter how scared he was at the seemingly impossible challenges ahead, and no matter how worried he was that he’d already ruined everything, the boy was infinitely more afraid. If his first instinct after a shower was to offer his body up for sexual abuse, and if his first instinct after a shout was to offer that body for physical abuse, there was little question as to what horrors he’d endured before this point. He hadn’t even been in Rowan’s home for more than an hour, and he had resigned himself to the service of a stranger who owned his body, who held a title to his very life. There was no sign of the defiance, or disobedience, or even displeasure. It was fluid, seamless, undeniable recognition of ownership.

The boy hadn’t moved despite Rowan’s attempted placations. A perfect pet, entirely obedient, unmoved by gentleness. This was everything WRU wanted in its output, in its products. Simultaneously, it was everything that made Rowan sick to his stomach.

After a painstaking deep breath, Rowan grabbed the clothes he wanted from the file cabinet, and took a step towards the body trembling on the floor. He kept his steps slow, movements as glacial as he could muster, hoping that the boy wouldn’t expect a blow.

“Hey, I’m coming over now, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not even going to touch you. Just-“

The boy flinched nonetheless as Rowan lowered the clothes to the floor beside his outstretched palms.

“Here,” Rowan offered, voice as soft and level as he could manage, “these are for you. To get dressed. Please, get dressed. I’m going to leave you alone now, okay? Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back later to check in. I think we both need… a minute, yeah? A minute to take a breather. Both of us. You’re not in trouble. Just, get dressed please.”

Rowan left as quickly as he could manage, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

---

The pet could hardly choke back its tears. What had it done wrong? Had it erred by not offering to please Master first, settled square on its knees, eyes pointed upwards and an eager, open mouth? Had it not cleaned itself well enough, hair still damp from the shower, some wounds still raw and dripping blood? Had it not seen something obvious in this room that it should have found for Master’s use instead?

But the punishment it expected for its insolence and incorrect assumptions never came. Even though it had exposed its hands and its back, opening its skin for lashes or stomping boots, no such corrections came. It hadn’t been able to make out the precise words that Master had shouted, his precise displeasure lost to the ringing in the pet’s ears, but it knew anger from the tone alone. It always knew when its master was angry.

Anger, yet no correction. Shouting, but no punishment. Nothing but a bundle of clothes dropped on the ground beside it, a clear indication that it was supposed to get dressed.

And with that, Master left, closing the door behind him. The pet was left alone to cover its shameful body and await its uncertain future.

---

Rowan wasted no time in grabbing the now-wrinkled PLF Rehabilitation Manual from where he’d placed it on top of the fridge. He knew that if he didn’t separate it from the rest of the paperwork strewn across the kitchen counters, he’d certainly lose it amidst the chaos. On top of the fridge, placed alongside the boxes of now-stale cereal, was as safe a place as any.

He leaned the small of his back against the countertop and busied himself with thumbing through the pages. His eyes flicked quickly over the table of contents, then through the section headers in the body of the document. When he read the manual earlier, he swore he’d seen a few pages dedicated to fixing a fuck-up. That’s what this was, wasn’t it? It was a fuck up of fantastic proportions. Rowan hadn’t even made it two hours before he’d yelled at the abuse victim in his second bedroom, all but screamed at him, just for doing what he’d been so thoroughly trained to do.

He was the picture of a perfect pet, and Rowan had managed to get mad at that. In the boy’s mind, he’d done exactly as he was trained, and it still hadn’t been enough for Rowan. That was going to forever be his first impression of Rowan.

Some people are just more suited for fieldwork, the voice of his past mentor echoed in his ears. Rehabilitation and recovery isn’t for everyone. Just like Greyson has found his stride working on the administrative side of the PLF, you’re doing your best work out in the field. Rehabilitation is an entirely different skillset, a skillset that some people don’t excel in, and that’s fine. Everyone’s job is important here. Your job is important even if you don’t work directly with the victims, I promise.

And yet, despite years of being aware that he was most certainly not suited for rehabilitation work, he’d taken up this cross on little more than impulse. The only one who would pay for Rowan’s ignorance and impatience was the very person who needed him the most.

For the second time since he’d purchased the boy he felt his eyes sting. The weight of this new responsibility weighed on his shoulders now more than ever. There was so much that could go wrong, so much pain and misery he could unknowingly inflict. This time it was his own uncontrollable shock, something he should have been able to swallow back. What would it be next time? His impatience? His ignorance?

Rowan swallowed back the lump in his throat as he finally found the dog-eared page he’d been looking for. He’d dog-eared it, of course, because he’d been afraid he’d have to use it.

You Lost Your Temper – Now What?

In a perfect world, we’d never lose our temper when assisting the wards in our care. Much like we might lose our temper with friends, family, or colleagues, we might likewise lose our temper with our wards.

These moments, while less than ideal, present a learning opportunity for all parties involved. For you, the guardian, it is an opportunity to model sincere apologies and create a safe space for your ward to talk about how they feel. For your ward, it is an opportunity to learn that they deserve politeness and equal treatment from others. For both guardian and ward, it is the chance to discuss communication, expectations, and mutual respect.

Should you lose your temper with a ward in your care, take the time to collect yourself and your emotions. You might be feeling upset, disappointed, or even angry with yourself. You might even be upset with your ward for the actions that triggered the incident, even if you know those actions aren’t their fault. You might be upset with a ward who tested your boundaries, or exercised their freedom and autonomy, in a way that you aren’t comfortable with. These are normal and expected feelings. While it is healthy to process these emotions and acknowledge their impact on you, it is best to do them away from your ward early in the relationship, and in front of your ward later in the relationship. Both are opportunities to model behavioral processing in a healthy and focused way.

Once you have gathered yourself and recognized your own emotions, take some time to think about what caused that first negative feeling. Recognize the moment you lost your temper, recognize what triggered that initial negative emotion, and consider creating a plan to prevent a similar reaction in the future. Take as much time as needed for this process, and ideally, try to give your ward an adequate amount of time to process the event as well.

Finally, talk to your ward directly. Make an appropriate apology for your reaction. For example, if you yelled, apologize for raising your voice. Take the opportunity to remind your ward that they should be treated with kindness and respect at all times, and acknowledge that you did not fulfill that basic expectation. You do not need to share the reason for your reaction – in fact, doing so can cause unnecessary fear and guilt in your ward, particularly early in the recovery process, and even more so if the triggering behavior was due to their trauma or conditioning. Instead, offer them comfort and an opportunity to discuss how the event made them feel.

The rest of the page was filled with sample conversations, language for new rehabilitators to use in such situations. Rowan studied them carefully, feeling himself grow calmer as he did so. He wasn’t the first rehabilitator to fuck up, and from the looks of the manual, he certainly wouldn’t be the last. While this did little to alleviate the guilt, it allowed for a small sliver of relief. There wasn’t anything uniquely wrong with him. Instead, his response was one rooted in human emotion, another byproduct of the system and its cruelty. His disgust was with systemic oppression, not with the boy himself.

I have to do better, Rowan reminded himself, and he took yet another deep breath. His hands were still shaking from the adrenaline that had dumped into his system.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how the boy was affected if he himself was feeling the effects of his own temper so severely.

That was the next thought in his mind. He couldn’t simply refer to his guest as the boy forever. Part of developing autonomy, including the autonomy necessary to process scenarios such as the one that Rowan had just created, came from a sense of independent identity. Right now, the boy was just that: the boy in Rowan’s spare room, an object, a legal possession. To recover, he would have to become so much more than that. The manual had said as much: giving the ward a name as soon as possible was critical to developing a relationship of equals.

That would all have to come later, and it would hopefully come from the help of a rehabilitator that Rowan prayed was on the way his condo. Hope was doing a lot of heavy lifting as Rowan sat and stewed at his kitchen counter. He took a moment to check his phone, then he checked a second time to confirm there were no new messages, before placing it back on the granite.

His heart was still racing, so he looked back to the manual with a glance, then over to the closed door of the den, then back to the manual. If either of them were going to make it out of this intact, the least Rowan could do was take the manual’s word as gospel.

What emotion am I feeling? It burned hot, Rowan knew that much, and it had spurred him to yell when he rarely ever did so. Is it anger?

But instead of a tightness in his throat and a burning in his head that he would expect from anger, Rowan felt a tingling in his fingertips, a tugging in his chest, a queasiness in his stomach. It was like he was in grade school all over again, waiting for a teacher to pass out a test he hasn’t studied for. It was that heavy, burdensome dread that clung to him every time he walked onto the liquidation event sales floor.

Rowan knew he could name the feelings as soon as he took note of their home in his body. It was one that he was loathe to admit, even as old as he was, because of the stigma of weakness that clung to those words. No matter how many times he had conquered these feelings in the past, he struggled to confront them now.

But he had to. He had to, for the sake of the person in his care, the very soul that was counting on him to move past the discomfort. Rowan would have to now, and he would have to again, for the both of them.

What am I feeling? He asked himself again, biting down on his lip in spite of himself. Coppery blood washed over his tongue from the open wound. What am I really feeling?

Anxiety. Fear, dread, distress.

Those feelings were so much more than mere anger, and they were budding like a nascent ulcer in his stomach. Those were the feelings that had governed his actions since he’d signed the contract just over 24 hours prior. Adrenaline had made him run like prey, a panicked creature hunted by an unseen predator. Rowan was a gazelle on an endless savannah, running for his life, uncaring of his destination so long as it put distance between himself and the lion on his tail.

In Rowan’s case, the lion was the system itself, the weight of an industry that would crush him if it knew what he was doing. It was ruthless, it was nefarious, and it would readily kill him if it knew of his efforts to liberate people from its clutches. If so, he wouldn’t be the first liberationist to go missing under similar circumstances.

Of course Rowan was frightened, and of course he had every reason to be. There was legislation, there was law, there was unspeakable amounts of money and power that he was up against. The PLF had always been at a systemic disadvantage in this fight, as had all of its victims, all of its wards. They were fighting on the side of the underdogs, and they would be underdogs until a significant change in the public consciousness occurred.

I’m smarter than a gazelle, Rowan thought to himself, fist tight in his lap. And the lion’s only teeth are rich politicians with a vested interest in oppression. I’m not their fuckinggazelle. I’m braver, I’m smarter, and I’m stronger. I have to be. I refuse to be their prey.  

A few more moments of steady breathing were necessary for Rowan to compose himself. And just as the manual had mandated, he’d named his emotions, processed them, and acknowledged their trigger: a victim, a ward who could not consent, offering their body for sexual and physical abuse.

Another minute passed, and much to Rowan’s pleasant surprise, his breathing had levelled. The buzzing in his extremities had relaxed, and his heart no longer felt like it was being squeezed in an unforgiving fist.

The next step was to confront his ward, the boy still waiting and terrified in the spare bedroom.

“I can do this,” Rowan muttered under his breath, the soft escape of his internal dialogue. “I can apologize, I can name my feelings, and I can offer reassurance.”  

He paused and searched his thoughts for something to bridge the gap. What had the boy responded to the best in these last few hours?

After a moment of mulling, Rowan realized that it had been the water. The boy had grasped the glass as if it offered his only salvation. He’d swallowed it in the blink of an eye, disappearing before Rowan could have even come up with the words to stop him.

Of course, as Rowan knew from more than a decade of field work, the victims that were prepared for transit were both starved and dehydrated to reduce any potential resistance during transit or during their first few hours with their purchasers.

Such practices resulted in a non-zero number of transit deaths each year, some of which Rowan had documented firsthand.

Rowan went over to the pantry and took out another glass, paced over to the fridge, and poured another glass of cool water from the filter. He filled it just below the brim, tall enough that the boy would be able to drink his fill, but not so full that shaking hands would be unable to raise it to equally unsteady lips.

Glass in hand, Rowan walked back over to the second bedroom’s door.

He paused. A moment, a deep breath, a hand raised towards the faux-wood painted in landlord-eggshell. And he knocked, once, twice, knuckles on the paint making a hollow thunk with each hit.

No response was expected. None came. After another two long seconds, Rowan grasped the doorknob and pushed into the room.

---

The pet had gotten dressed. It had dressed itself in the clothes that Master had tossed beside it after he had yelled, the command obvious enough even without it understanding the precise language.

It knew it had messed up. It knew that something it had done – perhaps it was the position? Perhaps it was the assumption that it would be taken on the bed? – had made its master furious. It had made its master so furious that he had thrown clothes at it, commanded it to cover itself, and left it alone.

So the pet had obeyed as best as it could. It clothed itself in the linens – softer than it had ever been granted with its old master, and so much warmer too – and resumed its position kneeling in the center of the room. Master had placed it here for a reason, certainly, alone with nothing but its thoughts and the ringing in its ears.

Fully clad, from its ankles to its wrist, in pillow-like clothing, the pet felt the pull of sleep. Even the fear from its Master yelling was not enough to overcome the exhaustion of its travels and of its last moments with its handlers. It was so tired that it was nodding off where it knelt, knowing full well that such an action would earn it a lashing like no other.

But its body would only be pushed so far before it broke.

Adrenaline returned when the walls and floor trembled with slight vibrations. Ever since the ringing in its ears had begun in earnest, the pet had learned to pay attention to the way the surfaces around it sang. Now, the floorboards rumbled with the sound of its Master approaching. Light steps – none so heavy as its old master – but an insistent knocking that carried through the wood and laminate.

The pet wished it could shrink in on itself, become smaller, offer an adequate with just its body. But it was already as small as it could make itself, swallowed by the billowing fabric of the sweatshirt, sleeves coming down past its wrists and covering its bony knuckles.

There was almost a certain chance that it would be asked to remove the sweatshirt in short order, anyway.

As it expected, Master’s feet appeared before it moments later. It took deep breaths, listening to the steady hum of Master’s voice. He wasn’t shouting, not this time, back to that level-set rhythm that the pet already found so soothing. If there was supposed to be anger or frustration, the pet couldn’t hear it.

That wasn’t saying much, given that it couldn’t hear much at all.

Much to the pet’s surprise, Master leaned down and placed another glass in front of it. This glass was crystal-clear, filled nearly to the brim with water, its surface rippling from the movement. Although it had happily drank the earlier glass of water at its Master’s command, the pet was still parched. And although its stomach was still in knots from how Master had yelled at it, how it had been waiting for a punishment yet to come, the thirst once again prevailed.

It knew better than to grab the glass with its greedy hands. Waiting, patience, showed the very skills that it had been trained time and again to embody. So it waited, waited, until Master’s voice raised with a sharp uptick in volume.

Drink.

The pet did so without hesitation. It reached forward and it drank eagerly, trying to still the trembling of its hands as it did so. Although it had to raise its head to drink, it made sure to keep its eyes pointed downwards in as much respect and deference as it could display.

The water disappeared in a matter of moments, the pet ensuring that it showed its gratitude for the generosity by finishing it with haste. Carefully as it could manage it placed the glass back on the floor where Master had set it.

Its stomach was still tight with worry, filled with the sandwich and the first glass of water, but it was confident that it would keep the meal down. It had to – if it got sick now, there was no telling when it would get food again. This nutrition was more valuable than anything else at the moment, it was the only way it could hope to have the strength to carry on.

---

“That’s great,” Rowan praised, trying to keep his voice steady as he had been. It had already been stressful enough to raise it to give the command to drink, but the boy seemed unfazed. In fact, he finished the full glass in a matter of seconds, drinking eagerly and without hesitation.

Figuring out how to get the boy to drink on his own would be a challenge for another day. For now, even if Rowan had to command as much, drinking something was better than not at all.

Now, for the reason he’d come back into the room in the first place, when all he wanted to do was leave the boy alone long enough to decompress.

“Hey, uhm, I’m sorry for yelling,” Rowan said. The apology came easily and naturally enough, so he pushed on. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you. That was wrong of me, and you didn’t deserve it. You did nothing wrong. Really, you did nothing wrong. The fact that I yelled was my fault. I’m not angry at you. I’m not mad, and I’m not going to hurt you. Everything is okay.”

The boy didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t acknowledge a word beyond the command to drink. Just as all the other times Rowan had spoken, he seemed attentive, but didn’t react.

“I mean it,” Rowan pushed on. “I’m sorry. Everything is alright. You’re okay. You’re safe here, with me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to ask you to do those things you had to do before. It caught me off guard, and my reaction was wrong. I shouldn’t have raised my voice”

Nothing. At this rate, it would be impossible to have the back-and-forth dialogue that the manual had encouraged, but Rowan knew that it was possibly asking too much for a first day, even a first week, or a first month. His one-sided apology was a start, at least.

“If you want to tell me how you feel, you can,” Rowan offered the floor up. “It’s okay. You can say how you feel – actually, you can talk, if you’d like, about anything. I haven’t heard you say anything yet, but you’re allowed. You’re allowed to talk as much as you want here. And- and you can get your own water, and your own food- ah. I’m getting ahead of myself, I think. The point I’m trying to make is that it’s okay, and you can talk to me. If I scared you, or upset you, you can tell me that. And if you tell me what’s wrong, I’ll do my best to make it better.”

As Rowan rambled on, self-conscious of the words spilling out of his mouth, he forced himself to look down at the boy kneeling before him. This was no way to talk to a victim like this, was it? Rowan was still towering above him, voice booming downwards, the power imbalance as visual as it was ingrained in the boy’s blood.

So, after another moment, Rowan sat.

He lowered himself to the floor in front of the boy and sat down, crossing his legs like he was a child again. A laugh almost escaped his mouth as he realized how much flexibility he’d lost, knees straining and thighs tugging, as he finally got his ankles close to one another.

The boy perked up immediately, looking through his hanging curls in Rowan’s direction with those bright doe-eyes that Rowan had only seen a glimpse of once so far. Rowan smiled in spite of himself.

“Hey, is this better for you? I think it’s better, at least for right now, if you don’t want to stand up yet. This will let us talk to each other like equals, yeah? We are, you know. Even if you don’t believe it yet. So, I’ll say it again, and maybe you can think about it some more. I’m sorry for yelling at you, and yelling was wrong of me. I never should have raised my voice. I wasn’t mad at you, I was just surprised, because I don’t want to do those sorts of things to you. I’m here to help you, not hurt you, especially not like that. I promise that you’re safe, and no harm is going to come to you here.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something. As Rowan spoke the boy’s weight shifted slightly forward, so slight that Rowan almost missed it entirely, and his eyes flitted from his knees towards Rowan’s face. He never quite made eye contact, still hidden behind the curtain of hair, but it was closer than Rowan had been able to achieve from a standing position.

This was what had stood out to Rowan on the sales floor of the liquidation event. The boy seemed distant, but he was far from catatonic like some of the victims that were more difficult to rescue. There was a spark, an attentiveness, a willingness to listen and to obey. It was a flame that yearned for the chance to survive.

Rowan just had to figure out how to nurture that flame and reach through the glass between himself and the boy. They would have to break that barrier down if they were going to move towards healing.

“Yeah, we’re just having a conversation right now, that’s all.” He wasn’t sure how effective his soothing would be so soon after his yelling, but Rowan knew he had to try. “If you want to talk about how you’re feeling, you can do that, talk to me all you want. You can also just tell me to leave if you’d rather be alone right now.”

Nothing, still nothing.

“Can you nod for me if you want to be alone?” He asked, hoping to see some movement. Nothing. “Can you shake your head if you want me to stay?” Nothing again. 

A thought struck Rowan as he saw the boy’s eyes peek up again, still hunting, almost fixated on his lips. He tried again once he saw the boy look upwards.

“Can you nod your head for me?”

And just like that, the boy’s head moved slightly, once up, once down. It was short, but unmistakably the very nod that Rowan’s question had evoked. And once the nod had finished, the boy looked back down at the floor.

“Can you nod again?” He asked once more as soon as he was certain the boy was no longer looking.

No movement.

“Oh my god,” Rowan whispered out loud as realization flashed through him, and he clambered to his feet. He nearly tripped over himself as he did so, staggering to a standing position and darting behind the boy, back over to the far corner of the room, directly behind his ward. The boy was still kneeling, unmoving, his eyes were still pointed towards the door. Importantly, he was unable to see Rowan’s face even if he raised his eyes.  

Rowan snapped his fingers, a few times on his right, a few times on his left. No reaction. Then, after a pause to suppress the oncoming wave of guilt, he clapped his hands together with considerable force. The sound was sharp enough to echo throughout the small room.

This evoked a reaction. It was subtle, but he saw the boy’s shoulders twitch in some sort of anticipation. A fear response, automatic, but a response nonetheless.

“Holy shit,” Rowan muttered to himself, a hand running through his hair almost of its own accord. His epiphany was looking more and more like a plausible possibility.

“Hey, turn around,” he instructed. He made sure not to raise his voice, keeping it as neutral as possible, but still issuing the command with certainty. Again, no movement. He tried again, same tone, conversational volume. “Turn around, right now. Turn around and look at me.”

Nothing.

After a deep breath, and a final reminder that he was doing this for the boy’s own good, Rowan shouted.

“Turn around!”

And just like that the boy moved, turning on his knees in a swift, fluid motion. A blink later and he was kneeling in that same position, but this time pointed towards where Rowan stood at the back of the room.

A nervous chuckle slipped out before Rowan could swallow it. All of that pain, all of that suffering, the threat of death on the sales floor, it had all been under the guise of disobedience. Rowan was now certain it was anything but.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you’re not disobedient. You just can’t fucking hear me.”

There was a euphoria he couldn’t describe blossoming in his chest. This rescue wasn’t a hopeless mistake that he had made, this victim wasn’t beyond recovery or redemption. He simply couldn’t hear the very words that Rowan was speaking to him, commands or otherwise.

It was Rowan’s turn to drop to his knees, aging bones hitting the wood as he fell a mere foot from where the boy had stationed himself.

“It’s okay!” Rowan all but shouted, the boy’s flinch lost to the excitement. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s all okay.” His voice was as loud as he could make it without screaming.

“You’re safe. You’re safe now. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re home, you’re safe. It’s all going to be okay.”

A/N: Cheers to the rewrite for a chance to make it clear that Rowan's not an idiot, he's just out of his depth. That was one of the driving factors for the rewrite, actually. Sorry for those that hoped there'd be a few more chapters of misunderstanding and obliviousness from our well-meaning caretaker - it's important to me that Rowan is capable and aware of himself in this story, particularly given his role in other liberation efforts. But there will absolutely be other barriers to communication and understanding between the two, I can promise that much!

Taglist:

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

@maenr @whump-enthousiast @taterswhump @whump-me-harder

[oatmealwrites]

A Night To...Forget? Ch.5

Aizawa x Eidetic memory! Law student! F Reader

Part 4 | Part 6 -> coming soon!

[a night to forget masterlist here]

Synopsis : Keigo is suspiscious when you finally come home but offers words of encouragement for your upcoming date. Classes drone by, some work piles up, but it's finally time for your date with Shōta. Of course you triple check your purse before heading out the door: Phone? Check. Wallet? Check. Apartment Keys...? whoops

Tags : Mentions of hickies, french kissing, only first base -> he's a gentleman, mentions of ogling, both parties flirting, alcohol, situationship? Kiego a hypeman but also an ass, JEALOUS AIZAWA, no established title yet, precursor to nsfw hehe, MDNI, 18+

a/n: this was supposed to include nsfw you guys fucking but the chapter got a bit too long -> i already wrote it though, so I'll post it soon as ch.6!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The elevator ride up from the lobby to your apartment is done mindlessly as you walk to your door and turn the key. Recalling the moment of kissing Aizawa over and over again is at the forefront of your mind; your quirk ensuring each detail is in perfect view as the scene unfolds on repeat. 

As you step inside, a dreamy grin on your lips, you barely register the company that’s sitting at the kitchen island watching your every move. Calloused hands remove the cap to a bottle of beer while a blonde eyebrow raises in a mixture of concern and frustration.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to come home.” He takes a sip with a questionable expression as you startle slightly and kick off your work shoes. “What happened to ‘I’ll be up in a few minutes’?”

You ensure the zipper of your winter coat is zipped high under your chin and move to awkwardly shuffle past him to your bedroom while rolling your eyes. He spins on the chair when you don’t offer an actual explanation.

“Your winter coat is still on.”

“Oh– I’m just gonna…. Uh, hang it up?” you stop short and try to nonchalantly keep walking away but his eyes keep you locked in place.

“In your room?” He stands up but remains in the kitchen. “You have a coat closet by the front door.”

There’s a moment of silence; a deaf countdown to when either one of you will move next. Within a fraction of second you both scramble to run: you towards your bedroom door, and him to stand in front of it.

Keigo reaches it at the same time as you, and when you twist to turn the knob he angles further to drive your balance forward. In a moment of the scuffle, your coat collar dips forwards and his height gives him an angled view down the fabric and at your neck.

“OH MY GOD”

In a scramble forward to tug your collar down further, you swat him away and try to avoid his incredulous stare. Keigo surrenders your coat and instead blinks rapidly in excitement and eagerness.

“You guys fucked? When?!... NOW?” He makes a dash for the living room window and swivels his head to examine every corner of the parking lot in a frantic hurry.

In defeat, you walk towards your actual coat closet and shimmy off your parka before hanging it up and meandering over to your kitchen island. Keigo is still frantically searching the parking lot for a sign of Aizawa’s car and shuffles over to the next set of windows for a better view.

His breath is fogging up the glass as he hovers in front. “Where is he?? He's gonna lay pipe with my best friend, and not even walk her up?!”

“Keigo–” you warn curtly, and he takes the cue to come back into the kitchen and slide into the spinning island stool across from you. “Can’t we just eat?” You whine, eyeing the to-go packages and plates all set up.

He shakes his head and leans onto the counter further as you pile your plate with fried chicken wings and a few sides; his gaze is brutal. “Spill. Now.”

You squirm slightly and pick up a fry from your plate; your fingers dip into a sauce container but never bring the food up to your lips. “Well… I don’t really know what it is to be honest–”

“Huhh?? Your neck is covered in bruises!” He points at you with the bone of a wing he had previously finished. 

“It’s complicated.”

You sit feeling torn, a mixture of excitement and frustration at the lack of clarity of everything which just happened. Keigo sits and, for once in his life, remains silent while you work out the sentence on the tip of your tongue. “I had to leave after we kissed… but we did confirm the dinner is a date.”

Keigo claps his hands and is satisfied enough to now continue eating as he congratulates you. “I knew you could do it! On your date, just ask if it’s a casual thing or something exclusive!”

Feeling slightly better, you take a few bites of the food on your plate and work out the logistics of how to bring that topic up. It’s not like you wanted him to commit to something super serious right away, but it would be nice knowing he saw you as something more than a colleague or potential quick fuck. 

Chewing happily and sucking a few crumbs from the fat of his thumb, Keigo reaches over and opens another bottle of beer and slides it across the island to you. He finishes the current skewer between his fingers and places the stick on his plate with an intense gaze before clapping his hands once.

“Alright, now it’s time for the important part.”

You raise an eyebrow and don’t bother to question him, throwing a few sauce covered fries into your mouth as your appetite increases.

He raises his hands up slightly over his plate and keeps them touching at the palms. “Ok, now... Tell me when to stop.”

“Wait, what–”

He slowly begins separating his hands in a form of measurement and you roll your eyes. “Are you ser—”

“Woa, ok so average…” Keigo continues the distance.

“Keigo.”

“Woa, ok– didn’t expect that..”  His hands are around seven inches apart.

“Keigo.”

“OK, now this is just showing off.”

“KEIGO, STOP”

He stops his hands at around nine inches and looks between you and his hands with a shell shocked expression. “Here?! That just looks painful– how are you walking? Let’s restart, ok.”

“Can you just shut up?” You rub your eyes with the back of your hands; mascara slightly flaking off. “We didn’t fuck, ok?”

Keigo looks down at his hands before glancing at his own crotch in thought before resigning to continue his food; his gaze on you is still skeptical. “Ok… so he just sucked your neck like Nosferatu and left? Either impeccable self restraint or a total virg.”

“Can you be helpful for once, please?”

The man across from you laughs and raises his hands once in surrender before he continues eating. “Ok ok. I’ll be serious– though it is good you guys didn’t fuck in the car; the back aches are not worth it.”

You roll your eyes at him and poke your tongue out in disgust. “Ugh, gross.”

Satisfied, you finish your chicken wing and wash it down with the cold beer Keigo had slid you earlier. There’s a comfortable silence as you both finish your meals and he silently takes on the task of putting away the dirty dishes when you leave to change out of your work clothes.

Sweatpants and oversized hoodie on, you rejoin Keigo in the living room as he mindlessly scrolls through a variety of programs in search of something good. Sitting in your usual position next to him, you pivot slightly and hold your phone.

“What do I do now?”

He hums slightly and settles to watch a few moments of a Hallmark romcom before flipping to the next channel. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, do I text him now? Or do I wait for him to reach out first?”

“Ha, you’re so overthinking this.” He laughs slightly before settling on an obviously staged ‘real housewives’ program. 

“It’s not like I can not think about it– the moment is literally seared into my mind forever.”

“Kinky.”

You shove his shoulder and Keigo finally puts down the remote to face you better from his seat. “Ok, just relax alright? If you guys didn’t settle on a title or label, then you’re still just colleagues… and now maybe friends who happen to makeout and go on dates.”

Deflating slightly and opening your phone for the 100th time since you got home, you sink into the sofa cushion when there’s no new notification. “That doesn’t sound like friends…”

“Well, that’s all you got right now”

You purse your lip and stare down at the screen in thought. “If it’s casual then it shouldn’t matter if I send a message right? It’s chill…platonic, right?”

Keigo chuckles but is obviously happy to see you in slightly better spirits as you open your messaging app and pull up Aizawa’s contact. Well, now it’s technically ‘Shōta’ between you both.

To: Aizawa Shōta

Thanks for the ride earlier! I have some classes and externship work this week so my schedule is a bit tight… but I’m excited for our date next week!

You place your phone on the coffee table and sit back on the couch trying to convince yourself that you’re fine. You’re not. Despite attempting to watch two women passive aggressively fight over something menial, you’re glancing down at your phone every few seconds. 

Why isn’t he answering?

Keigo peels his eyes off the screen and notices the way you sit uncomfortably while staring at your phone as if it’s paint drying; with a sigh he stands up and pats your shoulder before walking to the coat closet.

“Alright, I’m heading out. You need to relax.” He tugs on his signature hero jacket and fixes the collar. “Shower, sleep, do school work or something.”

You lean up over the back of the couch and watch as he fixes his boots on and pats down his pockets to ensure he has everything. “I’ll be busy tomorrow, but if you’re up for lunch after your lecture the day after, I can swing by.” He offers while taking out your spare apartment keys.

With an anxious ‘goodbye’, you watch as he opens the door and clicks the lock; when the sound of his boots disappear down the hallway you stand up and head for the shower. 

It’s your usual evening routine of a quick warm shower, skincare, and a few social media scrolls before you’re tucked into bed and setting your morning alarm. The warmth of your comforter is enough to let drowsiness wash you over you and to finally subside the worry that was sitting under your skin for the past few hours.

Heavy eyelids shutting, you’re convinced that none of the things you’ve been worrying about really matter– and that you don’t need the approval of a man to make you happy anyways. 

Ping!

Immediately you throw off the covers and snatch your phone from your nightstand to see who had messaged you as the device pings again.. 

From: Aizawa Shōta

I look forward to it as well.

Please let me know if you work late again, I don’t mind driving you if it means you won’t be walking alone at night. 

Straightforward and chivalrous, despite your bruised neck, his message is permanently memorized into your mind as you read it over a few times. Giddy energy leaves you kicking your feet slightly and a sensation of happiness washes over you; though the time is too late to respond and make it seem like you weren’t waiting by the phone.

Smiling to yourself and preparing to shut the device and sleep, it pings in your hands once again.

From: Aizawa Shōta

It’s also a nice excuse to see you.

~~~~~~

The days leading to the date seem to drag on endlessly as you count down to the night where you ask him what the fuck the two you were and could be. Keigo makes good on his promise and meets you for lunch a few times; his presence is surprisingly helpful as he casually offers advice. 

“I just don’t know what to make of Shōta not mentioning the fact he remembers parts of that night without telling me– he’s totally hiding something.”

Keigo eyes the leftover scraps of food on your plate with begging eyes before he peels them back in shock. “Are you gonna finish– Wait. Shōta?? He’s letting you use his first name?”

You slide your dish to the man and shrug slightly in explanation he had offered you to speak casually. “Can’t you ask Kayama for that video? Toshinori explained she had her phone out all night with the camera open.”

Keigo doesn’t hesitate to finish your food before you can change your mind. “I tried, but she won’t give me it.” He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin when you pass him one from the dispenser. “Said she couldn’t show anyone the video ‘cause of some promise.”

You rub your chin in thought for a few moments, reviewing the behavior. “A statute of limitations for a blackmail video between friends is definitely suspicious… someone probably told her not to share it for a good reason.”

“Probably Tsukauchi–” Keigo starts before loudly sipping the last few drops of his drink and sloshing the ice around in the cup. “The stuckups at the police department would probably chew his ass out for having fun.”

It’s a reasonable explanation that you and Keigo agree on before continuing your usual conversations. 

The week also progresses with you taking Shōta up on his offer; his first name foreign on your tongue at first but slowly relaxing into it. You only work late at the office twice, and both times his car sits idling in front of the building with the seat warmer already on and awaiting your arrival. 

Each one gets progressively more casual as you settle into a comfortable rhythm of talking about your days outside of the little snippets you’ve begun texting each other about. It becomes funny class stories, cafes you want to try out, and even movie trailers that seem interesting or potential flops. 

The drives also increase in length, the route he ‘blames his GPS for’ takes additional detours and pathways that make the 20 minute drive turn into 30 and then 35. You don’t mind it though; his company quickly becomes something you crave and grow accustomed to in a way different from that of your friends or Keigo. 

Each time he drops you off also ends in around 20 minutes of sloppy makeouts. 

It starts with a simple smile while his lips linger on yours as you say goodnight but make no effort to leave; his car is always parked in a visitor spot rather than the ‘5-minute passenger drop off’ lane in front of your complex. What starts as a few pecks when you meet at the console ends with his tongue down your throat and the windows fogged from the heat. 

It’s enough to make your lips chapped and swollen for the amount of biting and sucking he does against them. The act is somehow more sexual than the first time despite the fact he leaves no new bruises and manages to reign himself in before you can offer for him to come upstairs. 

The erotic and sensual scene leaves you weak at the knees, your panties a mess, but your head full of frustration as you quickly deduce this was becoming a ‘situationship’ which you had no desire of being. Hell, you would even settle for friends with benefits if it meant some sort of label could be placed on whatever the fuck you two were.

But there wasn’t. Each time you parted for air Shōta would open his mouth to speak before doubling back and having a distant look in his eye as he seemingly talked himself down. It’s obvious he’s pent up and just as curious as you that creates such intense frustration in your bones.

When you hestiate to speak, his lips chase yours and he slithers his tongue inside; when he pauses to contemplate, you tug him by the hair to meet your mouth once more. Chivalrous hands never make an effort to escalate past first-base while he has you pinned against the car door in the hottest makeout you’ve ever been in. 

He hasn’t even undone your blouse buttons yet, but each time you end the ride with such a sloppy and desperate kiss, it leaves you feeling as if he’s already fucked all the air out of your lungs.

~~~~

By the day of the date rolls around, you’re a slighlty nervous wreck as you sit in a lecture on campus.

Class is particularly excruciating this morning; your professor droning on about a proposed memorandum to an act you’ve never even heard of as you snap yourself awake several times. It’s a lecture in which none of your friends are in, and the room is so small you can see the laptop screens of everyone else from your tucked away corner position in the room. 

Online shopping, answering externship emails, and reviewing the menu of the restaurant over and over again is the only way to pass the time until the course wraps up and you’re the first person out of the room. 

It was the final class of the day on your schedule, and walking out of the law building lobby towards the campus gates you spot Jackson in front of a vending machine. Idly choosing between two beverages, you tap his shoulder and shuffle to the opposite side with a grin.

“Ah, you got me.” He turns back to the selection buttons and presses the code for a bottled coffee. “You ready for tonight?”

You lean against the metal and watch as he takes a few long sips of the drink with a grateful sigh at the caffeine. “Ready as I can be, though maybe I’m not ready for after…if he decides it’s something casual.”

Jackson nudges your shoulder and pulls out his cellphone to check his course calendar and mentally plan the easiest route across campus to the art & humanities building for his music elective. “Aw you’ll be fine y/n. If you’re free this weekend I can try and throw a part–”

“–Ha, thanks, but I’ve got to meet with some defense lawyers from the villain case I’m assisting with.”

Jackson nods and offers you a reaffirming pat on the back as he slides on his headphones for the trek across campus. “Alright, alright. But I’m gonna pry every detail out of you during our next study session!”

You smile as he heads off before making your way to the metro station near the school to head home. You’ve got a few hours to get ready before Shōta picks you up for your reservation at 7; Keigo has already offered to be at your apartment at around 5 to help you get ready.

Of course ‘helping you get ready’ is more of an excuse to get out of work early and eat the food in your house while watching reality TV. Music plays on your phone as you finish up the last few steps of a long ‘everything shower’ and Keigo whines against the bathroom door as you take your time.

Steam fogs the mirror and when you click open the lock of the door, he immediately shuffles in while pushing you out of the way. “Damn woman, how long do you need to shower?”

He doesn’t wait for you to leave as he lifts the lid of the toilet seat and haphazardly undoes the fly of his jeans to take a piss. You roll your eyes and grimace while stepping out and examining the damage to your living room. Throw pillows on the floor, your stashed bags of chips empty and thrown about, and a few cans of soft drinks litter the coffee table.

“Seriously Keigo?” you yell back to him while shuffling into your bedroom.

The toilet flushes and Keigo sighs slightly before washing his hands. “I’ll buy you more.”

Lotion and body oil on, hair dried and falling casually; you sit on the floor, still wearing your bathrobe in front of your mirror. It’s a giddy feeling to do your skincare; the feeling intensifies once it’s absorbed and you start on your makeup. The look is casual face products with your eyes being a bit smokier with a few touches of under eyeliner. 

Makeup completed, you move to your closet to grab the dress you had already decided on wearing several nights ago and toss it onto your bed. It’s a simple formula you’ve worked out given the amount of Google Maps photos you’ve stared at in order to get an idea of the restaurant vibe.

A black off the shoulder long-sleeve mini dress, black opaque tights, and slight heeled boots are the aspects of the outfit. Every friend you’ve sent an image to has approved, and stepping out of your robe and into the garments leaves you feeling confident despite the nerves building. If the date were to end in the worst possible way, at least you would look hot in the process.

You toss your robe over your door to dry and step into the living room while digging through your purse when Keigo briefly looks up from his position in front of the TV and nearly drops his freshly opened beer bottle onto himself. 

“Oh, hey you done– woa.”

He shamelessly stares and sits upright, placing his drink on the coffee table as you smile and do a little spin. “Sooo, how do I look? I clean up nice, right?”

Keigo opens his mouth and shuts it a few times as he takes in the image in front of him. “Yea I mean…shit you look…yea–”

You laugh and walk further into the living room. “Perfect, that’s the reaction I was going for.”

He admires your figure a moment more before looking up to meet your eyes. “You and Aizawa are friends, who get to makeout while you wear that? Remind me why I never got this perk in our friendship?”

You take a pillow from the loveseat and throw it at him; he catches it with a laugh and before you can scold him a notification pings on your phone. 

From: Aizawa Shōta:

After-class training wrapped up sooner than expected. I’ll be there shortly.

SHIT

Keigo sits upright on the couch to tease again before you nearly patch out to dig through your purse and run to the kitchen. “Keigo, where did you put my–?”

He hops up and runs into the kitchen ahead of you, signaling to the counter. “Two tequila shots already prepared for us.” A coy smile on his lips. 

You pull out your chapstick with a grateful sigh and slide it back inside your bag. “I wasn’t gonna say that, but… ok”

Keigo holds his smirk and slides you a glass; no salt or limes prepared, though you’re not picky given the time crunch. Grateful for the liquid courage, you down the shot with a wince and look at the glass bottle on the counter. 

“Another?”

Keigo laughs and picks up both empty shot glasses and puts them in the sink. “Uh, maybe not the best idea considering the last time we had tequila.”

You nod with a pause; if Keigo was the one telling you to lay back, it must be pretty serious. “Ok ok fine– I’m just nervous~”

Keigo peers over from his spot at the sink and splashes his fingers at you while mocking your whining pitch. 

You flip him off and scurry backwards away from his hands. “Ugh, asshole! I’m gonna have a heart attack here– how am I supposed to face him?”

He wipes his hands down on your old kitchen towel and leans against the counter with his hip. “Like I said earlier– he’s a guy.” Keigo points up and down to your outfit. “And you… look like that.– trust me, he’ll be just as nervous and into you, as you are to him.”

A slight blush on your cheeks from his compliment, you shrug humbly and pull the hem of your dress down slightly. “Yea but, I like him. Of course I want him to think I look good.. But I also want him to actually like me.”

You watch the way he gives you an earnest smile and drags his eyes up and down one last time before glancing the other way with a slight cough. His voice is lower and slow. “You’re fine, y/n. He’s seen you plenty of times in your work clothes and now even your bummy hangover outfit–and he still proposed coffee and this date.”

He places a supportive pat to your head and walks around to open your fridge in search of anything else that catches his eye. You rummage through your purse and confirm a triple check of everything inside: chapstick, mints, wallet, phone, lip gloss. A mental headcount of how many hours until your deodorant runs off, a ping from your phone makes your heart beat cold. 

From: Aizawa Shōta

I’m outside; no rush if you aren’t ready yet.

..SHIT.

Keigo watches with an amused glint in his eyes as you fluff your hair and breathe out to calm yourself a few times; he takes a few strides to push you towards the door. “Alright, go ‘em tiger.”

“W-wait! Maybe I should brush my teeth again! O-or I think I’m coming down with a fever, I should cance–” Pushing you into the hallway, Keigo blocks the doorframe to prevent letting you scramble back in. “Deep breaths, act natural, and fuck already!”

The door shuts in your face and the lock clicks into place– ah. Keys… you don’t have your keys.

“But my–”

“Text me when you're on your way back and I'll leave it unlocked” He yells through the door. “But if I fall asleep… you’ll have to find somewhere else to spend the night.”

You can practically see his shit-eating grin through the door as he cackles. What have you gotten yourself into?

Mindlessly walking to the elevator as your heart rate spikes to nearly 200 bpm, you pick apart your appearance in the reflective walls of the elevator over and over again. All the hickies have disappeared and you adjust the way your hair falls once again before the doors open with a ‘ping’.

The lobby is colder than you expect, and walking up to the entrance doors you debate running back upstairs and banging on the door to beg Keigo to toss you a jacket. It’s too late though– you spot the familiar black sedan idling in the passenger pick-up zone and watch the way Shōta opens the driver door to stand up. 

It’s happening. This is really happening.

A breath to calm yourself, you push the front door open and step out into the cold. He shuts his own door and looks up to walk over to the passenger side to get your door, pausing when he fully takes in the sight in front of him. 

A blush on your cheeks mirror the one on him. His stance falters slightly at the image of you walking over, trying desperately to avoid ogling too much.

Shōta is dressed in black slacks, a pale blue button up with the top button undone, and a matching black blazer. His long dark hair is styled into a half-bun and his face is cleanly shaven once again; he looks like a dream as you approach the passenger side.

You wave slightly once you get close and flash a nervous smile on your glossy lips. “Hi.”

“...oh! Uh, Hi.” He stutters out once he realizes he’s taking too long to answer. 

Shōta’s eyes never leave you, even after you slide into the seat and he shuts the door for you. The seat warmer is on full blast and his car is impeccably clean; scents of his woodsy cologne fill the air and the excitement in your veins begins to bubble. It’s really happening.

He sits back in the driver’s seat behind the wheel and clicks his seatbelt into place before offering you a nervous half-smile and putting the car in ‘drive’. The buildings begin to pass as the radio station plays a soft jazz in the background.

“You look really nice. Well, you always do but uh–”

“Thanks, Aiz–” you pause to correct yourself. “Shōta. You look really handsome yourself.”

The man glances at you from his peripherals and slides the nail of his finger over the skin of another in an effort to wake himself up if he were dreaming. He accepts your compliment and turns back to the road with a long exhale.

Sitting with your hands in your lap and trying to busy yourself with staring at the scenery, you make an attempt to bring up similar conversation you two would typically have.

“So, how were classes today? Anything crazy happen?”

A gruff exhale as he smoothly turns the car down another street. “Well, if the baseline of normality is one student trying to kill another for simply offering help…I’d say it was pretty normal.”

You chuckle and lean into the seat; the warmth coming from the leather provides some comfort. “Mmmm, I’ve heard a few stories from Toshinori about how rowdy they can be.”

Shōta continues explaining today’s training and how his students were progressing; obviously proud of them despite his tendency to state the opposite. You sit and listen, silently taking in the different atmosphere of this drive than the ones you’ve previously shared.

It felt real. More official and raw than your previous times; the vulnerability noticeable in his body language. Despite having his tongue down your throat on more than one occasion, his hands sit politely at 10 and 2, only ever leaving to adjust the volume or the mirrors. 

Fiddling with the hemline of your dress and looking out the window slightly, you miss the way his eyes dip down to the flesh of your thighs where the fabric ends; he swallows thickly and peels his gaze back to the road. 

“And how was your day? You had classes as well, correct?”

“Oh, it was the usual, nothing too interesting…”

He tilts his head and drags his eyes to meet yours. “It’s interesting to me though.”

Damn he’s smooth.

You’re convinced he’s not even trying to be suave; his gaze is slightly hooded but his tone is deep and honest. A blush on your cheeks, you sink slightly into the seat. “W-Well, I had a morning lecture, bumped into a friend, and did a few tasks for my mentor remotely from my apartment. It’s not nearly as exciting as your life I’m sure.”

Shōta frowns slightly and presses further. “Mmm, did you do anything while at your apartment though? I’m sure you had a few breaks.”

“Ha, actually there’s this stupid reality show Keigo got me hooked on– the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.” Memories of the program come flooding back.

This time Shōta doesn’t react when you mention the man’s name, instead he tilts his head and takes in the image of you in his car once again. “Sounds interesting. Maybe…you can show it to me sometime?”

“Agh, this season is so dramatic too–” you ramble slightly, agreeing but not registering he had inadvertently offered an unofficial second date to be more intimate and private.

The drive to the restaurant is filled with you explaining various drama between ridiculously wealthy women, and while Shōta has no interest in petty celebrity arguments, he greatly enjoys listening to you speak. You’ve basically given him a run down of the first few seasons, hyperbolizing the intensity of the show with drastic hand movements by the time you arrive at the restaurant. 

“It’s such a dumb show– I’m sure it’s staged. Oh! But this one episode–”

The passenger door clicks open as a young valet pulls it back and offers you a hand; blinking slightly in shock, you turn to Shōta who chuckles a few times and steps out. You slide your purse on your shoulder and take the hand, walking back from the car and watching the way your date passes the keys to the employee. 

Guiding you by the lower back, Shōta ushers you inside the restaurant and leaves your side to explain the reservation to the hostess. 

It’s hot. He’s hot.

The way he acts as a total gentleman, and guides you to follow the employee to the table and pull your chair out for you. It’s a fancy restaurant, but not inherently romantic. A few families sit eating, there’s a group of people in work attire for a business dinner, and a handful of friends and couples are scattered at the other tables. 

The lights are dim, but not too dark, and there’s a comfortable background chatter as music plays gently in the background. As you take in the view, silently comparing it to the online reviews for the ambience, you take in the way Shōta sits across from you; shoulders are tight and his spine is arched to a perfect posture as he sits stiffly behind his menu.

“This place is really nice. Thanks for recommending it.”

He peers up and relaxes slightly. “Really?”

“Mhm. It smells really good, and the vibe is relaxing.”

Shōta smiles to himself and places the menu lower; his anxiety slowly melting away as you begin to review the menu as if you haven’t preplanned your meal days in advance. After a few moments of small talk about the dishes, a waitress walks up and offers a trained customer-service smile.

“Hi there, I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I bring you anything to drink? Maybe a bottle of red?”

Shōta gauges your pause and responds on your behalf. “Sure. Is there a house recommendation?” 

“I can bring a bottle of Shiraz for you to sample.”

“That’d be perfect.”

The waitress disappears as quickly as she arrived and Shōta nudges your foot from under the table with a slight smile. “I take it you don’t know much about wine.”

You shrug slightly in defense. “They taste so similar anyways. I only buy for two reasons: it’s on sale, or if I'm on a da–” you pause. He looks at you expectantly and you take a breath. “Unless I’m on a date.”

Shōta looks up with an amused smile, obviously feeling at ease. “Ah, that’s nice to know. Maybe in the future we can expand your palate?”

Face flushing you nod and feel yourself settling into the moment. “I didn’t take you for a sommelier.”

“I’m not– and I’m not the biggest drinker either… just a few years of fancy dinners for some pointless higher ups has left me with a bit of knowledge.”

You smile and when the waitress returns with a bottle to taste which Shōta approves of, you order your meals and enjoy the complimentary bread while sipping on wine.

“Sooo, you take all your dates here then?” You giggle, the flush of the alcohol making you both a bit looser. 

He scoffs and takes a sip. “Ha, I actually found this place from Hizashi, or uh, Yamada.” 

You nod, recognizing the blonde man’s first name and bring your glass to your lips again. “Ah, hopefully he won’t think I’m taking his spot.”

Shōta rolls his eyes but holds an amused expression, the evening no longer feeling awkward or forced; instead, ridiculously easy in each other’s company. Your phone pings several times throughout the evening, most likely check-ins from Keigo, and each one you ignore– too wrapped in your company to even think about looking away. 

The waitress returns with your meals and offers if you would like a second bottle; the fact you two had already killed one is a surprise. Accepting the offer, you ‘oo’ over the amazing taste and find yourself getting comfortably warm as your glass is always filled. 

“To be honest, he had talked my ear off about this for a while.” Shōta explains, a pink tinge from the wine making his lip looser than usual.

“Hm? What do you mean?” 

“Well, I mean this.” He gestures to you both. “He had been talking nonstop about finally taking you on a date.”

It’s not a huge confession, but it makes your heart swell slightly as Shōta continues eating, unaware of the exact implications of his words. You lean over the table slightly, feeling a bit flirty. “Yea, but didn’t I propose we come here when we had gotten coffee last week?”

He leans in slightly, “Yea but I was the one that brought it up last Fri–” He pauses and rushes backward to sip awkwardly on his wine. 

Before you can press further, eagerly wanting for him to divulge a bit more, the waitress returns to offer the dessert menu.

You’re definitely a bit tipsy, though Shōta seems to hold his alcohol much better than you regardless; she leaves to give you both a few minutes. 

“Do you need time to sober up at all? We can order dessert.” You offer while glancing through the list of pastries and gelatos listed. Taking a moment to feel just how warm your face was feeling, you spin the bottle of wine on the table around and gulp when your eyes linger on the alcohol percentage of 17%.

Oh shit. How many glasses has it been…?

You knock your elbow back slightly and the purse hanging on your chair falls to the floor; on instinct you lean down to pick it up. Of course you don’t even realize the perfect view down your dress it gives your company. Tits basically pouring out as you pucker your lips in effort to reach the strap, Shōta’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows while blatantly staring. 

He coughs slightly, now staring at your lips as you return to your upright position. “I’m feeling warm, but definitely a good idea to wait a bit. I don’t mind eating something sweet either.”

You don’t look up– too  absorbed in now scanning over the dessert list once again. “Oh really? Do you have an idea in mind?”

“Yea, I do.”

Eyes looking up in curiosity, Shōta snaps out of his trance and frantically searches the now nearly empty restaurant for something, anything to save himself. “The… uhhh… tiramisu? Is really good.”

You both settle on ordering it and the waitress clears the table except for the remaining wine and your glasses; by this point he’s not exactly slick at the glances he makes and you’re feeling maybe too bold considering your current blood alcohol content. 

His second button now sluttily undone as he continues explaining his current hero training schedule for upcoming class events, you flutter your lashes at him and bring your hand up for your chin to rest on. It seems like you’re just super interested in his current routine; in reality you’re using the flesh of your bicep and forearm to smush your tits together a bit more while they partially raise above the already low neckline. 

And as much as Shōta is a gentleman, Keigo is certainly correct that at the end of the day, he’s still just a man. Eyes dart down to your cleavage before peeling them back up in an attempt to be respectful before he glances back down again. 

You swirl the wine in your glass with your free hand and pause to set your spoon on a now empty dish of dessert; Shōta’s years of staring at villains leaves him unblinking across from you, taking in every move. The bottle of wine is empty, and when his story comes to an end, you notice the now quiet atmosphere of the restaurant. 

Most tables are empty, and the waitstaff sits in the back organizing silverware and glasses in preparation to close. You peel your gaze back to the man across from you and offer a sheepish grin at your realization that you had been here for several hours.

Shōta’s long empty glass is pushed away from the edge of the table as he stands up and adjusts his blazer; taking out your phone and standing as well, you notice the time of 10:45 and several missed calls from Keigo. A few texts from him are full of encouragement while your eyes linger on the most recent one.

From: Keigo ;p

Heading out of your apt.

I forgot to leave it unlocked... oops!

Shōta takes a few steps to stand at your side as you slide your phone back in your purse and try to think of a way back into your apartment. You still had no keys to get back home…

“Are you ready to go, y/n?”

You spin and adjust the strap of your purse on your shoulder and awkwardly let out a forced casual exhale. “Hm? Oh, yea.. Totally. But, don’t we have to pay?”

Shōta guides you back towards the front doors and gives a small nod to your waitress as she brings a tray of fresh glasses from the kitchen to the bar. “Already did. I just had them use the card I kept on file for the reservation to pay for the meal.”

“Wait–” You turn to him but continue his guidance to the exit. “You really gave me no chance to try and pay, huh?”

“Mhm.”

You laugh at his traditional chivalry and lightly nudge him while the valet runs out to retrieve the car. Shōta makes no effort to stand firm, letting himself be swayed by your small push and leaning right back to remain steadfast at your side. 

Sliding into the passenger seat and grinning when he shuts the door for you, a quick panic ensues within your mind. It’s plausible that Kiego might be able to come back and give you his spare keys… but maybe Jackson would let you crash on his couch? Sleeping in makeup and without pajamas was not the most appealing, but it’s better than sleeping in front of your door until morning when maintenance could let you in.

“Are you alright?” Shōta looks at you as he slides his seatbelt into place and adjusts his rearview mirror.

“Hm? Oh, y-yea…”

He isn’t convinced and keeps his gaze intently on you; the look is so serious that you wonder if he’s stone cold sober for a moment. “Listen, if you’re thinking of a nice way to say you aren't interested in a second date… that’s fine. You can just say it now, it won’t–”

“Wait.” You raise your hands and wave them. “No! I’m not thinking about that at all. I’d love to go on another date in all honesty.”

Shōta pauses and lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank God. Ok, that’s a nice reassurance… but why are you looking nervous like that?”

He doubles back on his words when you slide down the visor and flip open the attached mirror to examine your makeup for a moment. With a pathetic chuckle as he slowly pulls out of the parking lot, you take a few deep breaths in attempt to figure out the most casual way of stating you had nowhere to stay for the night.

“I just…I might be–” You start and trail off; Shōta gives you a patient look with some concern. “I am locked out of my apartment.”

There’s a beat of silence and Shōta opens his mouth once before his face slightly contorts in a thought process of how you would have managed that. He slows down and pulls into a parallel spot with ease to allow other cars to pass.

“Can I ask how you managed that? You can’t just forget your keys, right?”

You sink into the seat in embarrassment and fiddle your thumbs sheepishly. “No, that wouldn’t usually be possible. It’s just that...I did have a list of things to put in my purse…and my keys didn’t happen to be on said list.”

He chuckles beside you and raises an eyebrow. “Ok, I’ll bite. What was on the list that was more important than your house keys?”

You purse your lips and look up guiltily at him. “Phone, wallet, chapstick…” He leans down a bit further when you pause. “... mints and my lipgloss. That’s it.”

Shōta chuckles heartily when you complete the packing list and offer him an apologetic smile. “Mmm, those do sound very important.”

“Ugh.. don’t rub it in.” 

You sink down a bit further at his sarcasm until he pauses to look genuinely at your face; the warm city lights illuminating the shine of your hair and lips. His gaze darts down to the hemline of your dress that hugs the upper portion of your thighs before dragging his eyes to the plump swell of your breasts that sit nearly pouring out of the top. 

 He coughs slightly and looks back at the digital clock on the car radio. “What’s your plan then?”

Taking your phone out of your purse and sending another message to Keigo, you note that he hasn’t sent a message in 90 minutes, and sigh slightly. “I can see if my law school friend is awake… or I can always wait in the lobby of my apartment until maintenance comes in at 7am.”

“No way, you’re not just going to sit in your lobby alone for hours on end. Does anyone have a spare key?”

You fiddle with your thumbs again and look down. “He’s not answering…”

Any resolve or self restraint that Shōta had been holding in is now completely drained. You don’t even need to say the name to know you’re talking about Keigo. Shōta knew you two were close friends– a camaraderie similar to nearly that of siblings, but that didn’t stop the ugly and vile envy that always coursed through his veins whenever the name was mentioned.

It was childish to feel jealous of a friend who you firmly trusted, and the mentor to one of his own student’s internship, but Shōta couldn’t help it. ‘Keigo this’, ‘Keigo that’; it was half of the topics you happened to ever talk about. The way you two were physically comfortable also rubbed Shōta the wrong way– though none of it was inherently romantic or sexual, it still made the older man insecure. 

That night, Friday night, had been a tipping point. You came into the bar with him, and had a few drinks before even walking over to the table of your expecting company. Being forced to watch the way Keigo wiped your mouth was too much, and before he could stop himself, Shōta had used erasure on the man. 

It didn’t do anything, other than make Keigo feel slightly uncomfortable, but it was enough for the table to laugh and ridicule Shōta for acting so brazenly. Now sitting here, with you in his passenger seat, texting a man who wasn’t even bothering to respond, was once again Shōta’s tipping point.

The words fall off the tongue with urgency, desperate for you to know you could depend on him to be there for you; to always respond to your texts and calls if you sent any. Shōta can’t even blame the alcohol, himself a relative heavyweight anyways, and he’s not sure there’s anything to blame the sentence on besides the facts he’s just a man trying to make a move on the most beautiful girl he’s ever had the privilege of knowing.

“You can stay with me tonight, if you want.” 

a/n: I KNOW ITS BEEN FOREVER i'm sorrryyy

[I've been traveling a lot on the weekends so I haven't had much time to sit and write -> i'm staying local the next two weeks so i'll be grinding it out i promise]

ALSO: this was supposed to include you staying the night but it got too long so I have to post it as a ch.6 [it's gonna be a loooong night let's just say that ;) ] -> i have it written tho so i'm just gonna wait a few days to post it

i love all your support on this series, it's been so much fun to write it!

likes/comments/reblogs all appreciated and i luv reading all ur comments

LMK if u wanna join the tag list

<3 - oatmeal

tags: @idkidk32 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aizawasbaeee @smashley351 @beachaddict48 @lynnesm @lashaemorow @kriscr0ss @hotvillianapologist @loverofdeepspace

[esamastation]

Gamer girl gets transmigrated into a farm boy Chapter 4 [<<Prologue | <Chapter 3 || Chapter 5>>] Ao3 link

-

So, gambling turned out to be a bit of a bust. It's not a complete loss, though, Van did multiply his starting bid of five silver to seventy four silver pieces in total. Compared to using exploits it's nothing - Katie could've made that in her sleep, if the NPCs still worked like they do in the game. But seeing that it's still in the very early tutorial section… it could be worse.

And then there's the level up. Van's very first this time around. Cue the confetti…

[Farmboy] [Van] [Lvl. 2 Commoner]

It feels pretty good. And what's waiting below in the stats screen is even better.

[You have 2 unused Stat Points.] [You have 1 unused Skill Point]

The first ones always feel a bit special.

In Age of Tales you get two status points and one skill point each time you level up and can then allocate those points as you wish on your character screen. It's not the only way to get points - there are quests, special items and a couple of accessories that affect how you accrue points - but until you're making real money in the game, you're stuck with what level ups dish out. Which is fine - early levels until about lvl. 20 are pretty cheap.

Of course, Van doesn't have a class yet, and so no skill tree to assign his shiny new skill point to - but he can assign his stat points, if he wants to. Which brings up the question. 

What is he going to specialise in this time? 

Van's got the base stats for an easy start as a Paladin, obviously - but Katie just did a Paladin run, and while it was fun, she wouldn't say it was so great that she's eager to repeat the experience. Especially if this really is a transmigration isekai situation - which she's still not thinking about, thank you very much, that's an existential crisis that can wait until nightfall.

At any rate, getting stuck forever as a Paladin would be… well, it would probably be fine. It was alright, playing the goody two shoes lawful good himbo with a heart of gold. It went great with the whole cliché secret chosen one and the lost heir to a great house thing at least… not that there were more than, like, three characters in the whole game who even acknowledged the player character's class. Van got pretty much the same reaction from everyone regardless of whether he was a Rogue or a Wizard or Paladin - it was just the big black and white moral choices that affected those sorts of things.

Age of Tales is Age of Tales-ing, what can you do?

Anyway, going at it as a Paladin again would be easy… but boring. Katie would have to think about it carefully before committing to anything. Though she hasn't quite ruled out the use of cheats yet and is still hoping that Van might be able to use exploits to his benefit later, the gambler showed her that things are different here. Never mind the fact that some features of Age of Tales are just missing, like the passive Wisdom buff. What if she chose a class with features that just don't work anymore?

Yeah, Van's next class would take some careful consideration, and she wouldn't be assigning his status points until she knew, either. Class selection wouldn't be until Urgol's Camp in Chapter 2, anyway, so there's no point fretting about it now.

For now Van has some silver to spend and shopping to do.

He considers visiting the fortune teller first, just in case the duplication glitch is still possible… but he doesn't have a gold bar, and the glitch never worked with anything else, and beyond that the fortune teller doesn't really do much. Also, he has The Incident to prepare for, too, and a limited amount of money.

So, with a full coin purse in hand, Van turns his attention to the market instead. First things first - weapon and armour.

The smithy stands on the other end of the market square, with smoke chugging out of its chimney at steady puffs. There are some shields on display in the front and a big wooden sword on top of the building, advertising "Blakeley's Blades - in business for more than three generations!"

"Hello," Van calls, entering the place.

Inside the air is hot and thick, with the smell of smoke and metal hanging heavy in the room. In the background there's the steady clink-clink-clink of a hammer on an anvil - an apprentice, hammering out some nails in the back. 

"Welcome," an older teenager, eighteen at most, comes forward. "How can we help you?"

[Blacksmith's Apprentice] [Jaro Amagris] [Lvl. 15 Commoner]

"I'd like to see what you have for sale, please," Van says.

"Well, what we have ready is over there," the older apprentice says, pointing towards a table loaded with a number of wooden boxes and buckets full of different metal crafts - nails, candle holders, hinges… "But if you want something specific, you will have to wait until the master gets back - he's out on business."

"Thanks, I'll just take a look," Van says and moves to the table. 

Much to his delight, an Age of Tales shop menu pops up.

[Blakeley's Blades Blacksmith]

[Small Iron Nail - 10 copper pieces] [Small Iron Hook - 13 copper pieces] [Small Iron Clasp - 15 copper pieces] …

And so on, in a surprisingly long list from cheapest to the most expensive. It's a lot of small iron stuff, different types of nails, cloak pins, buckles and buttons, eating utensils, heads of farming tools, and so on and so on, ending with the most expensive items.

… [Cast Iron Skillet - 35 silver pieces] [Cast Iron Cooking Pot - 40 silver pieces] [Short Sword - 50 silver pieces] 

It's a lot more items than Van had been expecting - and yet, fewer weapons. There are plenty of knives - Cooking Knife, Lvl. 1, goes for a nice round 20 silver pieces while Whittling knife, Lvl. 1 goes for 25 - but there's no daggers or throwing knives or anything like that. There isn't even metal ammunition for a sling. There's just one short sword on sale.

And no armour whatsoever. 

"Do you not sell any armour?" Van asks, confused. 

"Er, no?" Jaro Amagris says, giving him a strange look. "We don't make armour, really, though I suppose we can give it a try, if you want to order some. Or you could try at the Madam Arbury's, they might have something."

Van blinks, confused. "Madam Arbury's?"

"The tailor," Jaro clarifies.

There's a tailor? "Oh, okay. Uh. Where is it?"

"It's just across from the church - big windows with dresses, you can't miss it," the apprentice says with a shrug. "I think they have some padded coats and stuff."

Huh. That's interesting. You could get some gambesons and the like in the game too, but all armour and weaponry was bought from blacksmiths. This is… different.

"What d'you need armour for?" the younger apprentice, a boy of maybe ten or eleven, asks from between his hammering. His eyes shine eagerly on his sweaty, soot-stained face. Van glances at the air above him.

[Blacksmith's Apprentice] [Denny Rivercross] [Lvl. 3 Commoner]

The kid squints at Van.  "Are you going to join the army or something?" he asks.

Yeah, eventually, unfortunately, if things follow game plot. "No, no, I just got a bit of money, and I always wanted to try it," Van says quickly and motions at himself. "I mean… I think I'd make a good warrior. What do you think?" He flexes an arm, just because he can. And because Van's biceps are massive.

The younger blacksmith's apprentice bounces a little, clearly full of barely contained kid energy. "Oh yeah! You could be a knight!"

The older apprentice snorts. "Yeah, I don't think size alone is enough to become a knight, Denny," he says, looking Van up and down. "Though it probably helps…"

Denny bounces again. "Jaro, can we make armour for him?" the kid asks eagerly. "I'm so tired of making nails!"

"Well, like I said, we could give it a try," Jaro answers dubiously, still eyeing Van. "If he can pay for it."

Van shrugs. "I might, I might not. How long would it take to make it?"

"Depends on what you want," Jaro answers, taking a hammer lying on a table nearby and swinging it thoughtfully. "Some things take longer to make. And whether you're fine with us trying our hand at it, or if you want a master to make it matters too. He'll be faster - but it will cost you more."

"Hmm… say I wanted a chest plate, a cuirass, and you made it - how long would it take you?" Van asks, rubbing his chin on thought.

Jaro shrugs. "I've never made one and we're pretty busy, so… maybe a week or two?"

… by which time, Van would be at Ulgor's Camp and Valthor's minions would've already torched Westbrook to the ground.

Assuming, of course, that events followed game plot.

"Hmm," Van hums, wondering. In the game there's nothing you can do to prevent the destruction of Westbrook and the Gylcross farm - no matter what choices the player made, a scripted event was a scripted event. But maybe here and now… maybe there is something he can do.

He'd know once the Rift was opened.

In either case, a week is too long - he needs the armour for the battle in town, and that's in three days - and after that, even if the town survived, he might not see Westbrook again in months, if not years. There's no point in ordering anything made here.

"Well, it was a nice dream," Van sighs, a bit disappointed. "I guess I'll try my luck at the tailor's."

"Uh-huh," Jaro the senior apprentice agrees, clearly unimpressed, and drops the hammer on the table. "Alright. Anything else we can do for you?"

With no weapon-worthy knives and the only sword on sale being prohibitively expensive with Van's meagre budget… "Any chance you might have any spears or something lying around in here?"

Jaro snorts at him, arching his brows. "Spears?"

"I just want something to practice being a warrior with!" Van says defensively. "Spears are cheap, right?"

The elder blacksmith's apprentice shakes his head, looking amused, and then thinks about it. "Actually," Jaro says slowly. "I might have something. If you're alright with the shoddy quality, I think we have some practice pieces left?"

He goes to rummage in the back of the smithy and comes back with three very rough looking spearheads made of pretty low quality iron, going by the little holes and pockmarks in them.

[Dull Spearhead, Lvl. 1] [Attack: 3] [Defence: 0] [Crafting material. Attach to a Wooden Pole for a Dull Spear Lvl. 1.]

Van studies the spearheads with interest. Huh. There was crafting in Age of Tales, of course - but the only weapons you could craft were different types of arrows, and those only if you played a Ranger. He'd never seen spearheads. Maybe with some crafting material, his crafting menu will unlock?

In the meanwhile, the younger apprentice has abandoned his nail and is coming to join them. "Jaro, did you make these?" Denny asks, poking at the spearheads interestedly.

"Yes - master was hoping to get commission from the Baron, so he had me learn how to make them," Jaro shrugs. "We didn't get the job, though, it went to a blacksmith in Elysia. Someone's relative." He rolls his eyes.

Denny bounces eagerly, looking up at him. "I want to learn how to make spearheads!"

"Figure out how to make straight nails first," Jaro snorts, pushing the kid back towards the anvil he'd abandoned. Then the elder apprentice turns to look at Van. "Anyway, you can have these for five silver apiece."

Van hums. They are pretty rough, but… they'll probably still be better than the tools back at the farm. "Throw in a sharpening stone and you got yourself a deal."

-

Things go a little better at the tailor. Emphasis on the little.

"Oh, dear me," huffs the very fashionable lady tailor holding the gambeson against Van's chest and tutting fretfully. "No, it won't do, this won't fit at all! I'm afraid it will never fit you."

[Tailor] [Alma Arbury] [lvl. 7 Commoner]

She's somewhere between her thirties and forties and quite pretty, as most female NPCs in this game are. She's dressed up like the NPCs in the crown city, in a multilayered, vaguely Victorian looking dress with many shiny buttons running in a neat line from her neck down to the very hem. She looks very much like someone who's well fit to catering for the rich and affluent.

It's pretty fascinating, since she wasn't in the game at all.

"Well?" Alma asks, squinting a little through her golden framed glasses.

Van looks down. Though the gambeson looks pretty legit, with thick quilting and metal clasps and everything… it also kind of looks like she's holding something made for a child, when compared to his torso. "Could you maybe… expand it?" he asks hopefully. 

"Oh, well," Alma frowns, leaning back a little to consider the issue. "I suppose I could add panels to the side… and the arms… and the shoulder…" she trails away and then tsks, folding the gambeson over her arm. "No, no, it won't do, it won't do at all, it would be a complete mess. No, the proper thing to do is to make a new coat from scratch. Yes, it will fit you perfectly and will be far less work for me!"

Van hums, watching her take the gambeson away. "Well, you're the tailor, I guess. How long would that take, though?" he asks worriedly.

Alma hums and waves a dismissive hand. "Oh, a day or two - it's not a terribly complicated piece of clothing to make, and I have some nice quilt ready."

Van sighs with disappointment. Yet another unexpected turn for realism, but at least it's better than a week or two. "I see," he says and mentally pokes at the System, in hopes that it might offer him a handy-dandy instant goods store.

It shows him the tailor's shop instead. 

[Madam Arbury's Boutique.]

[Handkerchief - 80 copper pieces] [Foot Wrap - 90 copper pieces] [Underwear - 1 silver pieces] …

And so on and so forth, all the way down to…

… [Men's Fancy Winter Coat - 67 copper pieces] [Fancy Evening Dress - 80 silver pieces] [Elaborate Wedding Dress - 1 gold and 10 silver pieces] 

Van mentally flicks through the store page with a sigh and then stops. What's this? Near the middle of the list there is, oh, is that A Leather Vest, lvl. 4? For meagre 20 silver pieces? Well-well-well…

He looks slyly towards the tailor. "You wouldn't happen to have anything else - like, say, a vest?" he asks and adds, leadingly. "Something that might offer a little bit of protection?"

"Oh, well," Alma huffs, adjusting her glasses, her lips pursing up in thought. "I suppose we can have a look at what I have in store, but I really don't think… no, maybe…"

She heads off, muttering to herself and leaving Van examining the boutique and the System's store window. 

It's interesting, and yet another proof of how much more… real things are here. While the building for this shop was in the game - and it had something like five identical clones in other towns and cities - it hadn't been something the player could interact with. Just window dressing, making towns feel more lived in.

Maybe it was in the cut content, and there'd been plans for a clothing shop NPC that hadn't been implemented. It wouldn't be the first time it happened, and there certainly were enough clothing items that there should've been a tailor NPC.

"Ah, here we go!" Alma calls. She's holding a brown leather vest up triumphantly. "Now, this, this is a tough piece of clothing, if I do say so myself! Nice and supple cowhide. Come here, let's see how it fits."

It doesn't, no matter how Alma tries to stretch it, the vest doesn't get anywhere near to closing properly. Van's chest is simply too big.

"Well, that's what you get for growing so big!" the tailor says, a little defensive, her face flushed with effort. 

"I didn't say anything?" Van mutters and then shakes his head, giving in to the inevitable and taking the vest off. Everything was so much easier in the game - because everything always fit the character perfectly. "I guess it was a bit much expect clothing to be ready made. Let's talk about the gambeson - how much would it cost to make it?"

Pretty much all the silver he has left, it turns it, and he wouldn't get the gambeson until the next time he was in town, but that's fine. He wouldn't need it until after the Rift, anyway. With haggling done - and belated introductions made - Alma moves to take his measurements

It's a bit of a new experience for Katie, who's never had anything tailored in her life. It's also somewhat eye-opening, because Madam Arbury's Boutique has something he's not encountered yet. 

A mirror.

"I'll get to work right away," Alma promises, pushing her glasses up again while Van stares at his reflection. "It will be ready by tomorrow evening, mark my words. Please extend your arm straight to the side."

"I'm sure it will be," Van says, tilting his head this way and that while holding his arm to the side. Katie spent something like two hours designing this face, but seeing it like this, in the mirror, moving when he moves, emoting when he does…

"May I ask what you need a gambeson for, anyway?" Alma asks. "I assume you work on a farm?"

"Yeah, the Gylcross farm - but I'm not planning to stay there forever," Van admits, making faces at his reflection. His teeth are so straight. And so white. Kind of weird.

"Ah, I see," Alma hums, thoughtful, writing something down in a little notebook. "Are you looking to join any military group in particular? Should I add heraldries?"

"No," Van says, shaking his head. "I just want some armour, no insignia or heraldry or anything."

"Very well. You can put your hand down now."

Van lowers his arm and tilts his head the other way. Damn, his jaw is… impressive. He's got comic book superhero levels of jaw going for himself. Which kind of makes sense - a certain farmboy superhero might've been an inspiration there, maybe. His hair is so much messier than he realised, though. Guess that's an effect of it not being just a thing made of polygons anymore.

Also, is that… a bit of stubble? A hint of a five o'clock shadow? 

Does he have to shave?

Alma finishes taking his measurements with professional finesse. Van pays for his order, signs the receipt,  weighs his now empty coin purse and then sighs. "Thank you very much, Ma'am."

"And thank you for your business, Mr. Van," Alma says, sniffing, and with a last slightly flustered glance at him, awkwardly waves him off. "Have a very good day now."

Shaking his head, Van heads out of the store.

So, instead of the usual armament of Long Sword, Reinforced Wooden Buckler, Studded Leather Armour, dozens of Draughts of Memory and bunch of healing potions on top of it, his shopping haul is… three shoddy spear points, sharpening stone and a receipt for an order from Madam Arbury's Boutique.

Yeah, Katie's usual approach to Age of Tales is not working here, at all, and reality is throwing some spanners in the works. Katie isn't sure how she likes it. Which is probably kinda ironic, after all the times she went on and on about how dumb and unrealistic Age of Tales was. 

She'd get used to it. 

-

"Ah, there you are, my boy," Mr. Gylcross says, spotting Van loitering about the marketplace, waiting for him. "Have you been enjoying your time in town?"

"It's been… interesting," Van admits, which it has. "All done with business, sir?"

"Yes, quite. I found a couple of buyers for our spring crops," Mr. Gylcross says, seeming satisfied. He's got a flushed look of a man who's had at least a couple of drinks and his moustache has somehow gotten bushier. Looks like he's had a good day. "And the doctor will come take a look at Geruth tomorrow," the landowner continues. "Now, go and fetch the cart, if you please - I've made some purchases, and it will be far easier to load them directly into the cart."

[Homeward bound, Lvl. 2.]

[Mr. Gylcross' shopping trip is drawing to a close and it's time to head back to the farm. Fetch Bell and the cart, and load Mr. Gylcross' purchases for the trip home.] [Quest reward:  20 exp, 3 Meat buns, 1 Bottle of Mead.]

"Right away," Van agrees and gets to it.

Together with Mr. Gylcross Van loads up the various sacks and barrels and other things the man had bought onto the cart, tying them down for a secure trip home. Then Mr. Gylcross takes a seat in the back again, now leaning against some flour sacks.

"Have you eaten anything, Van?" the man asks, rifling through his purchases.

"Ah, no, sir, I got… distracted," Van admits - and the moment it's mentioned, he realises that he's actually pretty hungry and thirsty. He hadn't even been thinking of food as something he needs, because, well… Age of Tales didn't have a hunger bar.

"Here," Mr. Gylcross says and hands him a clay bottle and a paper bag that doesn't quite fit the setting. "Eat up, my boy, it's a long way home."

"Thanks, Mr. Gylcross," Van says and peers into the bag - sure enough, meat buns. The bottle must be mead then. "I appreciate it."

"Got to keep my men fed, don't I, else you might run off to work for the likes of Drakner, and I can't have that " Mr. Gylcross chortles and settles down for the journey back.

Van hums, taking a bite of the meat bun and answering the System's prompt for [Start journey?] with [yes].

-

[<<Prologue | <Chapter 3 || Chapter 5>>]

Proofread by @nimadge

-

Reality is against Van but at least there's meat buns and mead

[lokisprettygirl]

Come As You Are (Eric Draven! Bill Skarsgard's Version x Female Reader) (18+) (Slight Au)

Read chapter 4 here

Chapter 5

Summary : You and Eric take turns taking care of each other. You let out a secret.

Warning: 18+, dirty sexual thoughts, smut in later chapters, Description of self harm, Eric is a past drug addict with suicidal tendencies, self harm, use of cuss words, description of claustrophobia, reader is in her early thirties, mention of sexual assault, death and murder, Consumption of alcohol and weed, periods

The next morning when Eric woke up, you were still asleep in his arms so he placed you on the bed as gently as he could before he propped himself on his elbow and looked at you. Admiring you would have been a more befitting term though. Your boobs were about to slip out of your tank top so he closed his eyes and fixed the strap before he leaned down to kiss your cheek.

Good god he could definitely get used to this.

He looked down and the lower half of your body was so completely pressed up against him, your legs tangled around his own while your thigh clung to his waist.

He was hard, so hard for you.

His cock ached and throbbed uncomfortably. You just looked so beautiful like this with your body wrapped around him, his hands itched to run between the valley of your breasts but he controlled himself, he didn't want to ruin this but he wondered how you'd look if he took you in this position, his cock pumping in and out of you slowly while you'd moan and writhe and look at him with those pretty, soft eyes of yours, chanting his name like a mantra.

The way you said his name so tenderly always got him but he couldn't even imagine how sensuous his name would sound when you're saying it amidst the throes of passion.

Before you'd wake up to witness his rock and hard embarrassment he untangled himself from you begrudgingly. He then slowly began pulling you in the center of the bed as he got up, he was afraid you'd fall down on the floor in your sleep.

“Mmmmm” you let out a cat like noise as he moved you so he stopped for a moment and just caressed your head.

“Shhhhhh shhh.. go back to sleep” he held you like that so you'd drift off again, you still had time in your shift and he didn't want your sleep disrupted because of him again.

As he got off the bed he pulled the duvet over you, wrote a small note and placed it on the side table next to the lamp so you'd not think he just upped and left after you had been so impossibly precious to him last night.

An hour later when you woke up, you woke up with a smile on your face, you had a dream about him, a naughty dream that had you dripping, you were lucky he wasn't there anymore, you probably would have touched him so inappropriately if he was next to you right now. You wanted to do more than just touch him, you wanted to lick every inch of his tatted skin if he'd let you.

“Ughhh” you groaned as the tingling sensation between your legs began to bother you.

You weren't really expecting to find a note but you were starting to pick up on the fact that he loved writing them. So old school, you weren't sure he even had a cell phone and that was something that mystified you.

'Thanks for everything. I mean it. Really. I do. Didn't want to disrupt your sleep again so I'm leaving this here as I'd be gone all day. See you at dinner tonight? Be safe out there, don't forget to take the taser. Leaving the breakfast on the kitchen counter. Waffles with extra whipped cream. Eat it before you go?

Eric :)'

You couldn't stop smiling after that, you read his little scribbled writing at least ten more times before you got out of bed to get ready for the day. He never really told you where he was going, who he was meeting, who he was beating up today or worse. He wanted to keep you out of that part of his life and you didn't want to push him again, he had been opening up to you and you were content with it.

At least for now.

Later that night when Eric returned drenched in blood again, he was excited to just shower and then knock on your door like he usually did, he was expecting to smell your delicious cooking from the elevator itself but he got none of that. As he approached his door he found a note so he picked it up immediately.

'Rain check on the dinner tonight? Cheryl got a promotion so she wants to celebrate, will be back soon.

P.s You need a phone. Eat something healthy.. see you soon <3'

He gulped as he read the note, he looked at the time and it was 9:30 at night, you were a grown woman, you had survived so far on your own but he couldn't stop worrying about your safety especially after that incident. You didn't even tell him where you were going, if he knew he would have gone there to keep a safe watch from a distance.

As he entered his apartment, he couldn't stop pacing back and forth in worry, he had that nightmare last night and now you were out at such late hours and he didn't know where you were and what if something happened to you? He'd never be able to forgive himself for this, he didn't even think he was even capable of losing you anymore, losing one more person who despite his numerous flaws wanted to be around him.

As the clock hit 11, he opened his door to go look for you, wherever you were in this big city, he was going to find you but then he heard the sound of the elevator whirring and he halted on his doorstep.

As you stepped out of the elevator you saw him, standing on his doorway, the blood splatters were all over his face and clothes, not as bad as the other times but they were there.

“Hey did you just return?” You asked him as you walked towards him but he didn't answer you, he was just staring at you, as if trying to make sure that you were perfectly safe from head to toe, that there wasn't one single scratch on your precious body, the black flowy dress you had worn made you look so gorgeous and he'd have admired it more if he wasn't so wrecked at the moment.

“Eric?” You mumbled as you walked closer, for once he didn't smell perfect, he had a long day and he had spent the past two hours sweating profusely in stress and anxiety.

“You know you could have just mentioned where you were going” he said as he crossed his arms so you nodded before you stepped closer to him and placed your hand on his forearm but he pulled away like a petulant child throwing a tantrum

“Eric-” you spoke again but he interrupted you.

“I was so..it's ..fuck .. it's 11 at night..it's not safe out there you know that, there are awful people just waiting to-”

“Eric” you interrupted his train of thoughts but he kept going..he was going to freak out, this was a sign that you had come to recognise in the past four months.

That's what started the downfall of his relationship with Melody, he was always so paranoid and afraid of her being hurt again, so much so that every time she went out without him he spent every half hour calling and texting her, making sure whether she needed him to be there for her or if she was in danger. It had gotten so bad that she broke his phone in anger once after he picked an argument over her not responding to his calls. He didn't blame her for feeling so suffocated with him, she had a bright future, big dreams and he was just holding her back.

“Did your friends even drop you home or they just left you outside somewhere-” he continued so you said his name a little louder this time.

“Eric?” You walked closer and cupped his cheeks, your fingers rubbed over the dried blood on his skin as you made him look you in the eyes.

“Look at me okay? I'm safe, I'm okay, I'm here” you mumbled, your voice gentle as you pulled him closer and embraced him, it took him a few moments before he wrapped his arms around your waist in a tight grip. You were safe, you were safe and in his arms and he could feel you and touch you.

After a while you pulled away from the hug but didn't step away completely. You knew he spent the last few hours worrying his mind over you and he must not have eaten so you really wanted to feed him.

“Take a shower, I will fix you a sandwich, okay? You want something to drink?” You asked him so he shook his head before he lowered his neck to place his head down on your shoulder. He breathed in your scent for a moment before he cupped your cheeks, his thumbs ran over your skin gently

“Don't go anywhere now okay?” He said to you so you nodded in response. The way he was being so protective of you made your heart flutter so fast you feared it would burst out of your chest. Nobody has made you feel so important before, nobody cared enough to treat you as if you were someone they needed to protect so fiercely.

“I'll be back, I smell like a sewer rat”

Well at least he was aware.

You chuckled as he turned around to go into his apartment but he kept his door open for you, you had to make that sandwich and you knew you'd find nothing in his kitchen so you entered your apartment, quickly fixed him two chicken sandwiches and then you made your way into his apartment.

When he came out of his bedroom next he seemed clean and he smelled divine like always. You tapped the spot next to you on the couch so he sat down and turned his head to look at you, he then flicked his fingers over your cheek.

“You look beautiful”

So did he you thought.

“Thank you”

As he picked up the sandwich he offered you a bite so you took it even though you were full to the brim from the dinner you had with your friends. As you placed your head down on his shoulder he turned his neck to look at you,

“Tired?”

“Mmm i just hate that i have to work tomorrow again” you groaned and he couldn't help but smile at the whiny tone of your voice.

“Take a day off”

“Mm no I'm saving it for my periods”

Well it was something men didn't have to worry about, like ever.

Once he was done eating he got up and grabbed a heavy chained metal lock before stepping out of his apartment so you followed behind him to see what he was up to, he was locking the grill door of the elevator.

When he saw you looking at him he spoke to clarify “Just for the nights, there's no security in this shitty building..you want a key?”

He asked you, even though he was hoping you'd not use the key to sneak out at nights and even if you did he hoped you'd tell him where exactly you were going. God he sounded absolutely manic as he heard his own thoughts.

“Mmm no..I'll come to you if I need it” your voice was soft, almost seductive as you said it, even though he knew you didn't know the S of Seduction.

He looked at you a bit surprised, you were going to feed into his paranoia weren't you? Instead of making him feel so fucking deranged about it you were going to massage his borderline creepy behavior with you and take pleasure in it.

As he walked past you he grabbed your arm and dragged you back into his apartment before he closed the door behind him.

“Eric, why don't you have a phone?” You asked him as you got into his bed as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world for you.

“Don't need it” he answered as he looked at you, the sight of you flailing out in his bed rushed the blood to his cock, you were in his bed, in that dress, he could just climb on top of you, kiss you and then run his hands all over you, touching you in places he desperately wanted to and he had a feeling you won't stop him either, you seemed so eager and desperate to him, he felt it, the way you touched him, the way you couldn't keep your hands off him when he was close to you, you were as eager and as desperate as he was for you.

To hide the evidence of his arousal he approached the bed and quickly laid down next to you.

“You don't need it? How do your ..ummm work folks contact you for the.. assignments you get?” you asked softly. He had no one he wanted to speak with? That saddened you to the core, not one person, no friends, no distant family members, Not even an ex or something.

“Don't need a phone for that..I'll get one tomorrow though, just for you, learned a lesson tonight”

You smiled as he said that. Well it wouldn't hurt to be able to chat with him and hear his voice whenever you wanted.

“Need to sleep?” He asked you so you turned on your side and hummed in response before your arm flung around his waist.

“Eric?”

He turned his head to look at you and hummed as you called out his name, your eyes were closed so he stared at your face as much as he wanted, you were so close to him.

“Something bad and weird happened to me a few months ago”

You mumbled and his smile faded, he knew exactly what had happened and he wasn't sure if he was ready to talk about it just yet.

He didn't want you to know he was the one to bring you back home that night.

“What happened?” He asked as he turned to his side, propping himself up on his elbow to face you so you opened your eyes.

You sighed before you told him everything that had happened that night, all from the moment when those men had cornered you to the fact that you had given up and how you were back home when you had regained consciousness.

“I don't know if that even happened or it was a dream or I made it all up, I feel crazy when I think about that night” he ran his fingers through your hair to comfort you, the way you often did for him.

He didn't want you to feel so confused about that night but he wasn't ready to tell you the truth either, he didn't want you to think he had done any sort of favour to you or perhaps you'd think he was a creep for not taking an unconscious woman to the hospital.

He went through your purse afterall which took him a while, it was a mess, he looked for id, and address and your keys before he lifted you up tarzan style and brought you home and put you down on your bed. It was just shock from fear and exhaustion so he wasn't worried about your health being in imminent danger.

He should have disappeared out of your life after that but as soon as he saw the list of vacancies for the 11th floor he couldn't help himself, he wanted to be around you and keep you safe from all the bad things in this world. He felt a rush that night he hadn't felt in years, a sense of purpose in his vacant existence so he latched onto you like a leech.

But you didn't need to know that.

“You're not crazy sweetheart, I'm just glad you're safe and I promise I'll never let anyone hurt you again alright?” he mumbled softly as he kissed your forehead, the gesture made your heart flutter again, god you just wanted to keep touching him when he was around you.

“Okay” your arm curled around his waist as you scooted closer to him with your nose pressed up into the crook of his neck. His scent was comforting as always, comforting and arousing at the same time.

“Eric?” you mumbled, your voice sounded muffled and it made him gulp.

“Yeah?”

“Can you unclasp my bra, I can't sleep with it on”

Now how was he supposed to do that?

“Yeah uh..sure”

He mumbled as he flung his arm around your back and pulled the zipper down a little so he could reach the clasp. You had your eyes closed so he glanced at your beautiful face for a moment, you breathed in deeply as your chest was finally released from the confinement.

“Thank you” you mumbled as you clapped his cheek lightly twice. He was starting to see how effortlessly sexy you were, so naturally sexy, you didn't have to pout or use a seductive fake voice, you just did things in your usual manner and that always stirred the arousal in the deepest pit of his stomach.

He laid down on his back and his breath hitched as you proceeded to place your thigh over his waist, right over his crotch.

Did you want him to flip you underneath him and take you? He couldn't really tell, he enjoyed the proximity and if this was all you wanted to give him he'd take it.

“Good night” you murmured softly so he hummed in response.

How was he supposed to sleep like this?

In the middle of the night you woke up suddenly as you felt that familiar churning in your stomach and slight wetness in your underwear..Eric rubbed his eyes as he looked at you.

“What's wrong?”

“Gotta go” you said as you climbed on top of him before jumping out of his bed, he was shocked for a moment but then followed you into your apartment and then your bedroom.

He watched as you grabbed something from your closet and he put two and two together.

It's been a while since he has been around a …menstruating woman. Melody often liked being alone when she had her cramps, she didn't enjoy being touched or taken care of, she just wanted him to leave her alone especially during the last few months they had spent together.

As you came out of the bathroom your face was contorted in grimacing pain.

“Hey. I'll go get it for you okay? Do you need anything else?” He asked so you shook your head.

“Do you have any ibuprofen? I ran out, i should have bought it” you asked him so he shook his head, he didn't really require any types of pills anymore. “Oh god I'm going to die” you mumbled as you crawled into your bed, he couldn't help but chuckle.

“No.. I don't want you to go at such late hours” he chuckled again at the concern. Gods you were adorable to him.

“I promise I can take care of myself..now do you need something else?” He asked you again so you sighed.

“Just pass me my hot bag please..it's in the closet..right drawer” he nodded as you said that before he reached into your closet and opened the drawer, he saw the drawing he had given you that night to apologize and it made him smile.

“I'll be back soon..use this until then” he said as he charged the bag and gave it to you as it was hot enough to offer some semblance of comfort. He truly wished he was able to take away your pain, he would trade places with you immediately but it wasn't possible.

“Well at least you don't have to work tomorrow” he said as he leaned down to kiss your temple and it made you smile even though the cramp was progressively getting worse.

Yeah well that was a positive side to having your periods.

“Thank you Eric.. love you” you mumbled under your breath but he heard you, it wasn't what you said that made him giddy but how you said it so casually..

Fifteen minutes later he was back with your pain killer, as you sat up he placed the pill in your mouth and made you drink water before he placed the glass on the side table. When he looked in your eyes they were teary so he cupped your cheeks.

“That bad huh? You'll feel better soon, okay? What else can I do? Tell me”

He thought you were tearing up because of pain? No, not right now at least, it was him that made you so emotional, you had never been treated so gently before.

“It's not the pain..I'm just happy you're here” he let out a breath as you said that, he wasn't the only one suffering from the lack of haptic communication in his life it seemed, you had no one either, no boyfriend, no best friend and you have never spoken much of your family either. Besides he was more than willing to be here with you, he just wanted to take care of you, give you something in return for all the ways you took care of him.

“You need a bigger bed sweetheart” he said as he climbed in and pulled you in his arms.

“Mmm bigger and longer since you're so long” He smiled as he caressed your back in the hope that you'd fall asleep as the medicine would kick in and you almost did as well but then you said something that kept him up all night.

“Eric?”

“Mmm”

“I have a secret” he chuckled as you said that.

“What is it?”

“Promise me you won't judge me?" You asked him.

“Never”

He didn't judge you, ofcourse not but your answer made him want to distance himself from you, not because he wanted to but because he felt as if he had to, or he'd end up ruining you completely, he feared he'd taint your pure perfect self with his ugliness.

“I'm a virgin”

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

Taglist: @m-riaa @erebus-et-eigengrau @peachychyy @enchantresss97

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 26

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know

A.N: I'm sorry for the delay. Unfortunately life gets in the way of these things!

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16 • Part 17 • Part 18 • Part 19 • Part 20 • Part 21 • Part 22 • Part 23 • Part 24 • Part 25

• ��·········· • ············ •

Thanks to whatever gods were now in charge of watching your endeavors, you made your way quickly and easily through the aqueduct. A mix of Viktor’s knowledge of the place and your ability to unlock doors and create distractions meant you didn’t need to go through the rocky riverbed.

Once on the other side of the river, you both made your way silently toward the main city, and when you arrived back at the park, the sun was already low on the horizon.

Viktor paused next to the small bench you had met by that morning, scratching the back of his neck and biting on his cheek, and you frowned.

“Spit it.” You crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow when he looked up at you, but then his gaze drifted away.

“I have a…suggestion to give you, but I’m afraid of what you might think of me after.”

Your frown got deeper as his cheeks got redder.

“Go on.” 

“My apartment is closer to the aqueduct than the penthouse, so…” He cleared his throat. “I think it would be beneficial…and far less exhausting… if…youspendthenightatmyhouse.”

The last part of the sentence came out as fast as the hex claw laser. You got 'spend' and 'house'…ah…

…

“You don’t have to; it is completely up to you, and even if you say yes and then change your mind, you can go! And the walls are really paper-thin, so if you are worried that I do anything to you… I mean you do have magic and I'm not exactly the strongest man in Piltover…once…Jayce gently pushed me away from an experiment, and I toppled over… Embarrassing, really… Why am I telling you this?”

You blinked a couple of times. At first I'm shocked that he had actually asked you to spend time at his place, especially after the day you both had. And then at his comically dramatic rant, a smile appeared on your face as he kept going.

“Alright, sounds like a good plan.”

“Besides, your mother isn’t here yet, and you’d be alone and…wait, what?” He finally stopped to look at you.

“It’s a good idea. We’ll be able to squeeze a few more hours of sleep in and do some planning.”

Viktor started to nod slowly at first and then enthusiastically. His face opened up with a nervous but bright smile.

“You want to go get takeout at Voltaire’s? I’m sure I can convince him to get you some tart…” He announced as he passed you by, waiting for you to follow him.

“No need.” He adjusted his cane, and you could have sworn he had a little more pep in his step. “Jayce came over the other day; his mother usually makes him bring me food. I fear she thinks I can’t feed myself.”

“Eh…pastries and dessert don’t count as a balanced meal plan, Vik.” You joked, and he gave an ‘I don’t care’ type shrug. “I’m just happy you're eating.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” You shifted your backpack’s straps, realizing what you had blurted out.

“Well, work…”

“I can eat and work! That is why I have two hands…” He made a gesture of screwing a bolt and grabbing something to eat.

“Wow…efficient.” He made an agreeing sound with his throat, and you laughed.

“Keep doing it! As much as people would kill for those cheekbones, gaunt wouldn’t look good on you.” You winked at him and laughed when he touched the reddening apple of his cheeks. 

Viktor joined your amusement as you both walked towards the Artist Quarters on your way to Engineering Street. 

The small apartment Viktor had inhabited was, in fact, closer to the aqueduct, between the riverbed and the Academy. Most of the people working in the Academy had housing there. Mostly because the rents were low for them and proximity. It was a step up from dorms, but not really an upgrade in luxury.

And while Engineering Street was quiet throughout the day and night, you’d even say a bit boring, the Artist Quarters were a lively and colorful place, becoming more energetic at night.

The buildings were smaller, with a maximum of 3 floors, but bright with small shops on the floor levels. Bakeries, art shops, music stores. The cobblestone streets were filled with chalk drawings on the ground, and the streetlights had string lights hanging in between them. 

The colors seemed to become brighter in these streets with the number of flowers and small trees and the strewn artists painting on the streets or people drinking and eating on the restaurant’s patio.

You passed by an art supply shop, and someone inside shouted Viktor’s name and waved at him. Viktor did the same, warmly greeting the elderly man storing a display of watercolors on a shelf, and you became curious.

“Mr. Felton sells me the pencils and chalks the council hates so much.” Viktor explained when he saw your expression.

“Have you ever tried drawing?”

“Oh no! Jayce is the artist of the two of us. He’s in charge of doing the initial designs and sketches…I’m good with a ruler, though!”

You were chuckling at his pride and confidence when he suddenly veered right and started to fish something out of his satchel. He took out a key and shoved it into the intricate front door to a beautiful blue-tiled building.

When he noticed you weren’t following him, he turned back and mentioned for you to come.

Viktor, head scientist and co-creator of Hextech, did not live on Engineering Street… Viktor, the color-coding aficionado, lived in the Artists Quarters. And you knew, in your heart of hearts…in the depths of your soul…there was nothing that made more sense than this.

His never-stopping mind didn’t need the monotony of the academy-assigned living quarters. It needs the bustle and the bustle and the colors of this place. You wondered if anything would have been different if the other Viktor had had this thought.

…

The building was beautiful outside and in.

On the outside, the light blue tiled walls were decorated with white columns and stone windows. There were three floors, with the two higher ones having a small veranda on them, just big enough to have two chairs on them. The ivy that crept up on the walls broke the symmetric façade of the building, clinging to the columns and tiles like veiny tendrils of bright green. What really got your attention at first was the front door, a white wood double door with intricate carvings and colorful glass panes, finished with a beautifully curved glass canopy.

The inside of the building was just as wonderful, with pastel brown painted walls and various little plants scattered on corners; the well-used wooden floors gave the inside a cozy feeling. In the middle back of the foyer was an old, small elevator that Viktor quickly made his way to, only stopping at the metal mailboxes to see if anything had been left to him. Nothing.

When you got to the elevator, you noticed Viktor’s hand tapping on the handle of his crutch. He was biting his cheek and slightly frowning, breathing in and out deeply at points.

“Are you alright?” You asked, leaning against the cage of the elevator.

“Mmm?” You nodded to his fingers on the handle, and he stopped, clutching the handle tighter. “Sorry…I--”

“Remember when you said I could change my mind and go? The same applies to you. I can just go.” You made sure your tone wasn’t disappointed or angry or any unintentional emotion that would make him feel bad when there was absolutely nothing to feel bad about. You’d respect his decision the same way you know he’d respect yours.

“No…” he quickly interjected. “I…this is not because I don’t want you here. It is because I do. I’m afraid I may do something that will scare you off…”

“I don’t scare easily.” You want to add, ‘I once spit in the face of a god,’ but then he would start asking questions. So you just touched his hand and smiled. 

The elevator stopped with a mechanical groan, and Viktor nodded, more to himself than to you, and walked out to the second-floor foyer. He opened the door and walked inside with you close behind. However, you couldn’t make it past the door frame without gasping wide-eyed while your mind blanked.

Something about butterflies and wings came to mind, though.

The inside of his apartment was the exact same floor plan as the other dimension. A small kitchenette to the left with a window on top of the sink, and the rest was open space. The glass and wood door to the balcony was on a diagonal corner in front of the main door; next to it was a small arrangement of windows with curved lines going through them, giving them a delicate design. There was a room to the side, which you guessed was the bedroom, and another room at the end of the open space, the bathroom. It wasn’t cramped, but it was small.

You knew this floor plan like the back of your hand; you could close your eyes and go from here to the bathroom without bumping into the wall.

What changed, though, made the entire home feel different. The decorations and the colors. The lived-in details of the furniture.

The walls had been painted a deep forest green, instead of the neutral gray of the other dimension. There were decorations on the walls, diplomas, and schematics displayed proudly. The wooden floors were shiny and covered with rugs here and there.

The small table that served as a divider between the kitchen and the living space had a napkin holder and a wooden straw table mat. There were pans on top of the fridge and plates on the dish rack. There were two mugs on the sink, one of them with ‘man of progress printed on it. 

It contrasted with the table that only served to hold books, boxes, and schematics. On the other timeline, glasses and plates were stored so as not to catch dust from not being used.

The living room had three bookcases filled with trinkets, books, vinyl records, and their player. 

The books weren’t just academic, like the other apartment’s shelves, but also biographies and fantasy, architecture, and philosophy.

You could see the collector's edition of your mother’s saga neatly tucked into a shelf with small ceramic figures of the main characters in front of them. 

There were photos of him, Jayce, Sky, and even your mom and Willah. Noticeably he didn’t look particularly comfortable in any of them, but it was a stark difference from the single photo of Jayce and Viktor at the inauguration of the hexgate and the framed newspaper clipping of the hex crystal discovery. 

The couch was a light dusty pink color with decorative pillows and two folded blankets on the back of it. It was a sharp difference from the leather-bound couch with blankets thrown about and his bed pillow shoved into a corner.

Behind a clothed divider, a desk and some scientific material were completely thrown around, but the mess was enclosed there. Near a big window, you saw the single-seat, twin version of the couch your mother sent to the lab. Tucked in a nook surrounded by plants and books. 

There were shoes on the shoe rack and coats on the coat hanger. There was an open book with a cover-up on the end table near the couch. There were tea stains on the dinner table. There was a life being lived here.

As you walked around the home, with Viktor trailing in front of you explaining and adding commentary to the million new things you were finding in the familiar house, you found yourself wondering why the Viktor you knew from before couldn’t have been gifted this…why was this Viktor standing in front of you smiling and being a generally happy human while his cosmic twin coughed himself to death? It made you sad and happy and angry and relieved.

“Are you alright?” Viktor tapped your shoulder, something he had now started to use to catch your attention instead of grabbing you.

You took a deep breath and mentioned the couch, silently asking permission to sit. Quickly he nodded and grabbed some pillows to make space for you. 

When you fell onto the leathery furniture, he took the place next to you, looking concerned.

“V…I…need to--”

“Meow”

Your speech was interrupted by a long, muffled meow by the front door, accompanied by small scratches on the wood.

“Oh…No, no… I’m sorry…Give me a moment…” Viktor gave an apologetic smile and got up, while you looked on intrigued by this.

He walked towards the bathroom door and opened it and then went back to the front door and did the same. The blackest of black cats intertwined itself on Viktor's legs, giving out small greeting squeaks and purrs.

“Go. Go on. Yes, I know.” Viktor said, smiling softly at the cat, talking back to them as if he could understand. 

The scientist softly nudged the cat with his foot, making the furry critter understand the big human wanted to move.

The cat finally acknowledged you and walked slowly towards where you sat, sitting gracefully in front of you and staring. Their blue eyes looked at you, and you swore that if all of the lights in Piltover were to turn off, the cat's eyes would be the only thing beaming.

“You have a cat.” You stated more than asked.

“Eehhh…Technically, the building has a cat. She just heard me first.” He limped back towards the couch and sat down.

“What's her name?” 

“Noir…Nono for short.” 

The cat leaped to the couch and smelled the hand you gave her. After a while, she deemed you worthy of her time and pushed her head into her hand, while Viktor stroked her body.

“Nono.” You called, and she looked at you. You presented her with your name, and she meowed.

When she was sick of the attention, she jumped down and walked to the bathroom, where you heard the telltale signs of her munching on her food.

“What were you saying?”

Viktor’s face was the definition of relaxed, the concern from before being replaced with a soft gaze and smile. 

Was the need to come clean to him about his cosmic twin attempting to end the world worth him losing his peace? Would the information you were about to vomit change what he has so carefully built?

“I…think I just need to eat.” You gave him a bright smile, and he laughed quietly.

“Very well.” He got up from the couch and made his way to the kitchen counter, and you followed him. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

You already were, the familiar floor plan making you feel at home. You sat at the dinner table watching him open his fridge and take out some glass containers with food and place them in the oven to heat up. 

Viktor sat on a chair next to you and slowly took off his leg brace, sighing in release.

“If you want to, you can shower. I can go ask Madame Theroux, my neighbor, if she can let me borrow one of her kid's old clothes… I think she might have something that fits you.” 

“Oh no…That’s too much of a bother.”

“Nonsense.” He got up and grabbed a discarded cane that was hooked on the divider and walked towards his bedroom. 

After a while, he came out holding two fluffy towels and handed them to you. “She probably already heard I have company; might as well come clean sooner than later; otherwise she’ll be knocking on my door to snoop.”

“Sounds like a charm.” You grabbed the towels.

“She is actually. She’s very protective of us…the people in the building.” He smiled and mentioned the bathroom door. “If you could just leave the door ajar so Nono can come in and out…otherwise she will throw a tantrum.”

The black cat, now curled up on the couch, meowed at hearing her name. You nodded and walked to the bathroom while Viktor made his way to his neighbor's door.

“Oh…you can use whatever you need from there.” He opened the door and paused again. “There’s a robe on the back of the door if you need it.”

The door clicked shut, and you looked at Nono, who looked up at you and blinked slowly.

The bathroom was big, and while in the other dimension, it was just a well, normal bathroom; this one had been enhanced to help Viktor with his disability.

There were grab rails next to the slightly raised toilet and in the shower nook. All of the towel racks were sturdy enough to assist if he needed.

The floor had several thin anti-slip rugs, and the shower also had one that looked like wood. 

There was also a stool inside the shower that you assumed he would use when needed.

You and Viktor in your timeline had once talked about this, making his house accessible for when he needed it, but his answer had been dismissive. A shrug and an ‘I spend more time in the lab anyway.’ Maybe you should have insisted; maybe you should have been more enthused about making it easier for him. Maybe if you had, he would have seen you in a better light after he had gotten the news.

It frustrated you that ‘maybes’ were all you had now. Even if you went back to your dimension, those things would still be in a maybe and if pile.

You heard the door close and started your shower quickly. You heard a knock on the door.

“There is a chair outside the door, in arm's reach for you to take. Madame Theroux said she threw in some undergarments…I didn’t check.” 

“Thank you.” 

You finished the shower and grabbed the clothes. Some red cotton checkered bottoms, a matching shirt, a white undershirt, and undergarments. It looked cozy, and it did fit you perfectly. This brought up the question of how Viktor had described you to the neighbor for her to get accurate measurements.

Walking out of the bathroom intent on joking about it with him, you stopped when you saw him haul a blanket and what you assume was a pillow to the couch.

“Oh. You are done.” He smiled, grabbed some clothes from the back of the couch, and walked towards you. “I think the food will be done soon. I am going to take a shower too, and then we eat, yes?”

You were still looking at the pillow and the sheet that was already tucked into the sofa. 

“This for me?” You blurted it out before he passed you, and he shook his head.

“No. You’re my guest. You sleep on the bed.” He sounded proud of himself. “May I?”

Viktor pointed to the door of the bathroom, and you noticed you had been blocking his path. You took a step forward, and he smiled, walked inside, and pushed the door almost closed.

The ruffling of clothes snapped you out of your stupor, and you walked towards the kitchen, throwing daggers at the couch.

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @kitewa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies @iamfandomnerd @jazzypop-op @jojo-at-heart @deceivethedreamer

[seellove]

Counterfeit Shrines // sukuna x female reader

Masterlist

Chapter 4 - Playing with Fire is Such a Cliche // (6.0k words) // 18+

\|/ AO3 - Chapter 4 | << Chapter 3 | Chapter 5 >>

You're a late bloomer when it comes to cursed energy, entering Tokyo Jujutsu High partway through the 4th year on the support student track. Because of this, you get paired with the only combat track sorcerer without a partner for obvious reasons, Ryomen Sukuna. He's had a tragic upbringing as a human that is part curse with dark expectations for how to live his life. However, after meeting you, he slowly starts to see the possibility of a different path with someone he might love.

Content Tags/Warnings Throughout Work: Reader and Sukuna are Jujutsu Sorcerers in a JJK AU, explicit smut, violence/blood/injury, dubious consent, dubious morality, drug and alcohol use, falling in love, angst, comfort, fluff, happy ending

You were starting to fall into a routine in your new home, finally feeling settled and comfortable with your new life. You and Shoko would go to the cafeteria every morning, then walk to your classes together. Some days Geto and Gojo would join you both, but a lot of times they were away on missions. 

You and Sukuna would meet up to work on your project some nights along with homework from your shared classes. He was often away as well, so you’d make the most of the time together to divide the workload. This caused his harem of fan girls to give you angry looks at times, in their eyes you were taking him away from their time with him. As if you had any say in this, you two had been partnered up against both your wills.

You had been cleared to go back to your combat sessions a few weeks after your hospital stay. That afternoon you and Shoko make your way to the training grounds after lunch. She is complaining about the chemistry test you had just gotten grades back on. 

“I don’t even know why we need to learn this shit if we are just going to be sorcerers,” she groans. 

“If you want to be a jujutsu doctor, chemistry is important to know!” you tease back. She pushes you jokingly in response. You both take a seat in the bleachers, continuing to bicker as friends do.

“Alright partner, I'm ready when you are,” you jump as you hear Sukunas deep voice behind you. Where the hell did he come from?

“What’s up stranger,” you respond. To his annoyance you’d been referring to him as that since the day you started the history project. You took great pride in annoying him, pissing him off greatly when you made fun of him instead of matching his angry energy. Seeing him get all butthurt was entertaining and worth it though.

“She just got back to normal, don’t go being a hard ass again,” Shoko growls at him. 

“Relax, she’ll be fine,” he waves her off. He leaps off the bleachers and stands beside you as you finish lacing your shoes. He leads the way to the far corner of the training grounds near the forest. 

“Can you hold my water bottle for a second, I need to put my hair up,” you say as you walk together. He puts his hand out to take the bottle while you pull your hair up into a messy bun. 

“How’d you do on the test?” he breaks the silence.

“Got an 88, I made some silly mistakes.”

“Ha I beat you this time, 97.”

Your competitive side causes you to respond with an annoyed huff, but deep down you aren’t mad. He’s smart so if there’s someone you’d rather lose to, it was him. All the more reason to do better next time. 

“Gonna have to try harder next time sweetheart,” he teases you, throwing your bottle back at you unexpectedly. 

“Excuse me? Sweetheart?” your voice rises as you throw the bottle back at him, making him leap to the side to avoid the projectile. 

“I said what I said,” he turns around and walks backwards, tauntingly looking at you with his hands behind his head. “Also I’m not getting that,” he gestures towards the bottle now laying out in the field.

“God you are so annoying,” you stomp away to retrieve your water.

“You flatter me so much, thinking I’m a god now,” he chuckles.

You look at him and shake your head, but you can’t help emitting a giggle of your own, trying to fight back a smile. You make your way back over to him. 

“Let’s sit,” he states as he lowers himself to the grass, patting the ground next to him. You follow suit, adjusting yourself to face him. “What kind of training have you had with cursed energy?”

You take a moment to think. You hadn’t been able to detect or manipulate it until the spring of this year. You realized it when you were walking home from school one day and saw a terrifying creature that it seemed no one else could see. You had freaked out, tearing up a sidewalk in the process of it all. After telling your dad, he showed you how to sense it in the earth and push it through voids, but you didn’t truly know how it all worked. 

You explain this to Sukuna who has a very serious expression on his face, absorbing every word of your explanation. 

He shifts to rest his elbow on his knee, his face leaning into his palm. “Hmm, I see. Well the first goal I have for you is to incorporate your cursed energy into your martial arts. But to do that, you need to master distributing it throughout your body.”

He holds up his hand in front of you. “Put your hand against mine.”

You press your palm against his, noticing the huge size difference between you and him. His fingers could fold over yours if he wanted. Suddenly you sense heat in his palm and feel it coursing through his fingers, almost like water being sucked through a tube. 

“You’re controlling this all on your own?” you ask in awe. 

“Yes, I'm taking the source of my energy in my chest and directing it to my hand. Think of it as a pump, pushing the energy through the voids in your body to where you need it. You can use this to enhance physical moves like punching and kicking. It’s the simplest way of using cursed energy for combat,” he explains. 

“First I want you to focus on your chest, I want you to become aware of the source, actually recognize how it feels when it flows through your chest and surrounding areas. I can sense where it is in your body, so I’ll help you feel it out.”

You close your eyes and focus your senses inward, trying to feel a glimpse of the heat you felt in Sukuna’s hand. You think you feel it, it reminds you of being in the shower, feeling water run over your skin except it feels like it's flowing under your skin. 

“I think I feel it, it feels like water flowing inside of me, like a whirlpool in my chest.” 

“Point to me where you feel it.”

You point to a spot just below your breast between your ribs.

“Yep, I can sense it there. Now try to direct it to your stomach area, it should be a combination of pushing it from your chest while pulling it to your stomach. Think of it like a combination of a pump and a siphon.”

You struggle to do this, feeling like the energy is just ricocheting off your ribs and surrounding area. It gives you a feeling like heartburn.

Sukuna can sense your energy beating up your innards. “Stop for a moment, let me demonstrate,” he says shortly as he suddenly pulls his shirt off and tosses it on the ground. 

You have been trying to take this seriously, but you are a woman who appreciates a sculpted man at the end of the day, and boy was there one right in front of you. Tattoos emerge from his shoulders and wind over his chest down to his waist, disappearing to what lies below. His muscular chest and rippling abs accentuate them even more, the sharp ridges making your core clench for a second. Chiseled V lines disappear into the waistband of his pants which are dangerously low on his hips. 

Oh lord, he’s fucking hot, because of course he is. You can’t deny this as you feel your body flush and swallow deeply, trying to ground yourself. 

“As much as I appreciate you eye fucking me right now, I do actually want to finish this lesson,” he laughs smugly. He abruptly reaches for your hand, yanking it towards him and placing it on his chest. You feel light headed, forgetting to breathe momentarily, the world almost dimming around your peripheral.

Pull yourself together dammit. How could you expect to be a decent sorcerer if you are so easily weak in the knees. 

You feel his rock hard body below your hand, but you also can sense the swirling heat inside. It feels very controlled though, unlike the chaos you felt within you. Your heart is pounding, can he hear it? Can he feel it through your hand? 

“You feel that right?” he snaps you back to reality.

“Ye-yes, I can feel it flowing, counterclockwise?”

“Correct,” he moves your hand to his upper abs now. You are convinced you are going to just die right here, you are going to stop breathing altogether and just forget to replenish the oxygen. You can feel the energy flowing down his body towards his stomach, sensing a sucking motion pulling the energy down while his chest pulses, pushing the heat south.

“Oh I do feel it,” you murmur, concentrating on the feeling. “I think I can do that-“

“What the fuck are you all doing??” a shrieking voice jolts you out of your trance, startling you. “Get your hands off of him you whore.”

You turn to the side and see a girl in all black and black hair storming towards you both. Her face is contorted in anger, the rage emanating off her in waves. 

“It’s not what it looks like! I was trying to feel his energy, wait, are you his girlfriend? I’m so sorry!” you stumble over your words, putting your hands at your side and jumping away from Sukuna. 

“No Yorozu is absolutely not my girlfriend, just a girl I fuck,” his voice dripping in anger and disgust as he side eyes her. 

“Don’t you dare!” Yorozu yells back, “we are exclusive, you said so the other night.”

“Psh, and you believed that?” he responds in a mocking tone. 

“What is this about being exclusive with her,” another voice yells from behind you. It’s Kiko, the blond you recognized from your first day. “And why did you have your filthy hands all over him?” She points at you, her eyes shooting daggers. 

What the actual fuck, you think to yourself. You did not want to get in the middle of whatever this is. 

“I’m just trying to learn about cursed energy, I don’t want anything to do with Sukuna in that way,” you shout at them, trying to make yourself heard.

“Please, I’m already aware you are nothing to him,” Kiko harshly says to you. “Yorozu, quit being a homewrecker.”

“I’ll be over here practicing,” you look at Sukuna, not bothering to wait for a response, your main goal to get the fuck away from this love triangle. You move closer to the trees, intent on practicing channeling the cursed energy through your body, using your hands as a guide similar to what you and Sukuna were doing. 

You can’t help but overhear Yorozu, Kiko, and Sukuna arguing. Well it was more so the girls shouting over each other with Sukuna just standing there with his hands in his pockets. What was so special about him that had these girls acting insane over him, especially when he seemed to treat them poorly. Must have out of this world dick game, you laugh to yourself. 

You feel yourself succeeding with your practice when you see Sukuna reappear, now alone, and no longer shirtless. He doesn’t say anything, just observes you. You can now get cursed energy to flow controlled into your hands and to your waistline. You are tired though, not realizing how it takes a toll on you both mentally and physically. 

“Why don’t you take a break,” he finally breaks the silence. You nod and join him as he sits on the ground, obviously moody now. He fidgets with the grass, twisting his finger around and ripping blades out of the ground. 

“You sure do have a way with the ladies,” you tease him. “One girlfriend is hard enough, let alone two.” 

He smirks, still staring at the grass, “I’m not committed to anyone, I make that very clear to them and anyone I sleep with.” 

Your mind wanders, imagining him sleeping with multiple girls, surely there are more than just these two. “Do you like one more than the other?”

“I don’t like either of them. They fulfill a need and that’s it. If they disappeared tomorrow I wouldn’t care,” he bluntly responds. 

You are taken aback by the harshness. You know that’s just how some guys are, but it’s different hearing it said out loud. “Do you think you’ll ever find someone you would want to be committed to?” 

“I guess eventually, I have never really considered it. I have a certain standard of what I’d want in a partner, sex is just one facet of that, important but not that high on the list.”

“Mhmm,” you hum in response. “Well what I was going to say was that I am not trying to insert myself into…whatever that all was, I value you as a friend and mentor, and am not trying to negatively affect your love life. But I guess it's not very much reciprocated by you,” you chuckle.

He perks up at your words, “Oh, have I graduated from being a stranger?” 

You laugh as you return his gaze. “Yeah I think you have, I’ll get you a cap and gown. Might not fit on your massive ass head though.”

He crinkles his brow in annoyance at your comment as he stands up, holding out his hands as a signal to pull you up. 

“Food?”

“Yes please!” 

***

You and Sukuna have never done anything that isn’t school related alone together. You recognized and valued his intelligence, so you preferred to do school work together. While chatting happened, it was usually short lived to focus on the task at hand whether it be studying, tag teaming homework assignments, or working on your group projects. Most interactions consisted of him making rude jabs at you while you would mock and tease him much to his annoyance. 

There was a sense of comfort though when you were around him. Like you knew what you were getting and you didn’t need to worry about his intentions. His bluntness was refreshing in a way compared to your previous school where someone could get along with you one day but hate you the next, for no apparent reason.

Eating together however was a new activity. It didn’t constrain the conversation, there were no math problems or cursed energy manipulation to hide behind. You two would either converse, or sit in silence. How and what you talked about would be up to you and Sukuna. 

You weren’t embarrassed to be seen with him, it was no secret to your friends that you two would work together, and he was your combat partner after all. Shoko would egg you on about becoming his next fangirl, but you would shut it down by saying you were friends with a common goal, and nothing more. 

Sukuna and you drop your bags off in your rooms and make your way to the dining hall. You see him texting on his phone, a twinge of annoyance on his face. That’s nothing out of the ordinary for him though. His face might permanently be that way with the consistent scowl he seemed to display.

He speeds through the line, already knowing what he wants to eat while you linger longer to scope out the options. 

“I’m going sit, don’t take too long,” he says gruffly as you wave him off. You decide on a chicken salad with a side of fish and rice. You definitely eat a lot more here compared to the past, as using cursed energy wrecks your body. Scanning the room, you spot the top of his pink head and neck tattoos peeking out of his shirt.

Placing your tray across from him, you go to grab a drink. You love the selection of fruit sodas and decide on a peach flavor today. 

Sukuna makes a face as you place the drink down, “you would drink that.”

“What does that even mean Sukuna? Hating on random drinks now?”

“Yeah I am, that shit is trash.”

You take a big gulp and let out a dramatic sigh, “well good thing you don’t have to drink it. Just drink your milk like a child.”

“Milk is not childish, brat. It builds strong bones. Maybe you should drink more of it considering you broke your hand on my face.” 

“Tch,” you roll your eyes, not giving a response. 

“Do you have any siblings?” Sukuna abruptly changes the topic.

“Yes, I have a younger brother and sister. They are elementary school age. What about you?” 

“I have a younger brother, different dads though.”

Swallowing a spoonful of rice, his words perk your interest. 

“Oh what’s your brother like?” you question, being nosey now. It's the first you’ve ever heard about his personal life.

He points across the room to a table with a black haired boy and brunette girl with a bob. “Those are his friends, not sure where he is now, but he has pink hair like me. He’s a first year student.” 

“Oh cool, that must be nice for him to have an older sibling here.”

“Psh he’s too soft. Needs to toughen up if he wants to be a good sorcerer.”

“You can be a good sorcerer and not be an asshole,” you retort. 

“It’s better to not have feelings and attachments though. Makes it easier to focus on your goals without stupid distractions.” 

“So what are your goals?”

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Well I do have goals that are personal to myself, but what I can share is that I want to be the strongest, a master in understanding and wielding cursed energy.” 

Your eyes widen a little. “Goals personal to you huh? What does that mean?”

“It means you don’t need to know the details,” he snaps back. 

His vague answers leave you feeling a little uneasy, but you decide to let it go for now. “Are your parents sorcerers?”

“My dad is. He taught me everything and has been training me since before I can remember.” 

“Sounds like a tough childhood. I spent most of my time just playing sports, exploring the neighborhood with friends, typical kid things.”

“Sounds incredibly lame,” He says dryly, looking bored. 

“What do you do for fun that doesn’t revolve around jujutsu?”

“Well I do like video games, reading, watching food shows and trying new foods, fucking-“

You practically spit out your drink at his vulgar answer. He looks at you with a hint of amusement in his eye, “what’s wrong? Do you not like it?”

You feel your face flush. You’ve never done more than kissing and feeling up with your ex, and you would not be able to handle having a conversation like this with Sukuna of all people. 

“I think it’s fine, just not something I expect to hear in a conversation in the cafeteria. Are you just trying to get a rise out of me?”  

“Maybe, it seems to be working. So who are you fucking around here?” He challenges you, placing one elbow on the table and resting his head on it. He seems very engaged in the conversation now, reveling in your discomfort.

Shit what should you say? You know next to nothing about sex, so he’ll know if you’re lying, but you don’t want to give him a reason to ridicule you. Fuck it, you’ll be honest, if he makes fun of you for it, that’s his problem. You are a grown woman and confident in your choices after all. 

“Nobody, doesn’t really align with my goals right now,” you meet his gaze, awaiting his response. 

His grin cocks to one side, nodding his head slightly, “hmph, interesting.” 

You are shocked he doesn’t push the issue, “that’s all you have to say? I was expecting something more on brand from you.”

“I respect your convictions, even if they might not be for me,” he shrugs. 

“Well thanks for not roasting me for once,” you laugh. 

“I’m sure I’ll make up for it later,” he says with a mischievous look. 

You both finish eating and linger for a little longer, engaged in a heated debate on the best super smash bros character.

“Well we will just have to put it to the test and play with each other sometime,” you laugh. 

“Sometimes there are tournaments in the dorm common area,” he says.

“Oh so you want to lose in front of a crowd?”

“Please brat, being delusional isn’t a good look.”

***

A week passes and you can now consistently control your cursed energy throughout your body.

“Let’s try some sparring now,” Sukuna announces to you as you sit on the ground. He’s looming over you, his massive figure shielding you from the sun.

“Okay don’t send me to the hospital again,” you retort, only half kidding.

“I’m not going to do that, can you all just let it go?” he snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“No I can’t, you literally broke my ribs and punctured my lung.” 

“Quit whining brat, you got over it.”

You stand up now and look at him expectantly, awaiting further instruction. “Ok so how are we doing this?”

“You come at me like you while channeling cursed energy into your blows. I’ll block and dodge only. Oh, and come at me with the intent to kill, it’s the only way you’ll stand a chance,” he grins as he bends his legs, standing on the balls of his feet.

“So confident aren’t you,” you roll your eyes at him. You start to walk away from him, creating some distance. 

“Yeah I am, you have no idea what I’m capable of,” he says coldly. You briefly wonder what he means by that, feeling a little intimidated, but you quickly come back to the task at hand. All you can do is trust him to not hurt you again.

You channel cursed energy into your feet, propelling yourself at him at increased speed. You wind up, powering up your fist, and swing at Sukuna. He lifts his hand up, letting his palm absorb the impact. He makes a face, brows lifting in surprise. 

“Damn that was a nice one, more like that,” he looks on excitedly, lips curling into a smile. 

“Can I use my technique,” you ask as you attempt to swing a kick at his lower legs, your hands planted on the ground as you lash out towards him. He jumps over the move and you quickly deliver a blow to his stomach, catching him off guard. 

“Yes, I said to come at me to kill.” He rubs his stomach after the impact from your hit. You felt him move cursed energy to that spot just before impact to block the hit.

You channel energy to your hands and quickly push it through the earth, trying to grab onto his feet. You notice it feels a lot easier now, as it’s similar to pushing the energy through your body. 

You quickly continue sending cursed energy through the earth as you sprint at him again. You both spar with hand to hand combat, Sukuna dodging and blocking all hits, not trying to land any on you. You pull the cursed energy towards you that you sent into the earth and lock onto his feet, immobilizing him enough to land a kick on his shins, releasing him from your technique.

He hisses through his teeth at the impact, not able to hide that you did cause a bit of pain. You continue your sparring until you wave the white flag, flopping onto the ground in exhaustion and a slight headache from all the cursed energy manipulation. 

Sukuna stands over you, not even breaking a sweat. He drops your water bottle next to you and sits down at your side.

“I think you are ready for missions,” he announces to you. 

“Oh I forgot about that,” you stare wide eyed as fear settles over you. 

“Yeah, you have to apply what you learn brat. Combat students are supposed to take support students on 2 to 3 missions a month. They are for very low grade curses though, nothing to worry about. Plus I’ll be there.”

“What grade are you?” you question him. You hadn’t actually seen him try very hard yet.

“Grade 1. I’m the strongest, brat, believe me. I won’t let anything happen to you,” you see his eyes soften and you know he means it. You relax a little. 

“When do we go?”

“Probably tomorrow,” he says nonchalantly. 

“Tomorrow??” you exclaim, “that’s like no notice.”

He chuckles and crosses his arms, “Do you think curses just wait to appear when it’s convenient for you?”

“Shut up no that’s not what I meant,” you huff as he looks at you, amusement in his eyes. 

He begins walking away from you back towards the campus buildings. You rush to catch up, falling into step with him. 

“What do I need to do to prepare for the mission?” 

“You’ll need an overnight bag for sure. Other than that you don’t really need to do anything. We will get driven to the site and we just get out the car and exorcise the curses. Then the driver will take us to a hotel or inn for the night, then we come back the following day.” 

“Do we all get separate rooms,” you blush at the idea of sharing a room with Sukuna.

He snickers at your question, “yes we will be in separate rooms. Nothing is stopping you from letting me in yours and vice versa.”

“Ha ha good to know,” you laugh fakely. That doesn’t last long though as you find yourself face first in the dirt after Sukuna trips you.

“Watch your step brat,” he has his hand over his mouth trying to suppress his laughter. 

“You are insufferable,” you yell at him. Thankfully you two are the last ones out here, so no embarrassing moments for the whole class to see. 

He keeps walking and stops to wait for you against a tall decorative brick wall that lines the walkway back to the campus. Dusk is rapidly approaching with the days getting shorter. Crickets had begun to chirp, signaling the sun going down. 

You catch up to him again and find him leaning against the wall. You stop in front of him, waiting for him to keep walking. Instead he licks his thumb and presses it against your cheek. “Got some dirt on you here,” he teases.

“Hmm wonder how that happened,” you try to wince away, but his fingers squeeze your cheek, not letting you move.

He rubs small circles on your cheek. They become gentler and you feel the backs of his fingers graze along your jawbone, trailing along your skin until they stop to rest on the back of your neck. Your breath hitches and goosebumps run down your arms at his touch. Your eyes dart around nervously as his fingertips push down firmly on the back of your neck, beckoning you closer to him. You can smell his cologne mixed with musk, a result of you both sparring for hours. He moves his hands to rest on your hips, guiding you so now your back is now against the wall, the sharp points of the brick digging into your spine. 

Your heart is racing now, feeling like it is going to spring out of your chest. Your lips part slightly as you look up at him, he looks ethereal in the dim light. The glow of his eyes give him the look of a predator looking down at his prey. 

Sukuna leans one hand against the wall above your shoulder as he lowers himself to your face. His eyes are half lidded and their usual blazing red begins to darken. His other hand comes to rest on your hip, pulling your body flush with his.

His face hovers in front of yours and it feels like an eternity. You want to close the gap between you, but you hesitate as nervousness sets in. Your eyes look down at his lips, then back up to his gaze. They are gorgeous, morphing into a deep red like hot coals as the tension intensifies.

Fuck it, you finally decide. You loosen your jaw and close the distance between you, your lips landing on his. Your mouth doesn’t move at first, body practically in shock at what you just did. The world is suspended temporarily as you dissociate from yourself, a dizzy feeling starting to consume you. You slowly start to regain feeling in your body, noticing his soft lips, the harsh grip on your hips, and the soft brush of his nose against yours. His lips are softer than you expected given his rough demeanor.

Sukuna’s tongue runs along your bottom lip, which causes you to part yours in surprise. He takes this opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips, meeting yours as he groans into your mouth. Your noses brush against each other clumsily as you figure out each other's rhythm. 

He nibbles at your lip, coaxing your tongue back into his mouth. You wrap your arms around his neck for support, threading your fingers through his fluffy hair. He tilts his head, allowing you to probe deeper into his mouth, exploring the inside of his cheek as he rolls his tongue against yours. He hums, lowering his hands to grip your ass, pushing his body against yours until you are pinned against the wall. You can hear nothing but the symphony of crickets in the twilight and the wet sounds of his lips on yours. 

You break the kiss, desperate for air, making a popping sound as your lips disconnect from his. Your breaths come in gasps as you try to steady your breathing again, coming back down from your high. He presses his forehead against yours, eagerly awaiting your lips on his again. 

“You kissed me,” you say in a bewildered voice. You almost can’t believe it. It’s something you truly never thought would happen, even though you have fantasized about doing worse with him before. 

He smirks at you with lidded eyes, his voice a low rumble, “technically you kissed me brat.”

“Whatever.” You attack his lips again with more force than the last. He matches your energy with a hunger you weren’t expecting, forcing himself back into your mouth, finding the insides of your teeth and sucking your tongue, eliciting a sharp moan from you. You push your hands beneath his shirt, hands running along his abs. The ridges and dips of his muscles are apparent, squeezing them with your nails as you grasp onto him, attempting to ground yourself. 

You can feel him hard against you, throbbing with your every moan he captures in his mouth, clearly enjoying this just as much as you. He pulls back this time, staring deeply into your eyes. His crimson gaze is intense with hunger, almost like he could devour you on the spot. You blush profusely, and emit an awkward giggle.  

“Did you like that?” Sukuna’s husky voice asks as he tries to not so discreetly adjust himself in his pants. 

“Mhmm yes, you’re a good kisser,” you stumble over your words. Why would you say he’s a good kisser? You cringe realizing your brain short circuited in its recovery from the intimate moment.

“Hmph,” he hums, feeling smug. You both tidy up your clothes and hair, attempting to hide the evidence of the heated make out session you had just partaken in. 

He leads you back to the dorms in silence, both of you not daring to speak as he walks you to your room. “I’ll text you the info for the mission either tonight or tomorrow morning.”

“Ok sounds good,” you unlock your door and push it open. You look back at him, your eyes locking with his longing gaze, “good night Sukuna.”

He swallows hard as he stares back at you, his mouth forming a tight line, “night.”

You close the door as he walks away, the mirror on the wall revealing a massive grin plastered on your face. He’s an asshole. A hot asshole who wanted his tongue down your throat. Probably a one time thing, but then again, playing with fire is such a cliche when you’re willing to get burned.

Sukuna POV

I make a beeline back to my room, trying to hide the bulge in my pants I’d failed miserably at subduing. My pants are so damn uncomfortable, constricting my cock which is desperate to be freed. I fumble for my keys and finally unlock the door, slamming it behind me. I know if I don’t take care of this I won’t be able to focus the rest of the evening.

Entering the bathroom, I turn the shower on to warm up the water and strip my clothes off. My hand immediately palms the thick head of my cock and as I groan with relief at the friction I was so desperate for. What am I even doing? So gone off of a kiss and nothing more.

It was so hard to stop with you earlier, I wanted to take you against that wall and fuck you senseless. I step into the shower and lean against the wall, water running in rivulets over the contours of my muscles. Stroking my full length now, my mind goes back to you and that wall. Pre cum spills from my thick tip, giving me extra slick to pump my shaft. The image of holding you up, legs locked around my waist as I drill into you, stuttering my name between moans has my dick throbbing as I imagine burying it inside you again and again.

My grip tightens around my shaft, pumping faster now as you shatter beneath me, your walls gripping me so snugly. I lean my head back against the shower wall, my hand sliding up and down my hardened length with urgency as I feel the orgasm looming. The final image of you crying my name as I fuck you through your climax pushes me over the edge. I groan loudly, eyes shut tight and body tensing up as spurts of cum begin to coat the wall of the shower. 

As the waves of pleasure finally cease, I open my eyes and sink to the floor, not caring that the water is now pelting me in the face. Allowing myself a few minutes to come back to earth, I can’t recall the last time I came so hard from jerking off. Finally I stand back up and quickly finish washing my hair and body. 

I stride across the room to my computer to check mission assignments. As a grade 1 sorcerer, I check the website multiple times a day to see if anything perks my interest. This time though, I filter by low grade assignments for your first mission. 

An abandoned home in a neighborhood 3 hours away is reportedly haunted according to kids breaking in. Grade 4 max. Sounds perfect for you. I mark it taken and type both of our names in, noting it as support training. Looks like the driver will pick up at 9 AM tomorrow. 

Me: we leave at 9AM tomorrow. Plan to eat before we leave. I’ll meet you out front beforehand.

You: Okay sounds good. Anything specific to pack?

Me: a change of clothes for afterwards is a good idea, fighting curses can be messy. 

You: got it. Well cya tomorrow, have a good night! 

I close the computer and flop onto the bed, a twinge of excitement coming over me. I honestly can’t remember the last time I kissed someone and that was it, but for some reason I can’t get it out of my head now. I get back up and fish out the half open bottle of whiskey from under my bed. Hopefully that can help calm me down and get some rest.

<< Chapter 3 | Chapter 5 >>

Masterlist

[jadoue1999]

Kaleidoscope of Destiny

Next parts: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22

Summary:

What might have happened if Agatha had succeeded in draining the coven? What was her plan with Billy after?

This is this story.

Chapter 1: Power

“Are there any real witches here? Because all I see are have been and could have been.”

Alice’s magic hits her first and it feels like a full breath after years of panting. She hears someone scream in protest before another wave of magic hits her. Lilia’s. She had been scared that her earlier warning would foil her plans but it seems like the old crone was too caught up in emotions to be rational. She’s surprised when a third beam joins the rest. Of course, she knew that a coven’s power intensified when reunited, but she didn’t think it would be strong enough to override Jen’s binding. And it isn’t, not completely, but the sparks she gets are strong and only fuel her more. She can feel their lives slowly slipping away as their powers are drained and it’s the best she’s felt in 3 years.  

While she wishes she could stay in this moment forever, all good things must come to an end. Agatha feels their magick dwindling and stops, so she cuts the binds and vaguely hears their bodies hit the ground. She opens her eyes to see a terrified Mrs Hart trying to escape. She doesn’t have the energy to deal with her, so with a quick mind wiping spell she removes the memories of what happened and sends her back home to her flowers. She can hear commotions upstairs which she assumes is the kid with the Salem Seven so she decides to intervene. 

That’s when she notices a glowing door on the ground. 

At first, she doesn’t know what to do, there’s never been a door after singing the ballad. With a flick of her hand, the heavy wooden doors open to show steps leading down into the earth. The path is lit with blue roots and emanates powerful magick. She can’t understand what she’s seeing. It’s always been a con, a way to lure gullible witches to steal their powers. She’s always set the rules and the reasons why it would never open if she weren’t there. She’s always made sure that witches would come to her. And in all that time, not once had a door actually appeared. What has changed now?

“Agathaaaaaaaa,” says an approaching voice and that’s when it hits her.

It’s him.

That child who is protected by a sigil, that child who somehow broke her out of Wanda’s spell. The child that she can’t learn anything about. The child that was so desperate to embark on the Witches Road that quite literally manifested it, in the same way that his mother had lost herself to her grief and conjured up her own sitcom life.

This is Wanda’s child. 

She has seconds to react as he’s barreling down the stairs and she decides to quickly cast an illusion to hide the door. She doubts the kid knows what he’s done and she wants to crack him open herself. She closes the doors with a wave of her hand while she’s at it so no one falls into the unseen hole. 

“We have to hurry, they’re coming!” The kid exclaims. His running comes to an abrupt stop when his eyes land on Jen, Lilia, and Alice’s corpse. He looks up at her, eyes full of fear and horror. “W— what happened?”

She has a choice, she can fool him into thinking that she was the victim or she could confront him about who he is. She has to weigh the plus sides and the downsides. The Maximoffs can be… reactive if her encounter with Wanda taught her anything so Agatha has to tread lightly with a scared teenager. 

She goes for the victim act.

Her eyes water and she shrinks onto herself. “The door didn’t open and— and I suppose that they got mad. They blamed me and attacked me.”

Teen looks at the corpses, unconvinced. “And they’re dead?”

She gulps exaggeratingly. “I have the ability to siphon a witch’s powers, and I can usually control it but… but I haven’t had powers for three years, and I don’t know what happened. It was like finally taking a full breath after being underwater for years, I couldn't stop myself.”

Agatha’s been doing this for long enough that she knows exactly how to present herself when she wants to look vulnerable. She can see the teen… Billy, if she remembers right, hesitates, he’s trying to see if she’s being truthful or not. There’s no time though, because the door bursts open, and the first of the Salem Seven crawls down the stairs.

Okay, yeah, even she can admit that it’s creepy as fuck.

“Agatha!” Shouts Teen as he moves behind her. “What do we do?!”

She blasts the witch before she can reach them. She hits the wall with a crunch and Agatha hopes that it’s enough. Two more barrels down the stairs and she does her best to deal with them. Her magick is a trickle of what it once was and doesn’t hit as strongly as it did. She’s getting frustrated, she can feel Teen’s power and yet he’s not doing anything. He’s panicking, trying to find something to hit the witches with but he’s just wasting time. As the last four witches join them, she can’t take it anymore.

“Billy!” Agatha shouts. 

The kid immediately freezes as she says his name. “How do you—”

“There’s no time!” She yells, blasting the fox looking witch. “You have to help me over here!”

“How?! I can’t blast, or shield! I can’t do anything!”

He’s panicking, and apparently clueless about his powers. Just her luck. “You have power, you just have to release it.”

“I don’t!”

“Billy!” She screeches just as the raven witch manages to hit her. 

She hears the teenager whimper and Agatha looks over to see him being surrounded by two witches. She briefly wonders if they can feel who he is. The air around them starts vibrating just as he curls onto himself and she knows just what it means. The Salem Seven don’t, obviously, because they barge right at the threat the moment they sense the power radiating off Billy. Are they seriously expecting to win against a freshly realized son of the Scarlet Witch? 

Agatha watches eagerly as sparks light up his fingers and his eyes briefly glow a bright blue before he closes them in fear. Survival is often the reason that witches unlock their powers; it seems that Billy will be no different. Billy screams and power quite literally explodes from him. It’s fascinating. Agatha might be cruel and a killer but she recognizes potential. She’s always loved to see powerful magick in action and the teenager is certainly fulfilling that criteria. She watches as the Salem Seven realizes just how doomed they are as the blue magick hits them. The feral minded coven doesn’t just die, they quite literally disintegrate at what looks like a molecular level. As the witches fall apart, Billy’s magick, exploding as it is, passes through her. Her body reacts to the involuntary attack, grabbing onto the magick and siphoning it. It takes her a few seconds to realize what’s happening but she doesn’t want to stop it when she does.

Billy’s magick is delicious.

It’s somehow even more exquisite than Wanda’s, and any other witch she’s ever consumed. If Lilia’s, Jen’s, and Alice’s magicks were like a cold glass of water after a drought, Billy’s is a tsunami. It’s endless and powerful and unrestrained. She hadn’t known what she wanted to do with him before, but she knows now.

She wants to drain him until the very last drop.

Billy soon notices what’s happening, and his eyes fill with fear. His teeth are clenched tight as he tries to stop the flow of magick, but Agatha knows that unless she breaks the link, she will be feeding until the end. 

“Stop, stop!” He pleads in a voice that might have made her reconsider if she didn’t know who he was. She can see the panic growing in his eyes, and his magick tries to defend him but all it does is give her his powers faster. “Stop, please. Please stop!”

She cackles at that if the boy really thinks that she’s going to—

“STOP!”

The link is cut, and Billy falls bonelessly to the ground. Agatha looks at her hands and then at the teen loudly catching his breath, trying to understand what happened. He’s full of the wrinkles that show how much she’s taken but they smooth out in seconds. No one has ever made her stop, no matter how much they had pleaded. But then again, she hadn’t stopped out of her own volition, had she? He had compelled her to stop.

Just how powerful is the son of the Scarlet Witch?

She can’t wait to find out.

***

Notes: I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! This fic is born out of me wondering what the hell was Agatha's plan ever since we saw that she wanted to kill everyone for their powers and yet kept Billy away. This story is pre-written and I'll be updating every Sunday and Tuesday. Strap yourself in, this is going to be a wild ride!

Tag list: @trampledore @hannah-0730 @fyregrl @lanfear-is-my-darkmistress @lover12345abcde @astronglywordeddm @tiredwitchmachine @lesbiifem

Comment if you want to be added!

[aalinaaaaaa]

infodump everything you want to share about this rn :>

I literally squealled in delight when I saw this! Heads up, this is going to be a long one (like almost every single question long, lol)

Before we begin, the character I'm going to talk about here (The Bloodcarver — his actual name is below the cut/see below) features in a few short pieces I wrote (and also in Obsidian Sapphires, Chapter Two and thereafter)

#269. Living Weapon | A Pawn for a Greater Cause (he's the main character in this piece)

#276. Dark and Stormy Night | A Dance With Death (makes a guest appearance; this piece is the thematic reciprocal of A Pawn for a Greater Cause)

#289. Blinding Gaze | A Thesis in Bloodlust (he's actually doing his job here, bloodcarving :D)

The Bloodcarver

— Also known as Petrius, the Second to High Councillor Claudia Emar

•/🗡\•

Simply put, he's the right-hand of a lady who is his childhood best friend that ended up becoming a High Councillor because she got revenge for her sister. He couldn't exactly, leave now could he?

He fights with swords and knives, and he can also shapeshift into a raven, which makes him very annoying to fight. He even wears talon chains from time to time, but it's almost more of a fashion/intimidation statement.

Some of you may have questions, such as the ones below here:

3. How much autonomy is he given?

A certain degree, he can pick his clothes, food, etc but in terms of daily activities, he doesn't usually have a lot of autonomy unless it's a rest day. Most of the time he has obligations to fulfill

He likes to keep his face very neat, he's always clean shaven but his hair is usually a little messy. The natural consequences of fighting and/or shapeshifting, he supposes (though Claudia has an unnatural ability of keeping her hair dead straight even after going in and out of bird form — even Eshani can't do that!)

4. Does he groom himself? What details about his appearance are chosen by other people?

5. How obedient is he? Is he more defiant or compliant?

He's very obedient, it ties in with his loyalty, he's ramrod straight to the point of it being a flaw.

6. Does he have a comfort object?

The fur cloak he was wearing the day Claudia got turned. He got it from killing a bear with his father a few months previous, and he still has the cloak to this day.

7. How does he dress to go on missions? Does he have a uniform?

He doesn't have a uniform, he simply wears what's appropriate for the occasion. So what he wears to court will differ greatly from a hunting outfit, for instance.

8. Does he have a workout routine?

Most of his exercise comes from sparring, though he does go swimming in the lake regularly.

10. Is he a favourite? Is he precious or replaceable?

Let me put it this way: Claudia would be broken beyond repair if he ever died. If someone was to murder him, she'd go to ends of the world to ruin the perpetrator's life, even if it meant breaching her Vow of Madness.

While his job might be fillable by anyone competent, Petrius himself cannot be replaced. Not in Claudia's eyes anyway.

11. Is he stealthy? Or perhaps bulky, odd or otherwise eye-catching?

He's capable of being very quiet, he can sneak up on people, change into a raven and catch people off-guard that way, he can be pretty sneaky. All the hidden corridors around the place only serve to help with that.

12. What is his name? Is it a number? Does he have a nickname? Who uses it?

So most people that know of him know him as The Bloodcarver. It's his professional title. Only a certain amount of people know him as Petrius, and very few of that bunch know his surname (in other words, Claudia, a few of the crows and the folks back in their hometown are the only ones that know his full name).

14. Does he have a favourite food? How often does he have it?

There's a particular type of stew he likes but he can't really have the exact thing because some of the ingredients (a specific type of fish) can't be found in Morilaste.

15. Did he have a life before this?

He most certainly did. His childhood was pretty alright, the usual ups and downs, it improved when he found close friends and a purpose in life.

Then the problems started rolling in during his early adulthood and before he knew it he witnessed/was an accomplice in the murder of a giant swan lady.

17. Does he have a squick in their job? Something that bugs them or pisses them off?

The pettiness of Helindian ministers. He grew up in a not-tremendously-well-off Feudranian household, so going from a grounded, uptight but earnest culture to the flashy, competitive, colourfully cutthroat chaos that is upper class Helindian culture is a big change. He's long used to it by now, but he's still irked by certain things sometimes.

18. How does he wear his hair?

It's in a bowl cut, nothing too fancy, something simple and practical to maintain.

19. Does he have a good aim?

He does, but he doesn't really use it that much. He prefers short-range combat, and is excellent at going for the jugular.

20. Does he have survival skills? If he's on his own, can he find food, take care of himself?

Absolutely, this would be no problem to him. He has the know-how to find food for himself (he hunts on the regular), and if worse comes to worse, he can change into a bird and fly somewhere else :D

21. Would he survive a battle royale situation, like the Hunger Games?

I would fancy his chances a lot, especially if he was allowed to shapeshift. If not, he'd have the skills, the know-how and the ruthlessness to pull off a good result.

Ironically, I entered him into a round of the Writeblr Hunger Games and he did the worst out of the trio I entered (he came 14th out of 20-something — Eshani won the whole thing and Claudia made it to the final day 😂)

23. Is he loyal? Do his superiors trust him to go off on his own and come back, or is he kept on a tight leash?

He is loyal to the point of it being a flaw. Maybe even worse than a flaw. Most people in his situation would probably have left. But him? Nope, he eschewed his friends and family at home to stay with his best friend after a very dark moment in their lives. (Their efforts did relieve their town of being pestered by overly antagonistic swans, so that was something).

Claudia has a great deal of trust in him. As long as he's around for the important things, she does not care what he does in his free time. (Well, okay, she cares in a "what did you get up to?" sort of way, not in a weird or negative way)

24. What makes him relaxed?

The moment Helinda's ministers leave, any time he enters a bath or body of water, the occasions when it's just himself and Claudia spending time together.

25. What makes him nervous?

Having to mind court while Claudia's off doing stuff, dealing with Helinda's ministers sometimes, being touched sexually

27. Can he blend in on a civil and normal environment? Does he know how to navigate whatever's normal in the setting? Can he get by lowkey or would he catch attention?

He'd be a little caught off guard initially, but he'd get the hang of things pretty quick. It would just be a case of wearing the right clothes and being careful of when to shift into bird form (could be construed as rude if it's during a conversation and/or crows are bad luck in Helindian superstition [Claudia, Petrius and their 1,000+ strong murder of crows are a big part of that!])

29. Can he endure torture? Is there a method that immediately breaks him? Is he a good torturer?

28. Does he have a non-fighting related skill, such as writing, doing math, drawing or speaking another language? Was it taught to him? Did he learn it himself?

[ I'm going to direct people to this lovely ask I received here ]

To a certain degree, yes, he's good with physical pain, to a limit. Iron would be a pretty quick way to beat him, though, iron is anathema to faeries. Also ash wood and arsache (silverweed; it's a type of Helindian plant that can result in multiple organ failure among other things if overdosed and it contains a compound that inhibits magic).

As for torturing, he's never had to do it, but he'd do well at physical torture.

30. How is he doing?

He's doing well. Currently, things are a bit chaotic because, well, the events of Obsidian Sapphires have started occurring and it's stressful for everyone in his circles.

—

@/ominous-faechild thank you so so much for this ask, this was absolutely brilliant <3333333

Tagging everyone on the Obsidian Sapphires taglist (and in General), because he does feature in it. (As a side character, but a frequent enough face nonetheless)

(ask/comment/reblog, etc if you'd like to be added or subtracted): @mr-orion @the-ellia-west @guessillcallitart @thereadingfoz @glassstardust22124 @original-writing @honeybewrites @ashirisu @drowsy-quill @oliolioxenfreewrites @theglitchywriterboi @seastarblue @gioiaalbanoart @rae-butter @corinneglass @thelaughingstag @oros-ash3s @jacqueswriteblrlibrary @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @outpost51

[cezlock]

says man who is worse

[askamnesiamoonjumper]

me after editing the aau prologue for the bajillionth time

[lynxgriffin]

Mightier Than The Sword

Gerson had one regret, but now Alvin has many. A fancomic about my thoughts and theories and who -and what- the Knight is!

While not directly connected, I'd say this one is in the same vein as the Deal With The Devil series! Hope you enjoy!

Alt text for this comic under the read more:

Page 1

Panel 1 - Wide shot of the interior of the Boom household. Several monsters are gathered in a clean-looking hall, dressed in somber clothing and talking quietly in small groups. The monsters include QC, Cat Mom, Toriel, Asgore and Mayor Holiday. Father Alvin stands waiting at a door in the hall as his sister, a red-headed turtle monster in a pink dress, exits through the door and speaks to him. “Alvin…he’s ready for you.”

Panel 2 - Mid shot as Alvin prepares to enter the room. Ms. Boom steps out of the way, and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Both of them look somber. 

Panel 3 - Alvin enters the room, mostly dark and lit by a few candles on a nearby desk. Gerson Boom is lying on a bed ahead of him, watching him enter. Alvin closes the door behind him and says, “Father, I’m here.”

Panel 4 - Alvin approaches his father, lying in bed. The bedroom has a few amenities, including a footstool set off to the side, a large rug bearing the delta rune, and a massive bookcase filling the entire back wall. A few books and papers litter the ground. Alvin bows his head, and says, “The hammer is ready for…for afterwards.”

Gerson just smiles, and responds, “Wa ha, is it? Well, it’ll do fine, I suppose.”

Panel 5 - Closer shot of Gerson extending his right hand towards Alvin. He’s smiling still, content with where he is. “Come here, son.”

Page 2

Panel 1 - Closeup as Alvin takes his father’s hand in his own, and clasps it tight. “Whatever you need…I’m here,” he says from offscreen.

Panel 2 - Alvin kneels by his father’s bedside, still clasping his hands. Gerson says, “Of course you are. Wa ha…you’re such a good and kind man, Alvin.”

Panel 3 - Closeup on Alvin as he just holds on to his father’s hand. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. 

Panel 4 - Focus on Gerson as he holds up a hand to conspiratorially whisper to Alvin. “And I know I can trust you with a secret, right?”

Panel 5 - Closeup on Alvin as he looks back up, face earnest. “...Of course.”

Panel 6 - Gerson holds up one finger as he speaks to Alvin. “I told your sister I had no regrets, but that was a BIT of a fib! I’m afraid I have one regret…”

Panel 7 - Side view of Alvin as he learns closer, his face now worried. “Father?...”

Page 3

Panel 1 - Focus on Gerson as he leans back on his pillow, looking up at the ceiling. “I wish I had started earlier. Writing stories, I mean. Seein’ you an’ your sister’s eyes light up whenever I read you a new chapter…and then seeing all that joy from so many young folks after those stories were published!” he says, looking wistful.

Panel 2 - Alvin watches on sadly as Gerson continues, “It was the greatest feeling in the world, Alvin. It’s what life’s all about, y’know. Helping the young folks grow.”

Panel 3 - Gerson closes his eyes and looks back towards the ceiling again, still wistful. “So, I wish I’d started writing stories sooner.”

Panel 4 - Closeup on Alvin as he bows his head, still holding Gerson’s hand. “I truly do cherish those times you read to us, father…” he says.

Panel 5 - Closeup on Gerson as he closes his mind with happy memories. “Me too, Alvin. It’s a shame…I’ve still got so many tales to tell! But–”

Panel 6 - Gerson is interrupted by a round of hacking coughs. His time is fast approaching.

Panel 7 - Gerson settles back in to his bed and says, “The Angel’s given me SO many good, happy years. Doesn’t seem fair to ask for more.”

Panel 8 - Closeup on Alvin as he continues to hold his father’s hand tight. “This doesn’t seem fair, either…” he says, tears still pricking at his eyes.

Page 4

Panel 1 -  Insert closeup of Gerson as he smiles at his son. “That’s life, Alvin!” He doesn’t seem bothered by his imminent passing.

Panel 2 - Side view as Gerson leans in closer to Alvin again, hand raised, back to sharing his secrets. “But, knowin’ my secret…there’s something I’d like to ask of you.”

Alvin faces his father with seriousness. “Anything,” he replies.

Panel 3 - Closeup on Gerson, as he looks hopefully at Alvin. “You have a good heart, Alvin. I want you to know this joy, too.”

Panel 4 - Gerson continues in the next panel: “Please try writin’ stories of your own, alright?” Closeup on Alvin as he looks shocked and a bit worried by the request.

Panel 5 - Mid shot as Alvin holds up a hand to Gerson in protest. He says, “Father, I…I have no talent for writing fiction. Not like YOU.”

Panel 6 - Closeup on Gerson as he refutes his son: “Hogwash! I know you can.”

Panel 7 - Wide shot as Alvin stands up, and looks around the room. “No, I…”

In the foreground, there’s Gerson’s desk, currently showing some lit candles, some paper, an inkwell, a notebook, and his favorite fountain pen.

Page 5

Panel 1 - Closeup as Alvin grabs two objects off of the desk: the small notebook and the fountain pen. Offscreen, he says, “If you just…”

Panel 2 - Back at Gerson’s bedside, Alvin pulls up the footstool and puts the pen and notebook in front of him, intending to use it. He faces his father, and says, “Tell me your ideas, I could write them down, and–”

Gerson interrupts him: “‘Fraid it doesn’t work that way, Alvin!”

Panel 3 - Gerson holds up both of his hands and smiles as he explains: “My tales are between my soul and the pen. You’ll need to make your own.”

Panel 4 - Gerson watches as Alvin, tears in his eyes, looks down at the notebook and pen in hand. “I–I cannot…” Alvin starts, looking despondent.

Panel 5 - Side view of Alvin as tears continue to stream from his eyes. He says, “Not without you!” In the background, in grayscale, there is a scene from Alvin’s memory: Gerson reading a book to his two children by the fire. Gerson looks happy, and both kids are enraptured, with Alvin clinging to a cat doll that looks like Seam.

Panel 6 - Closeup on Gerson, his face now more worried and pleading towards Alvin. Gerson says, “Y-you can… It’s all I ask…”

Panel 7 - Gerson turns away as he’s again interrupted by a round of terrible sounding coughs. Alvin stands holding the notebook and pen in the foreground.

Page 6

Panel 1 - Horror comes over Alvin’s face as his father continues to cough loudly, clutching his chest. He realizes that his father might be close to death now.

Panel 2 - Wider overhead shot as Alvin turns away from Gerson, looking frantically around the room. “No! Not yet!--” he says desperately. Gerson is still racked with coughs.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Alvin grabs the candles from the desk–

Panel 4 - And then pulls a book from the bookshelf, with the delta rune on the front –

Panel 5 - And then finally pulls out what appears to be a beaded rosary, with the delta rune made of beads at the end of it.

Panel 6 - Wider shot as Alvin places the objects in front of him, candles to the side, holy book in front of him. Gerson can only lay there as he does so, trying to catch his breath.

Panel 7 - Front view of Alvin as he clasps his hands together in front of his face, the rosary threaded between his fingers. He closes his eyes and bows his head in prayer. “Angel…Angel above! Please, heed your servant’s prayer!”

Page 7

Panel 1 - Closeup on Alvin as he continues to pray, the candles glowing around him. He keeps his eyes shut even as tears well in them. “I know you call back my father’s soul, but please! Please refrain!”

Panel 2 - Gerson desperately reaches a hand out towards his son, shaking, but unable to reach him. In the foreground, the fountain pen sits on the footstool between them. “A-Alvin…” Gerson’s voice is shaky now.

Panel 3 - Aerial shot as Alvin prays over the book, and Gerson is still confined to the bed, only able to watch. “This world still NEEDS his gifts!” Alvin says. “I pray to you, don’t take them from us now!” The shadows around Alvin start to grow strange, not matching the candlelight.

Panel 4 - Gerson continues to hold out a hand, now not looking well. “No…”

Panel 5 - Closeup on the candles as they spark to life, now glowing stronger.

Panel 6 - A strange bright glow begins to emanate from Gerson. Behind him, the books in the bookcase all rattle and shift as if in a localized earthquake. The colors of the room grow brighter and stranger.

Panel 7 - Still reaching out a desperate hand, Gerson lets out a soft breath. His soul, an upside-down white heart, comes up from his body. On the footstool in the foreground, the fountain pen also begins to levitate, as if by magic.

Page 8

Panel 1 - Front shot of Alvin as he continues to pray desperately, his head bowed and hands together. “Grant us the love shown between his soul and the pen!” Behind him, the colors have grown stark and bright, and a shadow resembling the angel looms behind Alvin.

Panel 2 - Alvin looks up to discover something amazing and terrible: Gerson’s soul has been drawn to the fountain pen, and begins to flow down into it.

Panel 3 - Closeup as Gerson’s soul is completely absorbed into the pen, hovering high over the bed.

Panel 4 - The candles turn strange blue and pink colors, and the books in the bookcase shake and rattle relentlessly.

Panel 5 - Extreme closeup on Alvin’s eyes as he sees this miracle; the light of his father’s soul reflected in his eyes.

Panel 6 - Closeup as the pen suddenly drops, and clatters back on to the footstool.

Panel 7 - Wide aerial shot as the room very suddenly goes completely dark and silent, the bright colors and lights now gone. Alvin stands up and backs away from the bed, still clutching the rosary, his face filled with horror. Gerson now lies unmoving in his bed, having passed away.

Page 9

Panel 1 - The same shot as the first panel of the first page, with the other monsters waiting in the hallway. No one says anything as Alvin emerges from the bedroom, leaning on the door for support, his head bowed. Everyone in the room knows that Gerson has just passed, although they don’t know the rest.

Panel 2 - An establishing shot of the forest and mountains surrounding Hometown…the skies are a dark, gloomy gray.

Panel 3 - Above shot of Gerson’s newly dug grave. At the bottom of a small pit lies Gerson’s hammer, covered in his dust. Politics Bear stands over the grave, holding a shovel. 

Panel 4 - Closeup as the shovel begins to dump dirt over the fresh grave.

Panel 5 - Another closeup of Gerson’s headstone, with bundles of fresh funerary flowers laid in front of it.

Panel 6 - Wide shot of Gerson’s funeral. Alvin stands over his father’s grave, reading last rites from one of his books. Lots of monsters are in attendance, including Alphys and Undyne, Napstablook, the Holiday and Dreemurr families, and more. A very young Kris, Noelle and Asriel are present, but Dess is not. Everyone is dressed in dark mourning attire.

Panel 7 - After the funeral, Toriel approaches Alvin and puts a hand on his shoulder. She says, “Beautifully said, Alvin. I know your father is watching proudly by the side of the Angel.” Alvin looks distant and mournful.

Panel 8 - A closeup of the fountain pen laying forgotten on the desk in Gerson’s room. Gerson is, perhaps, not actually with the Angel right now.

Panel 9 - Back at the funeral, Alvin bows his head, eyes closed. “You are too kind, Toriel,” he says.

Page 10

Panels 1-3 - We see the seasons pass through the changing of the trees…from the barren white trees of winter, to colorful pink blooms for spring, to the bright oranges and reds of fall.

Panel 4 - Sometime much later, Alvin again enters his father’s old room, alone.

Panel 5 - Much of Gerson’s room has remained untouched. The fountain pen still sits on his old writing desk in the foreground. Alvin steps inside, and carefully turns on the overhead light. “It’s been years,” he says.

Panel 6 - Alvin cautiously approaches the pen, which seems to loom large ahead of him. He hesitantly picks it up.

Panel 7 - Alvin places some blank pages on the writing desk. “Surely…”

Panel 8 - Alvin sits in front of the blank pages, still holding the pen cautiously. “Surely by now, I can do it.” He’s going to try writing.

Panel 9 - Closeup as Alvin dips the pen in the inkwell, and it comes away full of ink.

Panel 10 - Closeup as Alvin holds the pen over the blank page. The pen trembles slightly in his grip.

Panel 11 - Alvin tries to put pen to paper, but he’s still trembling. He looks down with great anxiety. “I…I…”

Panel 12 - Closeup on Alvin’s face as he looks more panicked, shaking and sweating. In the background, his memory of his father’s soul being absorbed into the pen plays back at him. This is still his fault.

Panel 13 - Closeup again as Alvin’s hand shakes uncontrollably, and the pen with it. Ink spots begin to dapple the blank page–

Page 11

Panel 1 - Alvin’s shaking hand accidentally knocks over the inkwell, and it spills black ink all over the blank page.

Panel 2 - Alvin picks up the ruined paper and folds it in half to try and stem the ink spillage. He quietly curses to himself. 

Panel 3 - Closeup as Alvin holds his head in his hand. It’s clear that this isn’t going to work. “I can’t…” 

Panel 4 - Closeup as Alvin puts the ink-stained paper back on the desk, and quickly grabs up the pen and inkwell.

Panel 5 - Taking the pen and inkwell, Alvin exits his father’s room again, head bowed and expression sad.

Panel 6 - Left behind, the folded paper slowly peels apart and unfolds…

Panel 7 - To reveal that the spilled ink has created a rorschach ink blot image of a titan. 

Page 12

Panel 1 - Wide shot as Alvin trudges down the streets of Hometown, alone. His head his bowed, and he’s still clutching the articles he took with him. It’s almost nighttime, and the sky is dark. “I cannot bear this kind of burden,” he says to himself.

Panel 2 - Shot from behind Alvin as he approaches the school building. It’s dark, and no students or teachers should be there. “Maybe you belong where you always have…”

Panel 3 - Now indoors, Alvin continues down the empty hallway towards a particular destination. “With the youth.”

Panel 4 - Alvin opens the door to the storage closet at the end of the hall. It opens with a soft creak. “Teaching. Telling stories,” Alvin continues to say to himself.

Panel 5 - Alvin places the fountain pen and inkwell on a small shelf in the storage closet. The closet is almost completely black. 

Panel 6 - The inkwell and pen are left on the shelf as Alvin closes the door behind him. His expression is mournful as he locks these reminders of his father away. “Inspiring someone better suited,” he says, hoping this is a suitable escape of his responsibility.

Page 13

Panel 1 - But in the storage closet, the objects are subject to something else already there: the grand Dark Fountain. The pen, ink and papers all fall into the darkness of the fountain–

Panel 2 - And start to change, the pen seemingly turning into liquid itself–

Panel 3 - As the pen falls deeper and deeper into the dark, the liquid begins to reshape into something new, something resembling a person–

Panel 4 - Until it lands on empty ground, now a person in knight’s armor, knelt over and holding his head in his hands.

Panel 5 - The Knight comes to, and starts to become more aware. He’s dressed in armor resembling the dark metallic sheen of the fountain pen, his mask resembling the pen tip. A bright deep red cape flows from his shoulders, and a single red-orange feather tops the helmet. “Where…am I?”

Panel 6 - The Knight again touches his helmet with both hands, as if not sure exactly what he is.

Panel 7 - Interior shot of the helmet, which reveals a figure much like Gerson…but much younger, more idealized-looking, with colors not matching his actual self. A Dark World interpretation. “WHY am I…?”

Panel 8 - A closeup of the Knight’s hand, slightly trembling.

Panel 9 - The Knight stares down at his own hands as realization begins to flood him, or at least something that looks like realization. “Wait. I see why. I KNOW.” he says.

 Page 14

Panel 1 - The Knight holds up his hand, and a sword appears in it in a flash of lights. The sword resembles the tip of a fountain pen, almost split neatly in two. “I serve the Lightners! That is my purpose!” Says the Knight. 

Panel 2 - The Knight draws the sword back with great fervor and determination. His thoughts echo around him in strong letters: “A purpose so bright, so clear…”

Panel 3 - In the final panel, the Knight drives the sword into the ground, causing an eruption of black ink-like material to spew from the ground…the creation of a new Dark Fountain. In the fountain itself, words reflect his purpose: “I EXIST TO GIVE THEM STORIES FOREVER.”

[blackkatdraws2]

[Toon x Mobster] Chapter 4: Dazed.

Previously // Next - (chapter list) / (AO3 ver)

Jack sat slumped on the living room couch with a TV remote in hand, the screen flicking from one channel through the next. With his attention still mostly focused on the man in the bathroom, his ears twitched as they picked up the noise of the faucet being turned on.

He sniffed. That sharp, metallic tang of blood clung stubbornly to his nose still.

Jack had already called in sick earlier, using last night’s downpour as a convenient excuse. The few days off will give him some breathing room and time to watch over his new guest, though he couldn't help but feel a little guilty about shifting his workload onto his colleagues. They're good people, he knew they wouldn’t hold it against him, but still, the nagging thought lingered.

His nose itched. “ACHOO! Oh!” Jack sneezed loudly, startling even himself. He rubbed his nose, muttering a soft “bless me.”

The apartment felt too quiet now. Jack glanced toward the hallway leading to the bathroom. He sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions as the tension from earlier lingered. The encounter had left him feeling a bit more muted than usual, but at the same time, he knew he wouldn’t have acted any differently.

“What have I gotten myself into…?” he mumbled under his breath.

His dulled eyes fixated on the TV screen, though the flashing images barely registered in his head.

"What now?”

Some Toon actor was bouncing around, spouting catchphrases in a voice too cheerful for his current mood. Jack's thumb hovered over the remote, but he didn’t bother changing the channel. The noise was better than silence at least.

He supposed he should be grateful the Grim hadn't turned this situation into some Toon-Noir crime scene, though he was surprised it hadn't already, especially with what happened earlier. Still, how long would this last?

The thought made him groan softly, dragging a hand down his face as his impulsive decision slapped him in the face once again. "Sweet," he murmured in frustration, though it was mostly directed towards himself. "Just wing it with a literal Grim-mob-boss-looking guy in your house. No big deal."

The flickering light of the television danced across his face, but his expression was devoid of any response, like the static had seeped into him. The thoughts churning in his head felt distant.

Why does he always have to care so much?

Sure, the Grim guy looked like he was on the verge of death when Jack found him, but wasn’t that all the more reason to take him to a hospital? Or the authorities? Somewhere, anywhere, better equipped to deal with a situation like that? Jack had no business dragging him back to his apartment like this!

The memory of that night was blurry, tinged with adrenaline and rain. Jack’s fingers twitched slightly at the thought of how cold the man’s skin had felt, his weight on Jack's back as he carried him through the downpour, the blood that seeped into his suit. His decision had been made in a split second; impulsive and reckless.

What if the Grim man died in his apartment?

The thought settled over Jack like a heavy, suffocating blanket, but even that couldn’t stir much from him. His breath came out soft and steady, not quite a sigh but close enough.

What would he have done if the man's blood had soaked into the floor and left a corpse behind? Call the police? Try to explain why there was a Grim dead in his apartment? Would they even believe him?

What if it was him who got killed? Shot in the head with that gun in the man's suit, the one Jack took away and hid from him when they arrived in his apartment.

If he had, mummy and daddy would be sad if they heard about it. He felt apologetic when he thought about how his parents would react if news reached that their son had been left for dead in the city they thought had been the safest for him. He knows not to worry them, yet here he was.

Thoughts continued to circle lazily in his mind, but none of them seemed to matter all that much. Not really. None of them had mattered back then either. It had been raining, he saw someone dying, and he’d acted. That was all there was to it, even if the decision felt dumb now. Still, was it the right thing to do?

The TV show's laughter filled the room, a stark contrast to his blank stare.

Jack was pulled from his spiraling thoughts by the faint sound of footsteps. Turning his head toward the source, he saw the scarred man standing in the corridor entrance.

The clothes Jack had left for him were a tad bit tight on the mobster’s muscular frame, but he didn't seem bothered by it, which was good. The Grim's sharp eyes looked around the apartment, taking in every detail with the same wariness that hadn't left him since he woke up.

Jack snapped out of his pondering, and offered him a tentative smile. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Ah, sorry if the place looks a little… unkempt," he said, his voice lighter than he felt. "It's usually a bit more put together, I promise. Just haven’t had much time or energy lately to clean up."

The man didn’t respond right away. His gaze lingered on the coffee table, where a few cans of beer sat among scattered wrappers and an empty cup of noodles. They looked like they hadn't been taken out in a while. Then, his gaze shifted to the bedroom doorway where Jack had hastily cleaned up the remnants of the spilled food from earlier.

His eyes finally met Jack's. The Toon resisted the urge to shrink under the weight of that gaze. Instead, he smiled at him. "My place ain't much, but make yourself comfortable."

The silence stretched between them as the Grim's expression didn't change and went back to looking around the small room. It wasn’t exactly the warmest start to a conversation, but Jack supposes he should start getting used to that.

Still, something about having the Grim man standing there, alive and fully clothed, was oddly grounding. It's a bit amazing seeing him able to get up and walk around in that condition, actually.

Jack's smile faltered, slipping away as he found himself staring at the man without realizing it. His gaze trailed over his big frame and drifted to the scars etched across his skin. He'd seen them while he was tending to his wounds, running along in numbers from his face down to his ankles.

How does someone end up with scars like that? It was the kind of curiosity that gnawed at him, the kind he knew better than to voice aloud. Whatever had left those marks behind probably wasn’t the kind of thing the Grim would ever want to talk about, let alone to someone like Jack.

Noticing Jack's staring, the man’s sharp gaze shifted, landing back on him. Jack blinks, realizing he’d been caught staring. He mustered up a sheepish smile, just a slight upward tilt of his lips that teetered on the edge of awkwardness.

“Uh. There’s food in the pot,” Jack offered. He gestured toward the kitchen with a quick nod of his head. “And some leftover rice in the rice cooker. Help yourself if you’re hungry, okay?”

The man said nothing, his expression impassive, but his attention lingered on Jack for a moment longer before finally glancing toward the kitchen. Jack's smile fell once the man’s gaze moved away.

He had put together something simple earlier, something that wouldn’t upset his injuries or require much effort to chew. The deeper cuts were across the man’s stomach and sides, they looked like wounds that would make eating anything too heavy or dense a painful experience, or so he assumed, at least. He's honestly never done anything like this before, he only recalls the first aid training and recalls none of the book stuff.

A basic porridge seemed like the safest option. Rice simmered in broth until it was soft, with just a bit of shredded chicken and a few vegetables tossed in for flavor. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was warm and filling. He hoped his guest wasn’t a picky eater.

He noticed the man lingering in the corridor, as if debating whether to follow Jack’s invitation or retreat. Catching on, Jack decided to turn his focus back to the TV.

He lazily changes the channel and the screen flickered with images of a car accident somewhere near the city, the voice of the reporter droning on about casualties and road closures. Jack wasn’t really paying attention.

He’d never been exposed to a Grim before. Were they all this unfriendly or was it just this one?

Jack yawns, a bit groggy. Maybe he was overthinking it, or maybe he wasn’t thinking enough. Either way, he was exhausted, especially after spending the whole night awake taking care of that man.

His body slowly slid down the couch, lying down with an ungraceful sprawl, his consciousness slowly slipping into sleep. _

Previously // Next - (chapter list) / (AO3 ver)

[izadi234]

Forget me not

-Warning: Contain yandere themes, neglected! gn!reader, mention of low self-esteem, the writer's first language isn't English.

Yan! Batfamily x gn! reader

Chapters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 (You're here)

Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6

Chapter 2

The moment you retreated to your room Alfred's gaze hardened as he looked at the kitchen door through which you had left.

With a sigh he returned to making breakfast, however, something couldn't stop going around in his head.

Why?

Why do you have to leave?

Why do you have to leave ME?

He doesn't blame you. Your "family" has done nothing but ignore you and push you aside on more than one occasion since you arrived at Wayne Manor. And if it weren't for him, Bruce wouldn't have remembered to pay for your needs and education.

No. He could never blame you for your decision, but he can blame Bruce and your brothers. He had never felt such anger for them, not even when Martha and Thomas died at the hands of that cruel man. But that never had a solution, but this did. His family has a solution and he was going to fix it for you and for you. To always have his ray of sunshine at his side.

He wasn't going to lose you without having fought a war.

But for now, he had to stay calm. He sighed once more and finally relaxed as he served breakfast on the plates. He has to talk to Duje after you told him about your decision.

He had to think with a cool head. As he had told Bruce many years ago: "Fear doesn't make you think clearly" and not only was he scared of his little ones going out into the world alone, he also had anger built up. And he was going to use those two feelings to his advantage.

It was not for nothing that he was a very feared soldier during the war.

You were in your room as usual texting with a friend when Duke knocked on your bedroom door before coming in.

"Hey (name)!" said Duke happily who sat on your bed while you sat at your desk

"Oh hey Duke!" you greeted him with a smile anyway "How was school today?"

"A little boring, but at least it's Friday now" he chuckled

"And you? How was your day?"

It's now or never.

You sighed and got up from your spot to sit next to him on your bed.

"I have something to tell you Duke…" you put a hand on his shoulder

"And what is it?" He asked worriedly seeing your seriousness "Don't tell me it's something bad"

"No, it's nothing bad. At least I don't consider it bad" you started to say "But, Duke, I've decided to move out of the mansion"

"…What?…" he said in a quiet tone of voice surprised by your words

No, it can't be…

"I know it's sudden, but I can't stand this place" you sighed "I want- No, I need to start over without being in the shadow of others"

You turned to look at him and caressed his cheek.

"But this doesn't mean we won't see each other again. We'll be able to talk and keep in touch" you offered him a smile

Without saying anything, Duke hugged you and nestled his head in the crook of your neck. You put a hand on his neck and caressed him.

"Just… Don't forget about me…" he said after a few minutes of silence.

He pulled away from you and wiped away some tears that threatened to fall from his eyes.

"I could never do that, brother," you wiped one of his eyes with your thumb.

After that emotional conversation, you and Duke spent the afternoon in your room talking and watching movies on your laptop. However, Duke's mind was still on that conversation.

There was no chance that you would leave him. He had to find a way to prevent you from leaving his side.

The week you moved went by so fast that when you realized it, you were already taking the last box with your belongings out of the mansion.

You looked back at that mansion one last time and felt like that little kid again who arrived with fear and excitement to what he would call home for years. But soon your face darkened as you remembered the suffering you had experienced there. Without thinking twice, you turned around and got on your motorcycle, but not before securing your last box. You started the bike and left Wayne Manor.

You hadn't said goodbye to Alfred nor Duke but you left a letter on both of their beds wishing each of them the best, thanking them for everything and giving them the phone number of your second cell phone in case they needed something or just wanted to check on you. However, you didn't leave anything else, not even an address. You wanted to completely erase the Waynes from your life, you wanted to erase the fact that you were a Wayne too. You wanted to forget them so much that you turned off the cameras in the mansion for a period of time so you could take out your things in peace, so that no one would see the license plates of your motorcycle that you had been keeping at a friend's house and whose motorcycle was registered.

If nothing else, you had developed the same paranoia as Bruce and decided to take every measure to avoid being located. You even thought about going to live in Metropolis or Star City but the rent and sale of apartments there were much more expensive than in Gotham. Maybe when you earn more money once you finish college.

But for now focus on your present.

Before it is taken away from you.

When you got to your apartment you let out a sigh that you didn't know you were holding. You looked around, there were some pieces of furniture that came with the apartment like a leather armchair that was a little worn but looked pretty new, a wooden bookcase, several coffee tables, some pots and kitchen stuff. The only thing you had to buy was your bed but your best friend did you the favor of giving you a headboard for your bed as a gift of independence and you only bought a mattress. It wasn't as comfortable as the one you had in the mansion but at least you had things you could consider yours. NOT thanks to Wayne, but thanks to your efforts.

You put the box on the kitchen counter and before going to your room you saw several boxes.

Damn... You hadn't thought about how lazy you were going to be when you had to unpack.

That same day you left, Alfred had returned from going grocery shopping. At that time of the morning you and he used to spend the morning together, while you were in your online classes, he did the housework along with the food. Between the breaks you had between classes you used to go see what he was doing in the kitchen and you were his personal taster.

Now that you were on vacation, you spent more time with him because Bruce, Tim and sometimes Damian went to Wayne Enterprises, Dick and Jason weren't usually at the mansion and Duke, Cass and Stephanie were training in the Batcave or with their friends. For that same reason Alfred was alarmed when he called your name and you didn't answer.

He quickly went up to your room only to find it completely empty. His heart raced and he started to sweat lightly.

You couldn't have left so quickly, right?

He went down again and checked all the rooms in the big mansion and found nothing. Only his own room was missing. As he entered he could see an envelope of your favorite color on his pillow. He approached and read it.

In the letter you apologized for not saying goodbye to him in person but if you did you were more than sure that you wouldn't be able to leave. You also left him a private cell phone number where he could call you and you wished him all the best.

It had been a long time since Alfred felt the need to cry but without realizing it he had already shed a few tears. He couldn't believe that his little one was already gone.

After having shed a few tears, he quickly wiped his eyes and composed himself. No, he couldn't cry because you were going to return. He was sure of that.

However, he would let you enjoy your independence a little before implementing his plan for you to return home to your family. With him.

But first he'll have to talk with Duke.

Helloooo! I hope you liked the second chapter! If you did leave a heart and i'll see you in the next one. I kind of think this chapter is kind of bland but the story is just begining. This are the first impressions of you leaving the Manor but soon enough the rest of the family will appear.

Thanks you for reading!

-Izadi <3

TAG LIST

@eyeless-kun

[esamastation]

Gamer girl gets transmigrated into a farm boy Chapter 5 [<<Prologue | <Chapter 4 || Chapter 6>>] Ao3 link

-

The rest of the day goes by much the same way it did in the game. They make their way back to the farm, where Van helps Mr. Gylcross unload his purchases and carry some of them to the barn and the rest into the house. Janelle welcomes them with a warm meal and freshly made batch of apple juice, made from, "Apples I picked myself just this afternoon!" as she says. It's delicious.

"What did you buy in town?" Josel asks as they eat.

"Nothing much," Van answers, and ain't that the truth. "Mostly I just looked around, took in the sights."

Josel hums. "Yeah, you haven't been to the town a lot, have you?"

"I guess not," Van agrees, thinking back to the player character's messy background as a hand on the Gylcross farm, and how it might be revealed here - if it even was.

"How did you like it? Did you see anything interesting in town?" Janelle asks curiously.

"It was fine. It was all pretty interesting," Van admits and takes a bite of bread, wondering if she made it herself.

The System journal had updated while he'd been in town, and going by its writing, it was the most amazing thing ever to happen to Katie. Most of the journal entry was her detailing every event that happened, but there were some interesting titbits in between, which Van had noticed but not really thought about at the time.

… Oh my god, the town looks exactly like it did in the game! Only now I'm seeing it all in first person! It's so wild. There's so much more people here than there were in the game, too - probably since the limits of rendering capacity have been thrown out of the window. Real world isn't held back by RAM. Hah.

Also? Kids. There are children here - and not just one-age-fits-all like in some games, no, there's older teenagers and younger teenagers, and I also saw a toddler in the marketplace - and I think one woman had a baby in a sling? A baby! Definitely didn't have any of those in the base game - not a single kid to be had in all of Age of Tales, except in pre-rendered cutscenes. I wonder if it's just for humans, or will we get to see dwarf or elf babies - I've never seen a dwarf baby, ever, in anything I've ever seen or played. Probably not elf either, unless it was like a half-human-half-elf situation brought forth by an illicit cross-species love story.

I wonder if Van can have babies - like, conceive them? I mean, there's romance in Age of Tales, such as it is. There's sex scenes and stuff. Can those now have, like, consequences? Does this world have contraceptives? Is that something that I have to now think about?

Van with a baby would be pretty cute, though. I wonder if I can somehow get him to hold a baby…

And that's where Van had to stop reading in order to preserve the delicate equilibrium of his mental stability.

"There were a lot of people in town," he concludes with a cough to clear his throat, and takes another sip of the apple juice.

Janelle gives him a sympathetic look. "Yeah, it's a bit different from how it's around here, huh?" she says and pats him on the shoulder. "I'm glad you had fun."

"Yeah," Van agrees.

By now he's kind of starting to feel the limits of Katie's social meter, though. She'd never been a particularly extroverted person, and while it's different inside a videogame… this isn't a game, not really. It's been a whole day of interacting with people and trying to figure things out, and Van is feeling mentally kind of worn down.

Plus, he's got an existential crisis scheduled up, and it's starting to feel kind of urgent.

"You mind if I turn in for the day, sir?" Van asks once he's done eating, turning to Mr. Gylcross. "I'm kind of tired."

"Of course, my boy. Just get Bell settled in for the night and get the cart in the barn," Mr. Gylcross says.

Thankfully, Josel has apparently done all other farm-related duties off screen. All Van has left to do is get the cart inside and Bell brushed up, fed, and settled in a stall, all of which happens by automation. Josel, who's got a more permanent berth in a little hutch next to the farmhouse, bids Van good night, and with some relief Van heads up to the hayloft.

There he lays down in the hay, mentally preparing to Think About Things and Handle Them… only to find his mind full of static. He needs to deal with the Realisation and he needs to come up with a plan for tomorrow, because there's a lot coming his way tomorrow.

And yet, even though he lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling, not a single coherent plan comes to mind.

Finally, Van gets up again and goes back down to get a bucket of water. It's not quite as good as a real mirror, but in a pinch…

His reflection is very faint on the water's surface, but he can just about see himself and make out his features. The caramel ice-cream hair is really not looking its best. It's curly in the game, kind of fabulous in a way that doesn't fit Van's body type at all - here it sticks every which way, unkempt and not exactly flattering.

No permanent magical hairstyling in real life, huh.

Combing his fingers through his hair to push it away from his face, Van turns his head this way and that, taking in his features again. The jaw, the cheekbones, the forehead - he really looks like he was drawn by a comic book artist. Except made real. 

He's really - Katie is really in Van's body. This is Van, made flesh and blood. Well, he doesn't actually know if the body can bleed, but it probably does. It gets hungry and thirsty. And, judging by the feel of things right now, it also needs to relieve itself. Which is… another thing he hadn't been thinking about.

Sitting on his knees for a moment, Van weighs the oncoming mental health crisis against probably mortifying body function weirdness and chooses the latter, standing up. Time for a true fantasy adventure - figuring out how men piss.

Delightful.

Though as a man he should be able to go wherever - so long as he wasn't flashing someone, anyway - seeing as this is the first time and Katie only sort of knows what she's doing… yeah, some privacy is called for. There's a wooden outhouse behind the farmhouse, which Van slinks his way to like he's doing something wrong and illicit. The outhouse is pretty small and forces him to bend over, and it's overall very awkward. It stinks. The seat is tiny and looks kind of uncomfortable to actually sit on.

Katie has a feeling she's going to miss Earth's modern day plumbing before long.

Right now she has other concerns, though.

Van takes a deep breath - and then regrets it, because of the outhouse smell - before looking down. The trousers are easy enough to figure out, they're basically normal trousers except fastened with a string instead of zipper. The underwear, not so much. While Katie has seen it before and actually spent quite a bit of time trying to figure it out, seeing it on Van now…

It's a kind of cloth wrap thing, like the whole thing is one long stretch of fabric wrapped around the waist and down. The final effect is not unlike briefs, and it's actually kind of comfortable and it definitely keeps everything contained… but if Van takes it off, he will definitely not be able to put it back on again.

Hm, maybe he can, sort of… move it aside…?

Touching it is a bit weird. Katie does a little gibbering flailing thing in the back of his mind while Van tugs at the fabric, feeling all the stuff beneath shift - feeling all the stuff feel the movement. It's weird - having sensations in bits Katie never had before. 

Kind of cool though, too. In a sort of unreal way.

Van gets his fingers beneath to pull his penis out and then… there it is, sticking out past the cloth, with its two buddies still nestled in the wrapping.

It would probably be inappropriate to call it a tool. It kind of fits, though. It's very… proportional. 

And Katie is suddenly very aware of her long stint as a single woman, because damn. Like, she's never been that into the look or size of a guy's dick - a penis is a penis, they're all kind of the same in the end - but damn. Van has one hell of a dick. Like, Katie probably wouldn't want to have sex with Van, because ouch… but damn.

"Okay, don't play with it, just do your business," Van mutters, thinking back to Katie's stint in the kindergarten and wincing at the memory of potty training. As extremely unsexy thought as there ever was, he thinks with a grimace and then attempts to… manoeuvre himself into position. "Just point and aim."

It's weird, and very… fleshy. But at least the rest of the operation is roughly the same for a man as it is for a woman - bladder is a bladder, apparently. It's still weird - as is not needing to wipe afterwards. It doesn't feel like it's enough, to just shake it. Not that there's anything to wipe with in the outhouse.

"Weird, weird, this is so weird," Van mutters, shaking himself and then quickly tucking the weapon away.

There's nowhere to wash his hands afterwards.

"Great," he mutters and then slinks back to the barn where he sleeps at night. His mirror water turns into hand washing water, and he still feels a bit dirty afterwards. He's hyperaware of what's going down below the belt, all of a sudden. Also, maybe getting a bit hard? Is it really that damn easy to get riled up as a man? Van's not even thinking of anything sexy, and apparently it's going up on its own. What the hell?

Climbing up to the hayloft, Van lies down and tries to not think about his dick. He's got an existential crisis on his hands. Woman stuck in a man's body here. This is no time for any kind of self-inflicted fun times. He needs to experience the horrors of being not in a body of his own. Her own. Whatever. Body dysmorphia, here we go!

Yeah, no, apparently not. His mind keeps slipping downwards along with the blood pooling there, as though the damn thing has a gravity of its own. He can feel his penis straining his underwear - taking it out, putting his hand around it, it would feel… probably pretty good right now. And it's not like Katie doesn't want to - like she hasn't been curious what it was like, how it would work. Porn and smut painted a pretty vivid image, of course, but nothing beats hands on experience.

Mmm, hands on…

Van stares at the ceiling for a long moment, biting his lip. There's no one in this end of the barn but him. The Gylcrosses are in their house, Josel is off in his little hutch… there's no one here. No one but him.

… Right, okay. Fine.

With a grunt Van gets up to find a rag or something.

It would clear his head too, probably, if all the post nut clarity memes are to be believed. He would have his existential crisis with a clear mind afterwards.

-

Katie wakes up the next morning to the cock crowing somewhere outside and has a moment of flailing confusion at the feel of all the hay around her and sight of the wooden ceiling and beams above her head… before everything comes back.

Right. She's still here. She's transmigrated into Van and to the very start of Age of Tales. And it's now day two.

"Shit," Van murmurs, running a hand down his face. His chin feels bristly - apparently that's a yes on the needing to shave going forward, if he wants to keep Van's chiselled chin in view. Which is probably not all that important, considering that, well…

Tonight, the plot would finally kick off in earnest.

Breathing in and out for a moment, Van lets his arm drop to his side. He hadn't even thought of what he would do, beyond the usual. Even with all the dramatic consequences, the Rift opening was still part of the tutorial, and so all the enemies were pretty low level. The character was meant to run, of course - at this point there was not much they were supposed to be able to do against them.

Emphasis on the supposed. This is, however, Age of Tales.

The whole tutorial section is a bit… Well, overall, Katie gets it - the whole point of the tutorial section is to paint the illusion of peaceful normalcy and introduce the player to the base mechanics and the NPC shops before the plot can kick off and burn the whole idyllic place to the ground for shock value. The first time Katie went through it, it was pretty epic, overall.

But giving the players the chance to shop before the fight was kind of dumb.

Because, while the game didn't get that popular, it had some players, and just about everyone who did play it went about the tutorial the same way. They gambled for cash and kitted themselves out as best they could as soon as they could… and in so doing, turned the whole Rift thing into a bit of a joke by actually standing up against the invasion, something they plot-wise weren't supposed to be able to do. And most of them didn't even realise it, breaking the game completely by accident.

And when you went about it perfectly intentionally, well… the Rift stopped being a threat at all and became the perfect spawn kill camp.

That was what Van had been planning to do - until reality nerfed Katie's money-making tricks.

"System, open inventory," Van calls.

[Inventory] [Simple Knife, lvl. 1] [Shepherd's Slingshot, lvl. 1] [14 x Basic Stone Ammunition ] [3 x Spearhead] [1 x Apple] [Empty Jug] [Dirty Rag]

Yeah, not exactly winning starter gear, especially considering that he still doesn't have a single shred of proper armour. He hasn't been this poorly prepared for the Rift since the very first playthrough - and even then he at least had some armour and a sword! Reality is really kicking his ass this time.

He can't figure out if it's frustrating or exciting. Probably the first one.

"Guess I'm making some spears," Van muses and then sits up with a grunt. Finger-combing the hay out of his hair, Van eyes the dirty rag and then winces. He would need to get rid of it, and maybe he could wash up somewhere before getting started. Unfortunately, he doesn't think there's a washroom or anything around here…

[Farm Chores, Lvl. 1.] [It's a new day on Gylcross farm, and it's time to get to work!]

[Farm Chores 1, Lvl. 1.] [Let the chickens out.] [Let the goats out.] [Let the cows out.] [Let Bell out.] [Quest reward:  10 exp, 3 Apples.] [Farm Chores 2, Lvl. 1.] [Muck the pens and stalls.] [Quest reward:  10 exp, 5 Fresh Eggs.] [Farm Chores 3, Lvl. 1.] [Take a look at the garden and weed Ms. Janelle's vegetable beds.] [Quest reward:  10 exp, 4 x Mixed Herbs] [Farm Chores 4, Lvl. 1.] [Milk the goats and the cows.] [Quest reward:  2 exp, 1 Bottle of Milk.] [Accept?] [Yes.] [No.]

Van winces a little at the sudden bombardment of pop-ups. Looks like he has some work to do. How much it all will matter when this time tomorrow the farm will be in ruins aside… exp is exp. And if he could squeeze in another level up before the Rift, it definitely wouldn't hurt.

Standing up - and bending over to duck below the ceiling beams - Van shuffles to the ladder to start the day with a quick rinse in a bucket of cold water.

By the time he heads out of the barn, Janelle has breakfast ready and set in front of the farmhouse. "Good morning, Van!" she calls, waving. "Come have some eggs and pancakes!"

Josel is already there and already stuffing his face with eggs. "Good morning," Van greets them both and then asks, interestedly, "Pancakes?"

"Yeah - Daddy bought flour and sugar yesterday!" Janelle says excitedly. "We've got some honey too - come here and try it."

Van does, sitting down beside Josel, accepting his share with a, "Thank you, miss." It looks great, and it smells even better.

"It's Janelle," the farmer's daughter says firmly and sits down across from him.

The breakfast is great, as are the pancakes. Mr. Gylcross doesn't make an appearance, but no one comments on it, and so Van doesn't either - maybe the man sleeps in when it's not a market day, or something. After they're done eating, Josel helps Janelle clear out the table, while Van considers his quests.

"Are you going to let the animals out?" Janelle asks, wiping her hands in her apron. "I'll come with you - I'll collect the eggs while I'm at it."

"Sure," Van agrees and offers Josel an apologetic nod before following Janelle towards the chicken coops.

It's a perfectly pleasant day, with only a few fluffy clouds in the sky and just the barest hint of a breeze in the air. The sort of day when nothing bad is supposed to happen, of course. Perfectly normal day.

"Daddy says you visited the tailor yesterday," Janelle comments. "That you ordered some kind of armour."

Van blinks and looks at her. "Uh, I didn't realise he knew about that," he says. The man hadn't mentioned it. How did he find out, anyway? "I did, yeah."

"Why?"

Well, there's going to be a battle in Westbrook the day after tomorrow, and then the place is going to be set on fire, and Valthor's most annoying minion is going to make a grand appearance. Van is really hoping to curbstomp that guy's smug little face to the ground, and armour would make that much, much easier. "Well," he says, because clearly he can't say any of that. "I don't know. Just felt like it, I guess?"

Janelle looks at him carefully, and asks, "Have you… remembered something?" she asks. "About your past?"

Van hesitates, because in the game the player character never remembers time before the farm - but he does learn about it from others. "No, not really," he says finally. "I just… have a feeling I'm going to need something. Actually," he adds and takes a spearhead out of the satchel. "I also got a few of these."

Janelle accepts the dull spearhead, tilting her head with confusion. "Is that a weapon?"

"Head of a spear - I'm going to find some pole to stick it on," Van says and shrugs. "And then I'll have a spear."

Janelle shakes her head, looking a little upset. "But what do you need a spear for?" she asks.

Van shrugs again. "I don't know. It just feels like something I should have."

Janelle hums unhappily, turning the spearhead in her hand. "So, I was right," she murmurs and looks at him sadly. "You are a soldier."

In the game you learn the main character's background in flashbacks and  hints from the designated Mentor character at Ulgor's Camp, but it's a pretty cliché dealio overall. The player character has amnesia - of course - and was left at the Gylcross farm by a Mysterious Hooded Person - of course - while the Mysterious Hooded Person ran away all suspicious-like. Janelle Gylcross eventually found the player character hiding in the barn hayloft, all confused and out of it and bleeding from the head. Through some interrogation and arguing with her father, Janelle got him settled in as a new farm hand.

It's all shown to the player in this grainy sepia cut scene, a collage of moments as the player character learns how to swing a hoe and milk the cows and stuff. It's pretty wholesome. And the fact that it's shown to you only after the farm has been burned down and everyone there was killed, well… Katie has some issues with the arrangement of narrative there, but it was kind of a punch to the gut, the first time she played the game.

Also absolutely hilarious, watching this brick shithouse of a man do these cute farm chores, like carrying baby lambs around, delicately harvesting berries from the bushes and weeding garden beds.

"I'm not a soldier," Van says and accepts the spearhead back. "I just feel like it'll be better to be prepared than not."

"Right," Janelle says and hugs herself, looking uncomfortable. "Are you going to leave the farm? I know Daddy only contracted you until the harvest, but… I thought you liked it here."

"Well… it is nice," Van says. And it really is. He looks at the farmstead around them and hums thoughtfully. It's very peaceful and idyllic and wholesome. In the game it's often implied how much the player character wishes he could've stayed there, wishes none of the terrible things that followed wouldn't have happened, and the world could've stayed as it was.

More than another day of it and Katie would be climbing the walls, bored out of his mind.

"I guess we'll see," Van says and smiles at Janelle. "You never know what will happen."

-

[<<Prologue | <Chapter 4 || Chapter 6>>] Proofread by @nimadge, many thanks

-

I call this the Tool Inspection Chapter. And I hope it made at least one person laugh as much as it made me to write it.

[onmyyan]

Ain't no sunshine

Chapter 4

A/n: love this series, fem reader, yandere themes, platonic yandere Batfamily

Taglist: @uniquecutie-puffs @starsdotalk @ghostdoodlen @nickey-diano @76lonelyspoons @m3vl0vesu @uknowimdumb

"What's this about Gordon?" Damian asks after arriving in the dining room, he was perplexed by her message, what on earth would they need to speak about you of all people?

"(Y/n) moved out." Barbara says biting the bullet.

There was a moment of silence as her words registered before chaos broke out.

"What do you mean moved out?" Dick asks putting down the bagel he was eating his eyes held disbelief, "I mean I just checked her room and she's gone." Barbara says making his stomach lurch.

"We missed her birthday." Tim speaks suddenly realizing, his mind working a mile a minute. Jason curses under his breath at the revelation, how could he be such an idiot?

"You're wrong she wouldn't leave like that." Dick shook his head, the thought of you simply disappearing sent a wave of deep-seated unease through the family, and something else, something much darker had been born in that moment within each of them.

"Alfred confirmed it." Barbara says softly trying not to upset Dick further than he was.

Cass stood still before signing, "How could we not have noticed?"

Damian having enough of the conversation pulled out his phone calling your number, only to be met with the same answer Barbara got when she tried, his brows furrowed as the automated voice told him the number was disconnected. "Her phone's off." He speaks a pit forming in his stomach,

The Manor was quieter than usual.

That's the first thing Bruce notices when he wakes up that morning, an almost empty quiet filled the halls as he went from his bedroom to the study, he couldn't put his finger on what it was exactly and this bothered him to no end.

Alfred stood diligently by the marble counter top waiting for Bruce's instructions, "Good morning Alfred."

"Master Bruce." Alfred greeted him simply, rather curt for the old man, and Bruce notices this immediately, his mind racing on what he could have done to upset the man. "Is something wrong Alfred?"

"To be the world's greatest detective you can be incredibly dense." Alfred served him his coffee without another word and made Bruce feel like a child being scolded for something.

It wasn't until he walked by your room did his senses go off, it was much too quiet in there, knocking softly he found the door opening from the slightest touch. Alarm bells immediately start going off at just how empty it is, how void of life. He rushed downstairs, searching for Alfred to question him, when he saw his whole family gathered in the dining room.

They stare at him, all with that deer in a headlight look, "What?" He asks knowing something was up.

"(Y/n)'s gone." Dick speaks up, biting at his thumb, "And we missed her birthday." Jason adds on his guilt making his shoulders slump inward.

Bruce looks over to Alfred as if to confirm what he was told, the older man simply nods.

Meanwhile on the other side of Gotham, you're completely unaware of the chaos your absence is causing. Too busy enjoying your new life.

Bruce went to the cave immediately, checking the cameras for your form, he searched through a week of footage before he saw your graceful exit from the manor. A week. A fucking week you'd been gone and your own father hadn't noticed.

Bruce had felt like a true failure only a handful of times in his life, losing Jason, and now, you.

Only this time there was no Joker to blame, it was him. His fault his daughter felt the need to disappear without so much as a goodbye. The years of ignoring your presence simply because you were his 'easy child' the one he never had to worry about, the one who never made waves, come crashing down upon him, he rests his head on his hands, eyes never leaving the screen. "What have I done?" He speaks lowly, mind reeling from the shame of his inaction.

His blue eyes hardened at the sight of you on the screen, he could fix this, couldn't he? He just needed a second chance, he'd show you the love you deserved, the nurturing you needed, he didn't care that you were a legal adult now, (he winces at the thought of forgetting such an important birthday, he'd throw you the party of all parties once he got you home, he swore it.) you were his daughter, his youngest daughter, and you needed him no matter what you thought.

Dick Grayson prided himself on many things, one of which being his bond with his family, so to be faced with the reality that he wasn't the best big brother around, kind of shatters him. He refused to accept the fact that his, along with everyone else's actions, lead to your choice to abandon them, instead he reasoned, you were feeling rebellious, youthful energy and all that, he was sure once you got this out of your system you'd be right back where you belonged. Where he could keep an eye on you, a proper eye this time.

Jason fumes silent, pacing the kitchen, he feels like a cat is clawing at his skin from the inside, unable to do anything with his pent up frustration he grips the counter top hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. He hated himself right now, hated how garbage he felt, you were only eighteen, all on your lonesome in a city like Gotham? It was enough to set the hairs on his neck on edge.

Tim was busy on his tablet, he was already searching the city's CCTV cameras for any trace of you, his fingers working so fast they cramped, sweat drips down his brow as he searched, unable to tear himself away from his task. He felt maybe just maybe if he found you, he could begin to make up for how shitty he'd treated you, begin to open up to you in the way you'd always wanted. He needed to find you, and based on the usually composed family's obvious panic, it needed to be fast.

Barbara busied herself with rummaging through your empty room for anything she could use to find you, if she just had the chance to explain herself, she's sure you'd understand, sure you'd look at her with that expression you had when you were younger, like she was your personal hero.

Cassandra finds herself staring out at the distant view of Gotham, her hands twitching at her sides as she struggles not to take action, sure she didn't have a bond with you like she did with the others but she still cared for you, from a distance, she felt it was safer as you were the only civilian in the family. A choice she thinks now was a mistake. Maybe if she'd let her walls down a little more, you'd have confided in her instead of leaving.

Damian, in his rage, wasted no time heading to the cave to suit up, there he found his Father, still leaning over the computer table. "What are you doing?" Bruce asks barley looking away from the screen. "What do you think? Going to find that idiot before she gets herself killed." He seethes yanking on his tactical gloves.

"Damian -"

"How dare she leave us- we are a family." He spits the word out like it's a curse, "You don't leave your family." He reiterates slamming his hands into the table holding various gadgets. "I'm going to find that fool and drag her back here." He promised.

"Just hold on for a moment." Bruce stands walking over to his son to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, "We have no idea where she is, let us do some recon. Tim will find her address in no time, if she's still in Gotham we'll find her within the week."

Damian hesitantly agreed to his father's reasoning.

It takes them a week to find you, you were very good at hiding your tracks, using only cash, staying in shady areas because they weren't monitored, it's only when you post a selfie with some new friends do they lock your location down.

Tim took five minutes to himself to stare at the photo before alerting the family, he found it after all, he felt entitled to it, to the joy on your face, the other people in the picture made it easier to find you, first he found their names, then their addresses and used that along with the small bits of background he could see to triangulate your new address.

He'd never seen that look on your face, it was a casual cocky sort of grin, one that said you were genuinely enjoying yourself. He couldn't fathom how you were so happy without them, it sort of hurt his feelings, but at the same time he needed to see more of that smile, see what other expressions you made, he'd only ever seen that sad dejected look on your face, he huffs to himself, saving the picture for himself before sending the info to the group chat.

Bruce decided to let one of his kids do the interacting with you, feeling too ashamed to face you yet, he sends Dick, knowing you once looked up to him.

You're three hours into a horror movie marathon, courtesy of the box TV you stole off the back of a moving truck, when someone knocks at your door.

You don't pause the movie, using it as cover to tip toe towards the door, sure it was still early in the night, but everything was dangerous in Gotham.

You don't say a word, sneakily looking through the grimey peephole all you can make out is a tall dark haired man.

He knocks again causing you to flinch. Swiping knife out the drawer, you hide it behind your back before swinging open the door expecting the people you'd stolen the TV from or maybe one of the thugs you'd beaten black and blue, not Dick Grayson.

"Hey little bird." He greets like an old time friend, not the man who'd ignored you your entire relationship.

"How the fuck- what are you doing here?" You sigh revealing the knife as you rest your hand on your hip, exasperated by his mere presence. He eyes the knife before laughing, "I like the energy, good call living in this neighborhood." He invites himself inside, scrutinizing your apartment, a deep sigh leaving his lips, "You shouldn't be living like this-"

"Hold the fuck on." You point the knife at him accusingly, "You didn't know I existed a week ago, now you barge into my home," you emphasize with another point, "shit all over it and start lecturing me about how I should live?" You stare at him like he's grown another head before laughing, he friend stepping closer, "I'm ...I'm sorry, I know I forgot your birthday - we forgot, but you didn't need to run away-"

"I didn't run from shit." Crossing your arms, "I'm an adult, I moved out." You say pointedly.

"Be that as it may- you should have said something, do you have any idea how worried we've been?" He pleads, brows furrowed, "I know you're mad, you've every right to be, but this isn't safe." He gestures to your apartment. "I walked past a drug deal on the way up here ya know." He chides like he's scolding s child.

"Come back to the manor." He says softly, stepping closer once more, until he could touch your shoulder, "no need to leave the nest so soon." You stare at his hand, then him, before pointing the knife at him, your hand steady,

"Get the fuck outta my house."

Dick leaves reluctantly, he was determined to bring you home, thought you'd jump in his arms for a hug once he showed up, but you didn't, you looked at him with disgust, anger, and a hint of fear, he hated it. He wanted you to look up at him like the big brother he was, not like your enemy.

You're panting after the encounter, knife clattering to the ground, you follow shortly after, collapsing as your mind tried to process the whirlwind of emotions coursing through you.

It was a storm, so you latched on to the one feeling that would anchor you, rage.

You don't sleep that night. And it's a good thing because Damian is breaking through your window lock like it was the easiest thing, he enters your home, face deadset in a glare. "You left the manor for this shit hole?" He almost laughs, his hand on his sword makes you incredibly nervous. "What's it matter to you? Thought you'd be thrilled." You roll your eyes, too exhausted to deal with another one of them in such a short time period.

"You've disrupted the natural flow in the manor with this little stunt." He seethes, "I'm going to restore it." He states as if speaking a fact. "How prey tell do you intend on doing that, you massive twat?" He simply smirks before looking behind you, you turn around and see Jason leaning against the wall, his red hood mask on, obstructing his facial expression, making him all the more unnerving.

"You're a long way from home." Jason says kicking off the wall, moving to hover behind you, "Why are you here?! Okay I'm officially over this reunion, out." You point to the window they entered from.

"Oh we're leaving, just not without you." Jason chimes up his hand hovering over his guns, fingers twitching.

To your defense, you did try and run, but it was no use, they were on you faster than you could process, a sweet smelling cloth is pressed to your mouth, and as much as you fight it, eventually you need to breathe, it takes one good inhale for the chloroform to kick in, you slump in someone's hold you're unsure of which one and your world fades to black.

I