#red brass n buttons

[kaira-diaries]

Nocturne:

Warning:(smut-implied age gap)(wound cleaning) (violence)(implied character death)

Pair:(fem!xfrontman/In-ho)

Word Count: 4k(dear god)

A/N: Okay, I feel like while writing this I blindly turned it into an enemies to lovers. Kind of? Sorta? Maybe? Also my summary kind of sucks but it's smut with some plot long story short.

Summary: The sheltered daughter of a VIP grows bored of the games, and finds herself exploring the quarters of the front man, only she's blindly unaware. This mistake, while nearly costs her her life, also opens up an intense and longing romance.

Masterlist <-

Vote here if you’d want a part two!!

________

You stifled a yawn, staring down at the game room where players carefully carved honeycombs under the watchful eyes of masked guards. Dalgona—a game you knew well but found painfully dull. Your father, sprawled beside you on the velvet loveseat, reeked of expensive liquor and slurred, "Where are you going?"

As you stood, you tucked a pillow beneath his head, smoothing your burgundy dress. "For a drink. Rest now."

Another VIP leaned over, gesturing to your snoring father. "Had too much?"

"Always," you replied with a tight smile. "Keep an eye on him, will you?"

Glass in hand, you ascended the grand staircase to the bar. The itch of your golden mask only added to your frustration. The sound of a gunshot from the game room below barely held your attention. Forty lost—disappointing. You popped the cork on a fresh bottle of wine, pouring a glass and savoring the first sip.

Then, through the double doors ahead, you noticed something. A space you'd never seen before, dark and enticing.

You hesitated, glancing back at the games. Nothing exciting there, and your father was well guarded. With a sly smile, you patted the blade strapped to your thigh, pushed the doors open, and stepped into the unknown.

With the wine bottle in hand, you take a generous swig, the rich flavor a momentary comfort. The foyer feels stark, oppressive—its black walls and cool gray floors exuding a chill that seeps into your skin. Gold accents glint faintly in the dim light, the only warmth in this austere domain. You grimace at the decor but press on, curiosity pulling you deeper.

The elongated hallway looms ahead, flanked by heavy, closed doors. Each one seems to hum with secrets, daring you to turn the handle. You hesitate, a voice in the back of your mind warning you to turn around. Yet, as your fingers graze the cool brass of a doorknob, you pull back. Another sip of wine quiets the voice, and you continue to the open space at the hall's end.

This room feels different—softer, more inviting. You run your fingers along the sleek fabric of a gray loveseat, its plush texture a strange comfort against the stark surroundings. Your gaze lands on a collection of vibrant figurines—a rare splash of color in the muted space. One stands out: a woman in a flowing red gown, microphone in hand, her face alight with passion. Around her, a miniature band, instruments gleaming, seems poised to play.

Your heart races as you spot a remote beside the figures. The urge to press it outweighs any lingering caution. You place the bottle down next to your mask as you remove it, press the button, and watch as the figures come to life, their voices harmonizing in a hauntingly beautiful rendition of "Fly Me to the Moon."

The melody fills the room, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Eyes closed, you let the music wash over you, unsure if it's the alcohol or the song that's softening the edges of the world. 

You were halfway through the bottle of wine when the music stopped abruptly, and a cold dread prickled your spine. The figures had ceased their dance mid-note, leaving the room in a suffocating silence.

You spun around, the blade on your thigh now in your grip, sharp and ready.

Standing in the doorway was a figure shrouded in shadow, his presence dominating the room. He stepped forward, the dim light catching the edges of a cold, metallic mask. His posture was rigid, and his gloved hand gripped a pistol aimed directly at you.

"Who are you?" His voice was like crushed gravel, low and commanding.

Your pulse quickened, but you kept your expression sharp, masking the fear threatening to surface. "You first," you bit back, your fingers tightening around the hilt of your blade.

His head tilted slightly, the gesture almost mocking. "You're in my quarters, and yet you demand answers."

You shifted your stance; every muscle in your body coiled like a spring. "I didn't see your name on the door," you snapped, each word laced with defiance.

In a flash, he was upon you, closing the distance with startling speed. His hand caught your wrist, twisting it just enough to force the knife from your grip without breaking the skin. You gritted your teeth as he pinned your arm behind your back, pressing you against the cold edge of the table.

His gun found its way under your chin, tilting your head back to meet his masked gaze. The mask's lifeless eyes stared down at you, void of humanity, and yet you swore you could feel the heat of his scrutiny.

"Answer me," he growled, his voice a hairsbreadth from your ear.

You smirked, though your pulse hammered against your ribs. "Kill me, then. I dare you. Let's see how you'd like explaining to everyone why a VIP's daughter ended up dead in your quarters."

His grip faltered for a fraction of a second, a hesitation so slight that most wouldn't notice. But you did. He released you with an almost annoyed shove, holstering his gun as he took a deliberate step back.

Rubbing your wrist, you straightened and smirked at him, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. "Yeah didn't think so," you muttered.

Before he could respond, the room was flooded with pink-clad guards, their rifles raised and aimed squarely at you. Your eyes darted between the barrels of the guns and the masked man.

"Stand down," he barked at the guards, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

They hesitated but obeyed, lowering their weapons.

You scoffed, brushing past the guards as you retrieved your blade from the floor. "All of this for little ol' me?" you quipped, slipping your knife back into its sheath.

The masked man didn't respond, his head tilting slightly as if studying you. His silence unnerved you more than the gun had.

With a flick of your hair, you grabbed your golden mask from the table and placed it over your face, the metallic surface catching the dim light. As you walked past him, your eyes never left his, and neither did his leave yours.

"Try not to miss me," you said with a smirk, your voice dripping with mockery as you exited the room.

______________

You lay on your back, rubbing your eyes as exhaustion clung to you, but sleep refused to come. You didn't know what time it was, but when a dull headache crept in, you sighed and slipped out of bed to find a glass of water. Throwing on a black robe, you padded into the quiet halls, unconcerned. At this hour, only the guards would be awake, and none would dare glance at the daughter of a VIP—not if they valued their lives.

You crossed your arms against the chill and shut the door behind you. The once-bright hallway was now shaded, the only light spilling faintly from the main room ahead. Your knees ached as you trudged down the cold corridor.

The earlier Dalgona game had thinned the herd. Many players were gone, and your father's friends were divided—some bitter over their financial losses, others laughing as they poured another drink. For them, the money was trivial.

Mama had always been against gambling, insisting money was meant to be earned, not squandered on fleeting thrills. You missed her fiercely, the ache of her absence tightening your chest. You pressed on, trying to shake the melancholy, though your thoughts drifted elsewhere—to him.

His presence lingered in your mind like a gloom you couldn't shake. He had come terrifyingly close to ending your life, yet there was something in that encounter—a charged energy you couldn't explain, equal parts fear and... something else.

Reaching the kitchen, you stepped inside, greeted by the faint hum of the industrial fridge. The space was massive, gleaming stainless steel counters and cabinets casting faint reflections in the dim light. You found a glass in one of the cabinets, filling it with water from the sleek faucet.

As you raised the glass to your lips, a flicker of movement in the doorway caught your eye. Your heart stopped. He stood there, The masked man, silent and imposing.

A startled yelp escaped your lips as you stumbled back a step, clutching your chest.

"You're gonna give me a heart attack—again," you snapped, scowling at him as you poured 

another generous measure of water into your glass. "Ever heard of announcing yourself?"

His voice came out low and mechanical, but there was something unspoken behind it, something you couldn't quite place. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his eyes behind the mask locked on you, lingering just a little too long. His steps were slow and soft, as if he was trying not to scare you off.

You cleared your throat, shrugging off the weight of his gaze. "Could be better," you said nonchalantly, swirling the liquid in your glass. Then, flashing a sharp smile, you added, "I didn't quite catch your name after you nearly blew my brains out."

"I'm the Front Man," he replied evenly.

Your grin faltered slightly, but you held it together, leaning casually against the counter. "Fitting. So, what's your deal in all this? Why are you here?"

"I oversee and operate the facility," he said, his voice as detached as ever.

You tilted your head, curiosity tugging at you. "So, you're the game maker," you said, taking a sip and adding, "Those were actually your quarters, then."

"Among other things," he admitted, a touch of something—pride, perhaps?—edging into his tone.

Your lips twitched with the hint of a smile as you folded your arms, suddenly acutely aware of your black robe, barely held together at the waist. "Sorry for snooping earlier," you said, your voice softer. "Curiosity and boredom get the better of me sometimes."

He didn't respond immediately, and the silence stretched, charged and heavy. When he finally spoke, his question caught you off guard. "What did you think of today's game?"

You raised a brow, knowing he didn't care about your opinion. Still, you couldn't resist taking the bait. "Honestly? It was a bit of a snooze fest. The Dalgona challenge?" You shook your head. "A complete letdown. I was so bored I ended up raiding your quarters just to find something more entertaining."

You thought you heard a low scoff beneath the mask, but his face was unreadable. "How so?" he asked, almost begrudgingly.

"It lacked drama," you said, setting your glass down. "There was no big moment to keep the audience on edge. No payoff. It felt...lazy." You leaned forward more, catching his stare. "I'm not easily impressed, and for my first visit? Not great, especially after being...manhandled."

His head tilted slightly, his mask catching the low light. "You're a spoiled brat," he said, his tone clipped. "I'm not here to entertain you."

You pushed away from the counter, stepping in front of him closely, your golden necklace catching the light as it swung forward. "That's where you're wrong," you said, your voice low, each word deliberate. "I'm part of the next generation of VIPs—the ones funding your 'little business.' If you can't impress me, why should I invest in you?"

The room felt colder for a moment, his silence more cutting than any retort. "Why wait until now to join your father at the games?" he asked abruptly, sidestepping your challenge.

You blinked, momentarily thrown. "I've been busy," you said.

"Busy with what?" he pressed.

You toyed with a strand of hair, smirking. "Business," you said lightly. "I mostly dabble in the legal kind...and sometimes the not-so-legal, if the payout's worth it."

A gust of cold air swept through the room, making you shiver. You rubbed your arms for warmth, feeling the tension in the air grow thicker. "How did you end up running all of this, anyway?" you asked, meeting his gaze. "Doesn't seem like the kind of job you'd find on a career board."

His answer was clipped. "I'm skilled at what I do. That's all you need to know."

"That's it?" you asked, your frown betraying your disappointment. "No juicy backstory?"

"Does it really matter?" he countered.

"Guess not," you said with a shrug. But his words lingered, their finality leaving a mark.

"If you're mostly about legal businesses, what are you doing here?" he asked, his tone sharp, probing.

"I love my father," you said simply. "He asked me to come, so I came. And this...this is my future, isn't it? Might as well get familiar with it instead of pretending it doesn't exist."

For a moment, he said nothing, his mask a void, his gaze impenetrable. But you felt it—the weight of his attention, the unspoken pull between you.

Finally, you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the spell breaking. "I should get to bed," you said softly, stepping around him toward the hallway with your water. "Goodnight."

He inclined his head, his voice low. "Goodnight."

As you descended, the warmth of the exchange lingered, a quiet echo in the stillness of the night.

___________

A week had passed in a whirlwind of chaos, each game more brutal and captivating than the last. Yet, what lingered in your mind was the frustrating absence of The Front Man. Beyond fleeting glances, he seemed distant, as though merely going through the motions. It bothered you that you were disappointed.

Seated in your velvet chair, you felt the thrill of a game's dramatic conclusion but soon found yourself craving a refill. With a sudden burst of energy, you left your seat, not bothering to smooth your sage green dress, and ascended the staircase to the bar. The marble counter gleamed under soft light as you reached for the whiskey decanter.

Before the amber liquid could hit the glass, a loud crash from behind the double doors stopped you cold. Another crash followed, then a cry of pain that sent chills down your spine.

Heart pounding, you slipped inside to find The Front Man hunched over, a knife digging into his bloodied shoulder.

"What the fuck?" you blurted, stepping closer.

He shot out his good arm, stopping you. "I'm fine. Go back to the game," he said, his voice calm but distant.

You hesitated, his words tempting you to leave, but the sight of him—wounded and vulnerable—rooted you to the spot. Walking away felt impossible.

"Let me get it out. At that angle, you'll never dislodge it." He continued to poke and prod at his shoulder, his fingers and the blade digging into the tender flesh. Groaning in pain as blood pooled from his shoulder, he ultimately ignored your offer; shocker. 

You rolled your eyes and rushed over to him, hovering until he quit and met your gaze through the grey mask. "You can barely stay upright; let me help," you said, palm outstretched for the blade. "Believe me, you don't want to bleed out. It's a mess to clean up." He stalled for a few heartbeats, and you almost felt awkward until he placed the bloodstained blade in your hand. 

Sitting beside him, the tension in his body eased slightly. 

"You're stubborn," you muttered, wiping away the blood to get a clearer view of the wound. 

"And you're persistent," he shot back, a flicker of amusement flashed in your expression. 

"Call it a survival skill." You took a steadying breath. You hesitated for a moment, then glanced at the mask that concealed his face. "This isn't going to work with that thing in the way. Take it off."

Silence followed for a few moments, "It stays on."

"Look," you said, your tone firm but not unkind. "If I'm going to pull this bullet out without nicking an artery, I need to see what I'm doing. That means the mask—and the jacket—have to go."

A tense silence stretched between you, broken only by the sound of his unsteady breathing. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he reached up and unfastened the mask. As it fell away, you froze.

He was breathtaking—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and piercing eyes that seemed to cut right through you. Despite the blood and sweat streaking his skin, he radiated a rugged intensity that made it hard to look away. You blinked, forcing yourself to focus.

"Jacket and whatever is on underneath too," you managed, your voice quieter now.

He smirked faintly, as if he'd caught the flicker of shock in your expression, but said nothing as he shrugged off his jacket and black shirt with a wince. Beneath it, his body was lean and sculpted, the muscles taut as he shifted to give you better access to the wound. You swallowed hard, mentally cursing yourself for being distracted. "This might hurt a little more." 

"Just do it," he deadpanned, taking a wealthy swig of liquor. 

The blade slipped deep into the wound, and your fingers steadied as you worked with precision. The bullet was lodged in an awkward angle, and you cursed under your breath. "What were you doing to end up like this?" You asked, partly to distract him and partly because your curiosity was gnawing at you. 

"Nothing, it was a disagreement," he said curtly.

"With a bullet?" you teased, but his silence told you it wasn't a joke. "Right. Noted."

Finally, your blade scraped against something hard, and you exhaled in relief. "Got it." You carefully maneuvered the bullet free, holding it up triumphantly before tossing it onto the table with a metallic clink. 

He let out a shaky breath, his body fully relaxing for the first time since you'd entered the room. "You're good at this," he admitted, his voice softer now.

"Thanks. Years of practice." You grabbed another cloth and doused it with the liquor, dabbing it against the wound to clean it. He hissed through his teeth but didn't pull away. 

"So," you said, wrapping a bandage tightly around his shoulder, "are you going to tell me what actually happened, or do I have to piece it together myself?" 

He studied you for a moment, his gaze unreadable. "You ask too many questions."

"Maybe," you admitted with a small smile, tying off the bandage. "But it's part of my charm." He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a smile. 

"You're lucky I decided to be a helpful hand today," you commented, admiring your handiwork. "That should hold for now; I'll come back tonight to clean and bandage it once more. Just don't go picking any more fights."

"I'll keep that in mind." You started to gather the bloodied cloths and the blade, but his voice stopped you. "Thank you."

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and you glanced back at him. For a moment, the stoic, commanding figure seemed almost... human. 

"You're welcome," you said softly. "Just try not to die on me. It'd be a shame after all that work." 

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound sending you a strange warmth. "I'll do my best."

With that, you left his quarters to rejoin the game, the faint sound of his laughter following you as you returned to your velvet seat. 

___________

The room was dim, bathed in the soft, amber glow of a single lamp on the bedside table. The air was thick with the heady mix of whiskey and expensive cologne, an intoxicating blend that made you pause in the doorway, savoring it for a moment longer than you should have. In your hands, bandages and a damp cloth felt heavier than they were, as if weighted by the tension you carried with you. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, his back straight and shoulders taut, every inch of him radiating restraint. The mask was absent, left somewhere out of sight, and you were mesmerized by the faint outline of his profile in the low light. 

You knocked softly on the open door, the sound cutting through the thick silence. "So." he said without looking up, his voice, edged with dry humor. "That's how you announce yourself to someone." 

A soft laugh escaped your lips, an involuntary reaction to his sharp wit, as you entered the room. The distance between you felt heavier with every step, but you closed it anyway and sat beside him. 

"Any dizziness?" You asked, your voice gentle, almost tentative, as you set the supplies beside you. 

He turned his head toward you, his eyes shadowed yet heavy with something unspoken. His stillness was unnerving like he was waiting for something-waiting for you. "No," he said finally, his tone steady but low. "I feel fine." 

"Good," you murmured, reaching for his shoulder. His body tensed beneath your touch, a subtle reaction, but you felt it all the same. You worked carefully, peeling away the bandage with delicate fingers, wincing at the angry wound beneath. "Your body must be making up for the blood loss," you added, your voice softer now. 

His gaze lingered on you, the intensity of it palpable. You could feel the heat of it, even as he said nothing. The space between you seemed to shrink with each passing second, and though neither of you spoke, the weight of what remained unsaid hung in the air like a fragile thread. 

"You don't have to do this," he said, his voice breaking the quiet. 

You glance up, meeting his weary gaze. "Maybe not," you admitted, your fingers brushing his skin as you cleaned the wound. "But I want to." 

His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening for a moment before he let out a slow measured breath. "You shouldn't care," he murmured, almost to himself, but the words felt directed at you as if he was referring to when he pressed a gun to your head. 

"And yet, here I am," you said, a faint smile playing on your lips. 

His expression was unreadable, and for a moment, you thought he might say something more. Instead, he sat in silence, letting you work.

As you finished securing the new bandage, your fingers lingered for just a moment too long, the touch barely there but electric nonetheless. You pulled back slowly, your heart thundering in your chest, and you pulled your hands into your lap, staring down at them.

You could feel his heavy and unwavering gaze on you. He hadn't said a word, but his silence spoke louder than any declaration. His dark and intense eyes roamed over you, not just your face but every detail—the loose strands of your freshly washed hair, the way your shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve beneath. There was more than curiosity in his gaze; there was hunger, restrained and smoldering like a fire barely contained. 

"Why did you offer to come here tonight?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly. 

"To check on your wound," you said, though your voice cracked under the weight of his stare. 

He leaned forward slightly, his good hand bracing against the bed, and you caught that familiar scent of cologne mingling with a raw scent that was entirely his. "That's not the only reason," he countered, his tone sharp. 

Your breath hitched as he closed the space between you, the proximity dizzying. "Maybe I was worried," you admitted in a whisper as his presence consumed you. 

"Worried," he repeated, almost to himself, his lips curling into a faint smirk. 

"You shouldn't be." 

"I can't help it," you whispered. 

His hand moved before you could think, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes burned with something deeper, something primal. His thumb traced a line down your jaw, "You're exquisite," he murmured as his hand slid down, resting on the side of your neck, his thumb now grazing the hollow of your throat. The pulse beneath his touch quickened, betraying you. 

"You should leave," he said, though the words lacked conviction. 

"Do you want me to leave?" you asked, searching his eyes for any truth. 

His grip on your neck tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing against your skin as he tilted his head closer. "No," he admitted, the confession slipping out. Your lips parted, a sharp inhale escaping as the tension between you snapped, and he closed the distance. His lips captured yours with a heat that stole your breath. 

The kiss wasn't tentative or hesitant—it was consuming, demanding, and filled with a longing that neither of you could deny anymore. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you dizzy, his control slipping just enough to let you feel how much he wanted you. 

Your breath hitched as the kiss deepened, his grip on your back tightening, holding you to him. Without breaking the kiss, you shifted even closer, the soft fabric of your shirt brushing against his chest as your hands settled, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. Wanting more, needing more, you leaned further in, swinging one leg over his lap. His breath caught as you settled onto him, straddling his thighs with deliberate care, mindful of his injured shoulder. His good hand explored every inch of you now as the kiss quickened with appetite. You gasped as his hand gripped your ass with breathtaking strength. 

The intimacy of the position sent a flush of heat through you, pooling between your thighs as your pulse thrummed wildly. Gazing down at him, he searched your face, lingering on your lips before flicking back up to look at you. Your hands reached up, brushing your fingers against his jaw; the faint stubble was rough beneath your touch.  "I didn't hurt you, did I?" you asked softly. 

"No," he said, the single word rough and weighted. You smiled. 

"Good," you mumbled, your palm pushing his hair from his face.

 "Because I don't want to stop." With that said, you pulled your shirt up, over your head and tossed it to the side, unveiling your breasts. He took every inch in of you, wasting no time attaching his lips to you. The sensation was breathtaking as you threw your head back, moaning. 

You exhaled sharply. There'd be marks, no doubt. However, concern surfaced within you as he suddenly pulled back. You gazed down at him, catching the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I can't fuck you how I want." 

Your expression eased as you met his gaze. "Then let me take care of you," you murmured, your voice gentle but determined as you lifted off him and slid down to the floor, settling on your knees. Reaching for his pants, your fingers diligently worked at the leather belt, yanking it free. Unzipping his pants and sliding your hands in, he sprang free before you, and your mouth watered at the view of him. You caught his eye, finding a smirk on his lips as he reached for your hair, wrapping it around his knuckles.

He gave a sharp tug, pulling your head back, and you whined. "You look so pretty on your knees for me," he remarked with desire staining his eyes.

With that, you took his immense size in your mouth, gliding to the pace he had set for you. Your tongue danced on his tip, and you swallowed every time you took the entirety of him; he groaned, "Fuck, just like that." He praised and your eyes watered from the intensity. You weren't outstanding at providing head, and a wave of insecurity washed over you. Nerves twisted in your stomach at the thought of not satisfying him, but the hitches in his breathing, the sharp inhales and exhales, and the praise he offered gave you the assurance you needed as you took him deeper and deeper with intensity and lust. You hadn't been able to see, but his head was thrown back in pleasure, lips parted.

Feeling him twitch in your mouth, you knew he was close as he picked up the speed even more. Saliva began pooling from your lips, dripping onto your knees and covering his length as you fought to breathe. His pull on your hair grew sloppy and you moaned at the appetizing ache in your scalp. "Fuck you're going to make me cum." His voice is rough as he offers one last yank of your hair, slamming you back down onto him and filling your mouth. You swallow the load, pulling off him and meeting his exhausted eyes; he rubs his thumb over your lips, promptly shoving it in your mouth, and you take it with no protest.

________

His chest radiated warmth as you melted into his embrace, your heartbeat gradually syncing with his steady rhythm. Your eyes remained closed as you hummed, "you never told me your name." 

A calloused palm rubs your shoulder, "In-ho." 

You smiled, repeating it, "In-ho. I like that much better than FrontMan." 

His fingers gently encircled your wrist, his touch spoke volumes. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. You pushed yourself onto your elbow, looking down at him. "I am, " you whispered, but he shook his head and caressed your cheek. "Stay here with me. Help me run the whole fucking thing." The request entailed a lot and you weren't able to form a response, stunned by such a proposal, but then you thought it over. There was nothing left for you back home except your emergency medical clinic, which could indeed survive without you. Your father was fine and could take care of himself as long as he had his money. All you contained was a large sum of untouched money. You bit your lip, looking back at him. "Alright." 

[dhampling]

the gate girl!dadstarion, 1.5k

He knows vaguely where the building is - he’s sure he’s passed it on one of his late night jaunts - but you’re coming along too. He knows he’s prepared for this moment, down to the most minute detail.  - astarion is a school-gate dilf on his first pick-up adventure with you. wc: 1.5k a/n: dadstarion fridays! wooooo! hope you enjoy - love, dal x

“Come on. We’ll be late.”

Your hand meets his with a toothy grin.

Astarion teeters a little.

He knows vaguely where the building is - he’s sure he’s passed it on one of his late night jaunts - but you’re coming along too. 

He knows he’s prepared for this moment, down to the most minute detail. 

Weeks spent designing the overcoat now covering his clothes - almost feltish in texture, a deep blue with gentle golden threading. Brass buttons. The smallest red ribbon detailing in the seams. The fit is immaculate, despite the fact he had to take his own measurements. The gloves match beautifully, just as he’d intended.

Shoes polished within an inch of their lives. Shirt and trousers pressed to perfection. Hair neatly coiffed with assistance from your gentle hands.

He grimaces.

“She’s going to think I’m weird.”

“Is this for her, or you?’

He takes a moment. Examines both sides of his glove with a flex. Sniffs pointedly. 

‘She’s not going to think you’re any weirder than she already does. She’s your little freak.” You grab at his sides playfully and he shimmies around your clutches, breaking into a timid laugh. 

The dark skies of Deepwinter are primed to allow Astarion his first ever school pick-up. 

He hasn’t slept, you know that. Bag in hand holding the gift he’d spent the short day hidden away working on. Your matching scarves around your necks. The biting chill beyond the threshold of your hearth.  

Eyes round in a contemplative lax as his hand rests atop the door handle. 

“I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

Your eyes roll fondly into your skull.

“Yes. Now, get moving.” 

It takes you enclosing your hand in his for the door to open, immediately facing a brutal fracas of ice-cold winds lapping at your face. 

“How in any realm is a child expected to walk home in this? Ridiculous!” He shuffles from foot to foot as he chunters while you lock the door and pocket the key, looking up to the stars.

“With a coat. And gloves. And…’

You point to the bag in his hand as you interlink your arms.

‘A scarf.’

Astarion gives a small smile, pressing a chaste kiss to your head.

‘Come on, now. We might get there in time to see her out the door.”

-

The walk there isn’t the leisurely gander Astarion had dreamt of when he’d thought of this moment. 

In his head it was always late summer. Sunblushed.

And yet as you turn your head to him in your giddy half-canter; cheeks flush and breath clouding the space around your perfect head, he can’t believe he ever imagined it any other way.

The stars overhead are familiar as they always have been. The slightest slippy tread of frost on the cobble. Windows around you lit with candles and the loud taverns you pass en-route seem well hunkered-down.

He finds himself pulling you closer with each corner turned, stumbling to keep with your gait.

And then, there it is.

A huddle of parents waiting out in the cold, hands rubbing together; a low hum of chatter. School gates still closed. When you greet some of them with familiarity - one or two even getting a hug as you make your way to your preferred circle - and introduce him as your husband, his heart swells. 

He didn’t realise you were friends with these people. That these fellow parents could be people to have anything in common with in the first place. Astarion is hardly the enigma he used to be within the city walls and they know of him. They know you’re with him.

But none have ever seen him in the flesh.

There’s a minute where he ponders what they think of him. How you’d described him, how they may have looked at your daughter under the orange gloaming light of Leaffall and wondered which features of hers came first from him as opposed to you. How they’d pieced him together in their minds.

He feels a little out of place as you chatter - hyper aware of each stolen glance in his direction. The whites of new eyes flickering in the darkness. 

It isn’t often he meets new people anymore. Even his client roster is exclusive. 

“Why would I tell you how good-looking he is when he isn’t even here to hear it?”

He tunes back in. They all look, you included.

“Hm?”

“Marta-’ 

A faux accusatory glance on your face as you look over to the human who - Astarion presumes - is Marta. 

‘Asked why I hadn’t told the group just how attractive you are.”

The way the most blinding smile breaks over your ruddied cheeks. He melts behind a scoff.

“Actually darling, Marta has a point. I’m hurt, frankly.”

Gods. They’re all laughing. Your gaggle of school-gate friends and he has them laughing.

“No, it’s just dark. See him by light. Then you’ll change your minds.”

You huddle closer despite the brazen lie and the group laughs away. He throws in a small chuckle for good measure and presses a kiss to your head once more.

They’re all relatively harmless, he decides.

What do school gate friends do? Why have you never invited them over for wine or something? 

“I mean - Astarion, what do you think?”

“Hm?”

“They’re showing a rather keen interest to come over one evening for dinner. Inconspicuous, I’m sure.” 

He looks around warily. Can they read his mind? Is someone here a weird school gate mind reader freak? What the fuck?

Your eyes narrow at Marta in jest.

Oh.

If you’re even showing the slightest hint at wanting the doting husband, the doting husband he will give you. Freely and willingly. Far too easily. Naturally.

“Oh! Whatever you want, my love. Anything.”

Astarion takes your head in his hands and brings you close for a warm kiss, eyes softening as he holds you in place. A gentle smile against the harsh wind.  

“What’s in the bag?” Another asks in a jarring fettle. Your head whips round. He answers softly. 

“I- I made the little one a scarf.” 

A coo arises from those huddled around the two of you. 

“He’s a tailor. A good one, too. Really good.” 

You nod with a smile, looking at him. You’re mid-cycle and the idea of your daughter spotting him with those big eyes makes you a bit weak.

A saccharine voice from somewhere in the mix - “He’s immaculate, honey. I’m a little jealous?” 

If he can blush, Astarion feels one coming on. This feels staged. 

“He can’t take his shoes off without kicking them up the wall. Or catch spiders.”

-

As you resume your quiet chatter amongst the group, Astarion catches the door open in the near distance and a soft amber glow pouring from it from the corner of his eye.

It’s a trance. He looks over the heads obscuring his view, the tips of his toes touching the ends of his pristine shoes. 

And there she is.

Absolutely perfect. Small, searching the crowd for the parent she knows will be here.

Then she sees him.

It’s not difficult from afar, even in the dark - she recognises the shock of white hair anywhere - and the look of sheer confusion painted on her face shifts to unfettered joy in seconds.

Gods. She’s running. Tiny legs, bag flailing in her hand. Shouting-

“DADDY!”

As she hurtles towards him, he realises he’s never seen her run like this. She can’t run like this in the house. It’d be enough to make him sad if he weren’t so wholly elated.

He crouches just in time for her to barrel into his open arms.

The way he cups the back of her head is as if he hasn’t seen her in years, spinning her as he stands and holds her at his hip. She’s babbling something wicked and all of it sounds like utter nonsense and he’s so besotted it doesn’t even matter.

His little girl, out in the world. Being a person. 

And it’s him that she chooses to run to. 

“Charming! Hello love!” You shuffle closer and plant a large kiss on the back of her head, taking the bags from her hand and hoisting them up over your back in a routine twirl.

You take Astarion’s hint of a glance toward his bag and roll your eyes fondly, feeling for the scarf and slipping it back into his hand.

“My little darling! Hello! I have something for you - close your eyes.”

He haphazardly wraps the scarf around her neck with one hand as she bristles against his hip, wiggling her shoulders in some impromptu happy dance.

“Look now! You match us!” He exclaims. 

She opens her eyes and squeals with glee you haven’t seen at the school gate before, ever.

And true to his word, the scarf wholly matches both of yours. Embroidered with small golden stars on navy fabric. Her name in some immaculate loopy hand. Far too big for her at present, but warm on this coldest of evenings.

“I love it daddy. I want another one.” She nods acutely and smatters his face in small kisses. 

As you look to Astarion, he raises both brows in amusement at her request. She tucks her head in under his chin.

“Come along now. Let’s get you warm by the fire.”

✦

[forever--darling]

young padawan

summary: in the midst of chaos, you have only two to hold onto, obi-wan & his young padawan. as bakura continues to burn, you can't deny the comfort & safety that is brought by the two jedis, all while you recount your life on the fallen planet

pairings: anakin skywalker x princess!reader

word count: 6.5k

warnings/notes: mention of war, of death, mention of clone wars, swearing, mention of blood, the long escape that is from bakura, as well protector!anakin

series masterlist | 01

“Your highness, we must go.” 

The alarm was like something you had never heard before, almost like a high-pitched scream. It was blaring, outweighing the sounds of gunfire and screams from across the floor. Eyes piercing the back of the Jedi before you, leading you through the capital, his light saber clutched tightly in his opposing arm, the other held tightly onto your hand. 

“No, no, we can’t leave him. We have to go back, we have to try—try to convince him—or something.” 

The pale robes were rustled along his frame, held together by the single brass armor wrapped around his abdomen. His long hair brushing along his neck, head on a swivel as he quickly lead you throughout the abandoned halls of the building. 

“Princess…” 

“We must—” 

“Your—” 

“Obi-Wan, please.” 

Screams and yells echoed across the corridors, corridors that were no longer untouched, you noticed. Rather just as red, just as bright as the alarm, bathed in the blood of the staff of the capital of fellow Bakurans. A void had seemed to fall upon you, numbness that led to silence and disengagement, as you walked quickly but carefully, almost glued to the older Jedi's back. Eyes sweeping along the nightmare that had become of your city. 

“Y/N!” he yelled, both of his hands taking a firm hold upon your shoulders, “We cannot go back. There is not enough time. Not if we want to succeed in your survival. We must go now.”

This is the end. 

Of not you then your sanity, no doubt. The hood felt heavy along your head, concealing the peripheral of your vision, of the horrors that were sure to surround you. As Obi-Wan halted at the edge of the hall, his arm barred out blocking you from advancing. With his saber raised, he peeked around the corner, the hidden corridor that not many people realized was even useable within the capital.

You merely held your breath, waiting, worrying how this would all end. 

His eyes flickered around the room though you were hidden from it. Voices echoed, paired with footsteps in the opposite direction. As they faded, he peered back as if to check on you. Your face was expressionless, a fine line into nothing. 

The static appeared again, quiter than it had earlier, from Obi-Wan’s belt. The voice was the same as it had been before. “Master! Master, come in!” 

Obi-Wan pulled the com near his face and held the button near the side of it, “I’m here, my Padawan.” 

“What’s your status, Master?” 

“You shouldn’t worry, young apprentice we are near. Shouldn’t be more than another minute or so.” 

“The gates are overcome with rebels, sir. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up.” 

A worry line etched across the Jedis face at the sound of his young Padawan’s voice. You watched it carefully, almost quizzically. The only thing you could swear to remember from that day other than the red lights and the red walls. 

“Should I head for the ship? Get it as close as I can?” 

“No. I may need you nearby to help with the safe extraction of the princess.” 

He protested, “But Master—” 

“I believe in you, Anakin. Forge for the east side of the capital. You will find a row of doors there. That is where we will meet you.” 

Placing the com back onto his belt, he turned down the static enough that it were mumble. He peeked once again arond the corner and as he did he spoke back at me, “The room is clear but we have to move quick, another raid could be advancing soon. Just another hallway and then we’ll be near the east entrance.” 

His words felt as if they had gone in one ear and out the other. You could only stare forward, eye vacant of reality other than the last remaining gaze upon your father’s broken frame. He could have been dead at that very moment. Slain, sure to go down with the rest of the capital if the clones were to set fire to it as they had with most of the city. 

Obi-Wan had sensed your hesitation as well as yoru voidness. “Your highness?” 

“Yes?” your voice was meek, a whisper, startled as if he had pulled you from the depths of your mind. 

“I need to ensure that you’re listening to everything I am saying.” 

You nodded, it was all you could get out then as you could hear the echo of footsteps following down the same hallway you two were standing at the end of. Glancing over your shoulder, you waned against Obi-Wan’s back. 

“Okay, now follow close.” 

He extended his saber out from behind the wall, the blue hue emitting along the broken and slicked walls. Ensuring the hood was far across your head, you stepped out just behind Obi-Wan, head moving from side to side following any noises or unsteady silence that poked and prodded at your ears. The woosh of the saber was a mere mumble along the empty corridor of the capital. You were near the front of the building, that you could notice from the once marble pillars that now lay strewn, pulled down. Any and all artifacts and paintings were in ruins, and blood from innocent Bakurans smeared along the front steps.

 The footsteps seemed to get louder, louder as you advanced across the corridor. You felt as if all the hairs on the back of your neck were wire, sticking up, while the energy seemed to shift around the room, it was almost as if you could feel it. “Obi—” 

“Shh.” 

It was then the trot had advanced rather quickly just as you were entering the last hallway. You were so close, so close to being rid of that place. So close and yet—

“We got eyes!” a voice yelled out from the other end of the room, “It’s the princess.” 

As the voice yelled across the room, you felt Obi-Wan grab your arm and swing you around so you were now in front of him near the hallway. As the footsteps sounded like a sudden stampede behind you, gunshots followed, only to be deflected by the blue saber in Obi-Wan’s hands. 

You looked back at him expectnantly not sure what to do as you peered past him to see the rebels followed closely by clones. 

“Run!” Obi-Wan yelled, then, “Run, god damn it. I’ll be right behind you.” 

You did as he asked. You did as your father had planned for you. You turned, and you took off down the hallway, the long pale hallway void of anything and everything. Just a few more turns, and you would be at the east side entrance. The sounds followed of the saber, of Obi-Wan’s struggling breaths, of the com, his voice yelling into it. You didn’t stop, though, not even as the cloak threatened to trip you or the hood had fallen off your head onto your back. 

Not even as the voices followed.

“Not if we want to succeed in your survival. We must go now.”

His words echoed, staining your innocence as you both had left the king to die. 

“You, my dearest daughter, are more like your mother than you ever believe. One day you will make a magnificent queen.” 

“Anakin, be ready at the door,” Obi-Wan’s voice could be heard just down the hallway. 

It was the last thing you heard as you sprinted, through the hallway and out of the large metal door, the red lights still shielding your eyes from the white overheads they once were. Pushing the door open with all of your might, you stepped out, immediately being met with clouds of dark smoke. 

Your feet came to a stop on the outside of steps of the east entrance, the smoke billowing in your face enough to make you cough. Waving away the small gust in front of your face, you glared through the haze immediately feeling the horror amplify before your eyes. Red and orange flames accentuated the once blue and green planet. The city was doused, blinded by so much smoke you could only see the heat through it all. Piles of rubble doused the land as screams of men, women, and children were louder than they had been inside. The color drained from your face then as the only thing you could see through the haze was flashes of light from the guns, the blasters, and collapsed forms. 

A kick of a rock nearby startled you and suddenly you realized just how exposed and vulnerable you were outside — no longer behind a Jedis back. The figure who supposedly kicked the rock from a few feet away, froze in the street, frame turning slightly at the sight of your form through the smoke. He wore a mask concealing his face. 

The anger was gone, the frustration. Suddenly, all that remained was fear. As the stranger tilted his head curiously and took a step closer, you took one further down the steps. You took another, watching carefully how he advanced. As he took another, you broke out in a run down the remainder of the steps. 

You didn’t get very far as at the base of the entrance, a figure popped out from the side wall, their arms wrapping around your torso quickly. Pulling you into them, you felt yourself squirm, panic suddenly washing across your frame as the hold tightened. Just as you felt like yelling out for Obi-Wan, a hand clasped over your mouth as the tall figure pulled you flush against their chest. 

As they did, there seemed to be a sort of hesitation behind their touch. A lack of anger or immorality that you would have expected if it were a rebel. Instead, a certain feeling washed over you, one of unfamiliarity, almost as if the force itself was asking you to relax back into it. Like the energy around you was more than it had been moments ago upon that front step. Fear diminished then.

They leaned closer, their lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as you fought against the iron-like grip. They wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t wane in the slightest. Their palm was warm across your lips and smelled like sweat. Your breathing was short, uneven, moving far too quickly in fear. He could feel it radiating off of you. His grip loosened slightly but didn’t fall from your frame. Carefully, you glanced back, and relief somehow flooded your system at the sight of a Padawan braid in your peripheral vision. 

The Padawan. 

Obi-Wan’s Padawan. 

Sighing against his frame, his nose tickled your temple as he peeked from around the large wall that was hiding the two of you. As he did this, it allowed you to take him in much more closely. He was young, no younger than you but young. You couldn’t help but trace him with your eyes, there was no other comfort you had at that moment. You followed the slope of his nose, of the defining line of his jaw, and the curve to his lips. His eyes were blue. The rare kind of blue that wasn’t too light but almost reflected oceans. A deep blue, that you somehow could see even through the billowing air. His hair was cut short, a dirty blonde along the top with a small ponytail in the back and, sure enough, behind his right ear, a Padawan braid. 

His eyes flickered down to you, having caught you in your act of staring. A small quirk to his lips, you noted as those blue eyes of his flickered across your features quickly, taking in you as well. Or at least that’s what you had thought, not willing to think it into existence. You didn’t have much time to question the validity as the door burst open again, echoing with a slam. 

Heavy breathing could be heard, but nothing else as the figure stood still upon the entrance. The Padawan lifted his finger to his lips, advising you to remain quiet, as his hand remained clasped across your mouth. You inhaled, closing your eyes tightly, hoping it all would be over soon, one way or another. 

There was another huff, a second passed, and then, “Padawan!” 

It was a hushed yell, and yet it was enough to douse your whole body in mere relief. Relief that Obi-Wan was alive. The young Jedi’s hand dropped from around your mouth, but his arm remained around your waist as he stepped out from your hiding spot, dragging you along with him once he had, in fact, confirmed in Master’s presence. 

Obi-Wan hurried over, ���Good, you have her.” 

“Are you alright, Master?” 

It was the first you had heard him speak other than through the intercom laced to his Master’s belt and you felt taken aback by both the tone of it as well as the composure he displayed. 

The older Jedi exhaled a small smile appearing and then disappearing as another raid echoed a street or two over, “Yes, just trying to catch my breath.” 

His eyes fell to you then, still wrapped up in his young apprentice’s hold, and he couldn’t help but examine you quickly, “You okay?” 

Once again the only answer came out as a mere nod. 

“Alright, we have to keep moving. How much further is the ship?” 

The Padawan motioned over his shoulder, “Should be just on the northside of the city, near the ports.” 

“Which is about two blocks alright,” Obi-Wan noted out loud, observing the area around him, noting what movements he could see past the flames. “I’ll watch from the back, alright, while you lead my young apprentice. We want her in between us at all times. Got it?” 

“Yes Master.”

With that, the young Jedi released you, his hand reaching for his own saber that sat along his belt. He held it tightly within his grasp but didn’t dare ignite it. Not yet, not unless needed. There was no need to draw extra attention through the smog. Obi-Wan gripped his as well, glancing behind the three of you cautiously as his padawan began to advance from behind the wall. Just as he was about to enter out from the east entrance and into the open city, he stopped for a mere second. A moment of hesitation. 

He looked back over at you, surveying the tired expression that now bathed your skin in fear. Reaching forward, he took a hold of the hood of your cloak and pulled it up and over your head. Then without a single word spoken, he took your cold hand in his and placed it along the back of his armor, where you could onto it. Your fingers curled around it loosely. He nodded at you in confirmation before turning back to the street. He edged out slowly and then began to pick up his pace, keeping the three of you close to buildings, able to watch behind you in case someone appeared out from the clouds of smoke. 

You tried to block it all out, the way the horrendous smell of burning flesh lingered in your nose or how hot the ground at begun. You tried not to peer into the bushes of flowers that now lay abandoned in fits of ash. You tried to conceal it all away from you, once again peering at the back of the young Jedi’s back, hoping it would be enough to save what was left of your humanity. 

To save you from the dead faces of those you once ruled over willingly. 

To save you from the guilt of fleeing. 

“Anakin, to your left!” Obi-Wan suddenly yelled out, gaining the attention of his young Padawan. 

Out from the shadows came two clones paired with a rebel. A beacon blue appeared as you blinked and suddenly he was deflecting the string of beams that had appeared in your direction. Grunting with each collision, he slid forward swinging his saber around his back and within his palm against the lines of defense. You watched as with two quick strikes, the clones were left a few mere pieces short circuiting on the ground. 

The rebel stepped out from the shadows, a scary smile lifting across his face doused in war paint as he noticed your shaking frame back behind the young padawan, glued to Obi-Wan’s side. 

“Found you,” he laughed, his yellow-colored eyes peering past the haze at you. 

“Don’t look at her,” the Padawan hissed, drawing the rebel’s evil gaze again. “Look at me.” 

“Ah a young Jedi, protecting the queen-to-be, how sweet,” he laughed again and the shivers emitted across your back as you felt Obi-Wan take a hold of your arm, “Well your highness, I must say this will be an honor taking down your only means of escape. You’ll be at my disposable soon enough.”

Grabbing at his belt, a beam of red appeared, the saber emitting the evil-like color that became the new paint along the capital’s walls. The Padawan’s cold, hard stare refused to leave the rebel’s face. As the rebel tried to peer at you again, Obi-Wan’s Padawan lunged forward, his saber outstretched. The rebel met his reign of anger in a swift defense with his own saber. The sound of the two colliding echoed across the empty street. 

Once and then again and again. 

You watched as long as you could until Obi-Wan was advancing past the two, dragging you in tow across the block and near the ship. You kept trying to glance behind you to ensure the blue light still emitted, and sure enough, it was colliding with the red still, swinging back and forth. 

Obi-Wan kept pulling you along with him, that is, until another group of rebels stopped his trail, fewer clones accompanied at their sides. They saw his deflated form followed by your pretty eyes and smirked at one another. The one in the front let out a loud whistle, and before you realized Obi-Wan’s saber was outstretched, appearing just as blue as his young Padawan’s.

Nerves pricking away at your insides, you turned back to peer through the smoke to find the blue light from the saber no longer there, the red too now gone from your line of sight. You felt your throat tighten up. Almost painful enough to throw up at the thought of someone else dying just for your survival. The sounds of Obi-Wan’s saber moving through the air were all you could focus on as you squinted into the line of sight of where his Padawan once was. 

Your hands tightened as a figure began to appear. Moving, running through the smoke, far too quickly for you to identify the person. Your chest tightened, fear coating your trembling figure as it dashed through the smog, almost leaping. Landing a few feet away onto the middle of the road, a small relief appeared at the sight of the padawan. A smirk appeared across his lips, a furrowed look evident in his brow as he watched his Master take on the group of rebels. His saber ignited again, the hue of blue reflecting in his eyes as he moved to advance forward. 

As he made the first swing, sending a rebel to the ground, Obi-Wan felt his presence. Though it was needed, weeding out much of the enemy, he could also sense your vulnerability behind them. 

“You must get to the ship!” Obi-Wan yelled towards the Padawan. 

“I can’t just leave you here to fight them all by yourself, Master.” 

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be right behind you, but we can’t fight our way throught this. We have to get to the ship.” 

“And we will, together.” 

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan scolded, his back pressed against his young apprentice, as he surged his saber forward into a rebel’s abdomen. “Take the princess. Go, now.” 

The young Jedi groaned in dismay but obeyed as he turned and looked back at you expectantly, “Come on!” 

He took a harsh hold of your hand and yanked, breaking out into a sprint. Your feet began to pick up, now willing to lose him in the fire. His grip was tight, almost achingly tight, as he used his saber as a guide through the darkness, using it once in a while for any clones or rebels that passed in front of the two of you. Coughing loudly, the smoke was invading your lungs and your body as your feet slapped against the host concrete of the capital of Bakura. Your breathing was heavy, matching the young padawans as he weaved you through the city, the woosh of his saber the only thing you could focus on. 

The screams of pain of those that ran into the path of the chosen one’s weapon weekend with each slice, and you hated how it all made you feel. So weak. So unlucky. 

As you felt your hand becoming numb from his harsh grip, the sounds of the city eased, almost into a faded silence, and in its place, the gentle lap of water. The smoke seemed to clear every so slightly, and you found the docks, almost walking straight off of them with how fast the Padawan was leading the two of you. Breathing heavily, he looked around, remembering where exactly he had placed the ship. His hand dropped yours then. 

“This way,” he said, darting to the right behind a long string of tall rocks that lined the body of water. 

You went to follow, but before you knew it, there was a flash of light, and your feet were taken out from beneath you. You didn’t even have time to scream, not as your body fell back into the lagoon. Sinking in within the confines of your cloak, a tall figure pushes you down. The man’s hard grip was locked around your waist, holding so tightly that you withered in pain. The dark water seemed to be encapsulating pulling you further and further down into its depths. 

You withered, trying to loosen the grip the rebel had around you, even more so as his hands moved up to take hold of your neck. Kicking, you felt the tightness around your throat come quickly. It was almost comforting because it meant it was almost over. All of it. 

The man’s face was shielded in melting paint, the night sky aiding in his identity. Trying to hold your breath so carefully, you tried to escape as you could, but it appeared unsuccessful as the man only squeezed tighter. You felt as if there was no point then. No hope.

“Father, what was it like being a Jedi?” the soft, child-like voice appeared like a lost memory. 

Your father’s followed closely, younger too, “It was like an adventure all the time, my sweet daughter. But it’s more than that, but an honor. There is much respect and to uphold as a Jedi.” 

“Like the force?” 

“Yes, the force,” he confirmed, chuckling, “Something I feel you will grow more closely to the older you get. You are my daughter after all.” 

The edges of your vision began to blur, the last bubbles of air seemed to escape from your nose, the lingering voice of the king of Bakura following you. At the sound of another splash just a few feet away within the lagoon, your eyes peeled back open, struggling even further. Your head ached, feeling as if it were going to explode as your hand raised near the rebel. With it outstretched, you thought of your father, of Bakura, your mother, all of those lost and abandoned by its army, by you. The energies seemed to align, something falling into place, as you internally screamed. The man’s hands released your throat, and he was thrown away from you further into the lagoon. 

Unable to look further, you swam to the surface, bursting out of the water with a final needful breath. Gasping, you peered up into the sky through the smoke to the stars. You could barely keep yourself up, body weakening. Breathing waning, you just continued to look up, feet kicking softly, aware you could get pulled back under. 

There was a burst through the surface, and you flinched only to find the Padawan. Clothes wet along his frame, he swam closer, a quirk of worry across his face, “I got him. I got him.” 

The closer he got, the more the water lapped into your face, and you struggled to stay afloat with the large cloak weighing you down. You groaned out as your legs felt heavy within the clothes. Reaching you, his arms scooped around your frame, either one where the rebels used to be. 

“Keep your head back,” he instructed, as his arms began to pull at the cloak around your frame. “I have you.”

It loosened after two tugs slipped from your body with ease. His hands found your waist again as he began to swim you guys back towards the edge of the lagoon. Your breath had shallowed out, the edges of your eyes still blurry, a certain feeling of darkness creeping within your chest. 

It was as his hand tightened along your side that you let out a groan of pain. Hot and stabbing sensations shot towards your abdomen. Surprised by the sound, the padawan looked down at you, a worried look appearing for a mere moment as he stepped up onto the shore and pulled you up behind him. 

The pain worsened then, the oxygen hitting your body harshly. Your breathing quickened again, this time horrendously, as you peered up to the sky. Glancing down, your hand reached for where his once was. It stung at the contact of your palm, and as you pulled it back, you found it stained with red. 

“Shit. Shit,” he swore, his own hands replacing yours over the wound, “Fuck."

Your eyes fluttered, the tiredness of it all too much, the ache of the pain, the loss consuming you. Obi-Wan’s Padawan leaned over you, his wet frame leaving droplets across your face as he tried to keep your eyes open. “Hey, look at me. Just look at me. Gotta keep those pretty little eyes open for me, your highness.” 

You couldn’t even react to his words, couldn’t even react at him calling your eyes pretty. Nothing but the way the pain began to swallow you. His blue eyes. His sweet blue gaze locked with yours, his pursed lips moving but no sound reaching you. The only thing you could hear at all was the waning of your breath and the shallow beating of your heart. 

The edges were becoming dark, the stars blurring into streaks of the sweetest colors, almost colliding with the sweet pigments of the Padawan’s skin and eyes.

The young Jedi stared down at the pale form of the Bakura’s princess, the curse words of an endless spiel falling from his parted lips. His hands were stained, stained with the darkest red, as your chest began to slow in the way it rose and fell. Eyes fluttered shut, a peace seemed to overtake your form, and he felt the way his chest tightened unwillingly. 

After everything, you couldn’t die. You couldn’t. Not when him and Obi-Wan had gotten this far to save you, to make sure you lived. He wouldn’t allow it. 

“Anakin!” 

The yelling voice of his Master drew his unsteady gaze away from your still frame. An emergence of blue light appeared through the cloud of smoke. Other footsteps followed close behind. As Obi-Wan’s eyes found the frame of the young princess, he stopped momentarily, just for a mere second, to think about the possibilities of what could have happened. 

Anakin stared up at him in disbelief, lost of what to do next. 

“Pick her up!” his Master suddenly yelled. “Grab her now!” 

With his own saber snapped back along his waist, Anakin quickly fell to his knees, his hands dropping from where they held the wound. Instead, they wrapped around your frame, one underneath your knees. He lifted with ease until you were settled closely into his frame. Obi-Wan continued to run, leading the young padawan through the remaining trail to the ship as the rebels wanted close behind. 

“Master, I don’t know how this happened.” 

“Now’s not the time for that, Anakin,” Obi-Wan replied back coldly just as they stumbled along the large grey-wielding spaceship. One the Republic had loaned for this mission alone. As he reached the front panel window, he input the code, and the door of the ship began to fall slowly. 

The two Jedis peered over their shoulders with each passing second, losing their patience. As it finally opened enough to enter, the older Jedi pushed the younger one onboard with the princess weighing down in his arms. Following close behind, the doors shut behind them, wielding them to rush towards the front pit. 

Anakin paused, waiting for further instruction as the princess’s blood began to pool along his armor and robes. Obi-Wan motioned towards the medical bay just down the hall, full of medical assisted robots. “Take her to the med-bay. The 2-1B droids will know what’s best for her.” 

Nodding, the young padawan moved quickly down the corridors of the ship, the sounds of his boots echoing off the metal floor. His blue hues glanced down every once in a while at the face of the woman in his arms. Just as he passed you off onto the medical table and the droids swarmed your still-full frame, he felt the ship rise, jutting upward enough to almost push him to the ground. A sigh of relief fell past the young Jedi’s lips, the contentment to know they would be out of Bakura, finally able to breathe.

He sunk back near the wall of the med bay, unable to look away as the droids pulled at your tunic, trying desperately to get access to the wound. Knowing this was more than what he should see, he stepped out of the med-bay instead finding comfort on the floor of the hall outside of the room. He didn’t dare move, not even as the ship steadied out within the confines of space or when the movements from within the room slowed considerably, some of the robots even leaving the room. He couldn’t and wouldn’t, unable to stall the sudden worry that had befallen him. 

Had he failed the mission? 

Had he failed you, the princess? 

Or rather Obi-Wan? 

He couldn’t stand any of it — not when he had worked so hard, trained his life away, not as he held your frame in his arms, a woman far too beautiful for that kind of ending where a man like him could only hold you in your last moments. 

Why hadn’t the force helped him? Saved you from this. 

It was hours when Obi-Wan had emerged from the pilot pit of the ship. His footsteps were heavy along the long corridors, his robes draping near his ankles. A curious brow was lifted as he found his young padawan sitting outside of the medical bay, his head between his knees, palms digging into his legs. Anakin didn’t even look up as the steps stopped in front of him. He was trying to mediate, trying to will away the fear, the anger, everything forbidden for a Jedi. He was trying to do everything his dear mentor had taught him. 

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan called out, pulling the young Jedi from his trance. Slowly the blue gaze of the Skywalker peered up to find his master looking down at him expectantly. 

Nodding for him to stand, his young apprentice followed and pulled himself to his feet. Entering the med-bay, Anakin felt to advert his eyes as Obi-Wan led him inside. He was afraid of what he would see, possibly your pale frame void of any pulse. He could sense his Master’s eyes on him, the expectations upon his shoulders at that moment, and though he didn’t wish, he lifted his head slowly. 

There upon the table, you still laid, eyes sealed away behind the confines of your eyelids. White blankets pulled up near your chin over your tunic and torso. Hair strewn behind your head, there was a steady rise of your chest, a rhythmic approach to it that had the young Jedi relieved. 

“She will be fine, my young Padawan. She is alive.” 

Anakin nodded, needing to hear those words more than anything, as he refused to look away then. Refused to peer anywhere than you as he felt like he hadn’t had much time to truly take you in until then. Until the chaos and the horror had passed into nothing but this momentarily passing of peace. 

He had forgotten what it was like to stare so shamelessly at a woman. Attachments were forbidden among Jedis, and thus, he had never taken much consideration of those within the Jedi temple or that he passed upon when he was in contact with the senate. It seemed even as he grew into a young man, he had pushed it all down, avoided it all, amongst the title that he was given of the chosen one. There was no room for weaknesses, for the possibility of failure. Not when this war relied on him. 

He felt his Master’s intense eyes following his, but even then, Anakin couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help as his eyes traced along the delicacies of your face, the way your jaw curved, and the gentle slope of your nose. Nor the concise shape of your brows quirked almost in discomfort or the long lashes that brushed your cheeks with such ease. Your lips were pink, and holding his attention the most.

He spoke then, still not looking away, “I had forgotten. Forgotten what it was like to be around a woman. To be able to look at one.” 

Obi-Wan hummed in interest as Anakin chuckled then, almost painfully. 

“Not since my mother and then Padme. I had forgotten, forgotten just how beautiful they can be.” 

Coruscant. It stared back at you through the window. The mere window of chambers that now were sanctioned to be yours. It was different. The city. The planet. From Bakura, you meant. More metal, more dull, yet more full of life. It was political, far more political than you ever realized, in the form of the Jedi Council, the Republic, the Senate. They all held control at the center of the galaxy, and you could merely stand at that window, fingers tracing the bandage along your abdomen uncertain of everything that lay before you. What to do now in the city of the Jedis?

You had woken up upon that medical bed in a frenzy, gasping for answers, afraid of where exactly you had ended up. Obi-Wan had appeared, and you had felt the tears appear, fall freely at the mere relief, and relinquish the control you could have. Lying there exhausted, you grieved, for your father, for your planet. For it all as it lay abandoned and burned down to nothing but dust. 

As your eyes traced the edges of the Senate building in the form of glass of bendable metal, sitting within the windowsill, you sighed at the sound of a soft knock upon the door. You hadn’t left the room since you had gotten there. After a few seconds without your answer, the door opened, and from outside Obi-Wans’s Padawan poked his head in. You felt his presence before he had opened the door or even knocked. It was almost as if you knew whenever he was hovering, waiting for what to do, waiting to see if you would talk. 

You weren’t sure how but you just did. 

Glancing over your shoulder, you sent a blank expression to him, and knowing it was all he would get, he stepped in without even so much of your permission. Closing the door to a mere crack behind him, you noted the stack of robes within his arms, folded nicely. They were bleak, looked long and comfortable at least, but completely unfamiliar. 

His blue hues matched yours, a comforting quirk within his lips forming, “I—uh brought these for you.”

You matched his stare but without your lips so much as saying anything, you merely quirked a brow up in response. His stature deflated slightly, that quirk disappearign into nothing but a fine line as he bowed his head and placed the robes upon the bed. “Obi-Wan has gone to speak to the council. He will be back very soon with good news I’m sure.”

Not able to bear the look on his face, how sweet he appeared, you turned back to the window, to the city, to the only future you had. Even though you weren't looking at him, it was like you could feel the disappoint flooding his system. So much so, that he turned on his heels, his boots echoing along the floor as he reached for the door. 

You felt your heart ache, your barrier fold in on itself just at the thought of him leaving with that look on his face and the dejection upon his frame. As he reached for the door-knob, you found yourself speaking far before you had even realized you had opened your mouth, “Wait.” 

He paused then, hand dropping from where he had reached for the door. Instead, as he hesitantly turned back to face you, he found you already looking at him, a certain softness now where that coldness once was. There was a gentleness then he hadn’t seen before, even after everything you had been through. 

With your hands laced upon your lap, you fiddled with the skin around your nails, uncertainty still plaguing your mind. Finding his intense gaze, you inhaled, “I wanted to— to thank you…” 

Your voice trailed off and as it did he quickly realized why it had. 

“Anakin,” he answered. 

That softness deepened even further, he noted. 

“Thank you, Anakin, for saving me.” 

He nodded, that dejection resolving back into his chest, instead enjoying how skillfully his name fell from your lips. “The pleasure was all mine. I am glad you are recovered and doing well your highness.” 

You bowed your head then, the title sounding so wrong, so devastating to you then. Enough so that you picked at your nails until one was bleeding. Anakin watched carefully, confused by the action alone as you sat there, lost in the depths of your thoughts. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” you finally expressed. 

He rose a brow curiously, stepping closer into the room, silently begging you would look up at him again, “What?”

You smiled sadly, “Call me ‘your highness’ or ‘princess’. I’m far from that now.” 

There was a pause on his end, a moment to take in how sad the princess of Bakura truly was. He knew he shouldn’t question it. Where anyone else would her words, he didn’t, as if understanding you completely then, having been someone himself who had left everything he knew behind. His mother still lay slaved in the very place he had despised completely. 

So instead, he asked innocently, “What shall you have me call you then?”

Surprised by his ask, your eyes flickered up to meet his. There was a certain glint that filled his eyes, that smile of his there, peeking out. His expression had you completely transfixed, content in a way. 

Smiling softly, your hands relaxed along your lap, “Y/N.”

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

The Scent of Missing Buttons

Astarion centred || implied Astarion x gn!Tav || ao3 || Masterlist

Rating: M ; +18Word Count: +2.9k Warnings: prostitution, sex work, sex trafficking, PTSD, suicidal thoughts, no graphic description of sex act

He thought about his old brass buttons as he let the couple have their way with him. His doublet had thirteen buttons, if he recalled correctly. Six he had found on the floor. There was no way of telling where the others were. They had probably rolled under the bed or were lost in the gaps between the splintered floorboards. He would dare another attempt at retrieving them when these brutes were finally done with him. Going back to the master without either of them was simply out of the question. 

a/n: phew, that was hard to write. Don't forget to hug your vampire boyfriend today.

Neither the loud human nor the scrawny half-elf sitting on each side of Astarion cared about how witty or charming he was. All he had to do was sit still and smile while he endured the dirt-stained fingers messing up his carefully coiffed curls. The sweaty hand resting heavily upon his knee. The stench of days-old sweat radiating from their bodies.

Astarion gave the gawking half-elf a crooked smirk for no other reason than to loosen the building tension in his jaw.    

His marks usually came to him, and that night had been no different.

Astarion had noticed the couple looking over at him from the bar ever so often, giving him toothless grins while he’d pretended to sip on the cheap ale the tavern was pouring out en masse. 

Admittedly, the unkempt couple wouldn’t have been his first choice of company, but the night had been approaching eerily fast and Astarion could seldom afford to be picky. 

And so he’d met the couple’s shamelessly lewd looks through heavy-lidded eyes, giving them an inviting smile in return. 

It had taken them embarrassingly long to stumble over to his table, greeting Astarion with the stink of alcohol on their breaths. They must’ve started their night out drinking well before sunset—Astarion rather hoped to get it over with them fast.

Maybe they were already drunk enough to skip business and just follow him back to the master, he mused as the half-elf’s uncoordinated hand tried and failed to locate his groin. 

But then the human let go of his hair; Astarion could feel her sour breath tickle his ear and knew they wouldn’t let him get off the hook that easily.

He tried to subtly lean away from the human, but she was already dragging her coated tongue along his elongated helix.

Astarion shuddered in disgust.

“So much more sensitive than his,” the human panted. Her stupid delight was evident on her face as she indicated the half-elf who was barely an inch short of crawling onto Astarion’s lap.  

“You’re the prettiest thing we’ve ever seen,” she continued, mistaking Astarion’s visible disgust for arousal. Or maybe she was just ignoring his displeasure. 

“We want you.” 

All too easily, Astarion forced his well-constructed mask back over his features. 

Grinning, his fingers curled around the human’s bony wrist as he stood, pulling her with him.

“Wonderful, because I know a place where you can indulge in me all night long,” Astarion purred. “Somewhere quiet—just for the three of us…” 

The human giggled, though her partner eyed him with a slight hint of contempt.

“Our bed will do, filliken,” the half-elf mumbled as he manoeuvred himself off the bench they’d abandoned him on.

Astarion tensed.

Whore…

Even this piss-drunk mutt had taken only one look at him and known him for what he was.

Astarion had half the mind to bare his fangs, rip out the bastard’s throat. Decorate the dingy tavern with his innards. Paint the walls red. 

The human would come next. He would tear off her little ears and shove them down her stinking maw and, maybe, if he was lucky for once, some of the patrons were emboldened enough to drive a stake through his dead heart. 

From a distance, Astarion could hear the clock tower strike thrice and the master’s voice came to his mind.

Do not disappoint me again, boy…

The vampire spawn wet his lips, swallowed down his anger and lust for blood until they mingled with the soaring hunger in the pits of his stomach.

A moment passed. 

Astarion smiled. 

“Lead the way, then, darling.” 

The couple brought him to a cramped attic room right across the street. 

Dark mould grew on scratched windowpanes and it smelled as if the chamber pot hadn’t been emptied that morning.

Somewhere inside the walls, Astarion could sense a small colony of rodents scurrying to and fro.

He tried to focus on the erratic symphony of their heartbeats as he eyed the colourful range of fluids staining the sheets of an unmade bed.

It would be over soon—at least for that night. 

Astarion would deliver these two fools to the master in no time. Maybe he would even get a little treat for a job well done—a fat rat, or even a small dog, if he was being very good. 

And then he would rest in the shadows. Close his eyes to the buzzing city above, imagine the sun caressing his skin as it tenderly reduced him to ashes. 

The attic door slammed shut behind the human.

Astarion knew he would never feel the sun on his skin again, not even for the short moments between pain and salvation, because as much as he was a whore, he was an even bigger coward.  

He stood still as greedy hands began tugging at his clothes. 

The human giggled stupidly as her cross-eyed partner tried to undo the brass buttons on Astarion’s doublet. It was a rather pathetic sight, and before Astarion could assist him, the cursed half-elf ripped the doublet open. 

A curse ready on his lips, Astarion watched as his buttons went flying across the room. 

He doubted the master would afford him new ones any time soon; worse yet, he surely would be chastised for being so careless with his clothes again! 

Fuming inside, Astarion pushed the half-elf onto the bed and sank to the dirty floor where he crawled around to collect the buttons closest to him. 

“What a cute little pup,” the human laughed right above him. 

Her hand clawed at his locks again, and Astarion could feel humiliation merge with the seething mix of anger and hunger and hatred and disgust and—

Astarion pocketed whatever buttons he could retrieve, then rose to his full height.

The human’s hand fell away and her laughter stopped as Astarion crowded her against the rickety bed frame. 

She looked up at Astarion with round eyes. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of her booze-clouded tiny little brain, she recognised the danger she’d invited into her greasy bed. 

Astarion ran his knuckles along her jaw before his fingers curled tightly around her chin. She shivered. 

“Why don’t you two cosy up and just watch for a moment?” Astarion purred. “You like a good show, don’t you?”

“We like so much more than that,” she breathed, her eyes glassy with arousal instead of fear. 

Astarion almost scoffed. Stupid bitch.

“So much more you shall have.”

The human ran her calloused fingers over Astarion’s lean forearm before she eagerly joined her partner on their bed. 

The couple took in every part of his body as he undressed himself. 

They liked that he took his time because they didn’t know that, with every article of clothing that fell away, Astarion imagined ripping them limb from limb. 

A finger here. A foot there. The eyes that had seen entirely too much… 

Oh, how he hoped the master would make them suffer later. 

Allowing himself an honest smile, Astarion tossed his smallclothes atop the rest of his clothes and crawled onto the bed.

The doomed couple groped him roughly, drew their sharp fingernails across his skin. Used him. 

But that was quite alright; their night would end so much worse than Astarion’s. 

He thought about his old brass buttons as he let the couple have their way with him. 

His doublet had thirteen buttons, if he recalled correctly. Six he had found on the floor. There was no way of telling where the others were. They had probably rolled under the bed or were lost in the gaps between the splintered floorboards. He would dare another attempt at retrieving them when these brutes were finally done with him. 

Going back to the master without either of them was simply out of the question. 

Neither the wicked human nor the crude half-elf laying on each side of him cared that his well-timed groans were purely performative, that their touch made his skin crawl. All he had to do was please them, lure them away to their death. 

All he had to do was survive another night. Another year. Another century of nothing but pure shit.

How he wished it would end. Time was running out.  

Don’t you dare disappoint me again, you useless dirty thing…

The half-elf came first, then the human. It had taken them long enough. 

Astarion was quick to pull his shirt back over his head as the human watched him intently—he was sure she wanted another round. Good. This only ever played right into Astarion’s cards. 

The half-elf was a problem, though. He’d passed out the moment the last of his spend had added another stain to the nasty bedsheets. 

Astarion barely refrained from rolling his eyes; they would have to wake him, and that soon. They had places to be and daybreak was approaching fast. 

Astarion gave the human a crooked smile as he put on his breeches. 

“You’re very skilled, handsome,” the human said, taking the bait.

“Likewise, darling.”

She returned his smile as she untangled herself from the bedsheets and sat on the corner of the bed, never letting him out of her sight. 

Astarion slipped into his doublet. So far, he hadn’t spotted another missing button.

“Why don’t we repeat that—there’s a place I’m dying to show you. If we leave now, I promise you it will be unforgettable…”

The human’s smile widened.

“No.”

No?

Astarion wet his lips.

For a moment, he thought he’d misheard. 

No.

It wasn’t like this hadn’t ever happened before. But because it had happened before, Astarion’s hands began to tremble ever so slightly. 

No meant trouble.

No meant failure.

No meant punishment.

“You see, we don’t fuck the same thing twice,” the human said, that arrogant grin still plastered across her hideous face. 

And then she tossed Astarion some coins—laughably few coins at that. They wouldn’t even buy him some cheap ale from across the street.

Astarion was too stunned to catch the coins. They rolled around his feet before they dropped to the floor with a final mocking clink.

He stared at the dirty change, even spotted one or two of his lost buttons among them.

“Pick them up.”

Astarion’s eyes met the human’s, who licked her lips. 

She wanted him to crawl again. Like a dog. Like trash. Like the rat in a cage that he was. 

Astarion turned and fled from the attic room. There was nowhere to go, though; the city’s dirty streets only lead to one end.

The clock tower struck five times. Far in the distance, the sky turned indigo. 

There was no time to find another victim, Astarion knew, as he prowled the shadows.

But he couldn’t return empty-handed, either. 

Astarion considered dragging some passed-out drunk from the next alleyway back to the master. It wasn’t too bad a plan, wasn’t it? 

But the master liked his playthings sharp. He wanted them to be aware of what he did to them. He so delighted in their screams.

And if those poor fools couldn’t scream, Astarion’s screams would have to make do instead. 

In fact, they were the master’s favourite. 

Come to me, boy.

“Shit. Shit. Shit!”

Astarion should’ve gone down on all fours and crawled at that bitch’s feet; begged her to come with him.

He was a fool. He was so fucking stupid. He deserved any punishment the master deemed fit. 

He couldn’t do anything right.

Astarion shot another look over his shoulder, fearing to see the sky having changed colours again. 

But instead of being painted with dawn, the sky… tore open?

People started to scream. They ran from the flying ship that had appeared out of nowhere. Its tentacles chased after them, picking them off the streets one after another. 

Astarion should join the fleeing drunks and alley cats, he thought. 

But, really, what could be worse than what was waiting for him at the master’s feet? 

Astarion stood still; he could be very good at that. 

And unlike the master’s punishment—unlike the nightly humiliation that was his cursed existence—it was over in one blissful moment.

Neither the annoying wizard nor the nosy cleric sitting on the opposite side of the dying campfire cared that they were interrupting Astarion in his plan of bedding you. That night, he’d already endured yet another long-winded retelling of the young warlock’s heroic feats. Listened to the prickly warrior loudly sharpening her blade. Suppressed a laugh at the fiery tiefling’s silly joke. 

He wanted to be alone with you. Look at that cute little smile that had only needed one glass of watered-down wine in order to grow this wide. Subtly close the empty space between you and him sitting side by side on a smooth wooden log.

He wanted to breathe in the herbal fragrance of your soap without anybody watching.

The first thing Astarion had ever noticed about you was that, even covered in the blood and grime of your enemies, you smelled nice.

It had taken him days to figure out that the pleasant scent surrounding you didn’t emit from your washed hair or reasonably clean clothes. Once Astarion’s raging hunger had been sated enough, he’d even understood that it wasn’t your delectable blood that made his head spin.

No, your subtle yet unique scent simply lingered as naturally on your skin as the sunlight did on Astarion’s face these days. 

It was just you that smelled good, and it slowly drove him mad.

Astarion’s plan was simple enough. All he had to do was please you, weasel himself into your bed and good graces. Only then was he as safe from the master as he could possibly be out here in the wilderness. 

But you just had to make this difficult; you didn’t fall for his charm and flirtations. Instead of swooning, you just frowned at him whenever he tried to seduce you—and gods was he trying. And failing.

If he were to lean over and bluntly propose sex to you right then, he was sure you would reject him. The very idea of both excited and terrified him at once.

The wizard and the cleric only excused themselves when the sun’s first golden fingers started to part the night sky.

Astarion watched them vanish into their respective tents, finally leaving you alone with him. 

He stole a glance at you and found you already looking at him. 

Maybe this was his chance. Astarion couldn’t afford wasting another night, not when the master was breathing down his neck at any given time.

“And what are we two pretty things going to do with the rest of the night, darling?” 

You scoffed. “Night? It’s almost morning.” 

“Ah, you’re quite right, of course. With the right company, one can lose track of time so easily, no?” 

“Indeed,” you yawned. “Now let’s get some rest, Astarion. We have a long day ahead.” 

Astarion wet his lips. 

Shit.

What was wrong with you? 

What was wrong with him? 

If he couldn’t even get his stupid little plan right, then maybe he deserved his master’s wrath. 

Astarion picked up a crooked branch and poked around the fading embers.

If you didn’t want his body, then what use did you have of him? He was just some idiot. A whore nobody wanted to fuck. He was—

“Oh!” You exclaimed, suddenly. “I forgot!” 

Astarion, trying to not let his growing desperation show on his face, watched as you excitedly produced something from your pocket. 

You scooted closer to him; your knee brushed against his thigh and your smile grew as you looked up at him. Instinctively, Astarion breathed in your scent.

Then you opened your hand, revealing thirteen buttons. 

The rising sun reflected prettily on their golden surface.

Astarion tensed.

“What’s that?”

Your cheeks reddened, looking as if you’d just scrubbed them clean down by the river. 

“Your doublet—it doesn’t close properly, doesn’t it? So I thought, well…buttons.”

When Astarion neither reached for the buttons nor said anything, you slowly let your hand sink.

“I could sew them on for you,” you offered sheepishly. “I’m sure they’ll look very nice on you.”

Throwing his now broken stick aside, Astarion rose to his full height.

“I don’t want them. Go to bed. We have a long day ahead,” he said courtly before he all but fled to his tent.

The sun burned on Astarion’s skin but didn’t reduce him to ashes. He never was afforded any luck.

He watched you walk far ahead of him, leading your companions through the woods. This far back, he could barely catch your lovely scent. 

Not for the first time that day did he wonder what those buttons you’d offered him would’ve cost him. 

Wouldn’t any price have been worth it?

Astarion had been a fool again. 

He should’ve just thanked you, watched your quick little fingers close the chasm in his chest with nothing but some thread and pretty buttons. After that, he should’ve pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek. Take you into his arms.

That’s what he wanted to do, if he was being honest.

But he hadn’t done any of this. His doublet was still shoved to the very bottom of his pack and he hadn’t looked you in the eyes all day.

Because as much as Astarion was a whore, he was an even bigger coward.

That was all to him there was.

The vampire spawn looked over his shoulder but couldn’t see much of what lay behind. 

The golden sun was too bright in his eyes.

As usual, all he could do, though, was endure.

Tag List

@spacebarbarianweird @bardic-inspo @kawaiiusagichansan 

[zippidi-dooda]

You shuffled nervously at the doorstep.

It was quiet outside, clear blue skies, birds chirping in the trees, sun dotting through the branches.

You could have had a nice day out all things considered.

If only that's what you were here for.

Your gaze was drawn up to the door, eyes tracing over the nicks and grooves littering the wood.

The knob was a minimally engraved piece of brass, waiting patiently for you to turn it.

A plain jute rug sat underfoot, clean despite its intention to gather loose mud from your shoes. In fact, the whole of the small porch was spotless and the few potted plants blooming against the mini windowsills were lush and vibrant, so clearly taken care of.

Maybe you'd receive a snippet of that care and attention after announcing your reason for coming.

Speaking of, you need to get to it. His neighbors may begin to worry if they saw you just standing at his steps for so long.

You took a breath and raised your hand to the door.

One knock.

Then two.

The wait couldn't have been more than ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity, your mind oddly blank but heart beating a million miles a minute.

You had no way of telling what would happen next, no idea of what you really wanted to happen next.

All you could hope for was that he'd be polite and truthful about his opinions on the situation.

The door clicked.

And then it was open.

"Hello. What do you ... Y/N?"

You looked up at the silver haired man, noting his tired eyes and quirked brow. He wore a simple outfit, black button down and slacks freshly pressed, red ring shining on his finger.

"I wasn't expecting you here," he said smiling politely. "What do you need?"

You took a moment, then smiled back, clasping your hands together, thumbs flicking at your knuckles.

"Hey, Rollo. Um ... there's something I think you'd like to know."

He frowned, concerned, and gestured back.

"I see. Would you like to come in and talk about it?"

"No, no, it's fine! It ... it shouldn't take long. Um ...."

"Y/N, is everything alright?" He asked, brushing your hair back, hand lingering on your cheek.

You gaped for a moment before swallowing thickly.

"I ... would like your honest feelings about this. I don't mind if you want nothing to do with it, but I just ... I wanted to tell you."

His brow furrowed deeper, trying to guess what was going on. Were you in danger? Did it have something to do with mages surrounding you? Of course he'd want to do something about that, you were special to him afterall. There couldn't be any reason he wouldn't want to help you out.

"Tell me what's going on."

You fumbled for a moment, wondering how to word it. But there was no different way to say it when the message would be the same.

You leaned forward, cupping a hand to his ear and whispered softly.

You pulled back, looking up at him expectantly.

His eyes were wide, cadet grey irises swimming with repudiation. The soft purple and gold embroidered handkerchief was quickly pressed against lips, the light blush of pink on his skin peeking beneath the cloth.

His eyes flitted around, from the steps leading to the door to the cobbled streets then finally to you.

You could only imagine that the same overflowing thoughts you had when you first found out were flooding his mind too.

You pursed your lips, giving him a moment to collect himself.

He uttered quietly, slightly lowering the kerchief, "And you're certain I'm the one that ...?"

You affirmed definitively, "Well, yeah. You're the only one that I ...," face now flushing you looked down to the side, "I haven't ... you know ...."

His ears burned red, the purple cloth quickly pressed back up again to hide his face.

A small part of him way back in the darkest depths of his brain, he felt a sense of pride and satisfaction from knowing what you had just admitted to him.

But, at the same time, he felt faint and a bit queasy, terrified of the most common outcome that would occur in the next nine months.

He knew you'd taken the risk all those nights ago down by the seine, lamented over the possibility while tangling himself in the scarf you'd left with him.

He knew he was already willing to remedy this if it did happen.

But how?

The days up till this point had been so blissful, you both moving on as if nothing happened, chatting cordially over some tea and baked treats.

The thought of your labor bearing fruit much later than a handful of days afterwards hadn't even crossed you minds then.

What would you do now?

What was he to do?

He bit his lip. Other than knowing that it was just to take responsibility, he had no real plan in case this had happened. He tapped his foot on the ground. All he knew about this situation came from books. He twisted the ruby decorating his finger. And many of them exemplified the idea that the only right thing for a man to do was ...

"You um ... you okay, Rollo?" You asked softly, shifting your weight to one foot.

He took a breath then tucked his handkerchief into his front pocket. He nodded to himself. He took another deep breath before locking eyes with you, expression devoid of any obvious emotion.

Then, took your hand in his, "We'll be okay," and lowered himself so one knee was on the ground.

You raised a brow. "Rollo, get up up. What are you-"

"I'm doing what's right. I promise to take care of you, okay, trust me," he slipped the diamond shaped ring off his finger, "it may take some getting used to, but it shouldn't be too difficult between the two of us," then slid it onto yours, "we can worry about getting a different ring later, but for now it'll do," your jaw dropped, "Y/N M/N L/N, to make amends for throwing this wrench into your path, I promise to take care of you, to help you and whatever, whoever, comes our way till the end of our days. So you long as you're willing to become mine and mine alone. Any need or want you could possibly have moving forward, I'll do my best to arrange for. I promise to make up for my transgression if you so wish it. I am offering my hand to you. And now, all I have left to ask is, Miss L/N, will you marry me?"

.

.

.

"MARRY?!"

| Next >>

** (I do not have my scrunkly yet and Ortho's B-Day keys are all I have left, so this is my peace offering to have Rollo come home soon) **

[frenchkisstheabyss]

7 Psychopaths: Lee Know

x Summary: You are X, a seasoned assassin, and your boss has just assigned you an unusual task. You have two weeks to gather six men for a top-secret mission that requires their unique brand of psychopathy. The trick is, you've got romantic history with all of them.

A detail that might make this a walk in the park or the fight of your life. Time to find out...

x Pairing: assassin!lee know x assassin!chubby!fem!reader

x Genre: angst/crime au/smut

x Word Count: 1.8k-ish

x Warnings: blood, violence, fighting, knives, guns, disposable mob goon deaths, unprotected sex, fingering, mirror sex, hair pulling, lino is a lil obsessed with you, the strongest of language

x A/N: This is #2 in a series of 6 stories featuring two members from TXT, two from ATEEZ, and two from Stray Kids. They all follow the same theme and can be read chronologically or you can jump around. I support the chaos.

Previous Psychopath: Yeonjun | Next Psychopath: Wooyoung

Downstairs in the lobby of the Hotel Artemis the Innkeeper sits behind the check-in desk face down in a pool of his own blood. If someone were to lift his head up, the mangled flesh swimming around might resemble crushed raspberries. Their daily serving of fruit courtesy of you. But no one will lift his head up. They’ll all mind their business because that’s what you do here. You step around his body and grab your fucking key before you end up just like him or worse. He’ll wake up eventually. Probably.

Stepping into the surprisingly well-kept elevator, you press the button for the top floor, adjusting the garter belt beneath your dress as the doors close on the empty lobby. This is no time to admire architecture but you can’t help yourself. The Romanesque style interior is breathtaking, much nicer than the deathtraps you’ve found yourself in trying to track down the Black Cat. Some might call it lucky that Minho’s petty streak led him to the penthouse suite of the Artemis, right down the street from where your hotel is.

Watching the numbers light up one after the other as the elevator ascends, you’re shocked when it comes to a stop at the 6th floor, 14 floors short of your destination. You step back, wedging yourself in a corner, and fish your headphones out of your purse. Your music’s on before the bell dings, doors sliding open to let half a dozen goons file in. Italian mob. Dressed in all black. Cocky. Faces still healing from their last brawl. Half of them smile at you, nodding, politely admiring the way your dress hugs your curves, gawking at your flawlessly applied makeup.

You smile back and they turn away, eliminating you as a threat. Stealthy glances around the elevator reveal the guns tucked into their waistbands. The Big One, twice your size in every way, has a set of brass knuckles on his callused hands. Gold plated. Fancy. “Excuse me, gentlemen” you sing, maneuvering through them with the grace of a proper lady. They part the sea for you, unknowingly clearing a path to the control panel. “Getting off already, beautiful?” “Mmm'' you sigh, a manicured nail hovering near the bright red EMERGENCY STOP button, “Not yet.” Your fist slams down on the button, bringing 6,000 pounds of metal to a screeching halt. 

Minho studies the 16th-century Turkish vase on display in the lavish, and utterly destroyed, penthouse of the Golden Child, a pretty boy whose mob boss daddy provides him with enough money to blow on all the cocaine, strippers, and obnoxiously expensive art he can get his hands on. “Don’t you touch it!” the Golden Child screams, spitting loose teeth and blood onto his bear skin rug. Minho pops open the glass display case that houses the vase and an assortment of other highly fragile artifacts. “Don’t touch what?” he asks, winding up the scarlet splattered golf club he used to lay ruin to the apartment and its inhabitant, “This?”

“I said no!” Minho chews at the inside of his lip, pretending to be unsure of his next move when he knows exactly what he’s about to do. The head of the club shatters the priceless vase into a thousand pieces, shards of ceramics and glass flying through the air as he dishes out swing after spiteful swing to those poor, innocent historical treasures. The Golden Child grabs onto the arm of his white leather couch, attempting to push himself up but broken ribs send him tumbling back down. “You’re out of your fucking mind!” he curses, “All because I spilled a drink on you? I said, ‘My bad!”

Winded, Minho tosses the golf club across the room, grinning to himself as he notices a leaking cut on his hand. “My bad?” he laughs, “My bad?” It disgusts him, the smugness of people who think they can run around doing anything they want to anyone they want. Poor manners, that is. His parents should’ve taught him better but that’s what Minho’s here for. Charging across the room, he grabs the Golden child by the collar of his soft cotton robe and hammers his head onto the floor. “My bad is not ‘Sorry!’”

Minho bashes his fist into the man’s jaw, the brute force of the blow knocking another molar loose, “Say sorry!” “Eat shit.” “What?” Minho snaps, positive his ears are deceiving him. The Golden Child smiles up at him, arrogant and entitled even in his battered state, “Eat shit. My dad keeps tabs on me 24/7. He’s probably sending some guys up here right now and when they get here? You're dead.” Grabbing the belt barely hanging onto the man’s robe, Minho twists it around his neck, depriving him of air.

“I guess I’ll see you on the other side then, huh?” Minho doesn’t blink, not even once, as the color drains from the Golden Child’s eyes, bone splintering, his windpipe crumbling just as easily as his precious vases. Saying sorry really couldn’t have been that hard. 

“There’s nowhere to run, little one” taunts the Big One, trying and failing not to trip over the corpses of his friends. Your chest hurts like hell. The others were easy, so shit with their aim that only one bullet in 20 clips had even managed to skim your thigh. But this one? He won’t go down. Squared up against him, the knife from your torn garter clenched in your fist, you know you can’t let him hit you again. Another blow to the chest and you’re done for. “Who’s running, big boy? Let��s get it.” Tapping the EMERGENCY STOP button again, the elevator whirls back into action.

The Big One charges at you, swinging wildly. You duck, rolling through the bodies and slicing open the back of his left leg. The bell dings on every floor like the start of a boxing match. The Big One punches one of the walls, denting the metal. So much for pristine architecture. As he reels from the hit, you jump on his back, jabbing the knife into his chest from behind. The bell dings for a final time on the 20th floor. Biting down on your arm, he flips you over his shoulder, slamming you down onto the floor, knocking the air out of you.

The doors creak open as he raises his foot to stomp a steel toe boot down on your chest. Bang! A bullet barrels through his skull. The titan stumbles, his brain quite literally scrambled. Bang! Bang! Two more shots and he’s slumped on the ground with his friends where he belongs. Reunited at last. “Who’s your new boyfriend?” Minho teases from the hallway, tossing the gun to the ground. “You’re welcome!” you groan, flipping him off. He hops onto the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby. “Thank you,” he says, sweetly, grateful for your help and your presence.

Taking you into his arms, he props you up in the corner, checking you for injuries. “What is this?” You flinch when he brushes a tender spot on your head, “You tell me. You’re the one with the mob after you.” “No, I mean, what are you doing here?” “Oh, uh, boss sent me to get you” you stutter, the entire reason for your arrival in Rome having shifted to the back of your mind until now.

“We need you.”

“Where?”

“Berlin.”

“When?”

“Next week.”

“Okay, if…”

You whine when he caresses your thigh, checking the severity of the bullet wound. “If what?” “If you let me take care of you” he winks. “Take care of me? Why’d you say it like that?” Minho rips a long strip of material from the shirt of a nameless corpse and secures it around your thigh to stop the bleeding. He kisses your thigh, suckling softly at the tender flesh to distract you from the pain. Ding! First floor. The doors open to the lobby and he takes you by the hand, “Let me show you.” 

Taking care of you. When you say that in this line of business, it’s never a good thing but Minho had no intentions of cutting your life short. The only thing on his mind was carrying you back to your hotel, running you a nice bath, and dressing your wounds. “All better?” he asks, his breath tickling your neck as he plays with your clit. This was a part of the plan too, getting you in his lap, his naked body reunited with yours after months apart. From this position on the edge of the bed, you can see your reflection clearly. Your plush breast bounces in one of his hands while the fingers of the other spread your lips wide enough to fully expose your clit.

With your legs dangling across his, follow your cream as it trickles down the base of his cock. There’s nothing fast or rough about the way he lifts his hips to fill you. The slight curve of his cock makes you stutter each time he disappears into your pulsing warmth. “All---ah---b-b-better.” “B-b-better?” he mocks, his fingers working faster against your clit. You reach back to cup his face, scratching him the slightest bit as punishment for being a smartass. The pain only makes him want you more. His cock is as hard and smooth as polished marble, leaking precum into your needy pussy.

Minho watches you in the mirror, admiring your reflection, entranced by how the beauty of your face and the plumpness of your figure could make him put a bullet through the skull of a man who even dared to look at you wrong. “Take over for me” he whispers, guiding your hand between your legs, his fingers moving on top of yours to splash in the audible wetness of your pussy. You pick up a rhythm together, one that has your breath growing ragged and your stomach in a frenzy. With his hand now free, he brushes your hair out of your face, tilting your head to the side to kiss you.

His tongue ventures as far down your throat as it can go, devouring your moans. Bouncing you in his lap at a quicker pace, still careful not to hurt you, he caresses your body, greedy to claim you as his like you were meant to be from the start. The argument that broke you up. That stupid fucking argument. He doesn’t even remember what it was about anymore and he doesn’t care. Because you’re in his lap, your back arching against his chest, sloppily playing with your own aching bud, biting on his lip while you whimper his name. Your pulse races, your hand reaching back to grip his hair for stability.

“Mmhmm, pull my fucking hair and cum for me” he urges, “Cum for me angel.” Your tongue lashes at his, his words making you burst. “Minho! Aah, baby!” you cry, pulling his hair harder as your orgasm deepens. Minho rests his head on your shoulder. Watching you cum is like performance art. “I don’t care about anyone else. Just promise you’ll never leave me again.” Your glossy eyes meet his in the mirror, “I promise.” “You mean it?” “I mean it.”

And you do mean it. You have to. Because, with the hell that awaits you in Germany, sweet reunions like this might end up being your last.

[the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf]

You're waiting for a train...(6)

Conscience Makes Cowards of us All

Robert Fischer x reader

description - Arthur is an unwelcome presence in y/n's subconscious.

warnings - SA, implied explicit content, killing/death (in the case of waking up from a dream), Arthur being a dick because his ego is bruised, explicit language.

word count - 1.9k

a/n - More of y/n's past is revealed! Also Arthur is such a dick in this, i'm sorry if you like him but I needed him to be this for the plot!

Previous Part Series Master list Master list

If you want to be added to the taglist - here

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

*Arthurs pov*

My eyes shot open. I paced around taking in the expanse of the beautiful hotel lobby. It was decorated to be art deco and the murky dimly lit atmosphere with red and gold accents encapsulated her essence. The silence unnerved me. A mind like hers should be bustling like that of any young adult. Instead, it appeared she’d harnessed her subconscious and molded it to her liking.

My gaze was dragged towards an elevator which loomed at the very end of the seemingly never-ending hallway. I doubted my moves. I was walking into her home. No, it was more personal than that. I was invading her soul. She would hate me after this, and I wouldn’t blame her. The years of trust we’d built up would shatter in the face of my curiousity. But the seconds passing showed my body betraying me.

I entered the gold dusted box and the harsh metal rail dragged in front of me. My hand drifted to the marble buttons that climbed up the panel in front of me. “1, 2, 3.” Standard. My breath caught seeing the numbers decrease even further. What has she buried?

1,2,3. 1,2,3. If this was the girl I knew, she’s been logical and organised by memories; early to present. I pressed 3 without a second thought. It rumbled to life and a creaking industrial might rose me up into her mind.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The cage erupted out to reveal me to the third floor of this apparent hotel. The décor was neat and tidy, and the sage green accents gave it a fresh feel. I exited as I felt drawn into the hall.

Each side was home to bright white doors which held different hotel room numbers. How fitting, a hotel full of rooms and a room for each memory. Each room had an imperceptible buzx radiating behind it. As if the pure thoughts were fizzing in their own creation. But there was one.

‘301’ Burned like fire. I could sense the burst of life behind the door, that I found myself drawing closer. Numbing voices chatted behind the wood. And the shadows of two danced through the cracks of light. I placed my hand near the handle and felt the burning sweetness I associate with y/n’s dream state. She was here. I hesitated. She can’t see me here. Any semblance of relationship with her would be gone. But then I heard something else. A new voice. Mingling with her velvety tones. I grasped the brass handle and ripped it open. There I was greeted with my y/n lying in a bed with our mark.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

*your pov*

I jumped away from the projection as the room door was yanked open. I scrambled away amongst the sheets, dragging them up to cover ourselves. Arthur stood stock still in the doorway and the look in his eyes could have brought me to tears right there. His eyes raked over our bedraggled forms, taking in the thin sheets we put a lot of trust in. I sat up on the bed whilst Robert kneeled behind, holding me in his arms. I stroked my fingers over his arms. I felt him tense up. This was my dream, and he was my protector.

Arthur let out a humourless laugh, dripping in spite.

“Why did I expect anything less.” He spat at me, crudely gesturing between the two of us. As the tears welled up in my eyes Robert flicked to the defensive and stalked towards Arthur. In a blind panic, I threw on my red dress, foregoing any shoes.

Arthur moved forward, readying his fists.

“NO!” I shouted, halting the two men.

“Stay out of this!” Arthur snapped. His anger being directed towards me unleashed something in Robert’s projection and he lunged forward.

I slipped in the middle and separated the two brawling men. I shoved Arthur past the door threshold. I then took Roberts face in my hands and stroked my fingers through the hairs at his neck. I cooed at him, calming him down. His fingers curled around my waist, caressing my sides. Arthur looked on at us, betrayed.

When I felt he had been soothed enough and his eyes fell close. I pushed him away and sprinted out the door. When I slammed it shut I felt his body crash into it. Banging repeatedly, begging for me to let him out. I composed myself. My hand still clasped around the handle, my breath the only noise.

Eventually I released and let my body fall back onto the door behind me. I sank into the carpet and my gaze tracked to the ceiling. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Arthur. Couldn’t bear to wallow in his disappointed gaze.

“You have to do that every time?” Arthur finally spoke.

My eyes remained firmly on the door, as if daring it to break. “He can get antsy when I leave.”

“You mean the projection.”

“Of course.” I mumbled sadly.

“I actually can’t believe you!” Arthur laughed out. “You are smarter than this.” I let a few tears drop at his admonishment. “Well, I thought you were.” He said dismissively.

“Woah.” I rose up from the floor. “you wanna say that again, whilst standing here in my own dream, that you are not welcome in.”

“Your lipstick’s smudged.” He brushed my messy lips before I swatted away his teasing hand. He smirked. I slapped him.

“It’s just – he – I don’t know he just – “ I began to lose control of my body and my breaths wouldn’t stop leaving.

“What? WHAT?” Arthur stalked towards me to tower over my face. I could feel the spit leaving his shouts. I burst from my cowering.

“IT WAS SOMETHING NEW.” We remained staring at one another. “I looked at him and it was like everything in here made sense.” I tapped my fingers against my head.

“What made sense? What have you locked in here?” He looked at me so seriously that it was oppressive. I giggled and second guessed my decision as I made it. But I still grabbed his hand and led him back to the elevator. We both entered and I pressed the button.

Gravity fell from beneath us to drag us down into the depths. If Arthur wanted to know then he would.

It clanged as it reached the bottom. I could feel the weight of the air down here. I was suffocating on my own dream. The metal gate opened with a hesitation, willing us not to go further. I stepped out into the murky hallway. My bare feet froze on each step on the concrete floor. Arthur followed hesitantly, unnerved by my own confidence in such an unwelcome place. I hurried my pace until I met the end room. My red dress became the beacon of light for Arthur to follow. My silhouette engulfed by the cracking black paint.

I finally felt Arthur’s presence behind me and so I took out my ring of keys. It held many keys but only one stood out. It was as ornate as it was old, and it’s heaviness weighed down the whole set. I placed it in the door to unlock it for our eyes. The door trudged open with an audible creak. A hotel room was revealed, as was me and another man.

*the memory dream*

“I know who you are,” The man spoke. “And I know why you’re here.”

“I think you must be mistaken.” I tried to sneak past his form but he caught me in his arms.

“No no no. You’re not getting away that easily you little thief.” His dirty hands groped my sides and hiked up my dress. His calloused fingers crunched the skin of my thighs.

As I watched, I felt the movements repeated on my own skin, and all I could do was match the look of terror on my past face.

He got closer to my core and his other hand had found its place tightly holding my boobs. My form panicked and tried to wriggle out of his grip. It was too much; I could feel it too clearly. This was a dream but my pain had never felt so real. I elbowed his stomach and crawled away from him. Before he could consider a new move, I grabbed the gun from my holster and put a bullet through my head.

*back to Arthur and y/n*

Arthur jumped at the sound of the gun whilst I forced my eyes open.

“Killing just wakes you up, but pain is all in the mind.” I stated. “It may have just been a dream but I can still feel it, everyday.” Arthur placed his hand on my shoulder, questioning the move itself.

“That was not your fault.” He announced proudly. I turned in his arms to meet his sympathetic gaze. I giggled.

“That’s not why that memory is here. I shot myself, so I didn’t have to stay and finish the job.” I stalked towards him willing him to hear my words. “I buried my own cowardice.”

Arthur slowly backed away. He’d never seen this look in my eyes before and he couldn’t look at it again.

“Dad needs to know I can do this, more importantly, that I want to do this. My weakness helps neither of us.”

“Y/n, if Cobb had seen that, he would have made you wake up regardless.”

“And never let me come on a mission again, and I would have been alone. Again.” I walked back to the elevator and let my back rest on the cold metal. Arthur still hadn’t moved, his gaze on the dreaded door.

“Everything here is for my own good, and the good of the people I love.” He followed me and closed the gate behind us. “But it’s also mine. So get out.”

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The time on the dream ticked out, rousing us from our sleep. I ripped out the IV and threw together my stuff, ready to scram. I was halted by Arthur’s arms around me. He dragged me around to face him.

“Y/n listen to me. You’re compromised. You now have too much invested in this job and your judgement will be askew.” He stared me down as he spoke.

“You have no right to question my ability.” I argued.

“After what I just saw, you’re lucky I don’t rip you off this team right now.” He jerked his hands away from me, harshly rubbing my skin as he moved.

I pivoted away and let my feet march me away from him.

“Oh yeah,” He shouted, “What are you gonna do after? Go after Fischer and try and get yourself a cushy number.” I stopped in my tracks.

“No, actually.” I slowly turned back towards his smug face. “I thought I’d go home for the first time in 5 years.”

“Just don’t go meddling about in his mind with your own ideas.”

“Fuck you.” I forced out amongst the tears threatening to leave.

We were broken out when Eames, Saito, Ariadne, Yusuf and my dad entered the warehouse.

“Guys, Maurice Fischer just died 1 hour ago. They’re transporting the body from Sydney to LA tomorrow morning.” My dad announced, but he frowned when he sensed the tension.

“Well, I guess it’s time.” Arthur said, walking over to the others, ignoring my teary face.

I collected myself enough to leave with my dad so we could pack. We were packing to go home.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

taglist: @jonsncws @h-l-vlovesvintage @theethy @fashionki11a @felicity1994 @bearchermer @idkyoutellmesmh @mimimarvelingmarvel @butterfly-lies-chase-them-away

[kumeko]

A/N: For the @ichiruki-auzine! I think they’d be a lot of fun in a Men in Black world, and wanted to explore another way they could have met for the first time. 

…

…

…

…

Rukia was good at her job. Perhaps not as great as her brother—almost no one could reach Byakuya’s level—but good nonetheless. There was a reason the Men in Black recruited her straight out of university. Just like the FBI or CIA, they only wanted the best.

Best was her middle name. 

Intelligence? She was the top of her class. Every class, for the past five years. 

Fitness? Despite how short she was, Rukia had been on both the soccer and volleyball teams throughout university. She could run laps around her coworkers.

Adaptability? Rukia had lived on the streets for a few years. If she couldn’t adjust to anything after that, then no one could.

Any skill they needed, she had in spades. The top brass agreed: there was a reason she was the only agent on her level who worked alone.  

Rukia grinned as she roared down the highway, swerving her motorcycle in and out of traffic. There were no other motorcycles tailing her as she searched New York for her latest target. She wasn’t forced to sit in a car, making small chat to her partner as they fought traffic.

No, it was just her and the open wind. Rukia took a deep breath of her city’s smog-filled air, listened to the angry honks and screeching tires, and pressed the gas. Her motorcycle jumped forward, and she leaned down closer, hugging the turn as she exited the highway. Her tie flapped in the wind and she felt a feral sort of joy from it all. It was funny how her suit didn’t feel restricting at all as she drove—maybe it was the alien fibers used to make it.

“In two miles, turn right,” her watch declared. A small, green holographic map temporarily floated above the watch, a blinking red dot indicating her destination. 

So close, she thought. No matter where she went, New York was a bright, loud disaster. It was almost eleven and if Rukia didn’t know the time, she’d assume it was day. Buildings jutted out every square inch possible, towering above them and flashing neon lights until it was impossible to see the stars. Pedestrians crowded the well-lit street and she glanced at them as she passed. 

Just how many were human? Alien? At one point, the latter hadn’t even been a question, but now she knew better. She’d opened Pandora’s box and there was no turning back. Not only did aliens exist, but there was an entire economy built off them. There was an immigration system in place, special laws on handling them, and even few presidents had been aliens.

Of all the things Rukia had expected after chasing her brother’s footsteps, joining what was basically an FBI for aliens wasn’t one of them. She glanced at the pedestrians as she drove by. This area wasn’t part of her usual patrol, so for as far as she knew, the hot dog seller could be an alien. Even that schoolgirl skipping eagerly with her friends could be one. 

Alien disguises were too realistic these days. A small scar could hide a zipper, a beard the buttons of a robotic body.

Rukia turned the corner, finally leaving the city proper; the lights were spaced out more, the groups of people decrease to a few stragglers here and there. Even the buildings started to show some variety, houses mixing in between the apartments.

“What’s his name?” she asked, slowing down to match the speed limit.

“Fishbone D., of the Hallow system,” her watch recited immediately. While it looked like any other smart watch, hers was a good deal smarter. “Considering his affinity for water, he is generally found at the docks. He spends his days as a fisherman.”

“The docks?” Rukia snorted. They were nowhere near the ocean now. “What’s he doing all the way over here?”

“He has not checked in with his corresponding agent for the past two weeks,” the watch continued, ignoring her as usual. “He should be somewhere in the next neighbourhood.”

“Probably stumbled in the wrong place.” Rukia turned another corner, slowing down further. The streets here were empty, fortunately. However this went, the less witnesses the better. If she was lucky, Fishbone D.—

“Oh.” Rukia braked hard. Her grip on the handlebars was the only thing that kept her in her seat, gravity trying to jerk her forward and into the eight-foot-tall behemoth in front of her. “Does Fishbone look like a giant shark?”

“Yes,” her watch cheerfully replied, pulling up a hologram of the very alien standing in front of her. “In his original form, he has a skull—”

“Don’t bother, he’s right in front of me.” Rukia sighed as she surveyed the scene.

Not bothering with his human disguise, Fishbone was in his full alien form. It was like looking at a humanoid shark: a sleek grey body with a fin sticking out the back. He had humanesque legs and arms, though his arms were disgustingly long. To top it of, this Frankenstein of a creature had a white, bone-like mask for a face. She wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than having a shark head or even a human head.

Still, there was no way of changing the fact that a giant shark-man was standing in the middle of a rather ordinary suburb, clearly visible for anyone who looked outside. Fishbone also didn’t care about being discrete as he rocked an empty parked car back and forth. Well, it wasn’t like he could be discrete, considering his size, but still. The point was Rukia needed to do a lot of mind-wipes after this was over. It was hard work as is keeping society from knowing about aliens without all of this added to the mix.

Sighing, she dismounted her bike. “Hey, Fishbone.” 

He didn’t look at her. Instead he rocked the car again. This time, it flipped on its side. 

“Great. Property damage too.” Rolling her eyes, Rukia came to a stop in front of him. “Hey. Big guy. You know what comes next, right?”

“She broke up with me,” he whined, his voice oddly deep and guttural.

Rukia could just smell the alcohol clinging to him. “Great, a drunk alien. I don’t care about your life story, you’re still in trouble.”

Fishbone kicked the car. “She left!” 

“I’d leave too.” Tapping on her watch, she shook her head. Honestly, days like these were the worst. There was always too much clean up. “Now you’re going to have to—”

He turned, his right arm whipping back and smacking her right in the stomach with the force of a sledge hammer. As she flew through the air, her only thought was shit.

-x-

Ichigo was drunk. Sure, his body didn’t feel heavy, his brain was particularly unfuzzy, and he didn’t even have that warm tingle that happened after a few too many shots, but he was drunk. It was really the only explanation for the monster that was blocking his walk home.

Though, considering how much the monster stunk of beer, maybe they were both drunk. 

“How do you even drink?” he muttered to himself, squinting at the monster’s face. Despite his black body, his face looked like a white skull. Did that mouth even open? How did he even lift the can, he didn’t look like he had proper hands.

There was a short woman standing next to him, and if the monster was huge, the woman was tiny. She was like one of those fairies his sister liked to draw. Her black suit didn’t make her look at all imposing, and he wondered just what it said to him that he was dreaming about Beauty and the Beast. 

Before he blinked, the monster swatted the woman in his direction. Flying through the air, she shot past him and onto the hood of a car. Loud beeps blared through the quiet night and Ichigo pulled out his stupor. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t dreaming. That was a real monster in front of him.

And that lady needed help. Quickly, he sprang into action, dropping his backpack as he sprinted to the car. The woman groaned as she sat up and rubbed her head. “Fuck,” she swore. 

“You okay?” he asked, quickly scanning her for injuries. Enough years watching his father’s medical practice had left him with just enough knowledge to know what to look for. There wasn’t any blood, fortunately, and she looked more annoyed than in pain.

“I’m fine.” She swatted his hand away, climbing off the car on her own. Somehow, she looked even tinier now; he had to be at least double her height. “You should get going.”

“Get going?” Ichigo snorted, gesturing at the monster. “We should call the cops.”

She shot him a glare. “Don’t. God, the cleanup would be—just don’t, okay? Run along now, idiot.”

“Idiot?” he gawked. Before he could get any further than that, she sprinted toward the monster once more.  

There was a gun in her hand. He had no idea where she’d been hiding that. Were guns even useful against monsters? Ichigo could feel his brain overloading from it all. Maybe he should go; she seemed to know what she was doing.

Yet…he watched as she shot. Two short, white bursts of energy exploded out of the gun and smacked the monster in the back. The monster cried—it was weird how human-like that sounded—before whirling around and attacking her. She looked more than capable of fighting the monster; in fact she looked oddly used to it. He could get in the way.

The monster’s feet swept at her and while she jumped, she couldn’t dodge the monster’s claws coming from the opposite direction.

“Watch out!” 

She turned and crossed her arms over her chest just as she got hit, flying into yet another car. 

“Shit!” Ichigo ran toward her, not caring anymore. She clearly needed help; this thing was far too strong for just her to take care of. 

“Not again.” The woman coughed, blood dribbling down her lips. Whatever got hurt, it was internal, and those were the worst types of injuries.

“Shit, shit, shit.” The monster was still ambling toward them. There was no time to do anything but scoop her up in his arms and run. If she broke something else, well, she’d at least be alive to complain about it. 

“What’re you doing?” she gasped. Despite her pain, she smacked his chest with an open palm. “Let go of me, you idiot.”

“You’re injured, moron,” Ichigo growled back. She was even lighter than he’d expected. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed the monster was oddly slow on its approach. Instead of focusing on them, it was hitting random cars along the way. 

“I’m not.” She groaned as she tried to move. “Fine, a little.”

“A little?” Incredulous, Ichigo tore his eyes off the street and onto the slip of a woman in his arms. He had never seen anyone so stubborn before, it was like everything she was lacking in height, she made up for in attitude. “You’re coughing up blood!”

“All in a day’s work.” She winced as she peeked around his arms. “That fucking drunk idiot.”

There were many words Ichigo would have used on the monster, but none of those were it. And especially strung together like that. “What?”

“Nothing, ignore it.” She studied him. “You’re pretty strong.”

Ichigo raised a brow. “You’re not that heavy.”

The woman’s jaw dropped and she smacked him. “No, you idiot—look, there’s an easy way for all of this to end.” She pointed behind him. “I need you to get me to my motorcycle.”

“And run past that thing?” Ichigo slowed down to look over his shoulder again. It was odd, the monster didn’t look interested in them anymore, more content to wreck a garbage can than to eat them. Suddenly, he understood drunk though he wasn’t sure why a monster of all things would be.

She nodded, not missing a beat. “And then I need you to distract him long enough for me to shoot him.”

“What?” If he hadn’t been holding her, he would have rubbed his brow. As it was, he stopped running. “Are you an idiot?”

“That’s still you,” she growled. “Look, either we do this together, or I do it alone.”

He stared at her.

“It’s my job, I know what I’m doing.”

Job. Ichigo took a deep breath. “None of this makes sense,” he mumbled. It wasn’t like he could leave her alone to face this, and even if he ran away, other people could be hurt by it. Reluctantly, he nodded. “Fine, but you’re explaining everything after.”

The woman snorted, as though there was something hilarious about that. “Sure, I’ll explain everything. Now don’t get hit.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that, shorty,” Ichigo hunched forward slightly and took a deep breath. 

Three—

The monster perked his head up.

Two—

Its skeletal head turned to them.

One—

The monster dropped the garbage bin.

Go!

Ichigo sprinted down the road, trying not to scream. Noticing his approach, the monster bounded toward them, its overly large arms hitting parked cars and setting off several alarms. From the corner of his eyes, he could see blinds pulling back, doors opening; the whole neighbourhood realizing that a monster stood on their front lawn.

But there wasn’t time to think of that. As long as the monster was focused on him, it wouldn’t turn to them. Its hand curled around a trash can and hurled it at him. Ichigo barely dodged in time. The gap between him and the motorcycle was slowly decreasing. It was the size of a football field now.

Unfortunately, the monster stood at the halfway point, and he was only coming closer. 

Ichigo glanced at the woman. Her eyes were fixed determinedly on the monster. “Hey.”

“Yes?” She didn’t look at him.

Ichigo angled toward the lawn on his right. “Can you run?”

“Huh?” She looked at him, curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Can you?” he repeated insistently. There was only a car length between them and the monster now. 

“Y-yes,” she replied quickly. “Why?” 

“Great.” And without warning, he deposited her on the grass. Before she could gather her bearings, he ran straight at the beast.

-x-

Rukia lay flat on the ground, more confused than hurt. No, that was a lie: her chest very much hurt whenever she took a breath. She’d probably cracked a rib or two. “What was that?” 

Gingerly, she sat up, wondering if that guy had just ditched her. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. It was hard enough learning about aliens, let alone facing one that looked like that. Rubbing her head, she glanced back up the street. It was empty. And on the other side…

On the other side, the idiot was taunting the alien. “You—” Rukia cut herself off. He was playing bait and unfortunately, she couldn’t deny that she needed it. In the state she was in, she wouldn’t be able to knock out Fishbone on her own. The entire neighbourhood was awake, families huddling on their doorsteps as they watched in fear, and it was only a matter of time before the cops came. She’d have to scrub the whole place after this.

Rukia clambered to her feet carefully. The stranger at least had some idea of what he was doing, baiting Fishbone to the left side of the street and dodging behind cars. Quickly, she made her way along the right, ducking under cars as she moved. Her chest felt like it was on fire. 

Her motorcycle wasn’t too far, fortunately. She all but sprinted the last few feet, clenching her teeth at the pain. Miraculously, Fishbone hadn’t noticed it in his rampage, leaving the whole thing in once piece. Pressing a button on the handlebars, she impatiently watched as the seat opened up to reveal several small guns.

It was tempting to take the lethal ones, but Fishbone was just drunk and not an actual danger. Grabbing a tranquilizer, she drew it on the alien. His back was toward her. His claws were raised. Without hesitation, she pulled the trigger and shot. A small dart pierced his skin and he stumbled forward as he passed out. 

“Good.” Rukia sighed, resisting the urge to sink to her feet. If she sat down now, she wasn’t going to get back up. 

The stranger stared at Fishbone before kicking him once. When he didn’t move, the man jogged over to her. “Is he dead?”

“No, just asleep.” Rukia put her gun back in the rack and pushed it close. 

“What the—” The guy looked at the bike, at her, at the monster. “What is that? All of this?”

“He’s an alien,” Rukia explained easily, slipping on her sunglasses. She pulled out her neutralizer, a slim, metal device that would make all her worries go away. All she had to do was flash it, and her witnesses would forget anything that happened here tonight. “I need you to do one last thing for me.”

“What?” The man stared at her confused. “And why are you wearing sunglasses at night?”

“I’ll explain in a moment.” Raising her neutralizer, she smiled. “Just look at the light.”

“The light?” The second the stranger looked, she activated it. A bright light flashed and the man recoiled. “Good, now you were on your way home and were distracted by all the honking cars.”

“What?” The man shielded his eyes. “I’m more distracted by that fucking monster!”

Now it was her turn to be surprised. Rukia stared at him. “You remember?”

“Of course I remember. It was two seconds ago.” The stranger rubbed his eyes. “What the hell was that light for?”

Rukia had never heard of a neutralizer not working. She’d used it just earlier today, so it couldn’t be the device. No, there was just something really off about the ginger-haired man in front of her, still rubbing his eyes pitifully. 

Somehow, it hadn’t worked on him.

“Hey watch,” she said, not taking her eyes off him. “Tell the boss we have a problem.”

[americanpeoplescareme]

James March x (gn in this chapter) reader

Architect of the west coast - Part 1

warnings: none!

My heels clicked rhythmically against the stone ground of LA. I'm Y/N L/N and I have been invited to stay at the historical Cortez hotel. I am what some call the architect of the west coast, since I've lived here, I have not once been to The Cortez. I for years have been admiring the stunning art deco interior and I was ecstatic when I got invited to stay.

I approached the sunburst style doors and open them up. Immediately my eyes are met with one of the most stunning buildings I've seen in my lifetime. the elegance of the red that matched my dress and shine of the gold accents made my heart throb. I made my way to the front counter to greet the lady standing there reading, her style is beautiful.

"Hi, I'm Y/N L/N. I was invited to stay here, I'm not sure what room they put me in" I told her and flashed a closed mouth friendly smile. she looked down at the pages of a large book on the counter and smiled to me. "you're in room 64, honey." she turned around and took the keys out of their designated cubicle and handed them to me. "Thank you so much, I love the way you dress by the way. you look amazing!" I smiled holding the key in my hand. she smiled sweetly and nodded her head "I appreciate that more than you know, do you need any help finding the room?" she asked.

"Oh no, if I get lost in this place I won't be at all upset, just means I get to relish in its beauty longer. have a nice night" I smiled and waved. she smiled back and looked back at her book. I walked across the carpet; I looked back at the lounge. a woman with short blonde hair watched me. I turned away and kept walking... weird?

I walked up to the elevator and pressed the button for the 6th floor.

-time skip-

I found it. the door looked to be oak and stunningly carved into brass was the number '64' so perfectly. I clicked the key and entered the room. I yelped as I saw a man sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. "I'm sorry! is this not room 64?" I asked confused. He was remarkably handsome... my lord. He laughed lowly "no this is in fact room 64, please! come in!" He stated oh so confidently. I stepped into the room "uhm I apologize if this comes off rude but, this is the room I'm staying in" I said awkwardly, his charisma was intoxicating me.

"Yes! I came here because I was told you were quite the ravishing lady! The name is James, James Patrick March, I am the owner of this hotel." he smiled "In fact, I have been told you have been interested in my work for a long time." I was in shock.

"James March? But didn't you pass years ago?" I asked a smile of disbelief on my face. "Of course, but with this hotel my legacy lives on and I will never die" He states with a dimpled smile and looked me up and down. "They were not lying about you though my darling... you are absolutely show stopping."

I bowed my head slightly "well thank you sir, you look quite nice yourself" I giggled to him.

He stepped closer to me with intense eye contact "I was wondering if there was any possibility of you coming and having dinner with me tonight?" He asked, "We can discuss anything you would like, just you and me?" His eyes had the most demanding look in them but so soft.

"Well, I don't seem to have any plans. I wouldn't mind coming at all." His eyes lit up "Splendid!" I giggled at him; I think this might be love at first sight.

[ikeromantic]

Congratulations on the followers! Could I request red hot with Keith in the observatory? Thank you very much.

Oh nony, I had a bit too much fun with this one! Thanks for the ask ^_^ Approx. 1600 words of pure Keith smut in the observatory. Very spicy! NSFW! TW: blow job (oral sex - male receiving) IkePri New Years Event story!

Keith led Emma into the observatory, a proud smile on his face. The globe above them glittered with the light of a thousand stars, magnified by the lensed glass. In the center stood the telescope, a huge brass and glass mechanism on a rotating dais. 

She stopped about halfway to the dais, her eyes fixed on the stars above. “This is amazing,” she sighed.

He nodded, his own gaze dwelling on the stars in his lover’s eyes. “Truly beautiful.”

Emma turned to look at him, and Keith felt his cheeks heat from the love in her gaze. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“We haven’t even seen the best part.” He gently pulled her toward the telescope. “With this, we can see even more. The court astronomer told me that -” Keith paused, realizing she wasn’t paying attention to the telescope at all. “What is it?”

“You are so adorable when you’re excited.” Emma kissed his cheek. 

“Not half so precious as you.” He turned his head to catch her lips before she could withdraw. It was a bold move, one that made him nervous. But with her, he felt sometimes as if he could do anything. 

The kiss was a soft and gentle thing, an exchange of warmth and breath and love. Yet somehow, this sweet gesture set off a hunger in him. A fire that leapt to life and set desire racing through him. 

Emma drew back from the kiss, a knowing smile on her lips. She ran her hands down his back, and even through his clothes he could feel her nails. The echo of a more intimate touch sent a jolt of pleasure through him. “Are you blushing,” she asked, a lilt of satisfaction in her voice.

“N-no,” he coughed. “Just feeling . . . a bit . . . warm.”

“Maybe you should take your coat off?” She was already sliding it off his shoulders as she spoke.

Keith cleared his throat and nodded, certain if he spoke the words would come out high-pitched and breathy. He wasn’t sure if Emma knew what her touch did to him. In the back of his mind, he could feel his wicked self laugh, thrilled with her forwardness. But for Keith it was almost too much. 

She set his jacket on one of the nearby stools and turned back to him. “Isn’t that better?”

“Y-yes.” He gestured again toward the telescope, searching for safer ground. The things he wanted to do with her now were not proper, not in the least but she was so alluring. Standing close as she was, smiling at him with some secret locked behind her heated gaze. 

Emma looked around again, a little frown creasing her brow. “It’s a bit dark in here. Is that so we can see out better?”

Keith gave another nod. 

“And can people see in? It’s all glass . . .”

“N-no. Unless they’re on the roof. And no one - no one is. I reserved it. For us.” He swallowed, smiled. Surely they were headed back to more known territory now. 

Emma turned to him, her smile even wider. “That’s good.” Her fingertips brushed his thigh, hooked the tops of his belt. “I was just thinking I really wanted some alone time with you.”

“W-with me?” He felt the fire in his heart leap again, though he wasn’t sure what to do with that feeling. Perhaps kiss her again? Keith leaned in for another kiss, and was surprised by her fierce response. 

She pushed him back against the stool, her body pressed against his, her mouth on his, her tongue teasing. 

He felt a tremor roll through his body, the urge to switch and let his wicked self indulge. But Keith wanted her to himself tonight. A selfish desire, perhaps, but honest. He pulled back from the kiss and studied her for a moment. “You know it - it’s just me, right? Just Keith. I - I’m not sure -”

“I know,” she smiled, her eyes alight. 

Keith realized then that she’d undone the buttons on his shirt. The air in the observatory was cool, almost cold. It raised dimples across his skin, and heightened his sensitivity to every touch. “Wh-” He began to ask why, only to gasp as her warm lips kissed his chest.

Emma left a trail of blazing warmth down his chest and belly, ending at the clasp of his belt. She was kneeling in front of him now, her mouth turned up in a teasing smile. 

“What . . . Emma . . .” Keith wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask. His thoughts were scattered and he was having trouble focusing on anything but her touch.

“Should I stop? I can, if it’s too much.” She ran her fingers up his inner thigh, along the line of the seam.

He shivered in response, his body aching with a sudden and intense need. “N-no. I like it. I - yes, please. Do . . . continue?”

Emma responded by taking hold of his belt buckle. 

Keith froze, paralyzed by a combination of desire and anxiety as she unfastened the leather and silver clasp and tugged the belt off completely. Her warm mouth found the sensitive trail of skin below his belly button and all Keith’s thoughts burned away.

There was nothing but the feel of her hands and her lips and her wicked tongue. She freed his cock from his trousers, the shock of cool air followed by her satin soft fingers wrapping around the base. He groaned as she slowly stroked him, root to tip. 

He felt as if he should stop her, as if this was too much - he didn’t deserve such unalloyed pleasure in her touch. Such intimacy didn’t belong in the observatory with the stars above watching in silent reproach. But his throat would not produce words and his tongue was incapable of speech. 

Emma’s soft laugh sent a tremor up his spine as her breath danced over his shaft, and then a jolt as her lips wrapped around the tip. She felt his sudden tension and pulled back, looking up at him expectantly.

Keith fought an inner battle as he gazed down at her. He should lift her up, kiss her. Tell her she needn’t give him such a gift. He didn’t deserve to feel this good, and she was too precious, too wonderful to be on her knees before him. But he didn’t have the strength to be that gentleman for her. Or rather, as the wicked voice in his mind whispered, he didn’t truly want to be. He opened his mouth, unsure what he would say. 

“Please . . .”

She gave him a victorious grin, fierce and full of carnal promise. Her silken lips descended on him then, and she took him into her mouth. 

He did not have words for the sensation, and even if he had, his thoughts burst into light. Fireworks of red and white that flickered in tempo with her naughty tongue. Keith felt as if he were sinking into her heat. She was a fire, consuming him. Turning his mere flesh into bliss through her divine touch. 

The deeper she took him, the more desperate his groans. He surrendered to her, to the ecstasy of her lips, her hands, her tongue and teeth. To the love he felt for her. His body tensed, shook, his fingers tangled in her hair. He felt as if he would cease, if she stopped now. Keith’s world shrank to only her touch. 

His pleading gasps came faster now, more ragged. There was an aching tension in his cock and balls, as if in any moment he might burst. “W-wait,” he managed, dragging the words from some small sliver of decorous thought he had left. “I - I’m g-going -”

Emma chose that moment to suckle him, her lips nearly down to the root of his shaft. Her tongue stroked the length of his cock, teasing, as her hands worked what her mouth could not. 

Keith’s thoughts were swept away in an ocean of ecstasy. There was nothing but sensation. Pleasure. He felt as if everything he was burst from him as his hips bucked forward, trying to drive deeper into her sweet, welcoming mouth. The warning he’d meant to give became only a moan of pure rapture. 

She drank him down, her hands pressing back on his thighs to keep him still. Her lapping tongue milked him until he felt expended, empty, drained and trembling. Even when she drew back and released him from the torment and bliss of her mouth, pleasure arced through his body.  

Emma wiped her mouth delicately, and stood. Trying to straighten her hair where he’d tangled it. She gave him an uncertain smile. “Was it . . . okay?”

Keith laughed weakly, feeling as if every breath brought him a new sensation. “You are incredible.”

Her smile widened. “So it was good?”

“I have never in my life . . . I didn’t know . . . it was . . .” He tried to encapsulate the rush of sensations, the helpless awe, the adoration in which he held her. Keith smiled, giving in to his heart’s joy. He didn’t need complicated words to express what he felt. Only three simple ones. 

“I love you.”

She laughed and sat down on his lap. “I love you too.”

“Have you ever -” He began, then stopped himself with a choked cough, surprised he would even have such a thought. At Emma’s encouraging look, Keith cleared his throat and tried again. “That is, would you like to . . . make love? Under the stars?”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Hmmm. I don’t know . . . isn’t it a bit soon after - you know?” 

Keith flushed a deep crimson, the color high and dark on his cheeks. “Erm, I - I don’t think it’s ah . . . a problem?”

She laughed and kissed him.

“That’s a yes, then?”

[j-eryewrites]

The Blind Banker (Final)

Part 14 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Previous | Next

Word Count: 10.k

Warnings: Guns, violence with weapons, violence with non-weapons, strangling, kidnapping, Sherlock is Sherlock, mentions of death, traumatic responses (let me know if I missed any)

*I woke up one day while writing this chapter and decided to be a poet. 

There was no meowing. No incessant begging from Bjørn. In fact, it was quiet. Quiet was nice. Y/N snuggled deeper underneath the blanket. Her brow furrowed. The sheets were soft like they were when they had just been washed. However, Y/N knew for a fact she hadn’t washed her sheets. She dared to open her eyes. Her body went tense as she shot out of bed. Nothing was stranger than waking up in a bedroom that looked eerily similar to your own. The blanket was a different colour. There was a desk in the corner. A desk Y/N knew that she did not own. The closet door was open. A wide variety of men’s button-ups and trousers were present. They weren’t Jim’s. Her eyes narrowed on a purple button-up. In a wave of recognition, Y/N groaned, and her face fell into her hands. She was in Sherlock’s room. 

Just like the light seeped through the curtains, her memory of last night had come back to her. She was helping Sherlock. John had passed out on the table and it seems that she had passed out on the couch. Now, how she had ended up in Sherlock’s bed was a mystery. There’s no way Sherlock brought me in here, Y/N thought. 

The warmth of Sherlock’s arms around her. Her head rested in the crook of his neck. The scent of him clouded her senses. A kiss on her forehead–a kiss goodnight. Y/N’s face went red. 

No. You’re just missing Jim. 

She tapped her cheeks and shoved the thoughts of Sherlock into the back of her mind. They, the thoughts, were just a product of loneliness. Jim had been gone a few days already. Jim. 

Y/N started to feel up in the surrounding areas. Her hands searched for the familiar shape of her phone. That small rectangular object soon became like a lifeline in this modern world. It astounded Y/N how much power such a tiny thing contained: the internet, long-distance communications, and entertainment. Another groan escaped her mouth once Y/N realized her phone was not in sight. She’d have to get out of bed. The warm bed. It smelled like Sherlock. 

No. Stop it. 

With that, she pulled back the covers and jumped out of the bed. Every morsel in her body protested. A protest she refuted with her sanity on the line. She was just missing Jim. Her boyfriend. The magnificent Jim made her have butterflies. The gentlemen. The man who ceased to amaze her. 

Her hand reached out to open the door, yet she found her hand hovering over the brass knob. It was a simple thing. Turn the knob and open the door. But the thought of having John just outside the door, or Mrs Hudson–Sherlock. Y/N’s cheeks burned and she was absolutely positive her face had turned a scarlet shade of red. 

Against her better judgment, Y/N opened the door. It creaked open with the loudest screech known to mankind. She winced as the sound echoed throughout the flat. 

“Good afternoon,” Sherlock announced from the living room. 

Y/N gulped as she tried to straighten her thoughts. She could very well go back into the room and pretend she had never arisen from her sleep. A suggestion that her mind heavily agreed with, but Sherlock knew. He knew she was awake. 

“Morning,” Y/N squeaked. She quickly cleared her throat, and her normal voice returned, “morning.” 

“It’s the afternoon,” Sherlock corrected. 

“Right, good aft–wait what? What time is it?” 

“Just a little past four o’clock.” Sherlock chuckled as he heard Y/N reprimand herself for sleeping in so late. 

Sherlock was still making his way through the crates. His finger carefully flipped through the pages. They flicked against each other before Sherlock shut the book, placing it in the never-ending pile. 

“What’s a book that everybody would own?” Sherlock wondered. His mind tired from the stream of words that filled his mind. He was even sure he had a couple of paper cuts from all the books he had handled throughout the night, but that was a problem for a later date. 

“Huh?” Y/N asked. Her mind was still groggy from her slumber. 

“A book that everybody would own,” He placed down the newest book in his hand. His eyes instinctively flew to the woman in the room and his heart did a little backflip. Her cheeks were the perfect shade: rosy and sweet. Her hair was in a bit of a mess and her clothes were wrinkled, but Sherlock couldn’t help but think how overtly domestic the scene was. Her in his flat coming out of his room having slept in his bed. What was he thinking?

“I don’t know…maybe a dictionary? Bible? Harry Potter?” Y/N muttered. 

Books. Right. The case. Sherlock nodded and ran over to his bookshelf and pulled out the allotted novels. His fingers found the pattern once again. “Fifteen. Entry one.” He mumbled to himself. His brow furrowed again as it always did once seeing the words. This time it was “add.” Not helpful. 

“Well, I’m going to go shower,” she looked down at her outfit. “And change. And eat. Just everything…” 

Sherlock nodded, paying her no mind. He flicked through the next book; it was Harry Potter. Same result. His last hope was the Bible. A book Sherlock wasn’t sure why he owned. He was in no way a religious man and never was. As he scanned page fifteen he recalled that he had used it for a case once. A serial killer had been using religious themes and reasonings. Sherlock didn’t think he had read a book as fast as he read the Bible. It took him twenty-three hours, twelve minutes, and thirty-three seconds. Then his eyes landed on the word, “I.” He closed the book with a thunderous thud. 

Sherlock tilted his head. He couldn’t have slammed the book that hard. He opened the book once more to snap it shut. The sound was like the squeak of a mouse compared to the noise from earlier. The sound came from John’s room. 

John emerged from his room. His eyes fell down to the pile of books that had appeared on the desk he called his bed last night. As if on cue, John’s neck was filled with a soreness. Just then he made a promise to himself to never fall asleep at that desk again.

“I need to get some air. We’re going out tonight,” Sherlock stated. 

“Actually, I’ve, er, got a date,” John smiled. 

“What?” Sherlock asked. He eyed John up and down. He was dressed quite nicely: a button-up and his beige trousers, the ones he only wore for nice occasions. Those occasions, Sherlock had noted, tended to dates with women. 

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun,” John commented. 

Without missing a beat, Sherlock replied, “That’s what I was suggesting. You, me, and Y/N.” 

“No, it wasn’t ... at least I hope not,” John mumbled. Sherlock’s idea of fun was chasing criminals and digging through the bodies at St. Mungo's to find parts to experiment with. 

“Where are you taking her?” Sherlock asked. 

“Er, cinema,” John replied. 

“Oh, dull, boring, predictable.”

John scoffed. What did Sherlock know about dates?

Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a strip of paper. He unwrinkled it and handed it over to John who had a puzzled look on his face. 

“Why don’t you try this?” Sherlock suggested. 

John eyed his friend carefully. Sherlock seemed genuine enough. John looked down at the paper. It was a circus event. “Yellow Dragon Circus?” 

“In London for one night only,” Sherlock said. His voice presented the event as if it was an Elton John concert. 

John chuckled. “Thanks, but I haven't come to you for dating advice. Never have. Never will.” 

_________

There was a knock on Y/N’s door and then a hiss from Bjørn. A combination that could only mean one thing–Sherlock. 

“One second!” Y/N exclaimed. She hastily picked up the brown cat who was adamant about staring at the door. Bjørn crouched low. His ears perched back. He was waiting to pounce on the man who’d walk in sooner or later. But when he was lifted up from his defensive position,  Bjørn meowed in protest. His meows only grew louder when Y/N threw him into her bedroom, the door closing behind her. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N said. Her face was flushed from her struggle to place Bjørn away from Sherlock. 

“Y/N.” He replied. He looked her up and down as she stood in the doorway. He frowned slightly. “Can I come in?”

Y/N’s eyes widened and shifted to the side. “Yeah, just come on–” 

“I need to get some air. We’re going out tonight,” Sherlock stated. 

“Oh, okay?” Y/N replied. “Where’s John?”

“On a date,” Sherlock stated. 

“Right. Let me just…” She pointed to her room, where the tiny demon’s meowing had turned into a roar. 

She hurried to her room making sure to take extra care to open and close the door. Bjørn hissed at her for thwarting his attempts to catch Sherlock. She profusely apologized only earning a glare from Bjørn. 

“I’m going out,” Y/N explained. 

Bjørn’s eyes narrowed and his tail flicked side to side. It was a judgemental look. 

“What? I’m just going out with Sherlock.” 

Bjørn made a warning noise. It was a mix of a growl and a hum.

“Don’t judge me,” Y/N hissed back at her cat. “I’ll be back tonight. I promise.” 

Bjørn made one last attempt to sway his owner otherwise, before meowing in acceptance. Just this once Bjørn would allow it. Y/N chuckled to herself. She was talking to a cat. A cat who absolutely despised Sherlock. 

“Right, I’m going to open the door. Don’t pounce on Sherlock.”

Bjørn meowed in protest. 

“Bjørn. Please.”

Bjørn’s eyes narrowed before walking in a circle and plopping down on the bed. His furry brown head was tucked underneath his tail. Y/N smiled softly and gave Bjørn a quick kiss on the head followed by a small pat. “Best cat ever.” Bjørn purred in content. 

Without another word, Y/N left the room and accompanied Sherlock out into the cold evening air. It was a strange feeling just the two of them. Hardly, had they ever been alone, and when they were things tended to go sour except for last night. 

Y/N thought of that night. She thought of how she woke up in Sherlock’s bed. An unquenchable curiosity filled her. How did she get into Sherlock’s bed?

“Sherlock?” Y/N pondered.

“Yes?” He replied with a raise of his brow. His eyes looked upon her as she was lost in thought. Her mind carefully thought through her next words. 

“I remember falling asleep on the couch. How did I–”

“I carried you,” He replied as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Y/N couldn’t help the gasp that left her mouth, she quickly covered it up with a fake cough, hoping Sherlock hadn’t noticed. He did. “I always get a soreness in my spine when I sleep on that couch. Thought I’d save you the trouble.”

It was a white lie. A half-truth. Yes, Sherlock did want to save her the pain, but in all honesty, he just wanted to hold her. To carry her figure in his arms. To smell her hair and perfume without being seen as a creep. Sherlock, in all honesty, wanted to pretend. Pretend that he could have that–have her. To pretend he wasn’t obligated to follow through with his genius status; to be normal and willingly dance with emotions. Something that entirely scared Sherlock and Sherlock wasn’t one to be scared. How could he have let a chemical defect in the brain grab a hold of him? Sherlock chalked it up to a moment of weakness. Never again would he indulge himself in such things. Yet here he found himself, with her, without John, pretending that once again they were not colleagues, neighbours, that she didn’t have another to call home. And then Y/N smiled at him. A sight that Sherlock could never tire of. He adored the way her lips parted and the way her eyes crinkled in the corner. He cherished how her cheeks grew a slight shade of pink whenever she smiled, something he had only seen her do. He liked how her eyes sparkled with emotion. Her face was so expressive and Sherlock could sit all day and night watching her. His eyes could observe every detail and still find something new and beautiful about her. 

Sherlock tore his gaze away from her. His cheeks turned a shade darker than would be applicable to the chilliness of the evening. 

“Thank you,” Y/N said. 

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock responded. 

Y/N exhaled and the air in front of her turned into a fog. The warmth of her breath fought against the cold, only to disappear in defeat. “Where are we going?” Y/N asked. 

Sherlock sighed. He’d have to tell her. Tell her that they were going somewhere for the case. That, truthfully, wasn’t the case in the first place. He saw something she’d like. An event she'd like to go to as friends. Sherlock never knew he could hate a word so much. It astounded him that in all those hours spent flicking through books the most common word that was page fifteen, word one, was “friend.” Friend. Friend. Friend. Friend. It was a taunt. An unavoidable truth. But for now, it was enough. 

“Out,” was all Sherlock said. Again a half-truth. A white lie to push off the inevitable, but for now, Sherlock would pretend. That’s all he could do. 

_________

John was not taking dating advice from Sherlock. 

Dinner was a success. Sarah and he talked about everything from work to their worst dating experiences. A conversation that was meant to be fun.  However, somewhere along the candle-lit dinner and fantastic pasta, Sarah mentioned her worst dating experience involved a dinner, and then a trip to the cinemas. John paled on the spot and hurriedly excused himself to the bathroom. 

John most definitely was not taking dating experience from Sherlock. Yet there he stood in a bathroom stall, his phone out, and finger frantically ringing Sherlock’s number. 

In a hushed voice, John asked Sherlock for the number to the box office of that circus. He could practically hear Sherlock’s smug face as he told John he had already reserved tickets for him. John rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics. Sherlock practically rubbed it in John’s face. Information about the location and time were exchanged, and John found himself thanking Sherlock. John had thanked Sherlock for the dating advice he did not take. 

Within an hour, dinner had finished, and John was showing Sarah to the next course of their date, the circus. 

“It's been years since anyone took me to the circus,” Sarah admitted excitedly. 

The tone of her voice had made John smile. Maybe he’d start taking more dating advice from his friend. John thought about the idea and then brushed it off. This was a one-time thing. A moment of weakness. 

“Right, yes! Well, it’s ... a friend recommended it to me. He phoned up.” John replied. 

“Ah. What are they, a touring company or something?” Sarah asked. 

“I don’t know much about it,” John confessed. 

Suddenly their path was illuminated by a scarlet shade of red. Hung above them were red lanterns leading up to the building John could only have guessed was their destination. 

“I think they’re probably from China!” Sarah exclaimed.

John chuckled to cover up the tightness that had formed in his chest. “Yes, I think ... I think so, yes.” He was already thinking of ways to scold his friend if what he thought was gut was telling him was right. 

As they entered the building and found the box office, John noted the vast amount of people there. It surprised him. A one-night-only event. An event that Sherlock knew about just so happened to be quite popular. His friend wasn’t known for the popular sort of events. 

“Hi. I have, er, two tickets reserved for tonight.” John said to the box office manager. 

“And what’s the name?” They asked. 

“Er, Holmes,” John replied. 

The manager nodded and riffled through the numerous envelopes behind the counter. Their finger came to a halt over one and quickly handed it over to John. 

“Actually, I have four in that name.” The manager responded as they looked at John and Sarah. 

John shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. We only booked two.”

Suddenly a familiar voice appeared behind John. “And then I phoned back and got one for myself and Y/N as well,” Sherlock explained.

John looked back at his friend in disbelief. Behind the consulting detective was none other than Y/N. The look on her face as she looked at John and his date then Sherlock meant that John wouldn’t have to bother reprimanding his friend. She’d already had that covered. 

Sherlock ignored the pair of eyes that were glaring at him as he introduced himself to John’s date. “I’m Sherlock.” He turned around to Y/N, motioning for her to introduce herself. 

The death glare she had been giving Sherlock moments before had evaporated into a polite smile. “Hello, I’m Y/N.”

Sarah looked at Sherlock and Y/N then at John. “Er, Hi.” She reached out and shook Y/N’s hand. 

“Hello,” Sherlock smiled back. His fake polite smile. 

“Are you two here on a date as well?” Sarah asked, unsure of where to take the conversation. It was clear to her the two people standing in front of her knew John. 

Y/N’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to correct Sarah when Sherlock cut her off. 

“Yes.”

Y/N looked at Sherlock and tugged on his sleeve. “Excuse us…” Y/N said. Her tense voice betrayed her polite smile. 

She dragged Sherlock down the hall, far away from John and Sarah. “You said we were going out!” She hissed at him. 

“We are. Going out that is.”

“I’m not–Sherlock,” Y/N groaned. “We are crashing John’s date. It’s rude.” She then began to mutter to herself. Something along the lines of ‘why do I ever trust him with anything.’

She grumbled in frustration before setting her sights back on Sherlock. “Was this your plan all along?” Sherlock did not need to respond for Y/N to come to her conclusion. “Why are we here? Is it to spy on John? Or it is about th–”

“I thought you and John might’ve liked it. It is a Chinese circus after all. I was planning on taking just you and John, but then he had a date.”

Y/N chuckled at the response. “So you told him to take his date here?”

“Yes.”

“So this is not the case. At all?” Y/N asked. She had an underlying suspicion about the circus. The same one John had. 

“No,” Sherlock stated. It was a lie, but Y/N didn’t need to know that right now. 

Y/N eyed him carefully. “Sherlock, if you are lyi–”

“I’m not.” 

He most definitely was. 

Y/N sighed and placed her hands on her hips. “Alright. But if you are lying,” Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her once again that he was not. “Ah. Just let me finish. If you are lying, I will not speak to you for a week. That is a promise.” 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion. “How are you supposed to get your job done then?”

“I’ll figure it out. I’m a big girl,” she immediately replied. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then agreed. He couldn’t go back on his word now. His word that he knew was a lie. A week with no words shared between Y/N and Sherlock. Not horrible. It could be worse, Sherlock thought. 

_______

Y/N and Sarah had accompanied each other to the loo, per Sarah’s request. John and Sherlock stood awkwardly on the stairs near the entrance to the theatre. Couples and other attendees walked past them. John’s eyes followed them. His mind was in debate as to whether to voice his opinions or not. 

“You couldn’t let me have just one night off?” John grumbled. 

Sherlock had to keep up the act. John would most assuredly tell Y/N and Sherlock would be damned to let the truth slip from anyone’s mouth but his. A determination that was immediately thrown out the window the minute John had asked. “Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day. It fits. The Tong sent an assassin to England …”

“... dressed as a tightrope walker. Come on, Sherlock, behave!” 

Sherlock leaned down to John and in a hushed voice said, “We’re looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look around the place …”

“Fine. You do that; Drag Y/N along. I’m gonna take Sarah for a pint.”

Sherlock sternly looked at John. “I need your help.”

“I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening!”

“Like what?” Sherlock asked curiously. 

John could only stare at his friend in disbelief. “You are kidding.”

“What’s so important?” Sherlock asked. There was a sense of urgency in his voice. 

John sighed. “Sherlock, I’m right in the middle of a date. D’you want me to chase some killer while I’m trying to …” John was not going to answer Sherlock. “Why’s Y/N here?” 

Sherlock went stiff. “If you need my help, then why is Y/N here? She’s capable enough–” John cut himself off. “Oh.”

“What?” Sherlock asked yet again. 

“You didn’t tell her.”

“Didn’t tell her what, John?” Sherlock questioned knowing full well what he hadn’t told Y/N. 

John rolled his eyes. “Right, Sherlock. You’ve got to stop-”

“Stop what Jo–”

“She’s taken, Sherlock! Don't think I noticed that bit there where you told Sarah you two were together this evening.” 

Sherlock turned his head away from John. His jaw was clenched. At that moment, Sherlock regretted having taught John how to read people. It seemed John could see right through Sherlock. “She has a wonderful boyfriend who she likes a lot. She’s your employee. Not to mention she’s our land lady’s niece–granddaughter, whatever, I’m not quite sure. But Sherlock, you couldn’t have picked the–”

Suddenly Sarah and Y/N emerged from the corner. John immediately flashed a pained smile, hoping he just hadn’t outed Sherlock. 

“Heyyy,” John called out. 

“Ready?” John asked Sarah. She nodded. Then he offered her his arm and then guided her into the theatre, but not before sending Sherlock a warning look. 

Sherlock and Y/N stood in the stairwell watching John and his date go. To say it was uncomfortable between the two of them as strangers passed them by, would be an understatement. It was as if the air turned into smoke, making it hard for Sherlock to breathe and even concentrate. He couldn’t help how his eyes fell on her hands which were fumbling with each other. He wanted to take a page out of John’s book. He wanted to offer her his arm and guide her in, but that expression John had given him told Sherlock otherwise. 

So when Sherlock noticed a warmth at his side, he couldn’t help but gasp. Y/N’s arms hugged his own, holding him close. Sherlock blinked. Just the touch of her hands through his coat lit a fire in his body. When her quiet voice broke through his spell, to ask if they should go in, Sherlock knew he was lost. She sensed his hesitancy and took it upon herself to guide Sherlock in and Sherlock knew, he’d rather be lost at her side as neighbours, friends, colleagues, or as a man and his land-lady’s grand-niece, than to not be lost at all. 

The two of them entered the performance area. There was a stage on one side of the hall. The red curtains were drawn with a thin layer of dust on them. In the middle of the room was a large circle. It was painted onto the worn-out floors. The room was lit by candlelight and lights from above that were so dim, one would think that they were not even on. Around the circle stood the guests. There were no seats in sight. Sherlock noticed John and Sarah on one end of the circle. John smiled as Sarah whispered something into his ear. 

Soon Sherlock found himself standing a few feet away from John and Sarah. Enough space that Y/N deemed to be comfortable, but not so much that they’d have front-row seats to John and Sarah’s date. Sherlock and Y/N stood towards the back of the crowd. Y/N had to manoeuvre her position until she had a clear view of the scene in front of her. 

All of a sudden there was the thundering of drums and YN couldn’t help the grin that appeared on her face. She was not going to let the guilt of possibly ruining John’s date take away from the experience in front of her. Then a woman with a heavily painted face and wearing traditional Chinese Opera clothing entered the circle. Y/N gasped at the sight. The colour and designs of the clothing astounded her. Sherlock chuckled slightly at her response. It was like watching a child on Christmas. 

The woman raised her hand into the air and the drummer finished his song. Then she walked over to a large object in the centre of the circle. It was covered with a white cloth. A cloth that was quickly removed to reveal a gigantic crossbow. Just like the dress the woman was wearing, the crossbow was painted and carved with intricate designs. Next, the woman picked up a large arrow. The silver edge glimmered in the dim light. Her careful hands presented the arrow to the audience earning some awes before loading it into the crossbow. The woman reached into her pocket and withdrew a feather. She placed it onto the crossbow. Instantly, the arrow was released. It flew across the room lodging into a target on the other side of the circle. 

While the other women and guests in the room gasped at the sight, startled by the sudden action, Sherlock found that Y/N only smiled. Her giddiness only grew. She turned to Sherlock and raised herself up on the tip of her toes. As a piece of instrumental music began to play, a new actor entered the scene, and Y/N whispered into Sherlock’s ear. 

“A Classic Chinese escapology act,” Y/N said softly. Sherlock beamed down at her. His breath caught as she glanced up at him. She pointed to the actor who was now being chained up to the target the arrow was lodged in moments before. 

She then pointed over to the crossbow. “The crossbow on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires.”

Sherlock nodded taking in the information. He tried his very best to ignore the overstimulation his senses experienced being so close to her; Her smell, the sound of her voice, and the touch of her hand as she nudged him to look at certain aspects of the scene all drew him in deeper.  

He ignored the addition of padlocks on the chains that held the actor. He ignored the cry of the warrior as he showed the audience his predicament. Sherlock ignored the build-up of the music and the crashing of cymbals. He was only focused on her. Something very bad. Horrific event. He was here for the case. He should be watching the scene or observing the people, yet he could not tear his eyes away from Y/N. 

“Look,” Y/N exclaimed. She was practically jumping. Sherlock finally did look away. The woman had taken out a knife. Y/N had opened her mouth to explain when Sherlock interrupted her. 

“She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl,” Sherlock whispered into Y/N’s ear. 

“How d-” She began. 

“I do my research,” Sherlock smiled. “Especially with things that those I care about enjoy.” 

Sherlock didn’t notice the flush that appeared on Y/N’s face. He was too busy hiding his own. His words had betrayed him. His mouth had spoken out of turn. He forced his attention onto the display in front of them. The drums and erhu playing couldn’t have been loud enough to drown out the sound of his beating heart. 

The Opera Singer does just what Sherlock had said – she reaches up to a small sandbag hanging on a long cable and stabs the knife into the bottom of the sack. The Sand began to pour out, grain by grain. As if on cue the warrior cried out once more. His body flailed in an attempt to escape the chains. As the sand continues to pour out of the bag, a weight attached to the other side begins to lower closer and closer to the crossbow. 

Suddenly the warrior whips out one hand. John is watching the weight lower, and Sarah now looks nervously at it as it crosses paths with the sandbag on its way up. They turn to look at the warrior as he gets his other hand free and starts tugging at the chains around his neck. The weight is now only a few feet above the bowl and Sarah clings tightly to John’s arm, grimacing. The warrior cries out again as he pulls at his chains and the weight gets ever closer. As it almost reaches the lip of the bowl the warrior loosens the chains around his neck and struggles to free himself. The sandbag raises all the way to the ceiling just as the weight crashes down. The arrow flung across the room. There was a thud. The arrow had hit the target. The warrior was nowhere to be seen. There was a cheer and the warrior emerged. The crowd let out a collective breath. All was fine. 

Y/N laughed along as cheers and applause filled the theatre. She hadn’t noticed Sherlock missing from her side. She hadn’t noticed Sherlock had to force himself away to the open stage door. He needed to clear his mind and focus on the case. 

A wave of silence fell over the crowd as the woman raised her hand into the air. For the first moment in the night, she opened her mouth. “Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider.”

Broken applause once again filled the air as the woman walked out of the circle. Suddenly a masked acrobat descended from the ceiling. His body rolled and swirled in the air as the silk red cloth around his waist unravelled. The audience gasped in excitement.  

“Did you see that?!” Y/N exclaimed. She turned to face Sherlock only to find him not there. Her face fell slightly. She looked around the crowd. Her eyes scanned the room watching closely to catch sight of a head of dark curls and sapphire blue eyes. Yet there was nowhere to be found. 

As the acrobat continued to amaze the crowd with high sky high feats, Y/N withdrew from the crowd. Her eyes were on the sudden wave that rippled out from the curtain on the stage. The red fabric danced out from a single point. A crack in the red wall. There was a feeling in her mind; a feeling that it was Sherlock. A feeling that this wasn’t for pure entertainment. A feeling that this was all for the case, as everything was with Sherlock. A feeling that told her she should have left when she had the chance. A feeling that told her, her cat was right. 

A feeling that became all too real when she saw Sherlock fly out from underneath the curtain. His back came crashing to the floor on his back. The masked warrior from before was on top of him. A silver knife in hand. John, the closest to the scene, lunged at the man knocking him off Sherlock. The knife flew from the attacker's hand. Y/N looked around the room as the attacker set his sights on John. Her eyes found a broom in the corner of the room and she darted over to retrieve it. 

Everyone else in the room fled from the scene. The attacker, having stunned John, turned back to Sherlock who now stood shakingly on his feet. The attacker at some point had found another weapon–a sword. His arms were raised high into the air and aimed at Sherlock. A killing blow, but not before Y/N whacked him with the broom. The man grunted out in pain and swung the weapon at her. She dodged the attack and lodged the broom in the man’s side with a bruising force. Stunned, she hit him again, successfully knocking him in the head, and labelling him unconscious. 

Y/N stands up breathlessly. Her hand on the broom tightened, unwillingly to let it go. Her eyes were on the unconscious form of their attacker. Sherlock limped over to her. His hand covered her grip on the broom. His warmth begged her to release it. 

“It’s over. We’re okay,” Sherlock whispered to her. She closed her eyes tightly. Her grip was unwavering. “Look at me…please.” He placed his hands on the sides of her face. His thumb rubbed circles on her cheek. 

She opened her eyes. Those tear-filled eyes met Sherlock’s. He swore she leaned into his touch. He could swear time froze as her breath returned to normal. Soon, she nodded and dropped the broom on the floor with a clang. 

Behind them, Sarah ran over to John. Her hands hovered over his body to make sure he was okay. John was able to subdue her worry and then turned to Sherlock who was now removing the attacker’s shoe. A black lotus flower was tattooed on the man’s heel. 

Y/N couldn’t help the tear that slid down her cheek. Her eyes met Sherlock’s. They were sad and disappointed. She had trusted Sherlock. He knew. He let her trust him. He let her believe that they were just going out. That this wasn’t the case. He couldn’t help but question why she never knew. She should have known. She should have walked away. She should have broken the mirage and stopped him from pretending. She bit her lip and shook her head at him. The silence had begun. A week from now she’d speak to Sherlock again. Though there was a thought in Sherlock’s mind, that she’d never speak to him again. The look in her eyes said it all. 

_____

“ I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted,” muttered Dimmock. He rubbed his face and grumbled to himself. 

“Look, I saw the mark at the circus – that tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: the mark of the Tong,” Sherlock explained. 

Dimmock turned around harshly on his heels. His eyes bore into Sherlock. 

“Lukis and Van Coon were part of a-a smuggling operation. Now, one of them stole something when they were in China; something valuable.” John added. 

“These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back.” Sherlock finished. 

“Get what back?” Dimmock hissed. 

Sherlock bit his lip and refused to reply. 

John sighed. “...We don’t know.” 

“You don’t know.” Dimmock gasped in disbelief. “Mr Holmes …I’ve done everything you asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I’ll have something to show for it – other than a massive bill for overtime.”

Sherlock’s silence said it all. Dimmock sighed and collapsed into his chair. His hand worked hard to remove the stress lines that had already begun to appear on his face. 

This case was going to be the death of him. 

________

The comforting sight of 221B was not a comfort at all. They all held a collective sigh of defeat when they entered Sherlock and John’s flat. Sarah was still in tow and, to Sherlock’s surprise, so was Y/N. Though not a word was shared between the two of them as she brushed by him to brew some tea. 

“They’ll be back in China by tomorrow,” John groaned. 

“No, they won’t leave without what they came for. We need to find their hide-out; the rendezvous,” Sherlock said. His voice was tight. He refused to give up. Instead, he focused on the photos on the wall. Their yellow code bared at him. “Somewhere in this message, it must tell us.”

Sarah looked around the room. Her coat was still on. “Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it,” she told John. 

John turned to her. “No, no, you don’t have to go ... You can stay.”

“Yes, it would be better to study if you left now,” Sherlock uttered. He looked back at Sarah and John. His eyes noticed John’s glare. He couldn’t handle any more anger tonight. “Kidding,” Sherlock smiled in his fake manner. “Please stay if you’d like.”

Y/N scoffed from the kitchen. Her hand removed the tea bag and tossed it into the trash. Sherlock lowered his eyes to the floor. Sarah looked nervously toward Sherlock and Y/N. She caught Y/N’s eye and smiled awkwardly.

“Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?” She asked. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and pinched his nose. “Oh, God.” 

John smiled back at Sarah and entered the kitchen. He opened the fridge to find it almost empty apart from a couple of bottles, and a can containing an eyeball lying on a shelf. He sighed. 

Y/N peered over her shoulder at John. “Hey,” She whispered. “Take out. On me.” John smiled and tried to refuse her offer but quickly gave in knowing Y/N wouldn’t let him. He watched her as she stepped out of the flat to call the take-out place. He noted the way Sherlock’s eyes followed her before returning to the photos before him. 

“So this is what you do, you and John, Y/N. You solve puzzles for a living.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Consulting detective,” He corrected. 

“Oh,” Sarah replied before backing away from Sherlock. She strolled over to John who sat in the kitchen. He continued to frantically look through the cabinets making a mental note to task Y/N for getting groceries for which he made sure she’d get a pay raise. 

John cracked open another cabinet and found a small bag of cheese puffs. He quickly picked a clean bowl and poured the puff into it. 

Suddenly the cheerful voice of Mrs Hudson popped into the room. John felt a wave of relief wash over him as the woman carried a plate of snacks with her. 

“Thank you so much,” John said. His voice was full of gratitude towards the elderly lady. 

Mrs Hudson smiled and waved her hand dismissing them thanks. “I’ve done a punch, and a bowl of nibbles.” She explained before placing the tray on the table. 

“Mrs Hudson, you’re a saint!” John muttered. 

“All Y/N she came down and told me. If it was Monday, I’d have been to the supermarket!” She continued. 

“No; thank you! Thank you!” John repeated. 

Mrs Hudson quietly excused herself, allowing John and Sarah…and Sherlock some privacy. 

As John and Sarah snacked on the treats Mrs Hudson provided, Sherlock continued to examine the photos. 

“So these numbers – it’s a cypher,” Sarah stated. 

“Exactly,” Sherlock said. His voice was tight. 

“...And each pair of numbers is a word.” She continued. 

John and Sherlock looked at Sarah in astonishment. “How did you know that?”

Sarah chuckled. She walked over to the photos on the wall and pointed to the photo. “Well, two words have already been translated, here.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. There were indeed translations. “John.�� Sherlock beckoned. “John, look at this.”

John walked over to Sherlock. 

“Soo Lin at the museum – she started to translate the code for us. We didn’t see it!” Sherlock exclaimed. He pulled the photo close. “NINE” “MILL,” He read. 

“Does that mean ‘millions’?” John asked. 

“Nine million quid. For what?” Sherlock asked. He walked over to the coat rack and pulled on his coat and scarf. “We need to know the end of this sentence.”

“Where are you going?” John wondered. 

“To the museum; to the restoration room. Oh, we must have been staring right at it!” Sherlock answered. 

“At-at what?” Sarah questioned Sherlock. 

“The book. The book – the key to cracking the cypher! Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk.” Sherlock explained and without another word he had left 221B. 

________

John and Sarah were quick to start up a conversation after Sherlock’s disappearance. A reason for Y/N to re-emerge from downstairs. She entered the room and told John and Sarah that takeout was on the way, before laying down on the couch. 

John was worried that he’d replaced Sarah’s candidate for the worst date. In his Johnly manner, he found a way to apologize for the night only to have it turned into a bonding moment for the two of them. 

“Yeah! No, absolutely. I mean, well, a quiet night in just-just what the doctor ordered.” Sarah joked. 

“Ha-ha-ha” John smiled back.

“Er, I mean, I’d love to go out of an evening and wrestle a few Chinese gangsters, you know, generally, but a girl can get too much.”

“No, okay. You’ve got me there,” John replied. 

Their laughter was cut off by knocking from downstairs. John stood up to go fetch the door only to have Y/N commanding him to return to Sarah. 

“I’ll get the take-out,” She muttered before sending John back to Sarah. John was ever the gentleman but sometimes Y/N really wished John knew how to take help every so often. 

She heard John and Sarah fighting over who set the table. A problem she wished to have instead of the manchild she called her boss. With a sigh, she ran her hands through her hair. It was a mess, to say the least. From sleeping in late that day to having fought a man with a sword with a broom was not her idea of “going out” as Sherlock had put it. 

Soon her steps came to a halt at the door. She turned the knob and swung it open. She doesn’t bother to take notice of the hooded man in front of her. She doesn’t notice there is no food in his hands as she rummages through her pockets for her wallet. 

“Sorry to keep you,” She apologized. “How much is it?”

“Do you have it?” The man in front of her asked. He had a thick Chinese accent. 

Y/N’s blood turned cold. “What?” Her voice trembled, praying that she had heard the man incorrectly.  

“Do you have the treasure?” The man asked. His voice was low and threatening like a growl from a dog. 

Y/N could only freeze as she saw the man remove a pistol from his side. Her lungs ceased to breathe and her vision turned black as a painful impact hit her head. 

______

The door to 221B slammed with a force that shook the walls. Sherlock ran up the stairs. In his hand was the translation of the code. “John! John! I’ve got it!” Sherlock rejoiced. 

He ran into the kitchen of his flat. The table was set for dinner. The punch and snacks Mrs Hudson had brought up earlier lay untouched. The table is empty of its occupants. He turned around to look in the living room. “John the cypher! The book! It’s the London A to Z that they’re using…”

Sherlock feels his face grow cold. The triumphant smile on his face falls. John wasn’t there. Neither was his date. Sherlock became utterly aware of how quiet the flat was. There was no shuffling of paper, no giggling, nothing. 

Then Sherlock finds himself wandering down the stairs and towards a door. He finds himself listening in. It’s too quiet there as well. Sherlock knows he shouldn’t open her door. Sherlock knows that Y/N would be furious for him breaking into her flat again. But it was better for her to be mad than to not be there at all. 

Sherlock’s worry only grew as he scavenged the flat for any sign of her. Nothing. Sherlock’s lungs collapsed as the air grew tight. He quickly reached into his pocket. His phone called the number and finally, he heard a noise. A buzzing from the other side of the living room. It was her phone. Sherlock’s mind began to run wild. 

No. No. No. No. No. 

The memory of the museum. The utter terror at the sound of the gun from the distance. The deadly sound from the room in which she was last seen. The image had pictured to find her flashed in his mind once again. Sherlock gasped out in pain. 

No. No. No. No. No. 

He isn’t sure if he’s saying it out loud. His thoughts and words merge into one. His only thought was her. He ran out of the flat and froze in his step. He scolds himself for not having seen it sooner. Along the hallway was that sickening yellow spray paint. The depiction on the wall was enough to break Sherlock. He bit his lip to muffle the cry. 

He had broken the code. He knew what it meant. DEAD MAN. 

There was no John. No, Sarah. But worst of all, no Y/N. 

The words burned into his brain alongside the image of her lifeless body. 

No. No. No. No. No. 

He could still save her, Sherlock told himself. Still, save them. He gripped his hair tightly. The pain shook him from his terror just long enough for him to focus. He pulled out the translated photo once again. 

“NINE MILL FOR JADE PIN DRAGON DEN BLACK …” Sherlock read. “... TRAMWAY.”

His eyes widened as he muttered the word “Tramway” once again. 

Sherlock’s focus dissipated as a fog clogged up his mind. His watery blue eyes threatened to spill out. His hands crinkled the photo tightly. “Oh, Christ,” he whimpered. 

Think! Sherlock, Think!

The tramway. He needs to find the tramway. 

Sherlock rushed upstairs with a speed unknown to man. His eyes scoured the shelves landing on the folded map of London. He scurried over to the dining table. The map tore as his hands scrambled to get it open. Once it lays flat, Sherlock takes a finger and hunts for the tramway. 

“There.” He slammed the table. Without another word, he’s gone. Fear fills his body. A fear that if he says anything, thinks, breathes, and doesn’t put every ounce of his will into finding them–to finding her, that they’d be gone. Sherlock would be all alone again. His heart, mind and soul were torn open for all to see. The man who’d let everything he cared about to get stolen away from him. Sherlock would be damned if he ever let that happen just like he was damned for loving her. 

______

***

There was a dull ache. Not the needles and pins kind of ache, but the ache as if the world turned upside down and inside out with no warning. Y/N’s head throbbed as light from a nearby fire lit the room. Except, she wasn’t in a room. It was cold and wet. The walls were curved as if she was in a cave. Everything was dark except the fire in, what Y/N could clearly see, was a dustbin. 

“Y/N?” John whispered. 

“John?” Y/N winced as she tried to look around for the noise. Just behind her sat John and Sarah. Both of whom were tied to chairs. It took Y/N a moment to realize that she always was confined to a chair. Dark rope coiled around her ankles, wrists, and torso like black snakes. 

“Are you alright?” John asked. 

Y/N flashed him her best I’m just peachy face, but then realized her friend couldn’t actually have the pleasure of seeing it. “Does it look like I’m alright John?” She closed her eyes and tried to yank her wrists out of their trap. 

Before John could answer another appeared. A clear and commanding voice echoed off the walls. 

“A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket,” a woman’s voice recited. 

Y/N raised her head to the voice. She looked strangely familiar. The tracksuit she wore and those sunglasses. It was the woman who had been taking photos of her and John all over London. 

The woman approached Y/N and held up her chin. Behind her, Y/N could see two men. Their build reminded Y/N of the performers at the circus. The woman frowned slightly at the sight of the dried blood on Y/N's head. She tsked before moving to John and Sarah. As she left Y/N’s side, the two men replaced her. They whipped the chair around to face the other direction. Y/N could see John and Sarah clearly now. Out of the three of them, only Sarah was gagged. She was terrified. Her eyes were red from crying and her hair was tangled up. 

“A Chinese proverb, Mr Holmes,” The woman explained. 

John looked up at the woman confused. “I ... I’m not Sherlock Holmes.” 

The woman smiled humorously. “Forgive me if I do not take your word for it.”  She reached down and picked up John’s pockets. “Tickets under Sherlock Holmes’ name. A cheque for five thousand pounds made out in the name of Mr Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Yeah, he gave me that to look after,” John explained. 

“Debit card in the name of S. Holmes,” The woman continued. 

“Since when did you–?!” Y/N muttered. 

“After the row with the chip and pin machine!!” John replied frantically. 

The woman looked between Y/N and John.

 “I realize what this looks like, but I’m not him.”

“We heard it from your own mouth,” stated the woman. 

Now John was really confused. “What?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone ...” She repeated back to him. 

John groaned. “Did I really say that?” John chuckled weakly as Y/N looked at him in disbelief. 

“I s’ppose there’s no use me trying to persuade you I was doing an impression…” John tried to say, but the woman silenced him with the raise of her pistol. He leaned back and closed his eyes prepared for the shot to fire. It never came. 

“I am Shan.” The woman introduced herself. 

“You’re ... you’re Shan,” Y/N muttered under her breath. “我有话要对你说.” (I have words to say to you.) Her anger from all the pain Shan had caused seethed through her voice. Y/N thought of Soo Lin. She thought of all those victims whose blood was on Shan’s hands. 

Shan only offered Y/N a glance before turning back to John. “Three times we tried to kill you and your companion, Mr Holmes. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?”

She lifted her free hand to cock the pistol. Shan smiled and pulled back the trigger. 

“No!” Y/N screamed. 

Shan only chuckled. The barrel was empty. “It tells you that they’re not really trying.”

Then Shan motioned to the men behind her and one of them scurried to her side. He presented her with a clip. The metal of the bullets caught the light of the fire. Shan wasted no time loading the gun and cock it. The weapon found a resting place near John’s head. 

“Not an empty gun. There are bullets now.”

“Okay,” John whispered. 

“If we wanted to kill you, Mr Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive…Do you have it?”

“Do I have what?” John questioned. 

“The treasure.” 

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

Shan turned away from John and walked back over to Y/N. She looked at the men who nodded in understanding. Moments later the crossbow from the circus appeared. The arrow was already loaded. I would prefer to make certain.

“Everything in the West has its price, and the price for her life …” She lifted Y/N’s head to the light. “ ... information.” 

John’s eyes widened. “No. Please–”

The men lift up Y/N’s chair and place her in front of the crossbow. She can’t help the sound that escaped her mouth. It was a cry. A plea. She’d had her life put on the line too many times. Each time Sherlock was there. How she prayed that Sherlock would come. The feeling of safety that came from his arms. Tears spilt down her cheeks as many thoughts flew about her mind. All the if’s that came if Sherlock couldn’t make it in time. All the if’s that came if the arrow lodged its way into her heart. 

“Where’s the hairpin?” Shan demanded. “The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West, and then one of our people was greedy. He took it, brought it back to London and you, Mr Holmes, have been searching.”

John looked at Y/N’s frantic attempts to free herself from her bonds. “Please. Please, listen to me. I’m not ... I’m not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me. I haven’t found whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“I need a volunteer from the audience!” Shan exclaimed. 

“No, please. Please,” John begged.

“Ah, thank you, lady. Yes, you’ll do very nicely.” Shan patted Y/N on the head. Then she walked over to the crossbow. A silver knife glimmered in the firelight. It was raised into the air. The sharp blade had pierced its way into a sandbag. Just like the display at the circus. 

Grain by grain the sand fell. The weight lowered closer and closer to the crossbow. Every second was an inch closer to death. Y/N’s skin began to burn. The snake-like rope rubbed against her wrists. The delicate skin broke, but the pain was nothing compared to what awaited her. 

“Ladies and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes’ pretty companion in a death-defying act.”

“Please!” John cried out. He was crying as he fought his own bondage. Desperate to reach Y/N before it was too late. 

“You’ve seen the act before. How dull for you. You know how it ends.” Shan complained. She walked over to Y/N and placed a black origami flower on her lap. 

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!” John screamed. 

“I. Don’t. Believe. You.” Shan enunciated. 

“You should, you know,” A voice thundered. It echoed off the walls and silence fell upon the group.

Y/N gasped. She knew that voice. She’d know that voice anywhere. 

Shan spun around. She darted around the room to look for the source. 

“Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him,” Sherlock stated. 

Y/N couldn’t the shaky sigh of relief she felt. Sherlock was here. 

Shan raised her gun defensively. 

“How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?” Sherlock asked. 

“Late?” Y/N trembled. 

Sherlock felt his throat clench up at the sound of her voice. “That’s semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second.”

“Well?” Shan asked. 

“Well …” Sherlock chastised. “... the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you.”

Suddenly Sherlock burst out of the shadows. There was a bang, as he knocked over the dustbin with the fire. The light snuffled out. Darkness took over. 

Y/N could hear Shan’s breaths getting heavy. She could hear the trickling of the sand as it continued to spill out of the bag. The darkness triggered something in Y/N. Once again she was in the cabinet in the museum and the room chained to the heater. Fear overtook her body. Darkness and death had something in common they would disappear at the sign of light. Now all Y/N could do was pray that her light–Sherlock would free her. 

Y/N cried out at the feeling of a hand on her shoulder. 

“Shhh. It’s me.” Sherlock whispered. 

“Sherlock…” Y/N whimpered. His hands trailed down her arms and found her wrists. His fingers made quick work of the bonds on her wrists. His hand moved up to find the rope around her torso when he was yanked away from her. 

“Sherlock!” Y/N shrieked. 

There was a gagging noise. Sherlock was being strangled. Once again his lungs began to scream. It could have been from the lack of oxygen. That vital compound his brain needed to pump the blood and fight back. But that was not the case. Every molecule in his body screamed out for her. The grains of sand piled higher and higher. The weight was ever closer to the crossbow. The arrow was just moments from stealing the place in her heart that was meant for him. 

By some will of God, Sherlock was able to knock his attacker away. He scrambled back over to Y/N. His hands were a little bit less calculated and sure as he reached to undo the knots. Again Sherlock is pulled from her. The struggle for her life as well as his continued. 

John observed the struggle of shadows and the gleam of the arrow. Sherlock wasn’t going to make it. John groaned as he did his best to stumbled forward. A mixed effort of carrying and dragging the chair across the floor to Y/N. 

There was a thud and John fell to the floor. Sherlock grunted. Sarah whimpered. Y/N sobbed. Her body had given up. Her arms no longer flailed. The chair no longer creaked. Her mind was already made up. The arrow would become a part of her. Staked into her heart, next to her love of records and her stubbornly perfect cat.  

Suddenly there was a grunt from beside her. John had freed his foot just enough to kick her chair to the floor. Y/N cried out in pain as her arm bared most of the impact. The weight dropped. The arrow released. Its path changed from Y/N’s heart to Sherlock’s attacker’s chest. 

Sherlock was on his feet and next to Y/N within the blink of an eye. His mind was foggy from the lack of oxygen. His hand ripped off the rope that tied her to the chair. In an instant, he wrapped his arms around her. Her body pulled flush against him. His head was buried in her neck. His hand was around the pulse point on her wrist. He could feel her heart beating. Frantic, but alive. She clutched onto Sherlock. Her grip made no intent to let him go. 

“It’s all right,” Sherlock soothed more for himself than the woman in his arms. “You’re gonna be all right. It’s over now. It’s over.” His free hand found its way up and down her back in a comforting manner. 

John groaned out in pain beside them. Sherlock looked down at his friend. A grateful look flickered in his eyes. John nodded and smiled softly back up at Sherlock. 

“Mind if you…?” John croaked. He looked down at his tied hands. 

Sherlock nodded and began to pull away from Y/N. 

“Don’t go!” She whimpered. Her grip tightened on his shirt causing wrinkles to form in the fabric. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back into Y/N. His lips found the crown of her head. “Just going to untie John.” He whispered into her ear. A moment later her grip was loosened. Soon John was free and by Sarah’s side. She hugged him once she was freed. 

“Don’t worry. Next date won’t be like this,” John murmured. Sarah laughed. It was a sob-laugh. 

Y/N was back in Sherlock’s arms. She snuggled into his side. Her grip once again demanded his presence, but Sherlock didn’t mind. For once he didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t have to pretend she needed him as much as he needed her. He didn’t have to lie to himself to hold her close. So he sat there on the floor of the cold and wet tunnel. His body was safe and warm, as he rocked Y/N back and forth. Praying to god that he would never have to pretend again. 

________

Life had seemed to die down for the occupants of 221B Baker Street. Their lives once again became arbitrary: the daily newspapers on the table for Sherlock to read at breakfast, John scrambling out of bed to get to work at the clinic, Y/N plating some eggs and bacon, Mrs Hudson making tea, and Bjørn collecting all the love and pets he could get from those he did not despise. 

It was one of these fine mornings when Y/N was making breakfast, John sat at the table drinking his tea, and Sherlock read the paper that all seemed at peace. There were no cases. No murderers on the run. Just John, Sherlock, and Y/N. As it always seemed to be. The case of the blind banker far behind them with their pockets full from the check Sebastian had written for Sherlock, and the mystery of the hairpin solved. The vow of silence was long forgotten. 

Sherlock smirked as he read the front page of the news. “Who wants to be a million-hair,” He read to the group. 

John chuckled. “Over a thousand years old and it’s sitting on the assistant’s bedside table every night.”

“Van Coon didn’t know its value; didn’t know why they were chasing him,” Sherlock muttered. His hands found the warm cup of tea Y/N had placed in front of him earlier. 

“Hmm. Should’ve just got her a lucky cat. Right, hubby?” Y/N said as she placed down breakfast. She sent John a wink earning a groan from him. 

“Not this again.”

“It’s better than you holding up a can of beans,” Y/N retorted. 

Sherlock smiled at the two of them. After their laughter subsided and thanks were given to Y/N, they began to eat their breakfast. Sherlock played with the eggs on his plate. His fork barely missed the opportunity to pick up anything worth substance. 

“You mind, don’t you?” John asked Sherlock as he stuffed his mouth with bacon. 

“What?” Sherlock questioned. 

John put down his fork. “That she escaped – General Shan. It’s not enough that we got her two henchmen.”

“It must be a vast network, John; thousands of operatives. We barely scratched the surface,” Sherlock sighed. 

“You cracked the code, though, Sherlock; and maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now that he knows it,” Y/N added. 

“No. No. I cracked this code; all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book,” Sherlock explained. 

Their arbitrary routine began once again: Sherlock picked up the newspaper, John ate his breakfast, and Y/N looked out the window. The morning sun filtered through the window. The sound of sirens was heard in the distance. London was very much alive. 

Y/N thought of Sherlock’s words. He was right. They had barely scratched the surface. They had scratched the surface of something that, she thought, was meant to be left alone. 

__________

In a room somewhere sits Shan. The only light in the room was the screen of her computer. Her image appeared on the screen next to a blacked-out box. It read “No image available”.  

“Without you – without your assistance – we would not have found passage into London. You have my thanks,” Shan spoke to the computer. 

‘M: GRATITUDE IS MEANINGLESS’ The computer typed back. ‘M: IT IS ONLY THE EXPECTATION OF FURTHER FAVOURS’ 

“We did not anticipate ... we did not know this man would come – this Sherlock Holmes. He had assistants. A man and a woman,” Shan explained. Her face flashed with concern. “And now your safety is compromised.”

The computer beeped. 

‘M: THEY CAN NOT TRACE THIS BACK TO ME’

“I will not reveal your identity,” Shan promised. 

‘M: I AM CERTAIN.’

Not another word is uttered from Shan’s mouth. Her body lay on the floor of the dark room. The computer screen had gone black. A bullet hole in the head of Shan.

______

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______

[bookwormscififan]

The Crimson Files, Chapter 1

A/N: I wanted to do a vampire AU. That's the context.

You can read this on AO3 if you've got a registered account.

My dear friend Chase,

May this letter find you in well health. I have discovered quite a fascinating place here in this sleepy town north of London. I do hope you will have time to come and look at it with me. The address is attached in a separate note in the envelope.

I do hope to see you soon,

Your friend Robert.

Charles Brody stood before the driveway to a grand castle, suitcase in one hand and letter in the other. His hat was balanced quite cleanly on top of his head and his suit was buttoned up with the utmost care.

He had heard tale of this castle, stories of people who had gone inside but never returned, and he shuddered as he thought of his explorer friend falling prey to whatever resided inside those tall stone walls.

“What have you gotten yourself into this time, Robert?” Chase muttered as he squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, taking a step forward and letting momentum propel him up the drive to the castle doors.

The doors were wooden, intricately carved with flourishing gothic patterns of shapes and lines, centring around two brass door knockers, carefully shaped to form twin crescent moons, points seeming almost too sharp to be safe.

Chase set his suitcase down gently on the concrete floor, looking up at the imposing doors before swallowing and lifting his shaking hand to grasp the knocker, pulling it backward before pushing forward to knock the door.

The sound of the knock echoed through the castle walls, and Chase quickly dropped his hand to his side as though he’d been burned. The walls were so thick that he couldn’t hear anything inside, left to stand awkwardly and anxiously as he waited for someone to open the doors that towered over him.

After what felt like ages, a thump was heard beyond the doors before one creaked open slowly. Chase straightened up, adjusting his tie and smoothing his jacket over his form. A pale person peered out, glaring down at Chase with suspicious eyes.

“Yes?” Their voice was deep, almost booming as they continued to stare at Chase, who suddenly seemed to have forgotten how to speak.

“Yes, um, hello. My name…. my name is Charles Brody… my friend sent me a letter requesting my presence here?” his voice was higher in pitch than usual, but at least it was relatively steady. He held out Robert’s letter with a shaky hand, tensing as the doorman plucked the paper from his fingers.

“You may enter,” the person stated, opening the door wider to allow Chase to enter. Chase picked up his suitcase and hesitantly entered the castle, closing his eyes as he heard the door close behind him. Taking a deep breath, Chase exhaled slowly and opened his eyes to take in his surroundings… only to gasp in surprise.

The entryway of the castle was as grand as the doors, with large burgundy tapestries hanging up the walls on both sides, mysterious stories woven in their intricate fabric. Tall brass candelabra were placed either side of the door, dark wax candles lit to cast an amber glow to the entryway.

The ceiling was a latticework of sturdy metal beams and old wooden planks, curving to a point just above Chase’s head. Hanging from the ceiling were small pans with simple oil lamps placed on them, warming the room with a brighter hue.

Chase looked in front of him to see a grander door, held open for him by the doorman, who had been patiently waiting for him to recover from his sightseeing. Beyond the door Chase could see a long red carpet lining the floors to the grand hall, and the flickering lights of the candles on the candelabra cast eerie shadows on the designs of the carpet.

“I shall let Sir know you are here,” the doorman stated with a bow once Chase had entered the hall. Without another word, the doorman headed up the west staircase and disappeared onto the second floor, leaving Chase to absorb the hall.

Eerie portraits hung on the tall stone walls, the faces staring at him and causing a shiver to run down his spine. As well as the candelabra, there were large iron chandeliers hanging from several points on the ceiling, candle wax prevented from dripping by brass plates beneath the candles.

The flagstones were muted by the carpet, large armchairs placed along the edges of the running red beside doors that Chase had no idea of their destination. He ran a finger along the seam of a chair, surprised at the lack of dust on the fabric, then continued pacing forward, occasionally looking back at the twin sets of curved staircases on the sides of the room to make sure that ‘Sir’ wasn’t coming down yet.

As Chase got to the door at the end of the hall – probably to the main dining room or a sitting room – he paused, hand reaching for the intricately moulded doorknob. He could hear the soft sound of steps descending, an itch settling between his shoulder blade as something told him that he was in danger. The hand reaching for the door dropped to his side, curling around the handle of his dagger as he turned to meet the owner of the castle.

“Hello, Charles.” The voice curled around his name, spoken with the trained carefulness that made Chase want to punch something. He looked at the foot of the stairs to see a man not much older than him wearing a blue waistcoat and top hat, pale hand gently holding the banister as he flashed a polite smile at his visitor.

Even from the other side of the hall, Chase could see the sharp points where his canines developed into fangs, and that made his grip all the tighter on his dagger. He swallowed thickly as the hairs on his neck stood on end, a terrible realisation settling like ice in the pit of his stomach.

Robert had walked into a vampire’s castle… and now Chase had, too.

[fairytailaustories]

Next Generation Profiles: Gajevy's children

1st child

Jayla Redfox

Alias: N/A

Characteristics

Race: Human

Gender: Female

Age: Year X811: 18

Birthday: X793

Hair Colour: Black

Eye Colour: Hazel

Professional Status

Affiliation: Fairy Tail, Sorcerer Magazine

Previous Affiliation: Magnolia Magic Academy

Guildmark Location: Left Thigh

Occupation: S Class Mage, Model

Previous Occupation: Mage Student

Team: Team JJF

Partners:

Julian Strauss

Fabian Redfox

Base of Operations: Fairy Tail building, Magnolia.

Personal Status

Status: Active

Relatives:

Metalicana: Grandfather (Deceased)

Gajeel Redfox: Father

Juvia Lockser Fullbuster: Godmother

Levy McGarden Redfox: Mother

Lucy Heartfilia Dragneel: Godmother

Fabian Redfox: Twin Sibling [Oc]

Yael Redfox: Brother [Oc]

Counterpart: N/A

Magic:

Magic:

Iron Script Make

Steel Make Magic.

Appearance

Jayla is an 18-year-old with black wavy hair, often tied up in a high ponytail or messy bun, allowing a few strands to frame her face. Her hazel eyes gleam with subtle warmth, complementing her sun-kissed skin.

Her emo-punk outfit features a sleeveless black cropped top with a jagged hem, adorned with silver chains and a skull graphic on the front. She pairs this with ripped, high-waisted dark denim shorts layered over fishnet tights. Her footwear consists of combat boots with metallic studs, reaching just below her knees. Accessories include fingerless gloves, a spiked choker, and several earrings lining the curve of her ears, alongside a small nose stud and a hoop in her lip. To complete the look, she carries a distressed leather belt with dangling charms, adding a rebellious edge to her aesthetic.

Little Details

Hobbies: Playing guitar

Fears: Bugs

Dreams: N/A

2nd Child

Fabian Redfox

Alias: Iron Reaper

Characteristics

Race: Human

Gender: Non-Binary (Born male)

Age: Year X811: 18

Birthday: X793

Hair Colour: Blue

Eye Colour: Hazel

Professional Status

Affiliation: Fairy Tail, Magnolia Charity

Previous Affiliation: Magnolia Magic Academy

Guildmark Location: Neck

Occupation: S Class Mage, Singer

Previous Occupation: Mage Student

Team: Team JJF

Partners:

Julian Strauss

Jayla Redfox

Base of Operations: Fairy tail building, Magnolia

Personal Status

Status: Active

Relatives:

Metalicana: Grandfather (deceased)

Gajeel Redfox: Father

Juvia Lockser Fullbuster: Godmother

Levy McGarden Redfox: Mother

Lucy Heartfilia Dragneel: Godmother

Jayla Redfox: Twin Sister [Oc]

Yael Redfox: Brother [Oc]

Counterpart: N/A

Magic

Magic: Iron Dragon Slayer Magic (6th Generation)

Appearance

Fabian is an 18-year-old with blue hair tied neatly at the back, leaving a few loose strands to soften their look. Their hazel eyes stand out against their pale skin, giving them a refined and elegant appearance.

Their vintage-style outfit consists of a cream-colored button-up shirt with a high, starched collar, tucked into dark brown tweed trousers held up by thin leather suspenders. Over the shirt, they wear a fitted navy-blue waistcoat with brass buttons and subtle embroidery along the edges. They completes the look with polished oxford shoes, a pocket watch chain hanging from their waistcoat, and round, gold-rimmed fake glasses perched on their nose. A thin silk ribbon tied in a loose bow at their neck adds a final touch of old-fashioned charm.

Little Details

Hobbies: Singing for Charity

Fears: Silence

Ambitions: Making sure children are safe.

3rd Child

Yael Redfox

Alias: N/A

Characteristics

Race: Human

Gender: Male

Age: Year X811: 12

Birthday: X799

Hair Colour: Black

Eye Colour: Red

Professional Status

Affiliation: Fairy Tail, Magnolia Magic Academy

Previous Affiliation: Magnolia Elementary School

Occupation: D Rank Mage, Mage Student

Previous Occupation: School Student

Base of Operations: Fairy Tail Building, Magnolia

Personal Status

Status: Active

Relatives:

Metalicana: Grandfather (Deceased)

Gajeel Redfox: Father

Juvia Lockser Fullbuster: Godmother

Levy McGarden Redfox: Mother

Lucy Heartfilia Dragneel: Godmother

Jayla Redfox: Sister [Oc]

Fabian Redfox: Sibling [Oc]

Counter: N/A

Magic:

Magic: Book script

Weapons: Book

Appearance

Yael is a 12-year-old boy with black spiky hair that sticks up in messy tufts, framed by a bandana tied securely around his head. His striking red eyes stand out vividly against his pale skin, giving him a bold and unique appearance.

His outfit reflects the typical style of a boy his age: a red graphic t-shirt featuring a stylized dragon design, paired with loose black cargo shorts that reach just above his knees. He wears comfortable white sneakers with red accents and striped ankle socks. The bandana around his head is black with a simple geometric pattern, adding a touch of flair to his youthful look.

Little Details

Habits: Falling asleep in a middle of reading a book

Hobbies: Reading

Fears: N/A

Ambition: To read every book in existance

[sailorstar9]

Cheating Ex Regrets After F/N Had Married Another Man

Warning: Anti-Lyney, Anti-Lumine, Angst, Modern AU

Trigger warning: Cheating

When the woman Lyney was supporting caused a scene in front of F/N, she broke up with him.

Lyney looked cold and indifferent, as if he had everything under control. “Suit yourself; you really think highly of yourself.”

But he didn't expect that F/N would move out of Fontaine that same night.

A year later, the big shot in the wealthy circle got married and sent an invitation to Lyney. He watched in the audience as F/N wore a wedding dress and completely fell apart.

Pushing open the door to the private room at White Manor, the room was indeed lively.

Five girls were sprawling all over, kneeling and sitting around Lyney and his friends in the centre. In the dim light, the beam of light fell on Lyney's fair face. His lavender fake glasses reflected the light and F/N heard someone speak.

“Who's that college girl who's been clinging onto you lately? Aren't you afraid F/N would find out and get angry?”

The crisp clinking of glasses echoed; the person sounded noble yet cold. “Just a kid; getting angry about this is really petty. But Lumine, she's really pretty.”

The men's muted humming resounded.

The lewd words rose in waves of delicate sounds and F/N closed the door. She never meddled in Lyney's private life. It used to be disdain, but now, it's simply not her concern. He had countless women before, but this Lumine seemed to be different.

The cheongsam was intricately woven with golden thread, representing endless luxury and wealth.

F/N reached out and touched the silk fabric of the red cheongsam and tried on the dress.

The maid stood by, bending down and advising F/N, “Lyney cares about you; look at this cheongsam, it was custom-made for a year.”

F/N slipped on the cheongsam and frowned; the cheongsam was too big, the waist was loose and the cheongsam is short. At that moment. F/N knew, the cheongsam was not meant for her.

“Did he not come back to celebrate our anniversary?” F/N asked the maid.

The maid looked hesitant and and answered after a long pause, “He said go to the White Manor and find him.”

F/N returned to the White Manor a few hours later; the young girls who had been serving inside the private room were gone and Lyney's friends had brought their female companions.

The scent of incense floating in the room with an elusive presence and F/N saw Lyney's lips glistening with moisture. Sweat had soaked through his white shirt as his fingers traced down the neck of the girl; only after a long kiss did they stop.

Someone whistled. “Lyney brought the great adventure to White Manor; it's the first time he kissed in public.. even for F/N, he only did it after drinking.”

Before F/N could even step inside, Lumine shyly ran out. In her hand was a bag from F/N's favorite brand, but one F/N could no longer afford.

Lyney leaned against the sofa, looking interestedly at the girl who had just rushed to him. The two of them were entangled, competing in beauty. She wasn't any uglier than Lumine who had just left.

“F/N, right?” Lumine gave F/N a smug grin and took out a lipstick to touch up her lipstick. “I advise to look out for yourself. Don't upset Lyney. They say you're as beautiful as a goddess but I see nothing special. Now you're just a mistress. Don't you know that being dignified is a sign of a legitimate wife? You should relax a bit. How could you hold on to a man like this? Guess how many times he wanted me last night? It's truly pitiful to be without a man's nourishment. Do you think threatening him will work?” she giggled, walking off. “If not, you can try.”

F/N's heart hardened and she turned her heels and left.

Outside, the winter rain mixed with snowflakes fell chillingly on F/N, but she made no attempt to button up the brass buttons.

At that moment, a black umbrella was tilted over F/N's head and a heavy woollen coat was draped over her shoulders.

F/N looked up and met the person's eyes; she knew this person, Zhongli. True to his name; handsome, refined and indescribably elegant. He had come from Liyue, someone nobody dared to cross. Zhongli's family was also wealthy, showing just a hint would sustain F/N for several lifetimes.

“Hot cocoa.” Zhongli handed F/N an insulated cup. “To warm up. It's not time yet. F/N, if you need money, I happen to be able to provide for you. Want me to be your ATM? Give it a chance.”

F/N flung the steaming cup of hot cocoa, “You give money and I go with you? Do you think I'm out to sell myself?”

“I'm sorry.” Zhongli apologized. “I didn't tell you everything; I'm marrying you.”

F/N was never one to be obedient. Growing up, everything desirable in the world was at her fingertips. She was spoiled recklessly and was able to get what she wanted. She had even captured Lyney, a high—profile figure who was the object of affection for many elite women in Fontaine. But that wasn't love. With F/N family's power dwindling due to her brother's poo business decisions, F/N remembered her mother's dying words, she had suppressed her temper and followed Lyney. She thought he would give her a home out of past affection, only to find out that he kept her around to keep up appearances. And after being submissive for too long, F/N's rebellious nature unexpectedly burst forth.

Zhongli's expression remain gentle despite F/N's temper tantrum, his eyes held a hint of longing.

“How much did you spend to marry me?” F/N asked as Zhongli was driving them back to one of his villas.

In response, a heavy gold card was placed in F/N's palm. “This is a gift. My other assets are all in another villa. Go back and sign.”

“If you dare marry me, what do I have to fear?” F/N challenged.

In Zhongli's villa...

F/N took the initiative and half pushed Zhongli into what she assumed to be a guest room.

Zhongli gave in, his gentle kisses were fleeting as if F/N was the more precious treasure in the world. With a single move of his tall figure, he effortlessly held her in his hands and his fingertips traced delicately over her body.

Just then, at the crucial moment, Zhongli put some distance between them. He covered F/N with the blanket on the bed and was turned to leave. “We'll go get the certificate tomorrow.”

Just then, Zhongli's phone rang and he took the call.

A soft moan could be heard, unintentionally eavesdropping on the conversation. The person on the other end of the phone stood frozen in place, taking a moment to regain their senses. The voice was familiar yet unfamiliar; soft and sweet with a hint of rose-like boldness.

In Lyney's villa...

“F/N...” Lyney knew the sultry voiced belonged to F/N, the woman he had shared a bed with for years but had never crossed the final line. He looked at Lumine sleeping by his side, her young and delicate face showing a hint of innocence. But she wasn't as beautiful as F/N. Recalling his conversation with her in the morning, he felt he had been too harsh. Just this once, he would go and pacify her. After all, she was now almost entirely dependent on him after her family's downfall.

In Zhongli's villa...

The next morning, F/N saw Zhongli open the entire wardrobe wall, revealing countless custom-made clothing and accessories, with the largest section filled with various traditional Chinese dresses and qipaos. Zhongli then picked the most exquisite red qipao for F/N to change into.

“Do we need to find a makeup artist?” Zhongli asked. “This doesn't suit you.”

Later...

Upon reaching their destination, F/N realize Zhongli hadn't driven them to the marriage registration office, but to an ancient church.

Zhongli held F/N's hand and led her into the temple. Kneeling in front of the church crossing, the ring in his hand gleaming, “I made a vow to God, but it's F/N who can make it come true. Will you marry me?”

Letting him put the ring on her finger, F/N sniffled and asked, “We've agreed to get married, so why all this trouble?”

“Marrying you is a big deal.” Zhongli hummed. “Naturally, the ceremony cannot be lacking.”

F/N held back her tears, smiling as they finished taking the registration photos and left with the documents.

During dinner that day, someone asked Chiori, Fontaine's top costume designer, what she had been busy with.

Chiori wiped the oil from her mouth and answered, “Mister Zhongli had a wedding dress custom-made by the most famous old craftsman in Fontaine. The wedding date is drawing near, so he borrowed a few of my tailors to rush the work. I helped with some of the wedding details.”

Hearing Zhongli's name, Lyney unconsciously felt uneasy.

“The size seemed a lot like F/N's.” Chiori recalled. “It's been so long since she came in for a clothes fitting.”

Lyney's unfounded guilt was suppressed; he hadn't given F/N much money for a long time. Even her bag from from a few years ago.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Lumine's handbag next to her and remembered the brand was one F/N liked. It seemed to him that he had indeed treated her unfairly. Right then, he decided he must make it right and cherish F/N and live well with her.

“The day she left the White Manor, I called her, but it seemed F/N's phone was no longer in use.” Chiori took a drink of Fonta. “Being in love and continuously betrayed can be exhausting.”

Lyney had been unable to find F/N for the past three months; he remembered the night before when he went to have a proposal qipao custom-made by Chiori for F/N, he had caught a glimpse of Zhongli from afar. Lyney's eyes widened suddenly when he recalled Zhongli's meaningful smile: the last time he called F/N, besides some murmurs, all that was left was a stifled groan.

After the legal marriage, Zhongli took F/N to meet the rest of his family and F/N was instantly accepted. In just a few months, Zhongli had given her all the affection; the love she had wasted an entire youth on with Lyney and never got in return.

Lyney stopped in front of Chioriya Boutique and entered the boutique.

Chiori, measuring fabric sizes with her head down, looked up. “What's the matter, Lyney? Lumine ordered several clothes. I haven't finished them yet.”

Lyney was stunned; it seemed that even Lumine could come in for dress fittings, but he hadn't given F/N the qualification to come in.

“I want to order a qipao for F/N.” Lyney informed. “The best-looking one for our engagement.”

Chiori looked at Lyney who seemed oddly fixated and didn't say a word. After a while, she spoke, “F/N hadn't come to see me for a long time. This size is from when she was in college. The last I saw her at White Manor; she's lost too much weight. You haven't seen her in a long time, right? Leave her alone.”

“She'll never leave.” Lyney was certain. “She's F/N. She loves me the most. How could she not want me?”

Chiori scoffed, ruthless in shattering his illusion. “She's too good for you. She's leaving because of you.”

“Help me.” Lyney pleaded, shedding tears. “I want to see her. I will bring a ring and go propose to her; give her a home.”

Chiori smirked; she knew the ring F/N had was sent by another man. Zhongli deserved her much more than Lyney ever did.

“Zhongli,” F/N started, the married couple were cuddling in bed. “I want to study aboard; further my education. I've given up too much, I want to reclaim my family pride and business.”

Lyney finally located F/N's whereabouts after much effort. But seeing the door open, pained his eyes. He didn't even dare to ask inside; the soft voice he heard was meant for someone else.

His eyes reddened; his steps wanted to leave countless times, but he couldn't. He couldn't plot against her.

He crouched outside the villa's door all night, listening to F/N's shallow breathing and imagining her flourishing with someone else. He bit his lip fiercely, regretting countless times why he hadn't touched her. Why had he gradually pushed the person he loved most to another?

The door creaked; Zhongli had heard it, had also witnessed Lyney's distraught figure. But in Zhongli's mind, it wasn't enough; he teased F/N's lips to make a more satisfied sound. It still wasn't enough: Lyney had bullied Zhongli's sweetheart for too long. He needed to confront his feelings.

Lyney pondered countless ways of a reunion, but he didn't expect it to be at the wedding.

Holding the golden embossed invitation written in F/N's own handwriting; beside hers, there was Zhongli's majestic and dignified font; clearly written on it was F/N's name alongside another man's.

It was Zhongli who personally sent the invitation, which Lyney, reluctant to face, but couldn't refuse the family's request, if someone personally invites you and insists on your punctuality, why dawdle here? Zhongli's power and influence extended to his family business empire. There was naturally no way to refuse.

Arlecchino's gaze lingered on F/N's name for a long time and told Lyney firmly, “You do anything out of line, I won't forgive you.”

On the day of the wedding, Lyney pocketed the delicate wooden box that held the wedding ring and in the wedding dress box stored the heavy-duty cheongsam he had specially tailored from Chiori. This was his gift; even if Zhongli got angry, he wanted to bring F/N back home.

Full of hope for a reunion, he flew to Liyue.

But as he entered, the wedding was already in progress.

“I do.” without hesitation with happiness and joy, F/N smiled, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she placed her hand in Zhongli's palm.

Lyney stood frozen in place, watching the couple on stage; it was as if he saw F/N for the first time. Dressed in the most gorgeous wedding gown, having the grandest wedding; it was just like the request she made back then, but the groom ended up being someone else.

Lyney covered his heart; he realized too late that he had not known to cherish F/N before. He wept, dropping tears and kneeling amidst the crowd's gasps.

But no one paid him any attention.

A/N: Writing this so I can get the Geo grandpa on my main account.

A/N 2: Sorry, Lyney. I made you the bad guy again.

[majorshatterandhare]

[ID: Six photos of traditional drawing of Drumbot Brian of the Mechanisms.

Brian is a mechanical man, made out of brass, with shoulder length curly hair, facial hair, and lines in a W like shape across his face where plating comes together. He typically wears a button up shirt under a waistcoat, often with a long coat on top, with trousers and a top hat. His hat has retro welding goggles around the crown, replacing the band, and often has a rose, his drumsticks, and/or three rectangles of something stuck in said band.

This First Image shows part of a spread drawn with a pink pen and with his hair colored in with yellow marker and his skin with orange marker. There are three bust of him facing slightly different directions with his hat on, and one with his hat off, they each have different facial expressions, including neutral, sad, smile, and solemn-with-eyes-closed. There is a waist up drawing of him holding onto a bar and reaching his hand out to someone with an arrow reading "Breaking Jonny out of prison again." This drawing cross onto the second page of the spread and there are a few other drawings from the second page visible.

The Second Image shows the second page of the image, and a couple of drawings from the first, including the one of Brian reaching out to an unseen Jonny; the bar he is holding onto is labeled "This is something on Aurora he's holding onto. I'm not drawing an entire spaceship" . The second page drawings including a small bust in profile and a bust with no hat and his coat uncolored (by pen), with longer hair and labeled "What if long hair?" There is a drawing of his as Merlin/The Hanged Man, upside down wearing white shorts and a t shirt, with his legs uncolored. Behind him is a spikey green circle and this one is labeled "The Hanged Man." Below between this one and the one helping Jonny is a drawing of a yellow and orange sun labeled "The sun" with a pink stick figure in it.

Image Three features more pink pen drawings of Brian with different expressions and different hair lengths, including chin-length, shoulder-length, and chest-length. None of these are colored in but the background is colored light blue. There are eight drawings and most of them are busts. The middle left drawing shows more of his body and he is holding his drumsticks. Most of the expressions are a little sad.

Image Four shows pencil drawings centered on on of the Drumbot where he looks surprised and his rivets on his cheeks are done in red ink. It is labeled "flustered drumbot." The other drawings are cut off the edge, but include a wing, a simple, likely full body of Brian, and the head of someone with short curly hair.

Image Five is like Image Four, however the centered drawing is of Brian, with his body facing forward and his head turned to the viewer's left, but his eyes looking to the viewer's right. He has a small smile on his face. There are smaller simpler drawing of Brian cutoff at the bottom, and beside him the lyric from Gawain "I hear what ya say and I'm listening / but Hanged Man your words make no sense" is written although not completely visible. The drawing centered in the last image is visible cut off on the left as is a wing in the upper left corner and a shape n the right.

Image Six is two pink pen drawings of Brian on a blue background. The first is thigh up and he holds his drumsticks in both hands against his body. His head is slightly tilted to the viewer's left and he is looking out the corner of his eye to the viewer's right. The second drawing is waist up and shows him angled toward the viewer's left. He is smiling and holding a stack of papers in his left arm against his body and two papers in his right hand like he is handing them out. His face is in profile.

End ID]

i think about Drumbot Brian a normal amount (lying)

[vex-bittys]

Bittybones Chapter 6: Adding to the Bitty Brigade (Buttons 7)

Since Buttons had already been tucked securely into his bed, I gathered up my two precious, totally-getting-along (for now) beans and took them into the bathroom for bath time. Usually they took separate baths in their bitty houses, but I didn’t want to disturb Buttons; he deserved a peaceful night’s sleep.

Mutual bathing proved to be a bit of a problem though. Brass Bean valued his privacy, and Red was... well... Red. As Brassy shyly stripped for his shallow water bath on the corner of the vanity, Red paraded around as naked as humanly (monsterly?) possible as I filled the sink, shaking his round red ecto butt proudly. The more uncomfortable Brassy became the more outrageously Red posed.

(nudity is nothing to be ashamed of) 

Running Red’s bath took forever, but Brassy waited patiently as I checked and rechecked the water temperature, added just the right amount of scented bubble bath, and put some small floating bath toys into the water. Red inspected his bath and declared it adequate.

(it needed 100% less brassberry)

Like a poor naive fool, I thought that Red would be able to get in his bath calmly and quietly, so I turned my attention to Brassy. I grabbed a Q-tip and removed his bandage to clean his head wound, a nightly ritual that he’d come to enjoy. Of course, it was too much to ask to focus on anything that wasn’t Red. A wave of sudsy water splashed me and Brassy as Red cannonballed into the sink.

(oops)

His displeasure thoroughly expressed, Red resumed his usual bathtub activity of pretending to be a shark (lies), quietly humming the Jaws theme (never!) as he sank beneath the bubbles only to pop up moments later to ambush his rubber ducky prey (slander). Each agonized squeak marked another tragic demise. 

I finished applying a clean dry bandage to Brassy Bean’s head wound, and he nuzzled my hand, making the most happy and adorable noises. He slid contentedly into his own shallow dish of water and began to scrub himself without a single splash. I donned my finger brush and turned to Red, hoping he hadn’t suffered too much from my lack of doting. When I started to rub his tiny bones clean he alternated between nipping me irritably and ignoring me and pouting.

(you spent so much time with assberry that my bath got cold! i could die of hypothermia!)

I sighed. By the time my bittybones were clean, my hand was sore and my nerves were frayed. I made sure to choose a large fluffy towel to dry my boys off, thinking that, with its sheer size, sharing wouldn’t be an issue, but they bickered and argued over towel territory like two teeny angry toddlers. Brassy dressed himself, but Red struggled and fought as I tried to put his pajamas on him. Finally, finally I managed to get the three of us ready for restful slumber.

That’s when the screaming started. There’s something particularly disturbing about a child’s scream. It is as if they experience fear on a deeper and more visceral level than adults. Buttons’ pervasive shrieking sliced me straight to the heart. I dashed from the bathroom to the bedroom, frantically slapping the wall until I found the light switch. As I flipped the switch, the piercing wail faded into broken sobs.

Red had teleported. He knelt in front of Buttons, holding the smaller skeleton tightly and rubbing his back. I hurriedly grabbed a piece of monster candy as I saw Red sway a bit. Seeing him comfort Buttons like that made me forget all the little bite marks on my hand and the huge puddle on the bathroom floor. 

Buttons had his face tucked against Red’s shirt and I could hear him crying softly along with the murmur of comforting words from Red (nuh uh!).

“-was dark, and I was all alone,” Buttons whimpered, “and I got so scared.”

I handed Red the magic recovery candy, and he crunched it gratefully. I gently touched Buttons’ damp little cheek, and he leaned against my finger, sniffling but already much calmer thanks to Red.

“Why don’t you sleep in the bed with me, Red, and Brassy tonight?” I offered. My smallest bittybones nodded, looking relieved. “I have a nightlight too, and if you wake up and you’re scared, we’ll be there for you, ok?” Buttons hugged my finger tightly. In the light of his traumatic memories, Buttons had somehow found it in his pure little soul to accept Brassy. 

That night, Buttons slept curled up snugly between Red and Brassberry on my chest under the soothing aurora of my color-changing nightlight. The rest of the night passed in tranquil silence.

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@mage0flight (Psst, look! Regular updates!)