#seems to be lulling to a more casual fixation

[note-boom]

It’s been a bit since I’ve had a serious BSD thought, but I suddenly was reminded of this tweet (thank you for the translation, OP!) that Asagiri put out after Mori’s stage play actor died.

I do hope it doesn’t seem too insensitive to comment on a eulogy of sorts but one line in the tweet did strike me as prettyyyy interesting.

I don’t usually give much thought to a character’s inner world. Rather than think about how a character feels on the inside, I tend to think about how the audience will feel when they perceive their actions, and I decide how they will act from that point of view. Just like a kaleidoscope with three mirrors leaves the optical illusion of infinite beautiful patterns, the three vectors produce something three-dimensional that the audience observes from the outside, free to imagine the character’s inner world as they like. This is how I always create characters. 

I was more focused on the stuff he had to say about Mori but was pretty impressed with this odd way of creating characters, and now I’m just curious. Because in essence, Asagiri’s kind of saying what he generally thinks about in a character (perhaps he was mainly talking about side characters?) is the mask or their surface level perception, which I’m guessing comes from the books their IRL counterparts wrote.

This seems to be saying that he’s more concerned on the audience perception than the character as a character itself...which...well, I don’t really have anything to actually SAY in response. I just kind of wanted to highlight this quote because there’s clearly something in it with regards to our interpretations of the characters, the way the manga (vs light novels, perhaps?) portray them, and how Asagiri seems to stick pretty generally to seinen action character tropes.

It’s just an interesting way of creating characters, I think...or maybe an honest one...to admit he’s creating characters for the audience to play with and contrasting that with how some of the character’s inner worlds are portrayed.

[i-fondued]

Kinktober 2022 | Day 1 | Ghost - The Ritual, Part 1

A Sister of Sin get a little too curious about the sounds of music one rainy October night and get a little more familiar with Papa Emeritus IV than she was before…

Pairing(s): Papa Emeritus IV/Reader (Sister of Sin), Nameless Ghouls/Nameless Ghouls

Rating: M for Mature (That means sex kiddos)

Warnings: Voyerisum, slight dubious con (no explicit yes), religious undertones, M/M and F/F Scenes

A/N: So here is the beginning of a new project for me! I’ve always wanted to participate in kinktober but I’d been so wrapped up in other things so here I am, finally doing it. This is going to be a multi part story for the first 7 days of kinktober since I’m behind a bit on the month. Going forward I swear they won’t all be about Ghost but its the recent hyper-fixation and this entire work will be based off a dream I had a few weeks ago that I cannot seem to forget about.

FOR FOLKS 18+ PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON’T GET ME BANNED MY FIRST WEEK BACK TO TUMBLR

Rain was the first sound you heard as your eyes opened, the second was the faint sound of music drifting through the halls, slipping under the crack in your door. 

The storm outside started to rage, water pelting the small window in your even smaller room. You tried to ignore the lull of the music and tried to put yourself back to sleep but something was tugging at you to investigate. Slipping on a black robe over your white silk nightgown, feet tucking into a simple pair of slippers, you step as quietly as possible into the hallway. 

It was late in the evening for a sister as yourself to be wandering around the monistary, even the ghouls seemed to shy away from the dark in this hour as you followed the rhythmic sound of a guitar down the sweeping front steps and down the side hallway to the small ritual space dedicated to sensual rituals. 

The door was cracked just slightly and you can see a handful of bodies sitting around casually, quietly speaking to each other. The light was dim, candles flickered in red votives tinting the light ruby red, but you could see the faint glint of their masks covering their true faces. Ghouls and not just any ghouls, judging by their instruments they busy themselves with plucking away at, these were Papa’s personal ghouls. 

It takes you another minute to notice not all of them are casually strumming an instrument, some of them are curled up with each other. You see a pair of ghouls lounging together; a tall ghoul with a smaller in his lap. The taller one has his tail wrapped around the left leg of the other, arms wrapped around their waist. The shorter on has their hands on the taller’s shoulders and they lean in, pushing their masks out of the way as they kiss. A blush spreads on your cheeks, heart beat picking up as you watch them. You can see as the smaller one moves to grind against the tall one, kisses heating up as their hands slide into the others hair. 

The sound of a feminine moan draws your attention and you notice another couple, this time a pair of female ghoulettes. They are practically intertwined down to their tails, one has her hands sliding up the other’s shirt as the other slides her hands down the front of her pants. Leaning forward more as you watch as the ghouls start to play with each other, you bump your foot into the door causing it to creak slightly.

“Looks like we have a little lost sister…”

You jump, whirling around to the source of the voice. Standing there in his full papal robes is Papa Emeritus IV with a quirk to his lips. You can feel the blood come rushing back to your face, and you bow towards him. 

“Y-y-your eminence,” You stammer, blushing at the intense look in his eyes. “I’m sorry! The thunderstorm woke me, I couldn’t fall back asleep and I could hear the music.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to be lured in by the music of the ghouls at night.” He chuckles, his mismatched eyes locked on yours. You can’t help but look away. “There is a certain allure to our ghouls, is there not sister?”

He comes to stand next to you, the edges of his robes brushing slightly against your legs. The dark paint around his eyes makes his one white eye seemingly glow in the low light. You are transfixed by him, unknowingly you step close to him. 

“Yes, of course Papa.” You reply softly, tearing your eyes off of him to look back at the ghouls. Some have shed layers of clothing but never the masks. 

The pair of male ghouls you saw kissing earlier have now moved on, the smaller one taking the length of the tall ghoul in his mouth. His long forked tongue swirling around the head of his cock, the tall one’s head falling back against the cushions as he groans quietly. 

“Nights like tonight, we allow the ghouls to express their more sinful sides. It, uh, helps keep their pent up energy manageable so to speak.” Papa chuckles, you decide you’d do whatever he wanted to keep getting him to chuckle and look at you like that. “With the tour over for now, the ghouls in the Ghost project are more restless than ever.”

A hiss and a moan pull your attention back towards the room, the two female ghouls have pulled a male ghoul into their pile. All three of them are naked, the two females practically circling on the male. One of them climbs into his lap, the other begins to kiss the male as the other slides onto his hard cock. 

A gloved hand brushes your hair off your neck and you jump slightly, turning your head to see that at some point Papa moved to stand behind you, body heat rolling off him in waves. 

“Would you like to take apart in the ritual, Sister?” He asks quietly, his other hand brushing against your hip slightly. You can’t help but shiver slightly, but your heart was beating hard. “Or would you prefer a more private confession so to speak?”

Your eyes lock again with his, heat flooding your face at the look in his own eyes. “Papa, I-I…” You stammer. “If Imperator finds me out of bed…”

“Sister…” He purrs, pulling you flush against him and you can feel how hard he is as he grinds slightly against you. “I doubt she will fret over a sister who was driven to confessional with her Papa.”

You shutter, rocking slightly against him as his hand wanders from your hip to brush softly against your rib cage. At the same time he brushes his nose against your neck, you instinctively tilt your neck and he presses a soft kiss against your pulse. Your breath hitches and you arch against him, one hand wrapping around his wrist to steady yourself as you lean against the closed door. You can hear all manner of obscene noises from inside the room, some sounding somewhat inhuman, but your vision feels foggy as Papa’s teeth are dragged against your pulse point. It feels as though Papa Emeritus is pinning you to the door with his body. 

“Sister, would you like to confess something to your Papa?” You feel his fingers tug on the belt of your robe, the now open robe opening as he pushes it slightly off your shoulders revealing your white nightgown. 

“F-forgive me, Papa, for I have sinned.”

His hands wander again, coming up to cup your breast through your nightgown. It faintly dawns on you that you didn’t wear a bra underneath as you feel your nipples harden, his lips brush against the sensitive spot behind your ear. You can feel a small smirk against your skin, and you roll your hips against him when his tongue darts out to brush against your earlobe. 

“I-it has been 3 months since my last confession.”

You can feel as his hands slip to pull at the bottom of your nightgown, hands slipping underneath. You can’t help but desperately push back against him, a whine squealing out of your mouth. He chuckles quietly and while one hand grips your hip, the other slips just slightly under your underwear. The tips of his fingers brushing against your sensitive skin. 

“And what would you like to confess to our dark lord?” His voice is low, gravelly and deep. You can feel another shudder run down your spine as your fingers wrap around his wrist as he teases your lips, your legs twitching slightly. 

“I confess to lusting after my Papa, even after taking my Sister vows.”

“Somehow I doubt Lord Lucifer sees that as a sin, Sister…”

You tilt your head back, looking him in the eye as best as you can. His eyes are blown wide from lust, at some point he lost his papal mitre and you long to run your fingers through his hair. 

“Are you a good girl, sister?”

“Yes Papa.”

“Then let me reward you for your sinful lust.”

He steps back from you and you hold back a whimper at the loss of his heat. Papa takes your hand and tugs you toward the doors leading to where his ghouls are waiting. Your legs shake slightly, but he looks back at you with a wicked smirk. 

“Welcome to the ritual, sister.”

____________

A/N: Please hold out for the next thrilling chapter tomorrow night! Also once I can remember my AO3 log in I do plan to post this entire completed story on there as well so please keep an eye out for that!

[worldsover]

The Wrong Person ft. Heejin

Co-written with @kaedewrites

words ✦ 11231

genres ✧ cheating; road head; Daddy kink; doggystyle into pronebone; breeding (of course); shower facefuck; just a stranger!Heejin

Thanks to @v1ntrix and @ggidolsmuts for the feedback as usual!

✦✧✦✧✦✧

Wipe the glass. It’s already clean. Wipe it again. It’s still clean. You’re staring at the woman walking toward you. You’d say your gaze is intense, but her allure is more so. You’d say she’s walking toward the bar to which you’re tending, but her eyes connect with yours for a split second—the target is you. You’d say something.

But you can’t.

She looks away. Again, you can’t.

Why can’t your eyes find the strength? Is she really that fascinating? Chalk up your small fixation to the phenomenon of the recurring stranger. Everyone has one or two or a few in their life. It’s more than déjà vu. Mutual. Coincidental. Should be inconsequential. You’ve seen her over and over, enough that stranger becomes a misnomer in a manner. Somewhere. Somewhere. Even if your glance is innocent, guilt sets in—after all, the woman isn’t your girlfriend Hyunjin. The woman is the wrong person.

“Hey.” Her greeting cuts through the bassy music well enough, even if her voice has similarly low frequencies that should clash. She sits on the stool in front of you. 

Though the headcount is lower than usual, the clubbers on the dance floor are as soulless as usual and the DJ plays the music just as loud. You should invest in earplugs. You see all kinds as a bartender at a club. Everything from women in stuffy suit jackets to guys who definitely should have been kicked out for not wearing a shirt. But something about her casual outfit—the loose plaid blouse, the tube top, the denim shorts—throws you off more than most.

Still staring. It’s dark, yet your eyes keep snagging on the defined lines of her abs. Even when you peel away from her middle, you’re raising to the subtlest cleavage, then lowering to her equally toned, meaty thighs. Earplugs won’t help here. Do your job.

She waves, giggling to herself. “Hello? I’m Heejin.”

“Oh. You’re not ordering?” You set the glass aside. “Oh. You’re… uh.”

“Heejin, yes. And I am ordering. I’ll have a strawberry daiquiri.”

“Of course.” As you rummage for the rum, you say, “I was going to say, I know you from somewhere.”

“Ooh, really? Where do you think?” Cutely, Heejin holds her head in her hands and tilts her head.

You retrieve strawberries and citrus soda from the fridge, then mix them with ice in a blender; its whirring is annoying. After grabbing some scrap paper and a pen, you write down the word “earplugs” with a big underline.

“So I should know,” you say. “Dammit.”

“Yeah, you should.” Heejin harrumphs, her arms crossed.

The more she throws you off, the more you have trouble finding the words. However you knew Heejin, it seems to be trouble, or at least some sort of alarm is going off in the back of your head. You should finish making her drink, deal with a couple more customers, so you can finally go home to—oh, right, Hyunjin. She’s away, back at her hometown for the week. You wouldn’t consider yourself a clingy boyfriend, but the expectation of coming home to Hyunjin has just been so entrenched in your mind ever since she moved in with you. 

“Hey.” Heejin waves in front of your face. “Are you okay?”

“Huh?” You realize you’ve just been frozen in thought, rum bottle in hand.

“Seems like you have something going on.” Her voice lulls you into a false sense of security. Or maybe it is genuine and you’re thinking far too much about a small interaction. You thought you had these nuances ironed out having worked at this bar for long enough.

“No, no. It’s just that work is almost done and my girl—Ah! Right, I remember! You go to the same gym class as Hyunjin!”

Heejin has a weak smile on her face. “That’s all? She doesn’t talk about me? Well, for your information, we hang out too.”

“Yes, yes, of course. You’re her friend. Sorry, just slipped my mind.”

“Tsk. Meanie.”

You can’t follow Heejin. One moment, she acts cool, then the next, she plays like she’s as cute as a button. Again, a weird, subconscious alarm goes off. It’s her body language, how she’s leaning over and inching closer to you. 

“Can you help me out? You seem like you’re good with girls,” Heejin says with an undecipherable low tone. Her stare is not directed at you but inside of you. Your initial reaction is to draw the line right in the middle of this countertop—you’re too slow, so she continues, “Your girlfriend won’t stop talking about how good you are to her. S-so I just thought maybe you could give me a hand.”

Think about it deeper. What’s wrong with talking to Heejin? She’s just a friend of a friend, maybe a tad tipsy, maybe a bit bizarre. You’re doing your unwritten job description as a bartender by entertaining the woes of your customer.

“Uhh. Um, like… No, I’m not. Not good with girls. Really.” You’re coming out of the gates swinging with your sage wisdom. Good job. Pour out the strawberry daiquiri and garnish it with a lime. Why are you stumbling? This is the easiest drink to make. “I just got lucky.”

Heejin takes the glass, brushing your fingers. That was purposeful. But you notice more the lightest scrape of her long nails against the back of your digits, and that shouldn’t raise the hairs on your arms to their ends.

It does.

“Oh. Lucky?” Heejin takes a sip. 

Though a bar counter separates the two of you, her charismatic pull removes any perception of space. People on the dance floor are grinding into each other, and it feels like there’s more distance. Okay, so Heejin is flirting. Now that you recognize the dangerous situation, you can disengage, back up, not get sucked into her gravity. All you have to do is—

Heejin takes your frozen hand. Once again, her touch is soft, near imperceptible: her thumb just rubs a small circle on your palm. The heat from her hand turns you into ice.

“Do you want to get luckier?” she whispers.

You hear it. Loud and clear. The club’s blaring music can’t challenge a single decibel.

Heejin backs away, sensing your discomfort. She sits straight, and with the pout on her lips, it’s like she’s a whole different person again. “See, I’ve been having trouble with guys.”

You shake your head. “I-I can’t help you.”

“Sure you can. You’re a bartender.”

Just leave. Lose out on the tip. Who cares? Hyunjin finds out you were cold to one of her friends. Better yet, tell her the truth. Say you were a good boyfriend and rejected Heejin’s advances. You don’t want to ruin one of Hyunjin’s friendships, though. Or maybe you should ruin this friendship—Heejin is bad news.

However, your feet are planted. More than anything else, when a customer asks for advice, you help them out. You’ve dealt with much worse such as rowdier and more violent drunks before. Heejin could be messing with you; she seems the playful type. She could just be touchy. Your life is filled with misunderstandings leading to problems—for example, you could’ve asked out Hyunjin months earlier but didn’t because you heard she wasn’t ready to commit (turns out that was about work)—so it’s best to assume people’s sincerity.

Heejin raises her brows, her eyes wide in anticipation. Seems that she really needs the help.

You relax your shoulders. “Okay. Fine. What sort of boy problems are you having?”

“Geez, you really like to stiffen up when you stare at me.” Heejin laughs to herself, maybe more of a soft exhalation out her nose.

“Uh.”

“It just seems like every guy I meet wants to fuck me. It doesn’t even matter what I wear. But I guess I can’t blame guys for staring at my abs or my thighs”—Heejin grins when she catches you doing just that—”when I try to wear something casual like this.”

“I’m sorry, I’m—”

Heejin plows on through with her point; you can’t seem to get a word in edgewise. “I want someone committed, you know? Someone with real experience in a relationship. It’s so fucking sexy when a guy is just so devoted to a girl.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what? You’re all jittery even though we’re just talking.” Once more, you didn’t notice until she pointed it out, which is more of an indictment of your overwhelmed thoughts considering how carefully Heejin is speaking. She sighs plaintively. “But I heard Hyunjin was going to miss this week’s gym class. Why didn’t you go?”

You don’t have to tell her. You tell her. “She… she said she wanted some alone time.”

“Alone time? Ha!” This is Heejin’s biggest smile, a blinding light in the dark club. Her fingers rap against the countertop. “I’m lying about the commitment part to be honest. But… maybe I’m not the only one lying about commitment.”

You want to hyperventilate. The sheer thought of Hyunjin hours away with another man makes you want to throw up.

Heejin has the most pitying look on her face. “Aww. It’s okay. See, I can at least be honest about myself. I said I lied, right? I did. I don’t want a committed guy. Well, I do, but not just any guy. I want the kind of guy who would give me presents every day. The kind of guy who would show off his relationship on Insta even if she doesn’t really like to post couple pictures.”

Any sort of survival instinct you had has been burned off by possibility, by innuendo, by thoughts of adultery that should be so far from a man standing and a woman sitting across from him, but you can’t ignore the truth of the present tension.

Heejin downs her pink icy drink. “The kind of guy who gets nervous at the mere thought of other girls is so hot. I’d let him do so much to me. I would suck his dick whenever we drive home from dates. I’d let him fuck my face, then pound me until I become part of the bed. I’d warm his cock while we cuddle. All that just because he’s such a nice guy. Isn’t that funny?”

You lick your lips. Everything you do is a mistake. It’s not that funny—you can’t even retort out loud anymore.

“Do you know any guys like that?”

At your silence, your stillness, Heejin stands up. Bending over the bar, she grabs you by the collar of your dress shirt. There’s so much strength in her grip—not even physical, but her mental hold on you. This whole time, you’ve been looking away from her eyes, and that only leads down her legs. Of course, Hyunjin’s thighs are just as rippling. So why are you comparing now? Is the grass greener? Keep asking questions. That’s what makes you you. That fundamental shakiness in your core that you forgot about stops you from stopping Heejin—your heart joins the stopping train as her eager mouth presses into yours, catching a bit of drool. Violets are a symbol of love and honesty; Heejin smells like them. Do Venus flytraps smell like this too?

“Mmm,” Heejin moans into your mouth. A simple kiss feels far too good. It feels far too good to taste the drink you made her. As if you made your own sugar-tinged death.

Stop her. 

Push her off of you. 

Do it. You have to. 

You have to not fall into the soft, slick embrace of her lips now mixed with the slithering temptation of her tongue. 

You can’t.

Hypocrite. What are you thinking?

Heejin wraps her arms around your neck.

Other bargoers are cheering. Luckily, this isn’t the kind of place to have regulars since new people rotate in and out all the time, but you’re hoping that none of your coworkers are watching too. You never shut up about Hyunjin. 

Your priorities are wrong.

“Do my lips taste good, Oppa?” Heejin says in the cutesiest voice.

“Yeah.” The honesty slips past a ragged breath. Heejin’s lips are like candy and they’re luscious and they will be your perilous new addiction because you’re falling right back into her mouth without a second thought.

When Heejin lets go, a flimsy saliva thread drips. “She doesn’t let you cum inside her, does she?”

You nod dumbly.

Heejin brushes through your hair one last time, then gives a small tug on the strands before she releases. “Let’s go then. I can do at least one thing she can’t.”

When you leave your spot to get your keys from the staff storage, the same bargoers that cheered you on are now booing.

As you collect your personal effects in a rush, your coworker Jaehyo joins you in the small room. You wave weakly at him. “Perfect. Man the bar for me.”

“Oh, thank god. I thought you weren’t ditching early this week. Honestly, you should just give me your job at this point since you’re always—Hey! Why are you sprinting so…”

Heejin is taking selfies in the parking lot. As you point out your black sedan, she gives you a pretty smile.

Your head is spinning when you get in your car. You’re the one who’s been serving drinks tonight, yet it feels like you shouldn’t be driving. Your body is moving on autopilot, commanded by Heejin’s every word.

“Drive.”

Drive.

Seatbelts click. Engines roar. You thought you were done with loud music, but you turn your stereo up to drown your thoughts which have been led so astray today that you’d rather they just sink to the ocean floor; their weak bones can rot in the water, fine. The song’s lyrics might as well be gibberish in your ears. Your overwhelming car speakers might as well be a piddly Bluetooth toy. You put the whole weight of your being into driving. 

At these speeds, you shouldn’t look at your phone screen, but the notification in the corner of your eye draws your attention—Jaehyo. 

“Hey,” Heejin says, twisting the volume knob, “he says there’s a bunch of tabs that haven’t been closed and he doesn't know who bought which drinks.”

“Text him back for me.”

“Of course.” She grabs the phone from the mount. “Uh, PIN?”

“Eleven fifteen.”

Heejin scoffs. “I could’ve guessed that.”

“Tell him I’ll pay for all the drinks.”

“Wooow, Mister Big Shot over here.” Heejin types away. “Alright. Sent. Wait a minute, does that include mine?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. You still have to pay me back.” You realize how flirty this comes across when you shouldn’t be flirting with the idea of flirting.

“Wow. You’re a liar. You look so conflicted and anxious like you're fighting demons. Yet here you are, saying pickup lines like a porn star. I know how you can pay this rent,” Heejin says in a purposefully low and exaggerated voice. Her similarly deep giggle disarms you by making you laugh. Then you’re quieted by Heejin once more. “What do you really want? I think I know. You want me to fuck my face on your cock in this car, bring my lips to the bottom of your dick, hit the back of my throat with a sticky load.”

You manage to temper your erection during Heejin’s advances, though that’s not so easy when her lips are next to your ear, whispering breathy, sweltering nothings.

She fondles your crotch over your pants, and you’re doing everything to hold back—everything short of turning the car around, dropping Heejin off in the middle of the road. You should do that. You should really do that. 

Your foot is made of lead.

Heejin unzips your pants, fishes your soft dick out. Her eyes widen.

“It’s that long? Even when it’s not hard? I am mad at Hyunjin. You know that? Wasting such a beautiful cock.” The bassier notes in her voice tingle from your ear straight to the inside of your brain.

“Don’t talk about her.”

“Oh, okay. I have one way of keeping quiet.” Heejin takes off her seatbelt—you’re in no place to teach her safety. She leans over the center console and places her striking visage a hair’s breadth from your flaccid shaft. The light grip of hands weighs on your thighs like anchors, digging, tickling. You want to laugh.

Heejin has an unwavering resolve to keep her eye contact despite having to twist her neck to look at you. She runs her spit-wet mouth up and down along the underside of your shaft, puckering and kissing. Still twisted sideways to face you, a hand gripping the base, Heejin pops your cockhead in and out of her lips; each pop leads to a small bead of pre-cum happily slurped up by Heejin.

“Do you like it when I play with your cock like this? Or should it be my throat milking your cock instead? Mwah. This is for… proper payment.” 

“You don’t have to keep talking.”

“Good point. I should just be your oral fuck hole, right?”

“That’s not what I—”

Heejin swallows your length in two motions: halfway down, your dick hits the back of her mouth, causing a gag and pause and a glob of saliva to spill, and then she breaks a barrier, your erection gliding in so easily.

Soon, you’re freed from the beautiful confines of her throat, though your sensitive tip is still nurtured by her lips. 

“Ghah, I thingh…” Heejin mumbles, “klh, you meant like thih. See? Gooh, blph, good fuck toy. Nhm.”

Heejin puts her hands behind her back. Now the only thing keeping her lips from kissing your crotch is your cock, and why would she let that get in her way? With much less control, subject to the whims of the car’s shakiness, she has to choke herself down your length. When Heejin goes up, thick spit strands fall from her giggly mouth. 

Control is slipping away from you too; in particular, it is wrested away by the choking grip of Heejin’s throat around the tip of your dick. A dangerous game, considering you’re in the driver’s seat. Truthfully, it’s a miracle you even made it this far without crashing, and luckily, you’re not too far from your destination—you’re not that far from home either. Four-lane wide roads become narrow streets leading to your neighborhood. There is no real race happening since Heejin can’t even see much past the tears in her eyes as she bounces her gorgeous face up and down, ruining her gentle makeup. However, it certainly resembles a race. The ending is obvious. The LED of the dashboard, streetlamps, headlights far behind and ahead of you. All pales next to the blissful light of…

To the blissful light of…

To the bliss…

An audible smooch as Heejin releases. “Now, now, not yet, Oppa. Didn’t I promise you something earlier?”

“You, you, f-fucking—”

“Well, we’re at your place now, silly. No matter how much I wanna taste this cum, I’m not gonna do it here in this parking lot.”

Oh, but you’re okay with your head bobbing up and down for other drivers to see? That’s what you would say. Instead, you’re silent. How is your car in your driveway in one piece? You certainly aren’t.

Heejin wipes her mouth with her forearm. “You almost hit a light pole! You’re lucky I was holding the wheel.”

You don’t even look at Heejin as you get out of the car. At the club, you couldn’t take your eyes off of her. This infinite doubt is your downfall. You worked so hard to fix this worst trait of yours.

That was with a different woman.

Years of memories in this house. The front yard where Heejin’s lips flatten against yours is the same place you and Hyunjin had picnics, fed birds, planted new flowers—these get trampled as the two of you clumsily inch toward the entrance. Whenever you came home with Hyunjin, you had this dumb little game where you took turns knocking on this very front door even though no one answered. Every knock-knock joke that followed was even dumber, but you savored every second with your beautiful girlfriend. 

That’s not knocking; that’s the sound of Heejin being pushed again and again against the front door in your impassioned kiss. You fumble for keys somewhere under your phone inside your pocket; it shouldn’t be this hard to fish them out; it shouldn’t be this hard to figure out access to your own home—your dick shouldn’t be this hard pressing into Heejin. Hope the neighbors aren’t watching.

After too long, the door is slammed open. You savor Heejin’s tongue like you’re starving as she stumbles backward. The lingering scent of bread defining your domicile barely hits your nose. You throw your keys to the coffee table. A cat-eared mug you bought for Hyunjin as a random gift, a photobook she made for your birthday. You remember the rare makeout session on the couch instead of the bed (half the passion), you remember movie nights with Hyunjin in your living room when you fished out spilled popcorn from between the sofa cushions (found some coins too), and you remember... 

Nothing.

The lovely moments with Hyunjin are swept by. They’re not solid islands; they’re crude rafts—the ocean’s cruelty prevails. You’re pulled along toward your bedroom by Heejin, and everything passes. 

Heejin jumps on you, legs clinging to you while her fingers ruffle your hair. Her lips have yet to release for a breath. Your back slams against the hallway wall as Heejin is grinding against your clothed cock so desperately that you can feel the warmth through her own pants.

Your sigh is sharp, and your heart races when Heejin finally hops off of you and onto your bed. Though the light of the lamp you turn on is dim, you take in the sight of Heejin splayed on your bed. She’s sloppy. Her hair’s a mess; no doubt yours is too. A shiny trail of spit from the fiery lip lock starts at her lips, falls past her chin, ends between her cleavage. The warm light shines too on a thin layer of sweat on her pearly skin.

There’s no way to defend anything that’s happened since your lips touched Heejin’s lips, probably even earlier than that. But some irrational part of you makes you take out your wallet and pull out the condom you never use. (Hyunjin never wants to have sex anywhere other than this very bed, plus a whole candle-lit ritual just to get going.) You feel silly. As if this protection were the last bastion from infidelity. Ridiculous.

Absurdity has yet to stop you. While Heejin is distracted taking off her clothes, you sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from her. You strip down too, though you’re trying your best to discreetly put the thin condom on with your best sleight of hand. 

Once your deception is complete, you pull Heejin, sitting her up next to you. 

Heejin tilts her head. “You don’t want to watch me strip?” 

Your vocal response is empty. Instead, your lips smack against Heejin’s neck and shoulders as your hands run around her bare body. It’s quite the intimate lesson on her curves, but you can’t believe it anyway. You recall Hyunjin’s complaints about the intensity of Heejin’s routines in the gym. They’re paying off right now in this bedroom.

Shuddering, Heejin flips her legs over yours, straddling your lap. She rocks into your thigh, and the slickness from her labia rubs off on it. Your digits dig into the ample meat of her ass.

Now that you can appreciate Heejin’s perky tits to their fullest, your sequence of kisses continues lower down her chest. Her boobs are just enough for your hands to play with while your lips suck on her tautening nipples. That floral scent is muskier, something more primal in your mind. You let your teeth graze on her sensitive tips, drawing out tiny whines before you head back to her mouth again.

“Mh.” Heejin releases first. “You’re a good kisser. I shouldn’t be surprised.” 

Her smile weakens your heart. The question of whether it will beat again is silly given its unmatchable rhythm right now, but you can’t help but wonder the rhetorical anyway.

“Finally. After all this time. I’ve been waiting so long and—” Heejin looks down and scowls. “Are you fucking—no, I didn’t come all this way here to feel some rubber. I’d just use my dildo and think about you like I always do.”

You concede. Dumb plan. Still, you trace a line that should’ve been drawn much earlier. “I don’t care,” you say curtly.

Heejin gets off your lap and pushes you onto the bed. “Fine, I’m done then.”

“Awesome. Great. Leave.”

The two of you stare at each other, heavily breathing. Your dick is twitching in need.

“I said I don’t care. Go.” You’ve never sounded less convincing in your life.

“Stop me. Stop me right now.” Heejin smirks, bending down to place her face by your crotch. You back up until you can’t anymore, your pillows bunching up at the head of the bed. She crawls to follow your dick like a pet and its toy. Her breaths are heavy; you can hear them but can’t feel their warmth. Then, the tip of her tongue darts right under your condom-covered cockhead, giving arduously gentle licks. She draws a line up your length. What should be the most sensitive part of your body feeling the most pleasure barely registers as a blip of a touch.

Your body is as uncooperative, motionless as your mind.

“I said stop me. If you don’t want to pump my warm and perfect pussy with your seed until Hyunjin comes home, then just say the word and I’ll stop.”

The line is just a metaphor after all—useless, a waste of time. “P-please.”

“Please, what?”

You can’t look at Heejin. You can’t look at the picture frame on the bedside table with you and Hyunjin on your second date. How can you possibly look at yourself in the mirror when—“Please take off the condom.”

Heejin does just that with a triumphant smile. It’s a simple motion: the upward stroke of her hand brings the protection along with her fingers. After throwing the condom straight to the trash, she sits on you again. She rubs her wet pussy lips back and forth your length a couple times, then backs up and presses your rock-hard dick against her tummy.  

"See how warm it feels?" Understanding how intensely you’ve been staring at her midriff, Heejin slaps your cock against her abs, then places her palm on top of your tip like she's measuring something. “See how deep you can go?”

Your cock approximately reaches her belly button.

"Oh my god, that's gonna hit my fucking guts. Like this." Heejin keeps slapping your cock against her toned midriff, rubbing it left and right. “But from the inside! Fuck, you’re gonna mix my guts up. Without that stupid condom, you’re gonna shoot your load straight into my womb.”

While maintaining eye contact, she lets a stream of spit fall the way down from her lips, right between her cleavage, straight to her midriff. Using your shaft like a tool, she spreads the spit across, getting the definition of her muscles nice and shiny. She traces every subtle groove with your cockhead and lathers both you and her with saliva. You admire the evidence of time and effort Heejin has put into herself, though her good shape would not affect you as intensely if her face weren’t as adorable; it reminds you of Hyunjin—here we go again.

“Gonna need some lubrication for this monster to fit in me raw. I know I'm already dripping for you, but a little more wetness can't hurt right? Ptoo." Heejin spits again, then twists her slick hands around your length. “God, are you going to fit inside me? I have to use two hands to handle it properly.”

One more time, Heejin presses your cock against her abs, but this time, she squats up and down, sliding you against her firm muscles. It’s not just the externality of touch lighting your fire; a vivid hue saturates your every sense as the deep tingly pink dances around your thoughts to subsume all that isn’t the promise of thrusting your dick inside of the tight temptress now.

“No, I don’t care if it fits. Break me. Split my little pussy in half.” 

After one more upward motion, her pussy is aligned right above your tip; drops of slick drop from her slit before she drops too, her hands squeezing down on your shoulders.

“Oh, fuck, y-you’re going to have to help me, push me down. Too, too tight.”

You hold her taut midriff with both hands and squeeze her down into your cock. It’s not just an exaggeration of the novelty or the discomfort: gravity itself isn’t enough to pull Heejin around the width of your shaft. Up, then down a bit further. Despite all the nudging and the rampant lubrication of her pussy, it still takes a full minute, probably longer, to work your entire length inside of her tightness. You’re not so much fucking Heejin as you are wearing her slowly around your cock like a fitted tee.

“Ahh! Yessss, it, it, I think it’s hitting so, so deep. Is that my cer—ouwh, god.”

Eventually, Heejin acclimates to your cock’s size, her soft, soaking walls sculpting on your dick, and a visible bulge that still fails to disturb her perfect abs. There’s such a genuine eye smile on her when your cock’s fully disappeared inside. A simple bliss wracks her whole body. You feel the same way: you could stay like this until your girlfriend comes home—

With your eyes wide open, your mind racing with regrets once again, Heejin squats and pulls herself back up, your shaft glistening. You’ve never felt more stupid at the flash-moment relief you felt since it is taken away—along with your breath—when Heejin pushes her ass down into your crotch again, faster this time, but still needing to work it in. 

Then the rhythms truly start. A heartbeat, a series of blinks, the ticking of a clock. There’s nothing so predictable, so countable in how Heejin fucks you. And it is undoubtedly Heejin fucking you, not the other way around. Every thrust in her slick walls not only erodes your morality but also your inhibitions. You couldn’t deny that your girlfriend was much meeker in bed, and so you only ever matched that energy. Her pussy devours your cock whole yet again; she ceases all movements while letting out a prolonged groan. Maintaining eye contact this whole time, she has you in a chokehold that is almost as suffocating as her immaculate tightness. Shivers run down your back as she traces a finger across your chest. With teeth carved into her lower lip, Heejin’s sultry gaze continues to pierce through your eyes. 

“Oh god, you're stretching me so fucking well.” Her mouth goes agape as she rocks her hips to and fro. “You like how tight I am? And how you're molding my pussy into the shape of your cock? Here, hold me”—Heejin brings your hands on her waist—“and use me like a proper fucktoy. Your fucktoy.”

Swallow that spit stuck in your throat. Holding Heejin in place, you start to thrust upwards into her pussy, and each time you exit her entrance, her tightness rejuvenates. You still have to struggle nearly as much the first time to pry her folds apart again, and every time her insides clench around your length, you let out a hiss. While you’re receiving sensual satisfaction like you’ve never experienced before, she’s frowning—maybe it's your slow pace, or maybe it's that your cock does not always disappear completely in her.

It's probably both.

“Fuck. Me. Harder!” Heejin confirms your suspicion and then finds support on your belly to get your entirety out of her. A strand of mixed stickiness is left hanging for its dear life; a sudden wave of coldness replaces Heejin's incredible warmth, leaving you in shivers. “With a cock this amazing, you should be fucking my brains out already. Do you go this slow with Hyunjin? Maybe that's why she doesn't let you finish in her.”

“D-don't mention—”

“Shut up.”

With your mouth sealed by hers, you find yourself backed against the bed frame. Heejin grips your cock firm—something she almost failed to do thanks to her own slickness—and positions your tip for a re-entry. Her legs extend, one forward to land beside your waist, the other backward. 

“I know you’re always thinking about her. I want you to forget about her completely. It’s just me. This bed. This perfect, perfect cock inside of me. God, this is going to go so, so fucking deep in me.” Heejin licks her lips in excitement as she sinks down on your tip.

You growl, and then you yearn for more—of Heejin's heat, of Heejin's body, of any semblance of control. With one hand on her beautifully arched back, you seize a stiffened nipple into your mouth and immediately begin nibbling on it, and the other lands on her equally well-defined ass. In one fell swoop, Heejin completes the frontal split on your cock. One hundred eighty degrees is the angle of her legs, give or take ten or twenty as she rises and falls to the force of your thrusts.

While you’re heady with pleasure from her tight and flexible body, Heejin is first to be aquiver, pulsating from her core. She is not so much bouncing as she is grinding her pussy against your crotch while your dick fills her up to her guts. 

You’re done holding back your inner desires, your most wanton fantasies. For as much as you denied Heejin, she told only the truth, at least when it came to sex. The rest of the truth is that you want to last one minute longer to savor the brain-melting grip and wetness of her cunt. 

Therefore, one hand grasps Heejin's midriff tightly while the other pins her by the neck, freezing her in place with half your shaft inside. Her legs shake, and her eyes, interrupted from rolling back into her head, are distraught. Gingerly, you peel her off your cock like a wasted condom—her labia clenching your shaft in need, her legs shaking from the splits—and then you sit the pouting, babbling girl in front of you.

With the dangerous high of power (or maybe that’s just the warm smell of sex getting to your head), you chuckle. Heejin seems too far gone to notice. 

“Call me Daddy,” you say. “if you’re going to be such a clingy cockholder.”

Right. You’re the one at the edge of the earth, frayed and alone. Far from anyone. The furthest from your lover.

“Oh. Oh, god, your dick, so, oh, fuck. I miss… I need… why did you have to… F-fine.” After gathering a mote of composure and then slithering up to your ear, Heejin whispers, “Actually, that’s very easy. Ahem. Daddy.” 

You can’t hide the grin on your face. Not in a million years would Hyunjin…

“Pwease, turn Heejin into your baby bunny cum pocket? Heejin will be such a good girl for Daddy, I’ll cum all over Daddy’s cock so you can stuff my needy pussy with your sticky load and—”

You’re already overwhelmed. Not so gingerly, you lift Heejin by the waist and then deposit her onto your cock to resume her ride.

“Fuck! Daddy!”

You slap Heejin, adding one more smacking sound to the drumbeat of her ass against your lap. “I told you to call me Daddy, not call me like a phone sex operator.”

Heejin nods, eyes watery; the corner of her lips raise.

She already won long ago, so don’t humor her small victory. As you fuck your cock up into her, you cover her mouth, restricting her air. Her tongue darts at your hand between her lips, and you let the tiniest puff of air pass as her tongue pushes between your fingers. You pinch the wet, pink tip, drawing out more of her ragged moans.

Everything wrong is perfect. Everything perfect must be wrong. You’re in a true position of power for the first time in what feels like forever—then your phone vibrates from your bedside table.

Bvvt. Bvvt. Bvvt. Bvvt.

Hyunjin.

Many times tonight, you thought you had seen your nadir. It could be overacting, overthinking. Yet, the shadows snuck, crept in the crevices of the window cracked open, letting the whistle of the wind in. Yet yet, you feel the weakest you’ve ever been, the darkest inside, when your first inclination is to ignore the call. 

You’ve never done that. 

You’re always the first to call. 

Fuck. 

You were supposed to call her.

Heejin grabs the phone and picks it up for you before slamming down into your cock even harder. You have trouble catching up as you hold the phone by your ear; god forbid, you drop the device and record the squelchy noises of your illicit intimacy.

“Hey, babe.” Already, by her gentle tone, you know Hyunjin is giving you the benefit of the doubt. Though you’re usually meticulous, you’re not perfect, and it’s not that crazy to miss one phone call.

It’s not like you’d do something crazy like—Heejin is bouncing on your dick at such a delirious rate that the parting of words from your lips is impossible.

“Hello? Busy at work? You sound like you’ve run a marathon.” Hyunjin giggles.

“Yeah. Yeah. That’s it.” You can barely breathe it out. Shudder; oh, do you shudder. “Hgh, I-I had to carry a bunch of… of, of heavy boxes. A lot of new drinks.”

“Ahh. Well, I miss you.”

Oh, she does? You could’ve just gone on the trip with her then. None of this would have happened. 

Now, you have Heejin planting kisses all over your sweaty torso. Now, you have your cock swaddled up and down. Now, you’ve hesitated.

“I…” You can’t even get past yourself, each exhalation obviously stifled.

Hyunjin gasps. Heejin too. How different can two puffs of air be? 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Hyunjin asks.

“I’m fine, I just—”

Heejin snatches the phone out of your hand and puts the call on speaker.

“Ahh, shit!” You glare at Heejin, a sly grin fastened on her face.

“Babe, do you need to go to the doctor or something?” From the speaker, Hyunjin’s concern reverberates throughout the room. At least at this juncture, you’re sure she’s missed the continuous sounds of sex, in part to Heejin’s small mercy in slowing down to… grinding halt is only half-correct. Her hips are rocking, but there’s certainly no rigidity to her motions.

Yet, you’re stammering, unable to find an excuse because you’ve never needed one before. 

Heejin does a jerking-off motion with her hand; you raise your brow. She points to the phone. 

Ah. Fuck it. Better than nothing. “Fine. I-I was mas… masturbating. And, and I dropped the phone.”

“Really?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Th-thinking about… me?”

“Who else would I be thinking about?”

Heejin grins at your rhetorical question, knowing she’s the answer wrapped around your dick. “Tell her you miss fucking her,” she whispers—her voice is soft enough, but you still tuck the phone away out of sheer instinct.

You aren't going to always obey her. “Y-y'know babe, I really miss you.”

“And you're saying that while masturbating to me?” Hyunjin scoffs. 

A genuine smile flashes across your face. “No, I just really miss you. I know I put too much pressure on you, and I'm—”

“No, no. Keep all that for when I get back. You sound really tired, so you should go take a rest. Dream about me in the meantime, will you?”

“I… Um. Yes, of course. I will. I love you. Goodnight.”

“I love you too. Mwah.”

The call ends, and the phone finds its rightful place back on the mattress. Despite the other woman coating your cock, the only thing you feel at this moment is embarrassment.

Heejin is sitting calmly on your dick. “Look at you. All in thought again. All backed up because of Hyunjin.”

You gulp as she slinks her hand underneath to paw at your balls. “You’re—you, you didn’t let me cum in… ugh, the car.”

It’s not even a full giggle, just a small blow of air from Heejin’s nose. “Right. Of course that’s what you’re thinking about.”

You have no retort but to provide some force in your waist, snapping upward to drive your length deeper inside. That's less than a retort. Full surrender.

As the bouncing intensifies, hands stop roaming when she interlocks her fingers with yours. Of all the sensual touches, this feels the most intimate. Thus, the most forbidden. And so, the most captivating. Upon a missed beat of your heart, you let go. That free hand strikes her ass crashing down into your waist, and the sweetest whimpers and hottest moans come out viscerally. More than the sweaty warmth in the air, your scent is filled with Heejin. Flowers from another garden.

You start letting your lust out in words between the slaps on her buttcheeks. If you’re going to wither, might as well satiate more of your held-back fantasies.

“So you’re a fuck bunny, huh? A needy animal in heat who can’t even control herself.”

Look how ridiculous you sound. Who’s the true animal here? Who really lost control? 

Heejin nods, putting her highest pitch into her “mms” and “mhms”.

“I’m going to fucking breed you, then. Just like you’ve been begging for, huh? Stalking me, watching me from afar. As if you were a hunter. God, ff…” Your words die when her back arches in pleasure, her hands behind her on the bed, her waist gliding smoothly to lather your length with slickness. “You’re not a hunter. Not, not at all. You’re prey, you’re a little creature, a stray, and you’re gonna take all my fucking cum inside you.”

“Yes! Oh, Daddy, fuck, yes! Heejin… Heejin is your breeding, agh, bunny!”

Heejin is not so much riding you as she is making snappy, jerky motions with her hips while her arms and legs are wrapped around you in a tender hold. It’s an unsustainable rhythm because neither man nor woman could possibly outlast the bubbling pressure. The two of you are less than either. Animals. While she is making no concession to hold back her climax, you want—substitute this word for need on all occasions—one final win. Something. Anything.

However, her walls are tighter than ever, and more importantly, that tightness is coming in growing oscillations. The rising tides are in time with your own demise, a spiral fall into the infinite depths of earthly delight. To the magma core. Unbearable heat.

You’ve certainly stained her insides with pre-cum already, but you feel the first shots of semen, the last remains of regret replaced with a surging buzz.

By the looks of Heejin’s eyes finding the back of her head, finding some god of lust hidden in her brain, she’s feeling the same high. Despite all the loving intimacy you’ve had with Hyunjin, even the times you’ve made her cum during sex, you’ve never been able to cum at the same time as her. Simultaneous orgasm is one of those rare, tricky things to actually pull off. Yet here you are. A stranger. Is chemistry just a game of chance?

Were you always meant to be with Heejin in some other life?

These are the questions that curse you when your mind isn’t working right and letting you feel momentous ecstasy for infidelity. There’s not a correct choice you’ve made, yet here is paradise, its undesired reward abundant.

You and Heejin are two warm, slow-moving, intimately combined figures, slowly returning from the abstract gratification of mutual orgasm to the sticky, sweaty reality of this bed. Your cock is slowly softening too, though you have yet to pull out, slathered in both your lewd juices. Heejin looks tired but clearly isn’t since she’s still slowly swaying her waist, still searching for the last bursts of pleasure she can find in your slumping shaft. Maybe friction, maybe heat.

“D-done? Right. Of course.” Heejin can’t hide her disappointment in her pout.

Your head is shaking.

That’s disappointment too, right? When you shake your head, it’s disapproval. A lingering distaste in your mouth at yourself, that’s what makes sense.

This is a senseless place.

“No,” you say, your voice low. Obscene sloshing noises as you pull out of her snug pussy. Get up from the mattress. “I’m not done yet.”

Heejin is in awe. She must have expected you to turn over and fall on the bed tired. To be fair, you expected the same too.

But you're energized by the bunny. Heejin lays before you, drenched in sweat, her subtle makeup smeared. While her body in motion redefines perfection, steals the very meaning for herself, so too is her body in stillness. As she sighs, her pert chest rises and falls with every cycle of inhalation, exhalation. Her abs tense, showing their strong lines, and semen leaks out from her pussy with each visible clenching.

Heejin portrays many expressions in the shocks of climax. Her flawless jawline screams pride, her parted mouth lust, clearly slothful fatigue in those frowned eyes. You wonder how much deadlier can she get.

“Hah. You're staring,” she says between each labored breath.

Heejin then looks to the side; her chest still heaves, but slower. Place a palm on the facet of the gem that is her face, you could spend hours admiring her side profile. Maybe even write an essay on her nose bridge.

It's your turn to shower her chest with kisses. Her tits aren't bigger than Hyunjin's, though still perky enough. Each peck spells a rippling wave on her delicate flesh; the saltiness of her sweat glazes your lips.

Heejin moans to your many touches while blood rushes to your groin once more. Flip her over, off of her back, and onto her tummy. You glimpse shock in her face when she looks back.

The sin of wrath—worthless vengeance—on your visage must be painted too faithfully.

Feeling Heejin’s nipples and the heft of her breasts, you wrap an arm around her torso to lift her up so that she’s on her hands and knees. You spread her thighs, her asscheeks, admiring the glisten, the glow, the glamorous stickiness with whatever is left of your dripping creampie, then pull Heejin back so that you can align your already concrete-hard dick with her entrance. 

How her long hair falls, how the flesh of her butt ripples, how all the muscles in her back create such a drool-worthy image—target. Whatever the cause may be, you’re surprised how hard your erection is. Even with the most erotic session with Hyunjin—oh, she let you try a position other than missionary, how scandalous—you’ve never had a sequel.

Keep comparing. That’ll do you good.

There’s nothing to compare when you start to pull Heejin’s hair while you push your tip, parting her cunt’s creamy lips. With one hard snap of your waist, you bury your cock completely in Heejin. The both of you moan, you out of the tightness and her out of the sudden impact. 

You run your palm along her arched back to find yourself on her neck, then trace along her skin and give it a firm grasp; Heejin starts to struggle for air. In the renewed momentum of this one thrust, her tiny figure is propelled into the welcoming mattress, and your shaft somehow finds its way deeper into her cavern. Take a moment to admire how your cock pins Heejin down, how more of your previous load oozes out onto the sheets, how Heejin groans at this sudden intrusion. 

"Mmh, Daddy, you're even deeper in me." Heejin could barely squeeze words through her gritted teeth, but she's still relentless in tickling your arousal. 

Heejin is right, of course. The new prone position affords you the deepest penetration you’ve ever achieved, slick tightness totally overwhelming your pleasure points; she, on the other hand, finds herself in discomfort yet delight simultaneously. Though struggling for air, her lustful mewls are louder than ever, and she’s fucking back into you as best as she can while trapped under your weight. The literal chokehold you have on Heejin mirrors the euphoric chokehold she has on you at this very moment—in her submission, complete triumph. 

Not wanting to lose this war of attrition, you loosen the grip on her throat to focus on pounding into her creamy cunt. Her unintelligible noises become words.

"Grrgh, guh, god. Yes, can you feel it, Daddy? Feel how deep you really are in Heejin? It's okay if you can't, because Heejin definitely can. You're so close to my womb right now it's driving me crazy. Please cum for me, Daddy, please. Cum inside Heejin. Fill whatever gap there is between you and me with your hot, warm seed. Give me a baby bunny, please. Heejin is begging you here, please, just like how you wish that ungrateful bitch would, just like how that unthankful bitch would never. Don't hold back daddy. Please. Please. Please—"

Without a sign, Heejin reaches her second peak. Her body shakes in violence to add to the creaking bed, though all are silenced by her orgasmic cries. Lean forward, and your chest now connects with her back. Slick and slippery is the texture between your skins while the entirety of your length stays hidden within her folds. 

You maintain the speed at which you were ravaging her insides. Heejin pumps herself backward to hit two birds with one stone—to match your pace and to ride out her high.

Her screams are getting too loud; you can't risk waking the neighbors. Shove two digits past her spread lips, and Heejin immediately sucks on the makeshift gag. Turning back, she tries to meet your eyes with the pleading gaze she has so perfected. 

No, you are not falling prey to her trick. Shove her face down between the pillows, and you get a good sample of her earlobe while you chase your peak. 

With one hard thrust, you feel your tip smash against her cervix. Pull back out, and Heejin's walls desperately clench around you—her desire to milk you is strong. Your lips move down to suck at her neck.

Yet another hard thrust, you slam into her core at an insane trajectory; Heejin's womb sucks you in—

“Owh, gawd, you're gonna cum so much deeper”—you bring your fingers to the back of her mouth—“mmh, I can ph-pheel iiit—”

—as if begging you to fill her womb. The fistfuls of bedsheet fail to provide enough resistance; the floodgate unlocks.

“Take my cum, you fucking slut.” You pair your words with animalistic growls as you pound her hard enough to squeeze your seeds through the needy opening of her womb. “You're nothing but a pathetic cockslut. Look at how your womb is sucking me in. I bet that's the only thing your worthless pussy is good for—to be bred by taken cocks.”

You expect her to protest; she doesn’t. You spread her cheeks apart, spitting between them; it’d be rude, but it’s aimed at her tight, winking asshole. Again, you expect more of a response when your thumb toys at the ring of flesh. Shaky breaths through her breathing orifice while all the others get filled, she indulges in her cock-drunkenness—capable of doing nothing but pitiful whimpers. As you hammer her down hard enough that she’s become part of the mattress, your thumb hooked at the temptation of her rear entrance, you fall into indulgence too.

“Fucking, fff, filling you, ugh, up!” With a sense of finality in this thrust, you turn Heejin’s womb into the promised creamy mess. Her asshole has wholly swallowed your thumb. Grasping the sheets as hard as you grasp her asscheek, she is silent as she endures the endless spurts of warmth in her tummy. 

Keep pumping. Don’t stop till you're as devoid of your seed as your soul.

At the same time, you retrieve your thumb and your cock from her two greedy holes. Your cum is leaking out of Heejin’s slit, between her thighs, onto your sheets. Her asshole dilates, contracts. Those two facts alone nearly drive you to continue the madness; maybe you could collect the slick semen as lube for anal. However, despite your dick in hand, tip rubbing against her asshole, you stop yourself.

With a resolve like you’ve never seen (or at least one you haven’t had in hours), you sprint your way to the shower. Any cure to your sickness. But this shower will fix a shattered mug as readily as it’ll fix any other problem. Fatigue sets in, claws deeper, and no amount of scathing hot water on your skin gets rid of it. You switch to cold—you shout—that wasn’t worth it either.

Your world falls apart like warm streams splitting against you. How cruel the accuracy in its manner. Look into the wall. A faint, blurry reflection of you off the wet surface. The reflection clarifies: you’re a dumbass. This heat does nothing it’s supposed to, not a tinge of mollification in its heat.

“Hey, Daddy—”

You did not notice Heejin sneaking into the shower, but the change in her hairstyle is certainly apparent. Now flaunting a ponytail—Hyunjin’s signature and a personal favorite of hers—you hate to admit that Heejin looks equally as alluring, if not more so. She’s only in her panties, and those must be semen-coated. Sure enough, when she strips them onto the bathroom floor, she’s still dripping pearly and sticky fluids from her crotch.

“How could you leave for the shower alone, I have to clean up too, you know?”

She takes up the space between you and the wall, and she quickly finds herself on the ground. Her legs wide open, Heejin fingering herself is now a scenery you’re forced to enjoy. One digit deep, then another joins the fray—she slowly fingers your cum out of her swollen cunt.

“It’s not too late to stop me,” Heejin smirks as she is relentless in teasing you. “Unless you really want to put a baby in me.”

Now with eyes shut and mouth agape, she cherishes the pleasure she’s bringing to herself. The unoccupied hand finds itself on the ground for support as she buries her fingers deeper inside her folds. Heejin’s hedonism elevates; her tongue sticking out in the air is the proof.

The droplets bounce off your body to land on Heejin's features, and for a moment, she looks adorable as she shakes the excess moisture off, giggling. But then, she’s right back, immersed in her masturbation.

Your cock finds its vitality again at such a lewd sight; Heejin need not open her eyes to realize it. Further extending her tongue to reach the thing sheltering her from warm water, she licks your tip as if encouraging you to follow the motion of her pink muscle. So, you do just that. However, she clearly isn't ready for the intrusion, her teeth grazing against your skin as you head straight for her throat.

The damned downward frown, again, and this time it's here to stay. Pressing on with the pattern of showing no mercy, you rock your hips to properly violate her mouth. The warmth from the shower pales in comparison with her cavern, and her tongue tickles the bottom of your shaft better than the water droplets bring relief to your figure. Her sloped brows scream starvation just like her pleading eyes. This isn’t a matter of wants—you have to feed her cock. As much as she can swallow. Even if it means her gagging and sloppily eating the meat.

“Guhk—your cum—guhk, musht taste as guhd as your cohk—didn’t, ghlk, get to eat earlieh”—her tears fuse with the shower water and the drool out the corner of her mouth past your shaft—“I, I, glk, need more. Need more, more, mo—”

At this point, you're already used to her insatiability, fixing it with a yank of hair. Ponytails are amazing, especially when they're presented like this as a perfect handle for you to hold on to as you fuck her face rough. Each time your cockhead hit the back of her mouth, giggles mix obscene swishing and gurgling noises straight from her throat, and her cute tits ripple softly at the force. 

There's no room in her mouth for air, so it's only natural that she opts for the natural way of obtaining oxygen. She inhales through her nose with your cock still hidden in her mouth, making her throat do swallowing motions and squeeze around your shaft. The water splashing down on her face makes her breaths uneven and struggled since she’s trying to breathe down your dick in the same motion, but she embraces the challenge since there’s nothing more important than the cock down her throat anyway.

“Oh fuck—” You groan at the random fluctuations of tightness. “You’re such a good fuckdoll. Good oral fuck hole.”

You’re not sure where you got the verbiage from, though Heejin has the closest thing to a smirk she can manage with her lips around the root of your cock. Regardless, you can tell that she’s happy with the new nickname—her tongue moving with more furiosity makes good supporting fact.

Heejin’s looks are out of this world—even when there’s a cock in her mouth. You even feel a new pang of guilt: she’s too pretty somehow for your seed to cover her features. The pangs of guilt are quickly overtaken by pangs of impending orgasm. On her face? In her mouth? You would decide, but there is no decision. Keep your tip down her throat. The pleasure is getting too intense, and orgasm soon hits. It makes sense that she wants to savor your cockmilk, but her twirling tongue proves to be too much overstimulation for you. Your body jerks, so you instinctively eject from her eager mouth to spray the rest of your load on her face. This climax ends quickly; it’s your third one after all.  While you are regaining your composure, Heejin is busy creating a composition of your cum that was all over her visage, collecting with her fingers and tongue and then finally delivering it beyond her lips.

“So fucking tasty,” she comments after one big gulp. “Now let’s really clean ourselves up.”

The following minutes are filled with mutual silence—you do your cleaning and she does hers. No further touching. You’re in quiet denial—not of the unfaithfulness up to this point but of the surprising comfort you feel in the silence only broken by the splashing of water.

You both finish washing at the same time, so you shut the shower off. Stare at Heejin. Water droplets drip off her silky smooth skin. You can’t be staring yet again; that’s going to lead to an n-th round of sex. Forget morals, you’re not going to have a rigid bone left in your body if you keep fucking Heejin. Your mouth rounds to a circle while she smiles at you. 

Without worrying about the faint trail of water you’re making in your hallway, you speed off to the bedroom to look for some extra underwear and clothes to lend to Heejin. On second judgment, how absurd the concept. Surely, Hyunjin is going to notice the missing clothes, and surely, Heejin is going to wear the missing clothes the next time they meet.

Raising your hands, you fall onto your mattress. You’re naked. Didn’t bother looking for your own clothes. Whatever. Why even care about Heejin at this juncture at all? If she wants to leave naked, then so be it, or if she wants to wear her used panties sticky with your creampie, then so be it too.

Sure enough, she walks calmly into the room, semen-stained underwear and all, a towel around her head to dry those damp locks falling past her shoulders.

You curl up in the bed, refusing to examine Heejin further.

“This pillow belongs to someone else, I'm not sleeping on it.” Refusal will never stop Heejin’s low voice from worming its way past your ears straight into your brain.

Rather weak reasoning, sure, but you're in no place to object given everything that's happened tonight. With a sigh, you turn to face her and extend your arm; Heejin lies on it, filling the emptiness between her neck and the mattress just fine. 

“Mmh, it's comfy this way,” Heejin murmurs as she curls her curves into you. “Does she do this with you after sex?”

Silence fills the room for seconds; she nudges you for an answer that she knows she shouldn’t expect.

“Ha, didn't think so.”

That’s not even true, of course. Intimacy after sex isn’t an entirely new concept to you—that’s the one thing that stands out with Hyunjin in bed—but it’s so foreign with a different person. Sniffle her hair; it’s rosy. You wrap your free hand around her waist; she’s significantly smaller in your arms than Hyunjin. Usually, Hyunjin kept her back facing you, and though you adored having her as the little spoon, something was always missing. Details, details, details. So your silence continues all the same.

“You’re enjoying this,” Heejin whispers, “aren’t you?” 

Heejin turns around to face you, her delicate fingers tracing along and tickling the bare flesh of your neck at the same pace as her breath. How can the delicate touch of air be a chokehold? Yet, that’s exactly what Heejin has on you.

“Now why don’t I make you feel better, Daddy?”

Lifting your leg over her hips, Heejin has your half-erect shaft between her thighs, her slick slit shows haste in lathering you with her juices. All the recollection you’ve been doing, every hard-fought bucket of water you bail out of the hole-ridden ship, yet you forget your whole relationship in an instant. You doubt even Heejin understands the harshness of such a simple action, dragging any hope back into the ocean, cruel mistress. Moan into her mouth, and she returns the same. Finally, undo the seal on your mouth; you continue fucking her soft muscles in a telegraphed motion.

“Heejin is gonna sleep, she’s exhausted.” She smirks, that damned smile damning you to do more unspeakable things to, and with, her. “You can use Heejin’s body all night long though. I am your good little cocksheathe, after all.”

This is the actual biggest difference when you cuddle Heejin. Your cock slips inside her creamy slit so easily. It couldn’t have been an accident, yet Heejin is as motionless as sleep can make her. So is it your fault? No. It couldn’t have been. There’s no way you would have thrust yourself inside the addicting, delectable, squeezing hole for one last savoring. Right?

You must lay still as Heejin’s seed-stuffed hole continues to seize your half-hard shaft. Too sensitive, too sore, too spent. But not enough to leave. You’d think that by now, you can’t have any energy left to keep your erection lasting, but her walls warm your cock just well enough that you’re helpless to the loving embrace. If you did try to pull out of her possessively grippy pussy, you’d probably spurt another few drops, simultaneously milking your last breaths out of you.

So, pulling out is as much an option as the sun failing to rise in a few hours.

When your eyelids are yanked open by that inconsiderate light, you are alone in your bed. 

Your first instinct is to check your wallet. All your cards, your cash, a random Subway coupon. Down one condom though. Stretch, and your body disagrees. The only evidence is the sheer exhaustion in your muscles. And your balls.

 You didn’t drink.

You’ve never had a worse hangover.

No, no, it was all a dream—you wish. You could get away with being scolded for your dreams. This was a whole different beast.

Your focus is pulled by a buzz by your legs. Reach for your phone.

One. One. One. Five. A date. Naturally.

Heejin started following you. 

She’s not even in the same room as you. It’s so easy to ignore.

Then again, it’s just as easy to open the messages and type away.

Hyunjin won’t be home for a few more days anyway.

Say you sent it to the wrong person if need be.

Or you were with the wrong person to begin with.

No.

There is no wrong person.

Only the person in the wrong.

You.

Sent a message to Heejin.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

AFF, AO3

Thank you again to the wonderful @kaedewrites for working with me on this one! You don't understand how much I enjoy every collab. They always drive me to write way more than working alone. Writing is always a collaborative affair, after all. It's just annoying whenever the only person I have to work with is my dumb past self, who refuses to finish these stories for me.

:chuupeek:

[slashbitch2]

Wavelength

slight nsfw warning ;)

Eve had always felt that she stood out from those around her. That in every situation, in every group and at every point in her life, she was walking round on an entirely different wavelength. Although, living this way wasn't as direly lonely as it sounded, rather she learnt to appreciate the few and far apart moments with company. When someone would, for just a split second, understand her.

The first person to ever make her feel this way, and regrettably the only for a very long time, was Ted. He'd swept her off her feet and into a less isolated world, a concept so unfamiliar at the time that she'd allowed herself be dragged out to sea. Then there was Brandon, who she was told would change her whole world. And he did, for a while.

Brandon was her life preserver until his priorities changed; until Mother's day cards became Valentines day cards, movie nights were exchanged for house parties and homework for alcohol. But Eve wasn't the kind of mom to act as though this behaviour was unwarranted and abhorrent, so she let him wedge the door shut and clear his search history. She could cope with a little more distance.

Then along came Ted's affair, their crumbling marriage and eventual divorce. Before she knew it, she was drowning.

The all too familiar feeling of solitude reappeared, completely devastating for her when Brandon left for college. However, this time she swore that she wouldn't let it overwhelm her, and did everything possible to prevent herself from sinking. Which initially started with a class at a community college, and ended with her lying in the arms of both her colleague Amanda, and classmate Julian. And yet, after they'd hurriedly packed up their things and left, she felt no better.

Brandon was sitting on the porch when she found him later. His back was turned to her, but the hunched up posture and awkward shuffling said more than enough. In that moment, Eve reverted back to her old way of thinking. She came to the conclusion that she'd failed as a mother, that her mistake was unforgivable despite the years of morose behaviour and selfish demeanour Brandon had subjected her to.

For retribution, she removed Julian's number from her contacts, predicting that he wouldn't be able cope with remaining friends. He too immature, still in that irrational sulky stage of adolescence. Next, she specified to Amanda that what happened was a one time thing, though she was already way ahead of Eve, chatting casually like nothing had taken place that weekend. Her easy-going reaction was a nice break from the prevailing tension with Brandon, which she then mentioned to her friend.

She tried to casually bring the subject up in the same manner that she imagined Amanda would if the roles were reversed, acting like the issue was nothing to do with her.

"As much as I hate to use such an outdated phrase," Her friend said. "boys will be boys. "

Eve chuckled, though the general concern weighing down on her shoulders meant it came out as more of a scoff. "You can say that again."

There's a brief lull in conversation as Eve disinterestedly taps away at her phone while Amanda sips thoughtfully at her coffee. The silence is only invoked by an awareness of social standards, since there's much Eve wants to talk to her friend about, but feels would be inappropriate in public.

Eventually, Amanda's the one to break the silence. "Are you still looking for someone to fill in for Sarah?"

Eve's attention flickered back to the woman sitting opposite. "I am." She replied hesitantly, knowing that she ought to have posted the job advertisement weeks ago, but had forgotten.

"I know someone who'd be good." Amanda was sliding her phone across the table before Eve got the chance to respond.

The screen displayed what she could only assume was a job application, though the font was too small to actually read. Squinting, she picked up the device to try and glean some information about the potential applicant.

Amanda continued as Eve scrolled. "She hasn't worked with seniors before, but has managerial experience."

"Are you sure she'd want this job?" Eve asked apprehensively as she set the phone down. "Seems a little over-qualified to me."

"Yeah, she's serious about it." Amanda's expression grew more determined. "Y/N just moved here. Mentioned she was looking for a more lowkey kind of job."

Eve remained doubtful.

"She's travelled a lot. Had a lot of different jobs." Amanda took another sip of her drink. "But she said she wants to settle down somewhere. Get a job that'll take her to retirement- which was an exaggeration, but you get the gist."

"Well." Eve sighed. "You can't get much closer to retirement than working at a nursing home."

"Exactly. So can I pass on her contact details then?"

"Sure." She shrugged. Assuming that her friend's recommendation was genuinely helpful, then she would be saved from suffering through the tedious interview process, which was worth taking a risk for.

---

As Eve sat at her desk, the world around her faded into obscurity. Without Sarah as the assistant manager, she'd been suffocating under piles of neglected paperwork, only now forcing her way through it. The main thought motivating her was that you were due to arrive any minute, for what she'd described as a first informal interview. The idea of conducting anything more formal this late into the evening was unappealing. So, based on the unusual circumstance by which you'd applied, and the strange time slot reserved, the interview would be more casual.

Finding that her eyes were starting to strain, she granted herself a quick break to look round the office. Eventually she settled on looking out the window, content watching the world pass by. The day had been unexpectedly hot, and some of that humidity still lingered, but judging by the gentle breeze filtering in through a crack in the window, the evening must've started to cool. A soft pink colour filled the sky, darkening to orange where the sun had just set over the horizon. From the other direction, a deep blue had begun to filter into view, the only indication that night was approaching.

When her gaze drifted back to the room, she realised that the pink light was cast around the room, bathing every surface in a delicate glow. How the simple beauty of the evening had previously escaped her attention was a mystery. One that prompted Eve to take a break to admire it.

The break was short-lived, however, as a sharp knock at the door quickly stole her attention away.

"Come in." She called out but found her voice hoarse from disuse. She frantically cleared her throat as the guest entered.

Eve looked up at you and smiled politely, then down at her desk, then did a double take. Although she hadn't given enough thought to form any preconceived image of what you might look like, she certainly hadn't expected someone quite so attractive.

As soon as the label crossed her mind, she was already berating herself for it. You'd barely entered the room and were here for business, she couldn't let herself think of you in that way. It was wrong. Both professionally and morally.

"Evening." Your voice was deep, smooth and with an accent she couldn't distinguish.

Eve tried her best to smile amiably, though she was sure the emotion wasn't reflected in her eyes. Instead she scanned your body from top to bottom, lingering on your neck, and then your hands. The action was automatic. An unintentional response to her attraction- and there it was again. She'd allowed herself to get distracted barely ten seconds later.

"Hi." Eve was too quiet, her tone lacking the necessary command. She swallowed. "Please, take a seat." And smiled, this time more genuinely.

"Thank you."

She watched you stiffly slide into the seat, effortlessly demanding the attention of the entire room. Although Eve had known you for less than a minute, she'd already decided that there was something hypnotic about the way you moved. From the slight twitch in the corner of your lips, to the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Every movement, regardless of it being barely perceptible, had her mesmerized, however she was mostly fixated on your hands. How they couldn't quite settle in your lap, rather were wrung about anxiously until abruptly stilling.

Your hands falling limp dragged Eve back into reality as it dawned on her that she'd been staring for a little longer than appropriate. She literally had to shake herself out of the senseless state and clear her throat once more before she was ready to continue.

"It's nice to meet you." Jolted into reality, she outstretched her hand, which you eagerly met. Your grip was firm, matched with a confident yet humble smile that looked well practiced.

"And you."

Eve already understood how you'd succeeded at accumulating such an impressive employment history, as every second of the interview so far, you'd acted perfectly. Like you'd written the book on 'How to Handle Job Interviews.'

"Just call me Eve." Separating from the handshake, she dismissively waved her hand, unable to hold the eye contact for any longer. There was an inquisitive manner to the way you were watching her, as though you were trying to ascertain the most information possible from appearance alone. Being exposed to your scrutinising glare caused Eve to shift in her seat, though not from discomfort or uneasiness, rather from inadmissible lust.

As the interview progressed, her eyes continued to occasionally stray toward your hands. Despite how hard she was trying to stay focused, she kept catching herself unintentionally imagining how they'd look gripping her waist, pushing apart her thighs. And if she blocked out this particular fantasy, then her attention would shift to your neck, and how she'd love to bite down on the supple skin presented to her.

She'd hoped that her fling with Amanda and Julian would've suppressed her incorrigible longing for pleasure, yet still found her thighs pressing together as her imagination overpowered reason. All the scandalous scenarios flashing through her mind only grew more vivid, more frequent. An incessant stream of borderline pornographic images, which worsened her guilt as she struggled to focus on what you were saying.

The cool breeze from earlier seemed to have vanished, replaced by unbearable humidity. She could feel herself sweating bucket loads, and only flushed more upon realising that she must've looked a mess; with stray hairs framing her face, an inability to sit still and a layer of perspiration covering her entire body. You'd probably noticed by now.

"God it's been hot recently." You commented, playing with the neckline of your shirt.

Had Eve not been observing you so closely, she would've guessed this was general small-talk. But judging on how you'd acted so far, this was a strategically placed act of mercy, a way of excusing her, no doubt, dishevelled appearance.

"Yeah." Eve chuckled, twirling a strand of hair round her finger. "We could move outside." She suggested, then quickly added. "If you wanted to, that is." Her desperation to please you came as a surprise. The roles should've been reversed. You should've been trying to impress her.

Eve had undeniably lost all authority in the situation, which simply excited her further.

---

When Eve laughed, she scrunched up her face and closed her eyes, which was inconvenient even at the best of times. Right now, however, she'd never despised the quirk quite so much.

As inconsequential as the current circumstances would look to any passer-by, she wanted to commit every detail to memory. From the lingering pink hue of dusk, to the way you threw your head back as you laughed. In fact, she wanted to memorise everything about you. Since leaving behind her stuffy office, conversation had flown easily between the two of you, the matter of employment seemingly dropped in place of getting to know one another. You'd indisputably gotten the job. Eve knew it. You knew it. So both were happy to indulge in a lighter tone of conversation.

The topic had turned to worst first date experiences, so she had very few to share with you, though that didn't stop her from enjoying listening to your little anecdotes.

"What about you?" Taking a calming breath after an outburst of laughter, you paused to ask her the dreaded question.

In comparison to your story, her worst date was relatively tame. "Well." She scratched at the corner of her eye, considering whether she could exaggerate in some way. "I went on a date recently that I had to walk out of."

"Really?" You folded your arms, leaning back against the brick wall. "What happened?"

"Nothing. I guess it just didn't feel right." She shook her head, hoping to deter any more questioning.

"Fair enough. Sometimes you just know- right?"

Eve drew her eyes away from being locked on the ground, finally summoning the resolve to look directly back at you. She bit her lip, compelling herself to nod.

There was something about you that was pure ecstasy to her. While looking at you, she could feel herself falling deeper into the hypnotic state she'd been in earlier, unable to tear her eyes away and unwilling to try. In spite of the normality of the situation, it felt meaningful. Eve didn't feel so alone, so out of place. Which made no sense to her as she'd known you for barely over an hour.

"What did you do after?" Your voice was somehow deeper, eyes lidded and posture relaxed. "After the date." You clarified.

The inquiry was personal, even without context that could be inferred. Eve hummed, delaying her response long enough to consider how much she was willing to divulge. "I-" She laughed nervously, suddenly embarrassed to confess. "I went swimming."

"Swimming?" Your eyebrows shot up, amused by the many connotations of her vagueness. "Where?"

Eve scuffed the heel of her shoe against the concrete ground, shamefully incapable of returning the eye contact. "Here." She admitted quietly, grinning as if in disbelief that she'd actually done it.

"Wow. I'll be honest, I wasn't expecting that." You took a deep breath, rendered speechless for a second. "So, you have access to the pool?"

Eve shifted restlessly, hesitant to pursue the topic any further. She knew where this was going, and that she shouldn't endorse this type of behaviour. But the heat wasn't helping, and neither was her overactive imagination. She was supposed to be responsible, but then again, so were you.

Inevitably the possibilities of what could be overpowered her better judgement. "Yes." She reached into her pocket, producing the coveted key ring and hanging it on her pointer finger.

Upon glancing up, she discovered you were watching her intently, indisputable lust reflected in your eyes. Eve found herself in one of those rare moments where she felt understood, on the same wavelength as someone else. The logical part of her brain argued that you were basically a stranger. That if she followed through on your shared idea, then your hiring and subsequent job experience would be forever tainted. But the possibilities were too tempting to ignore.

So when you asked. "Want to go swimming?"

She couldn't refuse.

---

You'd held her hand as she'd lead, the reasoning being that most the facility was shrouded in darkness. Though Eve liked the weight of your hand in hers, so she didn't bother to turn the lights on until reaching the pool. Only then did you separate, crouching down to check the temperature. You beamed with childlike joy as you waved your hand around in the water, skimming the surface then diving deeper down.

Eve grinned. Your pure happiness was infectious, the effect it had on her similar to being drunk. She was intoxicated from exhilaration. She would've been content watching you relish in the feeling of water running through your fingers for eternity, though to her dismay, you soon grew bored. And then to her surprise, you unabashedly began to strip. Her eyes were glued to the expanse of your back as you pulled your shirt over your head, and to the revealed skin as you tugged your trousers down.

She had to stop herself from stumbling back as the strange reality of the situation suddenly dawned on her. Instead, she reacted by comically clutching at her heart, clawing the fabric of her own shirt.

You turned to the side, looking at her out of the corner of your eye. "You coming?"

She chewed on her lip, pondering the two words in greater detail. This was you asking for consent, giving a final warning. You were both aware that this was an incredibly outlandish idea, an extremely irresponsible one that should've discouraged Eve. Yet it had the opposite effect.

Before she could overthink the consequences, her shaking hands were clumsily unbuttoning her blouse. At the unspoken confirmation, you smirked back at her, then without warning, threw yourself into the pool. The splash echoed round the room, proceeded by carefree laughter as you resurfaced and began leisurely swimming away from her. While you were busy, Eve took the chance to continue undressing without interference.

Her insecurities didn't emerge until it was too late, resolved moments later as she dove into the pool. The water was colder than she'd anticipated, but her burning desire dulled the intensity. Breaking through the water's surface, she inhaled deeply, grateful for the supply of oxygen. However, her breath was soon stolen from her as she noticed you were treading water directly in front.

Somehow, you looked even more beautiful now. With the wave's reflections dancing across your skin, your hair drenched and dripping. She wanted to chase after the droplets with her tongue, despite knowing she'd likely be met with the bitter taste of chlorine. But what really flustered Eve was the way you were staring at her; the hunger in your eyes that hinted at your intentions.

Your stillness was teasing her, the water practically stagnant around you both. Eve was becoming increasingly irritated, the heat between her legs only growing. So it didn't take long for her to snap. She lunged forward in an attempt to grab hold of you, though her hands couldn't quite clutch onto your slippery skin. She stumbled to the left, floundering around until you grabbed hold of her.

Upon securing her grip, she froze, due to both the sensation of your body pressed up against hers, and her embarrassment. She couldn't bare to look up, to face her awkward failure. After a beat of silence, she heard you laugh lightly. It wasn't necessarily unpleasant or mocking, but she insisted on keeping her eyes locked on the wall. That was, until your lips gently brushed against her ear.

"Were you trying to kiss me or drown me?"

She snorted, the tension leaving her body, then turned to rest her forehead on your shoulder. "The former. Definitely."

You laughed again. This time Eve joined in, happy to ignore what'd just occurred.

"Want to try that again, then?" You kissed just behind her ear, causing a shiver to suffuse across Eve's body. She waited a minute, expecting more before realising you intended for her to make the next move.

She glanced up at your face, fixating on your lips. You were so close. All she had to do was lean forward ever so slightly. One final glance to your lidded eyes confirmed you wanted the same- all she had to do was close the distance.

Taking a shaky breath, Eve shifted a hand up to cup your cheek, her thumb softly stroking your skin. There was no rush; you both wanted the same thing and were eager to revel in the experience. So, when her lips finally grazed against yours, there was no deep sigh or sudden change in pace, rather a blooming warmth in her chest. She was floating, both literally and metaphorically in a sea affection.

She kissed you again, this time with more conviction. Then fell backwards, her feet now comfortably resting on the bottom of the pool, her back hitting the wall as your grip on her waist tightened. You dragged a hand across her chest, causing her to gasp. Your touch was scolding compared to the cool water. A perfect balance between lustful heat and a mind-numbing, all-encompassing chill.

She raised her arms, flinging them around you and exhaling as her impatience reappeared. Though thankfully, you didn't make her wait long. Soon enough, your mouth had latched onto her neck, leaving messy kisses from behind her ear, to down by her shoulders. The feeling was pure bliss, encouraging her to lean into you and press your bodies closer together.

She didn't need to say anything. You seemed to know exactly what you were doing. Like you had her body memorised: every caress was perfectly placed, each touch just what she needed. It didn't take long for Eve to reach her pleasure, although she did spend a while in a dazed state of satisfaction, simply drifting in your arms. Eventually, she regained awareness to feel you tenderly nibbling on her lower lip, and eagerly reciprocated the kiss.

Motivated by the sudden fervour, she switched the positions, pushing you up to the wall.

"Get on the ledge." Eve murmured against your lips. She looped her arms under your thighs, ready to lift once you'd agreed.

Surprised by her abrupt confidence, you quirked an eyebrow, but obeyed nonetheless.

With you sat before her, she knew the evening was only just beginning, and judging by your breathless expression you felt exactly the same. This was one of those rare moments where Eve felt completely understood.

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: maybe not star-crossed (but daybreak)

Author: @fieldofsunflowers8

For: @emmakoneko

Pairings: Hinata Hajime / Komaeda Nagito

Additional Characters: Kamukura Izuru, Nanami Chiaki

Rating: M

Warnings: No specific warning applies beside the ones that could be applied in Danganronpa in general

Prompt: Hajime realising he loves Nagito.

Author’s notes: hi!!! this is my exchange piece for the komahina secret exchange!!! this was super super fun to write, and i really hope my giftee likes it! special thanks to my friend for looking over this and making sure it’s coherent :D have a good day, loves!

Hinata Hajime is not a romantic, but romance fills his thoughts anyway.

It’s an identifier that isn’t exactly of importance, of course. Romance on Jabberwock Island, specifically in the aftermath of the Neo World Program, is something privately kept by each individual pairing. Occasionally, it’ll be the subject of harmless speculation on the slow days, but overall, it is just… a part of life.

A part of life that most of them never got to fully experience.

A part of life that Hinata doesn’t necessarily need to have a piece of.

A part of life that he wants, all the same.

He isn’t certain if it’s the influence of Kamukura on him that makes him hesitate in the face of it. The other is a lull in the back of his head most of the time, diminishing everything to uninteresting, and yet seamlessly taking control when Hinata gives the slightest hint of needing help, slipping into the role of the Ultimate Talent easily. It’s a difficult dynamic, and it would be a lie to consider it a linear sort of thing– lines blur when you are made to become another person, and further, residing with that person in the headspace.

Hinata wonders if, before it all happened, back at Hope’s Peak Academy in the suffocating reserve course dorms, with little to hope for… he maybe pined after romance in a desperate way, if he wanted something to break the suffocating silence, if it would all really be any different to him now.

It’s not something he needs right now, which is what he tries to convince himself matters the most. He has enough overwhelming quiet, and even more overwhelming noise. He has tasks to commit to– even though all of the Remnants have awakened, there are Future Foundation members to call, emails to send, resources to manage, buildings to reconstruct, surgeries to conduct… it keeps him busy, to say the least.

(He hardly allows himself more than the clinical, repetitive process of healing. Not his own healing– that is far from the forefront of his mind. Rather, constructing robot arms and extracting rotting body parts and starting up chemotherapy. For the others. Not him,

never him.)

Prioritizing romance is selfish, in all cases. Putting it before himself and everyone on the island, losing himself in the want of something he isn’t even sure he could recognize, if he saw it in front of him, if he had a flickering chance of love… it’s selfish. Excess. A lapse.

However, there is still a kind of yearning he keeps in the back of his mind, in the endlessly swallowing part of his throat, in the throes of his heart. A sort of fixation, solely focused on a single individual, who keeps him awake through restless nights and sends him directly to the infirmary for more work, who leads him to discover new places on the island that the person tends to frequent, who leaves him with an unfamiliar warmth that his body rejects like a disease because love is not-

One that defies all his wants and needs, all his thoughts on relationships and the others, all his thoughts on the person whom he thought he hated more than anything.

One fixated on Komaeda Nagito.

And this is where his doubt is born.

–

The first time he hears the name Komaeda Nagito is in a time before the seeds of despair were planted by his hands, before The Project became more than just a whisper of Hope’s Peak conspiracy and research. He hears it from Nanami Chiaki, before she became just a program, before an entire class gave into despair at the sight of her death.

He hears it from her at the fountain. Their fountain, he has taken to calling it, because while they aren’t exactly the only people to come here, they are most certainly the two students who frequent it the most. Before, it was a place to admire Hope’s Peak from a distance (one he maintained out of respect, or maybe self-hatred, or maybe an amalgamation of both), but after meeting Nanami, the cynical tones of the setting were replaced with a sort of safe haven.

It’s now comforting, for him, to hear the sound of her game starting up against the sound of rushing water, leaves and blossoms fluttering around them as the sun lights up the campus around them.

In all honesty, it’s easy to get lost in the surroundings, in his own thoughts, especially when he has the space to. Nanami rarely presses any matter, unless it is something she’s particularly passionate about, so Hinata zoning out isn’t exactly an issue for her. It’s not like she doesn’t do the same. Which leaves them with a pretty nice relationship, because either of them are free to completely lose themselves in their thoughts without having to make small talk.

However, he does jar himself back to reality to pay attention to the game she’s playing– it’s a survival game, which is sort of exciting, because that’s the kind of video game he thinks he’d be best at– and listens to the soft breath she always takes before she starts to speak.

“Do you know a lot of Ultimates, Hinata-kun?” is what she asks, her voice as dreamy as usual.

It’s sort of a harsh question unintentionally, since it sort of nags at the parts of him that wishes he could be an Ultimate, would do anything to be an Ultimate, but he shoves that down and keeps his voice casual. (It’s not a big deal, anyway. Nanami affirms him of his worth a lot, and really, he should just… accept that things are the way that they are. But it’s really, really not that easy. Not when everything seems to loom above him, dangling promises of talent and hope).

“Uh, not really?” he answers tentatively. “I mean, I know Koizumi, and I sort of know Kuzuryuu because I’m friends with his sister.” Friends is probably not the right word for it, but being her friend is pretty much impossible. “And I know you, of course. But, I dunno about the others.”

“Mm,” she hums. She focuses back on her game for a while, and Hinata focuses right alongside her, but she ends up speaking again only a few moments later. “I was just thinking… a lot of my classmates would really like you.”

“Oh?” He leans forward, just a bit. “I don’t really know much about them, but maybe?”

It’s not really relevant, in any case, or possible, because I’m a reserve. So, why do I want to entertain this impossibility?

“Well, I can tell you about some of them.” There’s some passion in her voice, underneath the languid sort of pace her words take.

He shrugs. “Sure.”

She opens her inventory as sort of a pause screen, organizing all of the items while talking. “There’s Mioda-san. She’s… sorta loud, but she’s the Ultimate Musician, so that makes sense, I think. She’s really optimistic, she likes bright colors… reminds me of a dancing game… you’d get along with her, probably.” The idea that Hinata could be friends with someone like Mioda Ibuki is unsettling in a hopeless way, but he’s interested in the descriptions regardless. “She gets along well with Pekoyama-san, who’s the Ultimate Swordswoman. She’s really pretty and quiet; she’s defensive over Kuzuryuu-kun, too. Like a Skyrim housecarl, kinda. I remember Komaeda-kun saying something, once, and she was immediately at Kuzuryuu-kun’s defense. I don’t think Komaeda-kun meant it badly, though.”

Hinata tilts his head. “Who’s Komaeda?”

Nanami bites her lip, stacking some potions before saying, “He’s the Ultimate Lucky Student. He’s… sort of an outcast, I think, but he cares about the class a lot. I wish he would talk to us more.” She puffs out her cheeks in a cute way. “You might like him… but you also might hate him. Maybe.”

“Why would I hate him?” From what Hinata’s hearing, maybe dislike would make sense, but hate sort of implies he would have done something… really off.

“Mm… Komaeda-kun has strong views on talent and hope. It might annoy you, but…” she sighs. “I dunno.”

That’s a vague description, but it gives Hinata enough information to sort of… make inferences. Of course, Hinata sort of expected some Ultimates to view talent as superiority, and he knew that some of the adults believed it, but to hear it being an actual thing from someone his age… sort of sucks. At least the rest of the class seems to not agree with it.

But… is Hinata really sure of that?

In any case, he tunes back into the way Nanami continues talking about her classmates, about a sheepish mechanic and a princess she seems to have a slight crush on. He laughs along with her, listens with intrigue and fascination at some of the things her class has done and somehow not gotten expelled for, and feels the sense of peace grow overtime (alongside his quiet bitterness).

All the while, though, part of his mind thinks about Komaeda with a… weird sort of interest.

(And for some reason, Hinata wants to both avoid him as much as possible– which might be a bit harsh, admittedly– and also… maybe meet him.)

–

Hinata doesn’t sleep well.

His sleep patterns vary. Sometimes, he falls asleep in a random place– he’s been found on the floor of the dining hall and at the beach, once, both instances embarrassing– and stays asleep for the better part of a day, barely brushing below twenty hours as he restores his energy. Then, he pushes himself, neglecting rest for three days straight until he downright collapses again.

He tends to get nightmares, too. When he’s sleeping deeply and for a long time, it’s not enough to jar him. When he first woke up from the Neo World Program, though, they were relentless, leaving him paranoid and guilty constantly for all he has done to his friends– his family, now.

His family that he needs to stay awake to care for. His family he has to keep intact– physically and mentally.

(He remembers that, for a week, all he saw in his dreams was a burning warehouse.)

He doesn’t sleep well, working on restocking and labelling all the medications they have in the infirmary, and he finds that none of the others sleep well, either. Some sleep too much, some function on caffeine and nothing else. But there’s one other person on the island that varies with Hinata, not exactly the same but similarly.

Komaeda.

Hinata’s been monitoring Komaeda’s progress closely, almost closer than the way he fusses over the others. Komaeda’s health is precarious, even with the rotting flesh of Enoshima’s arm fully removed from his body, and one of the facets of his lifestyle that directly impacts his not-ideal progress is his shitty sleep schedule.

A simple example: he falls asleep at 4:00 PM, wakes up at around 7:29 PM. He goes to the dining hall, all of the other inhabitants having finished dinner and retired to their rooms for the later parts of the afternoon, and eats a worryingly small portion of dinner. He goes to his room, stays up for hours, and falls again the following day at 10:00 PM, successfully bypassing lunch and repeating the process.

It’s horrible in every possible way– it doesn’t do wonders for his prognoses and mental health, and Hinata doesn’t like the dark circles under his eyes that grow more familiar with each progressing day.

(It doesn’t suit his face. Because, well, Hinata can acknowledge that Komaeda is very, very pretty. But the shadows are… worrying. He still looks beautiful, but he looks more fragile than he’s ever been, even in the green pods, and Hinata wonders why he’s worried in a way beyond medical observation.)

However, there is one benefit to it, a meek silver lining that could hardly be considered one at all: Komaeda and Hinata end up accidentally interacting quite a lot. Komaeda follows lights– buildings with fluorescents open, signalling that Hinata is currently occupying them– and Hinata follows the soft sounds of Komaeda hanging out at the beach, throwing rocks into the ocean or tripping on some ridges and yelping.

The latter ends up happening when he exits the infirmary and sees in the distance a white-haired man face first on the beach shore, and he sighs in a way that isn’t fully exasperated as he walks over to help him out (maybe fond, maybe fond).

Komaeda tilts his face, his cheek still buried in sand, and looks up at Hinata. He decisively accepts his help, straightening himself out and brushing the sand off his pants with a smile. His voice is cheerful– far too cheerful for 5:00 AM– as he says, “Good morning, Hinata-kun! I’m so sorry you had to see me in such a disgraceful way!”

Hinata rolls his eyes. “You weren’t disgraceful. You just tripped. Also, why are you even out here?”

Komaeda’s lips curl slyly. “Do you even have to ask, Hinata-kun?”

“Ah.” Fair enough. “Well, you should, uh, try to get some sleep.”

“Will Hinata-kun get some sleep?”

It’s equally frustrating to talk to Komaeda and get him to do anything… and interesting. There’s also a bit of heat that wants to pour into his cheeks, something he fights with a poker face, at the idea that Komaeda cares about his sleep schedule. Technically, a lot of people on the island do, but it all comes back to the inexplicable feelings he has around the other. In any case, Komaeda’s due for an answer. “I was actually heading back to my cabin to do that.” It’s sort of a lie. Sort of.

(He was probably going to lay awake, staring at the ceiling again. Maybe he’ll think about the other, maybe he’ll think about everything else.)

“Can I come with you?” Komaeda asks.

Hinata squints. “… Why? How would that help either of us sleep?”

“It could be relaxing to be near another person,” Komaeda defends, his logic slightly flawed. “But I understand that being around me is absolutely dreadful, and I shouldn’t impose even the disturbing thought upon another person. I apologize for that, Hinata-kun! I’ll get out of your sight, now!”

“Wait,” Hinata finds himself saying before Komaeda can actually leave. The other stops and looks at him, a curious but not demanding expression in his murky grey eyes. It’s sort of cute. Hinata isn’t sure why, why he looks at the other in that way.

It’s with a defeated sigh that he says, “You can come with me,”

and Komaeda’s eyes light up in a way that’s really, really endearing.

–

The first time he meets Komaeda is a month after his conversation with Nanami.

Stress has settled onto his shoulders, making a permanent residence there, as exams approach at increasingly rapid paces and life-changing emails chase him forward, forward, forward. He finds little enjoyment in his spaces between classes, isolating himself up in his room and hardly having time to reply to any of his friends (not that there’s an overwhelming number of people on that list). Occasionally he takes a break, but these times just remind him that he has so much to do, so much to consider, his entire life might change with a few signatures and-

-he needs a breather.

He ends up leaving half-finished history homework on his tiny desk, nearly tripping over his laundry bin in exhaustion as he makes his way out of the dorms. He figures a small walk might do him some good, since he’s hardly seen the sun as of recent and it might be less intimidating to think through things when he has fresh air to breathe and the soft ambience of nature surrounding him.

He hums to himself for the first part of his walk, careful to stay out of the way of others, but he eventually falls into silence as the number of people around him dwindles. He’s tired– he’s so, so fucking tired– and he should probably be adjusted to fatigue and restless nights, since he’s not exactly new to overworking himself, but he hasn’t. Not fully. And God, he’d probably kill for a nap, for someone to hear him scream everything he thinks, to go to a completely different school for a few days and relax.

But would he even want that? Would he know what to do with so much free time? Would it even be okay, going to a place that would view him as equal, not endlessly lesser than another sector of the school? Would it even make sense to be worth something, when he has spent so long not being worth anything?

It’s in this rumination that he ends up near him and Nanami’s fountain, and he almost expects to see her there…

… but instead, he sees someone else.

The Main Course uniform is the first thing he sees, the red tie loose around the Ultimate’s neck, their jacket still buttoned properly. They must have been out there for a while, since their white hair, unruly atop their head, is slightly ruffled from the wind. Their grey-green eyes that remind Hinata of mercury he had seen in chemistry class is focused on the pavement, but looks up when Hinata’s footsteps grow closer. On their face, there’s a pleasant smile, one that Hinata finds strikingly pretty…

… one that disappears when they make eye contact with Hinata.

He can’t say he expected anything other than this.

“I thought reserve course classes were still in session,” they muse, which is an interesting conversation starter in any case. Paired with the way they were almost glaring at Hinata, it left him with… an unsettling feeling.

“They, uh, aren’t,” he replies eloquently. “They ended a bit ago.”

“Ah.” They smile, slightly, but it looks… more cold than friendly. “Can I get a name? Or should I just refer to you as ‘reserve-kun’?”

Hinata quickly decides he doesn’t like this person. “Uh, Hinata Hajime.”

They nod. “Komaeda Nagito.”

That name is… kind of familiar.

Oh. Oh. That’s the name of Nanami’s classmate. The Ultimate Lucky Student, who has strong views on talent and hope, if he remembers Nanami’s words correctly. Someone that Hinata would either like or hate– and it is strongly veering towards the later– someone who is a bit of an outcast. Someone who Hinata isn’t sure if he should have a lot of pity for, or none at all.

He’s heard more stories since, ones where Komaeda is a background character. He’s gotten the vague idea that aside from his unsettling opinions, he also tends to be an overall concerning individual, with a shocking inferiority complex, calling himself trash near constantly. It seemed to worry Nanami, which in turn worried Hinata.

But from the way this guy is talking, it doesn’t really seem like this guy feels inferior at all. At least, not compared to Hinata. Which is…

… not surprising.

Hinata isn’t really sure how to progress the conversation, especially one that started this oddly, so he figures he should make do with this new information, asking, “Oh, you know Nanami, right?”

“Nanami-san is my classmate, yes.” He tilts his head to the side and sits up a bit straighter. “You must be the reserve she’s friends with, then. In retrospect, I remember she’s mentioned your name once or twice. I thought she was kidding.”

Yeah. Hinata definitely doesn’t like this guy. “Well. She wasn’t.”

“So it seems.”

This conversation is going nowhere. “Well, I’m gonna go. And, uh. Finish my walk. So-”

Before Hinata can leave, Komaeda speaks up. “Don’t you feel awe, Hinata-kun, walking around Hope’s Peak, looking at a school filled with such hope and talent?” He punctuates those words, wrapping his arms around himself and looking up at Hinata. “Doesn’t it put you in your place? Knowing that you’re a stepping stone for hope, just here to further the Ultimates’ abilities? Isn’t it beautiful, so beautiful that you know you’re unworthy of it? Do you have another purpose aside from this, or do you put your value in mindlessly pacing the perimeter of Hope’s Peak Ac-”

“What the hell are you even talking about?” Hinata interrupts. This guy looks really worked up over the random bullshit he’s saying. He’s managed to get under Hinata’s skin really fast– which, yeah, Hinata has kind of a temper, but Jesus Christ.

This must be the whole concerning thing.

Komaeda just smiles wider. “You’re rather disrespectful for a reserve. Shouldn’t you be worshipping me? I mean, I’m utterly worthless in every possible way and deserve to be destroyed like the filth I am– but at least I’m an Ultimate.”

Hinata gives up, walking away from the other and running an agitated hand through his hair. He can hear Komaeda laughing raspily, still at the fountain, and it just forces his steps to go quicker.

(The most aggravating part of all of that is that it hurt. It shouldn’t– the opinion of a slightly-unhinged, annoying, pretty Ultimate shouldn’t hurt him. But it did.

Because there was some truth in that mess of shit he was saying. Hinata is inferior. Hinata would always be inferior to the Ultimates he looks up to– not as much as Komaeda said, but still. The whole being a stepping stone thing, he didn’t get, but… he is unworthy of this place. That much is true. That much hurts.)

He decides, without much hesitation, not to mention the encounter to anyone.

–

“Uh, make yourself at home, I guess,” Hinata says when Komaeda steps into his cottage, his eyes wide as he looks around the scene. Which is fair– Hinata hasn’t exactly had time to clean the place, and he’s sort of a restless sleeper, so it’s a shitshow of a mess, as of current. Komaeda’s room, from what Hinata’s seen, is a lot neater than this, so hopefully he isn’t all that judging.

(Not that Hinata really cares about Komaeda’s thoughts on his cabin.)

“Thank you, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda replies politely, sitting on the edge of the bed. Hinata sits beside him, and they both ignore the bed sheets that are tangled at their feet. “Once again, I apologize for intruding.”

“I invited you,” Hinata points out.

Komaeda frowns a bit. “Well, yes, but-”

“I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t want you here. I don’t exactly do things out of pity or kindness when I’ve been awake for over a day,” he states bluntly.

The other stares at him with a weird expression in his eye, something like understanding. “Ah.”

“Yeah.” Hinata kicks the sheets. “Speaking of.”

“Are you going to sleep, Hinata-kun?” Komaeda sort of teases, but there’s a level of seriousness in it. Hinata sort of hates the way the other makes him feel like he’s fucking up by neglecting himself (which is sort of an oxymoron in thought, but). It’s something Komaeda has always done– made Hinata feel like a fuck up, that is– but it’s sort of different, now, when it’s more of a constructive criticism than a blatant attack.

He’s not sure how he feels about the change.

“I was going to talk about you sleeping, actually,” he retorts, clearing his throat.

Komaeda smiles mischievously. “Did you invite me here just to watch me sleep? How flattering, Hinata-kun, but I assure you I would not be able to do harm to others or myself whilst asleep.”

“That’s,” he takes a deep breath, “not what I meant.”

“Ah, okay. Sorry for assuming!”

“It’s fine?” It sounds too much like a question to his ears, but. Whatever. “I just meant, like. I’m sort of concerned about your health.”

“This doesn’t seem like the mood to discuss this,” Komaeda observes.

Hinata blinks. “Was there a specific mood set by any of this?”

Komaeda looks unimpressed. “Hinata-kun, we’re in your room at 5:00 AM, spending time together. I don’t think this is ideal for a medical visit– especially considering how exhausted you are. I thought you were more trying to be a person than a doctor, right now.”

… There’s some truth in that. There’s some pain in that. Hinata doesn’t try to be inhuman in any way, but he knows, deep down, that it’s a difficult task to accomplish. Months of conditioning combined with the instinctual drive for survival resulted in Kamukura’s eternal boredom and apathy to manifest as a defense mechanism, one that Hinata employs in situations that aren’t necessarily defense-requiring. Like administering medicine, or investigating his own psyche, or trying to breach any topic with Komaeda.

He hates it, but it’s part of him, neither nature nor nurture. Just… a trait, forced upon him, one he has to adapt to.

“Hinata-kun?” Komaeda’s smile is thin. “I apologize for overstepping!”

“It’s fine.” He sort of has a headache. Maybe he should sleep. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“Ah, Hinata-kun doesn’t have to apologize! He can do whatever he likes! I still appreciate him regardless!” he reassures enthusiastically, in an almost adoring way.

… And. The thing is.

Hinata has been viscerally aware of Komaeda’s attraction to him ever since he awoke from the Neo World Program. It didn’t take overwhelming amounts of self reflection and memory analysis to realize that Komaeda has had feelings for him, ever since the Despair Era, when neither of them were the person they are now or were before it all began. It’s present in Servant’s endless worship and Komaeda’s subtle (and sometimes, less subtle) affections.

It’s something that Hinata thought, initially, he could just… accept. The fact that the other likes him is simply a fact of life, like the fact that this same individual is still suffering from frontotemporal dementia and lymphoma, like the fact that the other has trauma neither of them can even begin to impact, like the fact that Hinata is privy to entirely too much about the other that he’s hardly aware of.

This is why his yearning and fondness for Komaeda, despite his conflicting thoughts of romance, takes him by surprise. The idea that Komaeda’s affections could be requited is a shocking concept to both of them, one that might be earth-shattering or simply a natural progression of their current behavior. It’s a thought that he keeps in the back of his mind, primarily, believing that not much can be done until Komaeda heals.

And yet, it surfaces in the quiet moments like this, where Komaeda has that energetically adoring expression, where the moonlight accentuates his face in a pretty way that will only get more beautiful with daybreak, where Hinata is just staring at him mindlessly. It surfaces like this, and Hinata wonders, to himself, if he loves the other.

If this is how it comes to him.

“Hinata-kun?”

Or maybe it’s just a lapse.

“I’m tired,” he replies, which isn’t a proper response but it is the only thing he can find himself saying, right then.

Komaeda nods and starts to stand up, “Ah, okay! I apologize if I bored you, I know I can tend to do that. I hope you sleep well, Hinata-kun-”

Hinata catches his wrist.

“Maybe,” he inhales. “You can stay? And sleep beside me?”

Komaeda’s face shifts, emotions spreading across his face like auroras, but they’re quickly stifled by another smile, one that seems a bit more genuine. “Ah, of course! Whatever Hinata-kun wants.” He takes the eagerness Komaeda exhibits while taking off his shoes and scooting to the center of the bed as confirmation that Komaeda wants this as well.

It’s odd how Hinata has the courage to ask something like that, despite everything.

Hinata draws the curtains closed, hoping that the sun won’t wake them up, and he slips beside Komaeda in bed. The other adjusts well to sleeping in someone else’s bed, all things considered, but he looks fairly stiff all the same. Hinata knows there’s nothing he can do to change his slight discomfort– anything he could do would be a bit too courageous, and he’s already expressed a lot of bravery considering that he’s more contemplative than rash, at the moment.

So he lays down beside him, facing the other who faces away, and he finds himself tracing the contours of his body (innocuous and entirely unrelated to medical concerns), the way his hair curls against his nape, how his hands lay at his sides. It calms him to study the other, and he wonders if that is love, if all of this is love, even if he has a thousand other concerns.

It takes a pathetically short five minutes before he says, “Komaeda…?”

“Yes, Hinata-kun?” Komaeda still sounds awake. He wonders if he was planning on sleeping at all.

He breathes out a soft exhale. “Can we talk?”

–

He does not see Komaeda again until after despair overcomes the world.

But by then, both him and Komaeda are separate people. The memories prior to the creation of himself– Kamukura Izuru, that being– are vague and only documented in a diary that Hinata Hajime struggled to maintain. And Servant, while not suffering direct memory loss of everything regarding Hope’s Peak Academy, does not appear to want to verbally recall anything regarding the school to Kamukura. This could be from lack of trust. This could be his nature.

They meet in a bloodied street, bodies scattered across the asphalt in an unpleasing way. From an aesthetic standpoint, it is disgusting, but Kamukura does not necessarily dislike it. He does not dislike anything.

He only finds this despair base.

Servant’s hands are dirtied from crusted blood, which is to be expected. His hair is awry, his face in a considerably tormented frown, and his attire is dirtied aside from his chain that drags obnoxiously loud on the pavement.

Kamukura clears his throat.

His face shifts drastically when he sees Kamukura, which is the most interesting part of his appearance, as of current, and he immediately drops to his knees. It is certainly an interesting display, yet predictable, and Servant’s voice is raspy when he says, “Kamukura Izuru.”

“So you have heard of me.” That is understandable. The only reason Kamukura is at this location, after all, is because Enoshima requested prior to her death that Kamukura take ownership of Servant. She had considered it a present to him, but Kamukura finds nothing to be a gift, especially when it is at her hands.

One of her hands is severed and attached in place of where Servant’s would be. Expectable.

“You’re the Ultimate Hope,” he breathes. “I- I have been looking for you-”

“How convenient,” he cuts off his likely obnoxious rambling. He does not want to hear about his godhood from the lens of a worshipper. “As I was looking for you.”

Servant’s face flushes. “You were looking for me? Ahaha, I’m sure you must be mistaken.”

“Enoshima stated that in her death, you were to be my property. Transitive ownership.” His face twists at the sound of her name, which is not necessarily expected, but can be easily explained retroactively. “You are mindlessly idling, as of current. You plan to travel to Towa City, but have not done so yet. You have killed seventeen people directly in your time of being a Remnant of Despair, but you are growing bored.”

Despite his wide eyes and droll expression, Servant is clever enough to catch on. “You would like me to travel with you, Kamukura-kun? I warn you, I am useless in every possible way and unworthy of your presence.”

Kamukura glares at him. “I will determine that.”

“… Understood.” Servant hesitates before standing up, and there is shocking amounts of excitement in his expression. “I apologize for being overeager, I’ve never travelled with someone like this before. Someone like you before.”

“That is to be expected,” Kamukura says as he begins to walk, stepping over corpses with grace as the Remnant beside him trips and stumbles, babbling about despair and hope and talent all the way.

From there, an attachment forms. They continue to travel in this manner, relocating from place to place with little but each other’s companionship (and what they can find, in this cataclysmic scenario– assorted piles of canned vegetables and month-old water bottles). Along the way grows learning, basic answers to questions that benefit both of them only slightly, though prove to be boring, as Kamukura does not have a favorite color or movie or food. But the basis of small talk leads to a more expanded exploration of morality, of death and life and the liminality of such matters, philosophy and physics and their prediction for where the world will be.

Kamukura discovers, then, that Servant is not capable of matching him in intelligence. However, he nears close to having this ability, exhibiting his cleverness in a distinctly separate way than how Enoshima enforced her analytical prowess upon her victims. It is refreshing, to have this difference. It is refreshing, by extension, to have him.

That is how the evolution of their relationship begins.

Sexual ties between them have been present from the start. Servant is poor at concealing his overwhelming attraction to the other, and Kamukura has curiosities he was not interested in exploring with Enoshima. Thus begins tumultuous, albeit safe to an extent, exploratory intercourse, which Kamukura finds not particularly boring.

Then becomes an inherent domesticity in residing together, in sharing beds (although, Servant only allows himself to sleep beside Kamukura if he is particularly in pain, that day. Kamukura does not necessarily mind if Servant continues to sleep beside him, but it is a matter of principle that is tedious to undo, especially with no distinct want to commit effort to it). Along with sleeping together, there is having meals together, defending each other from robotic Monokumas when it becomes necessary, and even reading together.

It is all not particularly interesting. It is all not particularly boring. It exists in a grey area that Kamukura struggles to define.

He dislikes struggling.

There is a particular day, once, that he would consider lucky (were he to indulge in this thought towards Servant, the other would likely break down) due to the numerous realizations had. The primary one, and the most convoluted one by far, is the realization that he is perhaps infatuated with the other.

It comes whilst Servant is asleep, his body bare aside from the marring of bruises and hickeys, thin sheets layered in dust resting atop him. Kamukura observes him from where he sits at the edge of the bed, admiring the way the red sky highlights Servant’s body in an almost rosy way, porcelain skin glimmering with red contours that made the Ultimate Artist in Kamukura transfixed. Part of him desired to reach out and trace his body on impulse– and it would not be the first time he sought touch out of poorly placed impulse. However, he refrains.

A small part of him– a romantic, likely, in all but practice– finds that touching him may, perhaps, detract from the natural beauty he exudes. It is not like Kamukura is anything other than manmade.

This is a thought that crosses his mind often. Rather, the latter is. However, with Servant in his life as a catalyst, the frequency of such thoughts rapidly accelerates, and he finds a sense of permanence in the other. Something he is rather interested in exploring, given the time. There are many, many inquiries he would indulge in, given the time.

They are not given time.

He had prepared an injection in advance, one to make Servant unconscious for approximately 48 hours. It is enough time to execute a procedure that would remove Servant’s memories of Kamukura, a similar procedure that he will attempt to repeat on himself (he has done thorough research into lobotomies due to his experiences. Even without this research, it would not be a particularly difficult task. However, his emotions pose a hindrance). He is aware that he should inject Servant now, as, according to his predictions and intuition, he has confidence in the fact that the Future Foundation will locate them within that period of time.

He would like to evade them. He knows he is able to, that he has a capacity to outwit them, that Servant would heed every command necessary to guarantee their survival. After all, there is no certainty in the prospect that the Future Foundation would keep them alive.

Despite this, Kamukura is… curious. He is intrigued as to what the Future Foundation will do, once they capture him and Servant, and he knows that they cannot evade the Future Foundation forever. They will grow bored.

It is regrettable, he thinks as he injects Servant with the serum, stroking his hair for purely selfish purposes as he does so. It is regrettable that they did not have infinite time together. However, Servant is dying to his own illness, and Kamukura is dying, metaphorically, to the boredom that he can not fully stave away, even with his agreeable companionship. It is poetic, in the same sense, that they will be captured and perhaps be executed before they could fully breach the barrier of worship and love, something Kamukura is not certain he could attain.

In all senses, it is over, and Servant will not remember him by the time he awakes in the grasp of the Future Foundation.

(A part of Kamukura recalls their first meeting with feigned nostalgia, remnants of the emotion that must have existed before his creation, and he wonders– or, cynically, he hopes– that he may meet the other again, and finish the life they began.)

–

Komaeda rolls over and smiles, slightly sleepy. “What do you want to talk about, Hinata-kun?” After a pause, he asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” he says with a little too much force. “I’ve just had some. Things on my mind. That I want to talk about?”

It’s sort of a half-truth, because it feels wrong to say that it’s been something on his mind. Because it has been, and it has been for a while– but he hardly knows if what he’s feeling is love, if it’s worth indulging in this when he has so much to work on. If he can even be certain of his thoughts at all.

But he wants to talk to Komaeda– maybe to get perspective, and finally decide.

So, he closes his eyes and starts talking. “I was thinking about the simulation, and before. More specifically, us.”

He can hear the bitterness in Komaeda’s voice when he says, “Ah. How I betrayed and belittled you?”

“Not exactly.” But it’s part of it. “… You said in the simulation that you were in love with me, right?”

There’s a pause. One that’s long enough that Hinata almost wants to open his eyes, but he needs to isolate himself in his thoughts temporarily, dissect the words and his feelings and come to a conclusion. It’s something he’s good at (but love isn’t survival games, or class trials. If they were, he would have figured this out a long time ago, back when Nanami was still around).

When Komaeda eventually speaks, it’s brief but telling. “… Yes.”

“And. You didn’t like me much before all of that, but… as Servant, you-”

“Worshipped and admired Kamukura-kun, yes.” He sounds almost nervous. Komaeda rarely sounds like this, and it’s almost enough to stop pushing. “… Why do you ask? Don’t you already know this, Hinata-kun?”

Hinata sighs. “Yeah, technically. But I’ve been thinking about it more, and…” he opens his eyes, now. Komaeda’s face is vacant– no smile, no frown, just a straight line that wavers if he stares hard enough. His eyes are filled with emotion he can’t uncover, emotions he doesn’t want to uncover. But… he watches them carefully regardless, makes note of how they shift. “We’ve had an interesting relationship, throughout all our time knowing each other. In our one encounter back at Hope’s Peak, we didn’t get along, and things in Despair were… intimate, yet twisted.”

“That’s one way to consider it,” Komaeda says, and it isn’t quite hatred in his voice, but something close. Something Hinata knows not to take personally.

“And. I’ve been thinking about where it leaves us, now. And– I mean, it’s something in the back of my head, but not really. Filling all my thoughts? It just sort of came up while we were sitting here, before I said we should sleep, and sometimes I think about it when I’m not working around the island. So it’s sort of…” a dormant thing, has been in the back of my mind forever because I put it there, because I didn’t want to accept that I like you, because I’m too afraid and I know you are too, but there’s something about you, something about this, and I’m curious to know where it goes- “Yeah.”

Komaeda nods. “I see.”

“I think you know where I’m going with this.”

There’s a silence. Then- “I’d rather not.”

“… Rather not what?”

He already knows, but he wants to hope, wants to hope that Komaeda will allow himself this, despite everything. And yet…

… “Rather not believe what you are implying, Hinata-kun.” And the bitterness is directed at him this time, but Komaeda has always tore at him claws to hide something else, whether it be personal insecurity or infatuation or fear. Hinata thinks it might be all three, now. “You are aware of my love for you, how you could use it to your benefit, how you could disregard me and I would-” his breath catches.

“Komaeda?”

“… hardly complain,” he finishes. “I would hardly complain if you used me, because it’s you. You’re aware that you could make this so easy– and you aren’t even certain of this. I’ve been certain ever since I knew you, even when I hardly knew anything about you, even when I stayed with you to wake up on that island, I knew. But you don’t, and you could make it so easy and just give up on me, because it’s not like I would love you less or hate you more, but you’re acting on impulse. You rarely act on impulse, so why are you…”

There are tears in Komaeda’s eyes.

“… When I first met you,” Hinata starts. “I thought you were pretty. An asshole, but pretty. In despair, Kamukura was interested in you, and he was bored of everything else, even her. And he knew your worship, and that was the most boring part of you, to him, because he didn’t like being treated like a god, not by you. And… and in the simulation, I remember the betrayal I felt when I knew one of the only people I trusted turned their back on me. And- and when I saw your corpse-”

Komaeda shakes his head, but Hinata doesn’t stop. “-When I saw your corpse, I was so fucking pissed, because you’re smart and fucked up and I almost missed you that trial, despite everything. And despite everything, now when I woke you up, when I had to run into the infirmary and out of it and had to do all those fucking psychodives to get you out, I thought it was worth it.”

“Hinata-kun.”

“I thought– I knew, and I know– that you are worth it.”

And even though Komaeda’s stare is intimidating, and even though Hinata’s so uncertain of everything right now, he’s confident in that.

He’s never been more confident in anything, actually.

–

When Hinata wakes up on an unfamiliar island, with an aching head and endless questions about his surroundings, he’s greeted by a stranger, with a slight smile on their face. They had slightly tostled white hair, cloudlike and wispy, that falls just above their dim green eyes, and they have a slender yet alluring physique that Hinata almost finds pretty, in his dazed state.

After they confirm that Hinata is awake, they introduce themself. “… I’m Komaeda Nagito. Nice to meet you.”

Hinata accepts the hand he offers him and stands up, brushing sand off his pants (why are they at a beach?) and replying, “Hey, I’m Hinata Hajime.”

Komaeda leads him around the island, introducing him to all the others that had left him behind, unconscious, on the beach (he can’t really blame him. He’s still embarrassed about how he just… passed out. At least Komaeda isn’t judging him for it). He offers his own quips and commentary about the island, one Hinata finds insightful, if not slightly odd at times, and he begins to develop a trust for the other.

Sort of. Because, well, it’s not like he can really trust anyone, when they all woke up on a random fucking island with no idea of what’s going on, aside from some random shit a rabbit tells them. But, for as weird Komaeda can sometimes be and the weird situation they’re in, he establishes him as trustworthy early on. Someone to rely on, even when everything goes to hell.

(And littered in there, far enough in the back of his head that he sort of forgets about it, he is sort of infatuated with the other. In a super base way– because he’s a teenager, c’mon– but, still. Komaeda’s pretty, and he’s friendly, and he thinks there’s some significance in that.

Of course, everything changes when the first murder occurs. When the trial happens, and truths are revealed. When everything spirals downwards for the rest of their ‘island vacation’, and Hinata realizes that Komaeda should have never been trusted at all.

… But he can’t bring himself to hate him, despite everything. Even when he’s faced with his corpse.)

–

There is a long silence that fills the room, after his admission.

It’s understandable, considering that Komaeda… has never quite had anyone stay by his side as long as Hinata has. He’s probably never considered the possibility of requited love or care of anything, has never been able to reconcile with the idea that Hinata wants to stay despite the fucked-up mess of trauma and disease his brain is filled with. He probably finds himself vacant, like Hinata does, sometimes, like every quirk about him that makes him distinctive and worthy of love is completely null, and that he is cursing Hinata by being around him this long.

It’s more fucked up than Hinata can sometimes conceptualize, but. As he said, it’s worth it.

Hinata breaks the silence, knowing that he should be patient with the other, who has had his mentality partially shattered in a brief period of time, but slightly worried that the progress they’ve made would fall at a stalemate in complete silence. “… Komaeda?”

“Hinata-kun.” His voice is both empty and emotional, and it leaves an ache in Hinata’s chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand, still. I’m not…” he trails off.

“You are worth it,” Hinata insists, because he knows the way that Komaeda thinks, knows where his mind is going. “We don’t have to do anything, or be anything, if you don’t want to. I just… thought you should know, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot, so. Thought it was worth saying.”

“Worth,” Komaeda echoes quietly. His laugh is at the same volume, raspy and choked. “I… I really like you, Hinata-kun, but I can’t let you endanger yourself.”

Hinata shakes his head. “Your luck can’t affect me badly, remember? I’m lucky too.”

“It has in the past. Before you remember. When me and Kamukura-kun were together, and how bad luck and consequent good luck would follow us around. He thought it was interesting. I knew we weren’t safe. And we weren’t.” He sighs, and Hinata wants to reach out and brush his cheek with his fingertips, ensure that he isn’t just a ghost. “If I hurt you, Hinata-kun-”

“You won’t,” Hinata argues.

Komaeda raises his voice, slightly. “But if I do, then I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. Knowing that you chose to have something with me, despite all your responsibilities and all the risks I bring to you just by existing… it would kill me, Hinata-kun. I’m already dying and I’ve done it once, but… it would really, really kill me. I don’t think I would be able to lose you. I don’t…” He looks so tired.

Hinata reaches out, then, and intertwines their fingers. Komaeda doesn’t push him away, and he takes it as a good sign. “You aren’t going to lose me. And I know we can’t be certain of what’ll happen in the future, but… I think we deserve something good. So much bad shit has happened, and we’re healing and everything, but I think we also deserve to find something like… hope. In each other. Y’know? And, obviously, it’s only if you want. I’m not gonna, like, make you date me, or something.” He squeezes his hand. “But, I don’t want you to keep yourself from someone you want– something we want– out of fear. We’re not going to die, Komaeda. And even if we did… every second that led to it would be worth it.”

Komaeda’s eyes flutter shut. It hurt to see the pain in his eyes, but his scrunched eyebrows and shaky lip is almost worse. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you want to do?” Hinata asks gently.

“I…” he cuts himself off, thinking in silence as Hinata rubs circles into his palm. Eventually, his eyes open, and his expression is tentative and a bit scared, but Hinata can see some hope in it. It’s almost enough to make him smile, but he fights it off and waits for Komaeda to finish. “I… I want this. But, I don’t deserve it.”

“You want it,” Hinata reminds him softly, “and I want it. So, I think it’s okay for us to have, yeah?”

He hesitates, but eventually says, “… Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he repeats, and then he gives him a slight smile. “I can work with maybe.”

Komaeda responds with a fleeting smile, one that makes Hinata let go of his hand and tug him forward into a warm embrace. Komaeda’s face nestles into the other’s shoulder, and he can hear a muffled voice whisper, “I love you, Hinata-kun. I really do.”

A weight he thought would permanently be on his shoulders disappears, and he breathes out a long sigh of relief as he tightens his grip on Komaeda’s waist. And, with a voice that echoes himself through all of the years of knowing Komaeda, through the stress and irritation and curiosity and trust, in a journey that was just as much his as it was theirs, he says, “I love you too.”

Even after everything.

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 11

AO3 Link

Marcus had faced armies. Had gone head-to-head with mob bosses and mafiaso assholes. He’d been shot, stabbed, tortured and looked death straight in the eyes on more than one occasion. Every encounter had only made him wiser. Each scar had only made him stronger.

And despite all his prowess, his strength, his wisdom, Marcus was fairly certain he wasn’t going to survive Helen Kingston.

John had warned him.

Hell, Helen had warned him.

He’d taken it as a joke. Just because John had fallen victim to sharing his feelings certainly didn’t mean that Marcus would.

After John had left, they made small talk. They watched a movie, and then another. Helen would read until her eyes hurt and then they’d watch another movie.

It started with a simple question, asked over chopping vegetables to have with dinner.

“How’d you get involved in the Underworld?”

“I saved a man’s life in Vietnam. The son of a prominent member of the mob. When we came back to the States, he recruited me."

And Helen had seemed genuinely interested. She asked questions so casually, he hadn’t even realized that they were delving into his past. Not until their plates were in the sink and Helen was curled up on the couch, facing him in his chair and nodding along to a story from his early days as a New York City mobster.

Before he knew it, he was lost in his own past, searching to understand things he thought he had left behind.

“It just seemed like the right course to take. My father did it, his father did it. I think a part of me thought if I followed in their footsteps and joined the army, things would start to make sense. Like I would understand how my father viewed the world.”

“How he viewed the world or how he viewed you?”

The question stabs at him and Marcus looks away, “My mother used to defend him all the time. He never loved us the way he was supposed to. She said that the war had damaged him—that when they were younger, he was caring and loving. But when he came back, he had a hard time adjusting.

“I wanted to understand why he couldn’t get over it. Why he couldn’t leave the war behind. Why—” He stops himself.

“Why you couldn’t be enough.” Her voice is soft, almost hypnotic, lulling him in further.

He nods, despite himself. “He had a great job, a good house, a family… and it was never enough.”

Helen nods along, “You know, every generation has its experiences, it’s rights of passages, it’s issues, it’s stories. Your generation was built in that post-war haze that focused on going back to what had been normal before the war. Except there is no going back from that sort of cultural upheaval. Time changes, and values with it.

“And in that day and age, we didn’t really understand the consequences of war on individuals. So, your father came back, as your grandfather had a generation before, and tried to make sense of peace after having lived in a warzone.”

Marcus nods, “And I get that it must have been tough for him. I do. But then why get married? Why bring another person into your fucked-up life? Why bring children into the picture?”

“I can’t answer to your father’s motives.” Helen says softly, “At best, I can guess that he probably felt like it was his duty to rebuild America. To have a family and try to put the past behind him. But the past always has a way of catch up with us. And it wasn’t fair to the rest of your family and your father’s trauma is not an excuse for the pain that he put you through.

“In therapy, we use a term called ‘intergenerational trauma’ to explain this. It’s the idea that severe trauma, severe distress can follow each generation. Your grandfather probably brought his experiences from the Great War into your father’s life. And your father brought those experiences, combined with his own from the second World War into yours.”

“Didn’t know there was a term for it. But it’s why I don’t ever want children.” Marcus admits, jarring himself with the fact that he admitted out loud how much his father had affected him. “I couldn’t bare to pass that down again.”

“Which is entirely within your right.” Helen’s calming voice eases his anxiety. “A lot of people, particularly from the baby boomer generation and before, believe that we have some sort of duty to procreate. The remnants of generations’ past, I suppose. But the reality of the matter is we don’t owe anybody.”

He shivers at her words and wonders if she notices.

He’d laughed at John for being tricked into revealing his life to a pretty face, but it was so good to say the things out loud that haunted him at two in the morning when he was unable to sleep.

“I always thought I had moved on from all this.” Marcus shakes his head, “That I left my father back in Idaho. Thoughts creep in every now and then but when I work, I can forget about it.”

Helen nods, “We forget how broken we are when we start to fixate on something else. But, eventually, we’re forced to look back at ourselves and face the truth: distracted is not the same as healed.”

And that cuts deep, but not as deep as the thoughts simmering beneath the surface. The knowledge that he had spent decades hiding behind jobs and contracts to ignore the rejection and isolation that seemed to follow him.

“So, there is no moving on, no healing.”

Helen offers him a small, empathetic smile, “I had this conversation with John just yesterday. We tend to think of healing as linear. Something happens to us, we give it time, and it heals. But that’s not always the case. You should know as well as anybody—not every scar heals. Sometimes a bone doesn’t set right.”

She lets out a soft sigh as she tries to find a way to explain, “Try to think of it in terms of a broken leg. If your broken bone is tended to right away, if it’s splinted properly, if you’re cared for during your recovery, it will heal. Sometimes even stronger than it was before.

“On the other hand, maybe you’re alone. You splint your own bone the best you can, but there is no one with you to share the burden. No one to help you heal. The bone may mend but, oftentimes, it won’t heal correctly. Maybe you walk with a limp. Or maybe you walk fine, except on days when it rains. The trauma comes back, haunting you.

“Then, of course, your bone breaks and you ignore it. You try to stand but your leg can’t support you anymore. You pretend that nothing has happened, but all you do is injure yourself the more. So, what happens, then?”

“If you can’t heal, you’re dead.”

“In the animal kingdom, you would be.” Helen says, “But we are human. We are resilient and we can adapt and, even when we feel like we are, we are not alone. So, what happens if your bone doesn’t heal correctly?”

Marcus feels a shiver travel through his body, “We re-break the bone.”

“Very good.” Helen rewards him with a real smile this time, “We re-break the bone and we try again. And, most of the time, trauma isn’t quite so severe. Most of the time, we’re stuck somewhere in the middle. Our wounds heal, but they still come back, aching on days when it rains.”

He sighs, “But what does that mean? That even if I make peace with my father’s memory, I’ll still feel him haunting me now and again?”

“There are no guarantees, but it’s likely. We all experience trauma differently but it seldom disappears all together.”

Idly, Marcus hears the sound of a car on gravel but he shakes his head, still lost in his own thoughts, “And what, there’s no way to make it disappear?”

“Not permanently. There are skills you can learn to help cope with the memories or to restructure your experiences. But trauma engrains itself within us.”

“It’s stupid.” Marcus spits out, “I came out of ‘Nam without feeling a thing. I’ve killed more people than I can count, and I don’t think about it. But the thought of my father’s voice makes me want to scream.”

“The events that happen in our formative years leave far deeper scars than what comes later. You spent your childhood seeking the approval of a man who probably lost sight of who he was long before you were born.”

The door opens and Marcus catches sight of John, carrying a couple grocery bags and a suitcase.

“And you can’t hold yourself responsible for that.” Helen adds softly, checking over her shoulder. Her eyes scan John, assessing for injury before she asks, “Is that your blood?”

“No.”

Marcus swallows, forcing the heaviness weight on him back down his throat and motioning to the bags John is carrying. Still, his voice is gruff as he asks, “You go shopping?”

“Just picked up a few things. Soap, a toothbrush. Better coffee.” John reaches in the bag and pulls out a pint of ice cream, reveling in the way her eyes light up as he hands it to her.

“Oh, fuck yes.” She takes it and undoes the plastic wrap locking the lid on, looking at Marcus as she does, “Do you need some. too?”

“Marcus won’t eat that much sugar.”

“What I need is Cognac.” Marcus mutters.

Helen hums, “Was Cognac also your father’s drink?”

Marcus looks up sharply, “Pass me the damn ice cream.”

Helen tosses the pint to him and John sighs, “Hels, I thought I said not to break him.”

“I didn’t! We were just having a discussion.”

“Uh huh.” John watches as Marcus slips into the kitchen for a spoon, “I’ve never seen Marcus eat refined sugars. Ever.”

“Physical health is only one facet of being. Ice cream tends to the mind and the soul.” She says knowingly.

Marcus plops down on the couch next to Helen and hands her a spoon.

John raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Fuck off.” Marcus says, digging the spoon into the ice cream, “I have unprocessed trauma.”

He looks from Marcus to Helen, the latter of whom just shrugs.

“Couldn’t last one day without breaking somebody’s psyche?” John teases.

Helen swallows a mouthful of ice cream, “I can’t turn it off any more than you can stop counting exits, looking for weapons.”

Marcus nods, “I say next time we have a tough case, we just send her in.”

Not a chance in hell, John thinks even knowing that Marcus is largely joking. Still, he couldn’t deny that it would be hilarious to drop Helen in the middle of the Continental and just watch.

She leans to the side on the couch, looking up at him with her warm brown eyes. “Did you have dinner?” He shakes his head and Helen sighs, “We saved you a plate, just in case. Go shower, I’ll heat it up.”

“It’s okay—”

“Go shower.” She says again, leaving no room for argument as she stands, “And change in the bathroom! I don’t want you getting blood on our bed.”

Our bed. He tries not to read to much into that but holy fuck the way that sounded… The casual way that she said it felt so fucking right even if he knew he was reading far too much into the innocent statement. He pushes it out of his head as he acquiesces with a soft, “Yes, ma’am.”

She swats at his side the best she can from her seat on the couch to prompt him forward. John sets the grocery bags with actual food on the counter and heads to the back. He tosses the suitcase on the bed and finds his own sleepwear from the night before.

Grabbing the bag with the hygiene products, he disappears into the bathroom.

He showers quickly, watching the tub stain red then wash clear as he cleans the blood from his body. It had been a long day, as he had known it would be. And while John had hoped that DeLuca would change his demands, he had been correct in assuming that he wouldn’t.

Already, a clock was moving against him.

Three days until Senor D’Antonio and Gianna returned to Rome. Three days in which to kill him and his heirs.

Marcus had said they would find a way out of it, but John wasn’t so sure.

He’s run every scenario he can think of in his head on the drive home. For four hours, he contemplated possible courses of actions that he could take. They all resulted in either Helen’s death, which was unacceptable, or his own, which was unfortunate.

He cut the shower short, anxious to see Helen after spending a day dealing with people who wanted to do her harm. See for himself that she was safe and uninjured. Let himself feel a glimmer of joy at the sound of her voice, the energy of her presence.

Cloak himself in her scent and sound and sight. Memorize it all just in case he was unable to make it through this week with his life.

He changes into his sleepwear and quickly towels his hair.

There’s food sitting in front of the armchair when he returns to the living room. A plate with vegetables, potatoes, and chicken. Helen and Marcus share the couch and are passing the ice cream back and forth to one another.

John idly wishes he could use his phone to snap a quick picture for Sofia. Marcus with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in his hand, a spoonful of chocolate ice cream aimed for his mouth…

Sof would have a field day with that.

Helen’s eyes meet his and he wonders, for the millionth time, what it would be like to kiss her.

He’s probably going to die anyway, already set for Hell. Would it be so wrong to steal a kiss before going to his death?

“Did you meet with DeLuca?” Marcus asks, snapping John out of his thoughts as he sits down with them.

He nods once, his eyes flitting to Helen. Not wanting to discuss it in front of her, John adds, “We’ll chat later.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say he realizes as her eyes flash.

“Oh, no. We’re not doing this.” She bemoans, “You don’t get to shut me out of this.”

John shakes his head, “Helen...”

“I have every right to know what’s going on.”

“You don’t need to be worrying about this!” He insists and watches as her entire body tenses.

“Marcus,” She says, and her voice is just a little too sweet for John, “Would you mind stepping out for a moment?”

Marcus, ice cream in hand, looks between them, “I mean, I’d rather stay and watch you demolish him but—”

“Marcus!” Helen and John say together and the older assassin laughs, sliding to his feet.

“Guess I’ll just go downstairs and see if anything new has magically appeared since yesterday.” He pats John on the shoulder on the way to the basement, “Good luck.”

Helen waits for the door to close before she speaks, “We are not doing this, John.”

“Doing what?” He asks, resigned.

“You’re not leaving me out of the loop! I know that you think you’re protecting me by keeping me in the dark from what is happening, but I can handle this.”

Again, he shakes his head, “It’s not about what you can handle, I know you can handle this, but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to be worrying—”

“You don’t get to decide what I’m allowed to worry about.” She snaps, not unkindly. Helen pauses, sighing to herself. She moves down the couch so that she’s closer to where he sits and, gently, tries again, “John, I am doing what you ask. I’ve cut off contact from the world, I’m staying hidden. Meet me halfway here.”

His leg is shaking, she notes. His face is tense.

She reaches out across the space to where his hand sits on the armrest and lays her own atop. “I know things are going to get worse before they get better. But you trying to deal with this all on your own, without support, isn’t helping.”

He hesitates again, gathering his thoughts together before he admits, “I don’t want to let you know how bad it’s gotten. And not because I don’t think you can handle it,” He adds before she can say anything, “But because I don’t want to expose you to that. You might not like some of the things I might have to do.”

“We got to this point together.” Helen argues, “Hell, I’m more accountable than you are for this fiasco.”

John snorts, “No, you’re not.”

“I’m a licensed professional. I was the one in the position of power. I had a moral obligation to ensure the boundaries between us stayed clear. I knowingly violated that, okay? I got us to this point, too. So, please, let me help fix it.”

John lets out a breath, his shoulders settling. “I don’t like it. I don’t like involving you in this world more than you already are.”

“You don’t have to like it.” She reminds him, “But you’re going to deal with it, because I’m not going to let you carry the weight by yourself.”

There’s such force behind her words. And Christ, she would be pissed if he laid it all out. She would demand that he ignore DeLuca, even at the cost of her own life. And they would argue and fight about it, but ultimately, he would do whatever it takes.

But she’s not backing down and, while John has never been good at compromising, he is more than capable of recognizing when an opponent is going to fight until their last breath. She has that same look in her eye now.

“Okay.” He agrees. “Okay. But tomorrow? I… I don’t think I can handle that tonight.”

She nods and her hand tightens on his, squeezing momentarily, “Thank you.”

For a moment, she stays in place, looking at him. A small smile of thanks graces her face. He forces himself to look away from her lips.

“Marcus!” She calls, letting go of his hand and sitting back in her corner of the couch, “You can come back in.”

Marcus comes back up and makes a show of checking his watch, “Not even five minutes? Come on, John. That’s just sad.”

John smirks at his friend, “You think you can win an argument against her? Be my guest.”

Marcus winks at Helen and holds up the ice cream, “You want more?”

“Not now, thanks.” She replies and he puts the ice cream back into the freezer.

John takes a bite of his leftover, noting that this might be the first time anybody had ever thought to save dinner for him. It’s a little bit better knowing that Helen had thought of him when putting it away, certain it was not Marcus’s doing. Not that Marcus didn’t care, but he was more from the school of everybody fend for themselves.

Marcus settles on the couch and looks to Helen, “What did I miss?”

John finds himself smirking despite himself, “What, is she in charge now?”

“Have been since the beginning, but glad you’re catching on.” She says with a heart-stopping smile before looking back at Marcus, “Discussion is tabled until tomorrow.”

Marcus nods, “Fine by me. My head still fucking hurts.”

John smirks as he raises his fork, “Welcome to the club.”

Marcus shakes his head, “And you do this with her every week? Willingly?”

“It gets easier once you know what to expect.”

The older assassin looks to Helen, “We’re not making a habit of those discussions.”

“We don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

John recognizes the look in her eyes. She’s an expert at subtle manipulation—letting you think you’re in control right up until the moment she snatches the rug out from under you. And by then, you’re too addicted to her kind words and soft stares to leave.

She’s magnificent.

Marcus sighs and glances at John, “How screwed am I?”

“Very.” Helen shoots him an amused glance and he feels his own gaze soften as he looks at her, “You know I wouldn’t change a thing.”

At least, about her.

Their circumstances on the other hand…

Her lips twitch slightly and yeah, John thinks, he’s going to do it. Not now. But before he goes off to face death, he’s going to kiss those soft, pink lips. He’s going to carry the taste of her with him to the next world.

Let that be how she remembers him—not as a broken man or as a murderer. But as someone who loved her completely.

That wouldn’t be so bad.

“Me, either.” She says and it takes everything inside of him not to fly across the room to her now.

“Yup!” Marcus says, very loudly, interrupting the moment that passes between them, “Therapy is not for me.”

Helen looks away, her cheeks tinged with pink. He watches her swallow before looking up at Marcus, “It’s not for everyone.” She admits, then teases, “Some people just can’t handle the weight and strength needed to address their inner battles.”

“Listen, Kingston…” Marcus says but there is humor in his voice, “If assassins actually started addressing the issues we all have with our parents, we wouldn't have the time kill anybody.”

She laughs at that, “God forbid.”

Marcus looks over her head, “Don’t you just want to set her on Winston? I want to know what’s going on in his head.”

“That’s the guy who operates New York, right?” Helen asks and John nods.

“That’s him. And, frankly, Marcus. I’d rather not know what’s going on in Winston’s head. Or anybody’s.” Looking back to Helen he adds, “I don’t know how you deal with knowing so many people’s thoughts.”

She shrugs a shoulder, “We all have our stories, but the same themes come up again and again.”

“Jung?” John asks.

“Very good.” Helen says, “Did you ever end up reading The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious?”

John nods, “I did.”

“Nerd alert!” Marcus coughs into his hand.

Helen and John both glare at him before she looks back to John, “I mean, you know my feelings on listening to anyone labeled an ‘expert’ but, at the very least, I agree that if you look close enough at peoples stories, you’ll find the same themes prevailing over nearly all of it.”

“And what are your thoughts on listening to experts?” Marcus asks.

John smirks, already knowing the answer, “Helen believes very strongly in subjective truth. Nothing can be taken at face value.”

Helen nods, “And people in the psych community tend to stick to their niches. The psychoanalytics stick to Freud, the REBT people stick to Ellis, Cognitive Behavioralists stick to Skinner. The reality is, they all work in their own ways. But to put all your stock in one school of thought, you’re going to miss out on a lot of relevant shit.”

Marcus smirks, “You talk with that mouth in your office?”

Helen inclines her head, “Only with John. But he’s got a thick skull. Sometimes you need to do things to catch his attention.”

“That thick skull is necessary to protect the small brain inside.”

John flips him off.

“He’s had a lot of undiagnosed concussions.” Marcus adds, ignoring the gesture.

“I’d smack you,” John comments, humor in his voice, “But I wouldn’t want to damage your hearing aids.”

Marcus smirks in response, glancing to Helen, “You don’t get to be my age in the Underworld without some wear and tear. You spend enough time around munitions and guns, your hearing is the first thing to go.” He looks over at John, “This one laughs now, but he’ll be exactly where I am in fifteen years. If he lives that long.”

Helen rolls her eyes, “Well, on that note, I’m going to get ready for bed.” Helen stands up, her hand brushing along John’s arm as she walks by. “Come to bed soon, okay?”

He nods, forcing himself to remember to breathe when she talks to him like that, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Good. Night, Marcus.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

She disappears down the hall, watching her long after she disappears. There’s the sound of a door closing and a sink running. He can still feel where her fingers grazed his arm.

“Henry.”

John looks up at Marcus, blinking in confusion.

“Henry.” Marcus repeats, “It’s my middle name. Good strong name, you know, if you’re starting think of what you’ll name your children.”

“Fuck off.”

Marcus laughs, “Jesus, John, you’re fucking gone.”

John glares slightly, “Really? Calling her sweetheart?”

The older assassin rolls his eyes, “Calm down, Romeo. I prefer my women not have the ability to psychoanalyze me. I meant exactly what I said—she’s a sweetheart.”

He nods, relaxing slightly. He’s well aware of Helen’s allure, even platonically he understands the way she manages to pull people in. A kind word from her is enough to hook anyone and, before you can remember to think, you’ve bared your soul. A search for absolution that can only be found in the quiet of her eyes.

“She is.” John agrees.

Marcus nods, “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about the marker.”

John raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t need it. Not for doing this.”

“You’re doing me the favor of a lifetime.” John states the obvious. This was no small thing that Marcus was doing for him.

Marcus nods, “I was. But, truth is, I’m happy just to do this for her.”

John huffs a small laugh, “I get it. She pulls you in, doesn’t she? So fast you don’t even know you’re sinking.”

“She does that.” Marcus pauses, thoughtfully. He looks to John and asks, “How long the two of you going to keep playing this game?”

He looks away, “Marcus…”

“You are both way too smart to be playing stupid to the looks, the touches. If I didn’t know the two of you and we just met, I’d assume you were married with the way you act around each other.”

Shaking his head, John looks to his friend, “Let it go.”

“John—”

“Let it go.” John says again, “I promised her we wouldn’t talk about it without her but… things aren’t looking good. And, if by some miracle, I’m still alive at the end of all this, what can I offer her?”

“She knows exactly what you are and she doesn’t care. She still adores you.”

John can’t even begin to address that so he ignores it, “She’ll never be safe so long as her name is associated with mine.”

Marcus stares at him incredulously, “I think that particular ship already sailed.”

John pushes his hair back, frustrated, because Marcus is right on that note. Everything was already fucked. But there was still something looming over John that forced him to add, “She deserves better.”

“Definitely. But she still wants you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“My ears may be shot to hell, but I’m not blind.”

John takes his plate, shaking his head as he stands up, “Goodnight, Marcus.”

“Night, dumbass.”

[testingtwns]

Another stuck sneeze story, roughly 3k words, which takes place in the mid-1700s and in Russia. More information under the cut!

This is a fanfic based on an anime called Le ChevaIier D’Eon. The show is known by few and watched by fewer, so there may be a small handful of you who will know who I am based solely on the fact that I like this series. And, yes, the character that sneezes in this story is Maximilien Robespierre, though his anime counterpart is pretty different from who he was as an actual person. Here’s what Robespierre looks like in the anime. And here’s Lorenzia, the other character who appears in the story (and was maybe also a real person?). Even though I’ve made it obvious, I’ll just say again that this story is very much about their fictional representatives and not the actual historical figures.

Enjoy!

Lorenzia felt she understood the ways of men better than those of women. That knowledge was inevitable when you were a whore. Her body was her tool, it always had been, even before she’d christened herself in poetry and let spellwords snake across her skin. And in retrospect, the lessons men taught her hadn’t been difficult to learn. The men she’d known were pigs, running on instinct and instant gratification. A virgin soldier and his stoic captain were different in their expectations of pleasure, but the end result was always the same.

Lorenzia thought herself streetwise, but she knew now that her education in darkness was just beginning. The brothels and alleyways where sin festered were humorous, predictable—petty. The world of the rich had black secrets all its own. That was where the strings were pulled and real power dwelled. These powerful men were the ones she took lessons from now.

Maximilien Robespierre was such a man. He was a revolutionary. Lorenzia didn’t fully understand what circumstances had brought him in opposition of the monarchy, for he would not tell her. Robespierre’s motives didn’t pique her so much as his disposition, though. He was one of those rare types Lorenzia found endlessly intriguing: the type who would not bare his underbelly, figurative or literal, for a moment of ecstasy. Lorenzia had kissed so many loose lips, she wondered if the clamped ones had a different taste, a motley of secrets tucked under their tongues. Robespierre was not interested in letting her try.

Even now, as she observed him at the desk from her place on the bed, her lean body sprawled like a lazy cat’s, utterly coquettish, he continued to quill a letter without any glance in her direction. Robespierre hadn’t spared her a word since Cagliostro left the inn to buy more vodka. Lorenzia smirked with a quiet snort. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do; when in Russia, drink as the Russians do,” was Cagliostro’s parting word. Another curiosity, that man— not weak to her breasts either, though perhaps it was because he’d seen them often. But at least Cagliostro had weaknesses, could declare himself mortal. Maximilien Robespierre’s countenance was almost otherworldly.

So, as Lorenzia had been so often studied by men, she studied him from her sideways stretch across the mattress. The book was next to him, as it always was. She narrowed her eyes at it. That tired brown tome had rejected her, and she was still offended. Only Maximilien could open it. When she tried, it had remained as tightly shut as if the pages were glued together. Cagliostro couldn’t even lift it. The book was full of Poet’s knowledge, no doubt. Such strong magic she had never witnessed before. It was just another secret swarming around a secret man.

Outside, the champagne-colored sky of a Russian dusk sent most travelers indoors, to inns and bars alike. The quill scratching across the parchment was the only noise that filled the chamber. Lorenzia felt hypnotized by it, lost in the lull of its gentle scraping… at least until it suddenly stopped. Maximilien paused, shifted in his chair. He sniffed, put his quill down, and dove the hand inside his jacket. Lorenzia felt her curiosity perking like a hound’s ears at gunfire. What was he looking for? He found it fast. His back was to her, but from her angle there was enough of his face visible to see it tilted back before the handkerchief he offered. A sneeze? It seemed the case, though seconds passed and there was no such announcement.

“Something the matter?” she drawled, voice honeyed with drowsiness.

Her words set him into motion once more. Robespierre brought the handkerchief to his nose and blew politely enough for the company of a lady before tucking it away again. “Nothing.”

“What are you writing?” Now that the silence was broken, she felt she could prod him further.

“It isn’t a concern.”

“Then there should be no harm in telling me,” Lorenzia mused.

“No harm, and no purpose.” Maximilien had resumed the letter now. His script, neat and even, matched his tone all too well.

Lorenzia propped herself up a bit. Her virgin white sleeve slipped farther down her forearm. “Shall I look over your shoulder, then, and spare you the effort of conversation?”

His eyes were to the paper, not on her pale arms, but her words did the trick. “It is for Bestuzhev. Addressing his concerns about Pyotr.”

“Of which he must have a thousand,” Lorenzia chuckled lightly.

“He must let go of those concerns if he is to see his plot through.” Maximilien paused his hand again. Kept writing. “It is Bestuzhev’s love for his country that keeps him from overtaking it.”

Lorenzia felt an excited stirring in her stomach. What a different world this was, to be in the presence of those who spoke of destroying the crown so casually. Cagliostro was right: they’d shed their comedy of a life for a tragedy, and it was every ounce more interesting. “But, do we not all have some love for our mother country?”

“Not all. Hh-!” His answer ended with a sharp intake of breath that made his spine straighten with the jolt of his shoulders. Lorenzia leaned up on her elbows to watch as he ducked his hand back into the recesses of his jacket to claim that handkerchief again and thrust it out before his face. He gasped once more, just barely a sound from parted lips. He was sure to sneeze. Lorenzia waited.

He didn’t sneeze. Maximilien relaxed and gave the smallest sigh as he tucked the cloth away.

“What is that all about?” Lorenzia draped her legs over the edge of the bed, letting her skirts fall where they may. “Why don’t you sneeze? You have to, don’t you?”

“Hmm.” Maximilien busied himself with the letter again. “I suppose I mustn’t if it doesn’t happen.”

His usually calm voice held just the slightest hint of frustration. Lorenzia was fixated. His composure was like a curl of paper peeling off its wall to reveal the whitewash beneath. If she decided to tug at that curl, how much more would she expose?

“Your nose is causing you trouble,” she pried.

Maximilien sniffed. “As are you.”

Lorenzia laughed, coy. “I am as bad as a sneeze that won’t come? You compare an ally to an enemy.”

An enemy it proved, as the phantom sneeze struck again and made him beg for it with a wavering, “Hhh...” He wrenched out the handkerchief with such urgency that Lorenzia thought his battle won. He hovered before his hand, his mouth marginally agape and wanting, but before long his shoulders dropped as his breath huffed out. Not to be. Robespierre was the sort to keep his composure intact, but Lorenzia fancied she could see his eyebrows lowering with each failed attempt.

She smiled to herself. Before her no longer was a being without exploit. Lorenzia was quite familiar with men who couldn’t reach relief on their own.

She stood up from the bed and padded over to him, doe-like, serpentine, not trying for alluring so much as masterful. Robespierre eyed her watchfully and stiffened. What obstinacy! Rarely did Lorenzia face such an iron shield. The challenge of lowering his guard enticed her.

Robespierre resisted by organizing the parchment before him, tapping the papers together in his hands. He coughed low in his throat. “Perhaps a bit of fresh air will cure this.”

“Will it? The window is open. Here.” Lorenzia reached to the desk to take up the quill. It was a goose feather, a tawny gray, the follicles lying in a tame diagonal. “I imagine this would cause a sneeze much faster than ‘fresh air.’”

Robespierre showed his immediate opposition with a furrowed brow, and then stood, taller by a good seven inches. “If I’m lucky, fresh air will cause it. If I’m luckier still, fresh air will drive it away. Pardon.”

Lorenzia gripped his arm before he left – the most brash she’d ever been with him, but she knew her voice alone wouldn’t keep him there. “Come now. Your not-quite-sneeze is curing my boredom... And it’s not polite to leave a lady alone. Would you abandon me and not even hesitate?”

At that final sentence, his usually composed features stirred towards despondence, which then dissolved into slow anticipation as said “not-quite-sneeze” returned to bother him further. The arm Lorenzia wasn’t grappling struggled to pull the handkerchief free and, once successful, covered his face with it…

His long-lashed eyes, dolphin gray, dauphin gray, held a sheen from the tickle in his nose, a sheen that reflected all nearby light from the candles and the window. In those sparkling eyes, Lorenzia suddenly imagined that there had, once upon a time, been a man who lived in the sounds of women’s laughter and the dull colliding of wooden steins and a song from the throat of a soldier. Who mourned the loss of that man? Did anyone? Did Robespierre?

It was too much. At last the tickle proved strong enough to become a sneeze, and Robespierre collapsed into his handkerchief with a sharp, single, “Ch’schuh!”

Lorenzia felt his body tremble with it up through her arm. “À tes souhaits, monsieur!” she simpered, pressing the inside of her elbow to his. “Though I do believe your wish just came true, yes?”

“… Sch’iuu!” A second tagged just after the first, muffled into the handkerchief again. He squinted his lids, as if he were trying to look at something close to his face. Was it a third sneeze on the way? Yes, it was – the handkerchief pressed beneath his nose, and the air came fast, frantic, into his lungs, lifting his diaphragm up, up–

And then dropping it in a sudden huff of breath.

And lifting it again–!

And… nothing.

Robespierre’s posture was a struggling against the hesitant third, somehow the most stubborn, of the sneezes, and Lorenzia saw her chance. She reached behind him to his quill on the desk, holding it delicately between forefinger and thumb. He didn’t stop her when she moved in towards him, mere inches away; he was too preoccupied with his closed eyes and fluttering breaths. Under normal circumstances, he would not let her, or anyone, this close to him. Lorenzia opened her mouth in a small smile, charmed by his distraction, his neediness, as she brought the feather to his face.

At the slightest touch, he pulled away. She pursued. He pulled away again, stumbling backwards to his chair and trying to turn to the desk, but Lorenzia caught him by his chin and turned him towards her instead. She felt his resistance to her soft fingers, wondered suddenly, briefly, if a woman had broken his heart, that her touch wasn’t an unusual sensation to him but in fact something all too familiar. That, like her spells, Robespierre’s skin was blanketed in memories and to touch him was to reopen a hundred invisible wounds.

But Lorenzia had never been the type of woman to hold back.

The introduction of the feather to the inside of his nose was met with a blustering snort. The next attempt was not much better. She imagined the feeling was very foreign and unpleasant, and Robespierre swatted her off when she tried again. He glared at her with watery eyes.

“Enough of that,” he growled. “You are only making it worse.”

 “That’s what your problem is,” Lorenzia said, bringing the feather under his chin. “It’s a sneeze. It has to get worse before it can get better.”

Robespierre went very quiet at that, but kept his jaw raised, not yet giving in to her argument. Lorenzia waved the feather against his right ear temptingly. He didn’t respond to it. He stared, not happy but not angry, as if he were looking right through her. Eventually, he closed his eyes. It was not her actions that seemed to undo Robespierre; it was more as though he had reached some decision with himself. The angle of his head sort of relaxed, then, as if letting her know she had permission to try again.

Lorenzia put on another slow smile. Even though she had ‘won,’ it had not been an easy victory, and she delighted in that notion.

This time Robespierre let the feather go deeper into his nose, as if to prove his acceptance. It still wasn’t long before he had to snort against it, but it was tucked in too deep to be forced out this time. Pleased by this, Lorenzia began to stir the feather around with tantalizing slowness. Robespierre’s response was subtle but immediate. He took in a few gasping breaths, so thin and light like whispers. His arms were folded, and his fingers twitched and tightened on their opposite elbow. When Lorenzia began to reverse the spinning of the quill, he clenched his teeth, grimaced, and opened his eyes to slits.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t take your time,” he rasped.

Lorenzia’s smile became more prim. “I’m not trying to take my time. Is it working then?” She trembled the feather as she swirled it and watched to see his response.

Robespierre shifted his posture uncomfortably. His upper lip twitched and his eyes narrowed. The feather wasn’t moving things along as quickly as he would have liked, she could tell, and before his patience could wear off and he’d say  “Never mind,” Lorenzia tried fervidly to make him sneeze. The feather spun faster, twitched more. It was bothering him, she could tell, but it wasn’t bothering him enough.

As his eyebrows began to knit and Robespierre opened his mouth, as if to protest, Lorenzia touched the feather to the back of his nose and gave it the tiniest of tremors. It was the last thing she could think of. Would it work?

Robespierre’s eyes widened, then clenched. “Hhh…”

Lorenzia kept at it. Robespierre sniffed, fluttery. “H-hh… Hh-huh…”

His gasps were getting deeper, sounding fuller in his chest than the light breaths from before. Proud of her success, Lorenzia continued this subtle gesture, and soon Robespierre’s head was tipping back, responding to the tiny stimulus much more urgently than the twisting. He couldn’t stand it, not for another instant. And with the feather tucked as far in as it would yield, and trembling like a leaf in a summer breeze, Lorenzia watched the stoic, steadfast Maximilien Robespierre lose control.

“—SHH’IUUU!”

He sneezed. It was a sneeze as stubborn as he was, and he’d barely had the resolve to brush Lorenzia’s hand to the side before it came free. The quill had fallen to the floor when he’d done it. His recovery seemed immediate; other than his still-pink nose, one might have guessed he hadn’t sneezed at all, if they hadn’t seen it happen. But though his face was placid, it was not the end. Robespierre turned fully to the desk, whisking out his handkerchief, and sneezing into it three more times. “… Sh’iuuu! Huh-shhoo! —shhh!” Then he blew, roughly, politely, a last time, and sighed like someone who was tired.

“À tes souhaits,” Lorenzia purred again. She picked up the feather from its place on the floor and pointed at him with its soft tip. “Well? Did that do the trick then?”

She had been hoping Robespierre would be embarrassed by the ordeal, or maybe even a little relieved and thankful—anything other than his usual despondence. But his eyes were foggy and distant as he tucked his handkerchief away, and he was quiet for a moment.

“Well?” Lorenzia smirked, though she was feeling a little put-off. “Not even a thank you?”

Robespierre did look at her then. If he were smiling, it was so small as to be scarcely perceptible. She could have been imagining it. “I was under the impression that that was an exchange, not a favor.” His voice was as rehearsed as ever. “You’ve cured my ailment, and I’ve cured yours.”

Lorenzia blinked, eyebrows joining in puzzlement. “My ailment?”

Robespierre took the quill not forcefully from her fingers. “Your boredom.”

With that, he set back to his letter with the very culprit that had caused his sneeze.

Lorenzia watched him. The feather was only a bit disheveled by its ordeal. The man who held it was in equal poise. Somehow, she felt she knew Maximilien Robespierre even less than she had before.

After another ponderous moment, Lorenzia trailed back to the bed and curled up on it, a lounging jungle cat once more. Outside, the roof of the pale sky was dappled with tiny stars. She heard Cagliostro coming up the road, shouting something merry to a passerby in a voice that said he’d already gotten started on that vodka. Soon he’d be upstairs, a bottle in each hand, and the din of the room would surely be broken until he fell into a drunken sleep.

“Lorenzia.”

Robespierre’s voice was somehow quiet and powerful at once. It cut through the air just as well as Cagliostro’s booming laughter.

Lorenzia sat up, playing her fingers through her thick hair. “Mm?”

“There’s no need to tell Cagliostro about what transpired while he was away.”

Lorenzia’s mouth opened just a bit in surprise. Then she smiled. “And… if I did tell him?”

Robespierre’s hand had not stopped writing while he spoke. “I should not feel the need to stay company with someone who I cannot trust, nor should I feel inclined to protect their secrets… or, perhaps, alleviate their boredom.”

Without any wind blowing through the window, Lorenzia felt herself shiver. She was not sure if she could love men anymore, but this particular man knew how to keep her interest.

She bowed her head to him as if he were a king. “Well… we certainly can’t have that, now, can we?”

[mayansmcx]

Hell Hath No Fury - An Invitation (part 2)

The car ride starts off just like any other car ride between two people who don't know each other but now have to spend the next two hours together: quiet and awkward.

After a few minutes of tense silence, I decide to muster up the confidence I had right before we started our drive back. Luckily, charging head long into conversations in potentially uncomfortable situations is something I'm great at.

"So, how long have you known those guys?" I ask.

He looks at me quickly before shifting to lean against the door. His eyes are fixated out the window as he replies "Coco, man I don't even know how long. Feels like forever though. And EZ, I've known him since he was born."

"Brothers?" I inquire.

"Yeah but I got the better genes in the family 'cuz clearly I'm the sexier one" he says as he lays his hand on his chest in emphasis.

"Well I was just gonna say that, obviously. Poor EZ must have had such a hard time growing up with a GQ cover model as a brother," I laugh.

He seems more at ease too, "You say that like a joke, but we both know I'm fine."

I shake my head and chuckle and we return back to the previous state of silence.

"So..." he begins, apparently feeling like it's his turn to break the tension, "how long have you worked for Pena? I haven't seen you around much before."

"You make it a habit to know all of the Mayor's staff?" I start to joke. "But no, I've been here about six months now."

"What is it you do for her exactly?" He asks, his interest seemingly genuine.

"I basically oversee all her staff. Handle the day to day stuff, coordinate things for her, advise her on things. I'm pretty much her right hand." The answer never changes but the more I have to explain it, the more boring it sounds.

"So she says jump and you say..." he starts off before I jump in.

"I say 'how high? Through which hoop? Have you considered what me jumping through this hoop will do for re-election? Have you considered how jumping over skipping may impact our optics?'" I rattle on.

His eyes widen a second as he processes what I'm sure is my alarmingly unpolished personality. "How'd you get into working here?" he fires off another question.

"Well, in college I majored in Political Science. My dad got me into politics at a young age. I tried on a bunch of different majors: Nursing, English, hell, even Philosophy, but none of them kept my interest and I'd find myself debating constitutional rights and policy with the weird school protestors. After I graduated, I did a fellowship program up in Sacramento in the Capitol. From there I headed up the campaign for a Congressman and when he won election he brought me on as his Communications Director in DC. Shortly after that, he made me his Chief when his other one crashed and burned." I explain. 

"Is the money good?" He asks

"Growing up my dad always told me 'you can do anything for money but if you spend 40 years of your life doing something you hate, you will never be happy.' But that being said, no, the money doesn't suck for the most part. I took a huge pay cut coming from DC to here, but I'm happier. Or at least I think I am." I tell him

"So why aren't you in DC?" He prompts further.

"That's a long, complicated story. Anyways, what about you? Are bar fights your favorite hobby?" I ask, hoping he'll gloss over me trying to change the subject.

"Not always," he says, "but sometimes people piss me the fuck off".

"So you're a hot head" It's not a question, but a statement.

"I like to think I'm just a passionate guy." He jokes.

"Ok, hot head" I laugh.

The rest of the ride, the tension dissipates. The conversation remains light; I talk a little bit about college and some of the things I've seen and done in DC, and he tells me bits and pieces of his story in return, neither of us delving into anything serious or heavy.

We work our way back into Santo Padre and he starts to guide me to wherever it is I need to drop him off.

"So where is it that I'm taking you?" I ask.

"The scrapyard. Bish will probably want to see you again, you know, to say thanks and all that" he tells me.

"That's fine" I tell him.

We eventually pull up into the scrapyard, which based on the signs is called "Romero Brothers Scrap & Salvage". I park and Angel and I both exit the car.

"This way." He indicates as he sets off to the main doors.

We walk in and see everyone dispersed around the room. EZ is behind the bar that Coco is sitting at, while Bishop and Taza are casually talking to other members on the couch.

"Hey Prez, we're back." Angel interjects when their conversation seems to hit a lull.

Bishop looks up and sees us both, stands up, and walks over to us.

"Glad to see you in one piece, Angel" He slaps his hand down on Angel's back twice. "And Lennon, thanks again for doing this for us.' He says earnestly.

"It was no trouble at all, my pleasure really. It's not every day you get to be on the inside of Fight Club" I smile, hearing Angel suck his teeth and bite back a retort.

"Coco says you scared the piss out of the badges." Bishop says, sounding amused.

"They got under my skin. When people get under my skin, my mouth runs faster than my brain can filter. The results are always amusing for someone, not always amusing for me though" I smirk.

"Sounds like you and Angel have that in common" Bishop says, a smile on his face.

"Seems so. Only I have the common sense to use my mouth and not my fists." I wink at Angel.

"I bet you do." Angel catches the innuendo I inadvertently made.

Rolling my eyes, I look back at Bishop who is now flanked by Taza.

"ANYWAYS," I sarcastically emphasize, "it was a pleasure helping you guys out." I tell the two leading members.

"Thanks again" Bishop nods, he starts to turn away before quickly facing me again. "We're having a get together tonight. You should come so we can express our gratitude properly. There's booze, and we'll even have Angel fight tonight that way you can see what it is that you released back into society." He smirks.

"Yeah, that actually sounds great. I don't get out much since Toni... uh Mayor Pena... is the only person I ever really see. Work is never done, ya know?" I tell them.

"'Toni?' You and the Mayor are tight?" Coco suddenly jumps into the conversation; I was unaware he'd been listening.

"Yeah," I say, pissed at myself for letting that slip. "It's not something I like to broadcast. I'd rather people know I got here on my own merits than thinking I'm just my friends lapdog. I met her during my fellowship." I explain further.

"That one up in Sac, right?" Angel asks without missing a beat.

"That's the one" I smile.

"Angel finally pays attention for once" EZ jokes.

"Tch, shut up, EZ" Angel shoves him.

I'm thoroughly enjoying this interaction, feeling incredibly comfortable in the presence of men who are well documented to be on the other side of the law when I see a black Escalade pull into the scrapyard.

"Seems you guy have some company, let me get out of your hair. I'll see you guys tonight. What time?"  I ask the group.

"Eight O'Clock" EZ tells me.

"Alright, see you then" I smile brightly as I start to turn around. With all the smiling I've done today I thank god my parents invested in good orthodontia work when I was in high school.

"Shit!" I hear one of the men say as I press my hand on the door to swing it open.

As I make my way through the lot back to my car, I see the men start to exit the Escalade, but can really only make out the details of the two closest to me. The man coming from the back is well dressed in what is easily a designer suit. His hair is styled meticulously, and his face is well chiseled. The man next to him has two long braids and even from a distance looks intimidating. As I slide into my car, I make eye contact with them both. I start my car and begin to pull away. Looking in my sideview mirror I can see they are still watching me; it's almost as if they want to ensure I leave. A chill rushes down my spine briefly which causes me to laugh.

I've been in the room with serious power players before, two random men from a tiny city in the middle of nowhere are hardly any threat. I think.

[joeys-piano]

odazai :3c or if you've already been asked for it, then dazatsu!

I only have enough energy to do the Odazai one, Luka~ Since this ask is pretty long (nearly 4k!), here’s the gist if you’re unable to read the full version at this time:

Far from being a perfect couple, what’s emotionally intimate and personal about Dazai and Oda’s relationship is that despite their differences and their faults, they make strides in understanding each other and in recognizing each other’s boundaries. It’s not always perfect, there are mishaps and mistakes along the way, and certain things are a rather sore subject to them both. But something admirable and important to take away from this is that Dazai and Oda make an effort to listen to each other, to understand the undercurrent of tension and stress that lapses between them at times, and they’re both gradually moving forward with what they have learned and that adds vitality and strength to their relationship.

Send Me A Ship, And I’ll Tell You…

who is more likely to hurt the other?While it would seem contrary and even OOC for me to say this, I believe that Oda would be more likely to hurt Dazai. Before you stab me for my hearsay, let me explain.  The term “hurt” can be used as an umbrella term for different types of pain: physical, emotional, mental, etc… Oda wouldn’t physically or mentally hurt Dazai. He has no reason to, and it’s not in his nature to lash out in those ways. The only pain that Oda ever dealt to Dazai was emotional.

We see this towards the end of the Dark Era arc when Oda bids his final farewell to his children before confronting Gide. In the silence of that moment, with desperation rising in his throat, we watch and listen as Dazai asks – no, pleads – for Oda to think this over and find something else to live for. For the first time, the demonic mask of the Port Mafia Executive falls. Left behind and hardly unscathed is the face of a child, of a young man who had nothing to live for but is desperately clinging onto the one person that his world wouldn’t be the same without. Despite all of this, despite this probably being the first time Dazai has ever broken from his usual composure, Oda tells him that he can’t do that.

To Oda, if he was to go back on this, his children would’ve died for nothing. Their deaths would forever haunt him if he couldn’t avenge for them, himself. What’s even more emotionally painful about this scene is that this is one of the few, poignant moments where Oda doesn’t yield to Dazai’s words. It’s hard to put up a nonchalant front and casually go along with what your friend is saying when you’ve lost some of the most important people in your world. With that established and mutually understood, Oda leaves behind a gaping hole within Dazai’s heart before departing from the scene.

But even if we forget that canon exists and we’re lawlessly frolicking through the land of AU, I still stand by the idea that Oda is more likely to emotionally hurt Dazai. Not in a sense where there’s a lack of respect or trust in the relationship, not in a sense where everything’s on the rocks and hearts are on edge, but in the sense of honesty. Of the duo, Oda is more of an honest man and Dazai knows this. So when Oda says something, the weight behind his words is even heavier because there’s no hidden agenda to obscure anything. Oda means what he says. So sometimes, whether intentional or not, what he says hurts.

Dazai isn’t someone who’d flourish his heart at his sleeve. Or in other words, he’d rarely admit if he was hurt by something Oda had said. I’d imagine that Dazai would take Oda’s words into consideration and resolve to do better if disappointment is what’s lingering in the air. Having known him for a considerable amount of time, Oda would notice the slight shift in Dazai’s words and body language and realize that he had hurt him.

who is emotionally stronger?At a first glance, it seems 50/50. Oda and Dazai both possess an incredible amount of resilience and resolve, so I have no idea who would be emotionally stronger than the other! I’d say that they’re both equals when it comes to this^^

who is physically stronger?At first glance, you’d think it’s Oda. Former-assassin, former glorified handyman of the Port Mafia, and probably dragged a very drunk-off-his-ass Dazai from the Bar Lupin after a long Friday night…

This question ultimately depends on what you mean by physical strength. If we’re talking about endurance and physical prowess, I’d say that Oda has the upperhand in that department. If we’re talking about endurance in regards to physical pain and taking into account the body’s rate of healing after being afflicted by a series of injuries, Dazai wins in that department. They’re both physically stronger than the other in different ways.

who is more likely to break a bone? Dazai has probably broken as many bones in his body as there are stars in the sky.

who knows best what to say to upset the other?Dazai. Sometimes, whether he means well or not, he knows exactly what to say to garner a rise from Oda. Sometimes it’s through a careless phrase or a careless set of words, sometimes it’s through an overly elaborate explanation when only a word or two would suffice or sometimes, Dazai drifts a little too far and Oda is reeling him back. Oda is a writer, after all. He can decipher many of the nuances behind Dazai’s words.

who is most likely to apologise first after an argument?Dazai is aware when he takes an argument too far, so I could see him being the first to apologize. There are moments where he’ll fixate on a little thing and an argument escalates as a result of that fixation. Oda would’ve grown tired of it and would try to move on, but Dazai would reel the topic back into the foreground of the conversation until A] Oda tells Dazai that he needs some time to himself or B] Oda may have to raise his voice so Dazai would know that he doesn’t want to continue the conversation anymore.

Dazai never realized he had a habit of fixating on certain things in conversations until he saw how upset Oda was during one of its first occurrences. Before Oda could apologize for raising his voice, an air of exasperation at his tongue, Dazai apologized first. He’d apologize for not paying attention to Oda’s boundaries, for pushing Oda beyond his comfort zone, and for ignoring his repeated asks/requests to change the topic of conversation. Dazai initially ignored these things because this is the same tactic he’d used to whittle information out from traitors, criminals, and hostages that had found their way into one of the Port Mafia’s interrogation rooms. He didn’t think that old tactic would emerge in his and Oda’s relationship, but now he knows.

who treats who’s wounds more often? Oda is one of the very few people that Dazai trusts enough for this job. Dazai is intimately aware of how vulnerable he is while his wounds are getting treated, and he trusts Oda enough to know that the man won’t stab him while he’s getting stitches or rubbing ointment over his bruises.

who is in constant need of comfort? Having forsaken his humanity while living under the Port Mafia’s name, there are moments where Dazai reaches out for Oda and cuddles into the man’s arms. Because within that moment, while surrounded by Oda’s warm and tight embrace, Dazai feels a little more human. He feels like he’s able to continue on this path of being a good person, a person striving towards the light. He feels a little safer, able to let down his guard and simply be himself. He feels whole, even though he’s a few cracks away from falling apart. Oda is the embodiment of Dazai’s strength, so Dazai snuggles against him to regain that strength.

who gets more jealous? I can see slight shades of this from both of them. Where for Oda, the jealousy manifests as a want to protect Dazai from others that might be using him for their own good or for worse. And for Dazai, the jealousy manifests like a calm before a storm when he quietly confronts someone on what their intentions are with Oda. Jealousy, especially when in regards to love, isn’t an emotion that I write about often so I’m not sure how to answer this^^

who’s most likely to walk out on the other? Dazai. Not because he wants to, but because it’ll protect Oda and the world that Oda believes in. 

who will propose? It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man with everything to live for would want to share that everything with the man he has longed for. For someone as exquisite and as eccentric as Dazai, marrying him in a church was one of the last things on Oda’s mind. But to marry him like this, with Life and Death as their sole witnesses, perhaps it wasn’t a strange idea after all. In a beautiful yet peculiar way, it made sense to die together in order to live together.

So after an unsuccessful attempt at leaping from a bridge and falling into a river, while Dazai fished him from the edge of the embankment and congratulated him for surviving his first suicide attempt, Oda proposed right then and there. When Dazai reached out his hand, Oda clasped a wet engagement ring against his palm and asked if Dazai would marry him. The only sound that registers to Oda’s ears are the quick, short breaths that unfurl from Dazai when he realizes what the latter has just asked. He mumbles quietly, more to himself than to anyone else, that he’d only bring Oda trouble. Without missing a beat, Oda replies that in loving someone for who they are, to know their flaws and love them too, was an honest kind of love. That’s how Oda described his love for Dazai, and Dazai just stares at him before a smile threatens to break his expression.

who has the most difficult parents?Considering I know nothing about their family history, I can’t answer this question with confidence! If I were to guess, I’d say Dazai.

who initiates hand-holding when they’re out in public? During the soft lulls where they’re walking together, occasionally brushing hands because they’re walking so closely to one another, Oda reaches out for Dazai and Dazai intertwines their fingers together. They fit so naturally, hand in hand, as if there’s nowhere else that their hands could be.

who comes up for the other all the time? I don’t know what this question means.

who hogs the blankets? Occasionally, but more often than Oda could count, he’d sleepily climb into bed and discover that all the blankets are gone. The fleece, the cotton, the synthetic wool, the heater-blanket that Dazai has cherished during the past four years of their relationship, and the thin sheet that Oda often drapes under because his body overheats at night are gone. Disappeared. Vanished, like they were never here. Patting his hands around the bed, eyes still closed and heavy with sleep, Oda tries to figure out where everything had gone. Eventually, his hands meander from his side to the bed to Dazai’s. Where his fingers thread through Dazai’s hair, where his palm lightly taps Dazai’s snuggled cheek, and….where Oda’s hands discover a large and fluffy blanket cocoon where Dazai’s body should be.

It takes about fifteen seconds before Oda feels like he has enough energy to open his eyes, and what he sees makes him wonder if he’s dreaming. Dazai had wrapped all of the blankets around himself, and he’s currently snugged like a burrito on his side of the bed. If the light snoring is of any indication, Dazai is fast-asleep and has already drifted off to La La Land. Sinking into the bed slowly, Oda carefully rolls onto this side and tries to peel the cocoon off from his husband. He knows that Dazai gets cold at night, but this is rather extreme. Especially since the heater-blanket is so closely snugged to Dazai, Oda fears that his beloved will be dead by the next morning because of overheating.

One measly inch at a time, pausing every now and then when Dazai moves or wiggles around, Oda takes his time as he slowly unravels the cocoon. With each layer that he manages to peel off, Oda can discern a sweet smell. It’s faint, almost like the vanilla body wash that’s in the shower right now, and Oda can find the smell on the sheets and it’s even stronger with every blanket-layer he manages to pull off from Dazai. Ah, Dazai must’ve fallen asleep as soon when he got out from the shower. Probably cold from the lack of steam around him, it would’ve prompted him to fashion this blanket cocoon. It all made sense now. The last blanket-layer, the heated-blanket, remained untouched as Oda gathered the rest of the cocoon and lazily dispersed the layers around the bed. Draped under his thin sheet, now secure and slightly protected from the cold, Oda can finally sleep.

But oh, he’s roused from his slumber and it’s barely been five minutes! As he opens his eyes, Oda realizes that he’s slowly being turned. Somewhere in the midst of sleep, Dazai had instinctively reached out for Oda and is currently tangled yet snuggled under the man’s arms and legs. It was as if Dazai could sense that his blanket cocoon had been destroyed, so he carefully crafted another. Where instead of reaching out for the sheets, Dazai reached out for the warmest thing in the vicinity. So that’s how a very toasty Dazai and a very sleepy Oda would fall asleep on most nights. Where Dazai is secured, warm, and affectionately cuddled while Oda tenderly embraces him and feels a little colder when Dazai steals his thin blanket and is too tired to fish for it again.

who gets more sad? Sadness isn’t the only thing that lingers when Dazai is upset, but frustration crackles like a fire if he’s left to his own devices. Maybe sadness and frustration aren’t the only feelings, caged within his heart. Perhaps, there’s a note of exhaustion that unfurls as a whisper because Dazai keeps it to himself.

Sometimes, there are moments where he doesn’t have the energy to be a good person. Sometimes, he feels less inclined to help others and wishes for them to figure out what they need to do instead. Sometimes, it really bothers him how others have a much easier time of being a good person while this is something that Dazai still struggles with. Two, four, six years down the line. He’s tired, emotionally and mentally drained. Unable to put up his usual antics at the office and is aware of Kunikida and Atsushi are staring at him, brows knitted with concern. Dazai leaves the agency early that day and when he gets home, he’s writhed with shame and disappointment with how he’s been acting.

When he left the Port Mafia with Oda, he knew it’d be hard. He knew he’d struggle with being a good person, he knew he’d have to persevere and push through whatever he was dealing with, and…Dazai’s thoughts are interrupted when the front door opens and Oda is watching him with a peculiar glint in his eyes.

The door had been unlocked, but no one was coming inside. That was why Oda opened the door, concerned that something must’ve happened. And he looks at Dazai and sees the weariness in his eyes, Oda takes Dazai by the hand and slowly leads him to the kitchen where he can sit down. Dazai is so stiff that he’s unable to ease into his seat, even with the helpful coax of Oda’s hands at his shoulders. A series of tight, worrying knots are hitched at Dazai’s back so Oda massages the aches with a delicate touch.

During moments like this, Oda knows better than to ask Dazai of what’s bothering him. During moments like this, Oda’s first priority is for Dazai to feel comfortable. And then after that, they can work through and talk about whatever is on Dazai’s mind. Oda gives Dazai a choice on when he wants to talk about these things and tries his best not to urge Dazai to speak if the latter doesn’t feel like speaking. By taking things at a slower, more flexible pace, Oda knows that Dazai will be more honest with him when they’re finally speaking. He knows that Dazai won’t be hiding anything from him, and he knows that Dazai won’t be putting up a front to seem strong in Oda’s eyes.

After about an hour, after an early dinner, after a warm and lazy bath where Dazai messed with a rubber duck while Oda shampooed his hair, and after spending nearly the entire evening snuggled at Oda’s side while the latter is reading a book of poetry, Dazai finally speaks. His voice is quiet, his words are murmured into Oda’s skin, but Oda listens to him. He closes the book of poetry and gives Dazai his full, undivided attention as Dazai whispers what’s been bothering him. He confesses his fears, his worries, and everything in between while Oda rubs small circles along his back.

After hearing Dazai’s concerns, Oda talks to him. This is one of those rare and few moments where Oda speaks a lot more than he usually does while Dazai is quietly listening. Giving advice isn’t one of Oda’s strongest points, so he talks from his own experience and how he kind of figured out that being a good person is more than just being good. You can still be a good person, even if you have bad thoughts or impulses at times. You can still be and become a good person, even if your past wasn’t grounded in a good place. Oda tells Dazai that sometimes being a good person involves struggling through, working against, or even despite these things. That Dazai isn’t any less of a good person because he has to work a lot harder than others, but that he’s grown into a stronger and more self-aware person that recognizes where pitfalls are and consciously makes the choice to do more good rather than harm.

Despite being a writer, sometimes words aren’t Oda’s strongest points. He hopes that what he said helped Dazai, even if it was a little bit. Because in truth, Oda’s still trying to figure this out for himself. He’s been through whatever Dazai’s feeling right now, he’s thought the same thoughts, and felt the same frustrations that would leave him out of it for weeks. During those times, what helped Oda the most was having Dazai with him and having someone to talk to. During moments like this, Oda wants to be there for Dazai even if he isn’t quite sure of what to do. But the effort and company sure helps.

who is better at cheering the other up? Considering the above, I think it’s Oda.

who’s the one that playfully slaps the other all the time after they make silly jokes?A glass or two of whisky has been dropped on multiple occasions because Dazai doesn’t know his own strength when he playfully slaps Oda on the shoulder. The two would be joking about something and Dazai would tell the corniest, worst joke in the history of all jokes. And while he’s laughing his butt off, his hand starts flying and makes an impact with Oda’s shoulder. After a few times, the couple has agreed to an unspoken rule that jokes should be reserved at home. Where the cups are made of plastic, where the alcohol is much cheaper, and where there isn’t a bartender to apologize to whenever a portion of whisky goes flying across the bar.

who is more streetwise?Dazai without a doubt. He knows where all the local gangs are and used to antagonize them when he was younger, more brash, and more trigger-happy with a gun. Since joining the ADA, he has mellowed out and has used his street knowledge to aid the agency when they’re busting arson loots and drug trades.

who is more wise?Dazai has more wisdom when it comes to life, death, and the role of violence when the opportunity is in one’s hands. Oda has more wisdom when it comes to experience, philosophy, and the role a person takes if they’re wanting to reform their life. It really depends on what kind of wisdom you’re talking about.

who’s the shyest? People would say that Oda’s the shyest out of the couple because he’s quiet, he doesn’t speak very much, and he isn’t one for rowdy environments. They would say he’s shy because most of his activities are very introverted (writing, reading, preferring home rather than going outside, etc…) People would often say that if it wasn’t for Dazai, it’d be a wonder if anyone would notice Oda at all. While these assumptions have some truth to their foundations, anyone that knows Oda knows that he isn’t shy.

Oda’s quiet because he’s observing the world, the people, and the environment around him and acts accordingly depending on that observation. He doesn’t speak very much because often, he doesn’t need to speak at all. Or if he does want to speak, he’s carefully choosing his words and deliberates if what he wants to say makes sense, if what he says is polite, and if what he says is meaningful/necessary to the discussion. His activities are rather introverted because he’s a writer. He spends his days at home, working on his manuscript or reading a good book to entice his imagination, and it’s pretty hard to write on the go when you can’t control the weather or the people around you. Oda’s quiet and stoic nature is one of the first things that distinguishes him from a crowd, and people are often drawn to him because there’s this mysterious allure and atmosphere surrounding him. Were it not for Dazai, it’d be a wonder if anyone would talk to Oda at all.

But when the world sees that this dashing young fellow, tackling Oda into a surprise hug, all of the people can breathe a little sigh for Oda’s not as intimidating as he looks.

who boasts about the other more? If Kunikida had a notebook for every moment Dazai talked about Oda, he’d be drowning in a lot of notebooks. Without fail, Dazai would boast about a lot of Oda’s accomplishments. No matter if they’re big or small. Since Oda rarely goes out because he’s working on his manuscript, Dazai takes it as his duty to remind the world of what a good, sweet, caring, and hardworking person his husband is. In which Kunikida will argue how such a good husband married a slacker like Dazai. And in turn, Dazai will have a hand at his chest and dramatically accuse Kunikida of such slander! They would be at each other’s throats were it not for Oda, calling in at the right moment to calm Dazai down and to apologize to Kunikida on behalf of his husband’s behavior.

who sits on whose lap?The simple answer is that they take turns. Dazai sits on Oda’s lap during soft, calm moments where they’re both reading or watching the TV. Oda sits on Dazai’s lap when the latter wants a good cuddle session and claims that he has an easier time when Oda’s on his lap.

[samesongxox]

Savior: Chapter 7 (Its Been, One Week)

Summary: (Hellboy 2019) AKA Turning a New Leaf AKA Good Samaritans Need Love Too. The B.P.R.D is tasked to infiltrate a black market creature trafficking ring led by a powerful warlock. Hellboy rescues Phyrra who is found being held hostage, a slave for her magic. He must protect her as she is hunted by her master and his gang of monsters. (AU where Broom isn’t dead/Abe wasn’t found)

It will be rated M, it will include violence, swearing, smuttiness, all the good things in life.

Disclaimer: Hellboy belongs to Dark Horse Comics/Mike Mignola, I don’t own anything except the AU and my OC’s.

Hellboy walked into the library, following the sound of Phyrra laughing. Now don't get him wrong, it was quickly becoming one of his favourite sounds. Top three in front of the sound of a beer opening and a nice clean shot from a new gun. It wasn't just the sound of her laughter though, joining it was the sound of his father talking animatedly about a topic Hellboy wasn't quite sure he was hearing it.

"He was a handful alright! I remember many Christmases all Hellboy wanted was a Howdy Doody doll of his own. He was beyond ecstatic this particular morning."

He watched as Phyrra cooed over the photo in her hands. He felt the cold wash of shame. Oh on. No, no.

"Dad, Phyrra. What's going on?"

Phyrra's eyes shot up and she blinded him with her smile. This wasn't good at all.

"Oh Hellboy! You were such a cute baby! Look at your little tail!" Hellboy felt very conflicted as he found himself pleased at Phyrra's bright smile, her utter delight. He supposed he could live with some severe embarrassment if she looked at him like that.

"Thanks, dad." Trevor just shrugged, flipping the page of the photobook. Hellboy took the chance and sat down beside her, figuring she was distracted enough by the mortifying pictures.

It had been a week since Phyrra's arrival to the B.P.R.D.

Seven excellent days of being in her presence, holding her attention, being able to talk to her. Seven days of watching the elf girl graceful moves around him. Seven days where he couldn't bring himself to ask her out.

Since the trio returned to HQ, something had changed between them and they had managed to become less nervous around each other. Everyone had taken to spending alternating shifts in the library and the warehouse a day, the majority of the creatures were harmless, able to be liberated to find their homes again. Trevor had phoned up some old friends running the sanctuaries for the harpies, a basilisk. Elias had seemed to even come into the possession of a dragon, a majestic beast that was currently on its way to Northern Ireland to stay with a Mr. Li-Yang, a most generous benefactor for those types of creatures.

Last night in the library, he thought he might have found something. Some ancient elven tombs he couldn't read, he had found on the highest shelf, even he had to stretch to reach it. He had voiced his interest to her so Phyrra had come over and leaned over him to look at the book, casually putting her hand on his shoulder to steady herself. She seemed to understand some of the languages and was able to decipher. He turned his head and gasped at how close their faces were. Phyrra was busy with the text in his hands, he stared openly at her in this new perspective.

Her skin seemed so soft, so pale and supple. Her tattoos fixated him in the graceful swirls that ran down her nose and cheeks. He couldn't stop imagining himself following the trails they made down her elegant, swan neck into the blouse she was currently wearing. He had become so enraptured he continued his inspection until she fixed her gaze on him.

"This is interesting. Nórë-o i taurë…" Her brow furrowed as she seemed to contemplate something. "May I have it for a moment?"

"Y-yeah." Hellboy snapped out of his daze as Phyrra had stood there for a moment, the book cradled in her arms as she scanned the page, face still puzzled. "May I continue reading this?"

Hellboy barely nodded before she was turning back to the armchair she had often claimed in the days, placing her slight form into the mass of cushion. She was enraptured by the book all afternoon until she seemed to reach her limit. No one voiced anything as they had parted ways for the night, but something was on Phyrra's mind.

Cut him some slack here, it wasn't like he was some pro at this.

Alice was right about Phyrra being proper. She was a serene girl, amiable and respectful to a tee. She was often silent and only smiled pleasantly at Alice and his antics.

The most passion he ever saw from her was when she was in the kitchen. Dad had tried so hard to not allow her to make their meals, stating that the B.P.R.D did have the main cafeteria. Chefs from all over the world were brought in to make fantastic meals for the many staff members of the organization, but Phyrra was strangely insistent.

So he saw glimpses of it, her being carefree.

And at this particular moment. Hellboy looked from her joyful face to the horrible pictures in her hands. Moments from his past that while not necessarily bad memories, but something he didn't want the girl he was crushing on to see.

"I'm sorry not that this isn't great." Hellboy leaned over to close the album containing his childhood.

"But shouldn't we get back to the books?" Phyrra and Trevor grew silent, they had already been discussing the recent turn of events a few moments ago before Phyrra's eyes had caught the album, her curiosity a welcomed change in the subject for her, Trevor had been more than happy to show her some pictures he collected over the years.

"That one you found yesterday Hellboy," She licked at her suddenly dry lips, "It holds the answers. I believe we should focus our attention on this. It's a language I know.. Or knew."

"Oh…That's awesome, isn't it?"

Phyrra felt her lips pulling, Hellboy was right. She was becoming quite perturbed at her continuing lack of memories, but she had found the answer, it just needed to be uncovered. She should be kinder to herself.

"Yes, it is." She giggled peacefully at Hellboy's open, jubilant expression. She placed her hand on his stone hand, Hellboy was daring enough to cover it with his hand. Their eyes were locked in a sudden trance.

They didn't know who reached first, but they ended up in a hug.

Phyrra had slowly begun to seek his contact more often, she couldn't stop herself from drifting towards him when he was near, placing her hand on his arm or against his shoulder as they conversed. Hellboy was funny like Alice but much more reserved. Phyrra had soon found out sitting around just reading wasn't fun for Hellboy, she was touched that him, that every one of them, had helped out considerably with the library's extensive collections.

Hellboy was always a source of warmth, a kind that Phyrra enjoyed immensely. She didn't voice it, but the hallways of B.P.R.D were rather chilled and damp to her. She would be lying if she said she didn't seek out the feeling of Hellboy's hot skin, finding it quite delightful.

He would feel better helping her in her bed, warming. Lulling her into a dreamless sleep...

Phyrra broke the hold first, pulling back with her head down to attempt to hide her flushed face.

"I will go get it. I stayed up most of the night continuing to try and understand " The elf girl scampered away on slight feet.

Father and son were left alone.

Trevor would have to be blind, deaf and dumb to not see Phyrra and Hellboy's fledgling relationship. On one hand, he wasn't against the idea of his boy finding companionship with this elf girl, Phyrra was a lovely girl.

She had only been here a short time, but her influence was already being seen in the team, Alice was ecstatic. The Professor had never realized she might be missing female companionship, Alice was always so confident.

Ben was even starting to come around to her presence, he had voiced his concerns to the Professor the night after Phyrra agreed to join the B.P.R.D.

Ben had come to Trevor asking him if this was the best idea, they were being put in a delicate situation, the warlock would no doubt be coming for her. Trevor had laid the Major's worries to rest, was it really about the possibility of a break-in, they were more than prepared for such a possibility. If it was simply the new addition, Trevor vouched for the young elf. Now, the Major had begun to relax around the girl, letting loose a few quips that showed his easing attitude.

No one had to guess to know how Hellboy felt about it, he was infatuated with the elf girl. The feeling was mutual if Phyrra's easy smiles and glances were any indication. It was a sweet kind of naive courting that Trevor didn't expect out of his son.

On the other, it was happening rather fast, call him old fashioned.

"Hellboy I would be remiss if I didn't voice my concern,"

".." Hellboy said all the displeasure he felt with no words, he knew exactly where this conversation was heading.

"I just want you to be careful, son. Phyrra is a very special girl, but I would be bereaved if I ever saw you heartbroken."

"Come on, dad!" Hellboy stood up and started pacing agitatedly. He couldn't believe this was happening.

"Besides, you're the one who asked her to be on the team,"

"That's not the point, Hellboy. She's very unstable right now."

Hellboy gave his father a deadpan look.

"Okay, I get it, dad. I'm trying to take it slow," Hellboy did get it. Other than his cowardice, another reason Hellboy was holding back was her amnesia. Somehow it didn't feel right to be so attracted to this broken, lost girl. Not that Phyrra showed it. As far as the week went, she had been a bright light shining in the tunnels of HQ. If she was just putting on a happy face, she did not indicate cracking yet.

"I know we never actually had.. 'The talk',"

Hellboy groaned harshly, he wished he could wake up from this nightmare.

"And we never do! Please, dad, I'm begging you. Just stop." Hellboy covered his ears in a desperate attempt to quiet his father. He even went as far as to turn completely away from Trevor, in a spectacular sight of childishness.

He couldn't do this right now, it was bad enough he was starting to have dreams about Phyrra, his father discussing the possibility of them having sex was enough to make his skin turn white.

"Alright Hellboy, just... You know to be safe.." Trevor was thankfully interrupted by the alarm signalling, unfortunately, that only meant danger.

"What's happening?" Hellboy followed Trevor to the monitor connected to the security feeds, watching as the intruders walked through the hole blasted in the solid steel wall of the B.P.R.D.

"There seems to have been a break-in."

The visuals were blurry from the blast but Hellboy already knew who it was.

"Phyrra!"

-

Going into town had been an adventure. Due to the current lapse she had of her past, Phyrra had no clue if she had ever been amongst humans before. Sure the odd ones would come around to make a business from time to time, but they were certainly not treated with the best of hospitality.

It was cold here. A colder environment than she had ever been. Trevor had given her a thick woollen jacket to put on and these things called 'mittens' to place over her hands. Showing her a card before slipping it in her pocket, he told her it was a card containing her initial salary, and to use it where they were going to pay for what she wanted.

It all looked so busy, were her thoughts as she watched the scenery pass her by as they were driven to their destination. Busy as the people at the B.P.R.D. Humans always seemed to be running to and from something, Phyrra deduced. Before too long they left the car. Walking passed the mortals, she unconsciously pulled the hat down, attempting to cover her ears as much as she could. The hat was chafing them, but it was the safer option.

"There's no need for that, my dear. We are quite safe here," It had been a short walk to their destination from the car dropping them off, soon Phyrra was walking into a much warmer, filled with some of the loveliest garments Phyrra had ever seen.

"Binx may come out if she'd please." Phyrra had voiced the Professor's request to the pixie in her pocket, she with much enthusiasm, escaped her temporary confines.

"Here, I will take your coat and hat," Phyrra thanked Trevor as he assisted her in removing the now unnecessary things. There was something else about this store, it was obvious, Phyrra could practically taste the magic in the air.

Walking down the aisle that caught her eye, Phyrra found she liked pants.

He would never allow her to wear them. Her clothing was provided for her at all times, she never had a say in what she could wear. Trevor had only looked to her expectantly when they entered the shop. Phyrra was flabbergasted.

"I don't know where to start."

"Well, to be honest, Phyrra. I don't know if I'm the best person to come to for 'fashion' advice, would you be willing to have one of the workers here help?"

"Oh, maybe not," Phyrra bit her lip, her old ways of shyness welling up in her. Life was much easier to live in the B.P.R.D. Out here in this unknown world was quite frightening.

"Hey, Trevor! Long-time no see!" Phyrra was the audience to an enthusiastic woman run up and hug Trevor with no pretense.

Her pupils were too large to be human. Her skin was also slightly hued in blues. Some halfling perhaps, she looked almost mortal.

"Wow! What a beauty! " Binx watched with wary eyes as this unknown creature came up to Phyrra with seemingly no idea of manners or boundaries, hugging the small girl with enthusiasm.

"Definitely not human," the pixie acknowledged, Phyrra shushed her in the quietest way possible, whispering to the stubborn creature.

"You're being rude, Binxy."

"It's fine, she's right," Phyrra and Binx looked at the creature with comical matching expressions of surprise.

"I'm Ava. I picked up some Fae growing up, my parents ran a potions booth at the market downtown," The girl bounced from Phyrra to Binx, bowing slightly. "Nice to see some pixies still around,"

Binx bloomed like a peacock, it was her weakness. The vainness of most pixies sadly did not miss her friend.

"Please, let us get her out of these dreadful clothes,"

Phyrra was slightly miffed at her friend's sudden burning opinion, she happened to like the clothes provided for her by Sorah. She admired the B.P.R.D logo. A hand gripping a weapon, poised and ready to fight evil. Save creatures and humans alike. She looked to Trevor who smiled kindly.

"I'll let you ladies get to it, I'll be right here Phyrra." With the help of hyperactive Ava, Phyrra chose the clothes she wanted. It was very daunting, but in the end, she loved what she picked out, more-so for her ability to have been able to choose more than anything else.

Trevor had also shown what was her room now, to decorate as she pleased. Phyrra knew she was on the same floor as Hellboy and Alice's rooms.

She knew because she had been to Hellboy's, and later that same night, Alice had invited her into her room for 'girl's night'. It had consisted of them watching some human film that was about a couple in a passionate love that caused Phyrra to flush. Alice had also shown her how to 'paint her nails'. Phyrra had seen women with coloured nails but had never given it much thought.

When Alice had asked what her favourite colour was, Phyrra didn't have an answer.

"What do you think I should colour them?"

"I don't know, maybe blue like your eyes….I only have a few colours.." She muttered digging around in the drawer, placing all the vials on her vanity for Phyrra to pick, "I think pink or red would be a lovely colour on you." Phyrra had gone with the red, it was a lovely colour and contrasted with her skin nicely.

Alice had invited her to her room three more times in the week. It had been more than nice, Alice had the great talent of being very easy to talk to. Alice had told her the story of being stolen by fairies as a baby, how Hellboy had saved her, her ability to see and communicate with the dead, how she had often felt quite lonely. Phyrra had likewise confessed to her mundane, awful existence with Elias. The constant fear of punishment and instability with her surroundings.

"Thank you for sharing that with me Phyrra. But you know what? You're here with us now, you never have to worry like that ever again,"

Phyrra thanked Alice, to know this human girl was willing to protect her gave the elf girl great happiness.

The medium had expressed after the colouring nails lesson that Phyrra should remember her favourite things, it might help with her mind recovering.

She felt her memories on the tips of her fingers.

Something she wasn't telling anyone was she had been having odd dreams. Running through trees. Sitting at fires, alone and numb. It felt so real, lucid like it was her past but it wasn't making the gap to her remembrance. She was so close.

That book. It smelled of pine and gave Phyrra a pang in her heart.

Nórë-o i taurë. People of the forest.

It hadn't popped the memories in her mind as hearing Elias's name had been, but she knew that was the answer. She couldn't read all of it, but it was her language. On the borders of the pages were golden swirls, too close to the ones on her skin to be a mere consequence.

In her room, snuggled deep into the pillow, Phyrra snickered at the sight that was one very lazy pixie.

"Good morning Binxy, nice of you to wake up,"

"Hmm... I wouldn't be so tired all the time if you would get the proper sleep,"

Phyrra reached for the book laying on her new nightstand, before being startled, involuntarily throwing the book to the ground.

Alarms were sounded in the hallway, shrill clangs that caused Phyrra's sensitive ears to twinge. The elf girl wrenched her door open. Ignoring her friend's protest, she locked eyes with a frantic agent before he was blasted away from her sightline. Feeling as if she was in slow-motion, Phyrra turned her head. Her heart stuttered against her breastbone.

She stood face to face with Elias.

[emeraldwaves]

Title:  On the Shore of his Soul Pairing:  Kacchako Rating: M Word Count: 1,774 Read on Ao3 PROLOGUE Summary:  

Bakugou Katsuki has always enjoyed his peace and quit, away from people, living as a lighthouse keeper on a tiny island in the bay. But when a storm washes a naked girl onto his shore, his life is thrown into chaos.

SO many people helped me with this fic, so I won’t thank them all, but thank you guys so much for helping me and I hope you guys enjoy this new fic! <3

"A storm is coming?"

"Yup. Why the hell you think I got all this shit?" Bakugou snorted, dumping a giant pile of food, snacks, toilet paper and other supplies onto the counter.

Kirishima said, pulling some of the items across the check-out scanner. "I dunno how you figure it out before all the rest of us."

Scoffing, Bakugou clicked his tongue. Fuckin’ extras. He wouldn’t expect the idiot mainlanders to be able to tell, even if they did live on the coast. "You can smell it in the wind and the tides are rougher. It's easier to tell out on the island."

"Yeah, I figured. You're far from the hustle and bustle of the town," Kirishima nodded, placing some of the items into the bag.

"Thank fuck," Bakugou growled.

"Yeah, yeah. I get it," Kirishima chuckled, "you prefer your island."

"Yup." Bakugou replied, snatching the bag of items from the counter. He was glad Kirishima gave up on getting him to hang out on the mainland. It wasn't for him. Bakugou decided that years ago.

"Now I gotta set shit up," he snorted.

"Hey man," Kirishima said, waving the receipt towards Bakugou, "if you ever need help, you know you can always hit me up. Me and the guys are always willing to come out."

"You kidding? I got my shit handled!" he snapped.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Number one lighthouse keeper. I wouldn't dare suggest otherwise," Kirishima teased, his toothy smile glistening under the harsh store lighting.

Kirishima was teasing, but Bakugou really did pride himself on being one of the best lighthouse keepers this damn town had ever had. Through various storms and fog, not once had the light ever gone out. And never had he witnessed a crash in his time on the island. If that wasn't a damn perfect record, he'd like to see what was.

"Damn straight," Bakugou growled, grabbing the receipt from his hand.

He turned to leave, lifting his hand to wave once before heading out of the store.

"See ya!" Kirishima called after him.

If Bakugou could've avoided the mainland, he would've, but it was next to impossible to get food, clothes and essential items any other way. He didn't hate Kirishima or his friends, but he much preferred to be alone. The island was more than perfect for that.

Small, secluded, no one was there to bother him.

He made his way to the docks, seeing his small boat gently rocking against the wooden post. The ocean breeze caught his hair, his unruly blond locks brushing across his forehead. The air smelled damper now, and Bakugou was quick to hop into his motor boat.

"Shit, I gotta get back," he grunted. He shoved the plastic bags under his seat.

Glancing towards the sky he noted the heavy dark clouds rolling in from off the ocean. This storm was coming on a helluva lot faster than he initially anticipated.

He started up the boat, zooming away from the shore. The tiny lighthouse island across the harbor wasn't far from the mainland docks, but the last thing Bakugou wanted was to get caught on the water in the rainstorm.

The ride across the bay was about fifteen minutes and the moisture in the air was growing heavier, sticking to his skin.

The forecast did mention a storm later in the week, but obviously they predicted wrong. Wouldn't have been the first damn time.

Water splashed up towards his face, the bay already growing a little rocky, and Bakugou pushed the acceleration. Thunder rolled in the distance, the light rumble trembling on the horizon. A few gulls squaked in the distance, their cries heading towards the shore. It seemed he had left the mainland at the perfect time.

He couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to get stuck there. Besides, he had a job to do.

Bakugou pulled the boat up to his small dock, jumping out to tie the cords down, wrapping it around the wooden posts. He secured the motor boat, adding a few extra cords, knowing the storm was coming, he wasn't going to take any chances with his boat.

Traipsing up the steps towards his small cottage, he tossed the food inside, grabbing a bag of snacks and his jacket. He immediately headed up to the lighthouse, not wanting to waste any time.

The island was tiny, with enough space for the small bungalow up on the hill. There was a nice field of grass next to the house, where Bakugou had been considering starting his own garden. Growing his own food, he could potentially avoid town even less. A sole pathway curled up towards the cliff, the perfect lookout point for the lighthouse. Bakugou casually trudged up the stairs, opening the creaking door.

It echoed as it shut behind in him, the sound traveling up the long pipe of the tall, concrete cylinder.

Wrapping his hand around the metal railing, he began his ascent, climbing the tight spiral staircase to the top. When he pushed the hatch open, he wrinkled his nose at his own mess. The sleeping bag and pillow were strewn about the floor from his last late night storm he spent inside the lighthouse. He often chose to sleep overnight during extremely stormy nights. He enjoyed the sounds of winds roaring outside, the rain pounding against the glass, and thunder rumbling against the earth.

Storms were powerful; Bakugou respected that.

He had a feeling tonight was going to be a late night. He stretched up, turning on the large lighthouse light and flicking the switch to start the foghorn. Taking a seat at the small desk, he leaned on his hand, ready to watch the storm roll in.

From this angle, he had a convenient view of the channel, harbor, and shore of his island. It was perfect for boat watching, storm watching, and really anything else he wanted. Occasionally seals would sit on the beach, lazing in the sun, or birds would perch on the rocks, cleaning their wings.

Crunching on some hot Cheetos, Bakugou watched the influx of boats rushing toward to the harbor, attempting to escape from the storm. It was relaxing, and the thunder rolling in the distance was all he needed to drift off. By now, he was never phased by the loud foghorn or the bright light circling around the small room, shining through the windows.

He often chose to sleep up here, which is why he left the sleeping bag and pillows on the floor at all times. However, there were times he would accidentally drift off against the desk. He would wake in the morning, slightly disoriented, the storm usually long gone.

Currently, everything in the lighthouse was set up, and his tasks were complete. Bakugou let his eyes flutter shut, the sound of the foghorn lulling him into a deep sleep.

~~

It was hours later when he awoke again, to the sounds of horns blasting into his ear. It was higher pitched than normal, fluctuating between deeper and higher tones. Was the damn foghorn malfunctioning?

The wind howled outside, the rain slamming against the glass window, and Bakugou blinked his eyes a few times, peering out towards the sea. It was nearly pitch black out there, minus the light from the lighthouse, which illuminated the ocean water and the island as it rotated.

There was a bright flash, and a large clap of thunder followed immediately, making Bakugou tense momentarily.

"Hgn... the storm must be directly overhead," he grumbled, pushing himself from the chair.

Bakugou groaned and ran his hand down his face, scoffing at the drool pooled on the desk. Fuckin’ disgusting. It was late... or was it early? It was so dark outside he couldn't quite tell.

Either way, he had to fix the foghorn. Making his way over to the panel, he unplugged the box, shutting the sound down immediately. He glanced at the window, watching the light continue to swirl around.

But this time, something caught his eye.

He waited for the light to rotate once more. Maybe he was going crazy...

"The fuck?" he growled. Was he still fucking tired? He moved from the panel box to press his face against the window.

On the beach of the island was a figure, a person? It looked like a person, he couldn't quite tell through all the rain and darkness. The figure was too small to be a seal, but too large to be any other kind of fish from the glimpses he caught.

He didn't want to wait around to find out. If it was a person, he needed to get them inside as soon as possible.

"Fucking hell," he cursed, yanking his raincoat off of the chair. He pulled a flashlight from the drawer, shoving it into the pocket of his jacket.

Bakugou flung the jacket over himself as he hurried down the stairs, pushing the door open. The thunder clapping against the sky, the noise dangerously close. He hoped mother nature would leave him and the figure on the beach alone.

Immediately, he was pelted in the face by large raindrops. The wind made his jacket whip against his sides and he held his hand up, trying to guard his eyes. He clicked the flashlight on and tentatively walked down the stairs towards the beach.

"Shit," he growled. "Whoever the fuck is down there... if they're not dead. I'm gonna kill 'em."

The pathway down to the beach was slippery with mud, and he kept the light fixated on the steps, trying his best not to fall. He tried to move as fast as he could, the darkness and high speed winds making it hard to see.

Thunder crashed around him again, the earth rumbling with each blast, and he walked faster. "Who the hell would go swimming in a storm!?" he snarled.

He supposed this person probably wasn't swimming, but rather they more than likely fell overboard. The chances of them being alive were slim.

He stepped onto the beach, seeing the figure laying on the shore. They seemed to only move when the water crashed over their body. "Oi!!" he called out, knowing he wouldn't receive an answer. He ran forward, almost tripping as his feet sank into wet sand, the wind knocking his coat to and fro.

As he drew closer, Bakugou stopped in his tracks and stared for a moment at the sight before him, his mouth dropping open. His jacket blew about in the wind and rain continued to soak his cheeks, but he was momentarily unaffected.

The figure was indeed a person.

A girl.

A naked girl.

[merryfortune]

The Moon Can’t Shine Without You

Fandom: Star Twinkle PreCure

Ship: Elena/Madoka

Word Count: 1.4k

Synopsis:  Madoka is acting unusually nervous this morning when Elena greets her before school.

  “Good morning,” Elena greeted Madoka with her ever cheerful smile.

  Madoka shivered. “Good morning, Elena.” she returned placidly. “Would you like to walk into school with me?” Her expression was awkward.

  “Hm…” Elena murmured, and she noted Madoka’s facial expression. “You seem… jittery this morning.”

  “I-I do?” Madoka stammered.

  “Will you tell me what’s wrong if I agree to walk you into the school gates?” Elena asked.

  “O-Of course, I mean… if you insist.” Madoka replied.

  With that, it was settled albeit with a strange reluctance in the mood between them. Something intensified by the fact that their fans were gathering in awe; surprised by the fact that an eclipse was ensuing. Though, such a thing was becoming less and less rare nowadays as Madoka and Elena’s lives had bisected in more ways than one.

  Madoka fidgeted as Elena walked her into the courtyard. Elena patiently waited for Madoka to find her voice, simply flashing her smiles here and there in the hopes that it might coax her courage. Once they were out of sight of their schoolmates and their prying eyes, Madoka was able to relax. Her stiff shoulders finally receded from their staunch place as hackles.

  Elena beamed at her once again, in the shadows of the gymnasium. There, she rested against the wall but Madoka was stiff in her placement, a respectful distance away from her friend. Elena didn’t mind, but it seemed that at this rate, Madoka would never confide in her so she decided to extend some more initiative unto her friend.

  “So, you gonna tell me what’s up or not?” Elena asked, as casually as she could lest anything more intense spook Madoka.

  “I wrote you a poem!” Madoka blurted out.

  “Huh?” Elena blinked.

  Madoka’s eyes fixated on her hands. “I wrote you a poem…” Her voice far quieter this time.

  “Thank you, I love receiving fan letters.” Elena teased.

  “I – I was inspired to do some extra work for my literature homework. Only because I feel that my free verse needed some working as I tend to prefer couplets and the like…” Madoka explained. “And, I don’t know why, but you seem like the kind of person who likes poetry, I apologise in advance if I was wrong in that presumption. A-And if you don’t like the poem.”

  “Nonsense.” Elena beamed. “You spent time and effort to write me a poem, at the very least, I can appreciate the gesture. Besides, a poem from the Moon herself? It’s sure to be a treat. I love it already.”

  “Please don’t say such unnecessarily kind things, Elena. If you dislike it, you’re allowed to say such things. You always put others ahead of you and your feelings, Elena.” Madoka said.

  “Aw, that’s not true.” Elena huffed. “Now, may I read it?”

  Madoka glanced at Elena. There was nothing but truth and honesty in her bright and open demeanour. Madoka was envious of such emotional freedom. And, right now, she felt bad that it was directed at her. Of course, Elena had been gifted poems before and hers was just practice, just practise or so Madoka was telling herself. She swallowed as she procured it from her bag.

  “Here you go… Elena.” Madoka murmured, slightly embarrassed and her heart raced.

  “Thank you so very much, Madoka.” Elena replied.

  She accepted the letter graciously. The finest stationary had been selected and Elena could have sworn that she smelt some sort of perfume on it. It was evocative of blossoms and violets, she felt. Floral, just like home. She beamed and then, as she turned it over, she found her name on it – in English – and in the most calligraphic print that she had ever witnessed. Her heart skipped a beat. Then, with further awe in her eyes, she traced over the seal which kept the letter hidden within its homey envelope. It was a wax seal made of a regal and velveteen scarlet. She didn’t recognise the insignia embossed on it, but she suspected that it was the Kaguya Family seal. Elena felt like a princess as she received as there was something inherently noble about it.

  “May I?” Elena asked.

  “Of course, it’s your letter.” Madoka replied.

  “I just feel bad that I have to tear it open, you know? It’s so pretty, just the way it is.” She confessed as she slid her finger beneath the seal.

  With grace, Elena was able to minimise the damage done to the envelope as she opened it. She smiled with accomplishment; it was a cute look on her face, Madoka thought. But then again, Madoka thought that Elena’s many smiles were all rather charming and adorable. Her cheeks flushed whilst Elena drew forth the letter.

  “May I read it aloud?” Elena asked.

  “If that suits you.” Madoka permitted the act sheepishly and with a feeble hand gesture.

           “Sunflowers in a wide and yellow field

           Just like their petals, I follow you

           With sympathy and grace,

           You tend to those around you

           And having felt your care, I crave it more

           In exchange, I hope that you find comfort in my presence

           Be it in the lull of placid companionship

           Or in the heat of swift-paced action

           Regardless of time and place,

           I find meaning in your beautiful warmth

           I feel cold without the rays you exude

           With just a smile: not just for me, but for all

           I tend to simple wishes in the pale night

           To be by your side; tis a strong yearning

           After all, this small fact heralds true:

          The Moon can’t shine without you…”

  Elena concluded her dramatic reading of Madoka’s poem. Madoka’s face was very red by the end of it and she had traced her own voice in every breath Elena had utilised in her reading. She didn’t realise how well she had written it to be able to remember so much of it. Elena’s face lit up.

  “That was a lovely poem, Madoka. It sounds nice. Really nice, even.” she said. “I feel the same way.”

  Madoka’s fiercely beating heart ceased. “Y-You do?”

  “This is a love letter, yes? Your confession is embedded in your prose, correct? I accept your feelings whole-heartedly, Madoka. I like you too.” Elena replied.

  “O-Oh, I mean. Thank you, Elena, for acknowledging a-and reciprocating my feelings. It means the world to me.” Madoka replied with dewy tears in the corner of her eyes. She had been so terrified of rejection.

  “You mean the whole of space and time to me, Madoka.” Elena replied, unable to resist the inside joke.

  Madoka took a huffy breath; it may have been a laugh. “I’m very glad, Elena. I – I was so worried that perhaps you had received more convincing confessions or more eloquent poetry in the past that mine would pale in comparison.”

  Elena shook her head. “I cherish all my gifts from all my admirers, secret and otherwise, but yours… your letter and your poetry is the most spectacular by far. I don’t want to be rude to my previous suitors, but their works… their works don’t grasp the real me, I feel. Only the me known by reputation and half-hearted observation. But your poem… I feel like it truly got to the crux of who I am, who you are, and who we are together. The moon can’t shine without you, but the sun would be lonely without the moon to share its light with, yes?”

  “Absolutely.” Madoka agreed whole-heartedly with drying eyes and a proud smile, without thinking she had grabbed the ink well around her neck.

  “Come on, let’s get to class, mi amor.” Elena flirted with a wink and she used the letter as fan to enhance her appeal.

  Madoka blushed and Elena continued her straight-forward approach to romance by taking Madoka’s hand. Their fingers interlocked gently, and it just felt so strangely right. Madoka smiled.

  “Of course, Elena.” she murmured back and allowed herself to be swept up into Elena’s pace.

  After all, that was one of the many things that Madoka liked and admired about Elena; her straight-forwardness, her cheerfulness, and her courage to fulfil the whims of her easy-going heart. It was wonderful. Elena was wonderful and Madoka couldn’t help but think of her poem. The moon can’t shine without you, the sun, and that it was true for them as well, Madoka’s luminous smile was incomplete without Elena.

[eternityunicorn]

Elijah’s Eternity: New Orleans Part Thirteen +18

Author: eternityunicorn 

Genre: Romance/Drama/AU

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x OC

Warnings: Violance, Smut (*Smut chapters marked +18)

Summary: Sequel to the AU Elijah’s Eternity - Ten years have passed, a mournful Elijah has finally started to move on without his lady. In that time, he has gained a reunited family and has also found a new lady love. Yet, all is not well as danger comes for the smallest member of the Mikaelson family: Hope, and it prompts Niklaus to call upon the white goddess, drawing her back into Elijah’s life. As they reunite, can Elijah really say he’s truly moved on?

NOTE: OC and original elements are from my up and coming novel series!

———————————————————————————————————

The study was completely ruined. It had been torn apart in the animalistic lovemaking of Elijah and Eternity. There were books, trinkets, and shattered glass scattered across the floor in various places along the walls, where both lovers had found themselves pressed against the shelves and being effectively ridden, at one point or another through the night. Elijah’s desk had it’s contents thrown about the room as well and worse, the vintage piece of furniture had it’s legs broken under the force of Elijah’s thrusts as he drove into Eternity’s wet warmth from behind. Even the curtains had been partially torn down when he had his lady pressed against the glass, wanting the people of the city to see her being taken by him. She had gripped the fabric of the old curtains so tightly that eventually they came down in the oblivion of the moment. 

There was other furniture - chairs and end tables mostly - that had been tossed about when Eternity playfully tried to escape him. Some had been turned over, while others had been torn through on his journey to claim her again. The floor also had been effectively abused, and not just the one time where Elijah’s blood and claw marks lay. There were other places too that he had taken her that had been marked by his digging fingers. Her claw marks joined his in a one spot as well. 

Yes, the room would need to be mended. However, at the moment, Elijah lay upon the only price of furniture to escape their sexual madness - the couch. Eternity slept peacefully curled upon him with her head and one of her hands against his chest. A blanket that had been on the back of the makeshift bed had been tossed over them haphazardly, before they had passed out together in exhausted bliss. 

Elijah had been awake for some time, while Eternity remained sleeping against him. He slowly stroked her hair in his affection for her, as she did. He laid there reminiscing about the wonderfully erotic afternoon and night they had shared together. He could feel himself harden at the memories that danced through his head. 

Yes, his love and desire for his lady was indeed insatiable. He had always wanted her, but now that they had crossed this particular line in the reestablishment of their relationship, he could have her at his leisure. He no longer had to hold back, to be patient and chaste. And he didn’t plan to. Ever again.

Eventually, Eternity began to stir against him, where she lay between his legs on the couch. She sighed with contented tiredness, despite the good amount of sleep she had gotten. Once Elijah had ceased going after her, that is. He had kept his word to take her over and over again until she begged him to stop. She was hoarse when she finally did.

“Good morning, Sweetheart,” whispered Elijah into her hair.

She sighed and groaned as she stretched against him. “Good morning, my love,” she murmured in return, her voice still gruff from their prior activities and from sleep. Then she snuggled into him affectionately and sighed again in happy contentment as she settled once more. 

He grinned against her head, holding her tightly to him. “My study has been effectively destroyed,” he said offhandedly. 

Eternity giggled a little, “Yes, so it has. Do not worry, I’ll fix it later.”

Her voice was lulled and lazy sounding. Elijah found himself completely charmed by it. He had never felt more in love with her, as he did at the moment. He felt a lightness in him that he hadn’t felt in a very long time - ten years to be exact. It was like being brought back to life for him after a long period of utter darkness. 

“I love you so much, my darling Eternity,” he found himself saying. 

“I love you too,” she replied sleepily.

Just as the moment had felt right to make love to Eternity again, this tender moment felt right to Elijah to make a proposal he had swirling about his head ever since they had started reestablishing their relationship during these last few months. Of course it hadn’t been right at first. No, but now it did.

He continued to run his fingers lazily through her hair as he thought about what he wanted to say to her. He wasn’t afraid or nervous. He instinctually knew she would be receptive. Still, it was something that they had never spoken about before, not in depth anyway. He did recall when the Mitchells had brought it up long ago, but they hadn’t been ready for such a commitment then and Elijah wasn’t sure if he’d ever be, at that point.

Now, however, he understood that he wanted that commitment, after having to spend a decade without his lady. He wanted to be her husband and she to be his wife, more than anything. He wanted to be bound to her, so that they may never part again. 

“Marry me, Eternity,” he blurted softly.

Immediately she was sitting up and looking at him, the lazy contentment gone. Eternity looked at him in surprise, having not expected such a proposal from him and so suddenly in their reunion. She didn’t speak for a while, only stared in contemplation at him.

For a brief second, Elijah thought he had miscalculated, that maybe he had been wrong about her reception of his marriage proposal. He began to feel like a fool just when she practically threw herself at him with a shouted, “Yes!”

Instantaneous was her mouth on his, kissing him passionately with her taking advantage of his surprise as her tongue quickly invading his mouth. He groaned needfully, while his heart swelled with elation. He was over the moon that Eternity accepted his impromptu proposal. 

Elijah gasped into her mouth when she sat up a bit and began to rub herself intimately against his growing hardness beneath her. Then one of her little hands trailed downward from his chest to his hard length, where she wrapped her hand around him and pumped him until he was thrusting upward wantonly.

Parting from his lips, Eternity sat up even more with a wicked smirk upon her pink ones. Then she adjusted her position on him, straddling his hips and swiftly proceeded to take him into her body. She sank down on him until he was buried to the hilt; the blanket that had covers them fallen to around her hips, allowing him a view of her breasts - and for him to watch her take him in and out of her wet warmth as well.

Her hands braced against his abdomen as she moved over him. Her nails dig into his flesh as the pleasure of being filled by him took over her. It was a delicious sort of pain and Elijah welcomed it.

He didn’t remain idle either. His hands moved to caress her body; one hand cupping and kneading her breast, while the other curled firmly around her throat. His hips began to thrust upward as she came down, creating the best rhythm as they drive each other higher toward their peaks.

So lost in each other were they that neither noticed someone had suddenly entered the study, until they heard Kol shout in disgust, “Oh, bloody hell! Elijah!”

Immediately, Elijah sat up with his arms around Eternity protectively to shield her from his brother’s view. He stared at his brother in shock, while Kol stared back in a mix of awe and disgust. Elijah’s lady didn’t seem very concerned though. The whole while, she didn’t break her rhythm, despite Kol’s presence and Elijah’s tight guarding grip around her body. 

It made it hard to focus with her moving over him, taking Elijah in and out of her body steadily. Eternity leaned her forehead on the side of his head with her gaze casually upon his little brother. She wound her arms around his neck and her fingers tangled in his hair as she did. Elijah shut his eyes briefly, trying to find a bit of sanity to deal with his intrusive brother, whom stared in fixation at the scene that unfolded before him. 

“Get the hell out!” Elijah finally managed to growl loudly at the younger Mikaelson, his voice gruff with his restraint of his desire and the displeasure of Kol’s inappropriate gawking. 

Without needing further prompt, Kol remembered himself and swiftly vanished from the room. 

As soon as his brother was gone, he turned his attention back on his lady, whom continued to ride him without pause. She grinned mischievously at him, her sapphire eyes twinkling with humor. He growled in displeasure at her, but his breath was stolen when she came down on his particularly hard. His growl turned into a needful groan, his eyes screwing shut against the pleasure.

Then she giggled outright at him, wriggling upon him playfully, and his eyes flew open. Instantaneously, he had their positions switched with her pinned beneath him on the couch. His had her hand pulled above her head, her wrists gripped in one hand. His other arm reached down  to curl around her backside, lifting her a bit for a better angle. Then he began to move, his thrust hard and meaningful.

Eternity gasped and arched into him, her eyes fluttering closed. She broke free of his hold on her without resistance from him and her hands automatically reached to touch him. One of them splayed on his chest and the other went further up to tangle in his hair. She moved with him, her hips pushing upwards to meet him thrust for thrust. They found their perfect rhythm, moving together in sync with each other as they drove higher in joint pleasure.

Elijah bent down to capture her lips with his, his free hand cupping her neck as he did. His tongue slipped into her open mouth to taste her there, while moving through the wet cavern in the same rhythm as his hips. She moaned loudly into his mouth when he did that, and Elijah began to feel her walls fluttering around his cock, signally her end was near. 

“Come for me, Sweetheart,” he encouraged against her lips, in between kisses. “Come for me.”

That was all the encouragement she needed. Almost right away, Eternity’s walls clenched down on him as her orgasm took hold of her.  She arched into him and froze with a silent scream that quickly turned into an incredibly loud one. 

Elijah swiftly followed her into orgasmic bliss, coming unimaginably hard and emptying into her waiting body completely. He practically roared as he did, staring down into Eternity’s euphoric face all the while. Then his strength gave out and he bent over her, burying his face into her neck as he came down from his high. Her hand ran through his hair lazily, while the other caressed along his back, sending shivers down his spine as he rested.

After a time, he managed to lift himself from her and he couldn’t help but to smile adoringly. She had said yes to marrying him and nothing made him happier in that moment. He reached down to kiss her lips tenderly, just in sheer joy - a joy he hadn’t thought he’d ever feel in his life. 

Elijah had thought darkness and death were to be his life without light, because for most of his life that was exactly how it was; cold and cruel with flashes of light in between, but nothing lasting. Yet, meeting Eternity had turned everything on it’s head. It had showed him that there was a chance for sustaining light in his life, which was why he had been so broken to lose Eternity. But now? Now, she was going to be his...forever.

“We need get up, my love,” Eternity said to him lazily. 

Elijah remembered Kol’s interruption then. Now that his mind wasn’t in a sexual haze, he knew that whatever he had come into the study for must have been urgent. Yes, perhaps getting up was for the best. Though if he were honest, he was very reluctant to leave Eternity’s warmth.

“We should go see what Kol needed,” he replied with a disappointed sigh.

Eternity grinned mischievously, “Aye, but perhaps a shower first?”

He returned her grin with one of his own, “Oh, most definitely.”

With that, the pair were up and racing down the hall to Elijah’s bedroom, where the shower was. 

The second they were in the luxurious bathroom, Elijah had Eternity pinned to the door with her legs wrapped around his waist. He kissed her breathlessly for a few minutes, before releasing her from his grasp completely, much to her disappointment. 

He went over to the large sized walk-in shower and turned the water on, before returning to his lady’s side. His mouth gravitated to hers automatically and his hands trailed her body much in the same way. He simply had to touch her in his addiction. 

Eternity’s hands weren’t idle either. Her hands raked through his hair, holding him close as they kissed, her body pressing into him tightly. 

A few minutes later and the shower was steaming. Elijah parted from his lady’s lips and proceeded to lift her into his arms again. He carried her into the shower and immediately had her pressed into the wall opposite of the spray. Her legs were wrapped securely around his hips and her hands curled into his hair once more. 

“I love you, Sweetheart,” he told her again, unable to help himself.

Eternity smiled warmly in return and kissed him sweetly. 

Despite all the lovemaking they had already achieved, Elijah craved more. He was truly insatiable when it came to the woman he had pinned to the shower wall. He felt like a starved man in need of sustenance where she was concerned.  

Without warning, he buried himself inside her all over again, closing his eyes against the intense feeling of her walls around him, despite having just felt them moments before. Elijah swore would never get tired of the sensation. It was magnificent.

Eternity gasped at the suddenness of his intrusion and clung to him tightly, as he moved quickly inside her. He took her hard and fast this time without pause. She moaned loudly and clamped her mouth onto his shoulder to muffle the sound, as they climbed together rapidly. 

It wasn’t long before her walls clutched down upon his cock and crying out mutely as she came. Not too soon after that, Elijah was groaning his release into her, thrusting a few more times before ceasing with an exhausted kiss to her neck. 

He released her from his grasp, setting her down gently onto her feet. He smiled at her and she returned it, before he guided her over to the water spray and proceeded to wash her form himself. Elijah enjoyed the way she hummed appreciatively as he lathered her with soap, as he let his hands run all over her body. He was attentive to the task of washing her and once he was satisfied, he allowed Eternity to return the favor and wash him as well.

Her touch was everything. 

Then after shutting the water off, he escorted his lady out of the shower and helped her dry off, before doing the same for himself. Eternity used magic to dress them from there. Elijah was quickly back in his typical dark three piece suit and she was dressed in a light pink sundress - typical for her. 

Once they were ready, they headed out to join the living, as they say. However, as they were heading out of the bedroom, Elijah pulled her back into the room for one last kiss, which made her smile and giggle girlishly at him. After that, together, they headed out to find Kol. Little did they know what awaited them when they did.

To Be Continued....

[purrincess-chat]

The Fate of Miss Fortune CH1

I’m finally getting around to posting this!! I’ve had the idea for over a year, and I started working on this chapter about a year ago I’d say. I’ve been holding onto it for so long, and commissioning art of it gave me the push to finish this chapter. I’m very excited for this story! It’s going to be an emotional ride, so I hope you all buckle your seatbelts and take it with me. Shouts out to @learningthomas and @trueblue1999 for betaing!

Read on AO3

Chapter One

“There be tales of the most fearsome pirate ever to sail the seas. Sunk o’er a hundred vessels and taken the lives of countless men. A captain and crew so bloodthirsty that no sailor ‘as e’en the slightest chance of survivin’ should they be unlucky enough to cross canons with ‘em.” It wasn’t uncommon for tales such as this to pass around the room of nearly every port bar from one sailor to the next. Legends and tales were how many passed the time, each seemingly more far-fetched than the last, though many stories, if taken to their roots, were actually based in truth that became victim to drunken embellishment.

“I seen ‘em with me own two eyes. Captain Ladybug ‘o the Coksinelle and ‘is crew took down a royal navy ship ‘fore tha poor chaps could load their powder. Biggest bunch o’ men I ever did see. Could rip the neck right off a navy cap’ains shoul’ers,” The man continued, a small crowd of similarly grimy and roasted men hanging onto every word in awe. All save for one.

“There’s a problem with your story, mate.” Heads swiveled to the smug mop of blond hair seated a few seats down at the bar, the telltale French naval coat with the sleeves ripped off and black hat could only be the mark of one pirate: Captain Chat Noir.

The night was humid and the air inside the bar hung stagnant as Chat Noir loaned an ear to the scrappy drunkard’s tale from his seat. He’d heard every story passed by mouth, and there was only one pirate on the waters that each of them referred to. The most famous pirate in the world, and coincidentally the one who set him on his own path to freedom.

Ladybug.

Most of the stories were true, though many details were often lost in translation, but Chat took it upon himself to keep an ear out for sightings of the elusive captain that he spent his days chasing in hopes of someday actually succeeding in his pursuit. Which, unfortunately, forced him to suffer through tales such as these in vain hopes that he might gain any new information, and more often than not, he came up empty as many pigheaded pirates twisted the stories to better suit their own egos.

“What’d ya say, chum?” He cocked a brow, standing in attempts to seem more intimidating, though his rum-induced stagger killed some of his bite. “Ye got a problem with my story?”

“Parts of it,” Chat stated, taking a swig from his mug and setting it on the counter.

“Do go on then,” The man urged.

“For starters, if no man has any chance of survival when confronted with this ruthless captain, then how are you here to tell the tale?” He began, standing to face the group all adorned with the same skeptical and disgruntled expressions. “Secondly, Ladybug is captain of the ship Coccinelle. It’s French given the captain’s roots and translates to ladybug, the name said dreadful captain has come to be known by. Thirdly, Captain Ladybug and crew are all bloodthirsty for naval ships specifically and tend to avoid merchants and other pirate ships which is why I forgive you for missing my last and arguably most important point: Captain Ladybug as well as the entire crew are all women.”

Loud, mocking laughter filled the surrounding area, something Chat had grown used to at this point, and he did his best to suppress an eye roll. Pirates were just as blind to the strength of women as naval officers. Turns out men were all the same no matter what colors they sailed under, which made the next sequence of events all the more predictable.

“You’re drunk, mate! No crew o’ women could sail a vessel all by their onesies.” One man laughed.

“You’re right, my apologies. I should have known better than to waste my breath educating you disgusting chauvinist pigs as you’re all incapable of any form of intelligent thought outside of lifting your mugs to your lips,” He said with a taunting grin, slapping a silver coin down on the bar. “Nino, pull Kim away from his girlfriends. We’re leaving.”

“Aye, captain,” Nino said with a nod, though he shot Chat a disappointed, yet unsurprised frown as if to say, “Can’t we enjoy one night out without you starting shit?”

“Oi, what’d you jus’ call me?” The first man demanded, reaching for the bottle on the counter. “You lookin’ for trouble, mate?”

“No, truthfully I’m on a quest to find that said fearsome female pirate from your entertaining, albeit horribly incorrect, tale, and I haven’t got the time to sit around listening to egotistical little worms talk themselves up,” He stated with a shrug, and Nino rolled his eyes.

“Here we go again,” His first-mate mumbled with a sigh, reaching for his cutlass as the man sprang at Chat with a growl.

The bar erupted into a drunken mosh-pit, fists flying as fast as insults as several inebriated men joined the fray just for the hell of it. Kim attempted in vain to entice his throng of women to stay, shooting a glare to his captain when they all fled, and Chat easily dodged his assailant’s fist, knocking him over the back of the head with his elbow and rendering him unconscious. Nino tossed another man over a table, stepping closer to his captain and shaking his head.  

“What?” Chat asked innocently.

“For once I’d like to enjoy a couple beers without the evening dissolving into a fist fight,” He chided, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, and I’d like to get laid,” Kim growled, stalking over. He grabbed another man who charged toward them and punched him square in the jaw.

“Let’s just go,” Chat said glumly, sulking toward the door.

“Ivan!” Nino called as their large brute of a friend fought off three men at once. “We’re leaving.”

Ivan shrugged and dropped his hold on his victims, leaving them in a daze as he casually sauntered out after his captain and crew. One convenient aspect of bar fights were that most individuals were too drunk and fixated on their brawl to realize when they slipped out, even as Chat pickpocketed the man who started it all on his way out. He shoved his hands into his pockets with a sigh as they made their way down the street toward the docks. Kim sulked several paces ahead of them, griping about losing yet another potential ménage à trois while Ivan patted his shoulder sympathetically. Nino eyed their captain out of the corner of his eye, pursing his lips to hide his frown.

“Another dead end then?” He asked, cocking a brow, and Chat averted his gaze. “How long do you intend to chase her?”

“As long as it takes to find her- the rest of my life, if I have to,” Chat said solemnly.

“You sure are hellbent on this booty call,” He replied, tensing when Chat shot him a glare. “Sorry but that’s what most of the crew thinks.”

“I’m not after her for sex. She saved my life, and I just want to see her again, no matter how briefly,” He said softly, and Nino shifted his gaze to his feet, biting his lip.

“You know you’re my best mate, and I’d die for you, but you can’t keep blue-balling Kim every time you don’t get information you want,” He said, offering him a small smile and prompting a cheeky grin and a chuckle from Chat.

“I’m not so worried about him. He still thinks I don’t know what he and Max get up to in the supply room, but I suppose in the interest of keeping things amicable between us I’ll do him this favor,” He said, whistling over the two women standing on the corner and tossing them a small pouch of gold coins. “The one in the red coat could use a little pick-me-up.”

Their eyes widened as they turned their payment over in their hands, excited giggles passing their lips as they skipped down the hill and grabbed Kim by the collar. Chat sauntered onto the dock toward the ship followed by Ivan and Nino, and Nathaniel hopped off the railing as they approached, standing at attention as the captain set foot on deck.

“Nothing unusual to report, sir. The rest of the crew is still out in town. Shall I round them up?” He said dutifully, but Chat waved him away.

“Let them enjoy the night. We’ll set out in the morning,” He said, pushing the door open to his cabin. “Resume your post.”

“Aye, captain.”

Chat hung his hat on the hook and ruffled his hair, a sigh passing through his lips as he leaned over his map littered with pins and threads that documented every location sailors reported seeing her in a vain attempt to discover her pattern, but he’d had no such luck. So many times he’d come so close to finding her only to lose the trail at the last moment. She was surprisingly elusive, much to his dismay. It had been three years since he’d last seen her in person, the night he asked to join her crew, but she only sailed with women. He’d been crushed by her rejection as he’d spent months hunting her down just to ask that question, but now he sought after her for a new reason.

She was the most magnificent woman he’d ever met with eyes as blue as the sea and hair as dark as the night sky. He longed to see her again and memorize every detail of her face even if she never held any desire for him… Perhaps his crew were right. Maybe he was running a fool’s errand, but he refused to give up. Not after all of this. He trailed his fingers along the red strings with a pensive frown before leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up.

Nights like those were exhausting, and sometimes Chat wondered if he’d ever see her again if he had to keep relying on such inconsistent tales. He closed his eyes painting the image of her face in his mind so that he wouldn’t forget a single detail. A girl like her was worth chasing to the ends of the earth, and soon he lulled himself to sleep with thoughts of their reunion.

***

“Captain!” Chat jerked awake, drawing his gun and pointing it in Max’s face instinctively before releasing a breath and returning it to its holster. He glanced out the window where the first cracks of sunlight were peeking out over the horizon.

“What?” He asked sourly, rubbing his eyes.

“Sorry to wake you, sir, but I have someone with information that might interest you,” Max said, and Chat’s head snapped to face him in an instant.

Chat followed on Max’s heels intently as he led the way to the library with Ivan, Nino, and Theo in tow. He kicked open the door, startling the librarian inside into dropping the books he was carrying. The man straightened his glasses and squared his shoulders, though his eyes widened in fear as they approached.

“You! You have information regarding a pirate named Ladybug?” Chat demanded, leaning into his face.

“I’m not inclined to say,” He said, shrinking back a little and startling once more when Chat pointed a gun in his face. “Okay, okay! My younger sister recently joined her crew a-about a week ago when she was in port. Said they were making a quick stop south of Puerto Rico then setting sail toward Bermuda before she left, but she swore me to secrecy!”

“And you’re sure it was Ladybug?” Chat quirked a brow, and the man nodded frantically.

“I saw her colors myself, and my sister specifically mentioned that this pirate sails exclusively with women which matches up with stories I’ve heard,” He said, and Chat lowered his gun.

“What’s your name?” He asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Jalil, sir,” He said, adjusting his glasses with a shaky hand.

“Nino, Ivan, bring Jalil aboard. He’s coming with us, and if his information proves false then we’ll find a nice island to maroon him on. Max do you still remember how to get to the one infested with cannibals?” He snapped his fingers, and Jalil paled, resisting only minimally as Nino and Ivan lifted him up and carried him back to the ship.

“How long do you anticipate it will take us to reach Bermuda from here?” Chat asked as they walked, and Max tapped his chin.

“About three days if the winds are favorable,” He replied, and Chat nodded thoughtfully.

“Then there’s not a minute to lose. Nathaniel!” Chat called as they boarded, and the redhead stood at attention. “Round up the crew. We’re setting sail.”

“Even Kim?” Nathaniel’s nose wrinkled.

“Do you want to man the guns if we get attacked?” Chat asked pointedly, and Nathaniel groaned, sulking off to retrieve their gunman from his tryst. “Max, get me a heading! We’ve got a Ladybug to catch.”

***

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you this fired up,” Nino remarked a couple nights later as Chat peered through his telescope.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had a lead,” He said, lowering it and glancing over at his first mate.

“Do you really think we’ll find her?” Nino cocked a brow, and Chat’s eyes narrowed into a glare.

“For the librarian’s sake, we better,” He said with a twisted grin, and Nino gave him a look.

“You and I both know you’re not that cruel, mate.” He smirked, and Chat turned back to scan the dark water.

“I know, but he doesn’t, so it’s fun to watch the color drain from his face,” He said darkly, and Nino threw his head back with a laugh.

“Maybe you are that cruel.” He patted his shoulder.

“Ship sighted to the east, captain!” Nathaniel called from the crow’s nest, and Chat whipped his telescope out as the crew rushed to his side.

“Is it her captain?” Ivan asked. “Is it Ladybug?”

Chat squinted at the colors flying, a semblance of a smile twitching on his lips as he snapped his scope shut. “Douse the lamps and ready a boat.”

“It is her!” The phrase passed excitedly around the deck as his men rushed around frantically to carry out his orders.

“Do you think you can catch up to her in this thing?” Nino asked as Chat climbed into the small rowboat and took hold of an oar.

“The main sail is raised, and she’s just coasting. Her crew has likely gone to bed for the night,” He said. “Raise ours and follow at a distance. If she spots us, she might run. You’re in charge until I get back, Nino.”

“Aye, captain.” Nino nodded curtly as Ivan lowered the boat. “Oi, Chat! Good luck, mate.”

Chat tipped his hat as the boat hit the water, and he unlatched the ropes before beginning his trip. Fortunately the night was still and the waters calm as he paddled, and within a half hour, he was close enough to see her standing at the wheel. Her hair was longer than the last time he’d seen her, and his pulse quickened as he set the oars down gently so as to not make a sound and tied the rope to his waist loosely before beginning his climb up.

He peeked up at her from under the railing, a small smile curling on his lips as he watched her studying her compass, occasionally glancing up at the stars. Her cheekbones were more pronounced than last time, and his memory did her beauty no justice. He could have stared all night, but he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t speak at least one word to her, so he climbed up, tying his rope off quietly before making his move.

“Greetings, m’lady! I hope you haven’t missed me too much.” His voice caught her off guard which was something even the lowest swabbie on her deck knew never to do. She spun around as his leg hiked over the railing, but before his boot could touch the deck, she tugged the loose rope hanging from the mast that laid at his feet and dragged him into the air.  He yelped in surprise as he found himself hanging upside down and face-to-face with Ladybug’s unamused scowl. “Have I ever told you, you turn my world upside down?”

“Captain Chat Noir. How many times need I tell you that men are forbidden from setting foot on my vessel unless they wish to decorate it with their blood?” She stated bluntly with a small sigh.

“If we’re counting honestly, this is only the second time I’ve tried,” He said pointedly.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” Ladybug retorted with a bored frown, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Because I brought you a gift,” He replied with a cheeky grin, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small jewelry box. “I stole them from a duchess in Spain.”

“How romantic,” She said sarcastically, lifting the lid to reveal a pair of diamond earrings.

“A beautiful woman deserves beautiful things.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes, snapping the lid shut. “You know, you should really pay attention to the stories people are telling about you. There are a lot of details that people get wrong.”

“I don’t particularly care what others say about me,” She said with a shrug. “I didn’t become a pirate for the fame or glory.”

“Me either.” He said, and she held his gaze for a long moment. “I’ve been looking all over for you, ya know.”

“So I’ve heard,” She said with an amused smirk, looking him up and down as if she were sizing him up. “Captain Chat Noir, the pirate on a desperate quest for a piece of ass.”

She chuckled as his eyes narrowed into a glare. “That’s not true!”

“Now who needs to pay attention to their stories?” She asked teasingly, leaning down into his face and causing his breath to hitch when she traced his jaw with her finger. “So why do you spend your days tracking me, Chat Noir?”

“Because you set me free and I am in your debt,” He said gently, pouring every ounce of sincerity and tenderness into his expression, though such feats proved hard with the blood rushing to his head. “And I long to know something.”

Ladybug cocked a hip to the side, leaning against the rope and quirking a brow. “What would that be?”

“Four years ago you attacked my naval fleet. Killed all of my men and sank every last vessel to the bottom of the ocean. You saw me floating on a piece of drift wood and chose to let me live,” He recounted. “Why?”

“Why what?” She shrugged. “Why did I sink you fleet? Because I hate the navy. Why didn’t I kill you?” She paused for a moment and pursed her lips. “You were just a kid playing captain, and I don’t murder children. I do have some sense of decency, you know.”

“I know. It’s one of the many reasons I admire you.” He winked, and she rolled her eyes, flicking the wheel sharply and causing the sail to shift. She released her hold on the rope, effectively flinging Chat into the water then paced over to the railing and leaned down with an amused glint in her eye as Chat resurfaced.

“Farewell, Chat Noir. Until the next time you find me.” She waved.

Chat watched in awe as she retrieved her sword and sliced through his rope before swimming back to his boat. He laid on the floor, panting and adorned with the widest grin. Ladybug remembered him. She knew that he was searching for her. She smelled like flowers.

Ladybug returned to her post at the wheel, restating their course before pulling out the box of earrings Chat had given her. She eyed them for a moment, trailing her fingers over the gems before snapping it shut and looping a rope around one of the rungs then heading below deck.

“What was all that ruckus?” Alya asked, meeting her halfway on the stairs.

“Just a dazed little kitten who tried to sneak on board,” She said nonchalantly with almost a hint of boredom.

“Chat Noir?” Alya’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “You’ve been giving him the slip for years. He finally caught up to us?”

“I let him,” Ladybug admitted, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s no fun to let him chase us if he gives up, so I suppose I’ll let him ‘catch’ me from time to time to keep his spirits up.”

“You are wicked, lady. That poor boy follows you all over the world because he fancies you, and you dangle just out of his reach,” Alya laughed, stopping short as Ladybug tossed her the earring box.

“Not me. He got those just for you. Said so himself. I think it’s you he’s after,” She said, passing her down to the lower deck as Alya opened the box with an eye roll.

“Most women would be floored if a man brought them a pair like this,” Alya commented with a prying tone Ladybug knew all too well. “We raid countless ships with gorgeous earrings, yet you’re so attached to the ones you’ve got.”

Ladybug touched them thoughtfully, pausing at the base of the stairs for a moment before turning back over her shoulder.

“They’re lucky.”

[terminallydepraved]

Scintillate (Hisokuro Thieves!au)

this was a patreon commission for the wonderful @ekeu who requested a snippet of an au i came up with forever ago. enjoy!

Read on Ao3 Here

[Support me on Patreon] x [Commissions Page] x  [ Buy Me a Coffee]

The café was bustling with the energy of a late afternoon, warm and fragrant with the scent of fresh pastries and newly brewed coffee. Chrollo sat at his table, quiet, contemplative, and lulled by the utter normalcy of it all. Hours had passed and dozens of people came and went. Their voices faded, replaced with new ones; their faces filled his mind but disappeared quickly, melting away into ephemera he wouldn’t remember come the evening.

Same old, same old. Another city and another afternoon spent pretending he was one with the ones he watched. Chrollo propped his chin on the back of his hand. He tore himself from the quaint café and looked down into the depths of his chai tea. It had long grown cold while he waited. He still stirred it anyway, enjoying the swirl that followed the eddies of the spoon.

He was late, Chrollo mused. Not exactly a surprise, but a disappointment all the same.

Chrollo let out the breath of a sigh and leaned back in his chair, checking his phone again. He thumbed in his passcode and glanced a little at the time. Nearly twenty minutes late now. A tap brought him into his emails. At the top sat one he’d starred. How Hisoka had gotten ahold of his email, he didn’t know. He couldn’t be too surprised, though. Hisoka was nothing if not resourceful.

To my dearest muse,

I heard all about your success with your latest job. A chained manuscript this time. Don’t you ever find your eye caught by something a little shinier? You never fail to surprise me, but that certainly is part of your charm. You are as unpredictable as you are talented, and even more beautiful besides. I hope your spoils were worth the effort. It was masterful work. So masterful in fact that it has me thinking…

You’re vacationing in Madrid currently, last I heard. A wonderful coincidence, really, because so am I! Why don’t we meet for coffee? I know the perfect little spot for a chat. You can tell me all about your recent job and in turn I can share with you a proposition I’ve set aside especially for you. Meet me at La Café Blanca at four p.m. this Friday. It’ll be a date <3

I do hope you’ll come. I’d hate to chase you like I did in Paris…

Hisoka Morou <3

Chrollo rolled his eyes when he saw the heart by Hisoka’s name, much as he rolled them the first time he read the email. As far as most thieves went, Chrollo had to think Hisoka was far too forward. In their trade anonymity was as valuable as diamonds. Notoriety… Well, that was anathema.

Hisoka, on the other hand, seemed to embrace everything he shouldn’t.

“Oh, someone’s early,” a voice crooned in his ear. Chrollo blinked and turned. Speak of the devil.

Hisoka peered down at him from on high, his smile wide and his eyes narrowed as if he’d just spotted something particularly lovely just within reach. His outfit was casually opulent, comprised of a dress shirt worth more than Chrollo’s entire outfit. His hair… Well, his hair was certainly different. Chrollo stared at Hisoka as he moved around the table, pulling out the empty chair to seat himself with a smile.

“Blond?” Chrollo remarked, fixating on it just a bit. It was a stark difference from his natural red. “Did your photo get leaked again?”

Hisoka rolled his eyes, gesturing to a waitress with his hand. She seemed to understand what he meant by it, because she quickly set to making him a drink. When the man looked back at Chrollo, he did so indulgently. “Perhaps I just felt like a change was in order?” he offered. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Chrollo laughed a little. “I’ve told you before; you can’t be so attention getting. It’s bad form in this profession.”

“Funny how you say that,” Hisoka replied, taking his coffee from the woman when she paused next to his shoulder. A rumble of Spanish fell past his lips faster than Chrollo could understand. The woman blushed and then returned to her counter. “You act like I’m the one drawing eyes when it’s you who I can’t seem to look away from.”

That prompted Chrollo to roll his own. “Flatterer. What did you call me here for?” he asked. If he let Hisoka have his way, he’d dance around the issue for hours just for the excuse to keep him here. Chrollo lifted his phone, the email still on display. “How did you get my email?”

“Well, when you won’t give me your phone number, I’ve had to make do.” Hisoka swirled his spoon through his drink, taking a pleased sip. It was annoyingly grating how good he made that hair color look. “What I’ve called you here for--besides for a chance to luxuriate in your intoxicating company--is to offer you a job.”

Chrollo raised a brow. “A job? I don’t think I need you to bring me one of those. I’m fairly good at finding my own.”

“Ah, yes, you really are. But don’t you tire of stealing musty old books? What I’ve dug up promises to be… Let’s just say it’ll prove to be far shinier than some bound tomes of parchment.” Hisoka’s eyes positively sparkled. “And even if you aren’t interested in the contents of this particular safe, I certainly am. I’d be willing to compensate you either way.”

Oh? “If you’re so interested in it, why bother splitting the spoils by bringing me in?” Chrollo asked. His tea had long gone cold, but he took a sip from it anyway.

“We all have our particular skill sets,” the thief sighed, drawing his gaze skywards. “The intel I have on this safe suggests that it’s guarded by a security system I’m not familiar with. As much as I adore your company, I also could benefit from it. Leave all the heavy lifting to me; all I need are those graceful hands of yours to open the door.”

Lowering his cup back to the table, Chrollo cocked his head. He couldn’t say his interest wasn’t piqued. “What’s in the safe?” he asked next. Hisoka usually stole bonds and gold, diamonds and rubies. Pretty things worth a lot universally, unlike Chrollo who went for the niche, the esoteric.

Hisoka grinned. He leaned back in his chair and gave a lazy shrug. “I don’t know,” he said teasingly. “But I’ve heard it’s good. It’d make a fun evening to find out.” He blinked languidly, his smile growing wider. “It’d make an even better date. That is, if you’d care to join me.”

Ah, there it was. That typical Hisoka fickleness that kept the man chasing long after Chrollo had made his exit. What a shame it was that the man knew just how to catch his attention. Chrollo sighed and rested his head on his propped up hand, smiling when Hisoka leaned in.

Well, it sounded interesting enough. What was the harm?

“You’re paying for dinner,” Chrollo told him. “And the disguises. And the hacking tools. I lost mine in Sicily.”

“Oh, of course,” Hisoka said, covering Chrollo’s hand with his own. “What kind of date would I be if I didn’t?”

---

In hindsight, Chrollo really should have been a little more suspect when Hisoka came to him offering him a shot at a mark he’d never heard of before. Curiosity might be an attractive quality to some, but for Chrollo, it really was proving more of a hindrance than help.

“You didn’t tell me we’d be doing this in a broom closet,” Chrollo muttered, voice pitched low so as not to alert the guards patrolling just outside the door. He needn’t worry about Hisoka hearing though; the man was pressed firmly against his back, his broad chest burning straight through Chrollo’s shirt.

“Why? Feeling claustrophobic?” came the soft reply directly in his ear. Hisoka hooked his chin over Chrollo’s shoulder, sneaking a kiss to his cheek while Chrollo fiddled with the drill. “I’ve heard all about your exploits in Paris, Chrollo. You really can’t tell me you’re not accustomed to doing all sorts of things in tight places.”

Well, that was certainly true, except… “You’re leaving out the part where I work alone,” he replied, finally succeeding in removing the panel hiding the rear end of the safe situated in the room on the other side of the wall. Chrollo pulled it free and nudged it at Hisoka’s thigh, urging him to hold it. “Usually I don’t have another body to worry about on top of killing the alarms.”

“Mmm, consider it an added challenge,” the man purred, nuzzling him now. His free hand snaked around Chrollo’s waist, hugging him close. “You like being excited by your jobs, don’t you? Isn’t this stimulating?”

The laugh he gave sent goosebumps down Chrollo’s spine. Something firm nudged his ass. “Or perhaps that’s just me,” Hisoka mused.

“You’re the worst,” Chrollo mumbled. The absolute worst. Getting hard at a time like this… Chrollo tried to ignore it even as the arm around his waist gave his hip a squeeze. He reached into a pocket and pulled out the leather pouch that held his tools. A flick of his thumb popped the button on it, and he brought it to his teeth to pull out the tiny little wire cutters he needed for the next part. The safe back would be simple to break open once the outer sensors were taken care of. It was just a matter of cutting the right wires.

“You really do know your security systems,” Hisoka observed, watching him work with rapt attention. He turned his head and kissed at Chrollo’s temple, sniffing his hair and rocking his hips ever so gently against Chrollo’s ass.

“You’d know them too if you ever applied yourself.” Chrollo dropped the pouch back into his pocket and pulled the wires through the hole. Seven of them, just as he knew there would be.

That earned him a low, rumbly laugh. “Oh, I’d rather apply myself to you,” he said, because of course he did. “We all have our skill sets, Chrollo. Mine err less towards things with a tender touch. I’d much rather leave that kind of thing to you.”

True enough. Getting this far into the mansion during a gala this high end had required a certain… forcefulness that Hisoka had been able to deliver in spades. Chrollo typically eased his way through security employing less physical means, but results were results and in this case, they spoke for themselves.

His lips curled into a frown when he felt a warm hand slip beneath the hem of his shirt. That certainly spoke for itself as well. Hisoka ran his fingers up and down his stomach, tracing nonsensical shapes against his skin in a way that sent goosebumps traveling down Chrollo’s arms.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled, cheeks hot and pout firm as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

A hum teased his ear. “What do you think I’m doing?” Hisoka posed, nipping at his ear in a way that broadcasted his intent far faster than words ever could.

This really wasn’t the time or place for something like this. Unfortunately for Chrollo, he knew Hisoka too well to think logic would deter him from instigating it anyway. His hands shook as he fumbled with the wires, trying and failing to make out the tiny little numbers along the colored seams. The sharp tease of Hisoka’s nails tickled the flat plane of his stomach. Were these…? These were the right ones, Chrollo thought. It was too bad he couldn’t double check, though. Every time he tried that hand moved an inch lower, unbuttoning his slacks before Chrollo could process the weight against his zipper.

“H-Hisoka,” he hissed, closing his eyes tight. “I can’t work like this.”

“Come now, that’s no way for a professional to talk.”

Professional? Hisoka was supposed to be a professional too, yet here he was, sticking his hand down Chrollo’s pants. One wrong move from either of them could set off an alarm or signal something was amiss to the guards just outside. There was nothing at all professional about what they were doing.

As Hisoka palmed his heat through his underwear, Chrollo just wished he could care more about it. When it felt this nice… Well, Hisoka definitely made it hard to complain.

“Hisoka…”

A warm breath tickled Chrollo’s ear. “What is it?” he murmured. “Do you want more? Do you want me to fuck you while you work? Let you test your skills under pressure?” On the word pressure, he gave Chrollo a roving, all-encompassing squeeze. Chrollo’s knees buckled beneath him. The arm around his chest kept him standing, but only just.

He’d sent that email just for the chance to do this. To trap Chrollo in one place long enough to pin him down and have his way with him, just as he always tried to do when they met on the job unawares.

Gasping for breath, shaking from head to toe, Chrollo didn’t bother trying to answer him. He just turned his head and sought out Hisoka’s lips, and Hisoka--generous and wanting and terrible as he was--met him halfway without needing asked.

One thing was for sure, Chrollo mused, losing himself in the kiss.

Jobs certainly were more interesting with a partner.

[Support me on Patreon] x [Commissions Page] x  [ Buy Me a Coffee]

[probablythevaria]

Varia having an opera singer as an s/o who occasionally serenades them/sings around the house ( besame mucho is a personal fave (❁´▽`❁))

((I’m not an opera singer of any sort, though I do appreciate the sound of such beautiful voices and those who learn it ♥ Also, I work like 55 hours this week, so I am so sorry that this update is super late lmao ♥))

Xanxus:

When he requested it, it felt different. An ominous wave of silence permitted through the chaos as it all sifted only to you. Your mercy. Only your voice to permeate within the air where those who gathered had all been told of the voice Xanxus overheard many times. Hundreds of times.

Always gorgeous. Always fitting for the queen he cherished as he put you on display without warning and then chose to admire from afar in a proud smirk you’d scrub off his face later for such a dastardly action. 

“Sing,” He pushed again, staring softer now as you faced the audience of rugged men with a sigh. Grimacing as the first sound you made felt fumbled, but yet it sounded all the same to those then sitting in awe. To those whose eyes wandered all along the one they would wish for for years to come.

They loved what they heard. Much like Xanxus who seemed calmed by the threshold of your blissful tones as he leaned back in his seat kindly with eyes closing gently in rest on the melody spreading from your lungs. 

He wasn’t a man of arts; Xanxus was never a man for singing nor dancing- and, yet, there he sat in wonder of someone so beautiful, so amazing, that he drifted in thought over how much he loved them for the voice they produced.

Superbi Squalo:

Jokingly, at times, he liked to call you the siren. He would listen as always beyond the bathroom door where the marble left echoes haunting the tile. Left traces of harmony to cast out from the glassy shower in blissful streams.

He loved that, he mused, lying back on the sheets with only your tender song thriving in his brain usually wracked with the pressure of life and challenges only his position could hold. You were the escape.

Your voice like the catalyst of his anxiety as it fizzled down to nothing under the running water and daydreams produced by the sudden lift of your vocal range when he imagined the performance in your head had taken its bow. 

And he heard you pause. 

“What’s the matter?” Superbi called back, waiting for the answer as the water came to a halt, and he heard the shower glass squeak aside on your careful steps. 

Behind the door, he heard you call back. “You’re listening to me again, aren’t you?”

“Just let me have my one thing, okay?” He teased, folding his arms behind his head with a drawn-out sigh exhaling out of your mouth. 

Leviathan:

“What’s that face?” You stopped, your humming ceasing to exist as you snapped your gaze from your paper to the face seemingly gawking over the edge of your notepad in shock. 

He situated himself against the opposite wall, ashamed of his stare as he blushed mildly and watched the amusement spread on your expression. 

“N- Nothing, of course.” He was lying, absurdly, at that, but it didn’t take him more than another laugh to spit it out. “I mean- that singing- “

“My singing?” You thought about it slightly, realizing that maybe you were a little too into your work. Maybe a little too enthralled with each precious note that had come from your parted lips that you covered with a gasp. “Was I doing that out loud?”

“You didn’t know? You can sing like that and not know?” Now he sounded shocked, scooting closer as he watched your face fill with pink and furrowed lines of embarrassment. 

“I- I guess so!”

“Well,” He started to fidget, trying his best to sneak a peek of the sketch wedged in your book while he let the sentence fall free. “I wouldn’t mind hearing more of it”

Lussuria:

“Oh, my- God- “ Lussuria fanned theirself, enticed by the angelic grace of a voice blessing their bedroom as you sat by the window gazing by the world that heard more of your practiced tones every night. More of your rehearsed vocals that shed their echoes over an empty valley of trees and soldiers who knew nothing of what you were supposed to sound like.

Only that you sounded beautiful. That your voice matched your stunning appearance Lussuria grazed when they walked by in faint applause. 

You mention it as faint, yet it sounded in your ears like ringing claps as Lussuria perched behind you, arms soon thrown around you with a loud squeal only meant to cheer you on.

Your number one fan who had autographs pasted all down their neck with pride as they grinned into your skin joyously.

“So, when do I get to record that as a ringtone?” They asked, teasing under your chin when you blushed in a sweet giggle. “I am so sick of those default sounds too- I hear a phone go off and you see everyone start searching their pockets.”

“I do not want to hear my voice every time I text your phone.” You groaned, but Lussuria placed a chaste kiss to end the complaining on your lips. 

“But I do!”

Belphegor:

“Do that thing again,” Bel repeated, his back pressing down into his mattress while you sat back at the end of the bed rolling your eyes. Again. 

Because he asked, again. He always asked. But he had that cocky grin, his fingers fixated around his lower lip expectingly when he let his bangs tilt forward around the framed gleam of mischief imprinted on your mind.

“Sing for me,” He begged in his own, little, way. He crawled forward a bit on his long sleeves. His tongue poked out playfully as you opened your lips to perform like his tiny dancer. 

His sweetheart was talented, he realized, humming along clumsily as the siren song lulled him further into ethereal relaxation. Even when the whole castle could hear you. Even when the bed seemed to tremble with your vibrato as it thrummed under Bel’s fingertips that searched for the sound of your shaking voice along its comforter.

He reached for your face instead. Combing aside the spill of hair while you sang, blushing at his soothing touch when singing to the prince that just wanted you to write his name in your next song.

Mammon:

They were pretending not to notice. Their head avoided turning in your direction as your voice had filled the room of books and cathedral ceilings. Living in the place where your tone shung high in the air as you wandered the ailse and hung your head upon being witnessed like a ghost.

Mammon only assumed you walked awya when you felt watched, nerovus to sing before an audience when you selected a book and avoided the stares as you meandered deeper into the room.

“You know I heard you,” Mammon asserted as they passed, their hood sliding back to reveal the casual slip of violet strands as they escaped to their face. “But it’s okay. I know you’re just playing shy.”

“Don’t mess with me,” You huffed, head shaking as you flipped the page far too early. Merely skimming the book absenetly toget back to your tune as soon as they left. Only to try and catch you again, you knew. “I wasn’t doing anything but looking for my next book.”

“Idiot,” Mammon tsked, watching you teasingly as they swatted the book shut along your hand and smirked. “I must say though, you’re getting way better than I thought.”

Fran:

“What the hell was that?” You asked suddenly, jolting into Fran’s room as he stopped singing aloud. His annoyed expression giving you a glare as you stood halfway in the doorway. 

“Oh, sorry, I am interrupting you with my singing?” He asked boredly, hand splayed on his chest innocently as you gave a sharp stare. “I was just practicing- just at the same time as you was all.”

“Oh, yeah?” You taunted, hanging around to watch him nod. “You like singing opera music?”

“Is that what you were singing?” He asked, and you nodded back acutely. “Then yes. I do.”

“Okay, then maybe you should listen and learn before you practice, honey.” You were trying not to smile, but Fran was already playing the offended card. His eyes never widened. But his body started the gestures, started to sit forward sharply as you began your dramatic exit with a flounce of your shirt. 

“Wow, a guy sings one time and he’s told to shut up by his significant other- rude!”