#its called the lions den

[mr-orion]

sometimes you gotta hype yourself up and color your sketches... anyway, Ray's about to ask you something very on the nose and it's gonna hurt. You should watch out.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Shaken and Stirred.

I was really inspired by this fan art and was plagued by thoughts of a pathetic whiny lil meow meow 🥺 I don't drink myself, but I love the mature aesthetic of it and wanted to... write a drunken confession... to close off 2024...

… DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT OTL wait no please J WORD I CAN EXPLAIN

***Content warning: Alcohol consumption, though Leona is the only one drinking. (The legal age is 20 in Japan; I’m going to assume this for Twisted Wonderland.) Everyone else is having sparkling juice :v***

Imagine this…

"Feel like joining us for dinner? For old time's sake.”

The invitation had come so casually, the same way a housecat might drop a mangled rat or bird at your feet. To them, an easy, everyday act. To you, a surprise you weren’t quite certain how to feel about.

You didn't have plans for the evening, nor a reason to refuse, and while you were busy weighing the pros and cons, you found yourself strung along in their outing. Muscular arms wrangling you into the herd, boisterous yells welcoming you back. An honorary member, the Savanaclaw students had branded you, recognized by their king.

Now you sit in a barstool, fingers on the rim of a cup clouded with condensation, absentmindedly swirling its contents. Juice, its sweetness stifled by melted ice.

Some would call you a lamb willingly waltzing into a lion's den. They're wrong. You are no beast, but a curious observer of them. This is a prime opportunity for that.

It’s dim, the glowing jellyfish set low, faint lights swimming overhead. The music is loud, a departure from the Mostro Lounge’s usual soft jazz. The bass is even louder, rattling your bones like a set of steel drums. Rowdy patrons clink cups, chant at their friends to chug, belt out laughter straight from the bellies. You can barely hear your own heartbeat. The sounds of nightlife drown it out.

Jack lurks in a quiet, shadowed corner, his back against the wall. Muscled arms folded, he has assumed a stern stance but wears a small, fond smile in spite of himself. Ruggie has climbed onto a table, raising a jet-black card to the waiting mob. It’s their golden meal ticket.

“All-you-can-eat food and drinks on Leona-san! Long live the king!!” he roars, and the others echo his excitement.

“LONG LIVE THE KING!!”

You chuckle to yourself. First he rents out the entire lounge, then he decides to feed everyone for the day? How generous of him. Guess the big guy’s going all out.

You scan the restaurant in search of him, seeking out his familiar visage. Long, wild tresses. Sharp eyes, emerald flecked with golden flakes, like the sunlight shining through verdant leaves. The scar that speared his left side. A noble aura, his lazy feline grace.

Leona Kingscholar always sticks out in a crowd, commands too much attention with his mere existence. “That man is only good for his face,” Vil would bitterly hawk, “his only redeeming feature.” And he was right, to some extent. Tall, dark, and handsome are all apt descriptors for Savanaclaw’s dorm leader. Leona is all that and more.

Your pulse quickens.

His shape—you can’t discern it from the myriad of bodies collected in the lounge. A puzzle piece missing from the box of your most treasured memories.

“Looking for someone?”

The question is low and nonchalant, almost musical in its own right, yet you can so clearly hear it rising above the bumping bass. Your blood hums in anticipation, already knowing who the voice belongs to.

Leona has slipped into the open seat beside you, nursing an Old-Fashioned filled halfway with a strongly scented amber liquid. An orb of ice chills it, so clear cut you can see through to the other side. He sits with an effortless confidence upon his throne, as though he—not Azul—owns the damn place. You'd believe it too, from how the patrons are shouting his name like a mantra.

There’s no greetings to exchange. No need to.

"I think I've found what I was looking for," you tell him teasingly. “Nice of you to throw this little get-together. What’s the occasion? Don’t think I remember when you were in this good of a mood.”

“Who said I was in a good mood?” he grumbles, leaning onto the counter. “Didn't feel like being left alone with my thoughts tonight is all.”

“You, brooding? Never."

He makes a sound as if repressing a dry laugh. “You think yourself clever for an herbivore, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Not as clever as you, though.”

“Hmph. You really know how to stroke a guy’s ego."

It’s comfortable, this trading of quips. Safe. The conversation flowing so easily, like wine poured. It is the only true way you can stand on the same level as him.

Leona lifts the glass and downs the rest of his drink. From the way he winces, it must burn on the way down. You wrinkle your nose at the sharp smell that meets it. Earth spiced with hypnotic smoke and the acrid pang of sorrow.

“They serve alcohol here? I thought those jars on the shelves were full of tea blends.”

Leona scoffs. “If you know the right people and the right strings to pull. The cephalopunk said his establishment was more than happy to provide for me as long as I shelled out and signed some liability waiver.”

“… Does the headmaster know about this?”

“He doesn’t need to know.” Leona smirks, placing his newly drained drink down. Immediately, a staff member appears and replaces it with a fresh glass. “What’s he gonna do, anyway? Sue me? I’m of legal drinking age, and ‘s not like I’m passing out alcohol to minors”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head in disbelief. “You’re so bad.”

“The worst,” he agrees sarcastically. “And you choose to keep me as company.”

“I’m but your humble accomplice, sir.” You jokingly salute to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret. Rough day?”

He sighs in a way that gives the impression of saying, Like you wouldn't believe. But that tail of his swings back and forth like a patient pendulum, refusing to reveal his secrets. “This isn’t about me.”

“It literally is.” You pass a not-so-subtle glance at his second helping of whisky.

"I'm the host. It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with my feelings, now would it?"

You don't miss how he proceeds to take a swig right after his claim, how readily he consumes poison, even when it hurts him. Alcohol, insults. Pain, self-inflicted.

He has an arsenal of tricks and techniques to deflect—partaking in vices, one of them. Leona's magic rendered fortresses to sand, but he is an expert at building his own structures just the same. Studier, even. Imperious.

Attempting to scale the walls directly, you know, won't get you very far. Not when he has gone to such great lengths to guard his heart. There's a moat with leering crocodiles, barbed wire decorating the gates, a drawbridge firmly closed.

You attempt to breach the subject, toeing the line between testing his patience and challenging it. “What is it that you want then, Leona?”

He falls quiet, staring at the remains of his beverage. It’s like the sphere of ice the whisky swims with is a crystal ball, and he’s peering into it, seeking answers. His verdant eyes shift a shade deeper, darker.

When he’s solemnly silent like this, he’s contemplating. His next move in a game of chess, his next words in a debate. Plotting, scheming.

"A distraction," he declares at last, in that resolute tone he uses when he’s set on capturing a prize.

"A... distraction."

He nods, angling his head toward the noisy lounge. Ruggie is rallying some of the guys for a round of root beer pong. Jack’s trapped in a headlock, the hyena urging him to join in. They’re rowdy and ruddy from the exhilaration that comes with competition.

“Get my mind off of things. Take me away from all of this for a spell."

“How, exactly…?”

Leona drains his second glass. The server slides him a third. "Let's start with your day. From there, ramble about whatever.”

Amuse me, he seems to say, even if his mouth doesn’t. The twinkle has returned to his eyes, brightening them like the stars do the milky way.

You gulp, feeling compelled to obey.

Gathering your thoughts and wetting your lips, you begin. "This morning..."

The story opens like a newborn finding its footing for the first time: clumsily. Granted the space to expand, you do. Slowly, the conventions come to you. Balance, coordination. Each sentence is like a step, taken one at a time.

You run through your daily schedule and, reciting it out loud, you realize how terribly mundane it is. Classes, chores, chums. The usual. Worry flickers through you—Will he be satisfied with this?—but he only gestures for you to continue.

“Ah, so I picked up this new hobby recently…”

Leona props his face up on one hand, curled fingers resting against a cheek. He watches you with a look that isn’t quite predator on prey but isn’t quite human to human either. It’s intimate in a way that makes you feel exposed even when you avert your gaze, calculating enough to make you feel like a complex equation he has yet to solve.

“When something’s hard to get, it makes you want it all the more,” he had once told you. The memory surfaces like bubbles in a flute of champagne. Then it pops, fizzling away in a fine mist, and it is gone.

Moments like this are magic, you think.

You slip into a cadence, a rhythm. You lose count of how many stories you tell, how many whiskies Leona slams down in the span of them.

And still, the glowing green of his irises never seems to stray far from you. Vibrant and pulsating, like plants with heartbeats of their own, swaying in time with a stray breeze. Seeking something.

You don’t know if that concerns or thrills you.

"Ahahah…” You allow yourself a chuckle as you stretch in your seat. “This is so strange, isn’t it? I never thought I'd be rubbing elbows with a prince this time last year.”

Leona responds with a noncommittal “Mmmmm.”

He lowers his gaze to his drink number who knows?, his honey-colored reflection gazing back. When he blinks, his lashes seem to fall and flutter in slow motion.

You wonder what he's thinking, why he's thinking.

You reach for him. Carefully, gently, as if approaching a wounded animal. He is wounded--in that frightening way that leaves no visible marks, no scars.

"Leona..."

You hear your name being called before you can tap his shoulder. You look--there's Jack, waving at you. Ruggie has his hands cupped over his mouth.

"Wanna participate in an arm-wrestling contest? Jack's the reigning champ!"

"Oh, um--" you try to respond, to explain that you're preoccupied. The blaring music washes you out.

Ruggie makes a face of confusion and shouts again: "What?!"

You start to rise from your stool and turn to him, raising your volume. "I said..."

You stop. Your wrist is ensnared in Leona's grasp, cuffing you to the spot.

“… Don’t go." His command cuts through the noise, startling you with its softness, its contrasting clarity.

"It'll only be a second. It's too hard to talk over the--"

"You must've not heard me the firs'time," he interrupts, his words slightly slurring together, one melting into the next. Leona pouts like a child. "I’m orderin' you to stay. Stay here, with me."

"You've been awfully bossy today."

"Cuz you keep bein' a pain in my tail. How'm I supposed to..." The more the man babbles, the more confidence drains from his voice. His proud lion's roar shrinking and shrinking to a kitten's mewl. Tiny, vulnerable. "Don't go. Don't... leave. Everyone else has. They always do."

Non-sarcastic pleading? From Leona?

You eye him in concern. "Being serious for a sec, are you okay?"

He winces, like speaking or touching you is a considerable effort. You're set free, his body slumping as he lays down at the bar. His mane spreads out around him like a pool of chocolate. Leona cradles himself against the cushion of an arm, groaning into it.

Definitely not okay.

You pass Ruggie a firm shake of the head--a no to his offer--then settle back into your seat, returning to Leona.

"I'm here," you reassure him with a soft push against the middle of his chest. "See? I'm not going anywhere." Then you poke him on his forehead. "What's up? You're thinking of something."

He peers at you from behind an arm and snorts. "Thinkin' about how you run your mouth a lot."

"You told me to. I'm just following orders--don't you like that? You're so hard to please."

"I have high standards," he says simply.

"Well..." You lift a brow expectantly. "Am I meeting them?"

This manages to draw out a bark of laughter from him, however strained it sounds. He fixates on you, the start of a scowl upon his searching expression.

Assessing you.

“… Why?” Leona asks suddenly. No proper answer. Instead, an inquiry thrown back in retaliation.

“Why what?”

“Why d’you bother stickin’ around? Why d’you…” A pause, as if the verb that comes next is capable of killing if not handled correctly. “Why do you care so much?”

You shrug. “You don’t really need a reason to care about someone. Anyone with a heart would, right? You’d do the same for me or any of your dorm members.”

“And what do you know about heart?” He fumbles for his drink, but you slyly slide it out of reach. A growl of frustration. “All I got’s a big black hole where my heart should be.”

“That’s not true,” you protest stubbornly. “Your students say so many good things about their dorm leader. They all really look up to you.”

“Hah, as if.” He lifts his head and slams it on the table. “I failed’m. What good’s a king if he can’t produce results? What good’s tryin’ if all there is at the end of the tunnel’s darkness? Can’t even dispatch the damn lizard or beat ‘m at his own game…

You frown. “Hey. hey! Don’t talk about yourself like that… and stop doing that, you’re going to injure yourself.”

Leona doesn’t seem to register anything you say. He continues deliriously mumbling to himself, the alcohol having wiped away his inhibitions and all the cards he so often kept close to his chest.

“I never get what I want,” he complains, dragging himself up—but he sways and is forced to hunch forward on his chair, elbows on the counter for support. “Never, ever. No matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I work… It all comes crumbling down eventually.”

His hair covers his face the same way the strands of a weeping willow do. You can’t see what kind of an expression is making. Do you want to see it?

He’s sinking, you realize. The same claws that struggle for a firm grip on the rocky ledge he dangles from, the same claws that render enemies to ashes—they don’t help him against crashing waves, the swamp that drags him down, down, down, into its murky depths. No sunlight, no air.

“The crown… the interdorm tournament... love, respect, admiration... Everything slips through m’fingers like sand. It’s some cruel, sick joke. Must be m’fate as the prince with naught.”

“Leona..."

Is this what haunts you every time you're alone in your room? The thoughts that you're scared of visiting you every night... What you needed a distraction from?

“Get my mind off of things," he had said. "Take me away from all of this for a spell."

There's an ache in your chest. The dull, throbbing pain that comes at the end of reading a sad story. His story.

But it's not the end of it, right? It can't be.

Your fingers tangle in his tresses and brush them aside. From behind the curtain, he peers at you like some stray cat having retreated into its cardboard box. And you meet him without hesitation.

"... Hey," you manage. "I think you've had enough. You're starting to say all this... unkind stuff about yourself, and you're not having fun anymore. Can you walk? Let's get you back to Savanaclaw and have you lie down."

Leona sways slightly. Even drunk, his tone is haughty and shreds into you like claws. "You can't tell me what t'do."

"You're the host," you insist with a smile. The words are his, borrowed, sharpened, and repurposed in your possession. "It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with your feelings, now would it?"

He stares at you, eyes blown wide. Then his lids lower, lashes shading his view of you.

"Why... Why d'you hafta be like thish? This would be sho much easier if y'didn’t look at me like that."

"L-Like what?"

Leona inches closer. He usually smells of sun and soil, but all of that has been smothered by the reek of booze. Heat radiates from his face, flushed from liquid courage, and hits yours.

"Like there's still a chance for me." He speaks clearly and concisely, each syllable a brick laid out and sandwiched with mortar to the next. Pouring all his energy into them. "Like you still believe in me."

"Because I do. Is that so wrong?" You're unsure of the answer--a part of you, dreading it.

Leona counters with another question. It is tinged with anger, irritation. "Why can’t you be like the others and just give up already? It'd save you a lot of trouble."

"I can't bring myself to leave you hanging on the edge of a cliff. We all want a hand sometimes to lift us up when we're down, so... I want to be that for you. And it seems like you could use that hand to get you out of your troubles right about now."

His lip trembles. Leona's voice comes out huskily. "I hate that dumb, wide-eyed look of yours. So full of hope. When you look at me like that… it makes me think I might still be able to have you.”

“You already have me, dummy. I’m right here, remember?”

“No.” His gaze is intense, almost pulsating. He has a way of scrutinizing that lays you bare before him, pinning you in place and making you inadvertently squirm. “Not in the way I want you t'be.”

Your heart stops, as if he has seized it in his grasp. One squeeze, and he can crush it. It's a mercy he doesn't, even as you erupt into a flurry of confusion, an inferno engulfing you.

"What?" you whisper, scarcely believing your ears. "Wh-What do you mean by that...?"

THUNK!

His balance caves. Leona keels over, the weight of his large body toppling onto yours like a domino crashing into the next one in a sequence.

His head lands on your shoulder, neatly nestling into the junction of your collarbone and neck. Arms loosely snake around your hips, hugging them, his tail wrapping around a leg like a ribbon decorating a pillar. A throaty groan escapes him.

Panic bolts through your muscle and bone.

Your immediate instinct is to shove him off—but he’s heavy and inebriated, and it’s hard for you to fend off the warmth pressed against you. He’s not playing fair. Is he doing this on purpose? You shouldn’t be surprised; he never does.

His low purr tickles you, his breath feathering across your bare skin. He sounds half asleep, caught in that magical twilight realm between the waking world and dreams. “Is it okay… for someone like me to fall in love with someone like you?”

Love?

Four letters, one simple word.

Your surroundings dullen, the chatter and the laughter and the music floating far away. You become acutely aware of all of the places where he touches you, of every spot where you connect. There are so many people gathered in the lounge, but all you can perceive is him: Leona, Leona Kingscholar.

Your mind races, set to a frantic pace like wildebeests rampaging.

Love, the thing with wings that soars high above the clouds. Love, the golden light that brings life to the lands. Love, the wellspring so many drink from.

He feels all of that for you?

It feels like I'm dreaming. Am I dreaming?

"D-Do you really mean that, Leona?" You need to know. You must confirm it. "That you... love me?"

Silence.

“L-Leona…?” you stutter, lightly tapping his back. It rises and falls, rises and falls, like the tides lapping the seashore. Soft, at ease.

But not a response.

One, two, three.

Three seconds. Three seconds is all it takes for Leona Kingscholar to knock out--and he is out like a light.

The party and its twisted beat carry on, the bass blasting in your bloodstream, uncaring. And you remain, cradling a snoozing cat in your arms.

... Ah, seriously. How did it turn out like this?

Upset, annoyance--you think that these are, perhaps, what you're meant to be feeling in the moment. They are missing, not so much as a phantom present. Instead, there's an excitable fluttering that doesn't have a name to it yet.

You swallow, still slightly shaken. The confession, raw and revealing, stirring emotions you didn't think possible before. Emotions that burned red hot, with serrated teeth and talons.

A hand goes to the back of his head, stroking his mane and smoothing it out. It's comforting to him, you imagine, but it's comforting to you as well. Grounding.

You're here. He's here. The both of you are here, together.

There is it again, that unnamed, excitable fluttering kicking up back up. It fans out from your core, from your head to the tips of your toes. You feel like you're lighter than air, flying to the moon and playing among the stars.

He loves you.

Leona Kingscholar loves you.

The fingers trapped in his hair stiffen.

You draw out a sigh. It mingles with the music and stretches thin, a string of fabric pulled from a spool.

Until the clock strikes midnight… Let’s just stay like this for a little longer. That much would be okay, wouldn’t it? We can figure out the rest of the story once the sleepy prince wakes from his slumber.

[foldingfittedsheets]

We had lunch with a friend who was relating a story to us about a friend of hers who lives in a rural area populated by a very large number of mountain lions.

She and her husband were at home when they watched a mountain lion jump their back fence, dead deer in tow, dragging its prey to their back shed. They watched with horrified fascination as this apex predator started absolutely going to town on this deer carcass. Honestly, same. I’d have watched too, I love a free nature documentary.

But after several hours as the cougar continued to lounge they started to be concerned. This was not a neighbor they wanted. They didn’t want to call animal control so they did what any rural American would do and grabbed their guns.

Their first several warning shots were met with unimpressed ambivalence, the cougar regarding them with the smugness of a fat and happy cat who’s heard a gun before.

Frustrated, they went back to the drawing board. Then they decided to stand on the back step with two different speakers at max volume blasting the cougar with sound waves. While also firing their guns in the air. This finally achieved the desired result, the cougar hightailed it away at top speed.

What were they blaring, you ask? What scared the lion from its den?

NPR.

Our friend was laughing as she said, “It didn’t mind the guns but it hated NPR, it was one conservative cougar!”

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐅𝐓 .

# with donquixote doflamingo.

the king of dressrosa had what he wanted — when he wanted. you included.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day twenty-three. smut (mdni!). shibari. power imbalance. usage of devil-fruit. toxic!relationship. obsessed!doflamingo. mentions of blood. kidnapping. sadistic!doflamingo. honestly, doflamingo. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 1.8k.

marines were oftentimes disappointing — powerless marines, however, with a hero’s ego and character, were a disease. the truth of dressrosa’s reign nature was his perfected little secret, yet it was not uncommon for certain doubts to reach the surface, those who, however, were swiftly eliminated by vergo. doflamingo’s domain had emerged through a foolproof plan, therefore its aftermath was of insufferable boredom. aware of such, the man who previously occupied the heart seat of the donquixote allowed an arrogant, avaricious rear-admiral to reach the kingdom’s barriers — a bit of fun offered to its king.

the man, for sure, had a considerable fleet. yet, upon approaching the palace under the pretense of a marine-ordered reunion, the rear-admiral had but a mere subordinate accompanying him into the lion’s den: you. and not a minute thereafter, doflamingo understood why — you were the prettiest individual he had ever seen; a distraction. an attentive glint; an intelligence your commander did not give you the proper credit for. a fancy dinner whose food you had not touched, whereas the rear-admiral drank and feasted while voicing out demands that doflamingo had no intentions to follow whatsoever.

at last, when his patience wore itself thin, he snapped a finger to call for diamante, a brief order spoken: “get rid of the trash.”

the rear-admiral had been dragged out of the dining room, shouting in desperation as doflamingo accessed your figure — terrified. his tongue darted out of his mouth, appreciating the prey that had been bestowed upon him. doflamingo grinned, his fingertip teasing the edge of his wine cup.

“eat,” he demanded, shoving his fork into the meat.

your hands were trembling as you guided the food into your mouth, avoiding his pointed glance. doflamingo was delighted. vergo had gifted him the rear-admiral as a source of brief entertainment, unaware of the long-term feast that accompanied that pitiful excuse of a man. you were meek in comparison to him — and aware of it, too. that made you obedient; conformed. a small feline trapped amidst the jaws of a predator. you were all but awaiting your death, aware that the thread of your life relied on his patience. doflamingo was used to the fearsome position he occupied — thrived on it, even — but never once had he terrified such a gorgeous one, and that alone was enough to make his cock twitch.

you were given quarters adjacent to his own, free access to the palace — unaware that pica was an ever-present figure, watching amidst the rocks. daylight was yours to claim, yet at the first sight of moonshine, doflamingo could be found sitting on a couch in your bedroom, legs spread wide and a devious smirk etched on his face. he never dared move; never dared command. instead, he lived for the teasing, for the terrified expression you wore, fearing his next step; of his thoughts. you sat on the corner, hugging your knees, wary, squinting eyes failing to catch a glimpse of him. you were cornered and vulnerable and oh, so appetizing.

doflamingo fell for that hunting game, deciding to surprise you in broad daylight, too — accompanying you in silence; hovering over your hunched figure in the library. his desire was palpable, as well as his possessiveness. not a single member of the donquixote family, save for his elite soldiers, was allowed to reach you — viola, especially, for he had no doubt the woman, who loathed him so, would meddle in his game; attempt to free you. doflamingo could not have that. all things considered, he was a patient man — dressrosa hadn’t become his after a reckless strategy, after all. it had been a well-crafted stratagem that he was proud of, and you were deserving of similar care.

doflamingo led you to the edge of restlessness, wishing not to force you to submission through brute force, but rather having you succumb to it — mentally and physically — after prolonged emotional torture. and when, at last, you caved, months wasted on a failed escape plan, he was right there to wrap his little strings around his prey.

you were suspended in the air, stripped naked in the middle of his room. your wrists were tied behind your back, and his strings covered every inch of your figure — tightly — the flesh of your thighs and breasts spilling out, sensitive and aching. he licked his lips at the sight, circling you as though you were a maimed, tired target.

your calves and legs were trembling, giving in under the pressure. he moved his middle finger, tugging the string around your neck. your head was thrown backwards; back arching painfully. your toes curled, feet unable to touch the ground underneath. he had you propelled far higher than intended, but that was no problem whatsoever, for doflamingo himself was a man of considerable height, and his twitching cock would find no issue sliding inside your cunt, when the time came.

“where were you planning on going, hm?” he roughly inquired, nose buried on your neck. doflamingo started to suck harshly on the exposed skin, and you shuddered, failing to move, for his strings held you in place as though a marionette.

“nowhere,” you whispered, ever-so-softly, following his movements with blown pupils.

the string at your throat tightened, a singular streak of blood emerging under the pressure. he licked it, grunting when the string sliced his tongue and mingled his blood with your own. he observed you through his sunglasses, a smirk that showcased his canines apparent in his face.

“yet, you were found in the docks,” doflamingo mocked, purposefully cutting his fingers on the strings as his hand roamed through your body. “do you think there is a corner in this world you could run off to where i wouldn’t find you?”

he forced his index and middle inside your parted lips, smearing them crimson; forcing you to taste him. your pupils dilated, fear mingled with an undertouch of lust that had his tip leaking. when he retreated his fingers — coated in your saliva — doflamingo shoved it inside his own mouth, taunting laughter coming out muffled.

“what was the plan?” doflamingo continued, increasing the tightness of his strings. he trailed his index down your stomach, gradually reaching your clit. “enter a commoners’ ship? dock into an unknown island, enjoy a few hours of freedom until i dragged you back?”

you gasped, out of breath as the string constricted the passage of air through your neck. he laughed — lowly; mockingly — drawing pleasure from your struggle. his finger hovered over your clit, applying a certain pressure that had you squirming.

“i gave you a home, food, clothes,” he listed, drunk on the scent of the cologne he chose for you — and that you were all but coerced to wear. “yet, you tried to flee. how greedy, what else could you want?”

a single tear rolled down your cheek. freedom, perhaps, would be your wish. regardless, your eyes rolled, desperate sounds falling from your lips as you gasped for air. he grunted, enjoying the spectacle. two long fingers teased your folds, teasing your entrance — wet, surprisingly enough. you were getting off on that treatment. what an amusing lamb. he circled your clit, chuckling at the immediate reaction.

“need to breathe, don’t you?” doflamingo taunted, releasing the pressure with a smirk as you gasped, filling your neglected lungs with air. “can’t even do that without my permission, yet you dare try running away?”

“i’m sorry,” you sobbed, squirming. “will never do that again, young master, i promise.”

the title rolling out of your tongue had him containing a shudder of delight, refusing to offer you a glimpse of the power your voice held over him.

“you’ll call me doffy from now on,” he demanded, strings dropping you roughly on the floor. you whimpered at the sudden contact of your knees against the ground, not daring to complain regardless.

“yes, doffy,” you crumbled, forced to give in to his commands.

doflamingo’s strings toyed with you midair as though you were a lifeless doll, throwing your figure on the edge of his large bed, knees sunk into the mattress. his palm bent your front forward, face bruied on a pillow. strings wrapped around your arms and wrists, obligating you to keep them raised into the air. your chest was pressed against your thighs — strings constricting the blood flow; flesh pouring from the edges. doflamingo gifted himself with a clear sight of your pert ass, using his free hand to part your folds, licking his lips. he landed a harsh, heavy slap on it before getting rid of the layers of clothing that separated him from your leaking hole.

his tip teased your entrance — cunt already clenching around nothing. doflamingo did not mind enough to fish for a condom; perhaps if he impregnated you, you’d stop musing an escape. he moved the fingers that controlled the strings, strength enough to leave superficial cuts on your flesh. your blood dripped on his sheets and you sucked on a harsh breath, sobbing as a singular string threatened to maim your nipples. the pain had been enough before, but when he slid inside, large and long girth shoved straight into your cervix, you all but shouted — the sound sent to the pillow‘s fabric.

doflamingo didn’t give you the time to get used to his length, moving with a ruthless pace. his free hand gripped your ass, feet dug into the ground as he hammered inside. the bedroom was filled with your muffled moans; balls slapping against your ass at every roll of his hips. the warmth of your cunt enveloped his girth, deep still yet not quite as enough, for his base remained unsheathed. he clicked his tongue in annoyance, retreating altogether, leaking tip barely inside before doflamingo shoved himself completely, uncaring for the state of you.

the sheets were a combined chaos of blood and the pair of your essences. doflamingo felt himself stretching your walls to the point of discomfort, yet you all but mewled louder, fingers maimed by the strings as you held onto them.

“still want to leave?” he grunted, sweat dripping down his bronzed skin as he hammered his tip into your cervix.

“no, doffy,” you stuttered, gasping once he, at last, found your g-spot. he grinned, sunglasses slipping to the tip of his nose as he increased the aggressiveness of his pace.

another thrust teasing your gummy spots; saliva dripping down on your back from the tip of his darting tongue. he leaned his chest forward, angling himself in a manner that had his girth swallowed entirely by your greedy walls — clenching; challenging; threatening to milk him dry.

“will cum,” he stated, intonation not open to complaints. “and you will take it all.”

the string at your neck had your head thrown back, mouth parted from the pillow. “yes, doffy.”

“good bunny,” doflamingo complimented, clicking his tongue as your walls tightened due to the approach of your orgasm.

a single, devastating thrust — combined with the pressure of his strings around your entire figure — had you sent to the edge. cum showered his girth and he shot his own load inside, the sight of blood exciting him far more than it should. doflamingo kept the pace regardless of the shared orgasm, fighting against his own overstimulation as he ravaged your insides, ignoring your desperate pleadings for an instance of reprieve. you dared to run away — and he’d make sure to smear your walls until the punishment was etched into your mind.

— 🐈‍⬛ : i could NOT fix him but i could make him moan like a girl.

[macsimagines]

Yandere!Mikey w/ a S/O that had his child

ASKBOX IS OPEN

(So for this set of headcanons its for a Mikey thats been consumed by his dark impulses and has probably lost everyone... ALSO PLEASE tell me what you think? I work better when I'm given notes so any complaints or compliments ill take!)

(D/N) - Daughters Name (Y/N) - Your Name

You were supposed to be a one night stand. He wasn't even going to give you the time of day. You were some secretary or pencil pusher and he was making deals (harassing) your boss.

But you catch his eye, and your boss has you entertain him to make things go smoother.

Thankfully, you two hit it off. Mikey can be charming despite his horrible reputation and you've got such beautiful kind eyes...

One thing leads to another and one unforgettable night you two have sex.

Mikey doesn't call you or contact you after that, and you can take the hint that it didn't mean anything more than just a way to relieve stress.

That would be all fine and dandy if it weren't for the fact that you were puking your guts out and happened to be pregnant.

You can't depend on Mikey, you don't think he'll accept your child and you really don't want them involved in the underworld that Mikey controls.

So you move out of Tokyo to distant family in a different town. You get a job, have your wonderful child and live peacefully in a small town.

Four years down the road, you end up back in Tokyo with your daughter. You owed a friend a favor and you're not too worried.

Your Daughter might be Mikey's clone but Tokyo is a big city and he's a busy man. He must have had countless women before he's not going to recognize your face out of a million others. Plus its been years. You should be safe right?

Wrong. You wake up one morning and (D/N) is gone. You're frantic searching for her, so confused where she could have gone from your friends apartment when it hits you: The Park!

Sprinting over there you're met with a sight you never thought you'd see. Mikey holding your fidgeting daughter in his arms.

If not for the terrifying look in his eyes the scene is almost comical.

The two of them together look like a before and after picture because of how similar they are.

"Y/N, you wanna explain this?" he asks you, and you're more shocked he remembered your name than anything else.

You try to pull it together, you don't want to cause a scene in front of your daughter.

"Th-that's my daughter. She ran off this morning and I've been looking for her."

He tilts his head to the side while he looks you up and down, placing your little girl on his hip.

"Don't you mean our daughter?" there's something dark in his voice and down right malevolent in his eyes.

Panic rises in your chest and you look down at the ground. "I just...I wanted her to be safe. I-I didn't think you'd care."

Your sweet Daughter whimpers for you, not understanding who this strange man is or why he's making her mommy so upset.

"You thought I wouldn't acknowledge my own child? Am I that kind of man to you?"

Silence stretches between you before you finally get the courage to say; "How did you even find us?"

Mikey just stares and holds your girl close before answering; "I heard you were in town. I came looking for you, and found her. Guess this is fate."

What you didn't know was that Mikey did want you, he wanted you so bad it almost drove him crazy. He tried to keep his distance and ignore you, and just when he can't take it anymore he finds out you moved away?

That's fine. It wasn't meant to be. But he had eyes and ears out for you if you ever came back to him. If you willingly walked back into the lions den that must mean you want him to have you.

He hears your back, with a daughter, and that's not a problem. If you have a husband he'll make sure you don't anymore and he doesn't mind a brat, you'll give him some of his own and that will make up for it.

So he goes looking for you, and he's almost to the apartments he knows you're staying at when a little girl catches his eyes. For a second he thought he hallucinated a mirror, but no staring up at him is his own face.

In his heart he knows who this girl is. And he's mystified when she starts talking to him.

"How come the sun's so bright?" she asks him for whatever insane reason.

And the empty abyss in his chest is suddenly full of love and affection. She's perfect. He had a perfect daughter now. Mikey embraces and tells her as much. That she's wonderful and beautiful and so loved.

Then you come sprinting towards them and Mikey suddenly remembers you kept her from him.

Back to the present, he thinks if this had been anyone else he would have killed them. But its you. And thankfully you raised the perfect child and gave him a healthy daughter, so he can't be too mad. He'll take it out on some underlings that left out very important details...

"I'll take responsibility," he tell you grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you so you're face to face, "And you will too, Y/N. We're gonna raise a very happy family. And you're going to give me a very big one. Lots of kids." one for every person he's ever lost.

[beenbaanbuun]

Hai there! :3

Hope youre having a lovely day/night! I wanted to say I love your works!

I’ve been following your opposites attract universe and I have to say I love it so so sooooo much!! Its just so sweet and beautifully written! Addams! matz is now my roman empire.

I have a question though after reading the fight and the apology parts of the story, since hongjoong basically NEVER yells but did in fact yell at darling, do you think darling for a good period of time would be a bit distant from joong? Like she’s knows she’s forgiven but would she be too scared to make a similar mistake? Cause if it were me where I was able to make someone who never gets mad, mad. I would know I FUCKED up big time and I’d be so nervous to be around them 😭

If Darling does somewhat become a bit distant how would Hongjoong react to that too? Like would guilt practically eat him alive? 😭

Thats all! Thank you again for your works I love reading them!! 💕

i was going to reply to this like it was just a simple question but i must write………..

not proofread yet

as you stand outside hongjoong’s office, you can’t help but feel your heart beating a mile a minute. it’s silly, you know that, and yet you can’t help but hesitate. he’s on the other side of that door, after all, and try as you might, you simply cannot let things go back to normal. it’s only been a few days, yet you haven’t crossed the threshold into that room even once. you’ve barely even spoken to hongjoong, in fact. apart from mealtimes and night when he cannot go without you in his arms, you opt to stay far out of his way. it’s not that you want to, but instead you feel like you have to.

it’s for your own peace of mind.

except this time you can’t. this time, you’re under strict instructions from seonghwa to fetch hongjoong for dinner. he knows what he’s doing, the corners of his mouth tilting up in an annoying smile after you tried to come up with some excuse as to why you had to avoid hongjoong. clearly none of them worked since here you are.

you knock, three light taps against his door so as not to irritate him too much. he’s working, after all, and you know better than to get in his way while he’s working. “come in, dove,” he calls, surprising you as he refers to you by name; how could he tell from a knock alone?

the brass doorknob is cold as you push the door open tentatively, your feet remaining firmly at the threshold. it’s a surprise to see him turned away from the desk, eyes already upon you before you even fully reveal yourself. there’s a smile on his face, soft and delicate as though he’s gazing upon something beautiful. he’s gazing upon you, but standing before him with your bottom lip tucked neatly between your lips and your thumbs picking at one another, it’s hard to feel like you’re anything but worrisome.

a hand rests upon his lap, fingers drumming lightly upon the thick black fabric of his slacks. the seat he flaunts looks oh-so-tempting, but you refrain from taking it. from closing the gap and shoving your face in his neck like you’ve been craving to these past few days. he always smells so nice; warm spices and home.

“how could you tell it was me?” you ask as you shuffle from foot to foot in his doorway. his smile grows wide as he studies you.

“seonghwa enters immediately after knocking, yeosang wouldn’t be visiting me, and you,” he pats his lap twice, your favourite seat becoming just that more tempting. still, you somehow manage to hold yourself back, “well, you never knock but since you’ve been avoiding me—”

“i have not!” you squark, eyes going wide and feet finally carrying you forward into the lions den. your hand slips from the door it had been holding open, and the slam of it shutting lets you know that you are in fact trapped. there’s no escape from hongjoong now without it being plainly obvious that you are in fact avoiding him, although that seems to be a fact he’s already grown wise to.

hongjoong seems to be aware of that fact too, as the moment the door encloses the both of you in the confines of his office, he taps his lap yet again. this time, you almost break.

“you see, if you weren’t avoiding me, you’d already be in my lap,” he tuts at you, relaxing himself in his chair and letting his legs spread. as sweet as the spot on his lap looks, you must admit that the one between his thighs is equally as enticing. you could sit there for hours just staring up at him in wonder.

you take yet another step into the room, more than happy to deny yourself the pleasure of his lap, less happy to remain so far away from him. you might be avoiding him, but you can’t deny yourself the simple pleasure of seeing his pretty face up close. the sly smile he wears when he teases you is admittedly beautiful, even if it does annoy you to no end.

“maybe i just don’t want to sit in your lap right now,” you argue, to which he responds with a scoff. rightfully so; if you’re going to lie you should at least try and make it believable. “or maybe i just don’t want to get in trouble with seonghwa by making us late for dinner.”

another chuckle, although you suppose this one is even more deserved than the first. you’ve never had a problem flaunting seonghwa’s orders and rules before, so why start now? defeated, you give him a deep sigh.

“come here, dove,” he says through his amusement, adoration laced through every word he speaks. you take another few steps closer, although not as close as it seems he desires you to be.

hands wrap themselves around your hips, tugging lightly at your body until your stumbling forwards into hongjoong’s grasp. they move around your body quicker than you can squirm free of them, pulling and pushing at your limbs until you’re arranged exactly how he wants you, straddling his lap with your hands resting tentatively upon his shoulders. it takes just a few seconds for his arms to snake themselves around your waist, locking you in place.

his head is tilted in such a way that he can appreciate the sheepish look you wear. the way your eyes look anywhere but his own, and the way your jaw ticks in something akin to agitation, although hongjoong knows you far too well to assume that that really is the case. if you were agitated, your pretty lips wouldn’t be pressed into a pout, they’d be forming cute little insults that hongjoong would have to try his hardest not to find sweet. if you really were agitated, hongjoong would know better than to tighten his grip until you have no choice but to lay with your torso flat against his.

you don’t even resist when he traces a finger up your spine to the nape of your neck. it tangles itself with the strands of hair that twist around another, soothingly tugging on them. it doesn’t take much more than that for you to finally relax against his frame, sinking into the warmth his body offers you.

“i wasn’t avoiding you,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

“liar,” he murmurs back.

“i wasn’t!” you insist, “i just… i didn’t know what to do around you. you never yell but—”

“i did.”

you hum in agreement, “you did.”

hongjoong’s arms get tighter around you as though he’s afraid you might slip away unless he holds on tight. you don’t mind; the pressure is honestly quite nice. it helps melt your inhibitions, your fear of telling hongjoong exactly how you feel. you shouldn’t be scared when it’s quite obvious how much the man adores you.

“it felt like something changed between us,” it doesn’t feel so hard to admit that when you’re in his arms, “i didn’t want to do anything that might change it even more.”

you’re met with a few seconds of silence; it’s hard to discern whether it’s comforting or anxiety inducing, yet you’re more than happy to sit in it. if hongjoong needs to take a breather before responding then you’re happy for him to do that. you’d much rather sit uncomfortably for a few seconds than have him raise his voice at you again.

although something inside of you tells you that it’s unlikely for that to happen again.

“you’re silly, dove,” he finally responds, forever taking place in just those few seconds. “the only thing that changes between us is how much i adore you, and that continues to grow and grow each time i see your face.”

“it can’t have grown much these last few days then,” you comment, “you’ve barely seen me…”

“oh, but i have,” he says it as if it’s obvious, “i see you every time i close my eyes. whenever i blink, you’re there, saying something cheeky to seonghwa that you know will get you into just the right amount of trouble to get you what you want,” he brings you closer still, his grip so tight that you’re certain your ribs might crack under the pressure, “so yes, darling, my love for you has grown exponentially these past few days.”

you can’t help but let yourself smile, tucking yourself into that sweet spot between his chin and his shoulder to hide it. he smells so good, just like he always he does, and you pull a deep breath in through your nose. cinnamon and home fills your senses and you realise that no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from hongjoong for long.

he’s just as much your home as seonghwa is.

[hadesoftheladies]

‘Sex strikes’ aren’t the feminist win they appear to be. Here’s how to get really radical | Finn Mackay | The Guardian

So just read this entire article, and while there's worthwhile information on the history of separatism, 4B and political lesbianism, there's several statements Finn Mackay makes that grind my gears.

The main problem with the idea of a women’s sex strike is that rape exists. Much of the commentary in response to women’s videos and content openly makes this point, as young men reply that women don’t always have a choice. The slogan “your body, my choice”, which has circulated online since Trump’s victory, bleakly summarises this stance.

Rape is, obviously, never done with a woman's consent. But one must really ask, why are so many young women seeing celibacy as a legitimate solution? I recall a scene in Bottoms (2023) when the highschool girls gathered in a cirlce in the gym and the protagonist asked them how many of them had been raped. None of them raised their hands. When the protagonist asked, "Okay, what if we allow for grey areas?" all the girls raised their hands.

Rape is largely seen as something that is done to women walking home alone at night, outside on the street. It must be overt, obvious and completely unavoidable for it to be legit to the public mind. But many teenage girls and women experience rape in romantic relationships with men. SO MANY experience sexual abuse in initially consensual relationships. A LOT OF RAPE occurs during an initially consensual sex act and in initially consensual marriages. We've heard the stories of girls being choked in the middle of making out (without consenting), or being brutalized and disregarded when asking their romantic partner to stop. The normalization of rape in marriage is also proof of its prevalence.

THAT is why so many girls and women are willing to do away with it altogether. Even if it is not likely to change the hearts of men (and here I agree with Mackay), it is WISDOM and COMMON SENSE to close the bedroom door on a man or boy hyped up on violent pornography and indoctrinated by male supremacist notions.

Celibacy is not going to keep out every rapist, but it will reduce the odds of rape endemic to the culture of heterosexual dating/marriage. And even if it wasn't very effective in doing so, the solution certainly wouldn't be, "Hey, I know 60-80% of boys and men are literally primed to sexually brutalize you, but just follow your heart and take a chance anyways and maybe you'll find a good one despite your dogshit odds." Why are we sending girls to the lions' den because the lions will prowl anyway??? Hello?

It is also debatable whether the idea of a sex strike is inherently a feminist act. A problem with seeing a sex ban alone as somehow revolutionary is that it plays into the very problems that arguably created the need for activism in the first place. In this framing, sex is labour – work that women do for men, and can then limit, manipulate or withhold alongside demands for improved conditions. That is not radical. Sex has long been defined under patriarchy as something men want and women should do. Such understandings of sex are why it took so long for rape in marriage to be recognised as a crime, for example – because how could a husband take from his wife what was rightfully his by the law of marriage? Framing sex as women’s labour for men results in sex being commodified and objectified, and the problem is that what can be bartered, exchanged or sold can also be taken. This is not an empowering position from which to call for revolution between the sexes.

Except on a SOCIOECONOMIC SCALE, sex for women is very much already commodified, already labour and already exploited. Prostitution, surrogacy, etc are thriving industries at the moment, so sex (in addition to marriage and motherhood) can very much be defined as a kind of labour in modern society. Even if calling sex labour is also patriarchal rhetoric, it is also an economic fact. Marriages and reproductive labour are invaluable to a patriarchal economy.

SECONDLY, 4B rightfully recognizes sex as the domain men use to exercise their power over women. Patriarchy is fundamentally sexual and deeply intertwined with the heterosexual dynamic. In fact, for the most part, however unfortunate, it defines it. The question isn't whether sex is labour we can use to get men to give us our rights, but whether it is a reclaiming of power and the female identity by refusing men access, by refusing to acquiesce to the fundamental domain of patriarchal power.

The sexual exploitation of women is the gist of patriarchy. That's like it's main thing. By opting out whenever and wherever possible, the woman redefines herself in patriarchal society as explicitly the opposite of what Mackay and many Western liberals suggest she is doing by "sex striking." She is defining herself outside the heteropatriarchal framework and declaring herself an individual independent of the patriarchal state. Men would not be so enraged by this loss of sexual access if this meant nothing to patriarchal power.

It is a little funny to me that Mackay insists that 4B women are agreeing to patriarchal rhetoric by literally refusing to give men what they want and expect of women. These women know sex is expected of them, which is why they're saying no. But Mackay sees it as them adopting the patriarchal narrative themselves. Just . . . fascinating.

Additionally, sexual relationships with men, with or without abuse, are often the gateway to domestic and maternal exploitation. Part of 4B is refusing to marry men and mother children from or with them, both legitimate modes of socioeconomic patriarchal power. Women get pregnant and married purely in relation to sex with men. So sex with men is either the gateway to such exploitation or the justification for it.

The mainstream take on 4B frames it as a sex strike by young, marketable, heterosexual women. An alternative would be to reject such sexist constructs of sex and sexuality, and to imagine, and work towards, an egalitarian future where men and women are not divided up into predator and prey. Rather than a sex strike, there is another tried and tested form of activism, utilised by women and men the world over: a workers strike, the withdrawal of our wage labour that fuels the systems of capital that dare to govern us. Ban patriarchy, not sex.

This is one of her more mistifying statements. I agree with the first sentence entirely. But it goes downhill quickly from there. Imagining a world where men and women are equal does not erase the fact that for a huge chunk of history to the present, women are prey and men predators. That's just the reality. Imagining will not make it go away, and it isn't wrong for women to use language that highlights this reality, no matter how crude.

The second half is even more vague. To me, it's the equivalent of a shoulder shrug. Mackay has spent so much of the article discussing the pitfalls of 4B and separatist thought, and when pressed for an alternative, she just says "capitalism bad."

This is what I mean when I say the zeitgeist is severely divorced from women's experiences. Of course, class struggle is important, but women and men do not experience class struggle the same. We have had all sorts of revolutions over the course of history and a diversity of governmental structures to bat. Yet, communism, monarchy, capitalism and socialism have all failed to eradicate patriarchy. The nuclear family, the home, remains a stronghold in post-revolution societies. So the home, this cell of society, must be the primary battlefield on which human progress--women's liberation--is fought and won.

Like, this article is so shallow in its conclusions its tasteless. How will women "ban" patriarchy exactly? How will they do it on a governmental level if they can't even do it in their homes? How will they find the time and energy to fight for their own rights if they first have to fight for every other cause and then use the rest of that energy on their boyfriends/husbands/children?

The biggest flaw in anti separatist/celibacy/4B posts is that they all consisntently ignore the primary modes of women's socieconomic exploitation at the hands of men: sex, marriage and reproductive labor. AND LET'S BE CLEAR: all these aspects of women's sexuality and sex have been commodified LONG BEFORE our modern age. Girls and women were bought and sold into marriage in order to bear children for men's estate. Critics also frequently ignore the fact that female-only spaces consistently bolster feminist thought and activism. Female solidarity is a huge threat to patriarchy.

So if we as women aren't striking against the very spheres that men use to dominate us, then how on earth can we claim to be advocating for our own cause? How can we combat patriarchy and ignore it's primary functions? If we aren't getting rid of patriarchal institutions and reclaiming power from domains male supremacists have invaded (e.g. our sex lives) then how on earth could we possibly measure the progress of our own liberation?

We cannot keep "let them eat cake"-ing our way to women's liberation. Radical feminists more than ever need to embrace being anti gender, anti marriage, anti religion, anti cosmetics, etc. Or we're fighting for everyone and everything but ourselves.

[bitethedevil]

Raphael the Cat (Character Analysis)

I’ve thought a lot about the whole cat and mouse metaphor from his Cormyrian rhyme, even when I first started playing the game and hadn’t developed my unhealthy obsession with Raphael. It is an odd thing isn’t it? Why a cat?

The mouse thing makes perfect sense for his character. He often refers to others as ‘little’ or something to that effect (such as ‘pipsqueak’). You are small and he is big. That’s always the gist of it. Of course, the ‘mouse and cat’-trope is pretty common, but why not identify with something bigger and scarier? He does it by calling himself a ‘devil’ instead of what he really is: a cambion.

We know that he doesn’t just do it with us. In the Devil’s Den at Sharess’ there is a book where someone had written about winning over a devil in a poetry contest and the devil is clearly Raphael. We know because he has circled it in red that his ‘down came the claw’ line is mentioned in it. Which means that this loser (affectionate) reuses the same old material for clients.

He’s not a lion, or a wolf, or whatever absolutely terrifying creature you can find in the D&D universe. He’s a cat. That’s what he’s chosen as his fursona, if you will. Why though? The more I think of it, it makes complete sense, and it is such an apt metaphor for his character.

“Is there anything duller than a loyal dog?”

Raphael says that line and then says ‘I much prefer a cat. Meow.’ Iconic, honestly. It also says a lot about his character. What is a dog’s role in a house? They protect their owners because of some sense of fondness or at least because they are trained to it. What does a cat do? It kills mice.

Not because of any sense of fondness or duty to its owners, but because it is nature for it to do so. It is specialized to kill mice and rats. A cat does what a cat wants, which is exactly what Raphael does.

It’s written somewhere in the Devil’s Den that he sometimes doesn’t even really need to claim someone’s soul or help them, but simply does it because he feels like it. Cats are notorious for killing even though they don’t even really need to.

Considering how ordered and hierarchical the Hells are, I really think that Raphael is a bit of a wildcard. It comes with his nature, I think. Most cambions are loners and solitary by nature. He does what he wants. It certainly takes some balls to directly hand over an opportunity to fuck over the literal Archdevil of Cania by telling us about Cazador’s ritual.

No matter how much he claims that he loves order, I think order is mostly what he personally deems as order. It’s whatever he feels like, which is the general theme with him.

Master of the House

A cambion isn’t seen as much in the Hells. Don’t get me wrong, he still seems really successful for a cambion, and he certainly is higher in the hierarchy than most of his heritage. In the Hells he really is a cat surrounded by lions and tigers. He might see himself as a lion, but which cat doesn’t? Though, he is still aware of his place in the Hells, or he would not have lived for so long.

A cat might not be the king of the jungle, but they certainly rule their tiny kingdom of the house they reside in (ask any cat owner). It’s the same with Raphael. The House of Hope is his little kingdom where he rules. It’s obvious from all the plaques you see around his house.

He has created his own little space where he is the most fierce and dangerous thing there is, and all the little mice who enter buy it. To a mouse, a cat might as well be a lion, which is why I think Raphael ‘dotes on mortals’. He likes feeling important, big, and scary, and mortals see that image of him.

The Cat

Though they are small, cats are apex predators. At the same time, they are irresistible to humans. We pet them, we take them into our homes, but compared to a dog, the attention you get from a cat is very much dependent on the cat and not the owner.

Raphael is the same. He comes and goes as he pleases. He appears and gives you attention, nuzzles up against your leg, making you feel special for even getting his attention. Remember what he said to Mol if you help her win?: ‘She won, you know. She’ll be the one who comes to me.’

He wants people to want his attention, so when he gives it to you it almost feels like a gift. He keeps talking about us knocking on his door as well. We know that he has most likely talked to Voss before we arrive to Sharess’ because Voss knows he has the hammer. Still, he seems very uninterested when Voss is actually there, practically on his knees begging for his help. Peak cat behavior.

However, we know what happens if one chooses to spite Raphael. It becomes very clear that he is not a cuddly and patient pet, and you suddenly realize that you were the mouse all along and that you never were in any control over the situation.  

He was that apex predator all along, you just never quite realized just how small you were. Again, a cat is a lion to a mouse. He actually even alludes to this idea himself if you have tried hurting him: ‘Like a mosquito nibbling at a dragon. Begone.’.

He’ll tell you that you can be friends with him, pretending that you are something that could resemble equals, but it is all smoke and mirrors. Everything he does is to pretend that he is less intimidating that he is, and he even refuses the notion that he is the cat in the lullaby in the beginning. But if you happen to get too comfortable or think you can best him, he reminds you just how small you are and that’s a theme throughout all his interactions.

[wickedsmille]

batman, robin, sentient super suits, oh my! part 2

Here's Part 1 and somehow there's going to be a part 3 too because I'm apparently incapable of doing anything short. Just ain't made for it. I've become resigned to my fate. But, hey, here's part 2! ;3

----------

“What is going on with this thing tonight,” Tim murmurs harshly with an irritated huff. 

Jason would like to know, too, since Tim’s comms patched into his private line without Jason’s say so. It could’ve been the Red Hood fucking with him again but the suit has been tame. Well, okay, as tame as his suit gets. Which is suspicious all on its own but that’s a problem for a later time. Right now, he has an unsuspecting Tim on the line. 

“Come on you stupid piece of shit,” Tim whispers like a man at the end of his rope.

“Woah, woah, language there, RR,” Jason chides him because he can.

Tim makes a noise somewhere between a squeak and a grunt which would normally have Jason laughing except Tim chokes off the sound and mutters, “Uh oh.”

He’s never liked uh oh’s. 

“What?” he demands, feigning annoyance but honestly a little worried. 

“So,” Tim starts hesitantly. The rest of the words spill out of him in a rush when he says, “I was trying to get a hold of Batgirl because I’m on a stake out that isn’t a stake out anymore and I’m currently hiding from about thirty heavily armed and trained mercenaries but all the exits are covered so I can’t exactly sneak out.”

Tim trails off while Jason’s stomach churns. “You’re what?” Jason responds, this time truly annoyed. 

“If I have to repeat myself and I give away my position,” Tim warns him absently. There’s another pause and Jason much prefers Tim’s word vomit to the ominous sound of Tim’s measured breathing and the growing din in the background. “Uh oh” Tim says but with more feeling this time. 

“Don’t you fucking uh oh me. Where are you?”

“It’s the home goods warehouse southeast of the docks. 1334 Har-." Tim doesn’t get a chance to finish rattling off the address. If Jason has to guess, he would say it has something to do with the sudden sound of gunfire.

This is not happening. He got butt dialed into a backup call and now the littlest bird is a sitting duck in a den of lions. With only Jason to lean on. Who isn’t even sure where he is. It’s not like the actual contents of Gotham’s warehouses isn’t ever shifting between legitimate goods and illicit ones or anything. Property rights and leases exchanging hands between asset management teams and gangs. Money is money after all. The area around the docks is all warehousing and logistics so, over all, Tim has been completely unhelpful. 

He knows better than to divide Tim’s attention when he’s in the middle of a serious fight. One wrong word and Jason could be the reason Tim gets a bullet to the brain or pushed off a two story catwalk. It doesn’t exactly leave him with very many options other than immediately changing his trajectory to take him over to the industrial center by the docks. It’s a quiet night. He should be able to hear the gunshots. 

Turns out, he doesn’t have to waste valuable time playing Where’s The Fire Fight? because Red Hood has it handled. Or Tim finally made use of one of the many panic buttons he’s sure are sewn all over his less-than-stellar, non-magical-mystical-whatever suit. No matter how, Jason gets a ping on his HUD and a map of Gotham pulls up into the corner with a neat little red dot for Tim’s location. Now knowing where he’s going, Jason pushes himself to hurry the fuck up.

Getting back to his bike is a blur but he’s ripping down Gotham’s streets as soon as he gets the engine started and kickstand up. One irate cab driver has the audacity to honk at him when he blows through a red light so Jason gives him the middle finger and few choice words. The guy must be new to the city if he doesn’t know to look both ways for high speed vigilantes. Jason would be more than happy to teach him the lesson if he didn’t have places to be and things to do. 

Thanks to his incredible driving skills and his innate ability to not turn himself into a pavement pancake, Jason gets to the warehouse in record time. If only Guinness had been watching. He would’ve gotten a medal or whatever it is they do when someone breaks one of the many, many pointless world records the books have immortalized. 

Since all the doors and exterior windows do appear to be fortified and armed, Jason grapples himself to the roof and is delighted to see the unsecured skylight. Whoever these guys are, they must be from out of town too. Any Gotham-ized gangster, goon, villain or otherwise knows to board those up first. Out of towners, he swears. No problem, the cab driver got him primed for a teaching moment so he’s about to take these motherfuckers to school. 

Handling Vigilantes 101:

-Never leave your skylights or exterior vents unattended.

-Before engaging in criminal activity, make sure you have active health insurance.

-Prepare to get your ass pounded into paste by some douchebags in tight leather (and not in the fun way).

In true Bat-fashion, Jason makes his dramatic entrance via ziplining through the skylight after cracking the glass with the steel-toe of his boot. He’s already got a gun out by the time his feet touch down with a jarring thud. The total amateurs, by Gotham standards, startle enough Jason has ample time to start putting them down. A flash of red and black from the corner of his eye lets him know Tim has darted out to either pull some shifty, sneaky shit or find better coverage than the shot to hell crates he’d been keeping between himself and a .22 to the dome. 

Even when the mercs gather up their wits and retaliate against the new threat, the Red Hood does its job. About a minute of getting shot at, knowing he’ll be sporting a myriad of bruises from it but trusting his suit to keep anything fatal at bay, and the idiots start second guessing their current line of attack. 

What’s a bruise or two for the ghost tales that’ll get spread around about the Red Hood being impervious? Jason may be all too human but the Red Hood allows him to pose himself as something more, something greater. Obviously unnerved, the shooting stops as the guys start back pedaling. Too bad Red Robin is there to greet them when they turn tail to make a run for it. 

Jason watches as Tim neatly dispatches the leftovers. He might not have been able to properly appreciate it before, but Tim really is good with that stick of his. Liquid grace in motion, slipping under the mercenaries’ guards easily and transitioning from one opponent to another with a little flair and a lot of skill. Bits and pieces of it Jason can recognize from his own training regimens as Robin, some of it from a couple people he’s run into as Red Hood and can’t help but wonder how Tim met them. The weird amalgamation is all Tim though in the way he takes the best from what he’s learned then takes the discordant moves and shapes them into a symphony of movement. And pain cause, hot damn, Tim isn’t playing. Jason swears he sees one guy's molars get smacked right out of his head. 

One of the assholes groans from where he fell at Jason’s feet  after getting hit with a couple rubber bullets point blank so he kicks him in the head to shut him up. Jason is appraising his ally’s fighting skills, thanks. People can be so rude sometimes.

Tim downs the last merc and, with a satisfied smirk that has Jason’s gut twisting, he leans against his staff with his hip cocked. The tight fabric of his suit is clinging to him like a second skin. Enough so to make Selina and Dick proud. His cape falls in a wave at his back, held in place by the bandoliers crossing his chest. The damn things make Tim’s tiny waist painfully obvious. Small mercies Tim decided to ditch the cowl a few months back. The elegant fall of his too long hair suits the whole Red Robin look a lot better than the gimp cowl.

“Are you going to help secure them?” Tim asks, frowning and looking over his shoulder at Jason as he zipties one of the guys starting to wriggle around.

Jason’s higher thinking kicks back in. Tim does make a good point. They should probably truss up the trash before they’ve got another scuffle on their hands. He hadn’t even realized he drifted off a little bit there. Weird but it has been a long, strange night. Brushing it off, Jason crouches down to start hog tying the mercenaries closest to him. 

Nothing, nothing, will ever beat the hilarity that is criminals awake and wriggling while they’re literally hog tied. Tim may not have approved while he was doing it but, standing next to each other on an adjacent roof to make sure the GCPD carts them off as they should, Tim isn’t saying a bad word about it. In fact, his lips are pinched together like he’s trying to hold back a snicker. One of the mercenaries jolts awake when an officer takes their arm to start hauling them away. The man startles hard and starts grunting and thrashing. 

Tim loses it and, man, Jason has never heard him laugh. Like really laugh. It’s a good look on Tim. 

“I’m not saying you should’ve,” Tim pushes out past a couple more chuckles.

“I’m sensing a but,” Jason says, his grin all charm and completely wasted since Tim can’t see his face because of the helmet. 

“But,” Tim parrots, “that was pretty funny.”

Jason bows with a flourish which has Tim laughing anew though it is softer, quieter this time. In the middle of drinking up the delicate lines of Tim’s face and the curve of his smile, Jason’s HUD goes dark. Totally dead. There’s a couple emergency lights built inside since small, dark places don’t mix well with him anymore. Otherwise, nothing is working.

The Red Hood isn’t subtle one goddamn bit and the stupid suit is lucky he bothered with slapping a domino on before he went out tonight. Quickly undoing the security panels on the underside of his jaw, Jason pulls the helmet off. He shakes out his hair and swipes at the sweat beaded along his brow. A couple strands are stuck to his head and refuse to move so Jason reaches up and musses his hair in an attempt to not feel grungy and gross. 

When he looks up, Tim is staring at him so, without the barrier of the helmet, he whips back out the ol’ Jason Todd charm, smiling wolfishly. Then Tim sort of, freezes up. Jason looks over his shoulder to make sure some new big bad isn’t lurking nearby that they missed. But, nope, nothing there. As he turns his head to meet Tim’s gaze again, he’s back to normal. Tim’s approximation of normal at least. 

He’s tapping a hand against his thigh and looking off towards the cityscape of downtown Gotham. His other hand is settled firmly on his waist while he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. 

“Alright, well, thanks for the backup. Talk about a happy accident,” Tim says after clearing his throat a couple times. 

“Don’t mention,” Jason tells him. “But really, don’t mention it. I don’t want all the Bats breathing down my neck.” 

They’re a give an inch, take a mile bunch. If he green lights as a solid reach out for back up, the next thing he knows he’ll be on the main comms listening to inane chatter. Probably have a shadow or two trailing him on patrols like he needs help running his happy, shitty section of the city. Invitations to the Cave will shift to dinners and movie nights. As pleasant as that all sounds, he’d like to avoid it at all costs.

Tim nods easily and readies his grapple. “Fair. Well. Have a good night?” The awkwardness of Tim’s polite goodbye has Jason laughing and shaking his head. Tim bristles as he shoots off his line. “Or not, whatever,” Tim mutters. 

“Yeah, alright, awkward bird,” Jason calls out to him as Tim swings away. 

Next time, it’s Jason reaching out to Tim. Not even Red Hood calling out to Red Robin. He’s literally phoning Tim's personal cell on one of his burners and asking for a favor. There’s a little cell of nasty drug traffickers from down south with their sights set on Gotham. Although he could wait for them to make the egregious mistake of coming onto his stomping grounds, Jason has decided to gift them the honor of a house call given the sheer viciousness they’ve been using to move their product. 

Problem is, he doesn’t know how long he’ll be undercover snuffing them out and Crime Alley rarely rests even with the Red Hood’s impressive shadow looming over it. If he goes dark for more than a week all hell breaks loose. Usually Roy will step in for him and his suit has been accommodating to the temporary trade off in wearer. That’s not an option this time with Roy otherwise occupied. As are his second and third options so he’s had no choice but to ask for help from the Bat he can best stand. 

He didn’t even need to threaten or bribe Tim after promising a rubber bullets only policy would be fine. The agreement may have come readily but Tim did sound distracted. A niggle of doubt has him pacing his apartment as he waits for Tim to show up. For all he knows, Tim might’ve been less present in the conversation than he thought and not show up at all. 

The knock at his window comes as a mild surprise. Twisting his head around, hand twitching towards the gun he has lying on the counter next to him, Jason relaxes when he sees Tim standing on his fire escape clad in dark clothes with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up. Tim waves at him and gestures to the window with a raised brow. 

Jason doesn’t scramble to open it but he might do it a little too eagerly. Thankfully, Tim doesn’t comment on it as Jason steps back to let Tim in. 

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Tim asks dubiously once he’s standing in the middle of Jason’s living room with his hands jammed in his pouch pocket. 

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Jason responds without actually being sure. The Red Hood could always reject Tim. Only one way to find out though. “Follow me,” Jason says as he gestures Tim down the hall to his bedroom where he keeps his suit stored.

“Alright. Sorry I’m late, by the way. My suit has been giving me issues lately.”

“Like what?” Jason asks curiously as he pushes open the door to his room and goes to unearth the Red Hood.

Tim shrugs and absently looks around Jason’s room. It’s uncomfortable to have Tim here, for him to see where Jason lives. He does his best to ignore it as he spreads the suit out on his bed. Approaching slowly, Tim takes his hands out of his pocket so he can run a finger down the chestplate. The whole thing does a little shimmy shake. Jason has a bad feeling about this. 

“I’m not exactly your size,” Tim drawls, looking Jason up and down. 

A spark of molten heat sparks deep in his core so Jason smothers it with extreme prejudice. “If you’re not lookin’ like a kid in daddy’s clothes then we’ll be fine. It’ll adjust. If it likes you.”

“If it likes me,” Tim murmurs. 

There’s a sad, bitter edge to Tim’s expression as he stares down at the suit. Once more, Jason realizes he has stepped on a sore spot for Tim. The same one even. Let no one ever accuse him of being great at interpersonal relationships. 

Tim banishes whatever he has going through his mind with a shake of his head. His face shifts to one of determination as he shucks off his sweatshirt. And his shirt. Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants.

“Enjoying the show?” Tim questions sarcastically.

Right. Right, he was staring. When he shouldn’t have been. 

“I want a refund,” Jason throws out to cover his folly. Tim snorts so Jason takes it as a win. “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if the suit gives you a hard time. It’ll listen to me sometimes.”

“Sometimes. That’s comforting.”

“I try. Now get your tiny ass in it.” 

Jason excuses himself from the room, shutting the door, before making his way to the kitchen where his open duffel bag is already stuffed with the essentials. To keep himself busy, Jason checks over the contents. Then double checking and tossing a couple other things in the bag. Once satisfied, he zips it up and pats the thick canvas of the bag. When he looks up from his distraction, Tim is there in the hallway.

I fucked up, Jason bemoans internally.

Not because the Red Hood is being antagonistic and obstinate in letting Tim help. The stupid suit must not have a single qualm with letting Tim wear it. Everything fits so damn well. There’s only so much reshaping the suit can usually do given the difference in size between himself and others but whatever bullshit gives the suits a brain has pulled out all the stops to make it work. 

Tim looks good in it. Still short although the heels on the boots are higher. The extra armoring pads Tim’s form, making him look bulkier than he is but the suit nips in at the waist. He’s pretty damn sure the tac pants aren’t supposed to be that tight, either. Tim tosses the helmet from hand to hand under Jason’s scrutinizing eyes before popping it on.

“Wow, okay, I want one of these,” Tim says through the voice modulator. The mechanical growl has a shiver running down Jason’s spine. Because he keeps his apartment cool and there’s a draft somewhere he hasn’t fixed yet, of course. “The tech in this thing.”

“Great for concussion prevention, too.”

“I’m hoping to not put that to the test.”

“Yeah, try not to. You’re still smaller than me, shrimp, so keep moving and maybe nobody will notice.”

Pulling the hood off, Tim glares at him. “I’m not that much smaller.”

“You’re like, what, a buck forty soaking wet?”

Huffing, Tim puts the helmet on again. “Excuse me while I prove that doesn’t matter.”

“Go off,” Jason cheers flatly. 

Tim flicks him off while he walks back towards the window. “Just getting in character,” he says as he gracefully slides back out onto the fire escape. 

I am so very, very fucked, Jason thinks with no small amount of dismay. There’s only so much a mantra of ‘Don’t stress, repress’ can do and it’s getting really hard to ignore the way he’s been responding to Tim. Doesn’t mean he’s not going to keep trying to savagely squash what he’s starting to suspect may be the beginnings of attraction. 

It all comes to a head when Tim asks him to partner up on a counterfeiting case. The request shouldn’t have surprised him. After Tim successfully patrolled Park Row as Red Hood, reporting no issues, they’ve been crossing paths more often. On one occasion, the tracker Jason stuck to a mobster’s car brought him to Tim instead. By some stroke of luck, Tim was tailing the same guy so, aside from the momentary hiccup, the takedown went smoothly. Then Tim’s grapple jammed when they were set to part ways another night after running into one another. Jason ended the night red faced and unable to think of anything but Tim’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck, hanging on for dear life, as he flew them back to Tim’s bike. 

A few weeks ago, he’d ended up battered, bruised and bleeding in some dark, dank alley in the East End. Willingly, Jason hailed Tim for an assist. Tim got him to a safe house and patched him up efficiently. The weird thing is, Tim’s cape was being weird. Sure, that makes him sound slightly insane and maybe a civilian would think so but Jason has been a mask for what seems like half of forever now. He knows these suits. So, the way Tim’s cape had fallen around them, stretching itself so it covered the both of them to create a safe, quiet space all their own, was suspicious. Then it got really suspicious when Tim tried brushing it aside to get some better lighting while doing the stitches but the cape kept somehow slipping over his back to go back to embracing the both of them. 

There isn’t a single doubt in Jason’s mind that Red Robin was a plain,ol’ regular mass of fabric when Jason got it. None. He’s starting to suspect that isn’t the case anymore which is only cemented when they walk into the hotel room they booked for the night to serve as a base of operations in New York while they follow a trail of counterfeit money. 

See, Jason was right next to Tim in the car when he called the hotel and made the booking. He personally heard Tim ask for a room with twin beds and the front desk agent confirm there was one available. Then Tim had tossed his phone into his bag, the same one with his spare clothes and suit, and they’d blared hyper pop and grunge on the radio without a second thought. Jason vividly remembers pulling into the hotel parking lot and Tim grabbing his bag, fishing his phone out and frowning thoughtfully that the screen was on with his email open. After a cursory check, he’d shrugged it off and they got out to settle in. 

Getting comfortable is going to be a Herculean challenge for Jason since there’s only one queen bed in the room. 

Tim pauses in the entryway and blinks before glancing down at his key card, backing up to look at the room number and back down at the card again. “They must’ve made a mistake,” he says blankly. 

Before Jason can put his two cents in, Tim shoves his bag into Jason’s arms and snatches up Jason’s key card. Tim books it back down the hall towards the front desk. Which, okay, that’s fine. All’s the better because Jason will literally go insane if he has to share a bed with Tim. Years of freezing on the streets taught him to gravitate towards whatever heat source possible. Including people he trusts in his general vicinity when he’s sleeping. He simply won’t survive waking up with Tim as his personal teddy bear. 

Storming into the room, Jason throws Tim’s bag onto the bed and yanks it open. He opens the hidden pocket where Red Robin is neatly folded and glares down at it. 

“I don’t know what your game is, but cut that shit out,” Jason hisses at the suit. It doesn’t move but Jason gets the distinct impression it’s smug. Or he could be projecting. Can regular suits gain consciousness? Is that a thing? Doesn’t matter, not like anyone is around to judge him for talking to a maybe, maybe-not inanimate costume. “Seriously. I brought you into this world, I can take you out of it.”

Jason doesn’t get the opportunity to further threaten the Red Robin costume. A harried looking Tim pops back into the room, two key cards in hand. When he looks at Jason, he seems a little lost. 

“This was the only room they had left,” Tim tells him, tone carefully calm and even. “There’s some business conference going on.”

He swallows hard and nods, remembering a couple news articles he’d read through on it before leaving. “Okay, yeah, no problem.” There’s no couch either. Just a dresser, nightstand, bed, desk and one of those armchairs with cushions hard enough to use as a bludgeoning weapon. “I’ll take the floor?”

Tim doesn’t look at him but his face pinches in distaste at the idea. “No, it’s fine. We can share, right?”

“Nah, it’s alright, I’ll take the floor,” Jason insists.

Now Tim looks him in the eye and the steely determination takes Jason by surprise. “I can’t even fathom what the stains on this carpet are and there’s no padding. You’ll wake up an aching mess and be useless on the mission tomorrow. We can share the bed,” he says firmly. 

Well, what is Jason supposed to say to that other than, “Good point. Bedfellows it is.”

The time they spend organizing their things and then getting ready to lie down is just as awkward as Jason thought it would be. On no fewer than five occasions, Jason nearly calls the whole thing off. There were other hotels in the area, right? Not all of them could possibly be full from the corporate HR consulting conference being held in town. Anything would be better than the fragile silence between them. 

He doesn’t though. The thought of backing out like a yellow bellied coward had his gut souring and his mood shifting from placid dread to irritation. Each time the impulse comes up, he kicks it to the recesses of his mind along with every budding fantasy of what the night may bring. It’s getting pretty cluttered in that dark corner of his mind. 

Tim doesn’t appear to be quite as affected. Some of his movements are stilted and he’s giving Jason a wider berth than normal but otherwise he does his own thing while Jason does his. If Jason weren’t harboring an incredibly inconvenient crush, he’d even say things were companionable. But he is, so suffocatingly uncomfortable atmosphere for him. Woe is his life, seriously. 

Those feelings of giddy anticipation and mounting horror go sharply into focus as he and Tim, dressed down for bed in sleep shirts and comfortable pants, stare at one another from either side of the bed. Tim has a corner of the blanket in his hand, fiddling with a loose thread on the side of it. Otherwise, he’s completely still and everything he’s thinking is locked up tight behind the pale blue of his eyes. Jason can’t help but fidget too, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he feels a prickle of embarrassment slithering down the back of his neck. This is the weirdest game of semi-gay chicken he’s ever engaged in. 

Jason breaks first if only to end the game. Grabbing the edge of his blanket, Jason tosses it back before flinging himself onto the bed. After a brief shuffle, he gets himself covered up to the chin with the blanket and his back facing Tim. Carefully, slowly, Tim crawls in beside him with much less flair and flourish. The blanket tugs for a second before settling again. While the bed is a good size, Jason isn’t exactly your average guy. Despite his best efforts to get as far away as he can, he can still feel Tim’s warmth brushing against his back like a phantom caress. 

Man, sleep isn’t happening. He may as well get up and do some more research on the case or something. Screwing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, Jason wrestles with himself on if he should ditch the idea of sharing the bed and how he can get out of it without being overtly disrespectful.

[muiitoloko]

Imagine after the party when Lionel is standing naked drinking his brandy /whatever it is coming up quietly behind him and grabbing his ass

😎😍

Title: The Lion's Den

Summary: Lionel Shahbandar revels in his untouchable status until a cheeky encounter with his partner proves he’s not as invincible as he thinks.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: Thank you for your request.

Also read on Ao3

Lionel stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse, the city lights of London stretching out beneath him like a sea of stars. He sipped from a crystal glass filled with brandy, his gaze sharp and assessing, a self-satisfied smirk playing on his lips. Completely naked, he basked in the grandeur of the moment, his hooked nose slightly elevated as if to signal his untouchable status. This was his kingdom, and he was its undisputed lion.

The smooth burn of the brandy slid down his throat, warming him further. He placed a hand on his hip, utterly unbothered by his nudity as he admired his own reflection in the glass. “King of the world,” he murmured to himself in his deep, velvety baritone, the sound reverberating with self-assurance.

He was so wrapped up in his moment of triumph that he didn’t notice you approaching silently from behind. Your lips quirked into a mischievous grin as you closed the distance. Then, with deliberate precision, you reached out and grabbed his bare ass.

Lionel flinched, his body tensing as he nearly spilled his drink. “Bloody hell!” he barked, his tone a mixture of shock and indignation. He turned to face you, his hazel eyes narrowing with mock outrage. “Do you have any idea how expensive this brandy is? You almost cost me half the bottle!”

You laughed, the sound light and teasing. “And here I thought you were fearless, Lionel,” you said, your eyes gleaming with mischief as you let your gaze wander over his body. “But it seems even the great lion can be startled.”

Lionel rolled his eyes, his hooked nose twitching slightly as he gave you an exasperated look. “I could report you for harassment, you know,” he said, taking a measured sip of his drink to emphasize his point. His tone was mock-serious, but the corner of his mouth betrayed a smirk.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you leaned against the edge of the window. “Really? Harassment?” you asked, your voice dripping with playful skepticism. “Because I seem to recall you were the one begging me for more a few hours ago. And might I add, in a tone far less dignified than you’re using now.”

Lionel’s smirk widened, his hazel eyes sparkling with mischief as he stepped closer to you, setting his glass down on the nearby table. “Darling, you wound me,” he purred, his voice dropping to a seductive growl. “I do not beg. I merely… strongly encourage.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence as you placed a hand on his chest. “Oh? Is that what we’re calling it now? Because I’m fairly certain I heard the words ‘please’ and ‘don’t stop’ more than once.”

His smirk faltered for a split second, replaced by a flash of indignation. “That was strategy,” he insisted, his baritone voice taking on an almost pompous tone. “A tactical move to ensure my complete satisfaction.”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head as you slipped your arms around his waist. “You’re impossible,” you said, your voice softening as you pressed a kiss to his chest. “But I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Lionel’s hands slid to your hips, his touch firm and possessive as he pulled you flush against him. “And you,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, “are insufferably cheeky. But I wouldn’t trade you for all the art in my collection.”

You looked up at him, your lips curving into a wicked smile. “Good. Because after tonight, you’re going to need to add a piece to that collection—a painting of your face when I grabbed your ass. Truly, Lionel, a masterpiece.”

He let out a deep, rumbling laugh, his body shaking with amusement as he captured your lips in a kiss. It was a kiss that was both playful and passionate, his hands exploring your body with a possessive intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

When he pulled back, his smirk was firmly back in place. “You’re a menace,” he said, his voice laced with affection as he reached for his brandy again. “But you’re my menace. Now, come along, darling. Let’s see if you’re as bold in bed as you are here.”

With that, he led you toward the bedroom, his laughter echoing through the penthouse as the city lights continued to twinkle below—a perfect backdrop for the lion and his lioness.

[junichan]

Recently I've been seeing a lot of Sun Wukong and reader / OC with baby monkeys stuff, and I am just living for it. ( @journey-to-the-au's #Fruit Troup and @semisolidmind's #Royal Children especially) Something about baby monkeys rattled around in my little brain long enough that I had to bang out this drabble. Its my first ever x reader story, and its just slightly nsfw so beware!

Cuddle Break

Synopsis: Your reaction to snuggling a baby monkey has quite an effect on Sun Wukong

Warning / Triggers: Slight NSFW - mention of an erection and implied adult situations

For several days now the group had been traveling through a dense jungle. You had stopped for a break on the side of the road to eat some lunch and rest your weary feet. Although it was a little humid, it felt pleasantly cool beneath the shade of the jungle canopy. You would have liked to take a quick nap, but Tang was anxious as ever to get moving again.

“YN, would you mind finding Wukong?” the monk asked. He smiled apologetically, as if he knew he was sending you into the lion’s den.

Almost since the day you’d joined the group, the demon monkey had begun teasing and flirting with you. You did your best to laugh off his advances, thinking he was probably just messing with you, but lately Wukong was getting so provocative that Tang was forced to use the headache spell a few times just to get him to give you some space. You were starting to consider that maybe Wukong really was into you, which wouldn’t have been a problem if you didn’t find him so damn attractive too!

As usual Wukong had gone off on his own to scout out the surroundings as soon as the group had settled down. Normally Pigsy would have been asked to go find the monkey, but he had eaten so much lunch that he’d zonked out hard enough that even Sandy was struggling to wake him up. There was nothing to be done about it, so you set off in the direction you had seen Wukong go earlier, hoping he hadn’t gone too far.

It wasn’t much trouble to find a little footpath that meandered through the jungle underbrush. You tracked it for a while, occasionally calling out the demon monkey’s name. Eventually you came to a wide, slow running creek, and trusting the intuition that had served you so well on the journey so far decided to follow it upstream. It wasn’t too long before you caught a familiar chirping, chattering sound. You had heard Wukong occasionally making those noises, but this time they sounded surprisingly soft.

“Wukong!” you called as you got closer, “Tang wants to get going…!”

It wasn’t long before you spotted him and understood why the noises were so unusually gentle.

Sun Wukong was perched on a thick branch hanging low over the creek, surrounded by a troop of infant monkeys. It was the little ones that were chirping and giggling as they climbed on him like a living jungle gym. He seemed to be enjoying it, indulging the little ones with the softest smile you had ever seen on his face. And the babies were so cute! Little fluffy beans with their little tails and itty-bitty noses!

“❤️Oooh my gooooosh!!❤️❤️” You gushed before you could stop yourself.

The Monkey King and his tiny subjects looked at you in surprise, only just noticing your presence. The babies looked a little nervous, but Wukong’s grin only got bigger as you approached. You were glad to see that the little ones trusted Wukong enough that they didn’t run away, even when you pulled yourself up on the branch to sit beside him.

“They’re so adorable, Wukong! Do… Do you think I could hold one?”  

Wukong had never seen you so enamored before, it was adorable! “Sure,” he chuckled, “Just be careful. They got a strong grip.” He lifted one of the little ones off his knee, making reassuring noises as he handed him over to your waiting arms.

The baby was clearly a bit frightened of you, staring at your face with wide, darting eyes. “It’s okay sweetie,” you cooed to reassure him, stroking his head and back. “Don’t be scared.” To your delight the infant started to purr, and snuggled against you as you cradled him against your chest. You were so besotted with affection for the little guy that you didn’t even notice the intense way Wukong was staring at you.

It wasn’t until he’d handed the child over that Wukong realized the little one had fur that was remarkably like the color of your hair. Watching you snuggle and coo at the infant made him think of you doing the same with his offspring. Just imagining you getting you pregnant with his heirs drove him wild. If it weren’t for the children still clinging to him, he would have pounced on you right there.

What was worse, he was a little jealous of the little one! What he wouldn’t give to have you hold him and stroke his fur like that! That look of sweet and tender adoration in your eyes should have been for him!

Oblivious to the immortal demon’s internal struggle (and the bulge in his pants) you continued to soothe the baby monkey in your arms. The little guy was practically melting as you pet his soft fur. Then two more of the little ones abandoned Wukong to crawl into your lap, eager for their turn at cuddles. You scooped them up happily, pressing kisses to their foreheads. “Aww! Mama’s sweet babies! ❤️”

Wukong grit his teeth to stifle a groan. The jolt of arousal that went through him was so violent his hand shot up and snapped the branch above him like a twig. The baby monkeys that were still sitting on him were startled enough to scatter further up the tree.

You gave him a puzzled look, holding the little ones in your lap a bit protectively. “Something wrong, Wukong?”

“I’m fine,” he answered, jumping down from the branch. He sounded a bit more terse than usual. Obviously he wasn’t fine, but he wasn’t going to tell you about it. “You said Master wanted to get going. We should head back now.”

You sighed, glancing down at the baby monkeys curled in your lap. They had been startled by Wukong crushing the branch but had hunkered down rather than run away. “Aw, can’t we stay just a little longer?”

"C'mon, YN, let's go." Wukong shook his head, shooing the little ones with a few soft hoots. They reluctantly crawled out of your lap, and you pouted as you let them go. Then he reached up, grabbing your waist to lift you down off the branch. You accepted the surprisingly chivalrous gesture, even putting your hands on his strong shoulders to steady yourself. But once your feet were on the ground, he didn’t let go.

You felt your face heat up with a blush as Wukong stepped into your space, his grip on your waist keeping you from escaping when his chest pressed flush against yours. You could feel his warm breath on your ear as he leaned in and growled suggestively, “You know, I could give you a few of your own if you wanted…”

“Wukong!!” The insufferable demon laughed as you pounded your fist on his chest in protest. But at least he let you step back, and you took a deep breath to try calming your racing heart. And racing hormones!

Against your better judgement, you let him carry you back to the others on his cloud. You tried to ignore his tail curled around your middle, somehow convincing yourself that it was only to keep you steady.

Wukong could tell under all that flustered embarrassment you were turned on. He could smell it on you, and it made him grin victoriously. It wouldn’t be long now before he’d finally have you. He might have even been able to convince you to let him have his way right there in the jungle, but he knew there wasn’t enough time to really enjoy himself. If the monk had sent you to look for him, it wouldn’t be long before he sent Pigsy or Sandy to look for you. He could wait a little longer. You were worth it flexing a little patience, and no matter what, in the end you’d be his.

And in the meantime, seeing you snuggle the baby monkeys gave him a sneaky idea for how to get some of that attention for himself…

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

“ C'mon... Would it hurt your pride that much to admit you like me? You definitely saw it coming. It's no surprise things ended up like this— you were just the last one to find out. ”

“ Oh, please— don't give me that look. You know damn well what I'm talking about. You've always wandered just a little too close to the lion's den... No wonder you'd end up right beneath its claws eventually. ”

“ It's almost endearing— almost. The way I just know I've got you wrapped right around my finger, even if you oh so desperately try to act so high and mighty, as if this didn't affect you at all. But no matter how far you try to run, it seems all the paths you take lead you right back to me. ”

“ More than endearing, it's hilarious. It's even funnier that it has come to this, and you still try to deny it. And you call me prideful... ”

( That little thing you imagined about what Leona would say was SO GOOD AUUGHH i always love how u characterize him... and as a professional lion brainworm holder™️, I can confirm he'd say smth like that... It was so good (and genuinely interesting!) that it made me want to pull out my lion rp skills. (??) Sorry if it feels a bit off, I'm not used to roleplaying in english 😞ᅠ— K. ) ( "why are you signing but still sending it on anon" IM SHY OKAY )

[Referencing this post!]

🧍‍♂️

cbjdsnmwwjgeidxjos I’m glad you 😶 enjoyed that dialogue I wrote…

BUT WHY IS KINGSCHOLAR HERE… I DidNmT sENd fOR hiM 🙂‍↕️ Out... GET OUTTA THIS HOUSE... I can't be seen in public with YOU, it's humiliating and, yes, a strong blow to my pride 🤢 Not very feminist king of him to cram me under a claw and bully a girl... 💀

*draws a line on the floor with chalk*

You see this line? This line right there? 👇 All the land beyond it is mine and what is known as an ‘Anti-Ojitan Zone’. That means you’re not allowed to be here. Go back to Savanaclaw, loser 😤

sdbkhlafsiybfayoifqeqef8yfeqep9nva advcm THIS IS TERRIBLE, I'M PICTURING THIS FUCKING ASZSHOLE LEANING AGAINST TRHE DOORFRAME AND SMIRKING ABOUT TRHIS, reLSIHING IN HIS TRIUMPH... FUCK GHIM I HOPE HE CJOKES ON STEAK OR SOMETHTRING

… Why does this give the vibes of you seeing a sad little shivering feral cat drenched on the side of the road, taking pity on it, and bringing it home with you to give it one night out of the rain… Then the cat really cozies up to you (despite being a shitty little brat that demands all your attention and the fancy cat food, toys, etc.). And oh no it’s so cute but you can’t possibly keep the dang thing so you tell yourself not to fall for its wiles 💀 But it’s a pretty pointless effort, you end up caving and deciding to adopt la creatura and decide to name it something really dumb as revenge for it worming its way into your heart and… It is at this moment that I realized what was meant to be a short analogy developed into a short story and I had to silence myself from typing more to salvage the shreds of my dignity…

[cobragardens]

The Golden Lion

For all that Aziraphale is the more frightened of the two of them, Crowley is the snake: he camouflages himself carefully, and his first instinct is always to flee.

Aziraphale's is to stay. He insists on facing the Apocalypse. He insists on facing the Second Coming. He insists on trying to make a difference. He doesn't want to go up to Heaven, but he does it anyway, alone, because he wants to stop the destruction of Earth (again) and keep Crowley safe.

He's very difficult to shame, too. He never gives up his innocent pleasure in eating, even though Heaven, Hell, and probably people on Earth all mock him for it. He's soft and he remains soft, even after Gabriel shames him for both his physical and metaphorical softness. That takes a lot of strength and an unshakeable character.

You know the gold ring Aziraphale wears as a badge of office, that functions as the counterpart to Crowley's snake tattoo? The charge on that ring is a lion.

The heraldic attitude of the lion is rampant (i.e., reared up): it stands on its hind legs with its forelegs raised, as though attacking, and its head is forward-facing: it looks forward, toward the future.

Obviously in popular symbolism, lions represent bravery, and that definitely fits Aziraphale. He's literally leaving the only person who has ever loved him to go make the universe a better place for that person and for everyone, and he's going alone amongst the people who have despised and shamed him his whole existence and tried to kill him at least once; those people are mfing Heaven and have been entrenched in their power for thousands or millions of years. It doesn't get a whole lot braver than that.

In Christian symbolism specifically, the lion represents Christ. (He's referred to in the book of Revelation as the "lion of Judah" because the heraldic symbol for the tribe of Judah was a lion and Jesus was said to be from the tribe of Judah because his [step]father Joseph was from Judah.)

Normally when a story draws a parallel between a character and Christ, the parallel is one of self-sacrifice. That's not what's happening here. When symbolism for Christ represents his self-sacrifice, Jesus is invariably associated with a lamb--the sacrificial lamb--not a lion. When that symbolism represents Christ's mercy or holiness or divine nature/ordination, the dove of the Holy Spirit is used.

But the lion is a symbol inherited from the Old Testament. It represents royalty, power, threat, and seizure from others by force. Jesus is symbolically depicted as the lion upon his return to Earth during the book of Revelation. The lamb is Jesus' self-sacrifice and death for the sins of humanity, but the lion is Jesus' return, powerful, royal, and triumphant.

Does Aziraphale's ring foreshadow his involvement in the Second Coming of Christ? Probably! Is it a symbol that Heaven is the proverbial (and biblical) "lions' den" where they should be doves and lambs? Maybe.

I think it more likely that Aziraphale himself will be the lion, on a righteous rampage like Jesus chasing the moneylenders from the steps of the temple, telling them "It is written, My house shall be called the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves." Because the ring is a signet ring, meant to impress a seal that legally represented the wearer as an individual. So the lion is linked to Aziraphale himself.

Aziraphale is soft. It is one of his very best qualities. And soft and weak are not the same thing: because he is soft, he tried to kill the Antichrist, a child. Because he is soft, he stood alone before a demon in defiance of the will of Heaven and demanded with no power whatsoever to back him up that the demon spare children whose murder God had authorized. He, an angel of God, worked with a demon to deceive the Heavenly Host and, as he points out himself, thwart the will of God. Even before that, because he was soft, Aziraphale gave humans the gift of fire and self-protection and then lied to God Herself about it. I mean it literally does not get any more courageous than that.

And I can't stop thinking about what that lion, and that softness, and the link between the two is going to mean for S3.

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 10&11 - "Blow to the Head" & "Double Vision"

Durlyne let the Tanners have the slums and, in exchange, the Tanners did not often venture into the city's ghers nor its moneyed streets. This rule wasn't written down anywhere nor ever even said aloud; it seemed instead branded on local hearts. Durlynians learned it in the way that children learned knives were sharp and stoves were hot.

The Tanners had been Lemuel's boogeyman the first ten years of his life. Afterwards, he met the world's scarier monsters, but tales of the Tannery rogues had primed him for them: throatcutters, twin takers, back flayers. Hides from the Tannery were the finest in the land, for they did not skin the swine nor stag; Tanners skinned the man.

If you stayed out of the slums though, a lad was safe. A careful lad was safe.

So why, today, was the Sheriff of White Hill constabulary laying murdered in his fine home? His whole family, in fact, was murdered. A wife, two little boys, an infant girl, and even the family kedises slashed to death in their drawing room. Lemuel didn't understand it, but it was hard to question: one of the assassins had been caught trying to put the manor to the torch afterwards. A Midmolil boy for sure. An oily little throat-cutter called Corley Full Tang. By dawn, the inquisitors would twist him into shapes that did not yet have names.

But right now, his two accomplices were flying through the labyrinthine slums beyond Blue Boy Bridge. And Lemuel Adelier wanted them badly. He was only a week returned home from the army, freshly recruited to the Lions of Mercy. He was a Lion! They could never send him away again.

As long as he was a GOOD Lion.

"Take some care there!" Duane called after his brother, egging his mount on until it ran apace with Lemuel's panting bull , "You don't chase the viper into its den; you don't put yourself alone in the dark with it!"

Lemuel barked a laugh. "Home to the wife then if you're afraid, old man! Did you not see the blood in the Sheriff's home? From corner to corner it pooled! Over tin soldiers and a Tainish primer it pooled!"

Lemuel didn't have to turn to see the words had struck. There was a six month old baby girl in his brother's home now. Never again would he be fighting fully armoured. "Of course I saw it," Duane snarled, "And my prudence is not fear, ye strutting cock! Do as I say and wait for reinforcements. Do not ride off unbuttoned in your shortclothes and embarrass me, the one that brought you here. This isn't Chinoll!"

"Embarrass you!" Lemuel echoed, "Embarrass you!"

"Do you not covet the snakes? Know your place or the closest you will ever be allowed to a vliegeng are their dung heaps!"

"I don't need your permission! I'll find them!"

The Adeliers had been born and raised in the Godkiller's city, and though Lemuel had always respected his grandfather's advice to never venture beyond Blue Boys Bridge, he knew the Tannery's mark as well as any other local with a sense of self-preservation. As his hound snuffed after the villain's scent now, he noticed that mark mysteriously absent from the walls. Should the killers not be running back to their den, or at least towards the assurance of their own territory?

Lemuel was about to make this observation aloud when a door blew open, and eyes flashed in the night. "There!"

A throwing knife shot wasp-like from Lemuel's hand. The figure in the doorway yelped (Lemuel distantly hoped he had not just murdered a washwoman) and bolted from the building towards a break in the opposite wall. Clattering to the pavement, the knife didn't stick, but Lemuel's dog was already pounding past it, leaping, landing hard on the rogue's back. Lemuel dismounted like a diving raptor, sailing over the hound's head and to his prey's side.

"Some viper!" Lemuel grabbed his collar, hauled him to his feet. "More a worm slinking on his belly through the dirt! You slaughtered that entire family, and not a drop of blood on you! Look at the professional, Duane! Look at the coward!"

The elder Adelier pulled his hound up sharp, oozing disgust. "Excrement in a suit," he hissed, "Child-killing trash that would make a liar of Sonum Ssael when He taught every man has in him the way to His side. WHY! Who hired that hit, demon?"

Lemuel punched fingers into the knife slash in the assassin's coat, then ribs. The move would have felt more satisfying with a clawed gauntlet, perhaps, but it still produced a warbling, ricocheting scream. Blood oozed, and stuck the contents of the rogue's opened pocket to the LIon's punishing hand.

"Stop it!" Duane demanded. Lemuel did it again. Oh, Duane professed to loathe this sport, but he'd deliver this bastard to the inquisitors without a qualm in his heart. Ha!

"Sing for us!" Lemuel snarled, "Sing! Or I let you live to see the pit! And by God, if you do, you'll wish I'd taken your liver-"

The world offset suddenly, violent as a rutting vliegeng. Lemuel's vision exploded silver, and it was his turn to be on the ground. It was happy to catch him, but then he couldn't lift his newly wet head nor remember what he'd done with his legs. Fearfully Duane snapped his name but it was only his shadow that approached. Then in a mighty leap it cleared him, and Lemuel saw his brother bolt to the far end of the alley, palms flashing green spellfire. There was an exchange of pymary there, too fast for Lemuel's concussed brain to follow. Duane would win of course. It was hardly worth watching. Perhaps he'd give that show a miss entirely…

When next he opened his eyes, Lemuel was in his bed at the Temple barracks. Pink sunlight filtered through the high slits in the walls. He felt warm and sleepy and doped with something that he thought he'd like a second helping of.

"Oh, no, no," admonished Leysa, pushing him back down. Drugged or sober, Lemuel was powerless to resist. He lay obediently paralysed by the same tone of voice his new sister-in-law used when telling Duane he WOULD be playing cards and smoking with her father and his friends tonight.

"Where… is…?"

She smiled, grim, and fixed the cold rag back on his forehead. "Duane is choosing the 'most cross and callous tyrant in the Temple' for the task of interrogating the man he caught last night. Those terrible criminals nearly had the undoing of you, sweet boy, and you know your brother is one to take that personally."

Lemuel shut his eyes, giddiness and nausea battling for control of his stomach. "He… will wring his hands over insulting a hackney… until one he holds dear is threatened. Then, he would challenge God."

"I confess it to be a quality I adore," laughed Leysa. Lemuel thought she had the most musical laugh. He felt singularly accomplished when he could produce it. "Please do not mistake his nature for hypocrisy. Recognise that it is love."

"I fear… I embarrassed him last night."

"You are his brother. It is why brothers are. I did not see embarrassment when he laid you here in your cot however, nor after he had sent for his own sleeping wife to tend you. I only saw-"

"Love. It's how he gets away with everything."

Leysa laughed her songbird laugh, carefully petting his head. She liked him, and Lemuel still couldn't figure out why. He rubbed his eyes, cross, then felt a stinging spot suddenly at his side. His blood-sticky fingers found bandages there, and produced great agony when he pressed them into his abdomen. Leysa captured his hand, shushing him.

"Now, I told you they nearly had the undoing of you. After his friend struck you with that spell, the man you were on top of put a knife into your side. He's still out there, somewhere, but no concern of yours. You need to rest. I will have the cleric bring more medicine."

Hard breaths through his nose. Lemuel bade the pain subside as his mind raced. None of this made sense… but he would NOT be Duane's embarrassment. "Please," he agreed with Leysa, "More."

===

Double Vision

A few hours later, his hound was happy to see him, though Lemuel wondered why the kennel lads were keeping the animals two apiece in their stalls today. As he neared, careful not to seem in a hurry to the attendants, the pair of dogs resolved into one.

Oh.

He wanted to shake his head to clear it, but was certain that would result in a swoon. God's Beard, could he ride at all with his eyes half-crossed by the Temple's finest unguents?

They'd killed the pain at least. Lemuel was able to swing onto his saddle with the barest grunt, and only the slightest tickle of oozing blood from his stitched side.

"We don't have a lot of time before Leysa returns," he murmured. The dog whumped and beat its tail twice. Leysa'd gone home to feed the new baby, but she'd threatened him with strangulation if he moved from the cot. That's why Duane had sent for her. It had nothing to do with her laugh nor her kind eyes nor any particular skill she had at pressing cold rags to hot foreheads. Duane simply thought he'd mind her more than anyone else. Well! The great Duane Adelier was not so wise, was he!

He'd said papa would be coming to visit soon too, after the shop closed. That would not control him either! No, no. That only motivated him to put himself elsewhere. He did not need to see the old man's pity; that look in his eyes with which he had always regarded his youngest son. That look. That inscrutable LOOK.

I'm sorry you're not your brother.

To hell with it. Lemuel had investigative work to do, and some degree of personal honour to restore.

He made it over the Bridge in an hour, sticking to the low streets and away from the busy market corridor. Passing over the river, it was grey and berg-bloated, bottles and trash choking the banks. In the wan afternoon light, Lemuel looked down at his gory right hand. He squinted, willing his vision to align and read to him the torn scrap of paper stuck to his palm.

"Gherson Oa"

It had been in his would-be murderer's pocket. Was it a street? None that he knew. Perhaps a business name somewhere in the slums?

Once he'd reached the mouth of the alley, Lemuel left his hound and proceeded on foot. The wine-coloured stain half-way down the filthy corridor left him even sicker in his middle. He saw Duane's prints in it, a wild frenzy of boot soles and bloody knees. Slashes where his coatskirts had dragged through the seeping red.

"Love," Lemuel whispered. Of course Duane loved him. And he loved Duane. But there was not one Goddamned thing in the world that love could mend. Ssael spoke of honour, of duty, of responsibility towards family, faith, and country. If the Godkiller had thought more of love, He'd have said so. Let love be for mothers, fathers, and children. Let it be for people who knew how to laugh.

Quietly, carefully, Lemuel eased open the door from the night before, the one from which his attacker had bolted. It was unmarked. The lock was broken. Freshly broken. The knights and constables must have already been through here?

Aye, the small room inside was a mess. Turned over tables, papers scattered, a wooden trunk opened with pymary and all its contents emptied into a heap. Lem crossed the room and descended a hobbled set of wooden stairs leading out the back. They led to a basement converted into an equally disastrous kitchen. Its upholstered chairs had been slashed open. Sawdust hung in the air. Lemuel had to squeeze his nostrils shut for if he sneezed he was sure he would split open.

That's when he saw it. Sitting on the dark counter admidst overturned mustard jars, half a loaf of stale bread, and a few broken jars of pickle, he spied a canister with its label torn.

"tmeal," it read.

Sweating through his uniform, Lemuel affixed to it his own bloody scrap of paper.

"Gherson Oatmeal."

He breathed a chuckle, expression a rictus of triumph, and unscrewed the top.

There was only a dead mouse inside.

"Bleeeeeeding heeeeell," he moaned. Duane would laugh at the soldier brat thinking he'd figured out something clever. The Temple's finest men had swept through here. If there was anything to be found, they would have found it!

But there WAS something to find! Something about the entire assassination was wrong. The Tanners would not have ventured to the Sheriff's very home to kill him. They would not have killed the entire family, enraging the rest of the city. They would not have been caught in the act! And a Tannery assassin would not have stabbed a knife into an unconscious Lion and failed to have it kill him!

Amateurs! These were amateurs!

But wait, wait, wait.

Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

Duane had spoken in the past of pymarics with material triggers. Doorways that only opened if certain keys or materials swept into their questing field.

"Is there a dead mouse door?" he asked the room.

Well, not in the north wall. He held the oatmeal canister in front of him like the world's least successful alms cup, rattling the limp rodent inside, running it past a framed calendar, a faded old poster for the General Foundry's playhouse (destroyed in a fire years ago), a shelf of tin tea canisters and detergent boxes. Nothing. Nor did the east wall budge, nor were there any likely apertures to the west, which was covered over with dusty shelves, a grimy wash basin full of dishes, and a stove missing its grills.

"An embarrassment!" he despaired, holding his head. He felt weak and sick. Blood dribbled down his hip and made a wet, cold streak in his trouser leg. They would never give him a vliegeng. Newly arrived and already put in his cot by some son of a bitch wright; by some cowardly murderer with an oatmeal label in his bloody coat. Probably the lunatic only kept it to roll a weed fag! Piqued, furious at himself, Lemuel threw the canister and its forlorn dead occupant to the floor-

Which dissolved beneath his feet. Into perfect powdery blackness, Lemuel fell.

Concluded here.

[miniwheat77]

Vanilla. (Detective!Graves x Reader.)

!violence, reader is injured, alcohol, blood, violence, smut, unprotected p in v sex, heed the warnings, you’ve been warned. NO MINORS!

“Graves, there’s a call on line one waiting for you.”

He nods his head as he walks in the door, he hasn’t even clocked in yet and there’s already something waiting for him. “Yeah they’re going to have to wait, I just got a call about a disturbance at the Lions Den.” His partner, Diane says.

“Where Summer is missing from?” He asks. She nods her head. “Alright, let’s go. Tell them I’ll call them back.” He nods to the receptionist.

Phillip Graves lives in a small town. The police station he works at has very few cops which means despite his title as a detective, he’s still going out on calls like this. This one is important though.

The Lions Den is a popular bar/club. It’s got its popularity because it’s within walking distance of the only college in town. It’s been popular for years and years. But recently, it’s become a concern. It was the last place Summer Pennington was ever seen. They’ve been investigating everything since it happened a couple weeks previously but they’ve run out of leads.

Hearing that there’s a disturbance there has Graves’ hair standing up. He hopes it’s nothing bad.

He pulls into the gravel parking lot and hurries out of his car. Both him and Diane making their way inside.

It looks normal. The cracked black marble floor is covered in people. Inebriated and dancing like there’s nothing going on. The lights are flashing and it’s a good 10 degrees hotter inside. He makes his way up to the bar. “Hey, we got a call about a disturbance?” He asks, he’s confused. “Oh! Right. Hold on.” The girl turns her back to him. “Y/N!” She calls.

A girl emerges and he swallows hard at her appearance.

She’s got her hair tied back in a messy ponytail and she’s got a tight black v-neck on. Which appears to be the outfit of choice for the bartenders. She fills it out well, and she’s real pretty. “Hi.” She says. She swallows hard, seemingly distressed but hiding it well. “A regular, he uh. He got mad because I had to cut him off and he hit me with a mug.” She shrugs. Only then does he see the blood beginning to trickle from her hair line.

A beer mug.

A fucking beer mug.

“He went out the back.”

Graves radios to Diane where the suspect went, giving her a description. Turning his attention back to you.

“Do you need me to call anyone? A beer mug is one hell of an object to get hit with.” He sits down at the bar. Seeing her smile. “Ah, it’s not my first time.” You laugh. He can see your eyes are drowsy. “I’ll be alright, thank you though.”

“Hey. While I’m here.” He sits up. “I talked to a couple of bartenders here a few months back about cameras outside, but they said they didn’t have access to them. Do you know who I could talk to about seeing those?” He asks. “Of course, that’s me actually.” You smile. You throw your towel down, making your way around the bar. He follows after you when you push through the crowd, entering a blacked out door in the back. You close it and the music is muffled. He can finally hear himself think. “This is about that girl right?” You ask. He nods his head. “Yeah, the one who went missing from here.” You nod your head, typing away at the computer. “Are you the owner?” He asks.

“Oh.. no. I just manage it.” You smile. “The owners.. they kinda helped me out when I was a teenager. I take care of the bar, they guarantee me a job. I was a troubled teen so they helped me get on my feet.” You explain.

He nods his head. “What day was it she went missing?” You look up at him. The way you look up at him through your lashes has blood pooling in his lower stomach. Your eyes pierce right through him. He clears his throat. “Uh.. April 24th.” He nods. “Someone last seen her around midnight.”

He nods his head. “Alright.”

He sees you digging through footage, pulling up the date he’s said. You open up the footage from that night. You drag the cursor over the little white bar at the bottom and he watches. You move it slow, and he watches the screen.

“There.” He mumbles. He moves in closer to you and you notice the smell of his cologne immediately, body going stiff from his close proximity. He gets eyes on Summer and the both of you watch the night unfold. She’s dancing, seemingly having a normal night until a girl and a guy come in. Summer seems to start trouble with the two, thus getting asked to leave. The three of them leave, going different ways. Summer disappears down the street and he watches her dark form disappear slowly. “So she didn’t go missing from here.” He sighs. “I remember them arguing that night.” You turn to look at him. “She called the guy Aaron. And I know for sure she was going to the college down the street, she’d been in here a couple times wearing the schools clothing.” You explain. “You mind coming down to the station? I’d like to get a statement.” He asks. “Yeah, sure.”

You stand up, following him out of the office. You make sure the bartenders don’t need any help before following him to his police car.

“I’ve got the suspect, he put up a good fight but I’m on my way back to the station with him.” Diane radios to him and he smiles.

—

“You want something to drink sweetheart?” He asks. “Oh.. no. I’m alright.” You smile. You’ve got a pretty smile.

He sits down across from you. A notebook and pen in his hand. As he sits, he can’t help but notice the smell of your perfume. It’s a mix of Vanilla and something he’s not familiar with. The scent invades his senses and he gets stoved up for a minute. He hates that you get him so foggy without even trying.

“Alright. So I’m just gonna ask a few questions and try to get through this as fast as possible. I don’t want to keep you.” He explains.

“So, Summer got into a disagreement and on the footage it seems like you’re the one who intervened, do you remember what it was about?”

You nod your head. “Yeah. I heard Summer getting upset with the two because Summer and the boy had dated previously and I guess she didn’t like seeing him with the girl he was with. His name was Aaron, and I’m pretty sure she said the girls name was Maddie, I’m not entirely sure but I think that’s what I heard.” You explain. He nods his head. “Summer was pretty drunk, started threatening the two so I asked her to leave and the other two left right with her.” He’s listening and writing notes down.

He asks a few more questions but when he’s done, he takes you back to the bar. He even stays behind, having a couple drinks before he went back to his job. It’s the thing about being a small town detective. Nobody can replace you.

He makes small talk with you, finding out that you live in a tiny apartment above the lions den itself which he thinks is cute. But he wants to know more about you.

When he leaves, he leaves his card with you. Letting you know that if you need anything at all, send him a text or give him a call.

———

It’s always you who cleans up at the end of the night. The other bartenders do a sub par job, but you can’t stand the smell of Vomit and Sweat. So almost every night, you’re up late scrubbing the floors. This night though, is different.

It’s just reached two in the morning, the lions den closes at one.

You’re sweeping beneath the tables and that’s when something shiny catches your eye. A silver snake skin handbag. Without thinking, you pick it up and throw it down on the table. Finishing sweeping.

Once you’re happy with the way the floors look, you turn your attention back to the handbag. Lifting it back up. Maybe the contents inside would help you get a name. You unzip it and look inside. There’s a few old cards and receipts. You find a drivers license, pulling it out. Chills shoot down your spine when you see her photo. The name on the ID reads ‘Summer Pennington’

It wouldn’t seem so chilling, but since you lived just above the bar and cleaned these floors every single night.

Someone had to have placed it there.

You make sure the door is locked before digging your phone out of your pocket, making your way into the office where you had placed his card.

You lift it up, typing the numbers into the keypad on your phone and ringing him.

You only hope he’ll pick up this late.

“Hello?”

His voice is hoarse and he’s got a morning voice going. If the situation weren’t so dire, you’d probably find it somewhat attractive.

“Sorry to bother you so late detective..” you breathe. “But I’ve just found Summers handbag. And it wasn’t here last night.” He perks up when he hears it. “Alright. Lions den?” He asks. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in 5 sweetheart.”

The pet name leaves his lips before he can stop himself and he hangs up before he embarrasses himself any further. He gets out of his bed and throws on a pair of jeans. He’d usually dress up but since it’s so late, he doesn’t think much of it. He grabs his keys off of the table by his door and makes his way out to his car. The cold air nips at his skin, he should’ve put on a jacket. He climbs into his car, starting it and speeding out of the driveway to get to the Lions Den. Theres no more time to waste.

He speeds the entire way there, luckily it’s not too far from his house. He pulls into the parking lot and parks his car right in front of the doors, climbing out of his car. He walks right inside. Seeing you cleaning behind the bar. “Hey. It’s right there. I put everything back and left it alone.” You breathe. “Are you sure it hasn’t been here this whole time?” He asks. You shake your head. “No, I scrub these floors almost every night, I would’ve seen it.” He nods his head. He makes his way over to the purse, thinking of who he should call this late. “If someone put it there, it had to have been seen on the cameras right?” He asks. You nod your head. You make your way around the bar, walking toward the office in the back. He follows right behind you. You sit down at the desk, typing away at the computer. He waits impatiently.

Once you’ve got the footage pulled up, you’re both watching the screen like hawks. Eyeballing the table where you found her handbag.

You see nothing after a few minutes, but than a gleam catches your eye.

“It’s there.” You mumble, pulling the tab back over the white line.

You watch a man enter the doors and make his way right to the table. Sitting down there for just a second before standing up and making his way to the bar. Graves sees his face and scoffs. “Aaron.”

“Aaron put it there.”

He shakes his head. “Alright. I’m going to take her handbag and head the station first thing in the morning. You make sure to lock up after me alright?” He looks at you. Seeing you nod your head.

You’ve got a bare face. All of your makeup is washed off and your hair is tied back. You’ve got more comfortable clothes on as well. He has to tear his eyes away from you. Saying goodbye as he leaves out the door. He knows there isn’t much he can do right now, not until he has Diane with him. But he can at least scope out where Aaron lives. He unlocks his car and climbs inside. Waiting a second to make sure you lock yourself inside the building. He takes a deep breath, lifting up his laptop and typing in Aaron’s in the police database.

Unfortunately the list is long, for such a small town there’s a lot of Aaron’s who commit crimes.

It takes him a few minutes of scrolling before he comes across a photo of Aaron and figures out he got arrested a few weeks back for domestic abuse.

The chilling part?

The girl was Summer.

How did they not know this when she went missing?

He shakes his head. Digging further and further in until he figures out his last known address and he decides to scope the place out for the night. Making sure to stop by the 24 hour coffee shop. Thank god for Coffee.

He parks on the street a couple houses down, recognizing the vehicle out front. He seen it at the Lions den the other night.

He doesn’t see anything for a couple hours and gets bored. Deciding to search more people through the database. The only way they’ll appear is if they’ve been arrested and fingerprinted.

He briefly remembers you saying you used to be a troubled teen, so he types in your name. Surprised when you appear high up on the list. Your mugshot is clearly a photo of you while you’re inebriated. He can tell by the sly smile and bloodshot eyes. He sees that you’ve been arrested for couple of small things. Public intoxication, probation violations, a couple from fighting. He laughs to himself. You seem so well put together for someone who’s got such a bad track record. But he can tell these charges are old. It’s been quite some time since your last arrest.

Once six am rolls around, he’s dialing Diane first thing and getting a warrant for Aaron’s house.

It’s late afternoon when they finally have it, and they load up the squad car. Graves drives and Diane is in the passenger seat. They don’t know how this is going to go, so they prepare for the worst. Wearing vests and planning to be as careful as possible. Graves pulls right into the driveway and they both move quickly. Getting out of the car and making their way up to the front door. Graves knocks normally, and is surprised when Aaron opens the door. “What the hell?” He gasps. Raising his hands up immediately. “Keep your hands where I can see them Aaron. Don’t do anything crazy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Summer has been missing for the last couple months. Do you know anything about that?” He asks, moving to handcuff Aaron. “What? Of course not!”

“Than why were you at the Lions Den last night? Hm? We have you on video staging her handbag in there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Diane. Load him up, I’m going to look around.”

Diane nods her head. Graves keeps his gun drawn, just in case there’s any more people he needs to look out for. He makes his way through the entire house and it’s clean, but he discovers that there’s a basement.

He opens up the door, and it’s pitch black down there. He makes his way down the stairs, flicking on a light switch when he sees one. What he sees inside has his heart falling into his stomach. He can see a woman slumped over, she’s handcuffed to a pipe. He rushes over to her, checking to see if she has a pulse. She shrinks away from his touch and he inhales a deep breath, thank god. He tilts her head to get a good look at her and realizes that it’s Summer.

He’s found her.

He calls for backup immediately and Diane takes Aaron down to the station. He’s not getting out of this one.

“Hey. It’s alright.”

Summer finally starts to stir, she’s clearly drugged.

“I’m detective Phillip Graves, I’m here to get you out of here.” He breathes. He unlocks the handcuffs and lifts her up. He has to get her out.

———

It takes a few days for everything to settle.

Summer is in the hospital recovering, Aaron is locked up tight behind bars.

Graves hasn’t spoken to you, but he figures he will now.

The case is sure to hit the news anytime now, it’s alright if you’re the first to find out.

“Hey. That cute detective is out at the bar asking for you.” Another bartender comes into the office. You laugh. “You can send him back here.” You roll your eyes. She disappears from the doorway and a moment later, he’s knocking gently at the frame. “Hey.” He smiles. “Hi. Everything okay?” You ask. “Yeah, yeah. Everything is great.” He closes the door. “Actually wanted to come let you know that we found Summer.”

“Seriously?” You look up at him. “Yeah. She’s alive, just recovering.”

“That’s.. wow. That’s awesome.” You breathe. “How did you find her?”

“Got a warrant for Aaron’s house, he had her locked up in his basement.”

“Jesus Christ, seriously? What a psycho!” You breathe. “Yeah. But he’s off the streets. He’s going to prison for a while and she’s recovering.”

You smile. “That’s awesome.”

“Yeah, and I wanted to come say thanks. Your cameras and cooperation have been the sole reason we were able to solve this.”

“Well. If you want to stay for a drink, we close in about 10 minutes.” You smile. “Sure. I’d like that.”

“I was going to come sooner but I just got off work.” He laughs. “Been doing paperwork in my office.”

“Boy I felt that one.” You laugh, slapping a hand down onto the stack of paperwork you’ve got sitting on the desk.

The both of you make small talk for a while, until the bar officially closes and all of the employees have left. Not before giving you grief about leaving you alone with a man of course. Lots of winks as they walked out the door. You made sure to lock it after them. You pour him a drink, and make small talk with him while you clean. When you finish, you stand on the other side of the bar and he takes in your appearance. Apron and that black v-neck you usually wore.

“You know.. it really pissed me off the first time I came in here. Hearing that guy hit you with a fucking beer mug.”

You laugh, looking down. “Yeah.. I wasn’t too happy when he hit me with it, trust me.” You laugh. He smiles. “Yeah. If it makes you feel any better, I wasn’t too kind to him when we brought him in.” You smile. “Do you have anything at all to protect yourself in here?” You smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” You laugh.

“I would yeah.”

You smile, reaching down just beneath you, raising up the little cubby. You can feel the cool metal on your hand, raising it up and setting it on top of the bar. Making sure the barrel is pointed away from him. “Damn.” He laughs. “All my bartenders are trained to use it. Nobody knows it’s back here.” You pull it back. “Better stay that way.” You narrow your eyes at him, seeing him smile. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“I have another in my apartment upstairs. But.. that stays up there just in case.”

He laughs.

“You know. You’re a real pretty girl.”

“Thank you.” You laugh, looking down. “For a heathen.”

You look up at him, through your eyelashes. “I don’t think you know the half of it, Detective Graves.”

“I think your file told me everything I needed to know about you.” He brings the glass of whiskey up to his lips. “You looked me up?” You laugh. “Maybe. Hey, as far as I was concerned you were a suspect.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds like excuses. If you wanted to know so bad you could’ve asked.” You lean over the bar. His eyes flicker to your chest for just a second. You don’t miss it.

“Must be pretty interested if you’re looking me up.” You make your way around the bar, going to sit next to him but he grasps your arm. He slides off of the bar stool. “Yeah. Maybe I am.” He laughs. He pins you between him and the bar, the wood digging into your back. “But you don’t seem to have much of a problem with that. Don’t see you trying to get away.”

You smile, eyes moving to his lips and back to his eyes. “Didn’t want to.”

“You’re bold.” He laughs. Sliding his hand onto your hip, leaning in. “So you won’t mind if I…” he pushes your hair behind your ear. “Just kiss me.” You roll your eyes, grasping his tie. You pull him into you and his lips are finally on yours. He moves both of his hands to rest at your hips as he kisses you, pulling you into him more. He glides his hand lower on your hips and pulls you into him, his front pressed firmly up against yours. He’s a good kisser.

He glides his tongue over your lip, he wants more.

You pull his bottom lip between your teeth and tug gently, feeling him growing hard against you. You rut your thigh into his growing erection and he groans into your lips.

“You sure you want to do this?” He breathes. You bite your own lip, nodding your head. “I can take you up to my apartment. Come on.” You breathe. You grasp his hand, leading him to the back of the bar and up the stairs to your apartment door. You unlock it, stepping inside. He follows in behind you, smiling. It’s a lot nicer than he expected it to be, for being above a dive bar anyways. You keep it nice inside. He chooses to say nothing, as soon as he closes the door he’s pouncing on you again. He’s got his lips on yours and he’s lifting you up, you wrap your legs around his waist and he starts walking toward the hallway where he assumes your bedroom is, guessing correctly. He nudges the first door open with his foot and sees it’s your bedroom and it’s just as well kept. Your bed is made and it’s spotless inside, too bad he’s gonna wreck the bed.

He drops you onto your bed, forcing your legs apart and moving himself between them, grasping the bottom of your shirt and helping you pull it over your head.

His tugs his off immediately after, reaching for his belt.

You push your own pants down your legs, kicking them off. He exposes himself, his pants still sitting at his mid thigh. He moves up onto the bed more, hovering over you. “You look good like this.” He breathes. “Gonna look even better when I’m done with you.” He smirks, lining himself up with your entrance.

You gasp as he slides into you, burying himself to the hilt inside of you. He laughs at the gasp you let out at the intrusion. “Fuck.. you’re tight baby.” He hisses. He raises your thighs up slightly, getting a better angle to reach deeper inside of you. You cry out as he slides right into your spongy spot. Your thighs start to shake. “F-fuck.” You shiver. “You’re really good at this.” You whine out. He can’t help but laugh. “You’ve never had good experiences have you?”

You look up at him, crimson creeping up your cheeks. “No.” You shake your head. You’re still breathing heavier than you were before, which tells him you’re getting overwhelmed which is exactly what he wants. It’s been a while for Phillip but that means nothing. He’ll never forget how to please a woman, he knows exactly what to do. He can read you, and tell what you’re going to like. He doesn’t have all that much experience either but he doesn’t forget. He slides out of you, bringing your thigh over the other until you’re slightly on your side. He slides back into you, giving him a good angle for better access to that spot inside of you, he knows you wont last long like this.

He rests his chest into your back, his breath warm over your ear. “Nothing wrong with that sweetheart.” He chuckles. Chills rise on your skin from him talking right next to your ear. “But I’m gonna change that for you, so just try to relax.” He’s rutting his hips into you and you’re panting slightly. Waiting.

He draws his hips back and thrusts into you, he laughs when your lips part in surprise. He can still smell your vanilla perfume on you. Eyes rolling back as he feels that knot forming in his stomach. “You feel so fucking good baby, so good.” He grits his teeth, eyes screwed shut at he keeps rutting into you, hips moving with yours perfectly. Your thighs shiver, moans flowing from your lips like a river. He’s got you right where he wants you. You’re right on the brink, the warmth building more and more with each draw of his hips. You take in a jagged breath and with one more thrust into that spot inside of you, the tightness unravels, warmth spreading through you. You throb around him as you reach your high, crying out. You flinch away from him, sweet spot abused and sensitive from his perfect thrusts.

He grasps your leg, pulling you back into the missionary position you were in before.

He hisses, clutching your hips hard and taking a couple of extra hard thrusts. He slides out of you just as he reaches the brink. He wraps his hand around the base of his cock and pumps quickly until he’s coating you in his cum. The warm thick ropes have you flinching slightly. Coating your skin on your lower stomach. He laughs once he’s come down from his high. “Fuck.. didn’t expect this tonight.” He sighs. He moves himself until he’s lying next to you.

You’re quiet still. He notices immediately, turning to look at you. Your eyes are slightly wider than before, pupils still blown out. “Hey, you alright?” He tilts your chin to look at him. “Uh- yeah. Yeah I’m fine.” You shake yourself out of the daze he’s put you in. “You sure?” He laughs. “Yeah- I’ve just never… been touched like that before.” You laugh. “What, never cum during sex?” He jokes. “No.”

He pauses. “Really?”

You bite your lip, nervously nodding your head.

“Ah well. Doesn’t matter now cause I’m here.” He laughs. “Was I too rough?” He props his head up onto his hand, his elbow resting on the bed. “No, not at all.” You breathe.

“I don’t usually do this, how about you let me take you on a proper date?” He smiles. You laugh. “Yeah, I hoped you’d ask that after this.” You giggle. Seeing his lips rise into a smile. “Course not. You’re a pretty girl, deserve nice things.” He leans into you, kissing your lips once more.

He stands up, asking where to find a towel to clean you up.

When he’s helped you clean up and you’ve returned your clothes to where they belong, you decide to ask.

“Do you think Summer will be okay?” You ask.

He sighs. “I think she’ll have some trauma from all of this, but I think she’ll be okay. Yeah.” You nod your head. “I’m glad you found her. I was so worried. I had a brand new schedule in the works just in case it was some kind of freak just kidnapping girls.” You sigh. “Really?” He asks. “Yeah, figured if we closed a little earlier the college girls would get home sooner and my girls could get out of here.” He smiles. “You’re a good girl you know that?” He smiles.

“I’m a troubled girl.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be good. Without you we never would’ve found out what happened to Summer. You have to give yourself some more credit here, you’re a smart girl.” He laughs. “I knew I liked you from the moment I laid eyes on you.” He smirks. Seeing your roll your eyes.

“Yeah well, I think you got what you wanted, Detective Graves.”

“Got what I wanted and more, sweetheart.”

[gullemec]

Lion's Den

Golden Cage - Chapter Three

ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: A late-night stake out with Butcher turns into something unexpected. You and Hughie embark on your highest-stakes mission yet.

Warnings: mentions of death, depictions of grief, language, alcohol use, smoking, Homelander is his own trigger warning, needle injection, body horror/gore, blood, murder, explosions

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7k

A/N: This chapter contains one of the first scenes I ever came up with for this fic and I'm super proud of how it turned out. Thanks for reading <3

Your chest heaves in fits of laughter, the sound escaping in gleeful bursts that ripple through the warm summer air. Hair floating behind you like the tail of a comet, catching the light as it swirls and dances. The soft fabric of your dress billows around you, its folds fluttering with every swing. Your toes stretch forward, daring to brush against the edge of the sky. For a fleeting moment, a hint of fear creeps into your belly. 

Too high, too fast. 

But then there are hands at your back, firm and steady, guiding you. A gentle push, a quiet assurance. The embrace that follows is warm and full, carrying the familiar floral scent of comfort, safety, and love.

Nothing can hurt you now, not while I’m around.

Your high school prom. A shimmering haze of hairspray and perfume, your gown a vibrant turquoise that catches the light like sunlit waves. Awkward poses frozen in the flash of cameras. Corsages pinned with trembling hands. Laughter and whispers shared between girlfriends as music thrums faintly in the distance.

And then her voice, soft yet full of pride, as she peers at you from behind the lens. Her eyes crinkle with warmth, her smile radiating maternal joy.

So beautiful. So special. I love you so much. 

Later, a university acceptance. The email you read over and over, half in disbelief, and the student visa that followed. A one-way plane ticket tucked carefully into your carry-on. At the airport, the crowd swirls around you in a blur of movement and sound, but all you feel is her arms wrapping tightly around you, her lips pressing a kiss to your temple. You promise to call every weekend, visit every holiday.

You're so smart. I'm so proud of you. You can do anything you set your mind to. 

And you believed her. You always believed her.

The fatherly absence always stung. The missed recitals, forgotten birthdays, the empty chairs at family dinners. He was a phantom presence, his love expressed through impersonal checks and extravagant gifts, always with a neatly written card promising: Next time. When things aren't so crazy at work.

But she was enough. More than enough. Her laughter, her warmth, her unwavering belief in you filled every void he left behind.

Until the night it didn’t.

A phone call at 1AM, shattering the quiet of your dorm room. Your heart lurching as you fumble for the phone, squinting against the harsh glow of the screen. The voice on the other end is jumbled, nonsensical, the words bleeding together.

There's been an accident. I'm so sorry. 

Mourners clad in black gather under a colorless sky, their umbrellas dotting the cemetery like wilted flowers. The rain is steady but light, just enough to soak through the fabric of your dress and chill your skin. A closed casket sits before you, a hollow, unyielding box you can’t bring yourself to approach. You really shouldn’t see her like this. It’s for the best, the funeral director told you. The six foot deep trench yawning before you, her new home. Your father stands beside you, his hand resting awkwardly on your shoulder. His touch feels foreign, unwelcome, but you don’t shrug him off. You don’t have the energy.

It's okay. You'll be alright. Don't cry. 

But how can you not? How can you not cry when the one person who made the world feel safe, who saw the best in you even when you couldn’t, is gone?

You stare at the grave, your vision blurring as raindrops mingle with tears, and you wonder if you’ll ever feel whole again.

~~~

The sticky heat of the laundromat clings to your skin like a second layer, oppressive and inescapable. The hard plastic of the school chair you’re perched on digs into your thighs, leaving faint indentations every time you shift your weight. You adjust your tank top, its damp fabric sticking stubbornly to your back, and glance at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time.

The rhythmic hum and occasional clang of the washers and dryers should be soothing, but it only grates on your nerves. Across the aisle, an elderly woman works on a crossword puzzle, her lips moving soundlessly as she taps her pen against her chin. She’s utterly oblivious to the undercurrent of anxiety rolling off of you.

You’ve been here nearly half an hour.

Where the fuck are the Boys?

Your mind begins to spiral. Had they changed their minds about bringing you into the fold? Decided it was too risky to work with someone so closely tied to CytoGenix and Vought? It wouldn’t make sense—Starlight works with them, after all. Starlight, who comforted you when you were on the verge of breaking, who fought on your behalf, who insisted you call her Annie.

No, they hadn’t forgotten about you. They were just being cautious, you reason. But the nagging thought lingers. Maybe they’ve written you off after all.

You’re startled out of your reverie by movement behind the abandoned front desk. A familiar head pops up. It’s Frenchie, grinning and offering a quick wave to follow.

You jump to your feet, abandoning the chair with such urgency that the crossword woman glances up, giving you a sidelong look. You don’t care. You follow Frenchie through the hidden doorway and down the creaking staircase to the basement.

The Boys are gathered in their usual disorganized fashion. MM leans back in a chair with his arms crossed, Hughie paces idly, and Kimiko sits cross-legged on the floor, her sharp eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity. Butcher, as always, is the picture of brooding discontent, his trench coat draped over the back of the couch.

Annie is the first to notice you, her face lighting up as she waves you over. “Hey, you made it! Just in time for the riveting sixth hour of our surveillance party. So far, the highlights include... absolutely nothing. But hey, fingers crossed for the next six.” Her words are drenched in sarcasm, but her grin is infectious, and you find yourself laughing despite yourself.

“Ah, don’t listen to her,” Frenchie says, gesturing grandly as he flops into a chair. “It is not nothing. We are detectives, uncovering the truths of the universe!”

“Yeah, well, the truths of the universe are boring as hell,” Hughie mutters.

Butcher throws him a sharp look. “You’d think babysitting a couple of blinking dots was rocket science, the way you’re whining about it.”

Your attention shifts to the screen dominating the far wall, where two red dots move steadily across a digital map of Manhattan.

“Who are we watching?” you ask, curiosity overtaking your nerves.

“Your dear ol’ dad and his ball and chain,” Butcher says without looking at you, nodding toward the screen. “Been swannin’ around the city all bloody day. No idea where they’re off to next.”

You squint at the map, noting the dots’ meandering paths through Manhattan. “Yeah, they’re networking,” you say, rolling your eyes. “That’s what they call it when they spend hours sipping $500 bottles of wine with their friend and patting each other on the back for being obscenely rich. My dad swears it’s ‘essential for business,’ but it’s just an excuse to indulge.”

Butcher huffs out a low chuckle. “Sounds about right. It’s all bollocks, anyway. Rich pricks just finding new ways to circle jerk each other.”

You snort, caught off guard by the crude but accurate assessment. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

Butcher starts filling you in on the day’s surveillance. You sit beside him on the couch, leaning in as he explains the patterns of movement they’ve been tracking, the occasional stops your father and Monica have made, and how they’ve been prioritizing intercepting conversations with the bugs. His voice is low and steady, and for a moment, you forget everything else, your nerves, your exhaustion, even the slight embarrassment of sitting so close to him.

For the rest of the evening, the group takes turns monitoring the screen, scribbling down notes about the movements of the little red dots. The mundane nature of the task feels a little silly considering the high-stakes world you’ve stepped into, but you don’t mind. You feel like you’re contributing, even if only in a small way.

At one point, Hughie grumbles, “You know, we don’t have to watch this in real time. Everything’s being recorded. We could just check back later.”

Butcher doesn’t even look at him. “And if they do somethin’ worth jumpin’ on? You wanna miss it, do ya?”

Hughie mutters something under his breath, and Annie shoots you a knowing grin. “He’s been like this all day. Hyper-focused and grumpy as hell. Don’t take it personally.”

You glance at Butcher, his jaw tight as he studies the screen, and feel a pang of understanding. It’s not just determination driving him; it’s something deeper. Something raw and unresolved. You’ve seen that look before—in the mirror.

The grief radiating from him is palpable, even if he hides it well. You don’t know the details, but you can sense it. Loss has a way of marking people, leaving a shadow that never fully fades.

It draws you to him.

Misery loves company, you suppose. 

~~~

The clock reads just past midnight, and the room hums with the kind of stillness that makes every creak of the old laundromat basement feel loud. The dim light casts long shadows over the haphazard mess of wires, surveillance monitors, and makeshift furniture. It’s just you and Butcher now. The others have drifted off to sleep or left for the night.

MM had slipped out hours ago, muttering something about tucking Janine into bed. Hughie and Annie left together not long after, their quiet farewells fading into the night. Frenchie and Kimiko are sprawled together on a cot in the next room, limbs entangled in quiet comfort.

The audio transmitters have been silent for hours. The dots on the tracker map haven’t moved, signifying the cars have both come to rest at the CytoGenix office. Your father and Monica must be asleep in the office quarters. You glance at the dormant monitors, feeling the weight of the lull settle in your bones.

“Think you’ll stay awake much longer?” you ask, stretching to ease the stiffness in your back.

Butcher, leaning against the armrest of the couch, shrugs. “Suppose so. Don’t usually sleep ‘til mornin’.” He watches you with a detached air, like he’s trying to gauge why you’re still here. “You can head home if you like.”

You nod absently but don’t make a move to leave.

The truth is, you don’t want to go. The long hours of surveillance have been uneventful, sure, but there’s something about the waiting, the anticipation, that grips you. Every crackle of static, every blip on the tracker, feels like it could be the moment everything changes.

And the alternative? Returning to your empty loft, with its hollow silence and the weight of your own thoughts? No contest.

You hedge your bets with William Butcher. 

“Mind if I stay?” you ask, careful to keep your tone light.

He gives you a sideways look, one brow quirking upward. It’s a look that says, Why the hell would you want to do that?

You respond by flopping back down on the couch next to him,  pretending the blank computer monitor is the most fascinating thing in the room. You can feel his stare lingering on you, his skepticism practically radiating.

“So,” you say, assuming an air of casualty about you, aloof and haughty. “How many people have you kidnapped?”

Butcher snorts, leaning back with his arms crossed. “That’s usually a second date kinda question.”

You smirk, meeting his dry humor with your own. “So you make a habit of kidnapping young women, then?”

He rolls his eyes. “No.”

Feigning shock, you gasp and place a hand on your chest. “I’m your first? I’m flattered.”

For a moment, his face contorts into genuine bemusement. “Hardly,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Your laughter bubbles up, filling the room with a warmth you hadn’t expected. There’s something oddly satisfying about getting under Butcher’s skin, peeling back layers of his gruff exterior.

When your laughter subsides, he shifts the conversation. “How long you been workin’ for your dad?”

“Six months. Six long months.” You inhale deeply. “I moved home after graduating university. Cambridge, actually. Started interning at his company pretty much right away. It wasn't really my choice, you know? But I do it because…” 

Shit. What do you say? Because having your father's approval means regaining some small shred of self-confidence? Because Monica's preoccupation with your wardrobe, despite her infuriating mannerisms and less than ten-year age gap with you, feels just enough like motherly love that you're willing to entertain it? Because you're so goddamn desperate for love and belonging that you'd lick it off a knife at this point?

“Because it's the right thing to do,” you say finally. And really, is there a better answer than that? 

He nods, his expression softening slightly, though his eyes remain sharp. “And how’s that workin’ out for you?”

You hesitate, tempted to spill everything—the suffocating expectations, the desperate need for approval, the resentment simmering beneath it all. But you settle for a noncommittal shrug.

“What about you?” you counter. “How long have you been in the Supe-killing business?”

His grin is slow and wolfish, the kind that sends a ripple of unease down your spine even as it intrigues you. “Too damn long.”

 Shit, he's charming. 

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, swapping stories that seem to stretch the hours until they blur. You tell him about your time at Cambridge, the interns at CytoGenix who annoy you, the monotonous ways you fill your free time. He lets you in on how the Boys were first formed, telling you all about a remarkable sounding woman named Grace Mallory. He offers you an abridged version of what happened to his late wife, Becca. The conversation, which began light and easy, takes a quieter, heavier turn as the night stretches on.

Butcher leans back, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the walls of the room. He swirls whiskey in a glass, the sharp lines of his face softened by the dim light. “You ever love someone so much it felt like they were the center of your whole bloody world?”

The question catches you off guard. You pause, searching his face. “Yeah. My mom.”

He nods faintly, the corner of his mouth pulling into a bittersweet smile. “Becca was that for me. She was my whole world. Smart, stubborn as hell… too good for the likes of me, if I’m being honest. But she had this way of makin’ you believe in yourself, y’know? Like you were worth somethin’, even when you knew you weren’t.”

There’s a softness in his voice, a vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. You don’t interrupt, sensing how rare these moments are for him.

“I thought I’d done it, beaten the odds,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “Found somethin’ good, somethin’ real. And for a while, I had it. We had it. Then one day, it’s just... gone.”

You don’t know what to say, how to respond to this sudden vulnerability in the stoic man.

“What happened after she was gone… it weren’t just grief. It was like someone ripped my bloody soul out and left me with nothing but rage. I didn’t know how to function without her. I still don’t, most days.”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away, as if the memories are too much to face. You see his fist clench, knuckles turning white.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “She needed me, and I failed her. And after that, I had nothin’ left to lose. So I made it my mission to take down the bastards who took her from me. All of ‘em. Vought. Homelander. Every Supe who thinks they can play god.”

You reach out hesitantly, your hand brushing against his arm. “Butcher… none of that was your fault. What happened to Becca… it wasn’t on you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe not directly, but I didn’t exactly make it easy for her, did I? I put her in the crosshairs just by bein’ me. She deserved better. Better than me, better than this whole bloody mess.”

You sit in silence for a moment, letting his words settle between you. “She loved you, though,” you say softly. “It sounds like she really loved you.”

He exhales sharply, his expression hardening as if trying to shake off the vulnerability. “Yeah. And look where it got her.”

You don’t know what to say to that, the weight of his pain pressing down on you. For all his bravado, for all his rage and resilience, there’s a part of him that’s still broken, still carrying the ghost of Becca with him everywhere he goes.

“You’re not just fighting for revenge, Butcher,” you say finally. “You’re fighting because you want to make sure no one else has to go through what you did. That’s worth something.”

He looks at you then, his gaze softening for a fleeting moment. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “But it don’t bring her back, does it?”

You shake your head, your throat tightening. “No. But it means her loss wasn’t meaningless. You’re doing something with it. And that matters.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The silence feels heavy but not uncomfortable, as if the words that needed to be said are enough to fill the space between you. Butcher just sits there, his expression unreadable, and you wonder if there’s anything more you can say.

So you offer him stories of your mother, warm pockets of safety and love tucked away in the otherwise chaotic mess of your childhood. You tell him about the way she’d hum old jazz standards as she folded laundry, the soft, lilting tunes filling the house with a strange kind of peace. You remember how Sunday mornings smelled of pancakes and maple syrup, her insistence on cooking breakfast herself rather than letting the kitchen staff take over. Those moments were hers, small rebellions in a life that otherwise wasn’t her own.

“She wasn’t perfect,” you admit, picking lint from the couch. “But she tried. She did her best to give me... something good. Something that wasn’t him.”

Butcher leans back, watching you with a quiet intensity. “Your dad?”

You nod, your lips twisting into a bitter smile. “Mom stayed with him for years, not because she wanted to, God knows she didn’t, but because she was terrified of what would happen if she left. He would’ve dragged her through every court in the state if she tried to take me. And with his money? His connections? She didn’t stand a chance. So she stayed. For me.”

Butcher nods, his expression guarded but attentive. “Sounds like she had some steel in her.”

“She did,” you admit, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. “But steel can break, too. He wore her down, little by little. Made her feel small, worthless, like she was lucky to even be in his orbit. And then…” You hesitate, swallowing hard. “Then there was Monica.”

Butcher curses under his breath at the mention of her name and you can’t help but laugh.

“My dad didn’t even wait six months after my mom died before marrying her,” you say, your voice laced with bitterness and resentment. “She’s this perfect little trophy wife. Perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect clothes. She treats me like I’m some stray dog she’s graciously let into her perfect little world. Every look, every word, it’s like she’s reminding me I don’t belong. God, I can’t fucking stand her.”

“She sounds like a right piece of work,” Butcher says, his tone laced with disdain. “For the record, I’d never confuse you for her. Frenchie and Hughie are just idiots.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thanks, I guess?”

It's comfortable, this dialogue between the two of you. He's sarcastic, sure, and rough around the edges, but he listens to you when you speak, never cutting you off or zoning out mid-sentence. But above all, you realize, you feel safe with the man. 

The two of you are engrossed in a heated discussion about just how deep the Vought rabbit hole goes when the crackle of the audio transmitter cuts through your banter like a blade, and you both snap to attention. Your father's voice hums through. You glance at the computer clock: 4AM. It's not unusual for him to get up this early to start his work day; his associates know to remain on standby to accommodate his erratic working hours. 

“Henry, it's Stanley.”

Your ears perk up at the name. You know Henry, having worked alongside him throughout your internship. 

Your stomach knots. You mouth quality control to Butcher, who nods, his expression sharpening.

“Listen, my wife wants to bring her friends down for a presentation on what you’ve been working on. I told her she could bring them Monday at ten.”

There’s a pause, then a heavy sigh from your father, the kind you’ve come to dread. A sigh that meant dissatisfaction, and god help the man who dissatisfied Stanley Morgan. You ground yourself, remembering that you are here in this laundromat basement with Butcher, safe.

“Look, Henry, I'm tired of you complaining about cutting corners. You're already way behind schedule, so just do whatever you have to do, and give my wife and her friends a good show, alright?”

You hear the phone receiver land in its cradle with a satisfying click. 

You turn to look at Butcher, finding a devious smile on his face. You return it, beaming at him. Finally, a lead. 

“Monday at ten,” he repeats, his voice practically dripping with glee. “How’s that work for you, sweetheart?”

You can’t help it. You beam back at him, the thrill of finally having a lead coursing through you. For the first time in a long time you no longer feel like you’re treading water. You’re moving forward.

~~~

Sunlight filters through your eyelids, prying you from a restful sleep. You squirm against the intrusion, desperate for a few more minutes of oblivion. Your hand reaches instinctively for your alarm clock, searching for the familiar plastic edge atop your side table. Instead, your fingers meet only air.

Your eyes flutter open, and the world comes into focus. You’re not in your room. The chipped paint on the walls and the musty smell of the basement remind you of where you are—the couch, the monitors, the remnants of last night’s vigil. And then it hits you.

You freeze, gaze snapping to the far end of the faded floral couch. Butcher.

He’s sprawled out awkwardly, face mashed into the armrest, one arm hanging limply over the side. The other, to your horror, is resting on your leg, his large hand curled protectively around your calf.

Shit. 

The memories flood back. You’d celebrated the breakthrough, the first solid lead since you joined. There was laughter, more than you’d ever expected to share with Butcher, and a quiet, companionable silence as the adrenaline faded. Somewhere in between, exhaustion had claimed you.

You’d promised him you’d stay awake. Promised you’d call a taxi as soon as the sky started to lighten. But here you are, wrapped in a scratchy blanket you don’t remember asking for, with Butcher asleep next to you like you’d both done this a hundred times before.

Heat floods your face, embarrassment unfurling in your chest. Embarrassment that you'd fallen asleep on the job, despite your protests that you were fine. Embarrassment that you'd let Butcher see you so vulnerable. But more than that, you feel embarrassed at how deeply and comfortably you’d slept, nestled on a decrepit couch with a man already too large for the shabby piece of furniture, more comfortably than you'd ever slept in your King-size memory foam bed at home.

But you're clearly not that embarrassed, because you give yourself several long, lingering moments to let the warmth soak into your bones. 

With great effort, you shift, slowly extracting your leg from beneath his hand. The warmth lingers as you pull yourself upright, and you let out a soft sigh of relief. The motion is enough to wake Butcher.

He jerks upright with a sharp inhale, eyes wild for a split second before they focus on you. His hair is a tousled mess, and his expression shifts from alertness to something resembling guilt.

“What’s all this?” he mumbles, his voice gravelly with sleep. His gaze flicks to the abandoned blanket, then to you hastily shoving your things into your bag. “Where you off to in such a rush?”

“I, uh…” You avoid his eyes, too flustered to form a coherent excuse. “I just—I need to get going.”

Realization dawns on his face. He glances back at the couch, then down at himself. “Ah, shit,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to... y’know.” He gestures vaguely, his expression unusually sheepish. “Thought you might be cold, that’s all.”

You freeze mid-step, one hand gripping the doorframe. His tone is softer than you expect, less of the brash bravado you’ve grown used to.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, your voice tight. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

“Doesn’t seem that way,” he counters, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. His dark eyes are sharper, scrutinizing you even in his groggy state. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I just… I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep,” you say, a bit too fast. “I should’ve gone home last night.”

He snorts softly, leaning back against the couch. “You and me both, then. Not like I planned to kip here either.”

You glance at him, your rush to leave faltering at the casual way he shrugs it off.

“Don’t worry about it, love,” he continues, voice dropping into something softer, almost teasing. “Not like you drooled on me or anythin’. Far as disasters go, I reckon this one’s survivable.”

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it. He smirks, pleased with himself, and the tension in your shoulders eases.

“Thanks for the blanket,” you murmur, glancing down at it again.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, waving a hand dismissively. “You looked knackered. Figured it was the least I could do after you went an’ pulled a late one with me.”

You nod, unsure of what to say, the warmth from his small gesture still lingering. You glance toward the stairs, bag in hand, ready to leave but no longer feeling the need to escape.

“Monday,” you say, breaking the silence. “We’ll need everyone ready. Let Hughie know?”

He nods, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Got it. You take care, yeah?”

With one last look at him, still sprawled on the couch, already reaching for his phone, you head up the stairs. The door creaks as you push it open, sunlight spilling into the hallway.

As you push the door open and head up the stairs, you hear him mutter something under his breath, probably a jab at your dramatics. You don’t turn back. The slam of the door echoes behind you, but his gravelly voice lingers, like the warmth of the blanket you left behind.

~~~

It's Monday. 

The air outside the laundromat is brisk, carrying with it the faint metallic tang of the city morning. You lean against the brick wall, one hand stuffed into the pocket of your coat while the other holds a cigarette between your fingers. The cherry glows faintly as you inhale, the smoke curling into the cold air like a soft exhale.

You really don’t try to make a habit of smoking, but your nerves are buzzing under your skin like live wires and the cigarette between your fingers feels like the only thing tethering you to reality right now.

The faint squeak of boots on pavement announces Butcher before you see him. He rounds the corner, a thermos in one hand, his coat hanging open like he couldn’t be bothered to button it up against the chill. His eyes land on you, and his brows jump just slightly, surprise flashing across his face like a flickering bulb.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker,” he says, voice thick with that familiar edge of mockery. “What is it? Bit of rebellion against Daddy’s company policy?”

You exhale a stream of smoke, turning your head so it doesn’t blow in his direction. “Something like that,” you reply dryly. “Don’t tell HR.”

He snorts, stepping closer. “Secret’s safe with me.” He gives you a once-over, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Though I’ve gotta say, not exactly the picture I had of you. Thought you were more the yoga-and-juice-cleanse type.”

“I contain multitudes,” you say simply, flicking ash from the end of the cigarette.

“That you do,” he murmurs, his tone quieter now, less biting. He digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of smokes, shaking it slightly to reveal one lone cigarette. “Want another for the road?”

You glance at the cigarette, then back at him, arching a brow. “Didn’t think you were the sharing type.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says with a crooked grin, lighting it with a battered silver lighter. He takes a long drag and lets the smoke curl out of his mouth slowly. “Just figured it might take the edge off before you head in.”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Alright.” You take the offered cigarette, lighting it with your own lighter. The shared silence that follows is strangely companionable, the kind you wouldn’t have expected when you first met him.

“You nervous?” he asks after a beat, his voice softer than usual.

“Would it matter if I was?”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze sharper than you’re comfortable with. “It’s good to be nervous,” he finally says. “Means you’re payin’ attention. It’s when you stop that you get sloppy. Or worse, dead.”

“Comforting,” you say wryly, taking another drag.

He smirks, tilting his head toward the laundromat. “Come on. Hughie’ll start wringin’ his hands if we’re out here much longer.”

You stub out the cigarette on the brick wall, tucking the butt into a pocket so it doesn’t litter the street. Butcher watches this with a faintly amused expression but says nothing.

As the two of you head inside, the air between you feels lighter, the tension from earlier diffused into the cold morning. Hughie looks up from the monitors, his face a mix of relief and nervous energy.

“Ready?” he asks, glancing between you and Butcher.

Butcher claps him on the shoulder, all mock bravado. “’Course we are. Let’s get on with it, then.”

You follow Butcher and Hughie out, a small ember of calm glowing within you.

~~~

Exiting Butcher's discreetly parked van, you nudge Hughie down the narrow alley, leading the way toward your old smoking spot. It’s quiet here, and the less attention you draw, the better. You swipe your ID pass through the scanner, tossing a glance down the fluorescent-lit corridor. The hall stretches in that sterile, clinical way it always does, but today, it feels like a goddamn maze. It feels like you’re on the other side of a mirror, like you're not supposed to be here.

You bite back the urge to whisper “All clear!”  to Hughie, but you quickly swallow the words. It’s too risky; you know Butcher’s listening. One slip-up, and he’ll be all over you like a fucking rash, reminding you of your amateur status. You bite your tongue just in time to avoid the barrage of shit he’d throw at you later.

Inside the building, you inspect your new “intern.” You ditched your monogrammed designer lab coat in favor of a plain, CytoGenix-branded one, lifted from a storage closet. Nothing flashy. Hughie’s got one on too, also stolen, one of the last clean ones in the closet. You’ve opted for business casual today, trying to blend in as best you can.  In an effort to obscure yourself further, you'd styled your hair differently and worn fake glasses. You want to look like just another office drone. Like you belong.

“You good?” you ask Hughie, keeping your voice low. He nods, trying his best to look confident, but you catch that little tremor in his fingers as he adjusts the collar of his borrowed lab coat. Poor guy’s barely keeping it together, and you’re not doing much better yourself.

The mission, should everything go to plan, is simple. You and Hughie disguise yourselves as nameless interns puttering around in the lab, eavesdropping on Monica's tour. Once you figure out what it is they're working on in the lab, you quietly slip out and report back to Butcher in the van parked outside. Butcher who you've been avoiding since your makeshift sleepover. Butcher who, in turn, has seemingly rebuilt the cement walls of his gruff exterior that he let slip that night. Today feels just as much like a test as it does a reconnaissance mission. 

Here goes nothing. 

You guide Hughie to the Quality Control lab. Thankfully it's only three floors down into the basement, as Hughie blanches when you explain just how deep into the earth CytoGenix’s headquarters go. 

When you get to the lab, you spot the small group of VIPs that’s gathered for the tail end of the tour. Perfect timing. 

“So, as you can see, thanks to the cutting edge technologies at our fingertips, CytoGenix is leading the way in pharmaceutical breakthroughs,” says the chipper tour guide. Monica stands with the group, preening under Homelander and Ashley Barrett’s attention. The gooseflesh on your arms prickle at the sight of the evil Supe and corrupt CEO. 

The tour guide gestures toward a large window at the back of the lab. “Now, if everyone could follow me,” she chirps, her voice grating, “we’d like to give you all a demonstration of V2’s first human test subject!”

Your stomach twists. Human test subject. You weren't sure what you were expecting from this tour, but it wasn't this. The lab’s always been about gene splicing and advanced therapies, but this? This is something else. Something darker. Was your father’s company involved in testing on people, or was this just the tip of a very fucked up iceberg?

The crowd gathers around the window, tittering with excitement. You and Hughie hang back, miming preoccupation with the lab supplies laying around. 

A light flickers on, illuminating the dark window. A two-way mirror. Inside, the room is featureless and blindingly white, save for a young man curled up in the corner, his face drawn and terrified. As the light flickers on, he jerks upright, eyes wide with panic. You feel your gut twist.

A woman enters the room, clad in the same branded lab coat that you wear now. She carries a syringe filled with green liquid that seems to emit a glow from within. She murmurs something to the young man, who hesitantly rolls his sleeve up, offering his arm to her. She injects the liquid, taking a long step backward. 

Then the screaming starts.

Purple veins spread from the injection site, skin rippling unnaturally, his body contorting in ways that aren’t human. Suddenly the arm that had been injected begins to elongate, stretching into a grotesque tentacle. You can hear the faintest squelching sound as his body twists. The man stares at his arm in horror, mouth gaping, before his face suddenly goes slack, vacant eyes lolling toward the female lab technician. 

The woman is scrambling toward the door she came in through, but it's closed now, flush against the wall with no handle for her to grasp. She bangs and thrashes against the door, begging for someone to open the door and let her out. 

Then the tentacle shoots across the room, faster than you can react. It wraps around her head and jerks back. The sound of skin tearing from bone echoes in the sterile white room as her face is ripped off like peeling wallpaper. Her face hits the two-way mirror with a wet slap before her body collapses to the floor.

The tour guide quickly steps forward, flicking a switch on the wall. You hear a soft hiss as the room begins to fill with gas, the man's eyes rolling backward as he loses consciousness, slumping against the wall. The locked door is suddenly thrust open, and this time a man clad in biohazard gear enters. He makes a wide arc around the faceless lab tech, reaching down to grab the tentacle man around his armpits, dragging his limp body out of the room. The lights finally, blessedly, go out. 

The tour guide smiles like it’s all part of the show, like she’s done this a thousand times. The group is dead silent, some swaying with lightheadedness. Monica's eyes flit around the crowd, desperate for a reaction.

You can feel the tension in the air. Your hand clenches at your side, but you don’t dare look around. Not yet.

Then, slowly, the applause starts.

Clap. Clap. Clap. 

Homelander starts clapping slowly, grinning like a predator.

“Bravo!” he says, his voice rich with mock sincerity. “Truly remarkable.” He’s fucking giddy, practically glowing at what he just witnessed.

You, on the other hand, feel ill. There's no way that woman can't be dead. And the man… He seemed so afraid. There's no way he knew what would happen to him once he was injected. Was he dead now?

But then the crowd picks up, clapping, cheering. It’s all a fucking spectacle to them. Monica beams, her fake smile stretched to the limit.

“Everyone, V2!” she says, as if she’s introducing the next big thing at a tech expo.

More cheers.

“More potent than Compound V alone, V2 more reliably gives recipients powers in the A-tier or above,” she announces, spinning the whole thing like it's some kind of miracle drug. “It also inhibits the prefrontal cortex, meaning the Supes it produces will be more... suggestible. Easier to control.”

Homelander chuckles darkly. “So, a Supe lobotomy?” His voice is casual, but the tension in the air spikes.

Monica blinks, taken aback, but then her smile returns—brighter, more fixed. She can’t afford to offend him.

“Exactly what we need if we're going to make a Supe army,” Homelander agrees. “Excellent work, Monica.”

The crowd erupts in cheers again, and you feel like you're suffocating. The air is thick with their sick excitement, and you’re drowning in it.

 There was so much blood, so many little pieces of muscle and tissue painting the paper-white room, like a fucked up Rorschach. The man looked like he could have been younger than you. There's no way he knew what was going to happen to him, no one would ever agree to that. 

Monica's inhumanly white veneers are bared in a painful smile, beaming like a mother at what she'd help create. Was this how your mother died? Had she spent her last moments in fear and pain? It was a closed casket… Was that to hide the damage? Your heart starts to race. The air feels too thick, too hot. 

You catch yourself just as your vision darkens, hunching over a utility cart carrying empty test tubes. The tubes jostle, glass clinking, drawing the crowd's attention to you. Your hair, having fallen around your face, acts as a curtain separating you from the prying eyes. Still, you can feel the laser eyes on you, watching, only a moment away from thinking, Doesn't she look familiar? Is that Stanley's daughter? What's she doing here, with that guy? 

The woozy feeling in your body is immediately replaced with intense, soaring adrenaline. Before you can think, you make a break for it, keeping your head down to continue obscuring your face. Hughie follows, his steps frantic behind you.

The crowd hesitates before you hear quickening footsteps and yells. 

The frantic voice of a lab tech rings out “Homelander, no! No lasers in the lab!”

“Fuck!” You yank Hughie forward, forcing him to move faster.

The sound of lasers tearing through the air is unmistakable, the pops of small explosions echoing out. You dive into the stairwell, barely avoiding the beams as they scorch the air around you. The heat on your back makes your skin crawl.

You hear the security team yelling, but you don’t stop. You push forward, practically pulling Hughie up the stairs, praying like hell that the explosions Homelander triggered are buying you enough time. The sound of blood rushing in your ears deafens you to the metal clattering your steps make as you race to reach the ground floor. 

You burst out of the stairwell back into those fluorescent lights, not bothering to look upward on the chance that an errant glance might get caught on security cameras. You head straight down the hall, not breaking speed, not letting go of Hughie until you're both careening down the alleyway. Butcher's white van is waiting exactly where you left it. 

Only, the door you just exited out of slams open, a chorus of feet smacking the cement twenty paces behind you. They're close, too damn close. 

The van is so close you can see the flecks of rust around the wheel wells, can almost read the vulgar bumper sticker barely clinging to the back door. But they're too close. You'll barely be able to close the doors behind you before the posse at your backs clamor around the vehicle, blocking Butcher's escape. 

You make a split second decision and pray to whatever greater being might be listening that it's a good one. 

You're vaguely aware of the van in your periphery as you speed past it, unable to see Butcher in the driver's seat, but knowing he's there nonetheless. What you don't see is his panic, the frantic foot on the gas pedal, the mental math trying to determine what the fuck you two dimwits are doing as you descend into the New York subway system.

@bluemerakis

@mystic-writings

@imherefordeanandbones