#sick the bodyguard reference

[lsdunesarchive]

Anthony Green of L.S. Dunes crowdsurfing during Permanent Rebellion on their debut show at Riot Fest 2022 (Chicago, IL) on September 16, 2022 | 🎥: nights_grow

[chrollogy]

THE COST OF DEVOTION | chrollo lucilfer x f!reader

synopsis: When Chrollo Lucilfer is assigned to go undercover, and kill a billionaire’s daughter, he finds himself breaking the most sacred rule of the underworld—that there should be no feelings involved. The consequences of his actions backs Chrollo into a corner where he has to choose between fulfilling the job or following his heart at a risky price.

18+ MDNI; undercover assassin!chrollo, bodyguard!chrollo, billionaire’s daughter!reader, loosely follows some canon events (chrollo’s past), reader is referred to as ‘miss’, DARK CONTENT, DARK ROMANCE, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort (no happy ending), explicit smut, SLOW BURN, major character death, touches on arranged marriage, cheating, killing, money laundering, human trafficking, kidnapping, sacrilege & blood (briefly), gun use, chrollo struggles with feelings, chrollo has scars, OCs mentioned, not beta read.

word count: 18.6k

notes: divider: cafekitsune. ITS HERE !! thank u to @ljubimaya & @avatarofstars for supporting me throughout the writing process and for being such amazing friends :3 this is different from my usual fics + super self indulgent so enjoy. feedbacks & thoughts are much appreciated ><

Loud music, enough to make one’s chest thump, annoying bright strobe lights, and the sea of intoxicated bodies that passionately danced with one another without a care in the world, Chrollo wanted out. He observed the luxury club with a subtle scowl, gaze sharp enough to tear one’s throat as he watched the spoiled, and rich carelessly sway to the beat of the music—you were one of them.

A privileged affluent businessman’s daughter who didn’t know how to handle one’s wealth so she resorts to spending nights swiping her card for overpriced drinks, and whatever expensive shit the club had to offer.

Meanwhile, the lower class had to work themselves to near death to be able to provide for their families. One, two, three jobs just to make ends meet—just to pay rent, just to bring food to the table even if it meant working for the underworld.

That was where Chrollo fell into the spectrum; fortunate enough to live but unfortunate enough to live a cruel life in an equally cruel world. He grew up learning how to steal, fight, and kill while you grew up having maids cook every meal, a solid roof over your head, and generational wealth to spend.

It made Chrollo sick to his stomach how wealthy kids like you could just take, take, and take yet had the audacity to complain about their lives as if society didn’t favour them at all. He could go on, and on about this whole ordeal but at the end of the day, no one would even bat an eye, plus, he had a job to do—technically, two jobs.

At the heart of the sweaty, inebriated club, you stood there beneath the neon strobe lights, it bounced off the strands of your hair like a colourful aura mirroring your careless joy. Body perfectly swaying to the beat of the music, a half-full glass of a sweet cocktail, and a blissful expression on your face; maybe if the circumstances were different Chrollo would have smiled at your blithe spirit but it wasn’t.

Your eyes—a drunken haze—found his own to which you immediately acknowledged with a cheery wave of your free hand.

It only took a split second for Chrollo to mask the obvious scowl on his face with a sickly saccharine smile—one that made his gut twist with disgust—he returned the gesture with a dip of his chin paired with raising a glass of water in the air as if to make a toast. Chrollo’s expression fell the minute you turned away, unceremoniously slouching back into the leathered booth you’ve booked beforehand, he let out a deep sigh, and rubbed at his temples.

Two weeks

It had only been two weeks since your father—Chrollo’s employer—hired him as your personal bodyguard, and as expected, extensive pre-screening was a must before one could securely acquire said role which Chrollo found extremely bothersome despite its lack of difficulty. Though this wasn’t a rare occurrence, it only made sense for the rich to hire a skilled bodyguard to protect oneself from unknown dangers.

Obviously, he didn’t apply to be your personal bodyguard for sincere reasons—far from it, actually; Chrollo was here for a task that would land him his heftiest pay yet, even just thinking about made his head spin with immeasurable happiness already but Chrollo figured he’d bask in filthy money after completing the job. He always did.

If anything, this should be a walk in the park for him considering there was nothing more satisfying than seeing the demise of a wealthy brat. But for now, he’d take it slow, and earn your trust ‘til the right time comes; where his mask falls, and true motives come to light.

Where the last thing the assassin would receive from you was a look of pure horror much like his previous targets. Would you beg for him to spare your life like others did? Or would you sit in complete shock, words lodged deep inside your throat?

These thoughts immediately dissipated at the call of his name; a few feet away, you stumbled your way towards the booth, the highball glass tucked in your hand was now empty with only half melted ice cubes remaining. Chrollo stood up, wrapping a firm arm around your back, helping you regain balance before guiding you to the leathered seat, the fabric cool against your feverish skin.

“Should I call the chauffeur, miss?” Chrollo feigned worry. His stature loomed over your sitting figure, back lit with red neon strobe lights, giving him a deep crimson glow. You stared at him longer than necessary before responding with a small nod; the wild atmosphere, paired with your spinning vision seemed like a good enough hint to head home, and retire for the night.

At your agreement, Chrollo let out a big mental sigh of relief—he may be an adept assassin but sitting idly for hours while watching his asset drink the night away exhausted his patience more than one could imagine.

The ride back to the estate was all a drunken haze for you, though, you recalled a brief exchange of words between Chrollo, and your chauffeur as the latter helped you inside the vehicle before, they seemed to get along swimmingly despite the former only being a new addition to your personal staff. Albeit, that description might be a bit too generous, maybe it was just your drunk self thinking but nonetheless, you appreciated the courteous manner between the two. 

“Lukas?”

You called out to the chauffeur, he donned a formal attire just like Chrollo—a black tailored suit—he was an old-timer who had been your father’s previous chauffeur before you were born. It was safe to say you’ve learned a lot from him growing up, and maybe even served more as a father figure than your biological one.

“Yes, miss?” Lukas glanced briefly at the rear-view mirror. “Chrollo . . He’s nice, isn’t he?”

The older man could only chuckle in response, letting your words soak into the darkness of the vehicle before nodding, “He’s a promising young lad.” He glanced at the mirror once again, this time letting his gaze linger on you, headlights from the vehicle Chrollo drove behind poured into the backseat, and illuminated your face; Lukas didn’t know if it was due to your drunken state or from pure sincerity but the subtle smile on your face somewhat warmed his heart.

He took a mental note that you seemed to be quite fond of your new bodyguard.

After safely reaching the estate, and escorting you inside, Chrollo made his way to the staff house. Walking past the wooden double doors, he was stopped in his tracks by a familiar voice, “Off to bed, Chrollo?” It was Lukas, your chauffeur; he sat on one of the crimson couches, one hand nursing a cup of hot coffee.

Chrollo stared at the old man’s face behind the wisps of steam from the drink, the latter donned a rather pleased look on his face, he thought nothing of it, and nodded, “And yourself?”

Lukas returned the nod, “A little later for me.”

Silence occupied the living room for a moment. Chrollo could’ve left the conversation at that but instead, he stood there, feet rooted on the wooden floor, sensing that Lukas had more to say but was debating on it.

Seeing as he didn’t want to waste any more time, Chrollo spoke up “Is there something else you’d like to say?” His voice cut through the quiet atmosphere, he had now angled his body towards the older man. Lukas set the mug atop the coffee table before giving him his full attention, “The young miss seems to have taken a liking to you.”

Chrollo didn’t know how to react to that—even if he did, he wouldn’t have let on.

At his silence, Lukas invited himself to speak further, “At times, she can be quite a handful . . but hearing her speak positively of you warms my heart. What I’m trying to say is, please take good care of the young miss, it means a lot for her to say such things about you.”

Trust? Good.

Chrollo’s rosy lips stretched into a genuine smile, “I will. Thank you.” And with that, he excused himself before heading to his room, the soles of his obsidian shoes produced no noise with each step. He wasn’t happy because you seemed to like him, no, Chrollo was happy because you trusted him so easily—probably the biggest mistake you’ve made.

Though, nothing would really change if you didn’t trust him, either way, you’d meet your demise no matter what.

As the new week rolled around, it was no surprise that Chrollo had already memorised your weekly routine—without a doubt, you spent days in the office but he had noted other destinations you frequented.

On Mondays, you visited a cosy flower boutique in the morning, owned by a lovely old florist who’s cheeks were as pink as the camellias neatly displayed on the counter next to her. You only bought one type of flower—white chrysanthemums, a dozen, to be exact; they were carefully wrapped in a simple brown paper, and topped off with an ivory satin ribbon.

On the way back to the car, Chrollo wondered why you chose these specific flowers, and upon asking, you simply replied with:

‘White chrysanthemums symbolise devoted love, and loyalty—something we need more of in this world, don’t you think?’ 

How ironic. He had no knowledge about flowers but he always thought white chrysanthemums meant death, specifically a symbol of mourning, and grief—a flower fit for one’s grave yet you displayed them in a vase to bring life into your room.

If you were being completely honest, chrysanthemums didn’t hold any significance in your life; one day you decided to visit the flower boutique run by the old lady, and she had told you all about the flower. Oddly enough, you started to grow fond of it.

Chrysanthemums were awfully common in his hometown—Meteor City—and not in a good way; inhabited by untraceable outcasts, it was the perfect hunting ground for illegal activities such as human trafficking, as well as an endless source of disposable hitmen, and assassins like Chrollo himself.

Due to mass abductions, and murders of the people, chrysanthemums were laid out at the church for each victim; he could clearly remember walking down the aisle, a smell so sweet, and minty filled the thick atmosphere. For an aroma so pleasant, who would’ve thought it was associated with such sorrow?

On Tuesdays, you attended your private pilates lesson at 8 AM on the dot which lasted a little under an hour. As usual, Chrollo stayed idly by the entrance of the studio, just at the foyer as the muffled voice of your instructor seeped from under the closed door; this was usually paired with brunch at a local café after, as per your words, ‘a much needed caffeine break’ whatever that meant. He couldn’t care less, he was too busy assessing the layout of the building for an escape route, and potential threats as though he wasn’t the biggest threat here.

The window seat offered a clear view of the street outside, vehicles driving by, people in their own little world as they headed to their destination; not to mention the ample morning sunlight that poured in, allowing you to study Chrollo’s reflection from the glass.

He stood behind you with his back facing the window, scanning the entire café; you watched as his head slowly moved from left to right, then right to left, giving you a peek of his side profile. Your eyes traced every dip, and curve of Chrollo’s face, from the slope of his nose, all the way to the sharpness of his jawline. It was odd how this man—who barely talked to you unless necessary—had piqued your interest. In what way? That was something you were still trying to figure out.

How Chrollo carried himself with silent confidence stood out from the rest of your security team; sure, he was vigilant of his surroundings but each action he displayed was calculated, and clean—too clean. You’ve also noticed how his steps were much lighter than everyone else’s, it made almost no sound as though he was actively stalking a prey. And for a brief moment, you wondered who that prey was.

On Wednesdays, you were present at your father’s company for the whole day. Though, the scowl on your face clearly screamed your opposition; it wasn’t a secret to anyone how uninterested you were in all the business talk—in fact, if anyone were to ask about it, you could probably go on, and on about how boring, and tedious it was, conversely, if asked what you wanted to do in life, you’d probably have a hard time answering.

Alas, as the sole heir, the company automatically fell to your hands whether you liked it or not. Wednesdays were always a drag, having to make acquaintances with investors, and show face during monotonous meetings that rarely concerned you—you’d rather spend time elsewhere.

On Thursdays, you were also at the company but for a different reason. Chrollo only knew you reported straight to your father’s office, and he was often ordered to wait at the ground floor. The meeting with your father always took approximately two hours, and each time, you came out looking like someone had pressed all your buttons.

Though today, for the sake of Chrollo’s own selfish curiosity, seeing as the hallway was deserted, he lingered outside the office for a bit but all he really got was pure silence—either you, and your father conversed in a hushed voice or the walls were soundproof. Whatever the case was, Chrollo didn’t bother sticking around but he was quickly stopped in his tracks as voices from inside were suddenly raised—yours first, followed by your father.

Looking back at the office door, Chrollo heard you shout in opposition, it seemed like the conversation had somewhat turned into a heated argument. Nonetheless, he continued down the hallway—it was none of Chrollo’s business, after all.

“No! I’ve already told you, I’m not doing that!” Loud voice sliced through the growing tension inside the room. The older male—who sat behind his desk—leaned back into the seat, leather groaning beneath his weight as he rubbed his temples at your stubbornness, clearly displeased with how much you were blowing everything out of proportion. You stayed rooted in your spot, just standing a metre away from your father.

“Look, darling, I’ve already agreed—” “Agreed without my consent.” Raising your hands in defeat, you paced around the room, each heavy step muffled by the crimson carpet beneath your soles. “I’m the one getting married to someone I haven’t met! I never even wanted to be in an arranged marriage just because of what—a stupid business partnership?!”

This was the first time you’ve raised your voice at your father; all the years under his care, and guidance, you gladly accepted what was left upon your hands. Continuing the legacy of your father’s company? Sure, no problem, you could deal the burden on your shoulders but marrying a complete stranger?

That was more than crossing a mere boundary.

Your father was a skilled business man, and you never doubted that once—he was excellent at negotiating, and closing deals so for him to stoop as low as agreeing with an arranged marriage for the sake of his company, it baffled you, a lot. What more could he possibly want?

“I’m done with this conversation.”

Letting out a breath you’ve been holding, you turned around, and headed for the door but before reaching the silver handle, your father spoke up from behind, “Next week. You’re attending the corporate event with Euan. That’s final.” All you could do was nod.

Chrollo spotted your rather distressed figure exit the elevator, and head for the car park, not so much sparing a glance as you passed him; nonetheless, he quietly trailed you, steely gaze observing your figure up, and down—shoulders tight, and fists clenched at your side.

You felt defeated.

The thought of spending the rest of your life with a man you didn’t genuinely love, was that really your so-called future? A bond made for the sole purpose of expanding business?

Stepping into the underground car park, you stopped in your tracks, the automatic glass door silently humming as it closed behind you. Naturally, Chrollo did the same but didn’t dare speak up. Click clack. Two clicks from the soles of your shoes as you turned to face your bodyguard with a deflated expression, he could only raise a brow in surprise before you sat on your haunches, and buried your face inside the hearts of your palms.

Oh.

One, two, three seconds—it took Chrollo exactly three seconds to register the sight before him, and he didn’t know what to do; awkwardness settled in the air between the two of you as you sobbed into your hands. He moved closer—taking a few cautious steps as though he walked on eggshells—and squatted down to your level, “Miss?” He called out, his dulcet voice drowned by your soft whimpers, every muscle in Chrollo’s body was stiff, movements unsure.

What was he supposed to do? Reach out, and stroke your hair? Pull you close against his chest? Chrollo was more than sure that doing so was completely unprofessional on his end. So, he was reduced to sitting next to you, silently watching your shoulders shake with each muffled sob until you finally decided to lift your head, “I apologise for acting this way. I’m certain you probably don’t care but—”

Correct. Chrollo did not care.

“My father has been pushing me in an arranged marriage. I kept saying ‘no’ until he went behind my back, and agreed to it. I found out today and I just—I lost it. The benefits of what comes after marriage are endless for the company; more investors, more money, more security but is that really worth sacrificing my shot at finding the one I truly love?”

Saying the words aloud made it sound so silly. Finding your one true love, how naïve, that only happened in children’s fairy tales.

Upon learning the reason for your upset, Chrollo could only nod, he wasn’t the type to console anyone, let alone his employer’s daughter. The last time he could remember doing so was almost a decade, and a half ago during the time his dear friend—Sarasa—went missing.

It was a rainy day in Meteor City, Chrollo remembered hugging his friends tightly, reassuring them that everything was going to be alright even though uncertainty gnawed at his skin. 

He was innocent, and didn’t know better then.

But the incident with Sarasa was what fuelled his pure hatred for the wealthy. Chrollo was only a kid, full of limitless joy, and hope despite growing up in poverty. It was during the height of abductions in Meteor City, and that was when he learned that not even his friends were immune from illegal activities after seeing it with his own eyes.

It was broad daylight, and Sarasa had been forced into a car by two large men—as if one wasn’t enough to take a helpless little girl. The worst part was, Chrollo could only stand, and watch as his friend got taken away with nothing but helpless tears in his eyes, and a blazing anger that burned a thousand suns.

He could still recall the way his nails dug into the hearts of his palms, the temporary pain it felt. The incident haunted his coming days, hearing Sarasa’s screams at night, and how she begged for the men to spare her life.

Chrollo overheard from the Elders that the ones behind illegal abductions were the wealthy, and that night, he made a promise to avenge Sarasa—even if it meant taking lives. It was clear the rich were parasites of the world, greedy for money, and power, leaving none behind for the unfortunate. 

Chrollo couldn’t bring himself to understand your situation, and emotions—he didn’t have to but some odd part made him want to.

From Fridays to Sundays, you usually spent the time out with friends but as the days came, you remained cooped up inside your room, and only came out unless necessary. The thought of isolating yourself somewhat ate away at Chrollo, despite not being able to fully grasp your situation, he figured it must have been a breaking point for you, and deep down, for some weird reason, he was worried.

This was the first time you’ve shown him an emotion other than happiness—which he presumed was most likely out of professionalism—so seeing your distressed state had him rather curious.

Stationed just outside the doors to your room, Chrollo couldn’t do anything to quench the sparked interest inside him—guarding the entrance of your room was all there was to do which ended up with him drowning in his thoughts while standing idly. Even though Chrollo didn’t understand your sentiment, he knew no one should marry a stranger for the sake of business.

Though, Chrollo didn’t have much time to ponder about your situation as his replacement came walking up the stairs meaning it was the end of his shift for the day. He entertained a brief exchange with his co-worker before heading out.

Walking down the stone path that led to the deserted flower garden, Chrollo dug into the inside pocket of his blazer, and took out a burner phone. As the assassin dialled a number, he was greeted with a view of endless greenery decorated with bright hues from a variety of flowers; the floral aroma wrapped around his body like a fluffy blanket. Somehow, the sweet scent reminded Chrollo of you.

The cheap phone rang once, twice ‘til a familiar voice spilled through its speakers, “I’m guessing you’re here to update me?” The male on the other side of the call questioned. Chrollo agreed, and the line went silent, urging him to give the details.

As he gave a thorough update, Chrollo mindlessly walked down the stone path, various colours making its way to his line of vision. Though, a particular flower caught his eye—a sea of yellow as bright as the morning rays decorated several bushes on the ground. While speaking into the phone, Chrollo squatted down to its level, and examined the delicate flower, Bird’s foot trefoil, the small ivory signage before it read.

Two months, that was the amount of time given to complete the job. It was reasonable enough with the amount of security you were surrounded with, and even though Chrollo was the only bodyguard you took whenever you left the house, Lukas remained by your side as well—he made sure not to underestimate the old timer.

Chrollo had never heard of this man before but from what he knew, he seemed to be about the same age. Why the man was seeking out revenge by targeting your life was also something that remained a mystery—after all, Chrollo was only there to kill, details weren’t necessary when it came to an assassin.

“‘M not gonna tell you how to do your job but remember, time is ticking, and I’m spending a whole lot of money on this, yeah?”

Voicing his agreement before ending the call, he took one last look at the flower, and stood up, heading for the staff house.

It was about time Chrollo hunted for his prey.

With the new week, everyone prepared for the corporate event in a few hours—even Chrollo himself, as well as the rest of the security team was busy scouting the venue, and looking for any potential threats around, and inside the building.

Tonight, he donned a sleek, all black look which was slightly different from the usual white button down, and black suit he wore.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, employees, and important investors began pouring in the building; the inside boasted a formal theme with a lavish teardrop crystal chandelier that mimicked the shine of a thousand diamonds, round tables were draped in ivory cloths which housed a bunch of butterfly pea flowers encased in sleek ceramic vases.

Silence was replaced with melodic laughter, and casual conversations between acquaintances, and co-workers as the vast room was slowly filled with more people.

Having arrived at the venue earlier, Chrollo stood by the entrance, waiting for your arrival. As the familiar vehicle rolled around, Lukas exited the vehicle, and opened the rear passenger door.

Expecting you to come out of the vehicle, Chrollo was caught slightly off-guard when a stranger clad in a navy blue tuxedo did so instead—he donned obsidian strands that carefully framed his handsome face, and piercing honeyed eyes that was sure to make any woman swoon.

The assassin watched as he turned to face the vehicle, and held out a hand to you. Taking up on the polite offer, you held his hand, and gracefully stepped out of the vehicle. And there you were, in all your serene beauty, skin glowing beneath the warm streetlights that made Chrollo inhale a sharp breath for some odd reason.

“Thank you, Euan.” You gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Euan? Chrollo thought.

With how he lovingly kissed the back of your hand, and from the way you forced a smile, it wasn’t hard to piece together that this was the man you were forced to marry. Somehow, Chrollo felt a tinge of annoyance spark within the depths of his chest—maybe because he was aware of the whole arranged marriage situation or maybe because he was yet in the presence of another stuck up, pompous spoiled person. 

Euan interlaced his fingers with yours before heading towards the entrance, Chrollo didn’t miss the way the diamond ring on your finger twinkled like stars in the night sky. Surprisingly, Euan acknowledged Chrollo with a dip of his chin; you mirrored your date’s action, and only then did the assassin respond in the same way.

The event was boring as one would have expected, your father—the CEO—mostly talked about the company’s milestones up on the podium, he held a champagne flute in one hand filled with golden liquid while entertaining the room with uneventful accomplishments. Though, what you didn’t expect tonight was for your father to openly reveal your arranged marriage with Euan in front of your subordinates, and investors,

“It’s my pleasure to announce that the COO of D&J—my daughter—is soon to be wed with Mr. Euan Heston from Heston Enterprises.”

As endless applause, and supportive smiles filled the venue, you sat frozen on your seat, unable to muster even the tiniest smile. From the corner of your vision, you could see Euan bashfully nodding his head, and shaking hands with those in neighbouring tables as they congratulated him. You stared at your father in complete disdain which only prompted a forced smile from him.

Unbelievable.

A shaky breath escaped your lips before swallowing the raging emotions, pushing them down, down, down to the depths of your core, and as though a switch inside you was flipped, a smile stretched across your face, throwing out thank you’s to those who offered their support.

With the end of the CEO’s speech, and certain formalities, all that’s left was to mix, and mingle with everyone else which—thankfully—Euan did while you quietly sneaked away to the open bar. Although, visibly drowning yourself in more champagne only invited more guests to come, and gush about the weighted ring on your finger, not to mention how openly they adored Euan.

Hearing such high praise thrown his way, you caught yourself staring at your soon-to-be husband; you watched as he gracefully waltzed from table to table, engaging in polite conversations with not only the important people in the room but also with your subordinates.

Euan was well-mannered, kind, and respectful—he was everything your father wanted as your husband but he wasn’t made for you, and deep down, you knew that.

From the corner of the room, Chrollo watched it all unfold. From the way you stiffened beneath everyone’s stares as your father revealed the marriage, all the way to your gaze finding Euan amongst the crowd. He felt weird.

Albeit subtle, Chrollo sensed it was there—as though a foreign seed had been planted in his chest waiting for it to grow, and destroy him from inside out. Whether it produced the fruit of anger, revenge or some other emotion in the dictionary, he couldn’t tell, all he knew was it took root inside his heart.

As Chrollo got lost in his thoughts for a bit, he was greeted with an empty barstool that was previously occupied by you; he scanned the vast room, stone cold eyes darting from left to right, and right to left trying to catch a glimpse of your familiar figure.

Slight panic didn’t settle in until Chrollo realised that you were nowhere to be seen—the feeling began to gnaw at his very bones as the attempts of finding your whereabouts led to a dead end, he even went as far as asking a woman standing just outside the bathroom if she’s seen you walk in but only shook her head.

Wide, panicked steps, Chrollo unceremoniously crossed the room in search of you while almost bumping into several guests in a nervous haze; he muttered out whispered apologies, gaze remaining ahead. His heart thumped loudly against his ears, serving as a mere distraction to throw off his already breaking composure.

God, your father would absolutely kill him if he were to find out that he’d lost sight of you.

But Chrollo wasn’t scared of that, not even an ounce of fear in his body at the thought of your father’s wrath, instead, he worried for your safety; the more minutes passed without a trace of you, the more frustration consumed every fibre of him.

The only option left was to check the balcony.

With a bated breath, he opened the sliding door, a gentle, cool breeze of the night greeted him like a welcome hug. His gaze scanned the open area which—thankfully—landed on your familiar figure, you stood there, leaning against the metal railing while looking up at the obsidian skies.

Relief briefly washed over Chrollo as he let out a sigh but this feeling was soon replaced with red, hot anger.

He stalked over to where you stood, each step heavy with annoyance, “Where have you been? I was looking all over for you! Don’t run off like that.”

The ever calm, and collected bodyguard coming for your neck with such ferocity caught you off guard, not to mention the obvious bite in his tone. With furrowed brows, you turned to face Chrollo, a look of disbelief painted on your face. The audacity of this man. Who the hell was he to boss you around as though you were his subordinate?

“That’s ‘miss’ for you—” You crossed your arms, head slightly tilted upwards as you looked down at him from your nose.

“And relax, Chrollo. I’m not harmed. I don’t see what the fuss is about.” You were absolutely right, and Chrollo hated that you were because he didn’t know where else to channel his anger, if anything, your words doused the flame inside his chest with gasoline, allowing it to expand, and burn an azure fire.

Despite his better judgement, Chrollo let it consume him, “Relax? I’m your bodyguard, it’s my duty to keep you safe, and out of danger! What if something happens to you, and I’m not around, hm?”

Chrollo felt the foreign seed inside his chest grow into uncertainty—an odd feeling he’s never felt before. Speaking out like this, and losing his cool over a situation was out of character for him but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to stop, as though words willingly flew out of his throat, and out into the open.

“Exactly, you’re only a bodyguard. You have no right to act this way towards me. Have you forgotten I’m not your equal?” You retorted, dishing out the same amount of ferocity he had given you.

Initially, you were going to let the whole thing slide, it was understandable where Chrollo was coming from—he was only doing his job—but it pissed you off seeing as how he had the audacity to act like that.

You looked up at the taller man, gaze not backing down from his steely ones; it took him a couple of seconds to hold your stare before breaking it, and looking off to the dark horizon. Though, you swore you saw his eyes subtly dip down for a split second before doing so—you weren’t too sure, maybe it was the darkness playing tricks.

You were right. Chrollo was only a bodyguard, so did he cross the line? The unclear answer made him all the more furious but for now, he’d have to settle for the explanation that he’s your bodyguard, and he has the right to worry about your safety. Even if Chrollo himself didn’t entirely believe this reason.

“You’re right. I apologise for crossing any boundaries, miss.”

Chrollo stationed himself near the sliding door, offering you space to enjoy the quiet night in peace. Now, you felt kind of bad for raising your voice at him when he clearly showed nothing but concern; you chalked it up to the stress your father weighed upon you tonight—the decision to tell everyone about the marriage, Euan being your date for tonight, the engagement ring that wrapped around your finger.

It was clear that Chrollo was still bothered about the whole thing, you could see it from the way his jaw tightened, and the subtle crease between his brows. Whatever. You’ll deal with it later.

A petty argument. That was it. But why did it have Chrollo all worked up? Why was he extremely bothered about it? Hell, where was that useless fiancé of yours, and why wasn’t he looking after you? Questions swirled in his mind, chaotic, and uncertain—now, Chrollo was really wondering why he was acting this way. In his twenty-six years of living, never had he felt this feeling before, it stemmed from his chest, blooming across his body, and consuming him in an unpleasant, foreign way.

The feeling stayed rooted inside even until reaching the estate where he stood guarding the door to your room.

Chrollo rubbed his forefinger, and thumb together while staring at the marbled tiles beneath his feet, it was past midnight now, and the only sound heard was the thumping of his own heart—the rhythmic beat that somewhat got louder with each passing minute.

He was soon reeled back into reality at the sound of the door opening behind him. Stepping out of your room, Chrollo watched as the darkness unclasped your body from its confines; he quickly averted his gaze at your vulnerable state—clad in a flimsy ivory nightgown that stopped just below the knees with satin ribbon straps comfortably sitting on your shoulders. He felt it was rather inappropriate seeing you in such an attire.

“Ahem. Anything you need, miss?” Chrollo coughed into his fist, staring at the darkness behind you instead of holding the gaze thrown his way.

Letting out a sigh, you replied, “I think I need to clear my head a bit . . Care to join me for a night drive? That way you’ll know my whereabouts.” The end of your sentence had a tinge of bitterness laced with it but Chrollo shrugged it off, it’d be no use trying to pick up where the two of you left off earlier.

“I take it as a yes, then? Meet me at the garage.” With that, you walked down the stairs, the thin fabric of your nightgown swaying with each step taken.

Chrollo quickly headed to the staff house to grab the keys to his assigned vehicle. Making his way to the door, he immediately stopped in his tracks as a sudden idea popped into mind—the gun hidden beneath his pillows.

Chrollo stared at his bed before swiftly lifting the ivory pillow, revealing a pistol given to him upon acquiring the bodyguard role. Without a word, he tucked it inside the holster beneath the obsidian blazer he donned, and walked out of the bedroom, heading for the garage.

Disappearing into the night, an odd feeling engulfed Chrollo—he wondered whether the gun on his hip portrayed him as your bodyguard or as your assassin.

Something he has never thought about before because it had always been the latter, regardless of the situation. Nonetheless, the weapon felt awfully heavy hanging onto him—as though it was a great burden that took an even greater effort to get rid of.

The drive was awkward, and there was no set destination; the only instruction you gave Chrollo was to keep driving, and he did, without questions asked. The only sound that filled the vehicle was the low humming of the engine which lulled you further into your thoughts, warm streetlights would illuminate the inside which allowed Chrollo to sneak brief glances at you through the rearview mirror. He didn’t want to pry but it was clear you were overwhelmed with a lot of things.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology caught Chrollo off guard, stone cold gaze looking through the mirror to meet your own for a split second. “Miss?” He furrowed his brows. “For earlier. I said some harsh words as well, and you were only doing your job. So, I apologise.” Now, it was your turn to steal glances through the rearview mirror. Chrollo’s expression remained unchanged—most likely trying to find an appropriate answer. 

He shook his head, fully aware you peered at him through the mirror, “It’s no big deal . . It wasn’t my place to raise my voice. As you said earlier, I’m just a bodyguard.” Chrollo’s eyes remained on the road ahead, enveloped by the night, he didn’t know why it suddenly became hard to glance through the mirror—maybe it was the unmistakable knowledge that you’d be staring straight back.

Was he nervous?

Impossible. There was no such emotion in his dictionary.

“It’s just—the whole announcing the marriage with Euan in front of all the guests stressed me out. The marriage is set in stone without my permission, and I just feel so helpless . .” You watched the outside view go by, dull colours of the night blending into a blurry haze.

“I know the arrangement has benefits. I know that.” It was directed more to yourself than Chrollo, as though some part of you agreed with the marriage.

“Euan is . . He’s sweet—a kind soul but I cannot see myself loving him, spending the rest of my life with him.” The assassin gripped the wheel a little tighter at the mention of your fiancé. “I don’t think anyone should ever go through that.” He cleared his throat, stealing another glance at you.

“You mentioned a while ago—” Chrollo spoke up, deciding to deviate the topic from Euan. “That the marriage would benefit the company ‘more security’ . .” He trailed off, realising how he’s prying but you didn’t seem to mind with how openly you replied.

“Long story short, my father had a very close friend—Mr. Driscoll—in the industry. It was later revealed that he was involved in money laundering so most of his assets came from illegal dealings. My father played a significant role in his arrest—basically, Driscoll was stupid enough to tell my father of his underground ties, urging him to do it as well. But my father had tipped the police instead. Naturally, his son, Ciaran Driscoll—who’s now the CEO of the company—saw us in a bad light, and it won’t take long until he makes my father pay for the damages done.”

“The arranged marriage with Euan would obviously combine our security team with theirs which would decrease the chances of Ciaran, and any other dangers from getting near my father, and I.”

Yet Chrollo was here—an assassin tasked to kill you—who easily took on the role of your personal bodyguard.

How ironic.

You really did need that extra security from the Hestons.

“Ciaran Driscoll?” Chrollo muttered the name under his breath which you quickly caught onto. “Yeah. Ciaran Driscoll from Driscoll Pharmaceuticals, you know him?” He wouldn’t necessarily say he knew him but Chrollo was awfully familiar with the name—familiar enough to conclude that Ciaran was the one who hired him to kill you.

Despite meeting at a deserted location back then—nowhere near that gave any hints of Ciaran’s real identity—one of his subordinates had addressed him by his last name which Chrollo immediately picked up.

The pieces fit flawlessly. It made sense for Ciaran to get revenge for Mr. Driscoll’s arrest by targeting what your father held most dear in his life—you. And for that to happen, Chrollo was the middle man, the one to fuel the chaos between two families.

If he got the job done.

“No.” Chrollo lied. “Just thought the last name rang a bell.”

“Understandable, they’re a household name. Well, it used to be.”

Short silence filled the vehicle yet again, both left to their own thoughts before you spoke up, albeit, it was more of thinking aloud, “I truly don’t know what I want in life.” Odd. Chrollo always thought that if one was wealthy, they’d be able to wish for anything, and everything yet somehow, even with all the gold in your hands, you were still lost.

Chrollo pitied you, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Hell, he didn’t even know whether it was appropriate to reply. What did he know? He was someone born into poverty who didn’t have the luxury to question himself about what he wanted in life, just having to see another was already a blessing itself. Well, it wasn’t like the outcasts of society were given a choice on how to lead one’s life anyway.

The car fell in another silence but this time it was much longer, long enough for Chrollo to glance at the rearview mirror to see your eyes closed, and head leaning against the window, the rhythmic rise, and fall of your chest indicating the slumber you were in.

It was almost laughable how Chrollo was able to prove his theory right—that the rich were greedy for an even greater amount of money, the obvious example was the ex-CEO of Driscoll Pharmaceuticals, Ciaran’s father.

Chrollo’s grip on the wheel tightened, leather burning against his palms at the mere thought of dirty business. Illegal dealings. It was possible he had a hand in Sarasa's kidnapping. Mr. Driscoll didn’t belong in jail, no, he belonged before the barrel of Chrollo’s gun.

Taking another glance at your sleeping form, Chrollo quietly pulled over to the side of the road, putting the car in park before twisting his torso to face you. Warm streetlights casted a gentle glow upon your features, piercing grey eyes carefully tracing each one as though you were a divine creature—otherworldly, and beautiful.

You looked so peaceful, and undisturbed. Vulnerable.

While his eyes remained on you, Chrollo slowly slid a hand inside his blazer, reaching for the gun affixed by his hip.

The assassin pulled it out, pointing the barrel to your head, the weapon cool against the warmth of his hand. In, and out, he drew steady breaths, forefinger hovering over the trigger—one pull, and it’d be over.

The problem was, Chrollo couldn’t do it.

He has pulled the trigger countless times as though it was second nature, so why couldn’t he do it now? He couldn’t even bring himself to let his digit touch it.

As you stirred in your sleep, Chrollo swiftly tucked the gun back in his holster, and faced forward. Shaky, uneven breaths slipped past his parted lips, the sound of his heartbeat clouding his senses.

Hands balling into fists, he wondered what had gotten into him, mind racing with a million thoughts as he drowned in pure uncertainty. Chrollo stared at his hands—the same hands that have spilled blood countless times, the same hands that killed without a second thought, the same hands that were tasked to murder you.

Yet here he was, unable to do so as if it were his first time.

“Chrollo?” You mumbled aloud. As you peeled your eyes open, you tried to register your surroundings. “Why did we stop? Is there something wrong?”

He cleared his throat, taking a quick glance through the rearview mirror before shaking his head, “No, miss. I just had to take a quick call, my apologies.” With that, Chrollo pulled away from the side of the road, taking you back to the estate.

The ride home was silent. Fortunately for Chrollo, this gave him the opportunity to calm his thoughts, and steady his growing breaths.

Obviously this has never happened before, especially while out on a mission; it made sense for the assassin to lose his cool a bit after hesitating. If anything, it was akin to a bird suddenly losing the ability to fly when flying was the only thing it knew. To make things worse, Chrollo had just broken the unspoken rule of the underworld—to never hesitate.

To the underworld, hesitating meant fragility, and fragility meant that the enemy had the upper hand. He was confused, and conflicted, more so upset at himself for being such a coward—why was he a coward?

After returning to the estate, you softly called out to Chrollo who was heading to the staff house, “Do you want to come inside?” All it took was that foreign look in your face for him to fully understand what you meant.

He didn’t have to assume anything—you’ve never looked at Chrollo with such a burning gaze, full of intent, and vulnerability. God, it was a brazen move to do so but you wished he agreed. All you needed was a little company at the moment.

Something in the air shifted. Maybe it was because you were both stripped of your layers, baring your defenceless forms out in the open. Maybe it was the way Chrollo’s rational thinking became compromised on the way home. Or maybe it was how you oddly felt comfortable around his presence, as though he was a lifelong friend.

Nonetheless, Chrollo found himself inside your bedroom, and as expected, it was grand, spacious, fit for a billionaire’s daughter. Sweet aroma of fresh chrysanthemum’s filled the air but it was nothing like he had remembered back in Meteor City which was laced with grief, and sorrow. Instead, it enveloped Chrollo in a warm welcoming hug, he could finally understand your interpretation of chrysanthemums—devoted love, and loyalty.

Moonlight spilled from the windows, illuminating the side of Chrollo’s face. He was just standing there yet he mirrored the divinity of an angel as soft shadows contoured his handsome face, dark eyes gleaming beneath the dulcet glow; you’ve never been able to decipher the emotions behind his gaze but tonight was different, his stare was soft mixed with hint of uncertainty; Chrollo wore his heart on his sleeves.

“Help me escape even for a little while.” 

Like the obedient bodyguard he was, he nodded. Chrollo took one step closer, reaching out a hand to gently undo one of the satin ribbon straps. The flimsy fabric gracefully slid off your right shoulder, just enough to expose your pert nipple. It hardened beneath the cool evening air which had Chrollo swallowing thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing with pure excitement, and hunger; oh, how he couldn’t wait to put his lips on your skin, and devour you.

Wasting no time to undo the other ribbon strap, your nightgown instantly fell to the carpeted floors, the fabric pooling around your feet, leaving you almost completely bare in front of Chrollo.

Your skin grew feverish beneath his observant stare as he traced every dip, and curve, dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. After a heartbeat or two, Chrollo’s lips were on your skin, palms finding home just above your waist; he placed gentle kisses down the side of your neck as though on a mission to mark you, pulling dainty gasps in the process.

You tasted absolutely divine—like a hopeful prayer between his lips, and he craved for more. Soft smacks slowly filled your ears as he praised you with kisses. Down, down, down Chrollo’s lips went before stopping at the junction of your neck, he gave the sensitive skin an experimental lick to which you responded with a heated gasp of his name.

Tilting your head to the side allowed more freedom for Chrollo to explore; hands coming up to tangle with his raven strands, and tug at it urged him to mark your skin with hues of dark purple, and red.

And he did. Gentle, wet kisses turned into rough, electric ones as Chrollo used both teeth, and tongue to nip, and suck at your skin.

“Chrollo—!” 

The assassin could only grunt in response as he carved himself onto your skin like knife on wood—over, and over again ‘til it left a lasting mark. And when you stare at these sinful hues in the mirror, you’d be reminded of the feel of his lips, how his kisses turned your legs into a wobbly mess, and mind into a lustful haze.

Embarrassing, warm wetness pooled on the fabric of your panties as Chrollo neared your breasts, you watched with a bated breath, and keen eyes as he wrapped his lips around a mound—the sinful sight of Chrollo trying to take in as much of it as he could had your legs buckling, you were sure to have met the floor if it weren’t for his firm hold.

You let out a soft moan at the feel of his hot tongue swirling around your nipple, teeth gently grazing the sensitive spot which sent lightning down the length of your spine.

Eager hands tugged at the roots of his obsidian strands, nails raking across his scalp; it was beyond lewd how you readily pushed your bare body into Chrollo’s face—a man you’ve only known for less than a month yet here he was, wicked lips made of fire against your naked skin that melted like ice.

A large hand snaked its way up your front, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and pausing just beneath the other breast before cupping it wholly—the heart of his palm rubbing against your sensitive nipple as he massaged, and toyed with the fat.

Without an ounce of shame left in inside you, you wantonly moaned his name at the feel of his lips, and hand making love to your chest, it had Chrollo twitching in his slacks but he paid no mind to it because tonight was about ravishing your body until no one else could compare—not even Euan Heston.

Chrollo didn’t know what this meant for the both of you after but that was okay because once the night ends, your body would crave for none but him, and only him.

Chrollo let go of your swollen, wet breast with a soft pop, he looked up through his lashes before licking his lips, as though he just devoured the tastiest meal of his life.

Working his way down your torso, he placed chaste kisses down the valley of your breasts, steadily sinking to his knees as he descended further, each passing second growing closer to your heat—where you needed him the most.

Before Chrollo could kiss the intimate spot just below your belly button, you cupped his face, making him look up at you with slight confusion,

“On the bed . .”

Three words was all he needed to understand before standing to his full height, “Jump.” Chrollo ordered. You didn’t need to be told twice before doing so, arms, and legs wrapping around him while he supported your weight.

As Chrollo sauntered to the bed, you used the time to eagerly explore the spot beneath his ear, using teeth, and tongue to suck at it which pulled a few soft sighs from him. His intoxicating scent filled your senses, the sweet minty aroma from chrysanthemums mixed with his musky perfume had you groaning into his skin.

He shuddered at the feeling, the tips of his fingers digging further into the fat of your ass.

Gently laying you down on the pillows beneath, he stared at the serene beauty before him, steely eyes drinking in your nakedness. Chrollo’s stare felt like you stood directly under the blazing sun on a summer day, igniting your skin to the core without anywhere to take cover but you liked it, you liked the feeling of his hungry stare, how he looked at you like fresh meat on a silver platter—a predator, and his prey.

As if to put on a show, Chrollo hastily shrugged off his blazer, mindlessly throwing it on the floor, leaving him with a white button down. He caught a glimpse of your lust-clouded gaze staring at the gun affixed to his hip to which he immediately removed by unclasping the holster.

The weapon landed on the floor with a heavy thud, you paid no mind to it but for Chrollo, it served as a harsh reminder of his real motive, and everything that would happen tonight was nothing but an insignificant moment in his life.

At least that's what he convinced himself this was.

The mattress groaned beneath Chrollo’s weight as he dipped down, wasting no time to connect his lips on your bare skin, and picking up where he left off—right below your belly button.

He kissed at it before wickedly pulling the waistband of your panties using his lips, and letting go of it to snap against your skin. A small gasp escaped your lips at the feel of the slight burning sensation which had you aching for more; it also didn’t help how his hot breath ghosted over the most intimate part of your body.

Though, before you could open your mouth, and beg, Chrollo hooked a forefinger around the waistband, and swiftly tugged it down the length of your legs, wet cunt squeezing at nothing as the cool air embraced its heat.  

Chrollo took his time to enjoy the bare sight before him by placing open-mouthed kisses dangerously near your sopping cunt—on your inner thighs, below your belly button, and the spot just above your clit. It had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, fingers digging into the sheets beneath; what a wicked, wicked man, he hasn’t even properly touched you yet here you were, legs shaking from all the teasing.

Pride bloomed across his chest at the sight of you—the fucked out expression you donned, the heavy rise, and fall of your chest, and the dainty whimpers that filled the air.

Hooking his hands behind your knees, Chrollo gently pushed them towards your chest ‘til you were folded in half, glistening cunt deliciously exposed for him to devour.

A wanton moan slipped past your lips as Chrollo traced his tongue around the outside of your clit before laying the wet muscle flat against it. He expertly rubbed at the sensitive nub, lewd sounds mixed with your shameless moans engulfed his ears, encouraging him to further stimulate the spot.

Your hips bucked against his face, hands flying down to his hair as the electric sensation returned to your body, sending massive jolts of lightning down the curve of your spine.

“Chrollo, right there! Yes—haah!” You gasped as he switched to the tip of his tongue to lick at your clit. 

Chrollo placed his thumb, and forefinger on either side of your clit for better access before moving his tongue side-to-side, across the area beneath the clitoral hood, resulting in a broader stimulation that had you stiffening with pure pleasure.

Looking down at the sinful view between your legs, you let out a loud moan as Chrollo met your eyes through his hooded ones. Without a doubt, ecstasy slowly consumed both his body, and mind with how he subtly rocked his hips against the mattress—cock aching for any kind of contact but Chrollo had to focus more on holding your hips down while you unceremoniously thrashed around, trying to slow your impending orgasm.

As Chrollo continued his torture, it didn’t take long for you to let pleasure consume your body as a whole, and cum on his tongue.

He drank in your pleasured state—lips parted, brows furrowed, and back arched off the mattress; the orgasm that hit you was intense, as though your whole body has been electrified, and the only way to respond was by moaning his name like a sacred prayer in hopes you keep you grounded to reality.

Relishing the taste of your essence on his tongue, he closed his eyes, humming against your sensitive nub in complete satisfaction which had your legs shaking, and hands attempting to push his head away. He gave a few more gentle licks before pulling away, revealing his chin completely drenched in your filthy arousal—Chrollo paid no mind, simply bringing a hand up to his face to wipe at it.

You watched through a lustful haze as Chrollo finally worked on his shirt, each button undone growing closer, and closer to exposing the entirety of his torso.

As he shrugged the fabric off, you couldn’t help but reach out to touch his bare skin—it was pale, fascinatingly chiselled, and scarred; Chrollo’s torso was decorated with a few raised, discoloured patches here, and there indicating the rough past he had. He stared as you traced a scar with your forefinger—a ghostly touch that brought a shudder down his spine—but before you could move onto the next one, Chrollo gently grabbed your wrist, and brought it up to his face, placing a chaste kiss on the heart of your palm.

By no means was he insecure about those scars, in fact, he proudly wore them like a badge, to serve as a reminder that the rest of the world wasn’t his friend.

You’d be lying to yourself if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat or two.

The kiss from Chrollo was different—different from the one Euan had given you during the company event. Yes, the latter was full of sincerity but it didn’t bring warmth to your face like Chrollo’s one had.

Or maybe it was just because of how lost you were in pure lust, unable to decipher even the simplest feelings.

“Tonight is all about you.”

Chrollo shouldn’t be doing this, it goes against his beliefs, and goals—against the very reason why he turned into the person who he was right now.

Mingling with the wealthy, even going to an extent as to have sex with you, if his younger self saw him right now, he wouldn’t be able to believe it.

But what was it about you that had Chrollo rewriting his rules? Why was he so willing to throw away the deep rooted anger inside his heart to pleasure you?

Moreso, what did he gain from all this?—not money, not power, definitely not the justice he sought.

Nonetheless, Chrollo threw those thoughts in the moonlit window—he’d grab them again later at the crack of dawn while guilt eats him alive. Slowly, he dipped his hands below his torso, fumbling with the zipper of his slacks; Chrollo felt your heated stare on his crotch, how your short breaths quickened as he tantalisingly pulled the metal zip down, the sound echoed along with your breathing, allowing Chrollo to bask in your desperation.

You thanked the stars above as he bared himself without anymore teasing, articles of clothing that once hugged his body were now strewn across the floor of your room like unmended pieces of oneself.

Moonlight surrounded Chrollo like a serene aura, an angelic-like glow that had his skin radiating beneath the celestial gleam, turning his hair into the colour of the first starlight. It was hard to focus on his heavenly appearance when sin was right between his legs.

“Do you want me to stop?” 

No, god, no, just the thought of Chrollo completely leaving you high, and dry brought tears to your eyes. Shaking your head vigorously, he crawled atop your lust-fuelled body before placing a chaste kiss on your temple then onto your nose, trailing further down ‘til he reached the valley of your breasts. You let out a shudder as Chrollo lapped his way down, not forgetting to tease at your pebbled nipples by giving them a light nip.

“Chrollo, please . .” For once, this was different from what was usually thrown his way—most people begged for their lives as they stared down the barrel of his gun with pure horror in their eyes, lips disturbingly quivering as they pleaded during their last moments.

Wasting no time, Chrollo met your gaze once more, his face mere centimetres from yours. You gasped as his cockhead gently prodded at your entrance as he reached down between your bodies, he rubbed it a few more times, the sinful contact earning low grunts, and moans from both of you.

Chrollo connected his forehead with yours, damp obsidian hair ghosting over your warmed cheeks, holding it in a gentle caress

Letting out a shaky breath, his cock slowly pushed your folds apart as he inched in. Immediately, your legs curled around the dip of his bare waist, interlocking behind his lower back; your hasty movement jolted Chrollo forward which forced his cock further into the plush of your velvety walls.

He sighed, cursing the eye rolling pleasure sent his body into a pathetic tremble. Though, you were no better, clenching around Chrollo every time he pushed deeper—not only did it test his sanity but it also tested his patience.

He reminded himself a million times that simply fucking you like a mere cocksleeve was not his intention for tonight. Or ever. Rich or not, you were still a woman after all, one deserving of nothing but genuine pleasure.

As Chrollo bottomed out, he held your starry gaze, watching as your eyes glistened with tears—whether it was from the bliss his cock had you under or from sadness, he had no idea.

You felt so full, as though the gaping void inside you had been magically sealed—his cock sat there unmoving yet it hit all the right spots, the ones that had you trembling a little harder, and moaning a little louder.

Hot breaths mingled as the two of you let out heavy pants, he stilled inside your wet cunt, allowing both himself, and you to adjust to the feeling, “You’re so tight—fuck.” You gave your hips an experimental rut at his words which pulled a long hiss from him, brows furrowing together.

After a heartbeat or two, Chrollo slowly pulled out, the languid drag of his cock against the plush of your walls had you whining in the shape of his name. It went straight to his cock, twitching at the pornographic sound you let out—if you noticed, you didn’t let on, you were too focused on the way he moved inside you.

With only the tip remaining, Chrollo pushed his hips using the same pace; all the way until he disappeared in your folds once again, heavy balls kissing the skin of your ass.

You could feel the entirety of his length—every dip, and curve which had your legs shaking, and toes curling a little harder. Chrollo’s cock was slightly curved upward which allowed an easy reach to your sweet spot, and with every languid thrust he gave you, his cockhead kissed it repeatedly.

Hands that were pinned to the pillows were released as Chrollo brought a hand to caress your cheek while the other supported his weight. You leaned into his fiery touch, as if doing so was going to ground you from cloud nine. 

Setting a deep, slow pace, Chrollo’s face remained a breath away from yours—he kept eye contact, nothing but an endless pit of alluring onyx that pulled you further into the ocean of bliss. Every languid stroke pulled oxygen from your lungs, it had you desperately gasping for air, one which only Chrollo could quench by whispering sweet nothings mere inches from your parted lips.

Mixed with breathless sighs of pleasure was the soft creaking of the bed frame which sung in unison beneath the weight of your rocking bodies. The air grew impossibly thick, and hot allowing the sheets to stick uncomfortably to your bare back but you didn’t care, not when Chrollo fucked you into the mattress as if the sun was going to burn out tomorrow.

You pulled him closer, arms instinctively wrapping around his torso to decorate his back with crimson streaks.

The sharp sting of your nails fuelled Chrollo’s drive—he picked up the pace but remained bottoming out with every powerful thrust, causing your body to jolt in response.

You clung to him tighter, legs painfully locked behind his back as he did his best to move in, and out of your sopping cunt. You were close, and despite Chrollo taking you for the first time, he knew—he could feel your body stiffen with each passing second, the way your greedy cunt grew impossibly tighter, making it hard for him move, and not to mention your broken cries of his name so close to his ears that those were all he could hear.

“I’m so near—god, please don’t stop, Chrollo—!” You sounded so vulnerable, so bare it made his cock twitch.

Greed consuming his pleasured state, Chrollo wrapped an arm around your shoulders, deftly snaking it between the mattress, and your back. He pulled you closer, the weight of your limp torso straining against his curled limb while the other supported his own body.

Chrollo cradled your head with his palm, pushing your face closer to his ‘til the tip of his nose brushed your own. Oh, how tempted he was to kiss the very lips that cried out his name as if he were your saving grace—an angel with his hand stretched out to you.

Barely a whisper above the heavy breaths you exchanged, your name smoothly rolled off his tongue. It was the first time Chrollo did so, and god how addictive it sounded; you shuddered at it, his dulcet voice engulfing the entirety of your being right down to your very core.

“You’ve been so good, are you going to cum? To let go, for me?”

With the minute space left between the two of you, you vigorously nodded your head, too fucked to care about the desperation that seeped from your skin like sweat. Chrollo moaned at your wordless response, fingers slightly curling at the back of your head, his nails dragging across your scalp,

“Haah—! That’s right, give in to it.”

And you did.

With a final drive of his hips, you came undone—the pressure that’s been slowly building up finally bursting inside you.

A broken moan escaped your lips, body arching closer to his as you let your orgasm take you beyond cloud nine.

As if you weren’t already breathless from panting like a whore, Chrollo greedily pressed his lips against your quivering ones to capture them in a passionate kiss.

His lips were soft, and sensual, like it was sculpted by the goddess of love herself. He greedily drank in every moan, and whimper you had to offer, claiming them as his own prized possession to keep. Chrollo’s pace faltered at the feel of your cum coating his cock in a warm embrace—a feeling he’s been deprived off, a feeling he didn’t know he needed.

Pulling away from the kiss, he spoke, breathless, “I’m close—fuck. Where do y—” “Inside.” Chrollo swallowed thickly with your legs tightening around him. It dizzied him, the thought of you so willing to let your insides be marked by him without a second thought.

A small gasp escaped you as he gently set you down onto the mattress, his cockhead brushing your sensitive spot. With his orgasm near, Chrollo dropped his body on top of your own, torsos flush against each other as he trapped you with his weight.

With his own pleasure in mind, Chrollo gave short, hasty thrusts, desperately rutting his hips to chase the growing bliss. The only option for you was to lay there, and moan his name from overstimulation; with his weight on yours, you couldn’t squirm your way out of the immense pleasure.

“I’m here—ngh! ‘M close.” Chrollo whispered into your ear, a hint of apology laced his tone, most likely from how overstimulated you were.

After a few more desperate thrusts, he stilled, sheathing his cock all the way inside your cunt, you felt him twitch before releasing his load with a low moan. 

Feeling his hot cum paint your walls white, you mirrored the sound he made. Loud, wet squelches filled the room as Chrollo rode out his high, effectively fucking his cum deeper.

The two of you stayed still for a moment, letting your bodies bathe in serene moonlight. You laid beneath him, listening to his rhythmic heartbeat pound away against his ribcage, it effectively lulled you to the borders of sleep, your heavy eyelids slowly closing in exhaustion.

Though, before you could fully close them, Chrollo rolled off your body with a soft grunt, his cock slipping out in the process. The loss of contact had you clenching around nothing at the feel of his cum slowly seeping out of your cunt. Before you could speak up, Chrollo beat you to it,

“I should go.” He cleared his throat, voice low, a hint of sadness laced in his tone. Though, you didn’t catch on. Chrollo quietly gathered his clothes, putting them on layer by layer until he was fully clothed. An indiscernible emotion washed over you as he made his way to the door, each quiet step taken tugging at an invisible string tangled in your heart. Oddly enough, it stung.

“Yeah . .” You nodded in a daze.

The lack of response from your end tore at Chrollo’s insides—it made sense, after all, he was nothing but a quick fuck, what did he expect? For you to convince him to stay the night? That was beyond delusional.

As Chrollo reached for the handle, you called his name out of instinct. His heart skipped a beat. “Yes, miss . . ?” He spoke your title in a small voice, unsure which name was appropriate in this situation.

“Thank you.”

That was all you could muster. What else was there anyway? Chrollo wasn’t a person you were supposed to be sleeping with in the first place, nor was he your lover who you could be intimate with after sex.

He was nothing but a bodyguard, and will remain your bodyguard. Whatever happened in this room was to be forgotten.

The sound of the door clicking reached your ears, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone. His scent lingered in the air, becoming one with the sweet aroma of chrysanthemums.

Within the next coming days, you were right, and wrong. Right because in the face of others, the professional relationship between you, and Chrollo remained—a bodyguard, and his principal.

Wrong because stupidly enough, the both of you had not forgotten what happened a couple of nights back. The days were filled with stolen glances, and stuttering heartbeats, you couldn’t stand by idly while your heart yearned for your bodyguard.

At first, you convinced yourself that this feeling was purely lust-driven, it was only natural to seek out Chrollo’s presence after a night with him.

You believed it for a week.

One whole week until you felt your heart clenching at the sight of your bodyguard exchanging a conversation with one of the maids. Chrollo was all smiles, the kind that reached his eyes; the maid wasn’t any better, an obvious blush extending from her cheeks to her ears said it all.

He never smiled at you like that.

Why was he treating you—his boss—any different? Chrollo was always nonchalant with you, barely any words spoken yet here he was animatedly cracking jokes left, and right like he had some kind of alter ego. It pissed you off.

More so, being angry at the fact that Chrollo treated you differently upset you even more. At best, this was a trivial matter, something you shouldn’t even think about. 

But you couldn’t let go of it, not when he gazed at you the same way he had done so that night.

Within the next week, you’d realise that merely having Chrollo by your side wasn’t enough.

On Monday, you did your best to converse with him while buying chrysanthemums at the boutique, even going as far as giving him a flower from your bouquet, hoping that he’d think of you whenever he looked at it.

On Wednesday, instead of asking your personal assistant to grab your lunch, you took Chrollo instead, and headed out the office which gave you more alone time with him. 

And by Friday, you couldn’t take it anymore. You called Chrollo into your bedroom late at night after finding the courage to do so. Naturally, he stood inside as if he didn’t have you filling the room with your own moans two weeks ago.

The familiar sweet scent of chrysanthemums filled his lungs, taking him back to the pleasure-filled night with you. Chrollo pushed the thought down, deeming it extremely inappropriate, especially being alone with you like this, again.

He swallowed as you pat the empty spot next to you, your vulnerable state beckoning him to devour you. Who was he to deny himself of acting on his predatory instincts? 

“This is . . rather unprofessional, miss.”

That was the last thing he said before he found himself sitting on the edge of your bed, kissing you like he loved you. Did he? Large hands cupped your jaw, eagerly pulling you closer to his face. Even though Chrollo didn’t bare his heart, the zeal behind his kisses revealed the truth hidden in his chest.

Both lips fell into a unison, slotting into each other like they were made for one another. Before getting carried away, Chrollo pulled back, brows lifting in amusement as he watched the way your face leaned in, searching for his lips.

“What—What about Mr. Euan?” He asked, breathless, onyx strands dishevelled, courtesy of your wandering hands. 

You both knew you didn’t have feelings for Euan but saying it aloud wasn’t going to change the fact that a ring sat on your finger, it was far more complicated than that.

Lowering your gaze, you shrugged. Guilt picked at your skin, the thought of disrespecting Euan had you freezing in place. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be prying.” Chrollo whispered, hot breath fanning across your face. He tucked a strand behind your ear before sliding his digit down to your chin, lifting your face.

“Kiss me?”

You didn’t have to be told twice.

What the two of you had wasn’t exactly a relationship—beyond a professional relationship but less than a romantic one. But Chrollo cared for you all the same, even if it meant watching in the sidelines as Euan made his polite advances—kiss on your cheek, a hand on the small of your back, his fingers tucking stray hairs aside, Chrollo endured it all. Whether or not it affected him, he didn’t let on.

Instead, he returned affection tenfold in comparison to what Euan gave you. Your room had turned into a rendezvous—every night, behind its closed doors, Chrollo took you in his arms, and whisked you away from reality, from all the inhibitions you felt. And amidst all the meaningful conversations, the shared pleasure, the tears shed, a bond deeper than one could comprehend blossomed within these walls.

Chrollo became a rock you could lean on—a significant person you could be vulnerable with, and bare your heart on the table, unguarded. He listened to your problems, and silly thoughts with open arms, and ears, stroking your hair beneath the moonlight as the two of you lay underneath the ivory sheets.

With you, he was a completely different person, a person who he deserved to become. One that could relate to the little joys in life—whether it be chasing sunsets, dipping salty fries in vanilla ice cream or looking up at the night sky without any remorse in one's heart.

With you, Chrollo had a fleeting glimpse of the life he was robbed of because all he knew was how to survive for another day—how to kill swiftly, and effectively.

And he’d be reminded of all these when returned to his own quarters in the dead of the night. That the sole purpose of his arrangement in this estate was to take you out—not to nurture a bond with you, not to have sex with you, not to listen to all your thoughts, no. Chrollo was here as your assassin.

To hold you so gently in his hands knowing they would be the same ones covered in your blood. It was almost laughable, it surprised Chrollo how he—a person conditioned to destroy—was able to touch you with the utmost gentleness as if he’s never once tasted violence on his tongue.

Clearly, you both felt something for one another but acting on it was easier said than done—not to mention how this mission wasn’t supposed to end up like this, all tangled up in a web known as you. 

Did Chrollo love you? Truth be told, he didn’t know. He never had the privilege of experiencing what romantic love was. Wanting to be by your side was the only thing he was certain of.

Lying in bed, Chrollo looked over at his nightstand, it housed a singular piece of chrysanthemum soaked in a glass of water—one that you had given him earlier this week. Now, his room smelled just like yours, the flower’s sweet aroma lingering in the air.

It helped Chrollo sleep a little better; smelling its familiar scent tricked his mind into thinking he slept in your presence.

A little over a week.

That was how much time Chrollo had left to get the job done assigned by Ciaran. It wasn’t long, and he knew he had to make the decision soon but not before taking a gamble.

As Saturday arrived, you stuck to your routine as usual, the only difference was, the late night was spent driving around with Chrollo.

The atmosphere inside the vehicle grew thicker by the minute, he could tell something weighed your mind from the way you pursed your lips, and fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. But of course, the ever polite man he was, he waited ‘til you opened up to him—Chrollo knew you like the back of his hand, whenever things bothered you to an extent, it didn’t take long for you to break.

“Can I tell you something?” You murmured above the hum of the engine. Staring to the side, you watched as Chrollo wordlessly nodded his head, stealing a brief glance your way before focusing on the wheel. He took notice of how you sat on the front passenger seat instead of your usual spot.

Looking out the window, you spoke up, “I . . don’t know how to deal with all this.” Chrollo remained silent, urging you to continue. “I’m going to be married to a man I don’t love, and I’ll be running a company I don’t want. And us. I want you, Chrollo, I really do but I . .”

Chrollo’s grip tightened around the wheel.

“Why don’t we just run away, and leave all this behind? We can build a new life together and—” 

“Is that what you want? To run away with me?” Chrollo cut you off. Coming to a full stop at the red lights, he turned to you, the seriousness in his expression made you somewhat nervous.

Would it be foolish of him to comfort you with words he partially meant?—words that would only hurt you in the end?

“I can give you that.”

At this point, Chrollo was lying to himself. To be so brazen, and accept running away with you knowing well enough his neck was chained to the underground—loyal to his roots.

Weighing the options, it was crystal clear that the odds were against the both of you. Of course, you didn’t know that, you had absolutely no idea Chrollo had underground ties nor was he assigned to kill you by none other than Ciaran.

Considering the latter’s involvement in underground business, you wouldn’t be the only one with a target on their back; it only made sense for Ciaran to put a hit on Chrollo as well for disobeying his orders if he were to consider running away. It would elicit a whole lot of enemies, and he couldn’t put you in a situation where he was willing to risk you dying in someone else’s hands. 

Living a life hiding from dangers of the world—that’s what you would have to go through if you, and Chrollo were to run away. Did you really deserve to live that way? Did you deserve to live in the conditions Chrollo tried to run away from?

The answer was more than obvious.

Obviously, a life with Euan benefitted you more—you’d have more stability, and security. Who was he to take away all those things from you?

Having never tasted something as sweet as this feeling with you, Chrollo found himself holding tighter rather than letting go, he fed on greed, and delusion. 

Truth be told, it tore him apart. A part of him cursed, and yelled at him for being so naïve, and easily moved by a woman he had only known for a month and a half—not to mention how he despised your kind.

The other part urged him to reach for the unthinkable, and build a new life he deserved, with you. Chrollo was ready to lay his weapon down if it meant being by your side ‘til the end of time.

Maybe in another life.

He knew he had to make a decision. Soon. Ciaran had been making calls to his burner more often than not, and he could sense the former’s patience growing thinner, and thinner as each day turned into night.

Whatever Chrollo’s decision was, he just hoped you’d still love him all the same—forgive him.

There was one crucial piece of information Chrollo had remembered. On Sundays, you dismissed all security staff that accompanied you, including the chauffeur, Lukas. This meant that for one day, you were completely unguarded, and alone.

Chrollo was unaware of the reason but it was obvious you wanted to experience a sense of independence one way or another.

Nonetheless, he managed to keep an eye on you by using an ample amount of distance—it was a piece of cake, after all, he tracked his targets in stealth mode for a living; akin to a predator sizing up its prey before sinking its canines.

Sundays weren’t particularly eventful, you spent the day alone running around swiping your credit card left, and right until it made you feel a tad better. So when Chrollo had ‘accidentally’ bumped into you at the parking lot, hidden from public cameras, he was aware of how effortless it was to whisk you away from the public.

“Chrollo? What brings you here?”

The bodyguard was dressed in his usual attire, a white button down neatly tucked beneath his black slacks, and this time, he didn’t wear a blazer.

“I figured you’d be here, miss. Something came up at the estate—you’re needed back home.” A lie.

Chrollo observed as the sparkle in your eyes drained at his words, genuine concern rolling in like grey clouds looming above on a stormy night. His heart clenched. Not in a good way. “Don’t worry, no one is hurt.” With his reassurance, your shoulders dropped with ease, the breath you’ve been holding slipped past your lips in a relieved sigh.

It pained the assassin how trusting you were, how easily one could play you into the palm of their hand the same way he did right now. Why?—why didn’t you question how effortlessly Chrollo pinpointed your exact location? The city was expansive, no normal person would be able to trace your steps unless they followed right from when you left the estate.

The vehicle was quiet, leaving room for Chrollo to notice the faint scent of chrysanthemums inside—it was your personal car, not the one Lukas used to drive you around hence the flowery aroma.

For some odd reason, the smell no longer comforted him the same way it did whenever he frequented your room. It made him nauseous. If Chrollo was to put it in words, the aroma smelled of sweet death, and it reminded him of the church back in Meteor City.

Consumed by concern, and lost in your own thoughts, you paid no attention to your surroundings outside, how it grew less, and less familiar with each kilometre driven by your bodyguard. You also didn’t notice Chrollo repeatedly stealing glances through the rearview mirror every now, and then, missing the way his steely gaze housed a hint of nervousness—an emotion he didn’t normally harbour.

Though, as you finally came to, you gazed out the window, eyes carefully scanning the fleeting hues outside as the car drove by. Soft colours of pinks, and oranges seeped through the glass which casted an ethereal glow inside, it hinted at the setting sun, and the darkness that loomed just around the corner. As your brain registered the foreign roads, confusion settled in, 

“Are we taking a detour, Chrollo?”

He wordlessly nodded. You mirrored his action in acknowledgement but the feeling of unease was oddly difficult to dismiss, especially with how deserted these roads were. The streets were decorated with construction sites, abandoned buildings, and old houses that were decorated with wooden planks to seal off windows, and entrances.

A weird feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. You caught the way Chrollo’s stone cold gaze locked with yours for a split second but didn’t dare speak up.

Just as your heart started to race, the vehicle came to a halt, Chrollo had parked in front of an abandoned building—an old church, based on its architecture. Its unmistakable pointed roof aiming at the skies above, and stained glass windows marked with angels, and other holy beings said it all.

The building was surrounded by overgrown greenery, and wrecked furniture dumped on the side which hinted at years of apparent neglect. Its dressed stone walls were the epitome of sacrilege itself, littered with colourful vandalism from top to bottom; even just seeing it with your own eyes felt like a grave sin. A forbidden image.

“What—” “Get out.” Chrollo cut you off. For a tone so cold you could’ve swore a subtle shudder ran down the length of your spine. His stare met your own through the mirror for a second time and your heart sank all the way down to your stomach at how serious he was, dread slowly engulfing your body. What the hell was happening!? Why was Chrollo acting strangely?

“No.”

Chrollo turned to face you, still wearing that stoic expression. You felt small under his gaze, it almost felt predatory—no—not almost, it did; you didn’t want to admit but you caught a glimpse of the way his eyes sparkled with sharp, murderous intent.

Swallowing thickly, you crossed your arms, trying to appear nonchalant, albeit, it was more for yourself than for the man before you.

“Not until I get an answer. You mentioned something had come up at the estate, so why aren’t we—” “I lied.”

Before you could question his motives, Chrollo swiftly got out, the resounding thud as he shut the door closed had your body flinching a bit. You watched as he rounded the car, and made his way just before your door.

Opening it, a hand reached in for your wrist; gentle fingers curled around your skin as if you were a delicate flower—a daring contrast from the way his piercing gaze stabbed shards of unease throughout your body.

You pulled away, easily slipping off Chrollo’s placid grasp before helping yourself out of the vehicle. His hand curled into a loose fist as he watched you exit the car with an evident scowl on your face; funnily enough, Chrollo had the audacity to feel upset at the rejection. Never once have you denied his touch.

Crossing the narrow clearing that led to the unsealed church entrance, chunks of loose stone, and dirt moved beneath your steps; you stared at your feet as they navigated through the unstable terrain.

It was odd. Calm, and composed were the last two things you should be feeling in this situation, given the sudden shift in Chrollo’s demeanour, you were supposed to be fearing for your life right this instance despite your blindness to the hidden danger that lay ahead.

Chrollo . . He would never do that to you, right? Upon taking the job, he swore to protect you. But your better judgement screamed at all the glaring crimson coloured flags—an abandoned church in a deserted neighbourhood? It was the perfect set up for heinous crimes.

Out of instinct, you scanned the layout of the building from where you stood, if it came down to it, there was only one viable escape route which was through the main entrance of the church, the one Chrollo pulled open.

By now, the sun had fully disappeared below the horizon, and the colourful remnants the burning star left in its wake slowly faded into deep hues of night azure. Strangely, this end of the town harboured harsher winds with a freezing bite that had you rubbing your arms over the sleeves of your top.

A heavy groan sounded from the mahogany doors, it cut through the wind’s endless howl as it danced with the leaves, and through the sharp branches, interlocking trees in a soft sway.

A chill ran down your spine at the loudness of it. The doors parted revealing a view you’d expect in an old abandoned church—disorganised pews to create a spacing in the middle, antique chandeliers affixed to the high ceiling covered in thick layers of dust and cobwebs, and trash scattered across its marbled floors; by the state of the inside, squatters most likely frequented the building due to its unsealed entrance.

The inside was dimly lit from street lights outside, it poured through the stained glass windows which allowed a deep scarlet glow to illuminate the building. Chrollo stepped inside, the soles of his obsidian dress shoes quietly clicked with every calculated step further into the church.

Foolishly enough, you followed as though a crimson string bound yourself to his—he was acting strangely, and the most appropriate approach as of now was to question his behaviour, and the bizarreness of the situation. Walking away would only prove useless with how far he has driven, and he had your car keys; at best, you could only cooperate.

“Chrollo, will you please tell me what’s going on?” You navigated inside the old building, the scent of mildew, and rotten wood lingered in the damp air, it captured your senses in a tight hold.

Ruby bounced off Chrollo’s inky strands as he stood at the heart of the church, right beneath the stained windows with divine beings. It turned his pale skin into an angry red, and you wondered if that’s what he felt right this very moment, clearly you weren’t far off with how he pierced your soul earlier.

He turned to face you, “I’m doing this for your sake.” For the first time today, emotion seeped through the cracks of his nonchalance. 

Chrollo looked almost sad, you weren’t entirely sure given the lack of lighting but the unmistakable glint behind those obsidian eyes was anything but foreign. For a split second, it was the same Chrollo that spent countless nights in your bedroom; not as your bodyguard, not as anyone else but simply as Chrollo—your Chrollo.

“For my sake? What the hell are you talking about, Chrollo?” Like the vermillion glow that bounced off your skin as you stepped closer, anger slowly bubbled in the pit of your stomach. Chrollo was nothing but cryptic with his responses, and you couldn’t wrap your head around any of them! He had always been a straightforward person, sometimes blunt, so why was he holding back now?

Standing beneath the scarlet light softly illuminated your features, Chrollo thought you looked exquisite bathed in the brilliance of red. Even with a tinge of doubt, and anger in your eyes, you were filled with love the same way the colour kissed every part of your skin.

“An escape from all this . . That’s what you want, right?” With his right hand, Chrollo reached inside his pocket, it took you a few seconds to identify the item in his hand—a gun.

With the way it’s unmistakable silver glistened beneath the dim lighting, you could tell it was a weapon of his own; not the ones registered under your father’s name. You stiffened, and your body ran cold, gaze met with the barrel of his gun.

“Chrollo?” Barely a whisper, you called out his name above the thick atmosphere, each second spent inside it had you desperately gasping for air; whether it be from nervousness or confusion, you didn’t care to find out.

He swallowed thickly, fingers curling tighter around the handle of his gun, trying to ignore the way your desperate plea violently struck a chord in his heart.

“Chrollo please put the gun down! You’re out of your mind!” Panic surged from head to toe, it came in vicious waves, scratching, and gnawing at your bare skin like a vehement beast. Chrollo tried to ignore the apparent tremble in your voice, he couldn’t afford to mess this up.

“Yes, I want to escape—with you. Why are you doing this to me, Chrollo? Why do you want me dead?!”

The third time his name rolled off your tongue, he was ready to throw the gun across the room, and cradle you in his arms while whispering apologetic nothings in your ear.

But he didn’t.

Chrollo stayed rooted in his spot, gun aimed at you, “Remember Ciaran Driscoll?—” You furrowed your brows. Ciaran? “He paid me to kill you.” A shaky breath, that was all you could muster, your mind was too busy trying to piece everything together.

Ciaran. Chrollo. Kill. Your blood ran cold.

But Chrollo didn’t give you time to breathe, steady clicks of his shoes echoed throughout the church as he paced back, and forth, “I was elated when I agreed to his proposal. Why? Because a pompous soul dying by my hands is what I’m made for—” He was calm, and collected, a faint smile displayed on his face as he slowly walked towards you. “Did you know what your people did? To my home? To my friend?” Stopping just before you, Chrollo leaned in, obsidian gaze piercing right through you.

“A lot of you treated Meteor City like some kind of hunting ground at your disposal. As if—as if its inhabitants were nothing but mere animals. For what? The sake of illegal dealings? For more money? Power?”

Chrollo caressed the side of your face with the back of his left hand—the other remained motionless by his side—his ghostly touch trembled against your skin, afraid that if he pressed down any further, you’d crack.

The situation baffled you. Not only was Chrollo blaming you for the atrocities caused by other people, you still couldn’t wrap your mind around the fact that he was in cahoots with Ciaran Driscoll to orchestrate your demise.

Is that why Chrollo applied to become your bodyguard? To get close before finally killing you off? You felt another wave of dread wash over you. Everything felt numb, your limbs, your torso, your heart.

Shaking your head, you finally broke the silence with a trembling voice, tears threatening to spill out,  “I’m not involved in any of those, Chrollo. Do you even hear yourself right now?”

He did. God. He fucking did and he felt absolutely foolish for blaming you. After you had bared your soul to him every night, Chrollo stopped seeing you in the same light as he did before. Yes, his deep-rooted disdain never left but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of loving you; it was a battle between desire and duty, and he already knew the victor.

The determination in your eyes, you were set on running away from the current life you had, and as tempting as that was, he didn’t have the courage to lead you into a new life full of nothing but danger.

Chrollo would rather have you dying by his own bloodied hands—for him to live each day filled with regret—than have someone else basking in the glory of killing you. At least that way, he’d be tainted by you.

“You’re all the same. Ciaran’s father is proof enough! You said it yourself that he was involved in illegal business—”

“So those nights we spent together . . were they just all part of the act? You never cared for me.” Chrollo barely caught the last part of your sentence as you muttered it under your breath; he watched as your gaze lowered, a wave of sadness engulfing you for a split second before finding his eyes once again. This time, you wore a glare.

You straightened up, “Tell me, Chrollo. Was it all just an act? A show you put on just to get close to me?” Questions lingered in the air the same way dust did, it sat heavy on Chrollo’s shoulders but he remained stubborn—silent. Would his answer change the circumstances? No.

After all, nothing good came out of trivial matters. At his stillness, you grabbed his right hand, trembling fingers curling around the shaft of his wrist as you brought it up to your face, pressing the barrel of his gun to your forehead. It felt icy against your feverish skin, like the kiss of a grim reaper.

Ever so slightly, Chrollo’s brows rose in shock, breath hitching at your brazenness. “Did you ever love me?” A broken whisper spoken into the crimson-lit night, so dainty, so weak yet it pierced his heart without a second thought. It left a gaping hole, as ugly as sin, and no amount of repentance could heal.

Love. How would one define love? Was it the act of sacrificing someone dear to oneself? Chrollo didn’t know. But more importantly, how did you define love?

“Did you?”

Digging deeper into the subject would only lead to the grave of his heart but Chrollo couldn’t care less, it was already six feet under since the day he sought revenge for his friend.

With a heavy sigh, your eyes finally softened, “Of course. I still do.” You felt his hand twitch in your hold, as if he briefly tried to pull the gun away.

Glimmering like the first starlight were tears staining your cheeks, one by one they fell down as a surge of emotions drowned your body; your brows were furrowed yet your eyes looked at Chrollo like he held the cosmos in his hands.

Is this what was meant when they said love and anger were painted in the same shade of red?

In his line of work, Chrollo has never seen anything as haunting as your gaze. It was natural for his targets to look up at him in complete horror, tears welled up in their eyes as they begged him to spare their lives but you—your eyes were full of nothing but love, and adoration despite his gun pointed at you. That look alone was enough to torment his coming days.

“Do you, Chrollo? Do you love me?” His chest tightened at the hopeful glint in your eye. Nothing good ever came out of trivial matters because at the end of the day, Chrollo was nothing but a man chained to his sinful revenge—blindly devoted to the hatred planted in his heart, and it came with a great price.

A sudden wave of red washed over his body, resulting in an ear splitting bang that resounded within the church’s bricked walls. Chrollo flinched at the sound—he’s never done that before—followed by a heavy thud against the marbled floors. It took the assassin one, two, three seconds to register the situation, the violent sensation of the gun’s recoil still fresh on his trembling hand.

The faint scent of iron hung in the air.

Chrollo looked down at the grisly sight before him, gun in his hand weighing heavy before it finally slipped from his absent grip. The weapon fell beside his right foot.

For the first time, Chrollo Lucilfer—the bringer of death—weeped, and mourned the demise of his target. He wailed into the darkness as warm crimson slowly pooled around your head, it resembled a faux halo, a tainted fallen angel.

Broken sobs, and ugly cries filled the damp building—this was the first in a long time that he had heard the sounds of his own grief. Guilt, and sorrow consumed Chrollo the same way the shadows of the night did but no amount of tears would bring you back to life, no amount of whispered I love you’s would reciprocate his words, no amount of cracks in his heart would turn back time.

You were dead, and it was all because of the man you loved so blindly. ‘Til your dying breath, you were shielded from the secrets of his true identity, and feelings, ones he swore he would take to the very grave he dug.

Chrollo fell to his knees, his fingers dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The vile pungence of your blood suffocated his senses, despite something so familiar to him, Chrollo heaved and curled over himself, quivering like an autumn leaf in the wind—he looked pathetic; hot tears and snot covered his reddened face as he cried out into darkness.

Every bit of air left his lungs and each breath felt like a chase he couldn’t win. Truth be told, he didn’t have the courage to reach out to your body, no, he didn’t feel like he deserved to do so.

To taint you more than he already had. So, Chrollo didn’t, instead, he weeped until the moon decorated the obsidian skies, until his tears tried, until your body ran cold, and every bit of colour you wore was gone. 

And when the assassin finally pieced himself together, he did three things.

One, let Ciaran Driscoll know that the job had been done using a burner phone.

Two, with the same device, Chrollo called the police, brazenly letting them know he murdered someone, and the exact location of the crime scene.

Three, he covered your car in flames, and fed the burner phone into it; he watched as bright hues of oranges and yellows devoured the vehicle before doing what he did best: disappearing into the night, and becoming one with the shadows to never be found again.

The night before, he had quietly handed in his resignation to Lukas who gave him an appreciative pat on the back, the old timer parted with words that Chrollo knew would remain ingrained in his mind, ‘I’m quite sure the young miss appreciated your service. Thank you for taking care of her.’ 

His heart shouldn’t have clenched at that but it did, and painfully so.

The coming days blended into nights with Chrollo sitting inside his hideout—a dingy, rundown motel with paper thin walls that housed interesting individuals. Completely unaware of the time, his only company was the ticking ivory wall clock above the cramped dining space.

The hefty payment from Ciaran lay untouched on the bed, concealed within a briefcase. He didn’t eat nor drink, not even having the energy to step outside for occasional sunlight, and every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the look you gave him during your final moments, he remembered the metallic tang in the air.

The old chunky television situated atop a rusty console table was what kept Chrollo’s sanity intact.

Day to night, it blasted morning, afternoon, and evening news—to the point of fellow motel goers knocking at his door to complain about the noise—just to keep up with information about you. As much as Chrollo yearned to bask in the memory of you, seeing your face plastered on television followed by a variety of words such as ‘rest in peace’, ‘murdered’, ‘assassinated’, and ‘dead’ didn’t help his mind at all.

At least what kept him entertained were the updates on potential suspects that may be tied to the crime scene; the murder weapon was an unregistered gun loaded with an unregistered bullet, and the footprints left at the scene had no unique tread.

So at best, there were no concrete leads in the case.

Not that it mattered to Chrollo.

Atop the cheap wooden table on which he sat were two things, the murder weapon and a singular stem of a white chrysanthemum. The one you had given him from your bouquet. Chrollo let the flower sit there for days on end until its ivory petals shrivelled into a brown hue—its sweet aroma turning pungent.

Until it withered. 

Until the scent of death choked him the same way his cries did that night—a mockery of what was lost, of what he willingly destroyed.

One month. It took Chrollo a month to finally step into the day, and out of the drab motel room. Brightness engulfed his vision, the sun’s afternoon rays shone as brightly as ever, enveloping him in a warm, gentle hug as if to welcome him back to reality.

He was certain he didn’t deserve kindness from this world, not even the permission to step foot in the very earth that held your body dearly in its grasp as though you were its prized possession.

Oddly enough, Chrollo found himself standing before a familiar flower boutique. With his gaze locked onto the floor-to-ceiling windows, he looked around the inside, as if doing so was going to have you magically pop out of nowhere, and buy a dozen of white chrysanthemums like before.

But you didn’t.

Pulled from his thoughts, a recognizable voice filled his ears, it was the owner, “Are you here to buy flowers for a lover, perhaps? I can recommend a few—” She stopped halfway through her sentence, realising the familiar face that stood before her. Chrollo watched as her face morphed into a sad smile, the cheery glint in her eyes disappearing beneath the thickness of her lashes,

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re her bodyguard, right?” He inhaled a sharp breath at the mention of you, heart violently thumping against the confines of his chest. Chrollo could only nod, anything more than that would have him breaking.

The old lady reached out her plump hand, and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “I’m so sorry for your loss. She was lovely—”

Don’t say that. Don’t say it to me like I’m not the cause of her death. Don’t say it to me like I should be mourning for someone who died by my hands.

Chrollo gritted his teeth, jaw clenching at the sympathy thrown his way. He felt sick and disgusted with himself—as if he were a vile being trapped beneath human skin. All of a sudden the sun rays that gently enveloped his body didn’t feel like a warm hug anymore, sharp, hot prickles spread throughout his clothed skin, leaving a painful itch.

“—and the only customer who bought chrysanthemums frequently. Others usually bought the flowers once or twice for funerals and death anniversaries; she was the only one who truly saw chrysanthemums in a different light.”

A symbol of devoted love and loyalty, that’s how you saw them.

How ironic that the flowers you once adored would be laid upon your grave, holding a completely different message; mourning and grief. That didn’t sit well with Chrollo, you loved white chrysanthemums but not for that reason.

“Apologies, I ramble too much.” The owner let out a polite chuckle before continuing. “Well, can I at least interest you in some flowers? What would it be for you?”

“Can I get a dozen of those?” Chrollo pointed at the lively bunch soaked in water, situated just beside the boutique’s entrance. Following his finger, she looked behind her and smiled, “Right away.”

Its petals resembled rays of the first sunshine, the golden hue it wore promised eternal warmth even after death.

As day turned into night with the crescent moon high above the obsidian skies, Chrollo made his way to your perpetual resting place—it didn’t take much effort to do some digging around to find out where your body had been buried.

The chilly wind howled as it danced with the dark, trees and leaves swaying to accompany it with a silent song. He walked down the moonlit path of the cemetery, land that outstretched before him was decorated with tombstones, and in his left hand was the bouquet he bought earlier.

Moonlight shone over your grave as if the moon herself knew the secrets shared between you and Chrollo on cloudless nights. Bouquets of white chrysanthemums decorated the space around your grave, candles that were once lit rested atop the marbled tombstone that housed your full name.

Oddly enough, this felt like déjà vu. Maybe it was due to the fact that you and Chrollo rendezvoused in your room the same way he visited your grave—under a lonely moonlit night where soft whispers, and beating hearts were heard.

Bending down, Chrollo lightly caressed your carved name, cleaning out stray pieces of grass and dirt blown by the wind. He gently placed the bouquet amongst the sea of white, its colourful hue greedily taking all the limelight from the sombre flowers,

“I know these aren’t your favourite but I figured you’d like them too . .” He paused for a moment, foolishly waiting for you to reply.

“. . Yellow chrysanthemums just like the white ones but—” Who was he kidding? Chrollo felt stupid. Talking to your grave as if you were alive—as if he wasn’t the one who brought you to your demise.

The audacity he had.

Truth be told, every fibre inside his body screamed at him to turn back, and never show his disgusting self but Chrollo was as greedy as the darkness that drank the moonlight each night.

He envied the ground like sin, how held you in its arms, cradling your rotting body in its eternal embrace. It should be him. Now, he’d have to remember you longer than he had known you.

Instead, Chrollo was six feet above—alive; tied to, and haunted by the shackles of foolish regret. The memory of that night replayed in his mind over and over again like a cursed broken record, the disgusting thump as your lifeless body hit the floor, blood pooling around your head.

Most nights he’d find himself calling your name in his sleep—he always dreamt of the same dream: you, running away from him in a field of flowers, no matter how hard he worked his legs, he never seemed to reach your body. 

Chrollo sat before your grave and sobbed, letting creatures of the night feel his vulnerability; as the wind howled, the breeze carried the sounds of his cries to the trees, where it promised him to keep it a secret—a story only reserved for the dead.

Hot tears rolled down his frost-bitten cheeks, pooling on the tip of his chin before it fell on the damp grass beneath.

In antique texts, yellow chrysanthemums represented one’s heart left to desolation. Neglected love. It was only befitting for he has killed the very person who grew to love his blood-stained soul because in the end, he was nothing but a man only adept at destroying.

He let out shaky exhale, and whispered into the night the answer you sought, 

“I love you.”

—

affiliated with @houseofsolisoccasum & @pixelcafe-network !

[ma1dita]

when the curtains close

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 5.3k

summary: (post-tlt) The one where you lose two people in the Labyrinth that day. All strings are cut. (Pollux, Annabeth, Percy, and Mr. D find out the biggest difference between you and Luke.) (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader)

a/n: yeah to me this fic sounds and feels like that tiktok of the girl humming to her microwave. split povs: pollux, annabeth, your depictions of the titular battle of the labyrinth at CHB, some blood/gore, death & grief. the usual. you forced me to by lizzy mcalpine. references to cat on a hot tin roof by tennessee williams if you squint

(posted 5/14/24)

—

The first time Pollux has a panic attack, time seems to stop and the world keeps moving on without him.

He’s reminded of a time when you rambled on about how anxiety takes possession of the senses like a moment frozen in a snapshot meant for you to identify. In the memory, you had your feet kicked up on the dash flipping through a DSM-5 while he and Castor took turns speeding up and down Farm Road (totally normal older sister behavior from you, and when a cop pulled you over, the three of you narrowly escaped a ticket by talking in riddles and godly smoke that smelled like grapes). Pollux still remembers the sound of laughter in the car blending like three different chords to an archaic melody (or squawking crows in the strawberry fields)— the bond between you three laid out before time knew limits and was always meant to be.

It’s still his favorite song. You’re their favorite (and only) sister, they love to joke. These are facts that will never change.

“You two have each other, and well, I’ve got this,” you had said, the Zippo flicking open and closed against your thumb in the blossoming darkness of the car. Pink and purple rays of waning light blanketed the old hatchback as it steadily made its way back towards Half-Blood Hill, comfortable silence shared in the way only siblings can stand to be quiet—when there are no words needed to get a point across. But you’ve always set yourself apart from the pack, not needing anyone like how they need each other.

Not since Luke left, at least. The growing distance between you three since your untimely resignation from camp was proof enough. Pollux’s eyes met Castor’s in the rearview mirror as they both noticed your sad smile. His brother’s voice broke through the silence then, having always been the one blunt enough to say what was on his mind, “You’ve got us too if you let us see you more often.” Your fidgeting stops.

“It’s not you two, it’s just hard to be back here sometimes. I see things for what they used to be instead of how they really are now. Now it’s just… it has to be all business.”

Pollux cracked a smile, “S’what you get for growing up. Soon we’ll just be annoying voices in your head like you are to us.” Shutting your textbook, you turned to look at them from the passenger seat, eyes that match theirs darting between their blond heads, “All of us have to grow up eventually. Except maybe you two— I prefer you in my nightmares like the kids from The Shining. Whenever you get sick of Dad, come see me. Gods know that camp deserves a break from the two of you too.” Your knuckles knocked against both of their heads affectionately as he put the car in park, “My built-in bodyguards, huh? Always looking out for me.”

All words and meaning escape Pollux now as he stands in the greenery of the North Woods with battle gear ill-fitted to his large frame. It’s the first siege he’s ever taken part in, the first time he’s had to use battle strategies outside of Capture the Flag and the first time he’s slashed his way through monsters and demigods with the intent to try and kill or be killed. Sword and Shield could have never prepared any of them for this—as his eyes meet Castor’s and then yours with all of you thinking the same thing, the three of you join the sea of iridescent orange through mind-numbing black moving like a sharp three-pronged sword.

This type of stuff isn’t typical for him, he thinks. He and Castor are used to being comedic relief— being the source of laughs and juice boxes for pesky little campers instead of facing the real world outside the boundaries of the Mist. Perhaps your father babied them to make up for the time he lost with you, but there’s a moment where he wonders how being kept soft will keep him alive in a world as harsh as this one.

Childlike innocence is ripped away from them in the bubble they’ve inhabited until this moment. Home is now a warzone and like lambs set up for slaughter, the twins both turn to look at you as a shuddering gasp leaves your mouth at the carnage in your surroundings, monster blood and fallen friends and enemies at your feet. Breaking away from formation to take a deep breath, he looks at the sky and wonders where your father is, but smoke and soot fill his lungs and he coughs desperately for a breath of fresh air.

Pollux thinks he must have stopped breathing before Castor took his last breath. It wasn’t supposed to be a competition, but sometimes life was just funny like that.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Just like you told him.

Castor was always the more manic one while Pollux knew how to endure. Children of Dionysus are forced to befriend insanity before it makes an enemy out of them—twisting the ugly into what’s real and creating something beautiful out of the deranged. You’ve shown the boys how you detach from emotion by recognizing the details—separating fact and fiction, a methodical process only describable by the blood that runs through your veins. Pollux doesn’t know where to start—everything happens so fast but it plays out in front of him like someone put the pieces together to a stop-motion animation.

He sees Castor’s sword fall to the ground when he gets slashed on the forearm and sees him get clubbed over the head with a metal weapon he’s only seen bad renditions forged for theater practices and hanging on the walls of the armory. Castor falls first to his knees, and then into the dirt with a thud. He never knew there could be that much blood coming out of a person, much less a mirror image of himself. Pollux sees your face come into his line of vision, deep maroon splatters on your face glittering with hints of ichor and then you’re moving because he can’t. The enemy is coming back for him now, and for a moment he wonders if Castor will be mad if he lets him. He sees you turn in an instant, swinging your sword down on the neck of the aggressor, a teenager not much older than he and his brother are—were. It’s funny how his brain immediately makes the switch to past tense, and how he can’t stop thinking about how he’ll now and forever be older than his twin. Pollux then sees you catch the body of the boy you just killed as life seeps out of him slower than it did for Castor.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though.

His knees hit the ground next to his twin, touching the sludge of dirt soft like quicksand and moist with what he hopes is not blood, but Pollux is not quite sure of what else there is to hope for. His fist is wrapped around Castor’s shirtsleeve, touching faded orange and sweat as he holds on for dear life. Maybe if he tries hard enough his soul will still be intertwined with his. Your hand touches his shoulder, five fingers reaching out to brush the back of his neck and the feeling of your skin helps him refocus a bit, even if you’re saying something he can’t make out. Then the metal of your Zippo lighter feels cool to the touch within his palm and he knows what he needs to do.

The battle isn’t over, but for the three of you, everything stops here. There is no going forward without your brother. You were never meant to be children of war.

Pollux hears the sound of his heartbeat thundering through his ears, blood rushing through his veins and can’t help but notice the silence amid the chaos. There are no words fit for this—and even if there were, Castor and you were always the more talkative ones. He hears the spark of the purple flame between his fingers, blowing the smoke over him and his brother’s body, and their father’s powers blanket them like how you used to tuck them into bed, warm and safe. This is what your family is—unconventional and unending even in different realms of existence. And then Grover’s scream of panic echoes through the air and everyone hears that. Hysteria ensues as monsters and demigods alike run amok, and Pollux realizes he’s stopped shaking.

In his father’s domain, he will always find comfort.

You stand above him now directing campers calmly with a free hand—a brewing storm crackling underneath your skin that he now understands. Hidden by the illusion of smoke, Pollux’s tired bones rest alongside his brother’s dead ones— together as they always were meant to be.

The three of you together, his little family—that is a fact he hoped would never change.

The smell of grapes envelops him as he leans his forehead against your muddy leg… when did the battle end? It almost masks the scent of death that rips through the air as your hand brushes through his sandy hair. Pollux stinks of sweat and you stifle a laugh as you see him smell his armpit. You three were always the same type of fucked up. He doesn’t look down at Castor laid across his lap but knows he would’ve found it funny too. Ignorance of reality even for a moment serves as a comfort. Purple meets purple as he looks up at you with a smile that doesn’t fit his face anymore and he croaks, “Wonder what dad would say about our first battle…”

Glory was never meant to be this bittersweet—it tastes like blood in his mouth until he wipes it away from his cheek and realizes it’s Castor’s. In a way, it’s his too, everything about him and within him is exactly the same down to the star stuff the fates wove them from.

“I’ll be the one to tell him. You take care of Castor,” you answer, as if there’s anything else he would want to do and then he realizes you’re crying— and he’s seeing all of the pieces put together in front of him in this photograph in his mind.

Pollux blinks slowly.

Suddenly the image he has of you is more defined— there is new meaning to the sadness you could never shake off all these years, and he is too young to lose his greatest love, which makes him realize then that so were you.

How long does this have to go on? he wonders, grabbing onto your hand with an eagerness only comparable to the feeling he got when you and Luke whisked him and Castor away from Florida all those years ago. This punishment of living while half of his soul does not—what is he supposed to do next? This was supposed to be the safe place. There is nowhere left to run. His thumb rubs circles into the back of your shaking blood-soaked hand, a secret within the smoke.

Pollux thinks there will always be a part of him frozen in time now, a memory of this day hung up in his mind like a portrait as he holds Castor’s cold hand in his warm one.

—

Annabeth finds you in the middle of the strawberry fields before the sun sets. She knows you won’t be sleeping tonight, not if you can fight it— not when there’s so much to do. You’ve long grown out of your ripped-up and tie-dyed camp shirts, and the one slung on your frame is newly pressed and starchy from the storage room of the Big House, still stiff against your freshly washed skin. When she’s close enough to touch you, you’ve been scrubbed clean of today.

She doesn’t have to be a daughter of Athena to know that you know that she’s there even if you can’t see her, but for once she feels like she has to hide. For once, Annabeth Chase doesn’t know what to say. How can she explain the feeling of guilt that coils around her brain like barbed wire—how can she even begin to apologize for the thing wearing her brother’s skin, knowing that it killed yours? For once, her hubris is crushed by the sinking feeling of humiliation.

“Was your first quest all you thought it would be, Annie?”

As she takes her navy cap off, silver braided strands around her face wave in the wind as a reminder of what Luke put her through. Though as she looks at you now with your berry-stained fingers plucking at stems one by one instead of using your powers, she thinks that your mind is elsewhere—anywhere but here, where everything is a painful reminder of your five years as a camper.

Five years with Luke.

Mourning him isn’t a new feeling for either of you, even though he comes in and out of your lives like a poltergeist you want to bash across the head, just always out of reach. But he’s a constant, even when he’s not here and he’s what binds you two together as you huddle hidden away from the rest of camp.

“He did this for you.”

It’s not a question, more so a fact out of Annie’s mouth when you finally meet her eyes and sigh, “Luke’s always had a way going about things. The most stubborn man to ever live.” You toss another strawberry into the crate at your feet. No one’s working right now, trying to tend to the injured and the dead. Everyone’s doing their best to chase away the nightmares that are bound to come, and she knows you’ll be making rounds with her on the night shift to ease everyone’s anxieties. But there’s a thought so strong it makes her head hurt, bursting at the seams until she can’t stop with her last-ditch effort to fix her found family.

“Maybe if we find him, we can save—”

“He’s been out of time for a while now, Annabeth. We both knew that,” you say, voice firm and unwavering. You’ve never sounded so monotone before, and it hits her as her mouth falls agape, “You’re giving up on him? Why… why would you give up on him?” Anger courses through her veins like fire and she’s mad that she’s at the center of this prophecy, of Hermes’s anger for his doomed son who will love you until the ends of the earth.

And what of her?

What of the hope she has in happy endings, how is it that you’re so damn calm? Annabeth kicks at the crate, strawberries rolling out in different directions and your jaw tightens as you let her be petulant, let her scream and yell until her inner child can catch up with the reality of the world around you.

“How could you?”

Your name echoes as she repeats it, grabbing at your shoulders and she’s as desperate as the truth that shakes her when you cup her face in your hands and wipe her tears.

“You’ve carried the weight of the world Annabeth– you know what it feels like to let it go. It’s time to let him go. There’s nothing I can do or say to fix this.”

Then it hits her that you knew of his fate and yet this was still the outcome. There was nothing else to do but watch him be puppeteered by a Titan and have to fight evil while it wears his face.

“He came to you after he saw me, didn’t he? Why didn’t you tell me? Why don’t you love him anymore?”

Because it wouldn’t have changed a thing, your eyes say. Instead, you grimace as you say, “Wouldn’t that be funny if it were true?” You lean down and pick up the fallen berries, some bruised and covered in dirt, and then you look at her again with teary eyes.

“Some prophecy huh? To lose a love to worse than death. What could we have done besides love him until the end?”

“He’s still in there. I know you know that too. Don’t talk about him like he’s not,” Annabeth insists, and a sad smile settles upon your face. It’s as gentle as the kiss of the breeze on your cheeks.

“I lost a brother today, Annie.”

“Me too.”

—

The funny thing about planning funerals is that with all the fuss it takes to organize one, you still find extra time on your hands. Barely getting any sleep and dragging yourself out of your dad’s bed, Pollux snores loudly next to you after hours of working on Castor’s shroud. Sleep wasn’t expected for either of you, but being unconscious was the only way of giving your brains a reprieve. The both of you have been busy doubling down on the preparations, even if it means Mr. D won’t be back in time while he’s out rallying gods for war.

The faster Castor’s earthly body is reconnected with his soul, the easier his trip will be into the Underworld, Nico says, and it’s funny how comforting the little emo pipsqueak can be when it comes to matters of death.

Perhaps this is the solace you bring to others with things you’re able to control—keeping camp afloat is something you were always good at, and helping every traumatized child that comes up to you for a juice box or a lullaby eases the guilt that follows you. Walking around Camp Half-Blood for more than a weekend made you feel like a judge, jury, and executioner. Though most of the campers from almost five years ago have either aged out, defected, or died—the ones that remain still look at you like you’re trouble.

Perhaps you always will be.

You even found yourself with the time to pray to Hermes last night for your brother’s safe passage into the afterlife, though if he’s angry at Annabeth, he must hate you for letting Luke go. Dinner didn’t seem appetizing enough anyway, so your whole plate was tossed into the hearth. You hope he likes chicken and rice.

But if a god can’t fight fate, what did he expect you to do?

The Iris Message to your dad last night was difficult, to say the least. Pollux’s hands shook as he continued to paint grape vines onto the silk cloth and the both of you didn’t say anything when your father started to cry. He out of all of the gods knows what it’s like to be tested to the limits—to endure pain and it’s a gift you and your brother are grateful for in times like these. Watching the god display the human emotion that either of you couldn’t as freely made it more real though.

There was also the interesting predicament of Chris Rodriguez being locked up in the basement of the Big House. Replacing screaming fits with serenity was almost second nature, and your gentle hands were what got Clarisse to truly respect you again for the first time in years. You could hear her sneak downstairs and talk to him while he slept (and the look in her eyes when you’d greet her with a cup of coffee made it known to you that she finally understands what it means to love someone who’s lost—two demigod daughters filled with a lot of rage and hurt were more alike than they think).

So the morning of your little brother’s funeral, you found yourself on the shoreline of Canoe Lake, setting your Redbull against the post of the dock and looking out onto the water.

You needed to do something with your hands. In the past few days, if your fingers were not occupied by pen and paper, a guitar, supply crates, or anything else that was helpful to others and all the more distracting for you, it’s been so easy to pick at any little thing. Perhaps it was your subconscious trying to reflect the damage on the inside, but today, your nail polish was chipped beyond belief. A small price to pay to not lose it without a signature boyish smile to ease your worries and amber eyes that could help you escape from the routine.

Running camp was always easier back then with your runaway boy and his scarred cheek.

How pathetic.

Crouched over in the sand, you plucked stones and filled your pockets with them. They knocked against each other — weighing your pockets down as you walked closer to the dock. Swinging your feet off the side and chucking them into the water, you could barely achieve a ripple.

It’s so quiet that you end up wondering if the rocks in your pockets would weigh you down to the bottom of the lake. It must be nice down there, to exist away from everything.

Bubbles surface slowly in front of you, then Percy’s head bobs in the water as he squints at you through sunlight.

“You chucked a rock at my head!”

A smile tugs at your lips, almost indiscernible but definitely there, “I was trying to skip them. Didn’t know you were doing water tricks in there, kid.” His grin gleams like freshwater pearls, pulling himself up onto the dock as his hand clasps yours. Shaking his sopping hair, Percy’s gangly frame sits next to yours like a wet bag of sand—all wrinkly and misshapen and sprinkling you with lakewater.

“Maybe next time don’t pick rocks the size of your fist. How many have you got in there? Your aim is scarily accurate,” he laughs and you huff and shake your head when his hand sticks into your pocket and takes out a few smooth ones to roll around in his hand. You mirror him, watching him skip a few stones into the water that reach a good distance before sinking into the depths of the lake.

There’s something sad about feeling comfortable to trauma dump on the teenage son of Poseidon, but with the way he grabs your arm at your third unsuccessful toss of a rock, you can’t do anything else but sigh.

“Why didn’t any of you call me, Percy?”

He was waiting for this question—it’s been banging around in his head since the beginning of Annabeth’s quest, and perhaps her talk with you yesterday didn’t go as expected so once again he’s left with the difficult part.

Things happen to turn out pretty difficult for him a lot, he's noticed.

Many things could have been made easier in the past few weeks: Ariadne being your stepmother and her blessing to you would’ve made the Labyrinth easier to navigate, and having another demigod to fight alongside him instead of a mortal girl would’ve been a plus too. But he looks at you with ocean eyes and a smaller smile that reminds you of how he looked at you when you dropped him off in Montauk the summer you met him and quit your head counselor job.

“You’ve already made a lot of difficult decisions. We weren’t sure if…”

The rotten wood beneath you creaks under your shifting weight as you turn to him, tucking your legs underneath your bottom.

“Didn’t think I could handle it?”

He shakes his head, “The opposite, actually. Annabeth has this notion that you’re the only one that can save him. You know, back on my first quest I met Luke’s dad and he told me something…”

You swallow instead of answering. There’s no way Percy is giving you Hermes’s advice right now. Somehow this feels like karmic retribution after years of spiting that asshole, and what he tells you next is more of a sign that it must be true.

“He said, ‘Do you know what that feels like? To be so close to someone you love knowing neither of you has any choice but to keep hurting each other?’ I didn’t get it then, but I do now.”

“With Luke and his mom?” you ask, picking at the remaining slivers of varnish on your thumbnail.

“With you and Luke. I didn’t call you, because… why would I want to see you hurt after everything?” Percy says this like it’s something he would do for everyone.

Perhaps it is, but the knot that forms in your throat feels as heavy as the boulder you almost sunk into his skull. He’s tall enough to lean your head against now, and you don’t mind the water spots that will form along the side of your funeral outfit. The shape of him it leaves will remind you of the little brother you gained through so much loss.

“Plus he has a new girlfriend. Absolute horse of a girl,” he jokes. It slips over your head but you still giggle, “I could’ve taken her.”

“I know, that was Grover’s worry. You’re prettier anyway…” Percy pauses, and then clears his throat, “You’ve always taken care of this place, y’know? Even after….I just think someone ought to take care of you.”

Your shoulder bumps against his as you finally skip a rock. It only bounces across the water twice and you think Percy might have had something to do with it, but you’re not bothered by the help this time around.

—

You wake up in the dark of night to see your dad looming in the doorway to his office. With drool and a post-it stuck to your cheek, he comes over to ruffle your hair in amicable silence.

“Hard at work or hardly working?” he chuckles, leaning over your shoulder to scan over the paperwork sorted into piles for him to sign from his absence.

“Hm. You wish,” you scoff, leaning against your arm as you look at him. He’s not in his usual eyesore of attire, wearing a clean-pressed suit with his hair slightly slicked back.

“You look good. The meeting went okay?”

“Grover will be fine. The Council of Cloven Elders? Not so much. Neither are the gods ready to take sides. Putting out little fires everywhere as we speak.”

The wheels of the office chair roll as you swing your feet, and if you both listen closely enough you can hear Pollux snoring upstairs. Chiron loved the earplugs you gave him.

Your father’s face smooths out a bit at the sight of you and the sound of his son’s breathing upstairs and he asks, “Are you? Good?”

A shrug slides off your shoulders, “How does one be good in a world like this one?”

A startling scream echoes off the walls of the Big House, rattling the floorboards from below as your father grimaces.

The work is never done for you two.

“Don’t look at me like that. It was worse when he first came here.”

“Don’t doubt it,” he mumbles, brushing lint off your shirt before he notices you’re donning neon orange. “Didn’t do laundry, princess?”

“Pollux and I haven’t gone back to our cabin since... I can wake him up if you—”

Mr. D shakes his head and goes to toss his body onto the couch against the window, shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Dad? Do you think Chris is a bad person?”

A beat passes and you think he may have fallen asleep, but then his voice sounds like gravel scraping up his throat.

“I don’t think anyone can be bad, kid. I think it is more often that people get lost. What Rodriguez needs is someone to take hold of him gently, and hand his life back to him—you…Clarisse… that’s what we’re giving him.”

Now you’re silent, staring at the dust on his name placard at the edge of the desk.

“Do you think otherwise?”

He calls your name again, and you look up like you’re about to lie to him but don’t have the energy to.

“Princess, do you think you’re a bad person?”

He stands up and walks around to your side of the desk, sitting on the edge so you have to look at him.

“I killed someone. During the battle. Didn’t even think twice about it, slashed his neck as soon as Castor went down and…” you sniff. “I kill monsters, Dad, not children. How does that make me any different?”

The last time blood was on your hands like this it was Luke’s in the Garden of Hesperides. All these years later you ended up being right— the only person you vowed to get bloody for is Luke Castellan, and now in a twisted turn of fate, you’ve bloodied your hands because of him.

“Because you did it for your brother. There are no other explanations needed.”

He sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the drop in your shoulders, but your dad also sees the strength in your bones that spans generations and he knows you and Pollux are strong because you are both his.

“Humans believe in life everlasting—glory, as some call it, but they’re too focused on achieving it on earth instead of enjoying what life has to offer,” he scoffs, “Everyone has the guts to die, but no one has the guts to truly live. How sad.”

“His name was Rowan. Son of Hecate. I taught him how to whistle the summer I left. This is all my fault, Dad,” you say shakily as he comes near and pulls you into his side. He shushes you but you relent.

“Luke’s killing all these people to fulfill a promise he made for me. I’m just fucking disgusted with myself for being the cause of it all. What good life can I deserve when wherever I go I leave a trail of blood?”

Love and addiction must be so alike; to know that to be sober you can’t indulge in the vice ever again—not only does it hurt you, but others around you. But through the years you’ve always kept the taste of his name in your mouth, the feeling of his skin under your fingertips, and the knowledge of why he’s destroying the world so he can make you a better one. Insanity stems from fighting for so long that you embrace the pain; feeling something so intensely that when it consumes you you’re able to walk out the other side and wear it as armor.

Not everyone is hardwired to persevere.

There are moments like a night like these where it would be easy to give up. Instead, you pour two glasses of whiskey you’ve conjured and hand one to your dad. You both sip on your drinks slowly, embracing the crawling feeling of the burn.

“Liquor is one way out and death is another,” your dad sighs blissfully. He almost looks rejuvenated by the alcohol he knows he’ll hear about from Zeus later, but perhaps the death of his son is a good enough pardon.

“For some of us, we don’t have to think about the answer.”

Mr. D grabs a pen off the desk and starts signing papers to do something with his hands, and then you speak again, “I think I’d rather die for people I love,” and your dad’s attention whips to your blank face staring at the moon outside the window. “Instead of killing for them. I’ve never been a good soldier, Dad.”

Mr. D looks at you thoughtfully and wonders where all the time has gone that you sit there in front of him with more knowledge than him at your mortal age before saying, “You’re my daughter. You’re a fighter. Death is for chumps anyway.”

He lifts you by the arm to try to usher you up the stairs but you stay in his office chair swatting his hands away.

“Got work to do, you and I. Not getting rid of me until it’s done.”

“When are you going home?” he asks, pulling up a chair next to yours.

“I am home.”

You don’t look up from the papers you were filing, stubbornness leaking through your voice.

“If there is a war coming, I want to be home as much as I can. I’m finishing my last semester and I’ll be here before and after classes. You can’t stop me, dad.”

And he knows that too.

There is no such thing as leaving Camp Half-Blood for you.

Never for too long. Your love for it is scattered everywhere campers can see.

—

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness. - Tennessee Williams

[drabblesandimagines]

Dove

Leon Kennedy x fem reader Thinking of making this a little series, will be a fluff, bit of a slow burn, bodyguard trope?

You aren’t sure how you’d got through the last few hours.  Everything’s a blur as you try to think back of the horror that had occurred, now you’re now sat in an unfamiliar chair in an unfamiliar office. Your right arm is in a sling, shoulder throbbing somewhat from a reset dislocation, broken fingers splintered together on the same arm, medical tape holding a wound closed on your temple, disinfectant swiped across the numerous scrapes, your body aching with developing bruises on your legs, poking out from under your dress, from the fall down the stairs – the fall that apparently ended up saving your life from the unearthly creature that had rampaged through your workplace and tore your co-workers apart.

After being treated by a DSO medic, you’d been escorted by a tall, armed to the gills, annoyingly silent man. He’d confiscated your phone, despite the fact the screen was smashed and wouldn’t turn on, and taken you across the city to the main HQ, ushered up a side entrance into the room you now sat, told you to wait, and left you alone for what felt like hours.

The door eventually opens and a smartly dressed, pretty woman, hair pinned up in a bun and wearing glasses enters, immediately heading to the other side of the desk and taking what you assumed was her seat. A handsome man accompanied her, shaggy brown hair, dressed in cargo pants, fingerless gloves, knife strapped to his thigh, finished off with a leather jacket, a holster poking out from underneath. He gives you a sympathetic once over as he sits down besides you, careful not to brush your knee with his own as he does. Considerate.

“Were you given adequate pain medication?” The lady asks abruptly, beginning to type on her keyboard.

You stare at her a moment – she’s all business. “Er… Yeah. Thanks.” Though you’re sure the two of them have noticed the wince as you shuffled in your seat. The medic had offered you stronger stuff but you’d declined, wanting to keep your wits about you. “Sorry, what’s happening now?”

“I’m Ingrid Hunnigan, this is Agent Kennedy.” She nods to the man opposite her.

“Name’s Leon.” The man besides you offers his hand and you notice he’s adapted for your incapacitated arm, in what will surely result in a very awkward handshake but the gesture is nice. You take it, hoping the tremor in your grip isn’t so painfully obvious. “Hi. Erm, I’m-”

“Dove.” Hunnigan cuts you off. “I am aware of your identity, but we will be referring to you as Dove.”

“It’s a codename.” Leon explains, a little less business. “For your safety.”

Hunnigan pauses in her typing, hitting backspace slowly as she replies. “Agent Kennedy will be your protection detail until we get this mess squared up.”

Your breath catches in your throat at her choice of word, a sick feeling twisting in your stomach. “Mess? It was a massacre in there-”

“I know. We know.” The agent besides you stresses. “I’m sorry you had to see all that.”

“Am I the only one who…?” You don’t know why you ask.

“I’m afraid so.” Hunnigan replies, a little softer in tone. “We’re going to send you to a safe house. Agent Kennedy will stay with you.”

“O-okay.” You nod, not taking it all in. “You… You think they’d send whatever that thing was after me?”

“That’s what we need time to establish.” Hunnigan replies. “From the CCTV, after the attack, there was a breach on the database. We need to establish how much data they managed to extract, if any. Agent Kennedy will keep you updated as much as he can when he receives any intel.” She turns more to him then, cutting you out of the conversation. “I’ll send the co-ordinates of the safe house when you’re out of the city. They’re loading up an SUV with supplies for at least a week. If it goes on longer, we’ll arrange a supply drop via another location.”

“That long?” You feel like you’re interrupting.

“Worse case scenario, Dove.” Leon offers you a smile. “I’m sure we’ll have you back home in no time. Did they send you away with any meds?”

“The medic sent in a report – with a treatment plan. It’s in the information pack, prescribed medicine is in with the supplies. Again, enough for a week.” Hunnigan replies. “I’ve arranged clothes too – medic guessed your size for me. We’ll be keeping your phone for now.”

“Why?”

“We can’t allow you to contact anyone – for your safety and theirs.”

Your heart skips a beat at that comment. “Wait… You think I might be behind this, don’t you?”

Hunnigan purses her lips. “It is an avenue we need to explore. There are questions as to why you alone survived. We will be dispatching a team to your residence once the two of you are out of the city to help in our investigation.”

“Again, that’s just protocol.” Leon tries to reassure, but your mind is whirling. “No-one is accusing you of anything, Dove.”

“I… I’ve worked here for years, I passed all the clearance checks. I wouldn’t, I didn’t…”

“As Agent Kennedy said, it’s just protocol. If you have nothing to hide, there is nothing to fear.” Hunnigan resumes tapping away at the keyboard as she talks, pausing as the computer emits a ping. “SUV’s ready. I suggest you two go.”

Leon gets to his feet, once more offering his hand to help you to yours. He smiles, sympathetically, as he takes in your appearance – your face has lost what little colour it had.

“Time to go, Dove. It’ll be all right.”

You want to say no, you feel like you need to stay to plead your innocence, but you catch sight of the gun holstered by his side and the flame of defiance is extinguished. You take his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. He places his hand on the small of your back to guide you back through the door and you can’t work out if it should feel like comfort or a threat.

--

You felt numb as Leon had escorted you to a large SUV with blacked out windows in an empty carpark. He’d opened the door for you, helped you climb in before hesitating.

“Need a hand with your seatbelt?”

You stare at him for a moment too long.

“Because of your arm, I mean.”

“Oh. Please.”

He leans over you, grabbing the seatbelt and clicking it into place.

“Right. Comfy?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. “Thanks.”

He nods, closes the door behind him – softly, you note, rather than a slam and it’s then you realise that you also can’t see out the windows. He hops up into the front, buckles his own seatbelt and starts the engine, swinging the SUV out of the parking space with ease. You can’t really see anything from where you’re sat, bar the back of his head and it must be deliberate.

“Hopefully it’s not too long of a drive.” He comments. “Had one that was a twelve hours’ away once and we are not allowed to stop for bathroom breaks.”

“Are you allowed to tell me how far away it is when you know?”

“Don’t see why not. Hunnigan will ping it through once we’re clear enough.”

It’s hard to tell how much time has passed when, eventually, the promised ping echoes around the car. You can hear him tap his fingers against something and he hums to himself.

“We’re in luck – about two hours away, Dove. Want some music on? Don’t have any CDs but got the radio.”

Maybe the music will help drown out how loud your heart is thudding in your ears. ”Yeah, sure.”

He fiddles with the dial – sound crackling around the car before it settles on some acoustic tune you don’t recognize. Must be some easy listening station.

“You can nap, if you like.”

“Maybe.” Though you’re not sure how you’ll ever sleep again after today.

The rest of the drive passes in silence, apart from the sound of the radio. You close your eyes a few times, leaning your head back against the seat but the creature seems burned into your retinas, haunting your vision.

“This is us.” Leon breaks the silence as you feel the car turn and he reduces the speed. He switches off the car and unclicks his seatbelt, turning back to face you. “Wait there just a moment, okay?”

“Yeah.”

 He smiles, opens his door and hops out, again closing the door softly behind him. What must be a few minutes later, your door opens and he once again offers his hand.

“Ready?

You unclip your seatbelt with your good hand before accepting his outstretched one, helping you step down from the SUV. You’re in a garage now of some sort – spacious enough to fit the car and what looks to be a chest freezer, washer and tumble dryer - the whole room illuminated by an orange bulb.

“So, we said safe house – seems more like a safe bungalow to me. I’ll give you the tour.” He gestures forward towards an open door and you walk forward, once again his hand falling to the small of your back. It leads through to a modest sized kitchen – usual white appliances and opens out into a living room with two couches, a coffee table and an entertainment unit with a television. There are two more doors along the wall, but what really strikes you is how small the windows all are, covered in thick panes of glass.

Bulletproof, you wonder.

“Bathroom’s this one,” he opens the door in demonstration, revealing a typical bathroom, before moving along. “And the bedroom.” It has a double bed, white linen sheets, a wardrobe and dresser. “Your bedroom,” he corrects. “I’ll be on the couch.”

“Oh. Is that comfortable?”

He smiles at your concern. “I’m pretty good at sleeping anywhere, but it looks comfortable enough. Speaking of, it’s pretty late so I think we should call it a night.” He ducks into the bathroom, pulling out a washbag from under the sink and empties the contents on the counter. “Standard toiletries kit to start us off. I’m gonna start bringing in the supplies. Sound good?”

You nod and he heads back towards the garage. You kick off your shoes before you step into the bathroom and close the door, twisting the lock closed. You use the facilities with some difficulty, your first visit since being an arm down, though thankful to be in a dress so as not to battle with trousers. After what some might call a best attempt of washing your hand, you pick up the toothbrush and immediately put it back down in annoyance as you realise you’ll need to deal with the toothpaste first. Thankful for the flip cap, the tube slips from your grip as you squeeze, shooting across the counter and knocking a glass off the counter, sending it smashing to the floor.

“Fu-” The word doesn’t even make it out of your mouth when the door is broken open, slammed against the wall and Leon is stood there, gun raised as you scream.

He scans the room with his eyes, concedes it’s clear and lowers his gun. “What happened? You okay?”

“I… I d-dropped the t-t-toothpaste and smashed the g-glass and…” Your breath catches in your throat again, tears burning in your eyes.

“Hey,” he holsters the gun on his thigh. “Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay. Sorry for scaring you. I thought there was a window in here.”

He looks down at the broken glass that’s exploded over the floor and your sock-clad feet. “Sit down, all right? I’ll clear this up.”

“No, I s-should-”

“I can do it. Just sit, please. I’ll go grab a dustpan – they have one. Not my first safe house.” He soothes, heading off into the kitchen cupboards in search of it.

You sit down on the closed toilet seat lid and wonder bitterly if he’s at more safe houses than his own home. You take the moment to try and settle your breathing, your heart still pounding.

Leon appears at the door once more, grinning as he holds the dustpan and brush aloft in triumph. “Found it.” He crouches down, beginning to sweep up the glass. You watch in silence as he tackles the floor methodically, making sure to brush along each square of bathroom tile until he seems satisfied with his work.

“There. All done.” He places it to the side and grabs the troublesome toothpaste tube, before standing up to his full height. “So, this was the culprit, huh?”

You nod. “I don’t know what happened - the only difference was the toothbrush being on the counter, so I should be able to do it, just-”

He picks up the toothbrush and squeezes a blob of toothpaste on it. “On the house.” Leon jokes, offering it back to you. You stand up and accept it, hesitantly.

“I kinda feel pathetic.” You admit.

“Dove…” You’re getting a little used to the name now. It sounds nice off his tongue – soft and sweet. “You’ve had a shitty day, give yourself a break.”

“No, I mean, it just feels like you’re my servant or something – sweeping up, squeezing out my toothpaste...”

“To protect and serve’s the motto.” He smiles at your confused look. “I was a cop before I was an agent.”

“And this is the stuff you did as a cop?”

“Yes, alongside the helping old ladies with their groceries, helping ducks cross the street…” He teases, before nodding at the toothbrush in your hand. “I’ll leave you to it.”

After brushing your teeth without further incident and taking a few more moments to compose yourself, you exit the bathroom. Leon’s stood at the kitchen counter, paper bag in hand, looking at pill packets. There’s a couple of duffel bags near the garage door, one unzipped.

“Medical notes say it’s painkiller time, I’m afraid.” He grabs a glass from the cupboard, fills it up with water from the tap and places it down besides two white pills. “They’ve given you some sleeping tablets as well, but that’s up to you.”

“Do they stop you dreaming?”

Leon grimaces at your question. “From personal experience, yeah. No dreams.”

You hold out your hand. “Then I’ll take them.”

He nods, shaking another two pills out of a bottle and into his hand, picking up the other two and drops them in your hand. You open your mouth and throw them in, before accepting the glass of water, swallowing it all down.

“So, er, this is gonna be a little bit awkward, but I don’t know what you prefer to sleep in, obviously, but I’m assuming not that.”

“Oh. Yeah, no.”

“So, I pulled out a couple of things.” He nods towards the bedroom, where you can see some items of clothing laying out on the bed. He’s turned the bedside lamp on, the room softly illuminated in a white glow.

“You really are a safe house pro.”

“Ha, yeah.” He grins, rubbing the back of his head. “I guess my question is, do you need a hand with changing? 100% respectful offer, obviously.”

You nod. “Please.”

“Okay. After you.”

You walk into the bedroom, Leon keeping his distance this time. There’s an oversized t-shirt in the pile, looks like it will reach your knees. You pick it up with your good hand, clutching it close to your chest and turn to face him.

“Can you help with the sling?”

“Yep.” He nods – professional, unstrapping it with ease and removing it gently. “Afraid medic says you need to sleep with the sling for a week.”

“Mm.” You nod, hanging your arm down loose before turning around. “I guess if you could unzip and I’ll…”

“Got it.” He tugs down the zipper of your dress slowly – if it was some other encounter you’d say he was being a tease. He stops as he reaches the small of your back, just above your underwear. “What can I do now?”

Your breath hitches in your throat, but there’s no getting around it now. “Any good at undoing a bra? Professionally.”

“Professionally, yep.” You feel gentle fingers deftly unclasp it with ease.

“I think I’ve got it from now until the sling needs back on, so-”

“Say no more. Just call when you’re ready.”

The door closes behind you and you exhale, trying to compose yourself. It’s more months since a man had helped you out of a dress and this, after everything today and the situation you’re in, unsure if he sees you as victim or villain, shouldn’t be making you feel flustered.

Gingerly, you slip one arm out of the dress, followed by the other, wincing as you do so and allowing it to pool down at your feet. Next comes your bra, and then you gently pull the t-shirt over your head, again flinching as your shoulder smarts.

Decent, or decent enough, you call out. “Leon? I’m ready.”

“Coming in.” He announces, pausing a moment before opening the door and immediately moves to pick up the sling from where he placed it on the bed. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

With practiced hands, he positions your arm into the sling, adjusting it carefully and fastening it in place once more. “There. Feel okay?”

“Yeah.” You look him in the eyes then – beautiful, blue eyes, before fighting back a yawn. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiles. “That will be the sleeping pills kicking in. I forgot to mention they’re real heavy duty.”

“Mm.” You sit down on the bed then, a little too heavily, before picking up your discarded dress on the floor. “Could you bin this?”

“Of course.” He takes it from you, no question. “Anything else I can do?”

“No. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to keep thanking me, Dove. It’s all right – I told you, part of the job.”

“Still, thank you.” You mumble, head feeling heavy.

“Here,” he pulls back the covers as you scooch yourself back and lean your head back on the pillow, tucking the duvet in over you. “Arm still okay?”

You nod, looking up at him with bleary eyes.

“I swear what happened wasn’t anything to do with me. I swear.”

“Shh,” Leon hushes. “I know.” He feels it in his gut, felt it since the moment he lay eyes on you in Hunnigan’s office. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll hear some updates. But, for now, just sleep. Okay, Dove?”

“Sleep, okay…” You mumble, closing your eyes.

Leon hovers a moment, noting the change in your breathing as the sleeping pills pull you under. He turns off the bedside lamp and leaves the bedroom, quietly, your dress clutched in his hand. He places it in the kitchen bin – there’s an incinerator round the back to erase all trace of their visit, but he’ll do that in the morning.

He makes his way over to the sofa and lies down, not even bothering to remove his boots.

He won’t be sleeping tonight.

-- Do let me know if you'd be interested in a part two! x EDIT: Part two!

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

[astraaa3]

please please please can you do valentino and male reader please i really like your writing

👉👈

anything sfw and/or nsfw is fine :3

A/N: You want it, you got it, Anon. Thanks for the request toots. Had a blast writing this one. >.<

Feedback is much appreciated (also, if you would like to proofread the degenerate shit I write please send a dm).

Valentino x Male!Reader

Note: You can imagine the reader to have whatever body type you prefer. While in this request Reader has a bodyguard position that doesn't mean that he was chosen for his physique. (Valentino is an asshole so he most likely hired Reader for shits and giggles) Now off we go.

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Headcanons:

Valentino likes teasing you. A LOT. Grabbing your hips, hugging you from behind, patting your head, rubbing your cheeks whenever you forgot to shave, linking his arm with yours, he always found an excuse to touch you.

Why was Valentino so tactile? Well, his love language was physical touch. Of course, he would take any chance he could to indulge. That said, the biggest reason was how you always blushed or laughed embarrassed at the public displays of affection.

Valentino loved teasing you. From changing in front of you to other…. explicit acts, he adored flustering you. And he wasn't quiet about it either. "Aww, what's wrong baby? I'm just helping you accomodate~" or "Oh come on papi, don't tell me you don't like what you see." (at one point you started keeping a catalog of the pet names he used for you)

After you decided to ask Valentino out for a date (you hyped yourself up while looking in a mirror for days before actually being able to get the words out), you found out that there was more to your boss than you had come to know. You learned that Valentino ADORED fast food, that he was shit at taking care of pets (Queef reference whom), and that he loved dancing and laughing at romcoms.

You asked him out initially out of some pathetic crush, but after the first few dates, you fell. And you fell hard. Following him around like some love-sick puppy, pouting when he was hooking up with girls at the club.

Valentino thought that it was fucking cute. So he did what he always does with things he finds interesting. He took you to bed. He didn't expect you to cuddle him the moment you were done. Much less for you to praise him. HIM. He had a minor mental breakdown while you fell asleep.

After Valentino came to terms with the fact that he started caring for you more than he planned to initially, he immediately claimed you as his. Taking you out in public and overplaying how lovey-dovey the two of you were, dressing you up in tuxes, and dining at high-end restaurants. Getting 'accidentally' caught fondling you inside of one of the clubs he owned, Valentino did everything to make sure there was not a single soul in Hell who didn't know that you were his.

A fun fact that Valentino learned about you when you officially started dating was that you would melt after being praised. And oh boy did he take advantage of that. Flattery fell out of Valentino's mouth like a waterfall whenever he saw the opportunity. "You are so handsome sweetheart, turning heads wherever you go. But those worms better keep their hands to themselves or I will FUCKING END THEM." (cue aggressive moth clicking noises)

You did get into fights with Valentino. Particularly about his short temper. While you were rarely on the receiving end of his rages, you did witness them quite often. Thankfully, Valentino agreed to try to be less rash and aggressive when he got mad. But it was still a work in progress. And there was a LOT of progress to be had.

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Small prompt: How it started

You had just gotten used to your new job when your life took a new turn yet again. It seemed like a normal day at first, you were just helping with putting the props in their places when the door slammed open, Valentino angrily stopping in his moth wings unfurled hanging behind him like a cape. It was the first time you saw Valentino without his signature coat…wings….whatever on. You blushed and started dumbly at him as your brain tried to process… heart…. nipples….(homerotic panic ensue). Valentino being Valentino of course noticed this. And making a mental note of your admittedly cute reaction he made a decision.

The next day you were called to his penthouse at the top of the V tower. You once again found yourself staring dumbly at the pictures of Valentino hanging up on the walls, your whole face turning red. Hearing a chuckle behind you, you immediately turned around embarrassed, fiddling a bit with your pants to hide the reaction caused by the pictures. (if Valentino noticed it, you were thankful that he said nothing about it or you would have died on the spot from embarrassment).

"Is this the first time you see any of my photoshoots, amorcito?" Valentino said with a smirk staring at your flushing face.

"U-uh. Yeah. I didn't know you also work in front of the camera and not just behind it." you said trying to sound more professional than you actually felt at the moment, it helped calm down the flush on your cheeks a bit.

Valentino nodded heading to the plush couch in the room sitting and crossing his fishnet-clad legs. Staring at you for a second, he took a drag of his cigarette.

"To keep matters short, you're getting promoted. From now on you will act as my bodyguard."

You stared at him confused for a second. He was an Overlord and well, you were just some random sinner who barely knew how to defend himself.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I... I'm a bit confused. You are an Overlord and well, I think you could protect yourself better than I would be able to. Respectfully."

You could see his eyebrow twitching in what you could tell was annoyance. Smiling a few too many teeth at you, some pink liquid dripping from his lips, Valentino snarled out.

"Do I need to explain myself to you? Don't forget who's your boss bitch. You're working as my bodyguard from now on because I say so, bitch."

His fury seemed to disappear in an instant afterward, getting up and sliding his hand across the back of your shoulders in an overly sweet manner.

"You're going to do great amorcito. Now, off you go, enjoy your last day of setting up props."

With that, he sent you off. Sighing nervously, you couldn't help but think: 'Well, this is going to be interesting. That's for sure' (You had no idea how true those thoughts would prove to be) =========˚ʚ♡ɞ˚========= Send requests ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

[frostycatblr-fandom-files]

Wrapped In Red [Commander Fox x Fem!Reader]

Warnings and Information: When a long-time friend of yours in the Galactic Senate invited you to one of the upcoming galas, you envisioned a night of lavish apparel, drinking, dancing, and dodging the attempts of too-friendly senators. Added security had not been a part of it, but it’s non-negotiable following an attempt on your friend’s life. Fortunately, you can make the best of a bad situation by making friends with your bodyguards — Clone troopers of the Coruscant Guard, including Marshal Commander Fox himself.  Second Person POV, undescribed Fem!Reader, save for the color of her dress and accessories. Reader is the friend of an unspecified senator nicknamed “Aspen”. Political assassination attempt [off-screen, more focus is on the aftermath]. Brief reference of a riot and (civilian) violence against Clones. Elements of the ‘Lady/Knight’ or ‘Bodyguard Crush’ dynamics. Forced proximity. Reference and allusion to alcohol. Narrative and stylistic use of italics. Star Wars and real-world swearing. Some use of Mando'a. Prompt is highlighted in red. Requested by @returnofthepineapple from her previous account. 

Word Count: 10,817

For the past couple of years, you’ve been living a quiet life on one of Coruscant’s neighboring planets. Though you were born there, the hustle and bustle of Coruscant proved more than you could handle as you grew older. You longed for some place less choked by pollution, politics and power-mad bastards. 

So, just before the outbreak of the Clone Wars, you spread your wings and left the labyrinth-like nest. 

People dear to your heart still lived there, so you never left Coruscant completely behind you. 

One such person—a childhood friend—you’ve managed to remain quite close with in spite of your relocation, and their involvement in the Galactic Senate. Rising through the upper echelons in the political scene to make it into a senatorial position had taken time, but the friend you knew best as Aspen had never been the type who could be easily swayed from their goals, or their sense in doing the right thing. 

Thinking of you often, Aspen liked to send you invitations to some of the millions of events taking place on Coruscant at any given time. Mostly small things, like seasonal markets or something related to various hobbies and interests. 

“A certain someone I know would love the concert they're holding in the entertainment district this coming Zhellday!”

“Blast… I’m going to be busy that day! But you’re the best, Aspen.”

On rare occasions, the invitations Aspen gave you were to much bigger things than crafting workshops or concerts. 

The most recent of these larger invitations is to an upcoming gala being held at the very end of the month, meant to cap off the long proposal period of very important—yet divisive—bills and other legislation to the Republic. You knew from past experience this would be a very, very long month for Aspen with no shortage of headaches. They were probably ready to beg you to attend the gala if it came down to it. 

It took only a short moment of thought before coming to a decision upon receiving the electronic invite; hoping to surprise them with good news, a message was left with a member of their senatorial staff. 

Hey, Aspen, just thought I’d let you know I got your invitation to the upcoming gala. I know you’re busy, so you don’t need to convince me to attend. I’d be happy to come and see you. The gala sounds like fun. Already looking forward to it! 

You’ve attended a few parties with Aspen in the past, but you can’t recall one of this scale or importance. There were the small fundraisers where you ate so many jogan fruit tarts together you were nearly sick. Promotional campaigns where bets were made on how many flutes of champagne Aspen’s competitors would end up sucking back before the end of the night. Public appearances where you stood beside (or in place of) your childhood friend’s family to support and celebrate the hard work they’ve put into the planet you called home for a long, long time. 

Making the kind of differences Aspen hoped for in the galaxy would often be an uphill battle. You’ve regularly joked it was a good thing that they’ve always been a fan of climbing in all the time you knew them. 

By the time you made it to Coruscant, less than a week before the gala, you were faced with the horrible discovery of just how close Aspen had come to falling from those lofty heights.

You’re planet-side for all of five minutes—busy wrestling your things together in the spaceport terminal—before you find yourself face-to-helmet with a pair of white-armored men. By the way they had begun marching in the direction of the baggage claim from the moment you got there and the deliberateness of their stride, you had the feeling they were not simply on patrol. 

These soldiers—Clones—part of the Coruscant Guard, judging by the red paintwork, had been waiting for you.  

The rest of your luggage continued to sit on the revolving conveyor belt as you spoke with the shocktroopers for the next few minutes, trying to figure out what was going on in spite of the travel-fatigue. Anyone who’s spent a significant amount of time on Coruscant has seen more than their fair share of regular commuters and far-away travelers getting stopped by terminal security forces, so that in itself is not out of the ordinary. 

Getting stopped by members of the Guard, those who dealt with riots and political escorts… That was more unusual. It meant whatever was going on was pretty karkin’ serious. (You’re not in trouble, are you?) Comply. Be polite. They don’t sound angry yet when they start asking basic questions to confirm your identity. 

Starting with your name and date of birth, one of the troopers brings up his datapad clipped to his utility belt to verify your answers against information in their database. The other silently gathers the rest of your baggage from the carousel the next time it comes around, preventing some petty criminal from getting their hands on whatever's inside. Between giving the troopers the requested information, a million thoughts race all at once while wondering whether or not you’ll be asked to come with them soon enough. Unless the Corries are hurting for work so badly that they’re now working spaceport security, whatever this is about is undoubtedly serious. 

In a shaken voice, you try to find answers once there is a suitable lull in the questioning.

“Can I ask what this is about…? Am I in trouble?”

The trooper with the datapad in his hand turns to the other, saying nothing, but raises his shoulders and gestures with his free hand as if to say “How much do you think we can tell her?” to his partner. You grow all the more nervous as the silent exchange continues, the partner shaking his head at the first. 

“Not here.” the second trooper says, his head wagging sharply to suggest it isn’t a good idea. 

The first makes a hurried promise before he’s interrupted by the second. “You’re not in trouble-” 

“But you’re not safe, either. We can explain more once you’re about the gunship. We need to ask you to come with us.” (Gunship? Safe? Oh fuck.) The same trooper, nodding to a bag by your feet now says “Sayber, take the duffle bag. I’ve got the suitcase.” before instructing you to follow them. 

Struggling to match their militant stride, you want to do little more than shrink out of discomfort feeling hundreds of eyes trained on you as you march back the way the shocktroopers came through the crowded spaceport. Doing your best to ignore all the many faces glittering with curiosity, you instead focus on the LAAT/i emblazoned with the crest of the Guard lazily bobbing in place as it hovers over a part of the terminal’s platform. 

Aside from the pilot, there are three more soldiers. Two are waiting in the craft itself; another waits on the ground, hands planted firmly on each hip. 

He must be who Sayber and the second, nameless Clone now walking beside you report to, judging by the stance and differences in his armor. On his helmet, you see stylized wings painted above a black visor guard, framing the visor itself. Two ‘capes’ of flexible armor hung from his utility belt, swaying in the downdraft of the ship just behind him, and the left shoulder armor has an antenna of some kind. 

If you had to guess his rank, he’s either a captain or commander. “That didn’t take long at all.” he calls to his soldiers, tone neither impressed or surprised. “Have you and Naran verified she’s who we were sent to retrieve?”

“Yes, Commander Thorn. She matches the descriptions we were given.” Sayber, the trooper on your right, replies confidently. 

All the same, he and Naran show their superior the datapad, allowing him to look at the information for himself. Confirmed with the commander, you’re given the go-ahead to board. Naran and Sayber board first, one securing your luggage while the other helps you into the gunship. 

As soon as you’re aboard, the commander orders the blast shields closed. The sound of which makes you wince, but being so on-edge, you’re grateful for the feeling of extra security it brings soon after. As you’re being shown an overhead handrail to use in case the inertial compensator isn’t enough to keep you from being wobblier than a newborn bantha, you’re advised not to lock your knees once the military repulsorcraft takes off. 

“Flight shouldn’t be too long, but, because even the most routine escorts have surprises we have to ask: do you get airsick, ma’am?” Having met them just a short time ago, you can’t yet tell Naran and Sayber apart, but you’re pretty sure this is Naran who’s rooting through the on-board medical kit for something. 

“O-oh, I-”

Your hesitation and the commander’s interruption is enough for one of them to toss an airsick bag your way, just in case. “Nothing routine about this escort, boys. We’re gonna be wrapped in red tape for a while, so we should start getting used to it.” The pilot is signaled to take off from the spaceport and begin making his way to a coded location a few moments later. 

The word ‘escort’ is nothing unfamiliar to you, having gone through this song and dance one of the last times you came to support Aspen’s senatorial workings. But red tape creates enough dread to ice over your veins before it begins pooling hot and sour in your guts. 

“C-can I ask what’s going on now?” 

What’s happened that’s made all of this a necessity?

Naran, remembering the promise he made back at the terminal, begins to carefully explain the situation with a slight halt in his voice. Each word is chosen carefully, like perhaps he’s unsure just how much he can say, or how you might react. 

“Someone—we’re not sure who—tried to end your friend Senator Aspen’s life shortly before you got to Coruscant… They’re shaken, but ultimately unharmed. We were asked to bring you to the same secure location by one of the other commanders.” 

The remainder of your flight aboard the gunship goes by without another word. The troopers know this is difficult information to process, and you can’t think of a single thing to say about any of it. It’s hard to be afforded a moment of silence to reflect on any of this with the guttural drone of the engine eating up any sound below a stage whisper, but the soldiers around you do their best. It’s a small act of kindness to you. 

Until you step off the gunship, this will be your last opportunity to have any kind of time to yourself before you’ll be so caught up in red tape you would practically be wearing the stuff.

Upon arrival, Sayber and Naran once again wrangle your luggage for you to speed up the process of disembarking. 

The less hindrances you had the better. You needed to see Aspen. And Aspen needed to see you. Having a friendly face by your side made confronting calamity a little more bearable, someone wise once told you. (Or, maybe you read that somewhere on the holonet…) In this state of heightened adrenaline, thoughts become muddled and disjointed as Commander Thorn ushers you past several armed security guards down a long hall. 

You can only imagine your friend will be in a far worse state. 

“Senator Aspen is in here,” Commander Thorn explains, stopping in front of a modified blastdoor. “The two of you will be kept here until a security detail has been finalized.”

“That’s fine… Thank you, Commander Thorn.”

Commander Thorn wastes no time, waving you in ahead of him once he’s completed keying in the clearance code. Inside, you find your friend crumpled into a low multi-seater, face in their hands as the person seated on the other end of the couch appears to be explaining something either to them, or to the other armed guards posted in the corners of the panic room.  

From the armor kit, you know the man is another Clone like Sayber, Naran and Commander Thorn with a singular glance. But you’re less concerned with who he is right at this moment, never having been more relieved to see your friend than you are right now. 

“Once she’s here, I would like everyone to-”

“Aspen!”

The other Clone immediately falls silent as Aspen gets on their feet in a flash, all but vaulting over the caf-table in order to meet you half-way. Mutually crushing the air out of the other’s lungs in the strength of your embrace, neither of you can properly express just how grateful you are to see the other. Jumbled, rapid words give way to tears seeping into one another’s shoulders before long, so occupied with comforting each other that no attention is paid to the troopers being swapped out with Naran and Sayber once they have brought in your belongings. 

In a tight, choked voice your friend begins apologizing to you once they’re calm enough to speak. “I’m so sorry that we had to meet like… like this… but it’s so, so good to see you.” Pulling away, you get a better look at their face for the first time and your heart clenches painfully. They look so scared. So deeply shaken. Yet here they are, apologizing to you for something that’s hardly their fault. 

“Had to be the longest hour of my life, waiting here with the Commander for you to get to Coruscant…” Aspen continues, taking your hand to guide you to sit beside them on the multi-seater where it would be more comfortable than standing. “I wanted to talk to you. So badly. Just to hear your voice and find a little solace after- After everything.”

“I’m guessing you couldn’t?”

Your friend shakes their head no. “Not exactly. We weren’t sure if it would be safe to. I’m sor-”

It’s you who shakes their head this time before explaining why a second apology is not necessary. “Hey. I understand. The important thing was trying to keep you safe after you were almost… hurt. Or worse.” The simple fact your friend was unharmed—still living and breathing in front of you—was an incredible blessing.

“Your friend sounds like a smart woman, Senator Aspen.” 

Reminded of his presence after you’ve been paid a compliment, your friend quickly begins the process of trying to compose themself in order to begin proper introductions. “Y-yes, she very much is… Commander, this is my very dear friend I was trying to tell you about earlier when explaining who your men needed to find.” The second Commander nods in polite greeting, refraining from saying anything until introductions have been finished. 

“And this, my dear friend,” Aspen says in a well-practiced this-is-important tone of voice, “is Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard. I believe he’s been tasked with security after what nearly happened.”

At this point, Commander Fox has gotten to his feet and taken a look at something on Commander Thorn’s datapad before consulting his own. “That would be correct, Senator.” Holding himself with purpose, this second commander standing beside Thorn differs from him in more ways than just the color-inversion of his chest armor, and the additional Corrie Crimson on his armor alone. “I am here by order of the Chancellor to create a strong security detail for you, and your friend, in light of the attempt on your life almost an hour ago.” His voice, while not too different from the Clones you’ve met today thus far, had strong tonal qualities of duty and seriousness that commanded a great deal of attention from everyone in the room. 

You’ll ask about “that” detail in just a moment. Right now, you’re more surprised there’s no fear or unease when he says he’s here to enact the Chancellor’s will. This comes naturally to him.

“Sorry, I just want to make sure I heard you correctly: you said by order of the Chancellor?”

Nodding stiffly, Commander Fox confirms his orders. “Yes ma’am. As the Marshal Commander, I’ve been asked by Chancellor Palpatine to personally ensure your safety at all times until it is no longer deemed necessary. While he understands the upcoming gala expects to see many high-profile guests, he was rather disturbed to hear what had nearly happened to Senator Aspen, and insisted upon a constant security presence.” 

“I may or may not have tried politely refusing the Chancellor’s offer.” Aspen explains to you, chuckling somewhat shamefully. “And he was right to insist upon my refusal; it was fifteen minutes after the attack and I certainly wasn’t thinking clearly… I… Well, I think Commander Fox or Thorn has the pictures.” 

Nodding less stiffly than before, Commander Fox takes one of the datapads and shows you a collection of the holo-stills and frames taken from nearby security feeds of the destruction left by the attack. While you look at the horrible state of Aspen’s senatorial office, the main window broken with thick shards of transparisteel strewn across the floor, your friend explains that they managed to escape the attack unharmed by sheer, dumb luck. 

“I survived because I tripped, if you can believe it.” 

Blaster marks have burned the back of Aspen’s chair and several spots in the floor. The main desk, made from a much heavier, more-solid material, is riddled with blaster burn in comparison. While you’re not an expert by any means, the window pane’s shatter pattern suggests that the weapon used by the would-be assassin was likely high-powered, or of uncommon caliber. 

“It was just a split second before the first shot. After that, I hid in front of the desk as best as I could until members of the Coruscant Guard showed up. All that Corrie Crimson surging into my office must have scared them off because the firing stopped almost as soon as the Guard got there.”

Dumb luck. Dumb luck saved your friend before the Corries came to protect them. 

Facing the whole emotional gamut as you view these stills, Commander Fox puts the datapad away the very second you cannot stand to see more, shaking your head no, no, no. 

Outrage and disgust blooms in your chest, acidic and bitter-hot. You had too many questions to ask all at once. Crime scene analysts had cordoned off Aspen’s office, currently combing over everything for the most minute of clues. Would they be able to figure out who could have possibly wanted to kill your friend? Did anyone see who it was before they got away?

What was the motivation?

Uncertain of the answers to the other questions, Aspen could only offer partial answers as to ‘why’ someone might have tried to kill them with much hand-wringing. 

On one of the planets the Republic has been hoping to change the neutrality status of, there had been a riot almost a month ago now that’s still so tightly wrapped up in red tape largely in efforts to keep details away from the press while investigations are still on-going. Because of that, Aspen can’t say who they believe started the riot, or for what reason. But they can tell you that several Clones were nearly beaten to death as a result, and the rioters responsible have been charged with destruction of government property for the time being. 

Aspen was spearheading an effort to re-file those charges under a different crime that they believe more accurately reflects the rioters’ intentions that day. Attempted murder. While the effort has seen a lot of support in the Chambers, there are a fair number of senators still dragging their feet on making a decision. 

A small handful of influential senators have had a far less positive reception to this effort the longer Aspen has encouraged these changes. Matters that were becoming complicated when some of them were beginning to react in ways that suggested hostility have now become even more complicated with the introduction of a botched assassination. 

Planning for the gala has gotten a whole lot more complicated as well. If it’s even going to happen at all…

“Did the Chancellor say anything about cancelling the gala at the end of the week?”

“Too many high-profile guests coming from across the galaxy to change anything at this point, I imagine. Some of them have been making preparations for half a year, or more.” Aspen explains, fruitlessly massaging their temples over the thought of it. “Great galaxies, I do not envy whoever is in charge of organizing security for that mess…” 

Commander Thorn politely clears his throat. “Will likely be me, now that Commander Fox is overseeing your security, Senator.” He quickly adds, “Or, it could be Commander Thire. We’ll get it sorted.” after sharing a fleeting glance with his fellow commander. 

Aspen winces sympathetically. 

“I’m so sorry…” 

“Don’t be, Senator.” Commander Thorn says. When he speaks again, his voice is a little softer than before, careful sympathy lacing every spoken word. “We’re sorry that your plans to get ready for the gala are going to have to be changed.”  

“How soon will that be?” Aspen wonders.

“Once Commander Fox has your security detail finalized.” 

Your friend makes a low sound in their throat, smiling grimly. “Very soon then, I imagine… May I ask what we can expect, Commander Fox?” 

In a calm and deliberate voice, Commander Fox explains that as investigations are being conducted, he and other members of the Guard are going to be accompanying the two of you everywhere leading up to the gala. They’ll be your security as well as your escort force; you’re going to be spending a lot of time under their watchful eyes and ready hands.

So if there are any reservations, now is the time to say something. 

You look to your friend and make a quiet offer after considering the Commander’s words. “You’re the one who invited me here, so I’ll follow your lead, Aspen.” You’ve known each other long enough to trust their judgement. If it was decided it would be safest for you to go home, then you would take a rain check on this visit and come back to Coruscant another time. 

While you’re prepared not to create more trouble for everyone, Aspen’s selfless nature rears its sweet head even in the wake of an attack. Turning to Commander Fox, who stands straight-backed as he is patiently awaiting a verdict before the two of you, your friend asks one final question of him. 

“I know plans will change, but will the security detail mean I can still help my friend prepare for the gala, Commander?”

Commander Fox takes less than a moment to think before deciding that would be a reasonable use of the service. “If that’s what you wish, Senator.” He nods politely not only to Aspen, but to you as well, you notice. A small gesture of professionalism, as well as respect. 

“Then we accept.” Aspen says, sealing your shared fate for the rest of the week leading up to the gala.

Though the two of you have only just met, the feeling that you’ll come to like this man has already begun to spark.

From the moment Commander Fox put the security detail into action, you decided for yourself that you would make the most of this situation and make conscientious efforts to get to know everyone making up this task force better going forward. Not only would it be polite, but it would make it easier to remain in close-quarters with these men for a long period of time when they were no longer strangers. 

The full team consisted of two parts: Clones who had been hand-picked to be stationed with Commander Fox full-time, and those who would be rotating through the force on an as-needed basis. That meant there would likely be more than a few soldiers you would get to know very well by the end of the team’s lifespan. 

Maybe even become friends. 

Already, you and your friend were making great progress getting to know Naran and Sayber in particular. These two soldiers—who were part of the permanent assignment—are not merely patrol partners like you had initially assumed when you first met them. They explained they were batchmates, meaning they had been created and trained together at the same time on the world known as Kamino, out in Wild Space. 

Naran and Sayber completed their training six months ago; stationed on Coruscant for five. It explains why their armor looks so new, and why the paint lacks much chipping, fading or transferring. They’re young, and have only begun breaking it in. There’s a term Clones like to use that pretty much means the same thing as “rookie”. 

“We’re not exactly a couple of ‘Shinies’ anymore, but we’re still fairly inexperienced compared to other brothers in the Guard… I’m not exactly sure why Commander Fox assigned us permanently.” Sayber confesses to you in a moment of quiet. 

Commanders Fox and Thorn are busy, following protocol to secure the room where you and Aspen will be sleeping; the batchmates are supposed to be focused on keeping their eyes on the two of you in the meantime, but Sayber’s curiosity is stronger than his worry over being “caught” bothering you by his superiors. 

Something that Naran quietly fumes with frustration about. (“You’re going to get yourself in trouble, di’kut…”) He much prefers to stay on task and engage only when addressed. It might take more time before he opens up to the two of you compared to his brother and patrol partner, who happily does more than enough talking for the two of them. 

You can expect to meet more of the Guard starting tomorrow; the rest of the day will likely be focused on getting the two of you settled in before any of the pre-gala preparations and errands can be conducted. Some will have to be done separately. Others can be done together, such as the shopping for a dress (on Aspen’s insistence), given that they are performed during set hours. 

And they will always involve an escort of no less than two troopers. 

You will not be permitted to wander around Coruscant, alone, at any given time. 

“Dammit. Sounds like getting some Hyellian musical noodles around two in the morning is out of the question, then.” you remark softly in jest during the first review of the safety plan once the Commanders have completed their protocol, shrugging animatedly in an oh well fashion. Won’t be the end of the galaxy. 

His review disrupted, Commander Fox’s dark T-shaped visor lifts from the screen and fixes itself upon you, quietly regarding you over the top of the datapad in his free hand. 

The thought that you just karked up strikes you in an instant. 

Thinking you’re being serious, Fox speaks seriously in turn. “I was unaware this was something I needed to account for. Forgive me, ma’am.” Your hammering heart skips a beat rather uncomfortably as he begins to pull up the keyboard on the device’s HUD, and your face grows hot with embarrassment. 

“No, I-! I was only making a joke. I’m sorry, Commander, I shouldn’t have.” 

Asking him to accommodate a silly little tradition of yours every time you made the trip to Triple Zero would create more work for everyone. Taking unnecessary risks. It would be selfish. 

Fortunately, you won’t have to worry about making fewer jokes just because Commander Fox has a stronger no-nonsense personality than you might be accustomed to for very long. Members of his own Guard have a way of softening the tension to keep things from getting quite so abrasive. 

“Grizzer and I could always make that run for you, ma’am.” There to listen in on the review, the ARF trooper that was assigned to guard the perimeter of the ‘safe house’ by the name of Sergeant Hound drops the lead to the massiff in question after issuing a command word. “Su!” The quadrupedal reptilian settles on their hindquarters, long tongue lolling between dagger-sharp teeth. 

“It’ll help her earn a turbodog once this is all said and done. Tradition of ours, for the big jobs.” 

Maker: it will take some getting used to being called or considered part of a “big job” like this. 

After a long moment, you decide to accept. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” Since he was kind enough to offer, you make sure to give Hound an especially grateful nod. 

Commander Fox adds the offer to the approved actions he’s compiled once the exchange has finished, and moves swiftly on. There has been a lot of ground covered, and he intends to cover more before someone will be sent to collect that night’s dinner order. It’s evident enough that he’s a serious and hard-working man. He would have to be, seeing as he’s the Marshal Commander appointed to lead the Coruscant Guard. so…

So it comes as little surprise that any offer or invitation for a breather, a single moment off his feet has been turned down time and time again as the afternoon bleeds into the evening. Even in the securest of spaces, Commander Fox turns down reprieve and refreshment with the same four words. 

“No thank you,” either followed by Senator or ma’am. 

Your kindness refuses to falter in the face of his stoicism, but you’re smart enough to recognize when to let it go at the same time. 

“Okay. May I offer it to Naran and Sayber instead, then?”

Dinner had been sourced from 79’s in the entertainment district; largely finger foods made in outrageous portion sizes, meant to be shared between large groups. Aspen had ordered a slider for each of you, and a basket of protato wedges to share. There had been a slight mix-up, and the two of you ended up with a third slider and more than double the wedges that you could possibly hope to eat by yourselves. Trying to sort out the error was met with the offer to go ahead and keep the food as they were pretty slammed tonight. 

“If you wish, ma’am.” Fox replies, voice as politely disinterested as before. “I’m certain they won’t object.” 

True to form, the batchmates eagerly unseal their helmets before gratefully accepting the offered food, granted unspoken permission by their commander. It’s the first time you see any of the Clones’ faces since the start of all this unfortunate excitement. “Thank you, sir. And thank you ma’am!” Sayber exclaims. His broad grin brings out a dimple in the tanned left cheek, adding to how he looks far, far too young for this armor. 

He and Naran carry the food to the only other table in the room in order to eat, wasting no time in coming up with a way to halve the slider and wedges between them. While his men eat, Commander Fox discreetly consults the datapad he has clipped to the utility belt from which his dark kama hangs. What he’s reading is a mystery, but you could probably assume it had to do with either you, Aspen, or his shocktroopers. Maybe it was the safety plan and security detail for tomorrow. Maybe it was unrelated. 

Regardless, this seems to be the only sort of reprieve he allows himself. Once he’s finished, the tablet returns to the Commander’s hip and he reassumes position. 

His posture is meticulous, yet somehow almost elegant. Hands folded behind his back and chest high, the crimson commander does not budge so much as an inch from his post in the time it takes Naran and Sayber to put everything away. Only once they clean up and reseal their helmets will Commander Fox drop this extra rigidity. 

Fox’s earlier refusal now appears more purposeful than before when this time it is Naran who thanks you and his superior for the food. The shocktrooper’s words are met with a “Don’t mention it.” so softly spoken, it would be hard (but perhaps not impossible) to mistake it for a command. 

From this singular display of momentary tenderness, Fox has told you more about himself that he might realize: if you hope to have a better chance of befriending the commander, how his men are taken care of will likely be very important over the coming days.

Following that first night on Coruscant, you fell into a routine within a short couple of days. 

Waking up an hour (sometimes more) before Commander Fox arrived with the day’s security detail, you would quietly prepare for the day ahead of you just to have a small bit of time to yourself. Just you and Aspen. Together, you’d take this opportunity to have more intimate conversations without your second shadows in red and white armor present; to reflect on the days behind you.

And puzzle out a curious pattern beginning to develop… 

It was hardly surprising that there would be the most to say of Commander Fox out of all the Corries. You spent the most time with him. Not only was Fox the lynchpin to your collective safety, but the only time he was ever away from your side (save for using the ‘fresher) was to allow each of you to sleep for the night. 

He was by far the most reserved member of the Corries you’ve had the pleasure of meeting; the most aloof and strictly professional, all for good reason. Not only was he dealing with the Chancellor’s orders for a very serious situation, there was so much red tape for him to navigate through on a daily basis. It wouldn’t feel right to either of you to ask Commander Fox to behave in a more-friendly manner for the sake of protecting your own feelings. 

But more recently he was starting to become more warm with you, no longer just his soldiers. 

You’ve seen how he is with the younger soldiers in particular, like Naran and Sayber. Reminding them again and again to not tense their shoulders quite so much. Answering their many what-if questions. Encouraging the two of them to play a bit of holochess against you or the senator in his stead. 

Now Commander Fox was thanking you for your offers when turning down the invitation to take a short break or have something to eat. He was no longer passively listening to conversations you would have with the other Clones, but joining in on the rare occasion. You were no longer just ‘Senator Aspen’s friend’ or simply ‘ma’am’ when speaking of you, or being addressed. 

When Commander Fox began to use your name, that’s when things became a little more interesting. 

Aspen started to gently tease you after that, suspecting you were becoming somewhat charmed by the crimson commander. The gala was in two days. Your friend had promised to help you buy a formal dress here on Coruscant in order to save you luggage space. Neither of you certainly expected to have an audience, and Aspen wanted to make sure that you’d be okay with potentially being seen by Fox and a dozen or more Clones in a fancy dress or two.

Yes, the Guard was always, always very respectful of you both, but perhaps it might be a bit embarrassing. Or feel strange. Maybe you would feel self-conscious in front of Fox in particular… Something they promised was perfectly normal while you were busy getting ready together this morning as you waited for Fox and the Guard to arrive. 

“You’re saying that you think I have a crush on the commander?” 

You take a brief pause from tidying things on your side of the room, wondering whether or not you’d heard your friend correctly. Commander Fox was by and large what you might consider a “strong and silent” type of man, slow to let someone into their comfort zone, teasing the other person along inch by inch. Did Aspen really think that’s what was going on with you? That you were intrigued by some kind of thrilling mystery in interacting with someone like that?

“Well… Sort of.” Aspen admits with a soft laugh. “This kind of thing happens a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s Baby’s First Bodyguard, or you’re a seasoned professional when it comes to dealing with armed escorts. A lot of senators and diplomats tend to form some kind of feeling for the people who are there to protect them.”

You try to mask your doubt with a joking accusation. “Are you trying to feed me banthashit right now?” Is this truly as common as Aspen says it is, or are they trying to help you feel better in their typical selfless fashion? 

Sensing your doubt, Aspen promises they are telling the truth. “It really does happen all the time, sweetheart. It’s happened to me too! You know I wouldn’t lie about that. And you know I’m not going to judge you for feeling things for the commander, or possibly having a crush, either, right?” Before you can answer, you hear the sound of a distant LAAT/i, followed by several soldiers speaking at once. 

You’re going to have to wrap this up, quick. “Of course. I’ve known you for a long time, Aspen. I trust you.” They’ve always been a good friend to you; there’s never been a reason for doubt or distrust. 

Briskly getting up, Aspen helps you tidy and put away the last of your things not a moment too soon. Just as everything has been put away, Commander Fox makes himself known with four firm raps on the other side of the door. Here forty-five minutes exactly before the first of the boutiques is set to open, as discussed. 

The usual pleasantries are exchanged after Aspen has gone to answer the door. The ‘good morning’s and asking if the two of you slept well. Asking if there was anything either of you needed before joining the others back at the gunship and getting on your way. 

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you. Nice to see you, Commander.” 

Perhaps surprised by your choice of greeting, Commander Fox has a brief moment of pause before he’s able to reply. “You as well, ma’am. Very well. No need to inform our pilot of anything, then. We can be on our way.” Nearly positive you’re not imagining it, while still rather factual, there seems to be more warmth in Fox’s voice this morning. 

He’s still all-business, encouraging everyone not to waste any time getting to the gunship, but now his tone is less stern and terse compared to the days before. He almost sounds… friendlier. Maybe Fox just needed three days to thaw out before warming up to you. Could be that he’s in a good mood because his men are in a great one this morning, most of them comfortable enough around you by now to talk about last night’s boloball victory in whispers. 

Whatever the case may be, it makes you a little less nervous about the prospect of going shopping with such a large security detail. 

Commander Fox’s brightened demeanor hardly changes for anything. 

Even Sayber can’t ruin it by forgetting his training and speaking out with excitement while you and Aspen steadily shop around the first of the formal boutiques for a suitable dress. His reason for doing so was more than forgivable: right around the time you began reaching for a gown in a sort of pomegranate red, the young shocktrooper cried out “HAH! Eat your heart out, Police Inspector Dan Tivo! I knew the Corries would find a lead in the investigation before him!”, much to the disturbance of the other patrons. 

There would be much apologizing to do—Sayber for breaking protocol and to the shop for causing any additional inconveniences—before this would start to become the point where things really began looking up. 

The red tape would not yet loosen itself from you, but with any luck it should soon begin to lift.

Whether you believed it was a curious coincidence or not, you decided to go with the red gown you had been reaching for around the time news broke of the lead in the investigation. By cleverly pairing it with a few ivory accessories, you curated an overall image that would come close to matching with much of the Coruscant Guard. 

This way, you could quietly sort of “mark” the time spent in their company in the week leading up the gala without outright wearing any one Clone’s personal markings, or the iconography that belonged to both the Guard and the Senate. 

You also can’t pretend it was no small relief to have so many of these big decisions taken care of so quickly, or all at the same shop in a busy fashion district. What had been planned to take nearly all day was completed in the span of less than two hours. 

And the next two days went by in a feverish blur with Commander Fox working harder than ever to truly make sure your security at the formal event would be nothing less than ironclad. 

His men even claimed he was aiming to be better than beskar: creating plans for every possible situation and even going so far as to form redundancies. Mapping out where and when you would arrive at the gala venue. Choosing who would be watching over you and Aspen separately, and who would be watching both of you. How he can continue to take care of your needs. Until the time comes and the suspect behind the botched killing has been caught, Commander Fox has sworn to remain at your service, no matter how trivial the request. 

Or how foolish you feel to ask. 

With hours to go and anxieties rising, there are times that involving him in the hustle-and-bustle process of getting dressed up becomes simply unavoidable. With every instance, your gratitude for this man only continues to grow stronger than before. 

Dropped an earring under the dresser and it’s too far for you to reach? Naran and Sayber will need to lend him a hand, lifting the furniture aside so he can search for it on his hands and knees.

Hands shaking too much, and the clasp on your necklace giving you trouble? He’ll help you put it on - he only asks that you hold your hair out of the way for him. 

Turning over the string of delicate Castilon pearls, you move to stand in front of the commander. The most straight-forward way to secure the necklace will be to turn your back to Fox and allow him to fit it from behind. “Thank you, Commander. I can’t seem to get my nerves under control at the moment...” you explain, grateful he won’t see the soft flush breaking across your face as his dexterous fingers latch and unlatch the tiny set of claw clasps with relative ease. 

In his voice you hear the very same tenderness he imparts to the youngest of his brothers as he softly encourages you to relax. By the time you take a deep breath and count to five ‘battleship’s, he’ll have this taken care of. You’re going to be just fine. Ordinarily you would be, were it not for the electric ripple in your skin every time you feel the smooth material of his raven-dark gloves brush against you. 

Understanding the tensing under each feather-light touch is only a reflex, the Marshal Commander casually remarks that you’ll be hard-pressed to find a senator, dignitary or diplomat that isn’t a bit on edge or nervous about the gala. Fox says it in hopes of it serving to soothe you, rather than make you more nervous. 

“There you are,” he concludes once he’s finished securing the three-strand necklace. You allow him to check the matching earrings to make certain they won’t come loose for good measure. “I admit I may not be the best man when it comes to these kinds of things, but I give it my best effort.” 

Fetching your ivory clutch, you can at last turn to thank him once Commander Fox reports the ivory accessories are both secure. “Thank you, Commander. Fortunately I’m not looking for the very best, only a bit of help. I would say that it’s hardly a contest that you’ve been among the very best in providing an immense amount of help this week.” Your favorite pair of shocktroopers share in Aspen’s giggling amusement as Commander Fox maintains his professionalism rather than fully internalizing the compliment you’ve tried to pay him. 

“Thank you, ma’am: but I don’t believe I can take all the credit. My men have shown around-the-clock commitment to this assignment that I couldn’t be more proud of.” 

With a boisterous laugh, Sayber bravely advises his superior officer on what to say. “Now’s not the time to be all modest and humble, sir! No buts – just tell her thank you!” He’s close enough to still being considered a Shiny that Sayber can get away with speaking to a brother of higher ranking in a semi-teasing manner, and he knows it. 

Commander Fox knows it too. “You’re right, you’re right…” he relents, beginning to fix parts of his armor in a bid to stall for more time. Starting with the vambraces, he straightens them out like he’s adjusting a pair of cufflinks. “Thank you, ma’am. It is my hope that both you and Senator Aspen have felt nothing less than complete assurance in the security force I have tirelessly maintained.”

Finding it satisfactory, Sayber quickly concludes with “That’s better, sir!” after you and your friend confirm there have been no concerns in your armed escorts at any given point. 

There isn’t much time you can afford to waste, having to take alternative transport that would be kinder on any formalwear than a gunship. While helping you board the other transport, Naran politely comments on the care you’ve put into your appearance for tonight and offers his hope that you have a nice time. Doing so now just in case he doesn’t get a chance later. The same sentiment is then offered to Aspen as they are helped aboard after you. 

Fuck. You’re really gonna miss these guys when all of this is over. 

You’ll miss Naran and Sayber’s playful bickering, the way they shout “Ulyc, di’kut!” at each other when the other does something foolish. You’ll miss the pilots who have flown you over the more beautiful parts of the upper-city when there’s been time to kill; like Umate and Monument Plaza, even some of your old haunts from before. 

Miss the games of fetch with Grizzer to reward her for a good job, the meals that have been shared, and the stories of how these boys got their names. 

But most of all, you’ll miss the crimson commander.

It didn’t matter that he was rather aloof and distant. How he kept things almost strictly business. That he’s never once taken off his helmet in front of you. Only ever nodding, never showing you if his smile dimpled his left cheek like most of his brothers. Or that he never told you how he came by “Fox” for his name. Whether it had been one he claimed, or something he earned. 

Because that wouldn’t be what you’d miss Commander Fox for. 

You’d miss him for never drawing more attention to himself than he had to, shying from such spotlights in the interest of giving them to his brothers instead. Miss him for the unwavering politeness he’s had for you, treating you no differently than he would for another galactic senator, or even the Chancellor. 

All this security, all this red, had been the most reassuring feeling you’ve had all week. And it won’t be easy to say goodbye, to any of it. 

Or to Commander Fox. 

Between the sound of spirited chatter, ceaseless pop-and-chop of photographers’ camera shutters and lively, swelling music, entering the formal venue before the official start of the celebration proves easily-overwhelming near-instantaneously. 

Getting here early offers you time to acclimate. Elation and excitement should eventually find you, but there will be time to find somewhere to cool off, if necessary. It also serves as a chance for the Chancellor to visit with Aspen, hoping to speak and hear how they’ve been since Commander Fox had been appointed for protection, as well as to ask about his performance. 

The visit is kept brief, but your friend stresses the shared satisfaction you have in all Fox—and the rest of the Guard for that matter—has done for you before agreeing to speak more privately and at-length the following morning. The Chancellor is not here to detract from the hopeful enjoyment of the occasion for either of you; soon enough you are left free to enjoy the entertainment and pursue the available catering. 

It became apparent most of the music played tonight came from Naboo, much like the Chancellor - written by some of her people’s most respected and well-known composers. And much of the food was extravagant, tables showcasing what your own credits could never hope to see with plate after plate of hors d’oeuvres beyond your ability to even name. Same went for the drinks when you were unable to locate any cards or signage. 

The Commander quickly proves rather knowledgeable when you blindly select a sparkling crystal flute, scrutinizing the bubbling contents with a puzzling expression after it fails recognition by smell alone.  

“What’s this…?”

“Prized champagne provided by Pantora, ma’am. It’s recently proved rather popular.” Fox explains, hands moving from carefully held at his side to folded neatly behind his back as he approaches closer to the table. 

“And what about the tall and skinny glass, or the one with a short stem and large bowl?”

An erroneously-named Mantell mixer in the highball glass, supplied from a different planet in the Mid Rim. The snifter is a robust brandy reportedly of Wayyl origin. Commander Fox can only tell you what he’s heard when it comes to if they are any good, refraining from making any kind of decision for you or presuming what you would like. There are other drinks reported to be stationed throughout the venue, if none of them appear to be to your liking. If you would prefer something non-alcoholic, he knows where the sparkling cider can be found. 

You decide you’ll be starting off safe with the cider, for the time being. Less decision fatigue than coming up with an unfamiliar, strong drink to try. He again helps with identifying the human-suitable foods for you and Aspen to sample. That’s when you realize Fox is utilizing sensors and scanners built into his ‘bucket’ rather than strictly being knowledgeable upon a sharp pause in his explanation. 

“The cured meat is supposed to pair best with… no, wait. Damn artificial intelligence pulled up a recipe blog.” 

And rather than pressuring you to engage every instance, Aspen encourages you to go explore the venue instead of listening to them catch up with many of their fellow senators. Knowing who you’ll likely prefer for company (but might be too bashful to openly say), they give you their “blessing” to take Fox as your escort in the meantime. 

“Why don’t you go exploring for a while, dear friend? Just so I don’t bore you; I promise I’ll let you know if Senator Amidala or Chuchi are able to stop by before I catch up with you so you can decide if you want to say hello. I’ll ask Naran and Sayber to stay with me in the meantime. Perhaps the Marshal Commander can go with you… If he doesn’t mind?” 

The commander offers a cordial nod prior to replying. “Not at all, Senator Aspen.” He would be happy to, in fact. And though he will not be leading you, Fox is even offering to take you by the arm. 

You can attribute it to his work ethic and find it applicable etiquette for such a grand event. Considering there is both a chivalrous and protective tone to such a gesture, this is not a measure of control through the imbalance of a power dynamic. He is not here to dictate where you are permitted to go. 

Simply put, he’s here with no other intentions but to accompany you no matter where you go, and to comment as necessary as he listens to whatever you have to say. So when Commander Fox finds you quiet after some time, he surprises you by asking what’s on your mind. 

“Thought you would be making a small amount of commentary, ma’am. Something weighing on your thoughts?” 

Blinking in surprise, you chew over the thought of how honest you should be. “Well… there is something.” Unable to see through that impassible visor and faceplate, the hope of seeing this particular Clone’s face flickers anew. 

“S-someone…” comes the clarification. 

“Senator Aspen?” 

It’s less of a risk for him to hazard this guess, but it doesn’t make the mark. 

“No. No, not my friend.” 

After a pregnant pause, you confess that it’s him that weighs on your thoughts when he does not ask. “I can’t… I can’t get you out of my mind.” Your reasons are innumerable, and strange even to yourself. You’re not sure what explanation you can give Commander Fox that would likely not be found comforting, innocent or even sane. 

So you expect him to politely pull away. To put up walls of professionalism stronger than before. To kindly but firmly establish some boundaries. (Hell: it would hurt, but you could understand if he didn’t do it so kindly.) If you were slowly stoking the fires to a potential friendship, you might’ve just gone and done the one thing to completely stomp it out. 

And by hearing yourself say it, it sounds far more romantic than you might have intended it to. “Wait, sorry- I… I meant that very generally.” Attempting to clarify this now feels like a weak excuse to cover up that you’re backpedaling, but it’ll keep you up at night far longer if you don’t at least try. 

Commander Fox, surprisingly, does not suggest he is the least bit perturbed. Not by your admission. Not by your apology. Not even by the way you try to create distance from him yourself and begin to anxiously attempt to pull your arm free. 

An earnest “I believe you.” is all that is needed to stop you in your tracks. The gala, now well in full-swing, feels as though it is slowing down around the two of you as you feel very foolish – just staring at the red-armored commander. “I know what that sounded like. But I believe you.” he continues, now with insistence. 

“You-? You do?”

Starting with the soft use of your name, he again promises that he does - even going on to say why. 

“I’ve spent all week watching how you treat and interact with my brothers. Hearing how you speak to my men. And you’re always kind. You make honest efforts to remember their names and have a friendly word to say. Always expressing appropriate gratitude. All of it shows that you care about them, that you’re a good person.

“And good people are often honest people.” 

The work Commander Fox does for the Chancellor, the Senate, all of Coruscant… it’s thankless. What work he is thanked for is done with insincerity, often disingenuous and callous and empty. Senators like Aspen are a rarity. Ordinary people, people like you, are the most likely to thank him for his work outside of his bonds within the GAR. 

But you’re different even among ordinary people. You have truly meant your thanks each and every time he’s done what’s been asked of him. And you wouldn’t yet know it, but it has led to Commander Fox becoming so hopelessly wrapped around your little finger in the reddest thread in hopes of tasting such genuine kindness. Such a response couldn’t be conditioned or trained out of him. 

He may be a Clone, but he was not a perfect copy. Not of Jango Fett. Not of any of his brothers. It was part of that Factor H as described by Fett more than a decade ago to the Kaminoan cloners, likely before the commander’s own creation. 

‘H’ for ‘Human’. And humans… they have a base, instinctual need for forming connections with the people around them. It’s why isolation proves so detrimental. As a soldier, it was an unspoken expectation to simply not acknowledge those kinds of consequences to his formative years. 

Created in a high-tech petri dish. Decanted from a tube. Together forged by fire with a living sea of brothers. Getting planted on the singular-most crowded planet in this entire kriffing galaxy, where his failure to protect the heart of the Republic meant having to listen to more reports of dying vode. 

But tonight, he’s here, thinking of asking to dance in all of his blood-red armor with one of the most beautiful women at the gala. Having lost a complete sense of elapsing time, the two of you had been standing just on the inside to a respectably-sized dance floor when the venue appeared to be cueing up for either the first, or another of the largest shared dances. 

There’s no time to be coy about asking if you want to join your friend waiting off to the side, now that they and his shocktroopers have found the two of you. It appeared Aspen intended to have joined you, but it was now too late to step into the designated floorspace. There would still be time to step out. 

“Would you like to join your friend?” Fox politely offers. 

Historically, you and Aspen had platonically partaken in these duo-dances together owing to your closeness and long-stand friendship. Usually at some point during the night if Aspen was preoccupied with other senatorial attendees, but often at the first available opportunity. Dare you ask for another of their blessings to break a long-standing tradition?

“Aspen, I think I-”

“Go. There’ll be other dances!” Aspen urges, interrupting. They’re smiling, a promising sign you had worried for nothing. 

Hopeful, Commander Fox extends his hand out to you. A quiet offering. An implied invitation. If you’re going to accept, it has to be soon. “Another dance, then.” you promise to your friend, carefully trading off items like the ivory clutch in order to free up your hands. 

Naran suggests a crucial change before you can take the commander’s outstretched hand and join him further into the showfloor. 

“Sir! Your helmet!” 

“Right, right.”

This song with a famously long lead-in allows for the ordinarily simple unsealing and removal of the commander’s headgear to transform into something a bit more preformative, if rather hurried. With a polite doffing befitting of the high-class nature of the event, Fox removes the recently-polished helmet and allows you to see his face for the very first time since meeting earlier that week. It is then directly taken by Naran away from the dance floor, surrendered to his care and subsequently forgotten not long after. 

Following Fox, he leads you slightly deeper into the dancing crowd with a rhetorical “Shall we, ma’am?” where the two of you assume the appropriate starting position just before the lead-in concludes, and the dance number finally commences.

As a ballroom piece common to the Core Worlds, you’re given more than enough time to study the charming face of your dance partner as the two of you step through the poised and elegant choreography. 

While there is perhaps some truth to the erroneous adage “If you see one Clone’s face, you’ve seen them all!”, you are wholly committed to determining what little traits set him apart from his brothers while you have the chance. And kindly, the commander allows you to do so, encourages you to do so. 

“Do I look like you imagined?”

Mostly yes. But also, no. 

While he had the same round ala to his nose, there was faint scarring across the bridge you hadn’t yet seen in any of his brothers. (You would find others; one cutting into the arch of his right brow, and a freshly-pinked nick that tucked under his jaw on the left.) Fox’s eyes were the same, soulful brown; with an additional intensity that was hard to completely identify. A soft five-o-clock shadow along his jaw, now that you hadn’t expected. Or the touches of gray blending out in the dark waves and tight curls of his hair. 

You admit you’re starting to wish he’d taken off his helmet sooner, even though he was only doing his job… A long-suffering job that allowed you to even be here to begin with. If it wasn’t for him, your long visit home just to see Aspen would never have happened. Not the way it did. Without him, without the Guard, your friend would have asked you to take the first shuttle returning to your new home. 

You can’t even begin to fathom how you could possibly thank him enough for everything they’ve done to protect Aspen and get you to this point. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Fox pledges, both his voice and his smile tender. The dimpling in his left cheek is the most pronounced amongst any of the Guardsmen. A golden warmth that softens the watchful depths in his eyes. All of it brightens your heart with euphoria, pulse already keeping time to the soaring peaks of the strings’ music. 

When the song calls for those assuming the position of the dance’s “gentlemen” to pull their partner close, the Marshal Commander fits you so perfectly against his armor in order to make himself heard. 

His voice becomes softer—fonder—in the delicate shell of your ear. 

“But I know you’ll probably try...”

As the music begins the winding-down, Fox’s vambrace begins to squeal - an abrupt, demanding tone disrupting the pleasant, vulnerable moment between you. Needing to answer it, you assist him by depressing the instructed buttons after lowering the volume per his instructions. 

“CC-4477 to Commander Fox! We have the suspect behind Senator Aspen’s attempted assassination in our custody!” 

Fox does not reply right away, but rather he eyes the open comlink with a degree of great pride. But there is also great reluctance. After everything you’ve told him, after everything he’s told you, the long-shot he’s taken in asking to dance with you amidst all this formality and decorum, he has to leave now?

“Well done, Thire. Tell Commander Thorn-”

No. 

No, maybe just this once, he can get away with not answering a summons instantaneously. His duty may be to the Republic, but man of his honor his duty is also still to you. As of now, he is still charged with protecting you and the senator. It becomes socially acceptable to leave the gala without staining one’s reputation fifteen minutes from now, after these large, shared dances. His men can handle the suspect until then. 

Fox will not allow your standing to suffer now simply because of him. 

“Sir?”

“Tell Thorn I’m still wrapped up pretty tight here. Might take fifteen minutes to disentangle her and Senator Aspen from the gala. Maybe more.” Fox’s focused expression changes to one of warmth when the word “her” parts his lips, while his voice retains its authoritative tone. 

There’s a long silence on the other end of the comm before Thire comes up with a reply. 

“Understood, Commander. Thire out.”

Breathless and head light, you’re reeling with relief and elation that they’ve captured their suspect. This is the beginning of the end of Aspen’s nightmare. Your nightmare. But where there is joy, there too comes sorrow, knowing your time in Commander Fox’s company is coming to an end. Maybe not tonight, maybe not in the morning. But soon enough, you will part ways and return to your regular lives…

“I can’t believe they got the guy… Thank the stars, it’s finally over. If we need to leave so you can-”

“No, mesh’la,” Commander Fox interrupts you before his voice turns almost pleading. The song may now be over, but there is still music that can be danced to. Still time that he can spend with you. “Let me be a selfish man for once… Fifteen minutes is all I ask.”

Maybe fifteen minutes… can be a good place to start. 

Everything will still be there after fifteen minutes. The suspect, his men, the senator… but the clock will start to run out with you after fifteen minutes. And he’s not ready for that. 

“Okay. Fifteen minutes. We’ll… work out what comes after that.” 

When you’ve spent most of your service dealing with red tape, it’s going to take more than fifteen minutes to unwrap all of it. 

So you’ll make those minutes a very good place to start…

Thank you for making a request for my 200 follower event, Pina! Ended up longer than I initially anticipated even after everything I cut out of it, but I hope you enjoyed it! I apologize for the unexpected delays, so I hope this was well worth the extra time it took me to write it in order for you to read it! And in case anyone is curious why I chose the name "Aspen" for the name of our senator friend here, I took inspiration from the Greek word for shield, 'aspis'. I thought it felt fitting for a story focused around Fox working hard to protect even a complete stranger, being the dutiful and brave man he is. ❤️

Taglist: @callsign-denmark @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit

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[irunaki]

these guys seem interesting!!

*rubs hands mischievously*

so!!!! first one is Dystan :) used he/him prounums, is aroace and has 29 years

He is a elthingt, thats a specie that has the main traits the branch-like horns and tail, they also have it on the shoulders and tip of the ears. they are rather rare, and i can make another post just talking about this specie if u want to

heres his age reference i ddi some time ago

so:

1-3 years: Born on the 3º island, in a small village

5 years: The war bettween Hokht and Anghuliums gets worse, desvasting his village since it was in the middle, loses his family and home. he manages to escape

7 years- after two years of just running away and trying to find a place to live, usually staying in orphanages, a couple of lochtys adopts him, so he moves to the west of the insland to live with them

super lazy illustration of it

at 17 years he signs to the army, still on the war bettwen Hokht and Anghuliums, inicially in the rescue part, wanting to help with the ones who might be suffering what he did but 3 years later he gets transfered to the fighting part due to lack of soldiers.

23: is at the wrong place at the wrong time, by that it means he stepped on a mine bomb. fortunatly elthingt's instincts are pretty fast and the bomb wasnt really strong, so he ddint die but part of his face was disformed, losing a bit of the lip and cheek, and getting blind from the right eye.

24: leaves the army and starts looking for another job, travelling around the islands

25: finds a job as bodyguard for the Lenon family, a family of wealthy demons inn the 1st insland, in the kingdom of Bleshram

heres the family

and thats it, hes been working with them till now :3

extra info:

when he was in the army there was a man that was REALLY in love with him, like constantly flirting (horrible flirt btw), sending gifts, doing declarations to the point that Dystan almost got happy when he died on a battle

nowwith the bodyguard job, he really enjoyys conversations with Firith, the second son, even if most conversations are him just listening (he isnt a big speaker)

listening to him complaining about being rich^

he really likes horses and to cook, specially spicy food

he always sends letters to his mothers, and goes visit them often

bonus of da boy smilling

old drawing lol

OK NEXT ONE

not so long cuz i dont like them as much as i like Dystan lmao

ok so, Marya and Mario

Marya is 18, a human, she/her and bi?didnt decided yet

Mario is 7, hes a boy

i changed their desings slightly since then but not that much

they were born in Bleshram. their father dissapeared a bit before Mario was born and that lead to a deep depression on their mother, who then died of a sickness from being vulnerable.

also, Bleshram is a mainly-demon populated kingdom, so its a bit harder to steal to live being a human cuz humans r dumber and slower but she does what she needs

uhh then a rich demon kinda kidnaps them to force MArya to work for him, but he actually makes their life way better

the red haired one (Netami)

tysm for asking!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here's doodles of them as a bonus

[irisintheafterglow]

OKAY A FELLOW SWIFTY I SEE

Okay here me out I need to express this with another SWIFTY

ALL THE GIRLS YOU LOVED BEFORE IS SO GOJO X READER CODED!!

Gege confirmed gojo was canon a player right??

He’s all about fuckboy life but THEN then he meets you and is so inlove he becomes so domestic and just <333

I NEEDED TO SHARE THIS WITH ANOTHER SWOFTY FOR YEARS OKAY THANKS BYE

every dead end street led you straight to me

wc: 2.1k

cw/tags: established relationship, first meeting, creepy guy at a club but he doesn't get very far because of unofficial bodyguard™ satoru, mostly just fluff and taylor references, little fun surprise at the very end in case it wasn't tooth-rotting enough

note: hi anon!!! first off, i'm so sorry this took so long to complete; i literally love aotgylb and so i was a little stumped for how to write this because it's just,,,,so him. i love him. i love taylor. i hope you love this lol. enjoy!!!

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated!

“I really wish I found you sooner.”

“How so?”

“I wouldn’t have needed all that dumb shit with other girls if I knew you were waiting for me. All the lame fights, feeling alone even when I wake up next to someone. That dumb shit.”

“Who said I wasn’t doing dumb shit too?” You look at him with a sleepy smile, warm despite the biting chill of the early morning air. "You couldn't fathom how many boys I was crying in the bathroom about."

"Do you remember their names?"

"Of course not." While you press against the personal heater that is your boyfriend, the long-awaited sunlight starts to touch the very tips of the mountains before you. “You remember my first boyfriend, don’t you?”

“Mmm, yeah. The one from Kyoto that dropped out ‘cause he couldn’t stand being weaker than his partner,” he recalls. “He’s also the ugliest of your exes; it’s hard to forget him when I almost exorcized him before I met you.” You burst out laughing at the memory and a puff of your breath appears in front of your face. Satoru follows suit, exhaling a long breath and making boyish dragon noises. “See, aren’t I so much better?”

“Yes love, no one can compete with your dragon impressions,” you tease. With a shiver, you wrap your coat tighter around your body. “I won’t lie, though. My ass is freezing.”

“I was just about to say that,” he agrees, shifting uncomfortably on the stone bench. Even with the several layers of thermal long sleeves, jackets, and gloves, the winter weather seemed adamant on giving you frostbite. “Remind me to never suggest a sunrise hike ever again.” 

“But isn’t it romantic? Freezing our asses off and shit-talking our exes?” 

“I would not enjoy this if I was with anyone else,” he concludes. “That’s all I’ll say about that.”

“Fine, then go back to that other thing, the one about finding me sooner.” 

“Oh, that?” He pauses for a moment, jutting his lips to the side in deep thought. Spots of gold start to catch on his bright white hair, strikingly similar to the snow crunching under your boots. “I was just thinking how much time I wouldn’t have wasted if I simply found you sooner.”

“What do you mean, ‘found me?’” 

“I was searching for someone, you know, and I didn’t know what I wanted until I met you.” The corner of his mouth quirks as a memory pops into his mind. “Even though you hated me.”

“I did not hate you,” you argue in vain since you did, in fact, hate him when you first met him. In need of a new partner after your boyfriend (the ugly one, Satoru notes) fell ill the night before a mission, you considered feigning sickness yourself when you saw who the higher ups assigned. It was easier, logistically, to slap on the most powerful asset they had on a mission where a sorcerer dropped out, but it didn’t make him any less annoying when he picked you up at the airport. It was before the days of his current blindfold, when he wrapped strips of white linen over his eyes during the times he opted for no sunglasses. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t unnerve you, the way he navigated through the airport crowds as if his vision wasn’t impeded in the slightest. The aura that he emanated was intimidating and one of sheer power, but the goofy smile and melodic voice contradicted any assumptions you made about the strongest being alive. 

“Gojo Satoru?”

“That’s me. I like it when you say my name,” he drawls and you make a quiet gagging noise in your throat. 

“Please don’t ever say that again,” you say, walking in a random direction where you hope the driver is parked. To your embarrassment, you turn around to see him standing in the same spot, a smug grin on his face and a thumb pointing in the opposite direction. “I thought I read the lot was this way,” you mutter in irritation while he falls into step next to you. 

“Oh, it was,” he affirms and you stop mid-stride. The shit-eating expression on his face only grows wider when he senses your increasing annoyance. “But there’s a dango stand over here and you look like you could use a snack.” He was right, of course, but you didn’t admit it until much later in your relationship. The first twelve hours with him were painfully awkward, to say the least. You shoved dango in your mouth to avoid answering any questions about yourself and stared out the dark window of the car while he snuck glances at you in the backseat. After dropping your stuff at the hotel and slipping into nicer clothes, you walk out onto the crowded street to find Satoru waiting in a sleek-looking suit that would have the girls back home fainting on the spot. He opens the door with a flirty remark that you immediately tune out and you recheck the Cursed Tools in your clutch while he slides into the seat beside you. 

“You know your role?” 

“I’m a wealthy businessman gunning for the weapon with the blue handle,” he states confidently.

“Green handle, not blue.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One of them has an eons-old Curse stuffed into its hilt…and the other is blue.” He makes a small noise of amusement in his throat and you feel yourself relax a little bit more. “I’ll camp out at the bar and wait for the owner to make a move. Apparently, he’s the type to bite pretty easily if he sees something good-looking and alone. When he’s distracted, you grab the weapon. Got it?”

“Clear as crystal,” he says, swiping his tongue over his top lip absentmindedly. A serious look washes over his face, something in his head making his eyebrows draw together. “What if the guy starts getting handsy with you?”

“I’ll…handle it,” you reply slowly, slightly confused as to why he cares. “Just get the weapon, Gojo. You can stall or kill time however you want before that, but we don’t have the luxury of being able to make a mess.”

“Easier said than done,” he says quietly, “So, no promises.” 

It turned out that making messes was simply a part of Satoru’s daily routine. Perched on a bar stool and barely nursing a weak drink, you clearly saw what his idea of killing time was. Lean arms stretched over the back of an overstuffed corner booth in a corner of the club, pulling several nice-looking women into his side while they giggled in his lap. He’d swapped the strips of linen for an expensive pair of sunglasses and he peered over the rim at regular intervals to keep an eye on you. It made your heart pang just a little bit, seeing him easily attract girls to him like a magnet in a paper clip factory. There was no doubt that Gojo Satoru was attractive, yet every doubt existed in your mind as to whether you would ever have a chance with him. You didn’t mean to look so mopey and sad at the counter, but it seems to play to your advantage when the owner of the weapon creeps over with a sinister smile on his face. 

“Hello, dear,” he purrs and it takes all of your willpower not to slap him for looking at you like a pretty thing. “Nothing is sadder than a beauty at the bar, all alone.”

“And what were you going to do about it?” You drop the volume of your voice to an enticing volume, looking up at him through your eyelashes. 

“Inject a bit more excitement into your evening,” he replies daringly and the insinuation makes you nauseous. “That man, with the glasses? He broke your heart?” He leans on your shoulder and looks in the direction of your partner, the one who was supposed to be grabbing the weapon while you were busy being ogled by this narcissist. “You need to watch out for men like him, throwing around money and women like they’re of no value. Both have value. You have value.” Great, you groan in your head, he’s gross and a hypocrite, too.

“I wouldn’t say broke it,” you murmur mysteriously. “More like, doesn’t deserve it.”

“You’re feisty,” he observes. “I’m incredibly attracted to it.” Shit. On pure instinct, you feel your Cursed Energy flare up as his hand roams dangerously close to your thigh, sliding down your arm with a clammy palm. Despite not being a sorcerer, you know he feels the energy shift when his eyes dart up to yours not with lust, but suspicion. By some stupid twist of Fate, you’d blown your own cover. The weapon owner’s hand suddenly tightens around your wrist, chaining you to the bar counter. 

“Let go of me,” you order, completely rid of the stupidly airy voice and naive smiles. 

“What did you just–”

“My love, we’re leaving.” Elegant fingers effortlessly pry the man’s hand from your skin and toss them aside like garbage. You find your coat gently draped around your shoulders, and only then does he guide you up and away from the bar, with the weapon owner still gawking in his stool. Somewhere between your Cursed Energy flaring and the man grabbing your wrist, Satoru must have left his posse of gorgeous women to pull you out of your present situation. “Good?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, slightly embarrassed that he had to come in and save you. “Thanks for doing that, even though you had to leave your girlfriends.” 

“Of course. They never mean anything to me, nor do I mean anything to them,” he replies and it sounds genuine, without any sort of mockery or indication that he was holding it above your head. With one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, he calls the valet to retrieve the car and you find that you don’t mind him holding you close. “Nice play with the energy flare-up, by the way. That was really smart.”

“What do you mean?”

“Smoking out the weapon’s energy signature by making it butt against your own?” He shakes his head in disbelief, city lights catching in the lenses of his glasses. “Absolute genius.” 

“I…didn’t mean to do that,” you admit and he peers at you out of the corner of his vision. You didn’t know it yet, but to him, you looked prettier than any of the women he was surrounded by inside the club. “It was an accidental reflex when the guy went for my leg.”

“Want me to kill him?” You chuckle, but it dies away when you see the cold expression on his face, nothing like the playful and warm persona you’d just been speaking to. “Say the word and I’ll blow the place to pieces.”

“We’re not supposed to make a mess, remember?” 

“And I said no promises, remember?” He helps you into the passenger’s seat with a gentlemanly hand, shutting it after you before settling into the driver’s seat. “Either way, I got the weapon. It was in the guy’s pocket, not in the safe like we thought it would be. But, more importantly, you got out of that creep’s vicinity.” 

“I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Anytime, pretty.”

“Don’t call me that,” you say firmly and he looks at you curiously. “What?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not interested in being your arm candy; I’m not that type of person.” He pauses for several long moments, stuck in deep thought.

“I didn’t realize I was the type of person to have arm candy,” he states quietly, like it was an epiphany as he pulled away from the club’s valet curb. 

“Something must be wrong with one of your Six Eyes, then, if you truly believe that,” you chuckle, trying to make the mood a little lighter. Yet, he’s still staring straight ahead with a frown on his face and a draw between his eyebrows. It was unsettling, to say the least. “Hey, I really didn’t mean any offense–”

“Let me try.”

“What?”

“Let me try,” he repeats with absolute determination. The streetlight casts his face in a dangerous shade of red.

“Try…what?” 

“To win you over. Teach you what forever feels like,” he answers and your head feels like it’s been submerged underwater, all noises suddenly becoming muddy and irrelevant. “Show you that I don’t think you’re just eye candy.” 

“What the hell are you playing at, Gojo?”

“I’m just tryin’ to show you that I’m not the playboy you have in your head,” he argues and it makes your cheeks heat. “Let me try. If I fail, I’ll go bald or something. Sorcerer's honor.” You burst out laughing, shaking your head in disbelief but feeling comfortable enough to take him up on the offer. Now, a few years and zero bald heads later, you were freezing your ass off with the man of your dreams on a mountain at six in the morning. 

Somehow, you both felt like you’d won the bet when he pulled out that box from his pocket and got down on one knee. 

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[xoxo-ren-xoxo]

A Popstar Grian AU - Ari AU (Part One)

Or, @angeart and I put Grian through a lot of pain for no good reason.

Hello! Like two people showed interest in my post about Ari AU, thus here we are. This is not really a 'fic', but it isn't a short summary either. Let your mind go wild. Let your imagination be free. Read my words, boy.

This is Part One. Part Two is here. Part Three is here. Part Four is here. Part Five is here. The tag for this is #ari au.

But before we start, some introductory things you should know.

This is scarian. Don't read if you do not like scarian.

Grian uses he/she pronouns and is transfem genderqueer, I tend to default to she as it helps differentiate her from other characters a lot, but I mix it up.

I somewhat based this AU on attitudes towards celebrities / stars from the 2000s - present day, so this can be read as a period piece in some ways... This concept started with the song 'The Fear' by Lily Allen. I recommend giving it a listen.

This is the "real world", so no hybrids, no respawn, no "code", etc.

CONTENT WARNINGS for this Part: stalking, physical assault, attempted sexual assault, drugging, mentions of vomit, hospitals, me autismposting about music genres.

You can always stop reading! The AU starts out pretty tame and gradually gets, well, worse. But I promise it has a hopeful ending! Eventually!

(also please ask me questions, send ideas, reblog, comment, etc. because I love this AU a lot) (and thank you to Ange for enabling me and adding amazing scenes to this au)

Album One: ‘Sunshine Sedative’

Grian, better known by her stage name ‘Ari’, is a popular singer-songwriter embarking on a world tour to promote her latest album, Sunshine Sedative. The album is indie pop-y and bright, exploring themes of romance, self-empowerment, and subtle references to gender and sexuality. Grian’s style on-stage is hyper-feminine, flashy, and fashionable. He’s known to be a bit prickly, demanding, and stubborn off-stage, slow to warm up to the people around him.

The tour bus carries both Grian and her key crew. Pearl (marketing, PR and organisational work), Impulse (costumes and tech), and Mumbo (tech assistant and main contact for Grian’s manager). Though Grian likes to self-manage, preferring to do her own make-up and plan the set-lists for her own shows. 

Recently, Grian has been running into some issues with stalker fans and online haters, receiving some threatening messages on social media. Mumbo tries not to let him doomscroll on his phone too much, even going so far as to confiscate the phone while on tour. This is Grian’s biggest tour- no one was prepared for her to become a star or “indie darling” type- and the fans are… a bit crazy.

After the anonymous threats, Grian agrees to get a bodyguard. This is where Scar comes in. At first, Scar is a little terrified. The company he works for advised him not to annoy or upset Grian, and to always call her Miss Ari. Never disagree with her or do anything he isn’t contracted to do. 

Scar throws all of this out of the window pretty fast. Yes, Grian is especially difficult when they first meet, but Scar can tell it’s because Grian is stressed. About the tour, about the fame, about the threats. 

A show results in Grian getting a sore throat, and Scar offers her some tea with honey, rambling on about how his mother used to make it for him when he was sick. Grian begrudgingly takes the tea, and tells Scar to just call her Grian from then on. She’s not a fan of the blurring of her private and public life.

Eventually, Grian gets bored enough to rant to Scar about how Mumbo won’t let him use his phone anymore, and Scar offers to sneak it back to him. They have a laugh scrolling through celebrity news and playing silly games together. Then they get found out and both get a stern talking to from Mumbo and Impulse. (Pearl laughs at them in the background).

As Grian’s tour starts selling out, more tour dates are added, extending their time on the road. Scar continues to sneak Grian’s phone to her, pushing her to have fun rather than scroll through hate messages. It seems like a peak moment for Grian, delighted by the idea that she has so many fans, and beginning to develop a bit of a crush on Scar. Grian even starts acting a little nicer.

Tabloids and Stalkers

The fame comes with more caveats than Grian anticipated. One day, while Scar and Grian are reading some dumb article on Grian’s phone, she receives a random message from a burner account. It’s a picture of Grian, through a hotel window, half dressed. Grian recognises the hotel, one they stayed in a few nights ago just to get away from the tour bus.

Someone knew she would be there. Knew what room she would be staying in. There is a vaguely ominous / threatening message attached. It makes Grian never want to step foot outside again. It makes her feel sick. Suddenly she can’t focus on anything around her.

He has a panic attack. 

Later, as Grian is pacing the floor of the bus, he’s told not to make an announcement about the stalker. She decides herself not to go to the police, and, after some hesitation, not to cancel the tour. They can’t disappoint all those people. 

Over the next few shows, Grian gets closer to Scar. Both because they get along so well, and because Scar is there to protect her. He's clumsy and funny and once he starts talking about something he likes, it’s hard to get him to stop. Grian finds him incredibly endearing and, more importantly, incredibly safe. 

But things are bad. Grian can’t even go to a public bathroom without Scar checking to make sure no one is waiting for her. He feels constantly watched, constantly on-edge, constantly afraid. The paparazzi don’t exactly make it easier.

Tabloids love Ari. She’s a superstar, a real diamond in the rough who came from nothing. They’re obsessed. Anything she does in public can make a tabloid front page. As the tour goes on and her songs rocket up the charts, it only gets worse. The flashes of the cameras have started to scare him.

Scar is an angel, dealing with the paparazzi professionally and confidently. He stands in front of Grian and chases the cameras off. But it feels like they can’t go anywhere. They can’t do anything. Even when they stop at another hotel, Grian can’t tell if the people outside are stalkers or journalists.

The pictures on the tabloid front pages are no longer stunning shots from the shows, but rather blurry snaps of Grian trying to escape the cameras. Images of Grian, wide-eyed and scared by the surprise of a camera flash, before she could put on a fake smile. Grian, through a window in the parked tour bus, with teary eyes. Even private moments are no longer private.

Media outlets start to pay for more intimate photos- anything the journalists might get fired for trying to snap themselves. It gives the stalkers (there are certainly multiple, now) more incentive. Grian keeps the curtains closed in every building he visits, and draws the tiny blinds on the bus. 

Relationship Goals?

In the meantime, Grian’s crush on Scar is getting more obvious, but she’s afraid to say anything. Dragging Scar into this, with all the harassment he would face if they revealed they were together, isn’t what Grian wants. She flinches away when Scar offers a comforting touch, not wanting to risk a photograph. 

Scar is the one, then, who takes the initiative. He sits with Grian on her little fold-out bed at the back of the tour bus, all curtains drawn and the door closed. He holds her close and tells her firmly that no one is going to see them here. They're traveling at 50mph on a motorway and no one can even see through the windows anyway. And that's maybe just enough for Grian to let himself lean into Scars touch. Admit his feelings. 

There’s a sense of shame he's carrying with them. He shouldn't have fallen for his bodyguard- someone who has to stay with him, contractually. She tries to say as much, going on and on about all the terrible risks Scar is bringing to himself by dating her, but Scar cuts Grian off by kissing her, anyway.

As soon as the media gets a hint of the relationship, things seem to go downhill. Diehard fans don’t react kindly to Grian’s choice of man, especially the ones who want to have her for themselves. Someone throws something at Scar when Grian is leaving a show, hitting him on the head. It isn’t a bad injury, but it bleeds a lot, and Grian only feels worse about it when Scar insists he’s okay.

Actual Bodily Harm

The fans seem to get more… intense. Stalking and threats of harm increase, while the fans' behaviour at shows seems to get worse. As the tour is nearing its final few weeks, people start to throw things onto the stage. The first time it happens, Grian cuts the set short without anyone really noticing. The next time, someone throws a glass bottle, and she walks off. 

He tries not to make a big fuss about it, simply leaving without playing a single song. She feels awful, of course, for leaving the normal fans without a show. Perhaps they should refund the tickets, or something. She doesn’t even notice the glass shards in her foot until Scar points them out, horrified. 

Pearl convinces Grian to take a picture of the injury and make a PSA post on social media. Even when the adrenaline wears off, Grian’s resulting breakdown seems subdued. 

No one throws anything at the next few shows, except for a trans pride flag. Grian wears it as a cape, and feels amazing, for once, hearing the cheers and screams of joy at the gesture. She loves that she can be a symbol of hope and love for so many people. It’s even enough of a boost to get him acting more like himself again in private: mischievous, bright, and creative. 

It is near the end of the tour when things go completely, utterly wrong again. Grian and the crew all go to a bar after a show, to celebrate the last week of the tour. Three more shows, and then it’s over. Grian is in somewhat normal clothes, compared to his usual getup, but still puts on his persona just in case they've been followed by the paparazzi (again).

Everyone's having a nice time, drinking a little and hanging out. As always, it is nice to be getting away from the bus. Pearl and Impulse buy far too many shots, much to Mumbo’s dismay. Grian laughs and jokes and raises her voice, not caring if she’s croaky the next day. 

He doesn't notice someone watching him from across the room. Doesn't notice them slip something into her drink when she goes up to the bar. She pays for another pint, and they strike up conversation. Giddily, she chats with them, rambling about how good life has suddenly become. As he sips his drink, he doesn’t register how focused on him they are. How their dark eyes don’t leave him once.

It’s fine, until she stumbles, on the way back to the booth everyone's sitting at, and the stranger catches her before she can fall with strong arms. They're talking, but Grian isn't really listening. She’s nodding along and mumbling about needing to get back to the booth. Back to her friends.

It feels wrong. They keep hold of her shoulders. They're saying something about getting her home safe. Something about how they've been waiting for this…

He realises what’s happening far too late. Panic clutches her chest for a split second. Long enough for him to call out for Scar. She's already being manhandled out of the door before Scar comes to her rescue. Thankfully, by a miracle, close enough to hear the cry for help.

Grian knows something happens to the stranger, because they're on the floor and bleeding. Voices buzz, muffled, around Grian. There are more hands on her. She doesn’t like it. Her head hurts. Scar’s hand is bloody as he hugs her. Grian passes out.

Hospital Visit One

The crew, quite obviously, take Grian to the hospital. He was drugged, and it’s clear what the perpetrator wanted to do. It shakes them all, left wondering whether the creep knew who Grian was, or just randomly targeted a drunk stranger on a night out. Either way, none of them want to go near a bar any time soon.

On the way to the hospital, the press capture pictures of Grian unconscious, or half-awake with no awareness, and by the time the morning rolls in, the papers are already speculating about addiction and ‘gone wild’ narratives. When Grian wakes up, still slightly delirious, he's told, hesitantly, by Pearl, that they have to release a statement soon in order to clear his name and control the narrative. Grian can’t find it in herself to cry about what happened.

Before any statements are made, the police come to talk to Grian. They arrested the perpetrator and searched their house, not that it’ll result in much. They show Grian pictures of rope, duct tape, knives, and a poster from her tour. 

Feeling numb, Grian takes a moment to go throw up in a bin, then tells her team she wants to make a statement now. She wants it recorded, as she is, now. Pearl and Mumbo try to argue that it really isn't a good idea, without a script and looking… bad, but Scar and Impulse back Grian’s choice. Reluctantly, Mumbo grabs one of the nice cameras from his car- the bus was far too conspicuous to park at a hospital- and they record.

They don't know what Grian’s going to say, but, put basically, the video explains everything that has happened- from the stalkers to the glass to the drugging- and apologises to the fans who did nothing wrong. And even the fans who just wanted to know some gossip, because they weren't really to blame. Then she announces that she's cancelling the rest of the tour. 

Mumbo shuts off the camera. Everyone apart from Scar is a bit shocked. Incredulous. Shouldn’t they talk about this? Is it worth it to cancel at the last hurdle? Scar cuts off the protests, pointing out how insensitive it is to try and make Grian perform after everything. Grian stays quiet as Scar somewhat lectures the others. It’s a rambling mess of an argument, but it works. They apologise. 

The statement video is posted online, and Grian is left to rest. Scar remains at his side.

Once Grian is checked over and discharged, they get back to the bus fast. She retreats to her closed-off space at the back of the bus, telling everyone to get on with their jobs. Once she's alone, she replays the images the police showed her in her mind. He thinks about what could have happened. He thinks about the stranger's hands on his shoulders and at his hips. She remembers that she started out just wanting to make music, and she cries.

[lincolndjarin]

Best Kept Secret

chapter thirteen : lunar interlude : vercopa (RE-UPLOAD)

ao3 link ✿ series masterlist ✩ main masterlist ✧

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 3.5k

summary : the mandalorian does some thinking

warnings, etc. : language, angst, references to sex

A/N : i had to change accounts so this is a re-upload of my ongoing fic bks!!

He did it.

He did exactly what he knew he needed to do.

So why does he feel worse than ever?

The look on your face when he had lied so blatantly to you made him want to collapse in on himself. If someone else had made you that upset he would have caved their skull in, why does he deserve any less?

He did it. That’s what matters, even if he had to lie to get you to believe it, he ended things. He doesn’t bother taking off his armor as he collapses onto his mattress. 

His eyes find the plastic flower on his nightstand. It’s a good reminder that he’s a bad person for what he’s put you through. He never should have slept with you. 

He never should have loved you. 

He deserves every form of torture that would be performed on him if they found out what the two of you had been doing. 

He deserves damnation for what he has done. 

And he gets just that when he sleeps. 

Most of his dreams follow the same theme. You, in his cabin, sometimes he finds himself entangled against your naked form, sometimes it’s just laying on his twin bed, enjoying the warmth of each other. 

Something is immediately off about the dream he’s in now.

His first thought is that this cabin is different. 

It’s bigger. There’s more dressers, the bed is twice the size of his. His confusion is palpable as he tries to find you. 

He knows he will if he looks. 

You’re always there when he closes his eyes. 

So he stands, and he walks around the house. It’s completely new to him yet so familiar and as he turns the corner and you’re there.

His breath hitches. 

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, with a genuine smile, and your hair hanging down across your face. But what catches his eye the most is the little green baby in your arms. You pinch at his cheeks as he makes those all too familiar babbles that used to fill the Crest. 

His heart is in his throat. 

He can’t move. It’s like he’s staring down the greatest threat of his life and if he moves an inch it will attack. 

Maybe he died in his sleep and this is heaven.

That doesn’t make sense, he’s done nothing to earn his place. Or it’s hell, and his torment is knowing he can’t stay here with you and Grogu, that he’ll have to wake up and live with what he’s put you through, and the kid will still be gone. 

He’s content to stand in the doorway and watch this alternate reality for as long as he sleeps. His chest heaving as he takes in the sight of everything he’s ever wanted, just a few steps away. 

The two most important people in his life, and in his reality he’s pushed you both away. 

He could have kept the kid. He hadn’t been sure about leaving, he truly believes that if he had asked Grogu to stay that they could have been happy. But he was just so scared. 

What if he got hurt while out on a hunt? What if he changed his mind and years down the road resented Din for keeping him? Or worst of all, what if plain and simple, he just got sick of Din? 

And then he did the same thing to you. 

He got scared.

He can’t already be regretting it, it’s been less than a day.

The sound of your voice calling him snaps him out of his trance. 

You say his name. 

His real name. 

Din. 

Second to the little noises the kid makes it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. He’s not in control of himself as he stumbles towards you. Falling to his knees in front of your chair, scared to reach out to touch you because deep down he knows this isn’t real. 

You should be upset. Upset that he’s lied to you, told you that he doesn’t want you, used you. You should be throwing insults into his face but instead you reach down to put a hand on his cheek and he’s vaguely aware of the fact that in this particular dream he isn’t wearing his helmet. 

He’s so at ease from your touch he doesn’t care. 

You don’t speak. You just use your thumb to rub gentle circles into the planes of his face. Eventually the house is gone, the kitchen is gone, the table and chairs are gone and it’s just you. Standing above him, caressing his face with one hand, holding the kid to your chest with the other. 

He doesn’t dare move a muscle as he tries to burn the sight of the two of you into his memories. 

He wakes up with a start, sitting upright in his bed, his hands clawing at the helmet as he gasps for air. He haphazardly tosses it onto the sheets as tries to catch his breath. 

Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his flight suit he stuffs some rations into his satchel and locks his helmet back on. 

So he can’t stay in the cabin anymore. 

He had never even brought you here but it reeks of your absence. And that dream didn’t help in the slightest. 

There are whispers of you in every corner and crevice of his home. He’s not an idiot, he knows no matter where he goes there will always be traces of you. So there’s no sense avoiding it, he makes his way to the castle and stands guard outside your room. 

He doesn’t sleep the rest of the night. He stands against the wall opposite your bedroom door. He can’t go back to sleep, he can’t handle that dream again. So he stays up until the sun rises. 

He’s a bundle of nerves waiting for you to greet him, but you never do. You stay in your room the entire day, the only change in scenery is when Leo or one of the girls brings you food, he tries to catch a glimpse of you when the door is briefly open but he never does. 

His heart hurts. 

He doesn’t move. When the hallways are empty he eats his rations just for something to do. Sometimes he’ll turn up the external audio so he can hear you pacing around your room but most of the time it’s silent. He’ll stretch his legs every few hours, pacing the hall. And then he’ll sit and repeat. 

He wants to go in. 

He wants to tear the door down, kneel before you and beg for forgiveness. But he manages to resist. 

He doesn’t sleep when the sun goes down. 

When he feels his eyes starting to flutter he’ll chew on a ration. 

Sometimes if he feels sleep creeping up on him he thinks of things to say to you in the morning. 

He wants to say sorry. More accurately he wants to grovel at your feet and tell you he’s an idiot, that he was lying, that he didn’t mean a word of it and that he’s madly in love with you. 

Of course he won’t do that.

He shouldn’t say anything.

It’s better that way. It’s better for the both of you. 

Doesn’t mean he can’t fantasize about a world where he begs for forgiveness and you grant it. 

Would you want him in that world? All of him, not just moments in secret when one of you craved the other. He wants mornings, noons, and nights. Would you give them to him? 

He could take you away from here if you did. 

It wouldn’t be easy but when your job is to find people who don’t want to be found you get pretty good at hiding. You could change your names, go get the kid, he could make his dream real. 

Would you really want that though? 

Of course you wouldn’t. Even if he hadn’t ended things so cruelly, you were a princess and he was just Din. 

You wouldn’t want that cabin in the woods, you were too good for that. You deserved castles and gowns, not living in the woods with a Mandalorian. 

So he won’t talk to you. He will simply resign himself to loving you from afar. (Or more accurately he will love you from a few steps behind you.) And he will leave you alone because he’s caused enough problems. 

Well, if you came out of your room he would. But he can’t properly leave you alone if you won’t let him.

He’s exhausted as he sits against the door, willing himself to stay awake to avoid any more dreams. He turns up his audio for most of the day, listening to you mill about the room. 

He wishes you’d give him a reason to come in, the sound of a scuffle, a yelp, for Makers sake, if you stub your toe he could use that as an excuse just to check in on you. But all he hears are the sounds of your muffled footsteps. 

And he can’t keep his eyes open forever. 

The combination of the flight suit and his armor makes him heat up when he sits still, especially as the sun sets and the light through the windows hits him. He isn’t sure when exactly he falls asleep but he’s back in that big cabin when he does. 

He makes the executive decision this time to stay in bed. 

He doesn’t want to see you, and he doesn’t want to see the kid. Because neither of you are real, and eventually you’ll be ripped away from him when he wakes up. 

Of course his strategy doesn’t work because in this dream you bring Grogu to him. He tries to shield himself from his delusions, even in his dreams he knows it’s pitiful, a trained killer hiding under the blankets from a singular person and a sleeping child. 

You still don’t speak. Gods he wishes you would speak, he wishes you would scream at him, shame him for his cowardice but instead you peel back the sheets just enough to put the kid between the two of you and lay with him, Grogu snoring through that tiny nose of his as you lay down with him, giving him that smile that makes his heart melt and his brain turn to mush. You lean forward and your forehead rests on his. 

He knows he deserves this anguish but still, it’s ruthless. 

Everything he could ever possibly want, under one blanket and it isn’t even fucking real. 

He’s startled awake when the surface he’s laying on moves. 

He doesn’t have a lot of time to come to his senses before he’s looking up and you’re there. The real you. The dream version could never compare to the real thing. That’s how he knows he isn’t sleeping anymore. You're clearer, confusingly you’re wearing simpler clothing. He can’t really think about that right now though because he’s hit with a wave of embarrassment. 

He was the one who had ended things with you yet here he was, sitting outside your door like a dog who got locked out overnight.

You just step over him.

Just like that you’re over him. 

Literally and apparently figuratively.

Huh.

He had assumed you had locked yourself in your room because you were trying to process everything, that you were trying to repair the parts of you that had been broken. 

He had assumed you felt as terrible as he did. 

But you seem fine, like nothing even happened. 

He should be elated. That you’re not only fine but seem to be completely over it.

Instead he feels sick. He’s worried he’s going to vomit in his helmet because he can’t stop wondering if maybe you never even cared about him in the first place. It’s wrong, it’s a terrible thing to wonder and he can’t help but think of what an awful person he must be to have such a thought.

He follows behind you, as is his natural instinct but he feels like he needs to sit down again. 

Did you ever care about him? He had only ended things with you because he couldn’t handle the idea of you loving him. If you loved him and he still couldn’t be with you he wouldn’t survive it.

Yet you seem perfectly fine. 

And he can’t help but think that he ruined everything on a bad judgment call. He hasn’t felt this stupid since he almost got himself stuck in carbonite when he first bought the Crest. 

He can’t focus on a thing you’re doing, yet he stays with you the entire time, he knows you grab books and he knows you return to your chambers and he knows that at some point he ended up back on the floor, leaning against your bedroom door again. 

Maybe you had never even liked him as a friend.

He had never considered that you might have been exactly what he had claimed to be. Bored and in need of entertainment. 

That isn’t possible, you had been so upset when he had ended things.

Of course you could have just been upset because he had been unnecessarily cruel.

He has no right to be bothered by this. This was his choice. His decision. 

Maybe he chose wrong. 

It’s a little late for thoughts like that.

He can’t just change his mind.

And he’s left to think about everything he possibly could have done differently as he fights sleep. 

He doesn’t even know how he’s still standing when the sun rises and he groans as he gets to his feet. 

Your ladies in waiting go in, and this time they actually stay in and he’s more awake then he’s been in days because he knows that you’re actually going to come out today. He braces himself to see that fire in you, tells himself that last night was a fluke, that you hadn’t been prepared to see him and now that you are you’ll want to argue and berate him and he can finally sort things out in his head.

But you don’t.

You barely even look at him and you’re already walking to the library like nothing happened. 

Like it’s any other day. 

He can’t think, he can’t form a coherent thought because you seem perfectly fine. He really hadn’t meant anything to you. 

He had hoped that this confirmation would free him. That if it was true he wouldn’t feel an attraction to you anymore and he could finally get off this kriffing planet. But his adoration doesn’t waver for a second. He still feels exactly the same way except now he feels smaller. There is nothing worse than a problem that can’t be solved with a blaster. 

He’s got big plans to spend his day trying not to give in to his mental and physical exhaustion while he does everything in his power to not think about how unbothered you look. But those plans are immediately halted when you freeze up right after you get into the library. He’s puzzled for a few seconds until he sees the nook and your voice echoes inside his helmet.

“Why is your favorite color green?”

The kid, the cabin, and you. 

He wants to fall apart. He wants to collapse right there on the floor and he’s so tired he briefly considers it until he realizes you’re still not moving. He gives you a second, he knows better than to try and talk to you right now, his helmet has been silenced since the last time he had spoken to you. 

He can’t be trusted to not beg for absolution. 

Your eyes are glued on the nook and he swears you tremble slightly.

So you did care. 

He can’t even take pleasure in that fact because his heart drops when he sees your expression. It’s like looking in a mirror.  

What the hell is he supposed to do in this situation? 

He’s faced enough deadly challenges throughout his bounty hunting career to know when to just go with your gut, so that’s what he does. He gently guides you away from the nook and sits you somewhere where you won’t have to look at it. 

You look as small as he feels, there’s something so intimate about your misery that he can’t look any longer, if he does he’ll give in and all of this will have been for nothing. You’re strong, even though he wasn’t sure for a moment there he knows that you still have your fire so of course you pull yourself together. And when you speak, you address him as you task him with finding Leo and he’s so happy to not only hear your voice but to hear you sound okay that he does it without a second thought. 

He desperately waits to hear you say more but you never do. He should have seen that coming. But he’s so weary at this point, he lets himself lean against the shelves and close his eyes, just for a second, the last thing he sees is you sketching something out on the papers Leo brought you. 

Of course you’re there when he closes his eyes as well. 

There’s no cabin, no kitchen, no bedroom, no kid. It’s just you this time. And he is trapped in a never ending loop of you. Every few minutes he’ll wake up, turning to make sure you’re still there, before drifting back into unconsciousness. You’re there too, waiting for him. It’s a funny sort of hell. To wake up and see you there, to fall asleep and see you there. He can’t escape for a single second.

What else is new?

The dream you isn’t real. He can’t bring himself to interact with her, because even the fantasy of you that he has conjured up doesn’t live up to the real thing. The real you is right there, everytime he slips back into consciousness he turns to see you. He’s never been a devout man but looking at you now he gets it. How people can be religious. The idea that you can adore something so much that you commit your life to it. He shouldn’t be thinking about you like that, at this point it’s unhealthy, but he’s just so tired, and you’re everywhere, and it’s hard to focus on anything but the look of pride on your face as you stare at your drawing. 

The dream you is too polished and shiny, she always seems so quiet. This is the real you, pleased with yourself, fighting back a smile because you’ve accomplished something. 

The sound of your chair pushing backwards wakes him from his strange middle ground of awake and asleep as he straightens up. He shouldn’t have let that happen, he doesn’t sleep in front of people, there’s too much risk involved but as much as your presence torments him it also soothes him. 

You seem like you’re in a rush to get back to your room and curiosity gets the best of him, so he allows himself a glance at your work as you scramble to get your things together. 

The table is covered in sketches of weapons and ships, a lot of which he recognizes from his book.

That’s what you had been drawing. 

He sees an ink depiction of the Crest and he can’t stop himself as he shoves it into his pocket, careful not to crinkle it. 

Why did he do that? 

He shouldn’t have done that.

But it’s too late because you’re out the door already which means he needs to be out the door. He trails behind you like always and there is the faintest hesitation from you where he thinks you might just invite him in, he’s imagining things, he has to be. He doesn’t think further on it as you close the door. He can barely stay upright and when he’s sure you’re out of earshot he lets himself slump back down onto the floor. 

He reaches into his pocket and holds the drawing out in front of him. 

He hadn’t told you about the Crest. This was just a freak coincidence. It’s a nice drawing though, you did it justice. 

He puts it into his bag, careful not to fold or crease it. 

He stops fighting sleep, he can’t keep this up forever so he lets his eyes close with a sigh. 

His vision fading to black as he feels a tap on his shoulder, opening his eyes he’s expecting to see you and the kid but instead of the house he’s still in the hall and instead of you it’s a rather displeased looking Togruta girl. 

He recognizes her as one of your ladies in waiting, he’s never learned her name. When she speaks she doesn’t sound even the slightest bit frightened of him like any of the other servants in the castle, she sounds furious.

“What did you do to her?”

I am no longer doing taglists so follow @lincolndjarinnotifs and turn on notifications to be notified when new chapters are posted !!

[bluemoondust]

There was a request you did with a famous darling and the pokevillains.

Could you write the famous darling scenario with maybe Brassius, Grusha, Piers, and Petrel?

✧Famous!Darling✧

Referring to this post!

Characters: Brassius, Grusha, Piers, Petrel

Warning(s): Hints of Possessive Behavior, Hints of Violence, Stalking

✧Gym Leader Brassius✧

Oh, you bet he's one of your biggest supporters. Despite his yandere tendencies, he isn't one to restrict his darling from expressing themselves creatively. However, one thing he worries deeply about is the impact that comes with fame. He's concerned that you won't be doing this for yourself anymore; that you'll be bending over backwards to please the masses. It depresses him to think how you'll be once you come to see your passion as nothing more than a chore. He doesn't want that for you, so he makes sure it doesn't happen. Some of your fans, who don't treat or see you as a real person, make him sick to his stomach, honestly. He'll gladly ensure they won't bother you anymore and learn how to be respectful. He will gladly weed out the bad seeds from the garden. Harshly, if he has to since some weeds can be stubborn.

✧Gym Leader Grusha✧

Annoyed. That's all he feels. Grusha knows the deal when it comes to being well-known and famous. He was just like that before the accident. However, seeing your fans swarm around you while the two of you are out makes him remember that oh, yeah, that was certainly a thing. Don't people have some amount of decency? Can't they leave someone alone for a few minutes? He hates how it looks like they're treating you like some...object. He doesn't know how much he can take it. There are some genuine fans out there, but oh, he's not annoyed by them. It's the weirdos his concern and bitterness is centered towards. They make him absolutely sick. He doesn't voice any of this out, but you can sure feel his irritation at a certain distance. Just, you know...make sure he's okay since we wouldn't want an accident on the news, don't we?

✧Gym Leader Piers✧

Just like Grusha, he's also annoyed by these fans. Like yeah, there's Team Yell with Marnie but that's her hype team more than anything. These people, though, are so bothersome and he can't help but bring that up sometimes in conversation. If you're actually bothered by them, then great! He'll gladly tell them to bug off when necessary. Hell, you can even come to Spikemuth to hide for a while. Not many people come around anyways, so it's a good place for some alone time. Besides that, Piers is supportive of your career if it's something you're passionate about. Especially if you're a singer/songwriter. As someone who is one himself, he's alright with giving advice and offering a hand. Team Yell can act as bodyguards if you want. Their demeanor would drive excessive fans away and that's something he wants. A benefit to handing advice to you is that he had the opportunity to give small bouts of misinformation to scare you a little. It just helps to keep you leaning onto him for support. I mean, who else could relate? I know what you're thinking: this sounds rather okay. Because it's the way Piers wants it to be. Even as a yandere, he doesn't want unnecessary conflict or trouble. It's rather annoying. Oh, but make no mistake; he's willing to drag any creep into a dark alley to ensure they are never able to hold a paper and pen ever again.

✧Team Rocket Executive Petrel✧

Petrel is rather chill about this. Hell, he even disguises as various people who are 'fans' of yours. Example: you're at a convention with fans and it's going well. Everyone is so sweet and endearing. What you don't notice is that Petrel had approached you multiple times as different people just to see how you react with various individuals. He can never get tired of this. It's entertaining to see that adorable face of yours greet him as if you're meeting for the first time over and over. Little did you know... This man does buy some of your merch, he does but...he wants something personal. These items are more centered around your career, and that's fine and all, but he wants stuff that are closer to you as a person. Rummaging through your stuff was easy. You really need more competent bodyguards, darling. That's fine, he'll just play the part as one of them for you. He wants to chuckle at the way you don't notice anything off with him. An expert in his craft after all. Plus, why would you question anyone who's your bodyguard?

[anonymouscheeses]

so…

about this human verse you got…

how does Al fit into all of this? Is that where Vaggie got the spell or is the gang she’s a part of also a monster hunter org?

This is Alastor's human design! I wanted him to give off a old money rich vibe. I didn't look up a reference for old money attire 😭 i jjst looked at some randim char from a show i watched that kinda gave off Alastor vibes. This may change but tbh I kinda like it the way it is. Altho one day I may change my mind <3 lore drops under cut!!

(Sorry if he doesn't look like Alastor, these human designs are mostly based on my redesigns so they look even MORE different than usual ill get better hopefulllyyyy)

Husk(left) is Vaggie/Valerie's dad in this au cuz I said so unfortunately. Sorry i dont make the rules! Husk is Salvadoran like Valerie cuz ofc, like he's 100% black but I wanted him to be Valerie's dad soo I was like.... yeah win sum lose sum. But dw I have SO much black characters on the way. It's kind of terrifying!!

Alastor tries to be like a dad to Valerie but she resents him. Her mom died to a sickness, and Valerie has no room in her for another parent figure in her life except Husk.

Also, Al is gay aroace, so when he fell in love with Husk he was SO surprised likeee how??? He was his first love ever and Al just loves him dearly despite never loving anyone ever before. He's still a girls girl ofc but brutha is gay u can't tell me otherwise 😍

Charlie gave him the headband with the antlers that she cheaply made herself. Alastor loves them genuinely. (If Alastor cares abt Valerie or Charlie is purely up to viewer, but if you want to see him care for orr like be toxic to them send a request fr fr imma draw that shi 😍🙏). Alastor is the only one who knows that Charlie is a demon because he's the one that taught Valerie how to summon a demon(YOU'RE SPOT ON. HOW??).

(Also I forgor the stripes. Sorry I was so sleepy drawing this you can probably telll.😭)

Alastor is still a cannibal, his husband and step daughter just doesn't know it yet, and NO he will probably never tell them unless forced to or he feels like he can. This man is the friend the smiley bro 😭

I'll maybe soon draw what happened between Valerie, Lute, and Adam during the fight, since ALOT happened. But it may be a bit before I get to that

Alastor taught the kids young how to summon demons the WRONG way. Because obviously he didn't want literal immature kids to end the world completely. The trio spent years finding ways to summon just one demon. Adam did it to create chaos, Lute just followed, and Valerie just loved having fun with her friends.

Now that they aren't childhood best friends. And that whole fight happened. Valerie doesn't know what to do. Alastor suggests she gets a bodyguard from hell, any demon at all(Demons are devoted to you as long as you keep a part of your deal with them or you break the contract of summoning one). Aaaaand that's how Charlie came to be summoned! Valerie got her eye stabbed out, Alastor was being silly and taught his kid how to summon a demon, Valerie was like "aight ig", then summoned her future wife.

(WILL ALSO ONE DAY DRAW THE FIRST TIME CHARLIE AND VALERIE MET.... ONE DAY....)

Fun fact: Alastor has a radio station of his own that he plays 1920's music in. Although most people would rather NOT listen to old times music, somehow he makes it work that people always listen to his radio. Maybe a deal with a demon of some sorts...? Perhaps... :>

[muzansfangs]

Guilty pleasure.

Starring: Muzan Kibutsuji xf!reader; Mitsuri Kanroji, Obanai Iguro, Yoriichi Tsugikuni, Sanemi Shinazugawa (mention to past relationship between Sanemi and Kanae and Sanemi and the f!reader), Shinobu Kocho, Tomioka Giyuu (mention to sexual intercourse between Tomioka and Shinobu); Daki, Enmu (mention to sexual intercourse between Douma and Enmu), Kokushibo.

Warnings: implied and explicit reference to sexual contents, language, angst, threats, mourning, unhealthy habits, murderous intents, possible reference to social anxiety and difficulties in coping with fame, jealousy, violent arguments, wax play;

Plot: your face is on the magazines, on the social media and everyone is wondering who is the mysterious girl Muzan has helped after the embarrassing incovience at the park. The Slayers, under the command of Yoriichi, gather in their headquarters and Sanemi deals with ghosts from the past and the present. Trying to cope with your new life as the future President’s love interest, you meet two new bodyguards, Enmu and Daki. Jealousy and wrath ignite a spark between you and the Sixth in command and insults are thrown in the kitchen. In the meanwhile, Muzan lets you know that he cannot attend a dinner he had planned with you.

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER.

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THE SLAYERS.

"Oh, look at this!" a pink-haired girl chimed, her big doe green eyes twinkling, as she settled a newspaper on the coffee table in front of her. The action caused her colleagues to switch their attention on her, subtle eyes scrutinizing the first page of the morning paper.

They were surprised to see you, their main target, bending down in the middle of the park as you puked on Muzan Kibutsuji's shoes. Was it intentional? Judging by your expression, it did not look like you had planned that. You were clearly embarrassed and Muzan seemed to be slightly perplexed, as he helped you up.

Apparently, he had made his first move. He had made the world see him as a caring man and he had just set up a basis for your relationship to develop under the sunlight.

"Did he poison her on purpose to make her barf?" Basilisk flatly asked, furrowing his brows as he poured himself a glass of cognac.

"He doesn't need to poison her to make her do it..." Whirlwind bitterly retorted, averting his eyes from the newspaper in irritation. You were still beautiful, too kind and loving to be stained by Muzan, or someone like him anyway. Maybe, you had saved your soul when two broke up, but you were ending up selling it to the devil himself now.

Unacceptable. It was sick. He was sick of it.

"Ah, come on, he is hot! There's no need to lie about it" Desire replied, cocking her head to the side as she blushed a little at the sight of the Politician and his charming smile. It was just in her nature. There was a reason why she was always sent to seduce men, after all. She knew how to play her cards right and she was a siren herself.

Basilisk's upper lip twitched and he turned around not to face them, his feet feathing against the polished marble floor of the majestic Ubuyashiki's basement. It irked him how deeply she could upset him with her frivolous comments. She made him lose his composure easily and that was illogical.

In the corner of the room, Belladonna brushed her lips against Wave's jaw. Her purple eyes half-lidded as she sighed at his lack of reaction. No matter how hard she tried to pull the strings of his heart, he never let her in, he never gave her more than a night together. Even among the bedsheets, though, he always seemed cold, distant, as if he was just fulfilling a duty.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked him, shifting her position to straddle his lap.

The dark-haired man rested his hands on her hips, his grip tightening a little to keep her in place. His body was there, sitting on the leather sofa, letting Shinobu distract him a bit, but his mind was far away. His mind was pestered with imagines of the time you two spent together during the past years.

"Nothing. — he shortly replied, his ocean blue eyes flicking up to meet her sharp gaze — I should be the one to ask you that. Get off. Are you a nymphomaniac?" he said, causing her to scoff and jump back on her feet.

She knew he thought about someone else. She knew he was thinking about another girl, even when he reached his climax into her. Who was she? Who was that girl and how could she be better than her? She did not deserve his attention. Why could he not love her? If that girl was a problem, she was going to get rid of her.

You, the girl who bewitched him, was destined to fall by her hand. Or so she thought.

"Funny how your head was buried between my legs last night and now you accuse me of being a pervert" she fired back, whipping her head to the side and hastily leaving the living room. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor echoed through the room and caught the eyes of the other Slayers. There was tension in the air, the typical atsmosphere of anticipation that took breaths away during an incoming meeting.

Shinobu ignored them, her tiny hand resting on the hilt of her katana hanging on her left hip. She was too agitated to take part to the reunion. Their Master had not arrived yet and the Head of their organization was not around either. She would have called sick, making sure to send the comunication before the meeting started.

As she crossed the room, a gust of wind on her left whipped her face, causing her purple bangs to sway around her visage. She froze solid, her eyes widening even so slightly as his intense cologne pierced her nostrils. No one wore that essence, no one was that fast and capable of masterly covering up his presence. The sharpe edge of the sword punctured the tender flesh of her throat and she swallowed forcefully, not daring to move a single muscle.

"Are you already leaving, Kocho Shinobu?" he asked softly, calling her by her full name despite their strict rule to communicate by using their code names.

Silence took ever the entire room. No one spoke and she could swear the only audible sound was her heavy breath.

"No" she merely replied, closing her eyes as she awaited for him to remove the blade from her neck and he did, glancing down at her with a friendly smile. It was genuine, nevertheless. Everybody feared him for his lethality, but Sun was not a bad person. He could easily switch from his cold, apparently stern attitude at work, to the caring and lively one of his true nature in a nick of time.

As Shinobu turned back around and bowed her head as a sign of respect, he gestured for her to join her comrades again and strode towards the coffee table to grasp the newspaper and showing it to his subordinates.

"The photos are authentic. I was there. He had probably made up a plan to make their encounter seem a coincidence but he did not harm her in any way" the man said, inspecting the photo for a several seconds, before folding the paper and handing it back to a blushing Desire.

"How do you know that?" the pink-haired girl asked, leaning forwards and biting her lower lip in curiosity. Her shirt was barely containing her prosperous breasts and her actions made everyone fear the button was going to pop open and hit someone's eye.

"What a cat in heat..." Shinobu commented under her breath, shooting a scornful glance at her colleague.

Luckily, no one had heard her and Yoriichi smiled at the boisterous female slayer "She got a panic attack. Now, I need to have a word with Whirlwind. You are all dismissed. I will make sure to contact you later for more details about our next moves" he instructed them, darting his eyes on Sanemi as he grimaced at the tall man's request.

Murmurs spread around, as everybody left the room without objection and the two men stared intensely into each others eyes. The white-haired slayer knew exactly what his Captain wanted to talk about. The matter had left him wide-awake all night long. He was not in the mood to talk about it, but he did not have much of a choice in the matter.

"He told you about yesterday, didn't he?" Yoriichi started, his hands tucked into the pockets of his black trousers as he watched Sanemi loll his head back against the backrest in distress.

"Yeah, he did" he tiredly replied, his violet irises clouding over as he darted his eyes on the white ceiling.

"If you want to take some days off, it's fine".

"No. I wouldn't rest anyway. I better focus on this shit and on killing people. It's the only thing I am good at" Sanemi stated, his raspy voice holding a bitter undertone that left no room for doubts. He was on the verge of going on a killing spree. A failure, he felt like a failure. Every single time someone needed him, he was not there, he never made it in time.

"Don't say that and I am hereby forced to order you to desist from whatever you are thinking of doing now" Yoriichi calmly said, his deep maroon eyes almost boring holes into Sanemi's ones. He could see the scenery playing on the other slayer's mind. Blood, blood staining his clothes as he tried to avenge the poeple he lost, the people he could not protect in the past.

But they both knew that the hand holding a blade on Muzan's neck was always going to be Yoriichi's one.

No one else could do it.

"Fuck off" Sanemi retorted, trying to stand up from the couch but Yoriichi pushed him back with a simple shove of his hand.

"It's a suicidal mission and I won't let you do that out of rage" the Head of the Slayer firmly asserted, the volume of his voice high now as it boomed through the silent living room.

"Why? Why do you care about me? I am a shitty brother and I have been an even worse lover! I never do anything right! Let me do something good for once, let me do it! Let me kill each every fucking Moon, until I can die by his hand. I promise I will do it. Just... Just let me try!" Sanemi Shinazugawa snapped in the end, tears burning in his eyes as he let his emotions out for ones.

His eyes were bloodshot and Yoriichi could smell the dispair and sorrow in his words. Out of everyone, Whirlwind was the only Slayer who had never cried or showed a shred of empathy in front of the dead bodies of an enemy or a colleague. He had not said a single word, when he broke into the headquarters in the dead of the night, holding Kanae's body in his arms.

His tears were not there. His heart too. Long forgotten under a sheet of ice, forgotten because crying only meant being weak and let the enemy win.

"Since Peony is gone, you haven't been the same. Her death has damaged you" Yoriichi observed, sitting next to him and propping his forearms on his knees as he stared at an indefinite point ahead of him.

He could not stop blaming himself for all of this. If that night he had not failed, Muzan would have been dead and no tears were going to be spilled anymore. Regrets and remorses devoured him from the inside both day and night.

"Not as much as her absence did" Sanemi uttered then, running his calloused fingers through his spiky, white hair as he tried to take back some control.

And, although none of them dared to say that name, they both knew Sanemi Shinazugawa was talking about you. The silence that follower spoke volumes.

♚

You were laying face down on the pillow, secured between the luxurious walls of your bedroom. You did not have the guts to face Muzan and the others after your small performance yesterday. Your phone was blowing up with notifications from people you knew, asking questions and trying to understand what exactly had happened between you and the high-flying politician.

You had opted from turning them off, eventually. You could not answer anyway and seeing those pictures was truly embarrassing. You were supposed to have dinner with him that night, but you were not really in the mood for it and you almost felt guilty about your behavior. Muzan had not acted hostile towards you, not even when he was forced to throw his shoes in the trash can and send Kokushibo to buy him a new pair, as you two waited in the car.

You had pretended to be asleep then, barely answering his questions about how you were feeling and if you needed something.

"I am forever going to be remembered as the vomiting First Lady" you breathed out, rolling over the bed as you realized that hiding away forever was not going to erase the folk memory.

Therefore, you jumped on your feet and got ready to go out. After you were done wearing your shoes, you hesitantly opened the door of your room and walked down the corridor. You were supposed to buy yourself something for the night. Muzan had told you there was not a budget for your shopping sprees and that you could pick anything you liked. You felt like a spoiled brat and it pained you a little bit, but a simple expensive dress would have not made him cry for days on his bank account.

As you walked into the living room, you spotted Kokushibo and two people you had never seen before. One of them was a beautiful girl around your age, her long, dark eyelashes jarred against her straight, long white hair tied up in a high ponytail. Her irises were green, matching with the tips of her hair.

Could she possibly be Daki? Was it her the girl your soon to be husband favored before you?

Next to her, there was a man with a dark brown bob and some fuchsia strands decorating the back of his head. His eyes were almost enchanting, a bright turquoise shade that captivated your gaze. A bizarre couple, indeed and you cleared your throat to catch their attention.

"Hi..." you greeted them, folding your arms against your chest as you felt their gazes trailing on you immediately.

Kokushibo, who was polishing his katana, straightened his back and sheathed the shiny blade back into its scabber as soon as you opened your mouth. He was impeccable as per usual.

"Daki, Enmu, she's—" he said, but he was cut off by the resentful sigh of the sixth in command.

You did not fail to notice how she narrowed her green eyes at you and scowled, eyeing you up and down as if you were the cause of the climate change. There was no doubt about it. She hated you. It was hate at first sight!

"Muzan's new branded toy. I suppose he needs to check his sight... It's clearly deteriorated" Daki snippily said, pursuing her lips in contempt.

If she had chose violence, then you were not going to disappoint her. You were not offended. How could you be, when all she was good at was probably just pleasuring men? Therefore, you smiled faintly and let her words sink in.

"If am correct, you must be his hole. Sorry, I meant to say that you were his hole. Nice to meet you" you blurted out, not even considering your choice of words as you stared daggers at her.

Enmu giggled and clasped his hand over his mouth as the girl stiffened and walked up towards you. She did not seem much of a threat and you felt confident enough to stand tall in front of her. What could she even do? You would have loved to see her try to lay a finger on you. Kokushibo would have probably chopped her manicured hand off, before she even had time to raise her fist.

You two did not share another word. Actually, you had silently agreed to throw hands. She tried to reach for the the whip on her belt, but Kokushibo stepped in between you two and shielded you from the raging, self-proclaimed prom queen about to hit you.

"Apologize" the first in command lowly said, not even glancing at Daki, as he rested his hand on the hilt of his katana.

The girl scoffed and took a step back, before turning around and leaving the room without a word. You did not expect much from her and, honestly, it was about time that you two met and tried to get at each others throats. Nakime had truly made you hate her even before you had the chance to cross paths.

Yet, why did you hate her so much? She had all the reasons to loath you. But what about you? Muzan had agreed to court you, but he was not in love with you yet and, although you were slowly and inevitably falling into the web he was weaving around you, could you honestly tell you loved him? Things were changing. Your feelings were changing, nurtured among strawberries, kisses and glances that lingered into your eyes for longer than you expected.

"My, my... I think I haven't seen her that upset since Douma accidentally set fire to her Gucci bag" Enmu chimed in, propping his chin on the palm of his hand as he eyed you in sympathy.

You glanced at him, a small smile curling your lips as you relaxed a bit and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear "How did it even happen?" you curiously asked, only to be left speechless by his answer.

"Oh, the thing was that Douma and I had chosen her bedroom for experimenting wax playing! A thing lead to another and the flame of the candle—..." he never got to finish his story, because Kokushibo grasped your wrist and interjected.

"Enough. You need to buy a dress" he punctuated, causing a yelp to leave your lips as you started to laugh for the first time after the messy scene at the park. Enmu. You liked Enmu.

As you stumbled out of the living room, a blushing Kokushibo dragging you down the corridor, you did not lose your chance to shout a reply at the Seventh in command "Enmu, let's go out for lunch tomorrow! I need details!".

Kokushibo sighed, pushing the metallic button of the elevator as he pinched the bridge of his nose in distress "God, have mercy..." he uttered, realizing that, out of all the things he had done for Muzan, dealing with you was probably the hardest task ever.

Maybe, as you strolled by his side at the mall, trying on various dresses, asking for advices, he could think of a good way to cheer you up at the restaurant too. Why? Because you would have been forced to attend the dinner with Kokushibo.

You had not heard your phone buzz in your purse, you were too busy struggling to unzip a dress, but your fiancé had just sent you a message.

MUZAN: I can't attend our dinner. I promise I'll make it up to you this weekend. The reservation is still valid, have fun with Kokushibo.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hi there! A promise is a promise and here I am with another chapter of my main work. I am sorry for having kind of neglected my updates for “Guilty pleasure” here on Tumblr, but it gets hard keeping up with everything at times❤️

Likes, comments and re-posts are appreciated!

Until next,

x o x o

Tag list: @tired-writer04 @hjjks @kakuchosbff @yazzzmints @bookandstar @z3rOart @cherrymanhuas @kazuhaslvt @selenenyx0124 @infinitedilf @yunixkill @shigarakithings @i-loveyou013 @yoriichi-second-wife @sunaswife @lucikittyxoxo @heartsforjeongin @ishmealmendes @wondermilka @dangerousdreamkitty @crazycatlddy

[aritsukemo]

Our Home | Prologue - The New Assignment! | AssClass

Summary: After another dead end in their current assignment, three assassin siblings are given a new assignment. One more deadly and much more interesting than any mission they've experienced!

Warnings: Reader is referred to with genderfluid pronouns throughout this story, but for this chapter, they're mainly referenced/called using he/him pronouns. That said, any references towards their gender is left purposefully vague as for all to enjoy! Torture scene ahead so possible gore ahead! ( Reader uses their gun as a torture weapon and their captive is shot numerous times ). Codenames are thrown around a lot in this. ( None of the main characters shown this chapter go by their actual names ).

A/N: Hey ya'll! Sorry I went off the radar for a bit..I got sick, heh- 😅 I'm still recovering plus my Thanksgiving break is filled to the brim with me working so anything new after this probably won't come til closer to Thanksgiving Day ( if at all ). On a more positive note, me transferring this old, mainly abandoned fanfic has got me wanting to rewatch Assassination Classroom. Maybe if I get the motivation, I'll actually continue this, who knows..

Tagging: @nursedflowers ( Because I love their commentary ) + Anyone who wants to be tagged! <3

Next Chapter

Third Person Pov, on the 57th floor of Mirai Hotel

 "Oh you're so funny, Mr. Kobayashi! Who knew you could be such a charmer?" A small giggle slips past the woman's cherry red lips as they gently curve upwards. The businessman who's arm she hangs on seemed completely enthralled as his eyes darted from her glossed lips to her chocolate brown hair that was pinned up by a jeweled hairpin.

  "Please, call me Takashi." He says as he brings one of his hands to his hair. The callous skin of his fingers sliding through his sliver locks with ease. The woman nods her head, her smile widening only to drop at the sight of the man's sudden frown.

 "What's wrong?" She asks, but he doesn't respond. She stares at him for a moment, waiting for his response but when he continues to remain silent, she follows his gaze and looks behind them to see her bodyguard dressed down in a black suit and matching sunglasses.

 "Does he bother you?" She whispers, her cool voice sliding into his ear which manages to recapture his attention and makes him finally pull his eyes away from the boy to look at her.

 "Huh?" He blurts out rather dumbfoundedly.

 "Does my bodyguard's presence bother you?" She repeats, her eyes narrowing a bit as she keeps steady eye contact with him. Takashi stiffens. The woman notices and moves her hand to touch his tense shoulders where she gives him a gentle squeeze and a golden smile that deserves one hundred awards.

 "Don't be so nervous. I was simply asking a question," She cooed. Her hands begin to trail upwards, her cold fingertips tickling the skin of his neck as they slide up until they reach his face where they cup the plump of his cheeks.

 "How about we go somewhere? Although this hotel is nice, I'd much prefer to go somewhere more..romantic," She leans against him, her breast jiggling a little as they collide with his chest which doesn't go unnoticed by the older male, "Do you know of any place like that?" 

 He gulps, trying his best to smile off the butterflies in his stomach. Alas, all he managed to do was present her an awkward smile, "Oh, uh.. I- I know a few places.."

 With a mental smirk forming in her head, the woman pulls away, her award-winning smile stretching in glee as she claps her hands, "Excellent! Then let's not waste any time," She moves to stand a little behind him, her smooth, soft hand touching his back and giving him a gentle push. He looks back at her, beginning to raise his eyebrow as she gives him another push.

 "Go on ahead without me and I'll join you in a bit. I need to send him off," She gestures towards her bodyguard, "What I plan to do with you..heh, let's just say it's not something a kid like him should see."

At her comment the wealthy man's entire face flushes, his mind creating all types of scenarios as he nods dumbly and turns, walking away without any further compliants.

 "Don't have too much fun without me!" As the man boards the elevator at the end of the hall, one of his last sights is her side profile. Her sparkling eye, a polished, perfectly stretched smile, a cherry blush painting her porcelain skin, and her hand waving goodbye to him. It's a shame the doors closed before he could wave back..

As soon as those steel doors closed and that waste of space was out of her sights, the woman saw no reason in keeping up her act. As quick as a snap of a finger, her apple colored lips twist into a rotten frown and her smooth skin is wrinkled by her eyebrows as they scrunch to form a deep v. It was like watching a beautiful butterfly transform into an ugly slug.

..But in her bodyguard's eyes, she seemed pretty much the same.

 "Alright, listen up brat. You needa' scram," She snapped, her voice once soft and tender now grating like a knife scratching against a chalkboard, "I originally hired ya' ass because I thought you were decent enough to do ya' job and stay in the background but I seemed to be wrong."

 "Now, if I see you hangin' around me anymore, I'll make sure yer never able to find a job in this country again."

And with that final warning leaving her lips, she resets. Her pretty mask returns and she smiles at the boy. Although to him, her smile seemed rather oily, "Now, a very wealthy man..whatever his name was..is waiting for me right now so I musn't waste anymore time on you," And without so much as a goodbye, she turns on her heel and walks off in the direction of the elevator, completely unaware of her now fired bodyguard's earpiece buzzing to life.

 "Shifting to plan b, you must secure the target's location before pursing any further actions. She's is approximately five meters away and is increasing the distance between you two every fifteen hundred milliseconds."

 "I will disable the elevator shortly after she boards it. Based on my calculations, she will end up on the seventeenth floor in roughly five minutes and fifteen seconds and counting. I trust that you'll be able to descend forty floors in that time."

Oh they'll manage. As he was continuously being fed information, the bodyguard decided that the obvious way down was to take the stairs. Running the opposite way the woman went and taking a sharp left, he wasted no time in grabbing the knob, twisting it, and opening the sliver door that led to the winding staircase. And without so much as a second thought, they jump over the railing and begin their freefall down.

..What? Surprised? Running down all those steps would take too much time and energy. Plus, as long as he doesn't die, this way down should be fine.

Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven.. Second by second he passes by floors until he finally catches a glimpse at the steel plating that reads '20'. He waits for another second to pass before he decides to act, reaching his arms out and grabbing onto the railing.

After let himself dangle for a moment, the bodyguard tightens their grip on the railing, they swing forward then back then forward again, steadily building up momentum until his body eventually swings back enough to flip completely and he's able to swing over the railing, landing silently in front of the door that reads the number '17'. Perfect.

 "As expected, you arrived early. The target will be arriving on the floor in another three minutes and thirty-nine seconds and counting. All the necessary cameras have been disabled and I've already gained access to all of the vacant deluxe rooms on this floor. When the target steps on the floor, the closest room will be '128' however, rooms '131', '133', and '134' can also be used if the situation calls for it."

Opening the door and walking down the hall, the bodyguard leans against a dim corner that gives him the perfect view of the elevator. He then leans back, crosses his arms, and waits.

About two minutes pass and the dinging of the elevator signals to the entire floor that a new visitor has arrived. One that seemed rather confused by her destination.

 "What the hell," She mumbles under her breath, her hand coming up to click the floor button that reads '1', mumbling a slew of curses under her breath when nothing happens.

 "Damnit.. Whatever. I'll just take the stairs," Stepping off the elevator, the woman walks right past her now fired bodyguard as if she never noticed him standing in the corner at all. She walks without a care in the world, her hips swishing left then right then left in a rhythm as she passes each room, completely unaware of the eyes that watch her.

When he's gained a comfortable distance away, the bodyguard straightens his posture and follows after her. His steps slow. Left foot then right foot, then left again, making sure to walk just behind her. His hips begin to sway left then right then left in a rhythm and just like that he's made her presence his own, going completely under her radar with ease.

And just as his unsuspecting prey passes the room with the golden plating that read '134', he strikes. Like a hungry viper ready to feast, he quickens his pace in an instant and closes the distance. Arms snake around her neck and right under chest where they latch on with a tight grip. Her eyes widen but that's the only thing she can manage to do before her body gives in and falls limp. She can't panic, move, or speak. It's like some imaginary poison has entered her system and has managed to immobilize her entire being. What's more is that it spreads to her consciousness, wrapping it's toxin around in a suffocating embrace and causing her to finally slip into complete unconsciousness..

Softness floods the senses, wrapping around the body and threathening to swallow it whole in it's comforting embrace. At the same time, discomfort cages the body, suspending it and robbing it of that comfort. As eyelids twitch and flutter open, dark brown eyes are immediately met with a blurred sight due to it's tears acting as a semi-transparent wall that impairs their view. As the senses flood in slowly, there's a quick realization that the softness felt was beneath in the form of silk sheets. Furthermore, as the body stirs, a stinging pain quickly takes over, rooting from the arms and legs.

..Wait, are these..ropes?

 "Are you awake, Ms. Aiko?" A voice calls. One that tingles the senses from the familiarity of it and in a way, helps finally ground the woman. Fluttering her eyelids and blinking away the teary wall that blurs her vision, she cranes her head slowly to the side and the sight she's met with sends a chill down her spine.

Sitting in front of the large windows that align the walls and provide the only source of light through a crack in the black curtains sits a shadowed figure who's eyes gleam in the moonlight and stare down her tied up figure with eyes of a hungry predator that's ready to consume it's meal at any given moment.

 "Wh.. Who are you?" She squeaks out, voice shakier than an unstable bridge ready to give out which she takes note of and in turn, bites her lip in an attempt to calm her nerves.

 "Shouldn't you be worried about other, more important things, miss?" The figure asks cooly as they cross their legs over the other and clasps their hands together, "I have some questions for you. Answer them honestly and—"

 "I don't care—!" With a squeeze of a finger her words die in her throat as a gun briefly shatters the silence of the room. On instinct, the woman's eyes slam shut and her mind shoots to the worst case scenario. However as the silence returns and nothing seems to happen, her eyes crack open and she looks up, her heart skipping a beat when she does. A bullet had slammed into the delicate woodwork of the headboard just inches above her head, cracking it's beautiful form and making her heart drop.

"You shouldn't interrupt others. It's rude," The figure scolds, but their words fall upon deaf ears. The woman seemed more interested in the fact that she was almost shot in the head rather than the person who almost shot her in the head, if her refusing to look away from the hole in the headboard was any indicator of that.

 "As I was saying, I have a few questions for you. Answer them honestly and you won't have much to worry about," The figure holds up two fingers, their other hand continuing to keep their gun pointed at her and their finger on the trigger, ready to shoot at any given moment.

 "I'm only giving you two more chances. Interrupt me again or refuse to answer and..well you understand, right? Nod your head if yes," Finally, the woman forces her eyes away from the bullet-pierced bedpost. She looks over, ignoring the clammy feeling she gets when she locks eyes with the figure, and nods her head.

 "Good.. For the past month, you've been kidnapping children and selling them off to someone. I need you to tell me who that is."

 "Huh?" The noise the woman lets out is rather exasperated but she quickly closes her mouth when the figure's eyes narrow. There's her opportunity, she thinks. Although risky, a small chance to get out of this situation is better than having none.

 "I don't know what you're talking about," She begins, her voice softening as her lips begin to stretch into a sheepish smile in the darkness, "I feel a tad bit insulted that you would assume I would do something so degrading--"

 "I have photo evidence that says otherwise," And just like that, the thread of opportunity snaps, "Embezzlement, first degree murder, aggravated assualt, extortion, the list goes on.." With each crime that leaves their lips, the woman's smile gets smaller and smaller until it was nowhere to be found, "I have enough evidence of your crimes to get you life in prison. However, if you comply and answer my questions honestly, I'll convince the police to reduce your sentence to.." A pause, "..Half that long."

 "Are you..threatening me?" As the words leave her lips, her teeth clench and grind, "Are yer' seriously threatenin' me? Do you have any idea who I am? With one phone call I could ruin yer' entire life! I--!"

 "If you don't have a name, it would help to describe their attributes, mannerisms, and or any ticks they may have. If you can't give me that, describe their voice and dialects--"

 "I'm not givin' you shit!" The woman shouts, "'Little brat thinks they can command me? Do you know what I'm capable of, I can—" With another squeeze of a finger, white hot flashes obscure her vision and a sharp, blood-curlding scream forces it's way out of her throat. Crimson drips from her shattered kneecap, the red liquid pooling out and staining the expensive bedding below.

Good thing these walls are soundproof.

Amidst her shrieks of pain, the figure seems completely unfazed. As if having done this countless times and as if her screams were some sort of familiar tune, they don't jump or tense up. They simply sit there and wait for her screeching to die down, silently hoping that she doesn't pass out like the last one did.

But it's no worry really. Although a bit inconvenient, they'll admit, they have ways of waking her if something like that does occur.

Lucky enough for them, that doesn't seem to be the case. Although big, clumpy tears roll down her cheeks and her body trembles violently, she's remains awake. A little out of it, yes, but conscious nonetheless.

 "That was strike two," The figure's voice rings out, speaking a tad bit louder so that their voice could hopefully be heard over the ringing that's probably going on in the woman's ears from the pain of being shot, but also remaining calm enough not to come off as aggressive, "I'll ask you one more time.."

 "Who is the person you've abducted kids for and what do they plan to do with them? 

 "Oh, you're done?" As the bodyguard enters an alleyway that's a few blocks from Mirai Hotel, a bouncy, almost honeyed voice is what he's greeted with, "You took longer than usual. Did you get anything useful out of her?"  

 "No, I did not," He answers simply only for a groan to be heard immediately after. As the person steps forward into the light, revealing a girl who's hoodie serves to conceal the majority of her appearance aside from her fringed bangs which poke out and covers her forehead.

 "Damn, so another dead end? And here I thought you took so long because you were gathering intel or something.." She grumbles, her lips beginning to form into a pout.

 "Without the necessary distraction from you, it took longer to get her in a secluded area where I could make my move," The bodyguard speaks, crossing his arms.

"Don't blame everything on me. I did my part and distracted that perv' she was with and even managed to get him to leave the hotel. Plus, even if things didn't go exactly as planned, you still managed just fine," Despite her words, the bodyguard didn't seem all that happy with her straying from the plan. Although to others, his face seemed relatively neutral.

 "Stop glaring at me like that," The girl said, waving her hand in a carefree manner, "You're alive aren't you? I don't know why you're getting so worked up."

 "..Moving on from that, why are the higher ups making us of all people play detective and investigate the abductions? Shouldn't the police be doing this?" She asks.

 "I don't know."

 "Would it kill you to be give more than a one-shot answer every once in a while?"

 "( Assassin Codename ), are you there? Did you succeed in gathering intel on the kidnapped children?" A familiar voice rings in the bodyguard's— er, assassin's ear, successfully pulling him away from the conversation at hand.

Bringing a hand up to signal to the girl to be quiet, the assassin brings his other hand up to hold down on the small button on his earpiece, "I couldn't get anything useful out of her."

A sigh is heard, "I thought so.. Someone will be arriving shortly to pick up both you and Inari. They will be escorting you to Rei's office."

 "Does it involve another assignment?" He asks which immediately catches the other assassin's attention and causes her to look at ( Assassin Codename ) with a rather exasperated expression.

 "Another assignment? We literally just finished one! I know we're the higher ups' favorites, but would it hurt them to give us a break before putting us on another exhausting mission?" She asks, waving her hands around in all types of directions to better show her distress.

 "Why are you complaining? You barely did anything," ( Assassin Name ) says flatly.

 "How can you say that? I'll have you know I was working very hard.." As Inari begins her rant of all the things she has done to help out, and occassionally slipping in the times she's helped in past operations, ( Assassin name ) eventually tunes her out. As a black car slowly pulls to a stop in front of the alleyway, the assassin turns on his heel and walks off. Promptly ignoring the curses that are thrown at him as Inari follows after them. 

"This is ridiculous! What kind of scenarios ran through my seniors' minds to make them think that we would be compatible enough to work together?" The male grumbled as he took another once over at the information on the papers he was given.

 "Oh c'mon, don't get so angry, Kazu'," The pink-haired hitman drawled, walking over to his counterpart's desk which had the nameplate that read 'Kazuhiko Rei' standing tall in the center front.

With a lazy smile on his face, he swings his arms around the hazel-eyed male, "You get to work with your best buddy and the world's greatest hitman! You should be jumping with joy!"

With a scoff, the suited agent pushes him off with a forceful roll of his shoulder which causes the younger male to chuckle.

"As always, your arrogance knows no bounds, Ryūji."

As if he had been shot in the heart, Ryūji clutches his chest and staggers back. His expression morphing into one of faux agony as his brows knit together and his hand comes up to fall dramatically over his forehead.

 "I can't believe you can be so cruel to me! Help me out here, Rina!" At the call of her codename, the girl sitting on the lush couch pauses, her hands stilling above the keys of her laptop as she looks over, her lips stretching into a smile.

 "Well logically speaking, I can't provide an accurate estimate since I don't know the details of this assignment yet. However, I can give you my educated guess based on your compatibility in past operations you've had together as well as the statistics of your own individual skill sets," She said, already beginning to type the numbers into her computer when Rei signals to her to stop.

 "That won't be needed, Rina. Please, do not insult your own intelligence by humoring this fool any longer," He says.

Retracting her hands from the keyboard, Rina eyes fall closed as she nods her head, "Very well then."

 "Huh.. Why do I feel betrayed all of a sudden?" Ryūji asks no one in particular.

With a sudden burst pulling everyone in the room away from the conversation, the doors to Rei's office swing open and Inari comes running in, her straight-faced colleague walking in shortly after her.

 "We're here!" Inari says in a sort of sing-songy voice, getting a mixture of different greetings as a response. Initially her smile widens, but as her eyes fall on Ryūji, who was now splayed out on the couch parallel to the one Rina sat on, her mouth falls open slightly and her eyes widen as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

 "Ryūji?" As she nears him, the hitman stretches his arm out, his hand balled into a fist as he waits for her to reciprocate the action.

 "Long time no see, kid," He says and her smile quickly returns. Balling up her hand, Inari eagerly fists bumps with the pink-haired hitman and in response to that, he laughs and throws his arm around her shoulders, pulling her down so that he could ruffle her hair.

 "Why are you here?" ( Assassin Codename ) questions.

 "First time seeing me in three years and that's what you ask me? And here I thought you'd be running into my arms," He jokes, but the assassin doesn't laugh nor roll his eyes. He doesn't react much at all really. 

 "The government has, for some odd reason, hired Ryūji to work alongside us on this operation," Rei says, his deep, mellow voice capturing everyone's attention.

 "Us?" Inari repeats, "You're going to be involved too? What, are aliens taking over the world or something?" She jokes. Her brow raising when she spots Ryūji making a face at her comment.

 "I'll explain the details in a moment. Firstly, would either of you like some tea? I've just restocked yesterday," Rei asks, sliding his chair back so that he can stand up and walk out from behind his desk.

( Assassin Codename ) walks over to the couch where Rina types who knows what into her laptop and sits down, "I'll have ( Tea of Choice )," He says, as the long haired girl beside her halts and glances up at Rei.

 "May I have a refill?" She asks, having long finished her chamomile tea before the other two arrived. Rei nods his head, "Of course."

 "Peppermint for me!" Inari exclaims which gains a few sideways looks from her two partners in crime.

"What?" She inquires as Rei walks out of the room to fetch the tea.

"It's nothing really," Rina says, "..but I thought you would've grown out of this phase by now.."

Inari brow quirks up, a vein flexing on the corner of her face, "Like that flowery bullshit taste any better."

"It does taste better. Research shows that—"

 "—My research shows that it tastes like watered-down grass," Inari interrupts.

As the two began bickering, Ryūji pouts. Not due to their pointless argument, but because of the blonde-headed agent who walked out a few moments ago.

 "How come he didn't ask me if I wanted anything?" He asks which only catches ( Assassin Codenames )'s attention, the other two being too indulged in their dispute to hear him.

 "You don't like tea," They answer simply and like some moody teenager, Ryūji's pout deepens, a small 'hmph' slipping from his lips as he crosses his arms.

 "Yeah but he could've still offered me some."

 "Hey, ( Assassin Codename )!" Inari calls, "You have taste. Set Rina straight already so that we can move on from this."

 "Both teas possess a distasteful flavor. I'm not partial to either."

 "Ugh! You're hopeless!" Inari shouts. Rina looks at her with an almost disappointed look.

 "It was immature of you to try and drag a third party into our conversation in order to win an argument," She scolds, using an almost motherly tone. Inari rolls her eyes.

 "Yeah, yeah whatever.." As that grumbled comment leaves her lips, Inari chooses to plop down on the small space left on the couch that Ryūji was laying on. Shortly after doing so, the doors to the office open and Rei comes rolling in with a small cart.

As the light smell of different teas fill the air, Rei hands ( Assassin Codename ) and Inari their cups of tea before grabbing the gaudy-looking teapot and pouring Rina some chamomile tea in her matching teacup. He then wheels the cart over to a corner before walking back over to his desk and sitting down.

 "So.. Don't keep us in suspense, what's this new assignment about?" Inari says after a while.

 "Yes," Rei clasps his hands together, his eyes narrowing, "We're all aware about the incident that happened two months ago? The one involving our moon being turned into a permanent crescent seemingly in an instant?"

 "How could we forget?" Inari said, leaning back against the couch, "Those stick in the mud higher ups of ours have been losing their shit over it ever since."

 "Well a week or so after that happened, we captured an alien-like being who we have reason to believe is responsible for that incident. Unfortunately, we're having trouble with destroying it."

 "Are these details relevant to the assignment?" ( Assassin Codename ) cuts in. Rei nods his head.

 "Yes, you see, about a month ago the creature made the odd request to teach a class of poor-preforming students at Kunugigaoka Junior High."

 "And our superiors agreed to this arrangement?" Rina asks, her brows beginning to knit together, "Having civilians come in such close contact with this creature will increase the difficulty of killing the creature and tremendously decrease our success rate. And, that's not counting the possible causalities that could happen."

  "I understand your concerns. I myself was skeptical of the idea of allowing the fiend around defenseless children, however the creature has sworn not to bring any harm to the students and is completely fine with them attacking as they see fit. Plus, government officials will be there to oversee everything so in that aspect, we have nothing to worry about."

 "But what's stopping it from attacking them? You said it yourself that even with the government's advanced technology and resources they were unable to defeat it so what's preventing it from doing whatever it wishes to?" She retorts.

 "We don't understand it's reasoning behind this nor can we one hundred percent guarantee the kids' safety but regardless, we don't have much of a choice. You see, when the creature proposed this idea it also made the proclamation that it will blow up the earth within a year's time."

 "So they're panicking.." Inari mumbles, referring to her superiors, "Heh.. How pathetic," She sneers, "..But I guess it's not all bad. Think if we take it's head they'll actually pay us for our efforts?"

 "Actually, they will. If we manage to succeed, they're agreeing to pay us a rather hefty sum of money—ten billion yen, to be precise," Rei explains causing everyone, aside from a certain monotonous someone, to gape in shock.

 "You serious?" Inari is the one to break the silence, her gaze seeming almost skeptical as she awaits for him to answer.

 "Am I one to joke about something like this?" Rei asks only for Ryūji to follow up with, "Yeah, is he one to joke at all?"

Rei continues, "We would, of course, split the ten billion among ourselves, but I'm sure none of you mind having two billion yen to keep for yourself. If you do, I can divide Ryūji's share among you three."

 "Hey, how come I'm gettin' a pay cut and we haven't even got the ten billion yet?"

Ignoring him, Rei focuses his attention on the three assassins' before him, "So, do you believe you all can handle this task? As you already know, there is no room for failure."

 "Not like we have much of a choice," Inari says, "And even if I did, I wouldn't want to leave the fate of my future to a buncha' punks."

 "That's rich coming from you, Inari," Rina quips. She then turns to look at ( Assassin Codename ) who seemed more or less unfazed by the entire situation as he sipped his tea.

 "What do you think would be the right course of action, ( Assassin Codename )?" Rina asks and suddenly everyone's eyes are on him, not that he cares.

Slowly, he lowers the teacup from his mouth, "Isn't it obvious?" He asks, and as if everything revolved around him in this moment, the atmosphere seems to completely change.

Upon first glance, it goes unnoticed, but as the assassin looks up, his gaze sharper than any dagger he may have hidden and more dangerous than any murderous fiend or wild animal, the bloodlust that exudes them becomes all the more apparent.

 "I'll make short work of it." 

A whistle of amusement breaks the silence before it even has the time to begin, "Well then it's settled! Team Pink is in business!" Ryūji cheers. Inari following up with a similar noise of glee.

Rei lets out a long sigh, his hand coming up to prop his head up, "I can already feel a headache coming on.."

Dividers were made by me, pictures used are from Pinterest, post formatting is inspired by @xxsabitoxx

[anonymoushouseplantfan]

I am listening to it on audible and am still only half way through but so far have a few thoughts

1. ⁠It is actually very boring

2. ⁠You can feel the treachery, spite, vindictiveness, deceit, victimhood, maliciousness, envy, paranoia, delusion and manipulation in every sentence, Its oozes into my pores and makes me feel unclean just listening to it. I cannot think of a book I have enjoyed less.

3. ⁠The weird and constant mentions of his mum are just bizarre. I understand the tragedy of him losing her so young, but I am sure his reactions to it are not typically normal for what is now a grown man. He is batshit crazy.

4. ⁠He has long gratuitous sections about killing rabbits, deer, pheasants, and talks at length about the blood, gore and disembowelling. It literally made me feel sick.

5. ⁠He has a grandiose sense of self-importance that is utterly delusional.

6. ⁠His constant references to his drug taking are over the top. He acts like it is totally normal. I understand why this plays a part in his autobiography since he seems to have spent so much of his time taking them. But he seems to glorify it with no introspection on the dangers, and revels in spilling all the details with no cares for the people who have loyally tried to cover up for him over the years. Despite the fact he talks about leaking and planting by his family it is obvious how much they have covered for him.

7. ⁠He doesn't seem to give a damn if he destroys the monarchy, and after reading the book that is what I think he is intent on doing. He misses no opportunity to add in any malicious adjectives, unnecessary anecdote, unflattering (and unlikely) quotes about his family and throws shade and blame on to them whenever he can. He comes over as so petty and malicious. You get the sense that he feels that if he can't be king he will blow the whole thing up.

8. ⁠It is abundantly clear he has no real love for his dad, brother, or grandfather from the way he talks about them, and it is questionable that he even loved the queen. He shows no empathy or respect for them and makes them look bad whenever he can. He can talk all he likes about reconciliation but he has burnt every bridge and if he were my son or brother, he would be dead to me. There is no purpose to a reconciliation - if it is not for love then it is for his own self-serving purposes.

9. ⁠When you read the whole book rather than listening to excerpts, some stories fade into insignificance. For example the losing his virginity story is a minor mention in passing. But what you don't get from the excerpts is the whole sense of nastiness pervading every paragraph. Before reading it I really didn't like Harry, but blamed Meghan far more. Never before have a read an autobiography where someone has the chance to write the narrative of their own life in a way that is supposedly flattering, and I have found myself liking them even less, despising them in fact. He is an utterly nasty piece of work......and I am still only half way through the book.

I'm so glad you wrote it up. Thank you.

I think part of the sense of boredom is that the writing gets monotonous after a while. Also, you are immersed inside Harry's head and he really has no empathy for anyone. When I finished the first few chapters, I felt like I was reading one of those 80s anti-hero novels like American Psycho, where you are looking at things from the viewpoint of a sociopath. The way he focuses on the bedroom sheets and the hole in his shoe and even the way he spoke of women ("she was perfect, perfect, perfect") struck as very Patrick Bateman.

I agree as to the nastiness, hence the American Psycho reference above. One of the passages that most struck me was when the Diana Ghost Leopard shows up and his bodyguards are alarmed. He explains that they were alarmed because if the leopard mauled him the headlines would be horrible. It didn't seem to cross his mind that the bodyguards were scared because they did not want him hurt. He only thought of the headlines. That, to me, shows how warped his mindset is.

Ditto on the Diana segments. It feels almost sweet at first because the first chapters of the book deal with his childhood, but then it turns weird really quickly.

I'm surprised not that many people have talked about the hunting gore. It's very striking and, frankly, alien. I know hunters (at least in the US) and I've never heard of any describing the kills like this. It was truly disturbing, and I'm not anti-hunting. It's just that he seemed to enjoy the gore a little too much.

He is very arrogant, particularly for someone who was supposedly raised with an inferiority complex for being a spare.

Drugs seem to be a part of his identity, which surprised me since I'd bought into the "Hero Harry" image. I don't know if that was always the case, or if he bought into the California drug culture when he arrived there, but it's striking.

He does want to destroy the monarchy. That comes across very clearly.

He seems very detached from everyone in his family, and yet passionately attached to the image he has built of his mom (a tabloid-based image!). It's an interesting contrast. He has no empathy for Will's position at all or for his dad's struggles. His family relationships seemed to be stuck at a childhood developmental level--mom is the perfect nurturer, father is all-powerful, and brother is a rival.

It is all very nasty, and I'm surprised someone didn't step in to explain that to him.

[paladin--strait]

paladin's 100 follower celly and new request list!! ✨

ahhh thank you so much for 100 followers! im so happy 🥳 and on my birthday too?? its like a gift 🎁 but, i hope that you guys like these prompts and the people i chose but if you have anybody that you want me to write for or a different prompt you wanna read you can still send it in and i'll see what i can do!

I love you all so much! keep reading to see the prompts and the people for your requests! ⬇️

the people who you request for are referred to as "name" in the prompts. and sorry, but none of these will be NSFW. even though i read it sometimes, im not comfortable with writing it just yet. all fics written will be under the tag "paladin's 100 follower celly!" make sure to check it out and drop a follow to see when a new fic comes out!! ❤️

some will be written in headcanon form and some will be in fic form! but let me know which one you want it in! ❤️

please let me know if you want the reader to be plus size, i'll happily write it for ya!

current request status: open!!

✨ prompts!! ✨

1 - "I'm sick, don't get near me" "I don't care"

2 - "I want you to meet my parents." "but we just met!"

3 - crying in his arms

4 - him crying in your arms

5 - "listen to me, everything is going to be alright."

6 - "I'll take care of you."

7 - "they didn't deserve you."

8 - sugar baby x sugar daddy

9 - "I'm gonna be here for you whether you like it or not."

10 - bodyguard!(name) x reader

11 - sunshine!reader x (name)

12 - lazy morning

13 - team staff member x (name)

14 - comparing hand sizes

15 - cooking for his team (athletes only)

16 - cooking for his parents

17 - meeting his team (athletes only)

18 - (name) x baker!reader

19 - reader brings cookies or cupcakes for players team after a huge win (athletes only)

20 - reader gets hurt and (name) takes care of them

21 - wearing another players jersey (athletes only)

22 - (name) cooks for reader and it goes terribly wrong

23 - (name) cooks for reader and its good

24 - reader cooks for (name) and it goes terribly wrong

25 - reader cooks for (name) and its good

26 - reader hosts a suprise party for (name)

27 - rival player chirps player about reader, player goes crazy (athletes only)

28 - reader is a ref for the nhl, slowly falls for player (athletes only)

29 - reader cooks for (name)'s friends

30 - reader's child takes a liking to (name)

31 - reader is a storm chaser

32 - reader meets (name)'s pet and the pet loves reader

33 - reader watches an episode of her and (name)'s show without him knowing

34 - (name) comforts reader in a storm

35 - reader and (name) go to a pet store and reader convinces him to buy them a pet

36 - going to the eras tour with them

37 - going to a nba game with them

38 - going to yours/his little siblings sports game

39 - hairstylist!reader / doing his hair

40 - he teaches you how to play hockey (athletes only)

41 - reader compliments their eyes

42 - reader is a florist

43 - reader is a coach for a pee wee team

44 - teacher!reader

45 - coaches daughter

✨ nhl players! ✨

matt rempe

jack hughes

luke hughes

quinn hughes

trevor zegras

jamie drysdale

sidney crosby

cole caufield

nico hischer

timo meier

dawson mercer

andrei svechnikov

arturs silovs

sergei bobrovsky

matthew tkachuk

brady tkachuk

auston matthews

igor shesterkin

connor bedard

jeremey swayman

andrei vasilevskiy

stuart skinner

marc andre fleury

nico daws

jacob markstrom

aleksander barkov

brock boeser

j.t. miller

macklin celebrini

leo carlsson

mason mactavish

david pastrnak

artemi panarin

✨ other fandoms! ✨

tyler owens (twisters)

javi (twisters)

boone (twisters)

daryl dixon (the walking dead)

rick grimes (the walking dead)

carl grimes (the walking dead)

negan smith (the walking dead)

eugene porter (the walking dead)

abraham ford (the walking dead)

(there may be more added later)