#step a toe out of line and you're gone brother

[especiallyhaytham]

So there's this blink-and-you'll-miss-it line in Rogue right before the Chevalier mission, where Gist is like "If you didn't kill Hope, Master Kenway probably would've gutted your ass, like for real" and Shay is just like "Yeah I'm aware."

And I'm here like "Oh okay so at least he knows that Haytham is insane, cool cool." Like yeah there was that whole thing where Haytham sprayed blood in his face, but I've always been a little worried that Shay was just comme-ci comme-ça about it.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stand on your tiptoes, a dangerous choice as you stand on a wooden stool, reaching to clip pegs around the folded edge of the linen sheet. You clasp it over the cord in three places and reel along the length, bending to pull a wet pillowcase from the basket.

“You’re grinding on the clutch,” Walter’s voice carries through the barn door before he emerges, “you need another driving lesson.”

“I know how to drive stick,” your brother, Timothy, argues with the larger man. “It’s not the clutch.”

“Ermph,” the other man grunts in return.

“Thanks for having a look though,” Timothy slaps his arm lightly.

He gets another grumble from the chronically grumpy man. Walter is older than your brother, by quite a bit; and you too. He’s tall and burly and his brow never truly loses its furrow. He’s fonder of your father than Timothy; you’re sure if he didn’t feel some kinship with your father, he’d never venture this far.

Walter is a big, burly man. He has a lumbering gait you can recognise even as he’s at the property’s edge, and his curly hair falls messily around his chiseled face. There’s a touch of silver in one curl but his age doesn’t show otherwise.

You refocus on hanging the laundry. You stand on your toes and strain to clip the beg on the line. The stool wobbles and you put your feet flat, steadying it. You suck in your lower lip and look around. Timothy’s gone, you hear him back in the barn clattering through the toolbox, but Walter remains. He narrows his eyes at you as you give a sheepish smile.

“Hi, Mr. Marshall,” you say.

“Hey,” he returns in his way.

You don’t expect much more so you wind the line further and once more bend to take another piece of clothing. You quickly forget his presence and go back to your precarious game. Back on your toes, the stool tips and you gasp, a scream catching in your throat as you brace yourself for the violent tumble.

You don’t hit the ground though. You barely even tip as you're caught under the arms. You open your eyes as Walter holds you well over the ground. He does so effortlessly. 

“I… Mr. Marshall, thank you,” you breathe.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he grits.

“Um, I know,” you wiggle your feet and look at the ground, “um, can you put me down.” He does just that and you laugh at yourself, “thanks.”

“Hm,” he sidles down to the basket. 

To your surprise he takes out the next sheet and easily throws it over the line. He holds out a hand but you just stare at his calloused palm. What is he doing?”

“Pin,” he demands gruffly.

“Oh, uh, sure,” you step up and place a pin in his hand. His fingers brush around yours as he closes them. You retract your reach as he clasps it over the linen. He puts his hand out for the next and again, you hand one over.

“Don’t do it again,” he says as he grabs the next piece of laundry.

“Mr. Marshall, I won’t, but you don’t need to–”

“It’s fine,” he carries on, set on his mission of putting out the drying. “Your father wouldn’t be happy if I let you hurt yourself.”

“Erm, I guess,” you give him another pin.

He’s silent as his blue gray eyes fixate on his chore. He bends to grab more, drapes the cloth over, and takes a pin to secure it in place. You work in wordless rhythm until the basket is empty and the line is full.

“How is he?” He asks.

You put your hands behind you and wring them, “better. Ma says he’ll be home next week.”

He nods and looks at you. He crosses his arms, straining the fabric of his long-sleeved tee. It’s warm out, enough to dampen his shirt with sweat. Still, he doesn't seem to mind.

“If you need anything,” he peers around the fields, “big place for just you and the other one.”

“Oh, Tim? Yeah, we manage.”

He scratches the scruff on his chin and shifts his stance. You’ve never seen him flinch before, never hesitate or doubt, but in that moment, he seems unsure. He clears his throat and drops his hand.

“Well, have a good day,” he bows his head slightly. “Have your brother take down the laundry.”

You look away guiltily, staring at the stool, “you, too, Mr. Marshall.”

He backs away a few steps and you cautiously glance at his boots as he does. He stops and you hold your breath.

“I don’t mind Walt,” he says.

“Right,” your voice flutters, “Walt.”

He twists on his heel and continues across the grass to the trodden road. He follows it down towards the fence. You tear your gaze away and gather up the basket and the stool. You leave them on the porch and sit in the shade as sweat speckles on your forehead.

Your heart is still racing, likely from your near disastrous slip. You think you will have Timothy take down the sheets. You may even convince him to help your fold.

[knightjpg]

landslide | chapter 3

chapter tags: (light) stalking, alcohol/alcohol consumption, reader has a toxic boyfriend

prev | next

Just the one time. 

You won't even notice, Ghost reasons to himself. He'll just be another spectre haunting London; a phantom passing through. Just once. Just to see— 

To soothe. Yes, that's what it is. He's just fulfilling a final duty, a tribute to the woman who made his brother smile like he'd never seen a day of hardship in his life. 

It's not hard to track you down. Years may have gone by, but Ghost has a photo, a name, and a bloodhound's tenacity for sniffing out the details. The anonymous bustle of London loses out against his patience, and really, people are creatures of habit. They seek comfort in the known; in their routine. 

Ghost observes yours. From afar, at first—a shadow lurking in alleyways you give a wide berth to. This is good. This is how it's meant to be. We get dirty, Price's voice echoes in his skull. So the world stays— 

After a week it gets harder to justify. You're alive and well. Have a steady job and a roof over your head. A boyfriend. You're not rude enough to drunk twats calling after you when get off work, but you clutch the closest thing to pepper spray in your hand after dark.  

Smart girl. 

It's time to step away. Simon died; a tombstone doesn't fit into the constraints of your daily life. He's let go before. He can—has to—do it again. 

“Sure, honey. Whatever you say.” 

... 

Just— 

Just the one time. 

Ghost pretends he's doing a stakeout. There's a mission, and there's a target. Simple. Easy. Muscle memory. 

When you walk through the café door, bell jingling against the wood, he's supposed to be casual. Uninterested; aloof—just another guy getting his daily fix. He knows he stands out with his bulk, but it's London: who's going to care? No one's going to think twice about his being here. He just has to keep it cool, go through the motions of reading his book without picking up any of the words. Then, naturally, look up— 

(sure, honey—) 

—and. Fuck. He is so unprepared. 

You keep your hair a little shorter these days. Still no ring on your finger—Simon breathes out slow—but a pendant around your neck has taken up a fixed presence. A gift? It's hard to tell. 

You're a little older, sure, but you're so— 

You're so... 

He ducks his head just in time, ballcap throwing his face into shadow to avoid your curious glance. Caught staring. He curses at himself—is he a fucking professional or what? 

Your name is called out, and you take your order with a grateful thanks. Ghost chances a peek while you're preoccupied. 

Christ. You're so pretty. 

Not just pretty—beautiful. Not like how he remembers, but also exactly how he remembers. The way you shift your weight, the quick gesture of your head when you shake the hair out of your face. Your smile, a flash of teeth. 

It's a perfect fit. A lost puzzle piece slots into place, lines up a bridge between the past with the present— 

“Oh, I'm so glad you're here,” you tell him with a sigh, plopping down heavily in the chair beside him. “If anyone asks me to dance I have a sprained ankle, okay?” 

Simon gives you a solemn nod, eyes sliding from the dancefloor to your figure bending down to untie your shoes. Your hair is done up beautifully for today, and he's overcome with the desire to reach out and touch the nape of your neck. 

He forces it down and watches Tommy and Beth swaying to a slow song, eyes closed. You sigh, flexing your toes. 

“Hurt?” Simon asks. 

“Just tired,” you smile. “Beth's cousin are nice, but every time I sit they—oh, God, there's one of them.” 

You unsuccessfully try to hide behind Simon's broad shoulders. One of your hands presses against his arm for balance, small imprint of warm through his nicest white blouse. 

Simon's heart lurches. He leans into your touch like a lodestone. 

“She's got a sprained ankle, mate,” he tells Beth's cousin before he can open his mouth. “Gotta rest.” 

The boy swallows a thinly veiled tsk when Simon speaks up, then tries again. “I'm sorry, love, was I too rough on you? Do you want me to get you ice? Or a drink? Or—” 

“Got it handled here,” Simon cuts in curtly.  

Simon likes Beth. Likes her family fine, too—he and Tommy grew up on a low bar, but still he can see they're alright folk. And Simon would never start shit on their wedding day. He's got better manners than that. 

But people get caught up in weddings, spurred on by booze and a festive mood. They grow loose-lipped, handsy, jovial. 

Simon's more than happy to put cousin what'shisname in his place should he forget it. 

The cousin lingers for a moment, but eventually tucks his tail between his legs and sets off to the drinks bar. Simon eyes his retreat warily. 

“Oh,” you sigh, sagging against Simon's back for a moment before pulling yourself upright. “Thanks so much. You're my hero.” 

—a wildflower in his barren desertscape. 

 

He'd wondered if it would hurt any more than it does every other day of his life. A living, breathing reminder of everything that he's lost; Ghost is not immune to pain. Even corpses bleed. 

He finds it doesn't matter. Whatever he might have felt is drowned out by something else, a lighthouse smacking him in the face with the same blinding light he chased when he crawled out of the dirt— 

Familiar. Quickly followed by, mine. Something that earns its intimacy simply by being known; hauntingly so, but he wants it. Wants to have it, wants to allow himself this smidge of nostalgia. 

(You're my hero.) 

Self-denial pushed to the extreme rebounds off the wall and crashes against him like a wave. Saltwater mixes with old dusty sediment, rips out dead old roots as it pulls him down, a landslide— 

And it's trouble. Ghost knows it. But— 

He's always had an appetite for the thrill of danger, careful, might get hurt;  

and he figures one more scar won't make much of a difference. 

----------

The alcohol tastes bitter on your tongue. You swirl the liquid in your glass and wish you could jump into the miniature whirlpool; to simply let the disappointment and the hurt and the insecurity all be washed away.  

Your phone beep...beep...beeps until: 

“The person you are attempting to call cannot be reached at this time. To leave a message, press—” 

You shove it back in your pocket with an angry twist of your mouth. That's four times for this month alone. How many was it last month? And the one before that? 

Maybe you should stop counting. 

The alcohol does the opposite from soothing your bad mood. You know your limits and steer clear of that line; over the years you've found it's never worth the headache or the nausea the next day.  

Another drink and things will start getting fuzzier, which means it's time to call a friend or a cab and leave. Be smart. Be careful. 

Your fingers dig into the glass. You stay seated on your stool.  

Maybe you should've accepted when a bloke offered you a drink. Sorry, you'd smiled. Waiting for my boyfriend. 

Fuck your boyfriend. 

The spite sours as soon as it wells up, leaving guilt in its wake. What's wrong with you? You'd never cheat on Dave. You've been the subject of that kind of betrayal too often; know the pain too well. You won't be that kind of person. 

You down the last of your drink, just about to get up when a large man wearing a dark hoodie seats himself on the stool next to you. 

You pause. It's not busy; there's plenty of empty stools to choose from. Coincidence or a sign of interest? Would it be rude to leave immediately after he's sat down?  

Would it be worse to wait for him to say something instead? 

Hesitation lies heavily in your stomach, alcohol and loneliness making you feel unsure, slow. The indecision keeps your eyes down on your empty glass while you fiddle with a coaster and tell yourself to stop being so self-absorbed. It doesn't mean anything; it's not about you. People can come to the bar just for a— 

“Drink?” the stranger asks you. 

Your eyes flit up. 

He's wearing a ballcap—go Manchester—which, under the dim lights of the bar, obscures most of his features. Still, you catch the end tail of a nasty scar running down his cheek. 

This is where trepidation should come in. A sixth sense of self-preservation telling you in red letters do not touch. Do not go here. 

Do not trespass. 

But: 

something about him is familiar.  

Maybe that's why you're less guarded. Less careful. You're lonely, abandoned, stood up; one last drink won't hurt. Will it? Because, really— 

It's just a drink, you tell yourself. If he tries anything you'll make a scene.  

God knows you've got plenty of pent-up anger to let loose. 

“Sure, okay,” you say, and the man waves the bartender over. You watch him pour the drink, and offer the stranger a half-hearted smile as you raise your glass in cheers. 

“You alone?” 

“I have a boyfriend,” you say, trying for casual nonchalance and ending up somewhere close to abandoned cat on the roadside. There's even a tremor at the end of your voice to go with it. 

And you thought tonight wouldn't get any more pathetic. 

The man tilts his head. “He gonna come pick y’up?” 

You tap your phone's screen out of habit: no notifications. You shake your head. The bar suddenly feels too loud, too sharp; too real. You realise that until now you'd still clung to the idea that Dave's caller ID would pop up any moment, that any second the next face walking into the bar would be his. 

It's not going to happen. 

You know it's not. But all by yourself you could still believe—lure yourself into the protective delusion that Dave wouldn't stand you up again. Not after missing your anniversary dinner, surely. 

Your throat closes against a sob clawing its way up. Christ. You try to wrestle it down, cover your quivering lips with a hand. You're drunk. Drunk and acting like an idiot— 

Your stranger does a little hum. “He a twat?” 

The delivery is so dry you hiccup a strange laugh-sob. “Some—sometimes. Maybe it's my fault. I don't know what I—” You stop yourself and breathe. Cling to the shred of sobriety left in you. “Sorry. You don't care about any of this.” 

The bloke shifts on his stool, turning his torso more towards you and leaning one of his big forearms on the tacky bar as he does. The end of a tattoo sleeve peeks out from his hoodie, abstract lines old and sun-faded.  

“Could listen.” 

You blink, and— 

there's your apartment, your front door, the jingle of keys. Body moving on autopilot, dropping bag and shoes and slumping onto your bed. 

Your mind is slow, hazy; muddled by fatigue and cocktails. How'd you get home again? 

A flash of obnoxious radio music. The dangle of car freshener against a dark windshield. 

That's right. Had one drink too much, and called— 

You frown against your sheets. Called... 

A low voice in your ear, telling you to mind your feet. Not Dave—bigger than Dave. One strong arm keeping you from wobbling, and the other opening the door to a cab. Smelled nice. Safe. A friend? 

“I saw Simon's boots in the hall. Did he stop by?” 

“He did. Came to save me from Tommy's hovering.” 

You finish pouring Beth's smoothie—thick, fruity, calorie-dense—and hand it to her. She sighs in relief, carefully shifting in her seat so she doesn't jostle Joseph while she's breastfeeding. 

“Thanks so much. God,” and she takes a big sip, “that's good. Everyone tells you breastfeeding makes you hungry, but oh my god, it makes you hungry.” 

You laugh a little, patting her leg. “You're doing great, mumma.” 

“I hope so.” Beth looks down at Joseph, stroking his blond wispy hairs. “We're thinking about moving. Not for a while, but—maybe next year.” Beth gestures to the little flat apartment. “Tommy's been doing really well at work, and we want Joseph to be able to run around in a yard.” 

As if summoned, the front door opens and closes. Boots thump against the doormat; the coathanger rattles with the weight of thick padded jackets. 

“I think that's a lovely idea,” you smile. “Just let me know and I'll help.” 

Beth's face softens. “Thank you.” 

She looks exhausted, but extraordinarily happy at the same time. You're so happy for her—so happy for both of them—yet can't help the occasional tug of envy. You're not sure if you want children, not yet, but the look of devotion in Tommy's eyes when he crosses the room to kiss Beth and Joseph's cheeks is hard not to want for yourself. 

“Alright?” 

You lift your eyes to Simon. He looks freshly windswept from their walk, hair mussed and cheeks ruddy. For some reason it makes you feel— 

You duck your head, nodding. “Yeah.”  

You suddenly feel a little shy, out of place. To give yourself something to do you collect empty cups to put away—and stumble on one of Joseph's toys lying around. 

Simon's arm shoots out to steady you, and in your attempt to balance yourself you bump headfirst into his chest. You quickly remove yourself, cheeks burning. 

“Thanks...” 

In between dreaming and waking, the memory of a voice murmurs in your ear;  

“Steady now.” 

----------

Ghost watches the cab drive away with a pensive expression. 

You're not happy. 

He watched you for over an hour, his pretty lonely girl sipping fruity cocktails at the bar. Waiting for the ungrateful cunt to bother showing up. 

Because your boyfriend is an ungrateful cunt, going by the way you nearly cried into his arms. Simon hadn't been privy to the details, lived off second-hand stories from Tommy and sometimes Beth, and there's too many gaps in his memories to be sure. 

But he knows— 

I'm tired of the shitty boyfriends. 

Beth's playful smile loops in his head. Ghost feels sorry for you, and yet— 

some sick part of him is pleased.  

Relieved. 

You need him. Haven't learned yet to winnow the wheat from the chaff; can't see that your precious time and effort is wasted on undeserving shits. 

Tonight was supposed to be the last time; a final goodbye. Closure for the dead. That last push he needed to stop himself from reaching out and saying it's me— 

Simon. 

But this changes things. Ghost turns his back on the night, and disappears into the shadows. 

It's time to make some phone calls. 

[reaveries]

▬  risk

"I will save your life. I'll try for you."

pairings: re2 officer!leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: while trying to escape the police station in the midst of the infamous raccoon city disaster, rookie police officer leon s. kennedy finds a young woman in need of his help.

content warning: descriptions of violence and gore

word count: 4.4k (estimated 21 minutes reading time)

a/n: this .... has been in my drafts ......... since april. you're finally free........

masterlist archive of our own

Revised for clarity 12/30/2023.

Leon’s gun had always been a mere extension of his arm, a tool to be honed and wielded with precision. The academy, with its spiral target walls and foam-filled mannequins, had served as his training ground, preparing him for the hopefully unnecessary evil of one day having to take a life. This unspoken burden came with the territory—an occupational hazard in the line of duty. But no amount of half-hearted demonstrations and target practices could’ve equipped him for a night like this.

Until tonight, he’d never seen a body fall lifeless due to his own hand. But if he had, he wouldn’t have expected it to stumble from its spot of decay, staggering towards him with a newfound vigor that defied everything he thought he knew about morality and his fragile existence.

Tonight has been a night of unholy firsts, and the air about him suggests it has only just begun.

The pungent metallic scent of arterial spray assaults his senses as he steps out of the shower room. His heart sinks in his chest as he takes in the sight of carnage in the westmost corridor of the police station. Uniformed men and women lie in crumpled heaps against the walls. Their bodies are mangled and torn, some so abhorrently disfigured that they’re scarcely recognizable as humans. The presence of the dead was something he was uncomfortably growing comfortable with, and yet to imagine the animosity it must’ve required to create this scene… 

Well, it unsettled him, to say the least. He could’ve known them if things had gone differently.

He steps over their quiet corpses with his pistol in one hand and a flashlight raised in the other. He nudges one with the toe of his boot, aiming for their skull if they so much as twitch. But their bodies remain convincingly still, slain beyond any chance of revitalization. His grip tightens on his gun as he presses forward down the narrow corridor. If this is the result of those infected creatures he’s become acquainted with, they could be lurking ahead, waiting for him. 

The rain outside stings as it pelts his cheek, dampening his uniform that’s already slick with sweat. He ignores it.

Ahead should be the S.T.A.R.S. office if the map he found is correct. Hopefully, he can find relevant information about Claire’s brother in there, something to help her find him if he should ever see her again. With a deep breath, he reaches out to turn the knob when a groan suddenly creeps from down the hall. But there’s something different about it. 

It sounds alive, pained, and distinctly human.

“Is someone there?” He calls out, his voice echoing down the long hallway. The sound reverberates off the walls and fills the silence, and for a moment, there is nothing but his own breathing. 

Then a low growl echoes back at him.

With an annoyed huff, he raises his gun and aims for the corner he anticipates the creature to hobble from behind. But before he can catch a glimpse of it, something moves in the darkness. It's too fast for him to comprehend, a blurring figure scurrying towards him like a feral animal. He watches in horror as it crawls along the ceiling, its movements disturbingly fluid.

As it draws closer, the moonlight catches on to the glistening texture of its skin. A grotesque tentacle-like tongue unfurls from its mouth, swinging through the air like a scythe.

“What… what the fuck?”

He fires two rounds into the fleshy matter of the creature’s head, but it makes no difference. Doesn’t even flinch. The rookie officer prepares to fire another round when the monster flings itself off the ceiling and lunges its body through the air directly toward him.

In a split-second decision, Leon throws himself into the office, his body slamming against the door before he scrambles to his feet and secures it behind him. Outside, the creature is relentless. Its wet, clobbering movements spasm through the walls. With his back pressed against the door, he braces himself as the monster rams into it with a sickening force that rattles the hinges. 

It takes all his strength to keep it from buckling under the creature’s assault. The force of each blow makes his arms tremble, and he can feel his grip slipping. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, and his heart thunders in his chest as he fights to hold the door in place. 

But then, just as suddenly as it began, the onslaught ceased. Leon takes a deep breath, his heart still pounding, and listens for any sign of movement outside.

He waits a second, then slowly pulls himself away from the door.

With his chest heaving, a word comes to mind.

Licker. 

He remembers the warning about these beasts scrawled on a note left by a likely deceased officer. His naive self didn’t expect to encounter one so soon.

He takes a moment to survey the room, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The abandoned desks and personal items left behind tell him that S.T.A.R.S. personnel were just as underprepared for a viral outbreak as the rest of the city. The first thing that catches his eye is a trauma kit on the wall. He crosses the room and flips it open, finding it fully stocked. Dressings, hemostatic agents, antiseptic. A sense of relief washes over him. He reaches into his pocket to make room for the essentials, but to his dismay, finds them full of various necessities. There’s no space to carry anything in this damn uniform. With a sigh, the lid is closed and left as it was found.

“Hey!” 

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden noise. 

“Please tell me you didn’t die,” a disembodied voice says. The end of their sentence tapers off with a shallow breath. With a sharp turn of his head, he tries to place the direction it's coming from. There’s no familiarity in their voice, which is no surprise considering he’d only become acquainted with a few officers during his orientation.

“Where are you?” He calls out, raising his flashlight in search of an answer, hoping for a door or some kind of opening.

“Linen closet. Down the hall.”

Their muffled words become clear as he approaches a far corner of the office, likely sharing a wall with the room they’re in. “Did it get you?” they ask, quieter this time.

Leon takes a deep breath to steady himself before responding. “Almost, but I’m alright,” he assures them. With a glance back to the door, he continues, “Listen, I know how to get past that thing now. Just… stay put. I’ll come to you.”

“Please be careful,” the stranger pleads. Something in their voice rings as desperation, lending to the pit forming in his stomach. It’s more than likely that whoever this is is a victim of the outbreak, clinging to their last shred of humanity before the virus consumes them. The thought of putting down another person, to see the life fade from their eyes—he’d like to avoid it if possible.

With the barrel of his pistol, he cracks open the door and peers into the corridor. It’s just as he left it, but there’s no sign of the monster anywhere. He holds back a sigh of relief as he opens the door further and steps into the hall. The ceiling, where his eyes are permanently trained, is empty. The revolting shape of the licker is nowhere to be found. 

He pushes forward, boots ghosting across the floorboards and pistol drawn. His breathing is slow, his muscles tensed. He’s convinced the creature can hear the blood rushing through his veins. When he reaches the end of the corridor, he halts and peeks behind the turn of the hall where the linen closet should sit. 

His heart drops.

It’s there.

Of course it’s there. Why should anything be easy for him?

Perched in the corner, its sinewy body is raised on its haunches and pressed wetly against the wall. Rows of jagged teeth have overgrown the confines of its decaying jaw, and long bone-like talons sprout from fleshy hands. 

He can't afford to freeze up. One misstep is all it takes, and he’ll be gutted like the rest of them. He reaches for a hook on the holster hanging at his hips, fingers trembling as he fumbles for the cold, smooth canister he's grown familiar with. This might be his only chance.

With one finger, he hooks the pin and yanks it. The sound of it clattering against the tile echoes throughout the hallway just as a cloud of white explodes, engulfing the creature as it lunges toward him. It falls to the floor in an instant, writhing in agony as the grenade pierces the air with a sharp ringing noise.

No time to think. Leon sprints to the door, feeling the hot stench of decay brush past him as he avoids the stunned beast. The door flies open against his weight, and he forces it shut behind him.

He leans against the door, panting heavily as he tries to steady himself.

As he catches his breath, a voice whispers in the darkness.

“You made it.”

His eyes dart to the corner, where a young woman sits leaning against a washing machine. Her uniform is in bad shape, torn at her midsection and stained to the hem. It looks like blood is seeping through, smearing her fingers red as she tries to stanch the bleeding. The sight of the mess has him quickly closing the space between them.

She looks him up and down as he kneels beside her.

“You’re an officer?” She asks with knitted brows. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Leon Kennedy. I just started today,” he answers quickly, the adrenaline causing a noticeable waver in his voice.

She laughs but winces and screws her eyes shut. “And I thought my first day sucked,” she says through her teeth.

“Did that thing do this to you?” He asks, his tone gentle yet urgent, getting straight to the nagging thought in his mind.

She shakes her head, looking down at the wound with a suppressed grimace. “I thought the hallway was clear. And then, out of nowhere, it just…” Her mind seems to wander at the thought. “It came through the window. There was glass flying everywhere. It scratched me pretty good.”

Leon tilts his head to the side, trying to get a good look at the wound. Her uniform makes it difficult to see the full extent of the injury. However, the amount of blood is enough to give him an idea of the severity.

“‘Scratched’ is an understatement,” he says, looking back at her.

A dazed sort of smile finds its way to her face. “I like to be optimistic.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, or maybe precisely because of it, his smile mirrors hers. She’s not infected. Thank God.

“So do I,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright? Then we can think about getting out of here.”

She nods and attempts to sit up straighter.

“Can you, um,” he starts to say, gesturing to the hem of her uniform.

“Yeah, I can take it off. I’m not shy.”

A blush creeps up his neck as she nimbly moves to undo the buttons of her uniform. Leon averts his gaze, suddenly transfixed by the desolate corner of the linen room. His fingers pluck idly at the skin around his nails. But from the corner of his eye, he catches her struggle to shrug off the top. It gets caught on her shoulders and refuses to slide down.

“Here, let me,” he offers reluctantly.

The room falls silent, the only sound being the soft rustle of fabric as he coaxes the shirt down her arms. She draws a sharp breath as it grazes over tender bruises and scrapes, and a strange sense of intimacy seeps in, making him feel guilty for having to undress her. As the shirt falls to the ground, revealing her white undershirt, his eyes are drawn to the dark magenta stain blossoming across the fabric. 

There, at the center of it all, is a shard of glass, roughly the size of the palm of his hand. Its edges are sharp and erratic, protruding from her lower stomach. 

It’s critical, he realizes.

“Sorry if it’s not the prettiest thing to look at,” she says, eyes fixated on the ceiling.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad,” he lies, hoping it sounds convincing. 

Apparently, it doesn’t, because she looks down for the first time and sees it.

“Jesus Christ!” She exclaims breathlessly. Her hands fly to hover above the shard, afraid to touch it. “You have to take it out,” she says with certainty, clearly unable to bring herself to do it.

His medical training at the academy left much to be desired, but even he was aware of the cardinal rule when it came to injuries such as these. Under the best of circumstances, the object should never be removed, lest the victim hemorrhage and bleed to death. However, he’d wager that they were far from the best of circumstances, and the alternative wasn’t enticing. Leon takes a deep breath, then places one hand on her shoulder and the other on the shard of glass. Their eyes lock, a silent agreement passing between them.

“Stay still,” he instructs, his voice wavering slightly. He hesitates for a moment before pulling it out in one swift motion. He can feel her muscles tense beneath his hand as she reacts to the jagged edges scraping against her insides. A torrent of hushed expletives tumbled from her lips, the pain etched deeply in her features.

“There,” he says softly, immediately deciding not to let her see the piece of glass once he realizes its morbid grandeur.

He can see the relief wash over her face, but it's short-lived as her condition quickly deteriorates. The sudden change startles him. Her eyes have started to glaze over, and her head falls limply to the side. Her words are barely audible, lost in labored breaths. 

“Hey,” he says urgently, reaching to cup her cheek. She responds with a groan and closes her eyes. He taps her cheek more desperately. “Hey, stay with me!”

With his other hand, he brings two fingers to the tender spot between her jaw and her neck. Her pulse is rapid but faint. Below, the stain spreads further along the cloth of her undershirt. He quickly lifts the hem, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold skin of her stomach. Blood gushes from the wound at a frightening rate, dripping onto the floor and pooling. 

His heart races as he frantically searches for something to stem the bleeding. It ends up being the closest thing: her discarded uniform. The fabric immediately darkens as he applies pressure. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

The blood seeps through, coating his fingers. 

"Come on, stay with me," he pleads.

The blood flow slows a little, but only after having wholly soaked through her uniform. He undoes his vest and shrugs out of his shirt, leaving him in just the long sleeve he wore beneath. He brings the shirt to her waist and ties it tightly to keep the fabric firmly in place. As he secures it, her hand finds his arm. He looks down at her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are glassy, and her breathing shallow.

"Don't worry, I've got you," he says, trying to sound confident.

Her fingers tighten around his arm, and she mumbles something. He leans closer, straining to hear her words. 

“Don’t let me die here,” she repeats, her voice barely audible. “Please.”

He feels a lump form in his throat. "I won't... I promise."

He leans back against the wall, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Breathing heavily, he runs a hand through his hair. Only then does he notice her blood staining his uniform, his hands, and the floor around him. He wipes his hands on his pants, but even in the dim, cold light of the linen room, it’s clear it isn’t going anywhere. 

This isn’t going to be enough to stabilize her; even someone with as little medical knowledge as him can see that it would be a miracle if it did. 

But despite that, amidst the chaos and the overwhelming odds, he still clung to the tenuous belief that he could save her life. He can do what he couldn’t for the others, who’d been only slightly out of his reach and beyond saving. Saving just one person would mean this all meant something, and that he, though just one person unsure of what he’s up against, could be the catalyst for a transformative ripple, a flicker of defiance in the face of the unknown evils inside this building.

It would mean everything.

He glances at the door, feeling his stomach drop with the knowledge of what he must do. The hemostatic agents, the antiseptic—those are her lifelines. If he doesn’t act now, she will die in this small corner of the police station, and she’ll have him to thank. Acknowledging this fact sets him in motion.

In a swift movement, he picks her up in his arms, careful not to exacerbate her injuries. She stirs uncomfortably for a moment, then settles against him. Blood drips from his shirt at her waist and trickles down his arm before pittering on the tile. It’s neverending. 

“Don’t make any noise,” he whispers down at her. Her eyes are screwed shut, but she nods in understanding.

Here goes nothing. He nudges the door open.

Once again, he is greeted with a quiet stillness. The corpses are still lost in a dreamless sleep, and light rain rhythmically blows in through the empty window frames. It could be somewhat comforting if he were ignorant of the foreboding presence lurking in the nearby shadows. With each soft step, he gets further from the haven of the linen room. He passes the expired stun grenade and is approaching the turn of the hall once again when she shifts in his arms. She presses her forehead against his chest, brows furrowed in an effort to stifle her pain. He can’t imagine how it must feel.

He pulls her closer, hoping to offer a modicum of reassurance. We’re almost there. 

It can be said with absolute certainty that he has never moved as slowly as he did turning that godforsaken corner. And for that, he’s been blessed with a clear pathway. Somehow, the creature has not made its presence known. A thought nags at him, daring him to consider that he may have underestimated its intelligence. That it will rear its grotesque head any minute, and its mouth will pull in a sadistic grin, enravished with the idea that he could’ve fooled it once again. 

But this is not the case. There, in the imperceptible darkness, inches above his head, there is a shift. It’s slight enough that he almost misses it. He doesn’t need to look up to know what it is—to know that it’s there, to know that he’s directly below it.

Somehow, he missed it.

His muscles tense, but there’s nothing left to do but continue forward. 

Just a few more steps. 

He places one foot cautiously before the other, careful to avoid shattered glass. The air feels thick with apprehension; every breath a calculated risk. 

Then there’s a tug on his pants. 

A deep, gurgling groan erupts from one of the corpses by his feet, and it pulls itself toward him. On instinct, he brings his boot down to silence it, crushing its skull beneath his heel before it can sink its teeth in. The woman gasps instantly, startled by the sudden jerking movement. Fuck. 

Run.

The walls blur, and time seems to slow as he sprints down the hallway. The woman’s cries intermingle with the sound of talons scraping against the floor, padding down the corridor with a ferocity he doesn’t need to see to know. 

Before it can reach him, he forces the office door open and kicks it shut behind him. He ignores the sounds of it screeching and thrashing about and hurries over to one of the desks, swiping the clutter to the floor before setting her down on the cool wooden surface. He wastes no time in retrieving the trauma kit and rummaging through it, letting items fall haphazardly to the floor.

The seconds are slipping through his fingers. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says between breaths. 

She watches him through furrowed brows, blinking slowly as he quickly removes the blood-soaked uniform from her waist. She says nothing, whether due to sheer incapability or hopeless acceptance.

He doesn’t notice either way. 

His hands move quickly. He’s too lost in his efforts to see her watching him. Before the darkness creeps in, her lips form a short, one-word apology that gets lost on its way out, unheard by even her. The whisper of remorse dissipates in the air and fades. Then the world follows suit.

An uncertain amount of time has passed when she begins to stir. The room is blurred beneath the heaviness of her eyelids, but its meager contents slowly reveal themselves: plain wooden desks, some chairs, and personal belongings that confirm she’s in the room she suspects. She’d only been in this office once before when working on an intense, high-profile assignment. Even then, her visit was brief. There’s no reason she should be in here.

She pushes through the clouded haze and props her elbow on the desk to raise herself. Immediately, she’s struck with a burning fire in her abdomen, crumpling her back onto the cold surface. It felt like an electrical fire. Spreading quickly with a force that raised the hair on her skin.

Looking down, she saw the crimson stain on her undershirt, and the memory of the attack came back to her with a visceral shudder. The horrifying creature, the unrelenting pain, and the man who saved her. His name eludes her, the residual memories feeling like a half-forgotten dream. His face, too. Until slowly, the memory begins to sharpen, and she can see his face with full clarity. The young officer had been handsome, with an angular jaw and straight nose that lent him a serious, almost stoic look. Yet there was an undeniable boyishness to him, from the tousled hair falling into his eyes to the way he moved with an easy grace that belied the sharpness of his features. Yes, the stranger had certainly been an easy sight for her weary eyes. 

“You’re awake.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the memory began to speak. She realized just then that it wasn’t a memory at all and that he’d emerged from a corner of the room upon hearing her awaken. 

“How are you feeling?” He asks when she doesn’t respond. He’s tense, but his nervous expression seems sincere, and a strange sense of trust begins to settle over her.

“Hurts,” she grumbles. Her throat ached too. Everything ached.

His mouth flattened into a thin line, and his brows furrowed in sympathy. “I know, I’m sorry,” he says.

She notices his hands tremble slightly as they reach out to touch her, brushing warily against the exposed skin at her hip. He doesn’t seem to mind the blood staining his fingers or the hair falling into his eyes as he checks the dressing. Once it’s clear it meets his standard of approval, he looks up, and his light eyes finding hers expectantly, searching for signs of discomfort.

Then it comes back to her. 

“Leon,” she murmurs absently, testing how it sounds out loud. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "That's me," he says softly. 

She studies his face once again, taking in the way his features soften as he smiles, the gentle curve of his lips, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“How long have I been out?” she asks hoarsely.

He pulls the hem of her shirt back down, covering the tender skin once again. “Not long, a few hours maybe.”

She tries to sit up once again, but her body protests with a sharp pain at her side. He places a hand on her upper arm, steadying her. 

“Take it easy,” he urges her in a whisper.

With a wave of her hand, she dismisses his concerns and her pain. She pulls herself off the desk and straightens her shirt. “I’m fine,” she assures him. “I feel like shit, but I’m fine.”

“You look better,” he says, observing her closely. “You have more color in your face.”

A faint smile graces her lips. “I think I have you to thank for that. If you hadn’t found me, I would’ve been done for,” she confesses. “I’d already made peace with it by the time you got there.”

He offers a modest shrug. “I’m not sure about that. You seem like you’re made of tougher stuff, deputy.”

His words prompt her to tilt her head, inspecting his face and searching for any remnants of recognition beyond their recent encounter. But apart from that, there's nothing.

“Oh. I ran your badge while you were out,” he admits, his gaze momentarily directed toward the floor.

“Is that so…” She crosses her arms with a touch of amusement in her voice. Her inner resolve slowly finds her once again. “So was all this done to impress your boss on the first day?”

He chuckles quietly, now somewhat sheepish in the presence of his superior, in a world where such distinctions no longer hold much meaning. Oddly enough, his laughter somehow finds its place seamlessly amidst the heavy air surrounding them. 

Despite the lurking horrors outside the sanctuary of this room and the even grimmer uncertainties ahead, for a brief moment, none of it matters. She stands there as a testament to his actions, breathing proof that he made a difference. Placing himself in the epicenter of this diseased storm no longer feels like ill-fated martyrdom. Within these walls and in the face of the darkness that looms beyond, they are not simply spectators to a morbid narrative; they are, instead, influential participants. All hope isn't lost.

With a smug smile, he finally lifts his gaze to meet hers.

“Did it work?”

[toastnotonfire]

Fallout After Fallout

"'cause it's a half-life, it's a fallout."

Summary: Set shortly after the explosion on the bridge which took out Rick, You and Daryl comfort one another while still reeling from the catastrophic loss of your leader, and friend. (lottssss of hurt/comfort)

word count: 1,616

pairing: Daryl Dixon x (fem!)Reader

Daryl had been gone for a good few days, along with Michonne, to look for Rick. Your head was killing you slowly, the unrelenting pounding and throbbing behind your eyes was unbearable. Maybe it was lack of sleep, or perhaps it was the gnawing guilt that grew in your stomach. The replay of the last thing you said to Rick in your head, over and over like a broken record. The words you spewed like venom from your mouth, out of anger or hurt now seemed futile.

"Your fault."

was now all that could be heard, like an endless screen of static in your brain. Your last conversation with Rick was your lost blame falling on his shoulders.

"This is all your fault."

You had hissed it through clenched teeth, crossing a line, a boundary of no return. Now he is gone and your anger can only point inwards. It was destroying you. Your own grief ripped at your stomach with its sharpened claws, rotten teeth tearing at you from the inside out.

What you really needed was for Daryl to come back home, for him to reassure you even though you knew it wouldn't fill the dark pit forming in your gut. You wanted his hands to stroke your hair like he always does when your mind races ahead of what your heart can handle. For him to hold you close, rock you sweetly, even if you don't deserve his love.

But Daryl was doing what you should be doing, what you wish you had the strength to do. Looking for him, and you're alone with your thoughts. Wandering through the empty house.

You climb the steps up to the bedrooms, making sure your footsteps are soft enough not to wake little Judith whom you had put to bed just a few hours ago.

She had asked if her Daddy would tuck her in.

You slip past Judith's room into your and Daryl's room, toeing off your boots and shrugging off your old and worn jacket. Throwing yourself into the bed as the pillows surround you in a warmth you are certain you do not deserve. Still, you sink deeper into the pillows and deeper into despair.

It hits you like a freight train, the sudden and instantaneous wave of nausea grief, and guilt. You're drowning in it, the overwhelming feeling that you're alone.

You are alone, it hits you.

All you can do is cry, stifling the sounds into your pillow as you do, because the last thing you want to do is wake up the sleeping baby, the sleeping baby girl who doesn't really know her brother and her dad won't ever come back home.

Before you even acknowledge it you shuffle over to Daryl's side, his scent immediately filling the emptiness in your heart, your trembling, tired hands grip the sheets that smell like him for comfort, clinging to them desperately, holding the covers close to your chest until you finally pass out from exhaustion.

Daryl returns home that night, his eyes somehow darker, more deep set than before it happened. He wanders upstairs slowly, taking his time as the overpowering guilt he feels for everyone who's ever been in this house comes back to him in waves, everyone who will never come back to this stupid house.

He finally reaches the door of your shared room, hesitating slightly before opening it. His heart drops to see you on his side, and your eyebrows are drawn together in a pained expression as you grip the sheets tightly. He can tell from here you're in a fitful, restless sleep.

His heart aches in that moment, an indescribable pain he feels. He knows you share it.

He slowly lowers himself down onto the bed, trying not to wake you but it's no use, your eyes flicker open, broken voice, thick with sleep and tears whispering out to him.

"Daryl?"

"m'here" he replies as he moves towards you with unspoken urgency, and it's so short and simple and still too much. A broken sob escapes your lips, and once it starts it won't stop, painful cries that you stifle into his shirt rip their way out your chest. He just holds you through it, like always, stroking your hair. The very gentleness you told yourself you definitely did not and still don't deserve, yet your selfish selfish self can't seem to push him away.

"It's not your fault" he whispers slowly, rubbing your back in small circles, kissing where your hairline meets your forehead gently as you cling to him.

Upon hearing this your tears only fall harder, you don't have the energy to disagree with him, you don't have the energy to tell him that it actually is your fault. Everything is the result of your twisted mind-numbing grief.

Daryl knows you both feel it now, the blame, the guilt. He knows both your hearts are aching in sync, for the people lost and missing, for the baby girl across the hall, oblivious and asleep.

Michonne.

A sharp pain runs through his heart, the hair on his arms standing to attention as he selfishly pulls you closer, burying his face into your hair. Losing his brother, Michonne losing Rick, threw him hurtling back into reality, like he had fallen through a frozen lake, plunging into icy water and sinking. Shock and disbelief kept attacking him anytime he tried to break out from under the ice. Rick, the constant, was gone. You could just as easily vanish from his grasp.

He still has you. It makes him feel sick. He can't stop the feeling. The inadequacy of his attempts to help everyone "for the better good" nearly caused bile to rise in his sorry throat.

He still has you. He doesn't deserve this.

Your voice breaks him from his own terrifying thoughts, your breaths coming sharply between words, interrupting your sentences with gasps and huffs as you fail miserably to calm your emotions enough to speak.

"I told him it was all his fault." You manage to whimper through the tears. "Now he's -"

Daryl cuts you off sharply with a grunt, staring at you with piercing eyes. They still hold a softness in them, but they are tired and weary. They've seen too much.

"He ain't dead," Daryl replies. His voice is low, his tone a warning, yet the way his hand shakes to a stop in its path through your hair makes you certain he doesn't believe the words.

"Okay." You murmur back in response, the bluntness of his reaction numbing your emotions for that moment, shocking you out of your stupor.

"Okay," You repeat softly, watching him carefully in the dim light, awaiting his next move. It was his turn to break now.

He broke eye contact, staring past you, anywhere. His tears fall silently as he starts to sob next to you. Your arms snake around his neck, pulling him close, so close he is practically on top of you, fully tangled in one another's arms. Sobbing in tandem with him and pressing kisses to him wherever you can reach if it had even the possibility to heal his pain, you would do it forever. 

After many hours, the two of you were still wrapped in one another's arms. Intertwined so tightly that if anyone were to walk into the room they might mistake you for one large mound under the covers, rather than two people.

You stirred slightly from inside his arms, turning to stare out the window across the room, the sun is slowly and steadily rising now. Rays of orange gold crept over the horizon and spilled out onto the streets of Alexandria.

A new day is beginning out there, yet inside, here with you two of you, time has frozen, preserving you both.

Rain starts to steadily fall outside, tiny droplets falling together to create an almost misty effect, a morning shower beginning, cleansing the world for this new day. The sound roused Daryl from his light sleep, and his blue eyes flickered open to look at you, then to the slightly open window.

He says nothing, and neither do you, for what feels like an eternity.

"She'll be awake soon" You eventually whisper, your face turning back to look at him.

"soon" He echos, staring out the window still, watching the raindrops fall, the sounds filling the room, mingling with both of your soft, shallow breaths. He is distant, distracted, and detached.

"we will be okay" You breathe, putting a soft hand on his cheek and forcing him to look at you finally. His blue eyes are so devoid of the spark, and the snarky, fiery archer from the farm is slowly fading with every person lost.

"we will" You repeat, maybe this time you'll believe it.

"Yeah." He whispers back, his eyes closing as he leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours and inhaling deeply.

Just then, Judith cries softly from across the hall, the noise carrying through the room, drowning out the soft rain.

You sit up, Daryl following after you, mirroring your movements in a way that suggests both your soul and body are in sync, as they always have been.

You look at him, then to the direction of the cries.

"c'mon," You nod, reaching out to gently graze his hand with yours, pulling him to the surface, anchoring him to you. "day by day."

"day by day" He echoes while nodding, a lock of dark brown, unruly hair falling in front of his eyes. While reaching forward to tuck it back instinctively, in that moment, you believe yourself, even for a second.

Day by day can be enough, It's gonna have to be.

A/N: so I actually really love the way this one turned out!! sorry it's so angsty but I do love some angst and I have yet to post some proper angst here so ENJOY! (p.s I'm very much sticking to my new years resoulution of writing more as we can see)

[spectersgirl]

Hiii Harvey Specter x reader and they're in a section relationship because she's Mike's younger sister/best friend??

I’m assuming you meant secret relationship, so that’s what I went with for this!

I've also seen a few people writing for a prompt like this recently so I really hope I'm not stepping on any toes, I tried my best to set myself apart so nothing is too similar <3 also this feels crazy long lol

----

Secrets, Secrets.

Harvey Specter x Reader

"Harvey Specter's office," Harvey answered his phone with a suaveness that let you know he recognized the number ringing through to this direct line, as opposed to being connected by Donna's line.

"Wow, so this is what the handsome Harvey Specter sounds like... I wouldn't know since I haven't been able to see him in DAYS." You whined, knowing it wasn't exactly the fault of the man on the other end of the phone, but choosing to complain anyway. Mike and Rachel had been staying with you in your apartment for the last week, something about the water in their building being off, which meant any chance you had of spending nights with Mike's boss was at a zero.

Harvey sighed, hating to hear you upset, and missing you himself. He would've been more than willing to let you stay with him at his place over the last week, however, he knew better than to let you lie to Mike. You were a terrible liar, and the whole thing would blow up in both your faces in about three seconds. You'd only been seeing each other for about 2 months, and up until now it had been pretty easy to hide from Mike. He didn't suspect a thing, so you didn't exactly have to lie.

"I know, pretty girl. I'm sorry. I miss you too. Do you know when their water will be back up and running?"

"I think they said they'll be gone by tomorrow." You paused for a moment, thinking about how, even though you'd be able to be with Harvey again, you'd still be hiding in plain sight from your big brother. "I wish we didn't have to keep this from him..." You said, a bit dejectedly. You and Harvey had both agreed that once things were really serious between you two, you'd tell Mike the truth, but the time felt like it was dragging. The longer you waited, the more torturous it felt not telling him.

Harvey's heart ached, he wanted you happy more than anything else in the world. To hell with your agreement, he was ready to tell Mike, even if it got him punched in the face.

"Let's tell him" Harvey said, shocking you. A big smile crept across your face, you couldn't help the way your heart leaped at the thought of going public with Harvey. You were still nervous about how he'd react, though.

"Okay, deal. Let's tell him in public though. Just in case things get... violent." You suggested. Harvey chuckled at this, knowing you both had the same mental image of Mike's fist in Harvey's face.

"That sounds like a good idea. Meet me in my office at 9am tomorrow, I've got some time between clients and Mike has a meeting out of the office at 10:30."

"9am it is. Alright baby, I'll let you get back to work. I just wanted to call 'cause I missed you. I'll see you tomorrow" You said. You wished you were in his arms now, but happy that come tomorrow you could finally be out in the open.

"I'll see you then gorgeous." Harvey replied, a small smile on his face as he hung up the phone. He was facing the window, and so wrapped up in his conversation that he hadn't noticed Donna walk in and seat herself on his couch.

"Who was that?" She asked excitedly, making Harvey jump about a foot in the air. "That was Y/N, wasn't it?"

"That was none of your business, don't you have work to do or something?"

"I'M RIGHT, IT WAS!" She nearly yelled, now out of her seat and standing in front of Harvey at his desk. He had on his best poker face, trying not to let Donna see any semblance of a reaction. "You're totally dating her. Have you guys told Mike? Can I film it when you do?"

"Can you PLEASE go... answer an email or something? Anything but this." Harvey pleaded, desperate for this conversation to be over. Maybe Donna would get amnesia from the last five minutes and never mention it again. At least, not until after tomorrow. Mike absolutely could not find out about this from anyone other than himself and Y/N or it would be a complete shit-show for everyone.

"Fine, but only because I actually do have a lot to do today. We WILL continue this conversation later. Secrets secrets are no fun, Harvey! Oh, hey Mike! I was just... leaving!" Donna said, smiling at Mike who was standing in the doorway.

He watched her leave over his shoulder before turning back to Harvey.

"What was that about?" He asked, gesturing at Donna. Harvey absentmindedly waved a hand and brushed it off as her being dramatic.

Mike shrugged, seemingly having bought the excuse. Harvey mentally sighed a sigh of relief as he barely listened to the words coming out of the younger man's mouth. Something about the case he was working on, but Harvey couldn't focus. He was actually starting to get nervous about telling him. He knew how much you valued your brother's opinions since he was really your only living family, and he already loved Mike like his own brother. Disappointing him and losing you because of that might just kill Harvey, at least it felt that way to him. Even though you hadn't been together all that long, he knew deep down that you were it for him. He had never felt this way with any girl before, even Scottie couldn't compare to what he felt for you.

Eventually, after giving half-assed answers that Mike was apparently satisfied with, he thanked Harvey for his help and went back to his office, leaving Harvey to himself for the rest of the day until he poked his head in to say goodbye when he left that night.

The time until he finally got to see you the next morning both crawled and flew for Harvey. On one hand, he couldn't wait to hold you again, however he wasn't exactly looking forward to letting Mike in on your secret.

The drive to Mike and Harvey's office felt like it took forever as you practiced what you'd say to your brother over and over in your head. You finally arrived, texting Harvey that you were heading up in the elevator. When you got up, he was waiting for you in the lobby. He smiled politely, acting like merely an acquaintance, not wanting to cause any suspicions. You followed his lead, acting casual as you weaved through the halls behind him.

He took you into his office, sitting you down on the couch. Your hands shook as you smoothed out the sundress you wore. Harvey noticed, because of course he did, and gave you a sad smile.

"It's gonna be okay, honey. No matter what he thinks, or says, I will always be here."

You blinked back a few tears, nodding.

"I'll always be here too, Harvey." You whispered.

He squeezed your shoulder before going to get Mike. You practiced breathing exercises as you waited for them to enter, and when they finally did, your heart nearly beat out of your chest.

"Y/N? What are you doing here? Are you okay?" Mike asked, immediately concerned you'd gotten yourself into some kind of trouble.

"She's fine, we have something to tell you, Mike," Harvey said "Take a seat."

Mike looked between the two of you before sighing.

"Don't tell me, you guys are... together?" He asked, his tone nothing short of uncomfortable. The idea of you and Harvey hooking up made his stomach turn.

"Uh, yeah. We're together." Harvey said, and Mike sat quietly.

You nervously interjected before he had a chance to respond. "We wanted to wait to tell you until we were sure it was something real and... It is. Please don't be mad, Mike. Harvey makes me really happy and I promise we didn't mean for this to happen we just-" Mike held up a hand, cutting you off.

"Y/N, it's fine. I appreciate you telling me, and if you're happy, so am I." He said, a weight falling off your shoulders. "But, if you hurt my little sister, we won't be having this same conversation." He warned Harvey. Harvey grinned and nodded in understanding.

"Thanks, Mike. I'm glad you're being so cool about this." You said, leaning over to hug him. When you finished, Mike stood up to shake Harvey's hand.

"Now, if you guys don't mind, I have work to do so I'll see you guys later. Mike said, leaving the two of you alone in the room.

You stared in silence for a moment, shocked at how well it had gone over. You felt like he was going to come back in screaming, throwing things, something. But he didn't.

Harvey snapped out of his shock before you, sitting down beside you and taking your hands in his.

"Well, now that that's over..." He began, leaning in to kiss you. A shiver went up your spine, you were fuzzy all over with joy. Finally, you could kiss your boyfriend in public, in front of anyone you wanted.

"What do you say we go out for a celebratory dinner and drinks tonight?" Harvey offered.

"I'd love that."

"Hi, can I interject? I was SO right!" Donna said before going back to her desk to celebrate her yet again correct intuition. You and Harvey couldn't help but crack up, leaning into each other as he placed a gentle kiss on the top of your head. Finally, he felt a relief he didn't even know he was craving all this time.

[arcane-vagabond]

In a surprise to absolutely no one, I’m BACK~

Has Scout met Sarah and Billy yet? If so, how’d it go???? Do the inlaws approve????

Yes they have!!

You walked briskly up to the white painted house. It was clear that it was well taken care of, and you saw various toys littering the yard out wrong. The laundry hung out on the line, flapping in the cold, gentle wind.

This looked like a home that belonged to any normal family, and yet, you stopped just passed the front gate, gazing up nervously at the structure. This was where Natasha had told you Jake's sister, Sarah, lived with her young son. Birdie had told you all about the blond, little boy and how enthusiastic he was during classes.

"He's such a good boy, Scout," she had said with a smile. "You'll have nothing to worry about from him."

"You won't have much to worry about from Sarah, either," chimed in Nat. "She knows how her brother can be."

So here you stood, staring despairingly from the house down to the basket of cookies and back again. What if they don't like them? What if they already hated you? Maybe you shouldn't have com-

Just then the front door creaked open, revealing a blond head of hair that peeked around. Green eyes stared at you in curiosity, and you felt like a child who was caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

"Who are you?" The boy called, voice and eyes suspicious as they took you in.

"Hello, there," you tutted nervously, shifting from one foot to the other as you stepped forward. The boy backed away slightly, and you hesitated, attempting to ease his worry with a small smile. "My name is Scout. I believe we both know your Uncle Jake?"

They boys suspicion was gone in a flash, replaced by an excited smile as he opened the door wider.

"You know Uncle Jake?" he called excitedly. A shadow passed behind him before a beautiful, blonde woman stepped forward. Her curious green eyes stole your breath away with how similar they were to a certain someone's...

"Can I help you?" She called to you politely, placing a protective hand over the small boy. You smiled at her.

"My name is Scout, I'm-" You paused, considering your words. "I'm good friends with Jake."

The woman snorted, dropping her hand from the boy as she regarded you.

"So you're the girl who has my baby brother in a tizzy, huh?" She asked, a smirk adorning her face now as she looked you up and down. "That's not an easy feat, you know. What brings you by?"

"Oh," you hummed, looking down at the basket in your hand. "I, um, well, I just wanted to bring some treats by, I suppose. I know Christmas was a few weeks ago, but I wanted to show my gratitude to Jake and his family."

She stared at you for a moment longer before throwing her head back in a fit of laughter.

"Is that what you really wanted?" She asked, her smile casting a warm glow on her face. "From what I've heard, you're more likely to take his head off than show him some gratitude."

You blushed, stammering in your response.

"I, um, well, I-I-"

"Don't worry," she waved you off. "My brother can be an ass on the best of days. Besides, he needs someone who'll keep him on his toes and workin' hard. I'm Sarah, by the way."

"Scout," you greeted, sighing in relief. The boy bounded down the steps to you, peering at the basket that was still in your hands.

"I'm Billy," he chirped, looking up at you. "Are you really my Uncle Jake's girl?"

You spluttered, eyes wide. Sarah walked up to stand behind Billy, a look of amusement still on her face.

"What?" You managed to choke out.

"Ignore him," she chuckled, placing a hand on your elbow to guide you towards the house. "Come inside, it's freezing out here."

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

hello !! i'm not sure if you're taking asks right now, but if so, could you recommend some fics where derek/peter is protective and/or possessive of stiles? thanks!

I sure do!

Old Traditions, Werewolf Edition by Footloose

(1/1 I 3,601 I General I Sterek)

Stiles does not work his Omega ass off to attract frat boy Alphas. Absolutely not. He's at college to get his degree. If he's crushing on an Alpha who never crosses the lines of propriety, well, no one needs to know, right?

Acquiring Big Brothers and Boyfriends by iCheat

(1/? I 4,512 I Not Rated I Steter)

Only Stiles could adopt a WW2 veteran as his big brother. That would be fine on its own but between that, the werewolf climbing through his window, the ritual deaths and the Alpha pack there's a lot going on. Well, at least SHIELDs not involved. Yet.

Your Bruises Drive Me Insane by 100percentfluffster

(2/2 I 10,118 I Not Rated I Steter)

They always seemed to forget that Stiles was human. In some manners at least. Scott and Derek always went on about how he was too fragile to be helpful. That he was a liability and the weak link of the Pack, but that awareness of his fragility seemed to always disappear when it came to their own aggression.

A story of how Peter notices the way the Pack treats Stiles and does everything he can to step between Stiles and further harm.

(baby) maybe that matters more by lavenderlotion

(4/10 I 16,610 I Mature I Steter)

“Well, well, well,” drawls a familiar voice that Stiles hadn’t even considered he might ever hear again. “The token pack human, left all alone?”

Two Men and a Tree by CarryOnMySwanSong

(24/? I 55,634 I Explicit I Steter)

A catastrophic event leaves Stiles mobility impaired, both physically and magically. After a falling out with Derek and the rest of the wolves in Beacon Hills and Peter Saving Stiles from himself, Stiles and Peter take a road trip. They do not intend to come back. Instead, they build a Pack in Montana. They are gone for ten long years before Derek calls Peter, begging for his help. After they save the day, Peter and Stiles live out their days, changing the entire paranormal world for the better.

Baseball Bats and Sour Wolves by Erin1324

(55/? I 68,429 I Teen I Sterek)

Derek is cursed with some sort of spell, and for some reason only responds to Stiles as a result. He tries to attack everyone else, even his Alpha, he's also acting super overprotective of Stiles, hardly letting anyone get close to him.

Deep Green by aurevell

(14/14 I 93,992 I Teen I Steter)

Stiles steps out of his dream between one heartbeat and the next, finding himself alone in a dark wood. The sickly light of the moon, nearly full beyond the branches, spills onto the leaf-strewn ground. It illuminates splatters of mud on his pale ankles.

It’s the fourth time this month. “Fuck me,” he grumbles, and calls Lydia.

Stiles and Lydia are lots of things: lifelong latchkey kids, aspiring Ivy Leaguers, the terrors of Beacon Hills High, and inseparable best friends. But between Stiles’s sleepwalking and the voices in Lydia’s head, their grip on reality feels tenuous at best.

Enter Peter Hale, a charming (probable) serial killer who offers the answers they need—and the chance to be something more than what they are.

Can't rely on me by Littleredridinghunter

(12/12 I 116,206 I Not Rated I Sterek)

Gerard beats Stiles up, but it's a lot worse than anyone knows.

The pack let him down, that's not really a surprise lately.

When Danny finds Stiles nearly bleeding to death the next day it's the start of a beautiful friendship.

Can the pack make amends before it's too late? Will Stiles ever forgive them for not being there for him when he needed them the most?

Desolate by Vague_Shadows

(27/27 I 130,463 I Sterek)

Derek stops short the moment his eyes fall on the huddled mass in the corner. The beta lying crumpled there is trying desperately to make himself seem as small as possible and cover his most vulnerable areas. It takes Derek almost a full minute to realize who it is and another to realize that he’s wearing tattered, blood-stained remains of the clothes he disappeared in over four months ago. The acrid stench clinging to him tells such a vivid story of the atrocities he must have endured while he’s been missing that Derek thinks he might be sick.

“Stiles?” he asks in disbelief.

Settle Down by wearing_tearing, whatthehale

(19/19 I 153,181 I Explicit I Sterek)

Stiles is a struggling author barely making ends meet.

Derek is a successful architect whose biological clock is ticking.

Enter a surrogacy agency, two packs, and a particularly sticky and toe curling heat week and you get a match made in heaven.

Actions Speak Louder than Words by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

(25/25 I 434,622 I Explicit I Sterek)

“I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s been so long. And we finally have you.”

That was a bad word. Not found.

Have.

Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment.

One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding.

[seconds-not-decades]

Step {Back} In Time

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Fem! OC

Author's Note: Hello and welcome. This is my season two fic (and sequel to Time and Chase). I will be posting daily. *Please note that I am well aware that Elliot Page portrays Viktor, but due to season two being before his transition, that is why his character is still Vanya. I am not deadnaming him and I sincerely hope I don't come across as such. I will transition when I write season three.*

Warnings: Slightly long post, and cursing.

Previous | Next

A Light Supper

~ * ~

On April the 1st, 2019, the Earth was destroyed in a cataclysmic event.

Billions of people were wiped out in a matter of minutes.

Ironically, the seven survivors of the apocalypse were the very family members who brought it on.

~ * ~

Lila was still struggling beneath Five's foot, grunting loudly and gasping.

"You've got a good nose," the Handler continued.

"You know, planting her in a psych ward, taking advantage of my simpleton brother, that was smart," Five retorted.

"Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," the Handler casually stated. Lila was choking softly now.

Karina and Five's heads snapped up, staring at the Handler. "She's your-" Karina began.

"Daughter. Yes," the Handler finished for her. "And she's my only one, so I'd appreciate it if your oh so beloved husband didn't crush her windpipe."

Lila gasped, grunting for air. Five hesitated for a second before he removed his foot and Lila cried out, panting as she got to her feet.

"I am so going to enjoy killing you two someday," she hissed dangerously.

Five and Karina eyed her nonchalantly.

"Lila, darling, would you give us a minute, please?" the Handler requested.

"Yes, the grown-ups need to talk," Five added smugly.

The Handler gave her a soft smile and Five was grinning sarcastically. Karina gave a little wave of her fingers as Lila rolled her eyes. She stalked off, smacking a scrap of something off a box and making it clatter loudly onto the ground.

"What is it you want?" Five asked once it was just the three of them.

"Do you like jazz, Five? Karina?" the Handler was casual.

"I'd rather lick a cheese grater," he remarked instantly.

"Aww. Jazz is like a beautiful woman," the Handler circled around them. She was studying Karina. "Take your lovely Mrs. Hargreeves. Jazz is like your wife. Complex, emotional, hard to please. She doesn't just give it to you. She makes you work for it."

"Instead of comparing my wife to a stripper in front of me; I'm really hoping that you're going somewhere with this," Five wrapped an arm around Karina, pulling her flush to his side.

"Under my leadership, the Commission would sound more like…" the Handler lowered her voice to a whisper. "Jazz." She hummed a soft jazz rhythm.

"And what about the board of directors?" Karina crossed her arms.

"Well, that's where you two come in!" the Handler bopped her on the nose and Karina swatted her hand away.

"Nope. No, it isn't!" Five automatically piped up.

"In exchange for the assassination of the board, I'm willing to get you and your family out of this timeline and back to 2019 where you belong," the Handler proposed.

"And what about World War III that's due to kick off in just a few days?" Five watched her closely.

"Once you, your wife, and your siblings are gone, that goes away."

"And the apocalypse when we get back to 2019?" Karina added.

"That too."

"I distinctly remember you telling me that that apocalypse had to happen, that it was supposed to happen," Five shot.

"Back then I was toeing the company line, but once I'm in charge…" the Handler mimicked another jazz tune. "The three of us…we can riff…" She danced around, nudging the two of them.

"Jazz," Five and Karina muttered thoughtfully.

"Exactly," the Handler grinned, going back to standing in front of them.

Five walked off, running a hand through his hair.

"What about the board of directors, hmm? I mean, nobody knows who they are," Karina pointed out.

"Correct," the Handler responded. "But once every fiscal quarter, they get together for a board meeting."

"Where?" the couple questioned at the same time.

"The question is when. They meet somewhere in the timeline but never in the same place twice. The exact location and date of these board meetings is the most closely-guarded secret in the Commission," she answered.

"But you know where it's gonna be, don't you?" Five assumed.

"Would I be any good at what I do if I didn't?"

Five and Karina exchanged a glance as he leaned back on the table. He crossed his arms and she bit her lip thoughtfully. The Handler was smiling down at them.

"We need some time to think about it," Five announced, standing up.

"Fine," the Handler watched the two walk off. "But remember, doomsday's right around the corner, and the way things are going, I'm your only option."

They scoffed softly.

"Not yet you aren't," Five spoke over his shoulder.

And with that, he blinked them out.

~ * ~

Five and Karina were standing in front of the hotel. He looked down at the two invitations they received from Sir Reginald.

"This feels like a set up," Karina commented as they went inside.

"We'll see," Five returned. He sighed. "I'm just wondering how he knew about you."

"Perhaps he caught a glimpse of us together at the consulate and has a good memory."

He sighed, pressing a button for the elevator. "I'm not too thrilled to have him meet you, no matter what decade we're in but, I suppose I was delaying the inevitable."

"I always figured we'd never formally and properly meet each other's parents," Karina blankly stared ahead.

Five grimaced from that, not missing the uncharacteristic bitterness in her unusual sharp tone. "Your mother," he very quietly began. "You miss her, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Every day," Karina replied tightly, swallowing hard to stop her tears from appearing.

He nodded wordlessly, letting his fingers lace around hers and give her hand a loving squeeze. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. The two went in, exhaling slowly. Five pressed the button to their designated floor. The doors began to slide closed.

Just then, Diego appeared and stopped the doors. "Wait up."

Footsteps sounded from the hall and Allison came in next. "Hold it."

"Hey, everyone," Klaus came next with Vanya.

"Excuse me," Luther rounded up the group.

Five smirked triumphantly, his arm around Karina's waist. "Good. We're all here."

The elevator dinged and the doors closed. Halfway up the floors, Luther grunted softly and everyone unluckily breathed in.

"Oh…" Allison wrinkled her nose.

"Oof!" Five, Vanya, and Karina coughed.

"Luther!" Klaus scolded.

"Oh, my God," Karina almost choked.

"Sorry, I'm nervous," Luther apologized.

The elevator dinged and everyone escaped the elevator at once, muttering in disgust.

"Nasty. I'm choking! None of that," came the complaints.

They all stepped into a tiki themed lounge. Island music played softly over speakers.

"All right, when Dad gets here, I'll do the talking, okay?" Five spoke.

"Got a few questions for him myself," Diego cut in.

"Hey, we don't wanna scare him off, alright? He might be able to help us stop doomsday, get us home."

"No, Five, we need to figure out why he's planning to kill the president."

"This is a matter of life and death, you imbecile!"

"Okay, yeah, maybe you all should take turns talking," Karina suggested quickly.

"Yeah? Here, whoever has got this conch shell gets to talk," Vanya agreed, walking back to the table with the shell.

"Vanya, we don't have time for a debate, okay?" Five sighed.

"Maybe I should lead. We all know I'm a better public speaker than the rest," Allison announced boldly as she took the shell.

"Okay, Daddy's girl," Diego remarked.

"Oh, jealous, Number Two?"

"Hey, no more numbers. No more bullshit. We're Team Zero. We're all Team Zero," he went over to her.

"Uh, Diego?" Luther piped up, already sitting down at the table. "You don't have the conch."

Diego flashed a small, sarcastic smile before he grabbed the shell and threw it at the wall, shattering it.

"Classic," Allison sighed flatly.

The back door crashed open as Sir Reginald Hargreeves himself stalked in. Everyone fell silent in a heartbeat. He went over to his place at the table as everyone formally sat down.

"Not only have you burglarized my lab, set my chimp loose, conned your way into the Mexican consulate, repeatedly stalked and attacked me, but you have, on numerous occasions, called me-" he broke off as Klaus pulled back a chair and grunted softly when he plopped down next to him.

"Hey, Pop. How's it hangin'?" he casually greeted.

Sir Reginald eyed him warily. "…'Dad'. My reconnaissance tells me you're not CIA, not KGB, certainly not MI5, so…who are you?"

Everyone opened their mouths as if to speak, but no words came out as they closed their mouths respectively.

"We're your children, except one of us is your daughter-in-law," Five answered, subtly nodding his head to Karina next to him. "We're from the future. In 1989, you adopted us all and trained us to fight against the end of the world. Called us the Umbrella Academy."

"Why on earth would I adopt six-"

"Seven," Allison corrected him. "One of us isn't here."

"Dead," Diego lowly added. "One of us is dead."

"Dead, yes, but I'm here," Ben was sitting behind Klaus. "Klaus! Tell them I'm here!"

"Yeah, ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba!" he shushed over him dismissively. "Enough of that now."

Sir Reginald eyed him. "Regardless, what would possess me to adopt seven ill-mannered malcontents? More or less possess you to marry one of these ill-mannered malcontents?" he glanced at Karina for that one.

"We all have special abilities," Five leaned forward defensively before she could answer.

"Special? In what sense?" Sir Reginald questioned.

"In the superpower sense," Luther responded slowly.

"Called me old-fashioned, but I'm a stickler for a pesky little thing called evidence," Sir Reginald nearly demanded and everyone shared a hesitant, exasperated look. "Show me."

"Everybody wants to see powers all of a sudden," Allison scoffed sarcastically, taking a sip of her drink.

"We're not circus animals, okay? We're not gonna bounce balls on our noses and clap our hands like seals for your amusement," Luther remarked.

Diego unsheathed a knife casually and let it fly, arching around Sir Reginald's head. It loudly thudded against a wall.

"What are you writing?" Karina noticed him scribbling something in his notebook and everyone tried to peek at the pages.

"You are zero for two, young man," Sir Reginald ignored her question.

Allison sputtered on her drink and Diego shot to his feet, about to tackle him. Five blinked out and reappeared in front of him, holding him back.

"Stop!" Five whispered harshly and Karina gave the two a warning glare.

"Now that is interesting," Sir Reginald was thoughtful.

Five sighed. "All right, uh, quick rundown. Luther: super strength. Klaus can commune with the dead. Allison can rumor anyone to do anything." He sat back down next to Karina.

"Except she never uses it," Diego fired back, sitting down as well.

"Oho, you're on a roll today," Karina commented sassily, swirling her margarita around.

"I heard a rumor you punched yourself in the face," Allison looked at Diego.

"Aah!" he yelled when his fist collided with his face. Five turned to Sir Reginald and acknowledged him with his hand.

Diego groaned and held his nose. "Damn it!"

Allison casually slurped her drink.

"And you?" Sir Reginald looked at Vanya.

"Uh, maybe we don't take Vanya for a test run," Luther immediately said.

"Oh, yeah, that's probably not a good idea," Klaus agreed, slipping down in his chair some.

"Yeah."

Vanya sat up, determined to give it a shot. "It's fine. I can handle it."

"Handle it?" Allison echoed.

"Last time you handled it, you definitely blew up the moon. No! Vanya, don't!" came the overlapping protests from Allison, Luther, and Five.

She picked up her fork and clinked it against the glass. A high-pitched tone resonated, sending fruit smashing into everyone as they jerked back in their chairs. Everyone sighed and tried to wipe themselves off.

"This is my favorite shirt," Klaus complained.

"Oops," Vanya shyly looked down with a rather satisfied smile.

"That was impressive," Luther commented.

"Look, we know that you're involved in a plot to assassinate the president," Diego got everyone back on track, standing up.

Everyone eyed him in exasperation.

"You were recently hospitalized, isn't that correct? You still appear to be suffering from delusions of grandeur and acute paranoia," Sir Reginald stared at him.

"Am I? Explain this," Diego pulled out a photograph and set it down in front of him. "That's you. That's two days from now on the grassy knoll at the exact spot the president's gonna get shot."

Sir Reginald gently took the photo and studied it. "Well…I suppose you've solved it." He put the photo down. "You've single-handedly unearthed my nefarious plot. Is that what you want to hear? You fancy yourself a do-gooder? The last good man who will save us from our descent into corruption and conspiracy? This is a fantastic delusion. The sad reality is that you're a desperate man, tragically unaware of his own insignificance, desperately clinging to his own ineffectual reasoning. More succinctly, a man in over his head."

"Y-You're wr-wrong," Diego stuttered out weakly.

Everyone was dead silent from that, hesitating to speak or move. Five noticed Karina shift in her chair and he took her hand beneath the table, squeezing it.

"Look, forget about the president," Karina got the attention off of poor Diego.

"We have a catastrophic war coming in five days," Five chimed in. "We need to figure out how to stop it."

"War? Men will always be at war with each other," Sir Reginald remarked.

"No, this isn't just some war. I'm talking about a doomsday. The end of the world."

"Well…you're the special ones, aren't you? Why don't you band together and do something about it?"

Everyone hopelessly stared at the man in disbelief and agony.

"All right. Screw it!" Ben shot up from the table he was at and launched himself into Klaus's body.

Klaus grunted and let out choked gasped, shaking violently with his arms thrown up in the air.

"Is he having a seizure?" Allison was staring at him.

"Overdosing probably," Diego muttered flatly.

"Should we do something?" Karina whispered to Five.

Klaus was shuddering and grunting, causing everyone to stare at him now.

"Klaus!" Five whispered harshly. "Now is not the time! What are you doing?!"

Klaus turned to Sir Reginald. "I'm…" he distortedly gurgled.

"Out with it, boy!" Sir Reginald demanded impatiently.

"…Ben!" Ben managed to choke out before he fell out of Klaus's body.

Klaus himself gasped, collapsing to the floor and panting. He shuddered from the aftermath.

Sir Reginald slowly turned to the others. "Well…" He gathered up his belongings. "Thank you for coming. I've seen about enough." He got to his feet and stepped over Klaus carefully.

"No, I-" Luther stopped himself. He suddenly pounded on the table and shot to his feet, ripping his shirt open to reveal his half-ape body. "Look at what you did to me. Look at it!" he shouted.

Allison choked on her drink.

"Oh, shit. Why?" Five flopped back in his chair in disgusted mortification.

Vanya looked shocked and confused as Karina just took a long drink, thinking that her in-laws were all insane.

Sir Reginald looked at Luther before turning to Five and Karina. "You in the culottes, along with the blonde clinging to your side." He pointed to them and they looked up at him. "A word, in private?" He pointed towards the bar.

Fearing the worst, Five slowly got up and helped Karina to her feet before they followed Sir Reginald to the bar. The rest of the family grudgingly filed out, leaving the three of them to freely speak in peace.

"You two seem to be the sensible ones of the bunch. Even though you speak rather out of tongue for a young girl as yourself," Sir Reginald eyed Karina evenly.

"That's because we're the oldest and she can handle her own," Five returned. "You know, technically, we're older than you right now."

"Cognac?" Sir Reginald offered.

"Just a smidge," Five replied and Karina nodded.

"The other night you quoted Homer at me. Why?"

"You forced us all to learn it as kids. In the original Greek, no less," Five explained.

The bartender poured the three their drinks and they acknowledged one another with their glasses before taking a sip.

"Mmm," Five hummed. "This world ends in five days if we don't get out of the timeline."

"Worlds end. Paleozoic, Jurassic, and so on," Sir Reginald returned.

Five instantly shook his head and put his glass down. "We can do something about this one."

"Man's greatest flaw: the illusion of control."

"We need your help. All right?" Karina put in. "You're our last sane option."

"Otherwise, we gotta make a deal that we really don't wanna make," Five admitted. "What do you know about time travel?"

"In theory?"

"In practice."

"I know it's akin to descending blindly into the depths of freezing waters and reappearing-"

"As an acorn," Five interrupted him knowingly. "Yeah."

"What transpired when you tried traveling before?"

"I botched it."

"How?"

"I jumped too far forward, got stuck in the future for 45 years in an apocalypse. Then I jumped too far backwards…except this time I brought my entire family with me," Five briefly summed up.

"Maybe your appetite is disproportionate to the size of your abilities," Sir Reginald reasoned. "Start small. Seconds, not decades."

"Seconds?" Five echoed in disbelief.

"Mmm."

"Look, no offense, but I need a bit more time for what I'm trying to accomplish."

"So much can change in a matter of seconds. One could overthrow an empire. One could fall in love, as you obviously have and might I add she is very suited for you," Sir Reginald glanced to Karina. "An acorn doesn't become an oak overnight."

"I was really hoping you had more than that," Five admitted disappointedly.

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

"I'm sorry, too," Five looked down. "I gave you such a hard time as a kid. I didn't know any better."

"Hmm. No skin off my teeth, old man," Sir Reginald returned and sipped some more of his drink.

Five sighed and shook his head. He and Karina grabbed their glasses, downing their whole drinks.

Lord knows they'd need it.

~ * ~

Five and Karina arrived at the green double doors of the rather fancy and elegant hotel. Five knocked and the doors dramatically swung open to reveal The Handler.

"Ah! Just in time for a nightcap!" she beamed when she saw them. She strolled off.

Five reluctantly made his way into the room and Karina waited a few seconds. She sighed, forcing herself to join his side.

The Handler stated making the three drinks as Five glanced around before closing the doors. The cocktail shaker sloshed for a moment before liquid poured. A cigarette lighter clicked open.

"To be clear," Five turned to face the Handler, who had two cocktails in her hands for the couple. "We take out the board-" He sighed. "-You get me, my wife, and my family home."

"No more doomsday, no more apocalypse. Is that correct?" Karina coldly finished.

"That's the deal," the Handler laid across the bed, looking at the two.

Five and Karina exchanged a look of resignation.

"Then we're in."

"I'm holding you to that. Because last few times your deals have been real shitty," Karina seethed.

"Feisty aren't we? Might want to save the fire for the mission," the Handler breezily advised.

Karina's jaw clenched. "Your missions are even worse."

"Oh, you hold such meaningless grudges. That was once all right? I admit, it was a bad move on my behalf, but, you got what I needed and that was that. Never had to be sent out again," the Handler returned, giving her a sharp dagger. "Besides, you're older and wiser and stronger and oh, not to mention: with someone. You won't be alone this time, Karina."

"Being older and smarter and stronger was never the problem," she quietly bit out, evenly looking at the Handler.

Five didn't like the direction this conversation was going and he wondered what exactly they were sparring about.

"It's in your past, doll. You've moved on to bigger and better things, such as this," the Handler held up a piece of paper containing the location and time of the board meeting.

Five hesitatingly plucked the paper from her fingers and the two read the address. He glanced up at the Handler blankly and heaved a breath.

~ * ~

[nanaminokanojo]

Play the Game | Nanami Kento X You | Part 7/8

CHARACTERS: Nanami Kento X You (fem!reader | PLEASE READ THE NOTES BELOW*) | Gojo Satoru | Geto Suguru | Shoko Ieiri | Utahime Iori | other JJK Characters CHAPTER COUNT: 7/8 WORD COUNT: 6,400+ GENRE: romance | fluff | slight angst | smut MINORS DNI | ooc depictions | female reader with described appearance* | modern au | rich people au | aged up characters CHAPTER TRIGGER WARNING: profanity | age gap | cigarette smoking | strong/mature/suggestive language | smut (fingering, unprotected sex, slight daddy kink XD, etc.) SPOILERS: n/a STATUS: COMPLETED

collection masterlist

one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight

"Play the Game" Masterlist

"You always hide here when you're down," Geto said, stepping onto the rickety floors of the abandoned wooden gazebo at the far edge of the walled gardens. It was meant to be torn down but for your insistence for it to stay erect.

He took out a cigarette and lit it, taking a long drag when you didn't answer, huddled on one of the corners of the hexagonal structure. "You really shouldn't have done that," he told you, his voice ringing crisp in the still air.

"You should really quit that dirty habit," you muttered in a form of retaliation, not really in the mood to be lectured.

"I could say the same with your games, Y/N!" he said harshly, the first time he ever would. It was more for the fact that he felt frustrated that you kissed him all for the benefit of another man as opposed to merely scolding you for whatever wrongdoing you've committed. He felt all the more frustrated that he was doing it at all.

"I'm sorry if I dragged you into this," you told him sincerely. "I shouldn't have –"

"I am not sorry," he interrupted you. "I wanted that for a while now."

"What?" You stood up and walked towards him, making him turn to face you. "What are you talking about?"

Geto placed a hand behind his neck, exhaling exaggeratedly and throwing his head back, closing his eyes momentarily before meeting your blue gaze. "I understand why Kento is taking this harder than what you're expecting." He sighed. "It probably would have been better if you kissed Yuuji instead."

You just blinked at him, perplexed. "I don't get it."

It's now or never. He wanted you to know at least before you made up your mind, but knowing you, he knew you already did. And he wasn't going to be your choice. "Look, I like you. I wanted you for myself ever since you entered university."

"Huh?"

"And three years ago, I told Kento about how I felt," he droned on. "And maybe he thinks that's still the case, that I am still his rival where you are concerned."

"So are you?" you demanded.

He shook his head, smiling as he blew smoke at the opposite direction. "I know a losing game when I see one, and honestly, I'm rooting for the two of you."

You clutched at his arm. "Suguru..."

He ruffled your hair, throwing his cigarette away and hugging you to his side. "Don't get me wrong, princess. I was hurt that I wasn't your favorite anymore. I wanted to tell you, but you beat me to it and told me you liked Kento instead."

"You'll always be my favorite," you said. "You guys don't get replaced, not to me. I love you all differently, and I have things I share with each of you that I can never have with the other."

Geto's eyes widened slightly at your words. "I'll hold you to that." He snickered then. "Seriously though, where the hell did the two of you get things so wrong? Everything just went to shit in a matter of hours. And I thought Ieiri and I were being very specific with our instructions to you."

"Ieiri?"

"She's been talking to Kento, too. You two are just too dense and slow."

You punched him on the arm, glaring at him.

"Ow!" he grumbled, rubbing at the sore spot. "I'm a model, you know. You're not supposed to mark me."

"Oh, is that what you tell all your girls?" you teased.

He rolled his eyes at you. "Kento already made it back to the house. You should apologize."

You stood on your toes and kissed him on the cheek, hugging him tight.

"You might want to refrain from doing just that, princess," he said but you just giggled and made your way back to the manor. "You're still my favorite!" you called out.

He took another stick if cigarette, chuckling at you, but as he was about to light it, he opted not to.

**

You've done it this time. You just knew it. You realized that when you sobered up from all the crying you did after the incident at the lake. It was too late to say you should have listened to Yuuji and regret wasn't really something you could relate to. Typically. Now, you wanted him to say, "I told you so." Him and Megumi. Throw in Nobara, too, but you knew you weren't going to forgive yourself if things didn't turn back the way they used to be where you and Nanami were involved. That was all you were hoping for if he really has been put off by the mere idea of you.

Geto was just as much of a trickster as you are, but what you did not foresee was the result and his reaction to you, and you weren’t exactly ready for the his confession. That was a first and after speaking with him, you understood. Nanami was downright outraged. He might have not gone all out on you about the matter but you knew there was something else he wasn't saying. He has always been considerate of your feelings, and you were afraid you've trampled on his. It was regardless of whether you meant it or not. You just crossed the line.

The situation wasn't good, and you knew Gojo would have killed you if he saw just how you were behaving at the lake, and you could just pray to every higher being out there that he never gets to find out or you’ll have no choice but to sit down and listen to his lecture. He may be averse to the idea of you dating any of his friends, and he may be the best brother anyone could have, but he would definitely not tolerate what you have done.

A bigger part of everything that’s been happening was your fault. You knew it, and you weren't afraid to admit it either. Although Nanami may have his faults for being so much of an over-thinker and being indecisive, he was right. Why couldn't you be a normal person for once and just be honest about how you feel? Why couldn't you just tell Nanami you loved him and you have been in love with him for the longest time? Again, you couldn't relate to the idea because you haven’t ever been able to healthily express your opinion, but enough was enough. You were going to do it tonight. It didn't matter what the result was. You wanted him in your life, and you’ll go through lengths to have him.

After tossing and turning on your bed for what seemed like hours and later wearing a path on your bedroom floor while fidgeting on the hem of your silk robe, you finally decided there was no way you were sleeping. You couldn’t if it saves you when the dread of him totally disappearing because of what you do gnawed at you from the inside.

You were worried sick of Nanami who disappeared after the incident. You called him on the phone several times but every attempt went straight to voicemail, and out of your frustrations, you found yourself retreating to that same spot where Geto found you. You were only able to rest easy when he spoke to you, telling you that Nanami already made it back to the manor.

Functioning on instinct, you got out of your room barefoot, the flaps of your robe flying behind you as you marched towards the guest room where he was staying. You even had your fist raised to knock on the door but at that very moment, you stopped. For the first time, you felt vulnerable. You didn't have a clue about what you would say to him the moment you see him. You didn't know how you would approach him or if it was already the right time to do so. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

Digging your nails into your palms, you listened for movement on the other side of the door when you heard the door to the adjoining bath open and close, followed by the quiet padding of bare feet on the carpeted floor. Your breath snagged, thinking of turning away. You decided to do just that but then, the door suddenly opened, making you squeak in surprise, the sight of him dressed in just his navy pajama bottoms causing you to ogle his muscular chest and abdomen.

Well shit, you thought. He was beyond hot.

"Er..."

"What is it, Y/N?" he asked, sounding mostly tired than mad. He didn't look happy to see you, but at least he didn't slam the door to your face. Too much of a violation to his manners, you surmised, tempted to tease him, but you opted not to. You weren't in any position to be playing your little games.

You exhaled in batches before you finally found your voice. "I... n-need to talk to you. Can I...come in?"

He just looked at you for a moment before taking a step back and opening the door wider for you. He then turned his bare back to you as he walked over to the bed, the muscles on his sides and back flexing with each movement. He then motioned for you to sit on the chair situated quite far from him before he himself sat down, waiting for you to talk.

You didn't sit down and instead stood behind the chair, gripping its back. "Look, I'm sorry."

He ran his fingers through his damp, blond locks, looking like a model for an expensive underwear brand as he did so. "Hmm. Are you now?"

Your throat grew dry, wishing you could smack yourself right there and then for thinking of other things when you were supposed to be apologizing sincerely to him. You knew that he was trying to be sardonic but you couldn't help but think how mesmerizing he sounded. Composing yourself, you nodded. "I am. Suguru and I –"

"I don't wish to hear it, Y/N."

"It didn't mean anything!" you finally snapped, breathing heavily and not realizing you've crossed halfway towards him. You stopped, catching yourself just in time. "I just..." You sighed. "I just wanted to make you jealous."

“Well, what the hell, Y/N! You’ve succeeded.” His jaw clenched as he said the words, eyes intent on you and unrelenting. “And guess what, you’ve done more than just make me feel jealous. You made me feel guilty, too, because I can’t help but think that I pushed you to do that because of what I said to you this morning. Are you happy?”

“No…” You shook your head, your breath snagging. “I was being selfish. None of it is your fault so you don’t have to feel that way. You’ve been trying to talk to me all day, and maybe I should have given you the chance, but being me, I relied on my baser instincts and made a game out of things again.”

He stood this time, towering over you. "That's all you know. Games," he told you quietly, his tone at odds to his words. "You never really cared who gets played in the end as long as you're amused." He reached over and picked up a few strands of your hair before flicking them off his fingers in disdain. "Isn't that what it is?"

His words hurt. "No..."

"Unfortunately, I got caught up in it, all the while thinking that maybe you'll spare me because..." He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I lost again. Congratulations."

"I'm sorry."

"Sure." He scoffed, shaking his head. "I'm tired, Y/N," he said as he sat down on the bed, burying his face into his hands.

This was it, you thought to yourself. You can't miss your chance. It was regardless of the consequences. You told yourself that. You were not going to back down even if it means you get hurt. Even if it means he would reject you.

Without thinking twice, you moved closer to him, settling on your knees directly in front of him just by his feet. You reached for his hands, gently easing them away from his face. You smiled at how big they were compared to yours, his palms rough against your fingertips. He let you pull them away, slowly moving of their own accord to cup your face, his dark, intense eyes searching yours.

"Y/N, I can't do this anymore."

You chuckled even as tears glistened in your eyes. You brushed his hair away from his forehead. "You read minds now?"

"I'm serious."

"Forgive me. I couldn't help it."

"What are you –"

Before he can finish what he wanted to say, you pushed yourself up on your foot and pressed your lips against his. You felt him stiffen against you, his hand tightening over the slope of your hips as you pushed him forward. You placed your left foot on the bed just beside his thigh while your hands took possession of his face, smiling into the kiss when he finally moved and reciprocated in kind. Your toes curled in anticipation.

He pulled you down, mouths enmeshed, breaths in sync, until you were leveled to him. He raised a hand, placing it on the side of your face, making you lean against its warmth. Your eyes flew open when he pulled away and pressed his lips against your forehead, lingering there before he kissed the tip of your nose, then your cheek just beside your mouth. Nanami closed his eyes as he leaned his forehead against yours, his hand soothingly rubbing at your bare thigh.

He was breathing deeply, brows furrowed together. Unable to help it, you started planting butterfly kisses where you could reach, capturing his lips again, hand gently caressing his jawline. Nanami twisted around, laying you on the mattress and hovering over you, continuing to kiss you. His scent had stuck to the sheets engulfing your senses and rendering everything nonexistent but him. You were lost in a world filled with nothing but him and the feel of his hands roaming all over your body in slow, sensuous movements as if he was blindly mapping out your every contour and curve.

"I don't think we should be doing this," he breathed out, chuckling quietly, but in the next moment, he sought entrance to your mouth, his hot tongue finding yours, stealing your breath. You held on tight to him, thinking he was overthinking things again, easing his mind by returning his ministrations in kind, and locking him in place with your arms wrapped around his nape. You moved your leg from underneath him, brushing your thigh between his legs, making his breath hitch when you applied the slightest of pressure, feeling him becoming stiff as you rocked your thigh back and forth against him.

Nanami drew back slightly, cutting the kiss. He opened his eyes, looking at you longingly, fingers tracing your shoulder. He looked at you with uncertainty as he fiddled with the lapels of your robe. "Tell me to stop."

At that, you smirked at him, your fingers also wandering up the expanse of his hard abdomen, slowly trailing fire up his chest to his collarbones. You bit your lip between your teeth as his skin seemed to grow warmer where you were touching him, the way he was unsteadily breathing adding to your thrill, beyond glad you had that effect on him.

"I don't want you to stop, Kento." You rose a fraction on your elbow and pecked him on the tip of his nose. "I want you."

He sighed then. “Y/N, if we’re going to do this, I want you to be certain.”

“Like a hundred percent certain?” you teased. “What’s the legal jargon for that? Do you want me to say, ‘Sustained,’ or ‘No objections, your honor’?” You giggled and he joined in, shaking his head. “Way to kill the mood though.”

“Sorry.” He flashed you a rueful smile.

Reaching out, you cupped the side of his face, eyeing him with as much conviction and certainty as you could. “You should know by now that I don’t do things I don’t exactly want to do. And when I say I want this – I want you – then that’s precisely what I want.”

He nodded slowly.

“You’re still overthinking.”

“I’m just thinking of what to say to Satoru –”

“You chose the wrong time to be talking too much.” You pulled him close, crashing your lips to his in reckless abandon. It was sloppy at best, but you hoped it would convey your certitude and confidence in what you were about to engage in with him. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Kento, I could cry just having you this close to me.”

Your words seemed to have unlocked something in him as his pupils dilated and his clear eyes clouded with want, and you couldn’t have been more glad that you decided to tell him how you honestly felt. Nanami lowered his head, claiming your lips with his in a slow, gentle kiss, his lips making love to yours in a seductive rhythm that spoke volumes of what he can’t typically express with mere words. The urgency in his kisses increased and you matched his fervor with yours, slightly rising off the bed to meet him halfway, taking as much as you could as he took from you – your breath, your heart, your soul.

As if a switch flipped, his gentle movements turned careless as he grabbed your shoulder and slid the robe off you, throwing it somewhere behind him, eyes alight with excitement as he further undressed you, pulling your matching nightie down, smirking when he discovered you weren’t wearing a bra underneath.

“You planned this,” he rasped.

You grinned smugly at him. “Maybe I did.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said, attacking your neck with open-mouthed kisses while his large hands took possession of your breasts, kneading them. You gasped when he caught one of your nipples, twisting it experimentally and watching your reaction when he latched his mouth onto the other, licking around it before giving it a particularly hard suck.

“Oh god,” you whimpered, eyes blowing wide when you heard the sound of your silks being ripped off of your body followed by a soft growl as he continued to devour your tender swells of flesh. His hands reached down, covetously taking your thighs, humming against your breast at the warmth and softness of your skin underneath the rough pads of his palms. He drew one hand upwards to the flimsy lingerie you were wearing, ripping it away wildly as well, making you gasp.

“Hey, don’t –”

Any protests you had died in your throat when he reached down the apex of your legs, his fingers immediately teasing your folds and rubbing gently. “Do you feel how wet you are, my love?” he rasped. “You want me this much?” When you didn’t answer, he prompted you by putting more pressure on the sensitive nub, making you buck off of the sheets with a squeaked out, “Yes.”

Your nether lips were slick with arousal and your clit started to become engorged as he touched you there, making you whine in pleasure as you carelessly threw your arms back on the mattress. He spread your legs wider, giving himself full access to your body while you lay there with hooded eyes, watching him have his way around you, his pupils dilated as he drank in every contour of your body.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, groaning in approval when you slightly arched your neck backwards, reveling in his touch. He started rubbing your clit in circles with just enough pressure to have you gripping on the sheets while his free hand took hold of your exposed breasts, kneading the supple flesh between his fingers. Nanami delighted in the way you looked writhing under his mercy, eyes hazy and mouth partly opened as you let out pleasured sounds, wishing to know how he can make you moan and tremble even more.

Nanami withdrew his hand from your chest and traced down the expanse of your belly until he reached your pelvis, securing you in place as he inserted his long digits into your throbbing cunt, going in and out. He chuckled softly at the sight of you taking his fingers in, the lewd sounds coming from your pooling juices as you clenched around him, spurring him on. He pressed down on your clit around and around, over and over again, circling around that sensitive part of you.

“Just like that,” you mewled, your hips lifting off the mattress to grind against his hand, meeting the friction he was creating and amplifying your desire.

He smirked as he hovered over you. “You just love this, don’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” you breathed out, feeling your first orgasm hitting you when he started erratically thrusting his fingers into you, the movement of his wrists quick while every thrust was accompanied by your snagged breaths.

Feeling himself getting harder and more titillated with the way your body tossed and turned beneath him, with his free hand, he shoved down his silk pajama bottoms, tossing it away along with his underwear, releasing his cock from its confines. He was, however, taken aback when you suddenly pushed yourself up, smirking at him as your eyes shifted between his dark orbs and his erection, thick, long and pulsating.

Without a warning, you pushed against him, your hands tight on his broad shoulders until his back was against the mattress. Having successfully turned tables on him, you straddled his lap and claimed his lips for your own, kissing him hard and unrelenting while your hands ran down his pecs, down to his hard abs, one of them racing faster than the other as you reached for his length, wrapping your fingers around it, its heat sending you on a wild rush.

“You’re so hot,” you droned absently, making him smile.

“You’re hotter when you’re trying to dominate me like this,” he responded, chuckling.

“Don’t I always though?” you teased, your grip on him tightening slightly while you ran your thumb over his tip, spreading his precum all over the pinkish head, making him quaver in delight. Whatever response he had in mind died right there and then when you lifted yourself up aligning yourself with him. You grabbed the base of his length, guiding him leisurely inside you, the slow pace driving you both on the edge. Your legs shook slightly as you slid down onto him, using his firm thighs to anchor yourself until you were fully sitting on him, his cock buried deep inside you.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, out of breath, feeling himself nestled in your warmth, fitting tight and snug as if you were made just for him. He sat up slightly, holding onto your hips as he slid out slowly, almost to the hilt, holding you up before very gently easing his way back inside, continuing with that slow pace, building a rhythm you both got used to. You held onto his shoulders, meeting every languid thrust halfway, establishing connection with every movement of your bodies.

“Ah…Kento…” you keen, as you both moved against each other, feeling every part of each other against yourselves, melding in a soft embrace as you rode him up and down. You both couldn’t get enough of each other, your nails digging on his back while his hands held your waist in a bruising grip. Your hips met each other in a steady rhythm, the sounds of your moans filling the room, mingling with skin slapping on skin and distinct squelching as you repeatedly swallowed his cock into your hole, making you crumple in rapture.

He reached up, placing a hand at your nape, making you lean closer to press his mouth onto yours, your tongues meeting in a duel, your whimpers drowned out by the action. He released your lips in favor of your neck, progressing downwards as he nipped on your flesh, all the way to your collarbones until he reached your breast, latching his mouth onto one of your nipples, making your toes curl as his ministrations brought about sensations that hyper-stimulated every one of your senses.

You luxuriated in everything that was him, the feel of his mouth on you, his length filling you up to the brim over and over again, in and out with every push, his smell, his warmth, the excitement leaping in his eyes while he focused on pleasuring you. You were caught in the midst of your love and fondness for everything that made up Nanami Kento, voicing it out by repeatedly saying, “I love you,” or broken parts of it anyway as if a prayer of fragmented pleas and exultation as he made you his.

He paused when he heard you say it, pulling away, his eyes wide as he gazed at you with his cloudy eyes suddenly becoming clearer while his vision focused on you. “Say that again,” he said.

“I love you,” you murmured, feeling your face grow warm at his unabashed scrutiny. Then again, “I love you,” with more conviction this time. “I’m madly in love with you, Kento.”

“You are?” he asked as if in disbelief, his mouth stretching into smile, eyes filling with joy when you nodded. And along with that, he felt himself growing even harder as if a silent affirmation to how he felt about you. “I love you, too.” He kissed you and laid you down on the bed. “So damn much.”

Nanami settled himself between your legs, placing them over his shoulders as he realigned himself with you, pushing in without preamble and pounding into you in a faster rhythm than earlier. He slid so easily inside of you as he pushed forward and pulled out again and again, the new position making your walls grip tighter around him while he fucked you deeper. He relished the way he was spreading you apart, mesmerized by the way you were connected.

“More,” you purred when you felt him hitting you right where you wanted him over and over again, making you see galaxies of stars as he rammed into you. “Right there.”

“Whatever you want, my love,” he panted, dipping himself even deeper. “You like that? You like how daddy fucks you?”

Your eyes shot open when he said that, knowing you were seeing a new facet of him you’ve never encountered before. But you were not able to dwell on that when you were prompted to respond with a rough, hard thrust, saying, “Yes, daddy. I do…so m-much,” when he pulled out all the way and shoved his dick back in, and in that same instant, you found yourself creaming around him. Your essence dripped down onto the sheets as he continued to thrust faster into you, his breath hitting your skin with the rhythm of his movements as he moaned your name, planting butterfly kisses on your neck.

“You’re so good,” he said as you clenched tighter around him. “Give me one more, baby.”

He hastened his pace even more, rising up with one of your legs hanging on his arm while his free hand reached down, playing with your clit, applying pressure and setting the tempo of his movements with his length which slid in and out of you unabatingly. Your moans were getting louder while your brain felt like it would turn to fizz as your heart pounded in your chest, holding onto the build of that familiar pooling of heat in your loins. In a sudden flurry of sensations, your body lifted clear off the bed as you came long and hard.

Nanami rode you through it, going even harder and rougher as groans started to spill out of his mouth, ending in a crescendo of your sensual cries and a dragged out moan from him as he came inside you, his white, hot seed coating your walls and overflowing out of you.

Closing your eyes, you tried to catch your breath, feeling a shiver run down your spine as you came down from your high. Everything felt detached and surreal as your mind started filling with thought after thought, dominated with nothing but the fact that he just made love to you, the idea not quite sinking in despite the panting, boneless mess that you are at that moment.

You gasped when you felt him pulling out of you before hovering over you to place a kiss on your forehead. You forced your eyes open to look at him, cracking into a crooked grin when you finally looked at him, his hands brushing away stray strands of hair from your sweat-matted forehead.

“I love you, Y/N,” he told you in hushed tones, while you were unable to do anything but nod weakly as your body succumbed to exhaustion.

**

He bet everything on Gojo’s wedding week. And it was all worth it.

The whole matter has not sunk in just yet, so much so that he didn’t get a wink’s sleep trying to make sense of it all, but mostly afraid that he will wake up in the morning and find that everything was just a dream. A very vivid, beyond pleasant dream. But the sun rose in the horizon, and as he lay there awake, he had his proof of everything that happened beside him, asleep and very much real, pressed against his side.

When you came to him the previous night, he was certain things between you would end. If he was being honest, he has had it with your playing. He didn’t know exactly what your aims were the previous night until you made the move. Again, if he was being honest, he was also being a coward, always the one at the end of the rope you were reaching for. He wanted to switch your positions for a change, but when he did, it felt like he was getting nowhere, just pulling the rope without anyone at the end.

He thought he had lost when you kissed Geto in front of him, didn’t know what to do with the information when you said you were doing it to make him jealous. And no matter how low you went just to get his attention or to retaliate to his lack of response to you the previous day, he couldn’t say he didn’t like that you did it, too. He didn’t like it per se, but your motivations behind it spoke volumes of how you felt. He was just too blind to see it.

You were right about certain things, one of them being the fact that he was supposed to know you and understand how you communicated. Another was the fact that it wasn’t too much for you to ask him to be selfish for his sake and yours. He had wanted to act exactly that way for a long time, and when you were giving him the chance, he walked away from it instead. And as per usual, you were the one who fought your way against him for the same aim of having him.

He sighed, shifting to his side to face your slumbering form. He felt his heart melting at the sight of you softly breathing and appearing so serene snuggled against him and wearing his shirt. He could almost laugh when you suddenly fell asleep on him right after he made love to you. He sighed, knowing you wouldn’t wake up any time soon after you closed your eyes, decided to clean you up and dress you up before settling beside you, too.

But out of everything, since the previous night, whenever he would remember you telling him you loved him, his heart just stops for a second only to resume its beating in irregular staccatos. You told him you could almost cry having him that close to you, but he was the one who felt like shedding tears about having you.

He bet his heart knowing there was a possibility that you would just toy with it and break it. In the end, he finally got everything he wanted in your person. He should have already known that in order to get to you, he has to go through everything, have his heart shattered if that’s what it would take. He wanted to peel all your protective layers, but you ended up doing that to him instead, and it was safe to say you succeeded. Still, although he felt like dying when he saw you kissing Geto, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d go through it all again if it meant he would get you in the end.

Nanami caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers, smiling when you scrunched your nose a bit, your brows furrowing slightly. Just then, your eyes opened, your ocean-blue irises devouring him in an instant in waves of emotions, the most dominant of them all being gratitude towards whatever higher power brought you to the world to exist and love him when you could have anybody else.

You broke into a sleepy grin the moment you saw him. “Good morning, daddy,” were the first words that came out of your mouth, teasing him the moment you woke up.

He felt heat suffuse his cheeks when you said that, flashing you a pained look. It hadn’t been embarrassing when he suddenly decided he had a daddy kink and wanted to hear you say it, but now that he has sobered up from the feel of you against him, he didn’t exactly want you to say it, not when you were mercilessly ragging him for it first thing in the morning. He didn’t detest it though.

Nanami diverted his gaze from you, his face turning red, but you abruptly rose slightly, grabbing both sides of his face to make him look at you.

“What are you getting all shy around me for?” you cooed. “Don’t you like it when I call you that?” You smirked. “Come to think of it, I was startled when you said that, too.”

“Are you making fun of me?” he said, pouting.

Your eyes rounded and you let go of him, even going to the extent of moving away from him.

“What?” he asked, suddenly panicked as he sat up, grabbing your arm, afraid you’ll walk away.

You clucked your tongue. “D-don’t do that…that p-pouting thing…” you spoke haltingly, unable to talk properly as you pinched the bridge of your nose, looking flustered.

“Do what?” he asked, not quite catching what you were saying.

“Don’t go acting cute so early in the morning. I’m not used to this side of you. Jesus, Kento,” you told him all in one go, your hands flailing about. “You’re messing with me.”

He arched a brow at you and started laughing heartily. You were genuinely distressed and he didn’t know what he would do with you. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t know you were not immune to my charms.” He pulled you towards him, making you face him. “How are you feeling by the way?”

“I’m fine.”

“Not sore anywhere?”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Fishing for compliments now?”

He shook his head slowly, not understanding what you were talking about. “I don’t think we’re on the same page.” He started fussing around you then, even lifting his shirt which you were wearing, slightly looking for telltale signs of the possibility that he could have hurt you in any way when he spotted bruises on your hips. “Oh no.”

“Why?” you asked, blinking cluelessly when you saw what he was looking at. To your surprise, he suddenly took you in his arms, his expressions indicating distress. “What’s going on?”

“I hurt you,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

It was your turn to laugh. “You obliterated me, Kento, but I’m not sorry about it.” You pulled away from him and pecked him on the lips. “You were awesome.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I should go easy on you. I don’t really like the idea of injuring you in any way.”

You narrowed your eyes on him. “You’ve set the bar on how good you can be between the sheets. If you hold back on me, I’ll throttle you. Maybe I’ll ask Satoru for help, too.”

“What –”

“You’ve been warned, Nanamin.” You leaned forward, planting your face on his chest. “Stop worrying. I don’t regret anything, and if you make love to me as well as you did last night every single day, I’ll gladly have my battle scars.”

Nanami cupped your head, rubbing soothingly, his eyes meeting yours while a slight smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

“You love me.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I do. With all that I am.”

“Stop getting into a tizzy then.”

“Okay, Y/N.”

“Okay, Kento.”

“Are you always going to call me by my name now?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “I like it better than when you call me Nanamin.”

Your brows knit together then. “I’ve kinda gotten fond of that nickname though. But if that’s what you want, I’m down for it, too.” You grinned at him. “Kento.”

Nanami broke into a smile, but then you said, “Can I always call you 'daddy' instead?” He rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. “I’ll throttle you.”

You chuckled. “My mother would flip!”

“Satoru would flip.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. The two of you stayed that way for a few moments, just enjoying the comfortable silence while you listened to his heartbeat and basked in his warmth, his muscular arms wrapped around you securely. You’ve never felt safer.

You were, however, the first to break it.

“Kento?” you began.

“Yes, my love?”

“What are we now?”

“You’re all mine and I’m yours,” he stated firmly.

“So we’re official?”

He scoffed. “If last night wasn’t enough to make us official, I’d be happy to prove it further to you. You’re the woman I’ll marry. I’m not giving you a choice on that.”

You snickered. “Fine.”

“Fine?” he repeated with inflection, pushing you down on the mattress while he hovered over you. “Why do you sound as if you don’t like it?”

You burst into bubbles of laughter. “I’m not complaining…”

“But?”

“If that’s the case, I want Satoru to know first before the others. Is that okay?”

He nodded. “That’s just fair, I think.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything for you. When do you want us to tell him?”

You held his hand, entwining your fingers together and beaming tenderly at the way yours were engulfed by his. “Soon. Very soon.”

-end of part 7-

Aaaaand we're down to the second to the last chapter. This one's rather self-indulgent and I got carried away with the the "daddy" thing lol. Anyway, I would like to say thank you to everyone who's been reading this fic and looking forward to my updates. You guys make me happy!

*I used “you” here, but since my character is Gojo’s little sister who is established to be his female clone for reasons essential to the plot, she possesses the same blue eyes and white hair. I did not exactly want to create an OC (although technically, I did by describing Y/N), but I opted for the best of both worlds in this fic, leaning more towards the literary aspect of it as opposed to it just being reader/you-oriented. I hope this isn’t iffy to anyone, and yeah, i’m not being exclusive or whatever.

Thank you so much for reading. Likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed it.

© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY GEGE AKUTAMI'S “JUJUTSU KAISEN.” [20210806]

PHOTO/IMAGE/GIF/FANART CREDITS TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

[tulipsandcorgis]

Hii , hope you're well

Since you're open to crazy prompts i would like to contribute one!

What if Kate goes to duel someone who tries to take advantage of Edwina? And Edwina obviously panics and goes to the Bridgerton for help and she gathers all the Bridgerton brothers to go and stop Kate. Anthony's obviously furious because she's willing to kill herself (hypocrite) and drags them all back to his lodgings.

I'm sorry if its such a long prompt i simply had to share the idea! Thank you for all your fics!!

unsurprisingly, a long (and very interesting) prompt results in a long(-ish) answer! so here’s 1.5k words of anthony not realizing he’s afraid to lose kate, colin contributing very little to the conversation, and benedict and edwina just going along for the ride, i suppose. also featuring brief appearances by daphne and lady danbury, and mentions of an original(-ish) character. not sure if this 100% works with the canon timeline, since this is set before anything happens between kate and anthony (aka no kiss in the study has happened yet).

anyway, thank you so much for trusting me with your idea! without further ado, here it is:

“She did what?” Anthony exclaimed, staring at Edwina with a wide-eyed expression on his face. The crease between his eyebrows had deepened significantly, and it almost looked as if he were about to pop a vein in his forehead.

“Well, we were just preparing to leave Lady Trowbridge’s ball tonight — you were there, too. As were you, and you.” Edwina said hurriedly, glancing at Benedict and Colin. “And Kate saw Lord Mountbatten approach me, and before I knew it, she’d challenged him to a duel.”

“Why?” Benedict questioned, having clearly not witnessed the encounter, and Anthony gritted his teeth.

“Edwina, forgive my language, but you sister is a bloody fool.” He spat, clenching his jaw and massaging his temples with his thumb and forefinger.

Edwina paid no attention to his comment, and turned to Benedict. “He gripped my waist quite hard, you see, and made some comment about how lovely our children would be, and then Kate appeared. I’ve never seen her so furious. And then, well, she said something along the lines of wanting to demand satisfaction.”

She shuddered at the memory of Mountbatten’s mouth near her ear during a dance, his calloused palms gripping her waist with much more force than was strictly necessary. But then, much to her relief, Kate had showed up.

Benedict’s face contorted into a look of genuine disgust, and Colin’s eyebrows raised.

“Well, where is she?” He asked, almost conversationally, as if absolutely nothing was wrong. Anthony pondered fratricide for a brief moment. “I could always be her second.”

“You will do no such thing,” Anthony interrupted, glaring at his brother before turning back to the group. “This is madness. Mountbatten is a skilled marksman. With his finger on the trigger, Kate would die before the ten paces are even up!”

Edwina gasped. “We need to find her, quickly.”

Benedict patted her shoulder softly. “We will, don’t worry.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, brother.” Anthony snapped, before grabbing Edwina’s hand and leading her out of the study. “Now, I suppose we should find your sister before she gets herself killed.”

“Daphne told me that she and Kate were heading over to Lady Danbury’s after the ball,” Colin supplied. “Given these… unforeseen circumstances, we don’t know if she’s still there, but it wouldn’t hurt to check.”

Much to everyone’s relief. Anthony agreed, and the group quickly made their way to Lady Danbury’s residence, with Colin still offering advice, probably to ease Edwina’s anxiety.

“You know, I could still be her second,” He offered, turning to Edwina. “After all, I do know where Anthony keeps the pistols.”

The girl’s eyes widened in surprised, and Anthony frowned. “If anyone is to be her second, it will be me.” He said firmly. “Seeing as Benedict and I are the only two people here who actually know the rules of dueling.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “If you’re talking about the incident with Hastings, I was also there,” He reminded his brother, but Anthony was having none of it.

He picked up his pace, relieved to see that Danbury’s house was in view. Benedict, Colin, and Edwina struggled to keep up as Anthony practically raced across the cobblestones, bounded up the steps, and pounded on the front door.

“Christ, you’re going to give Lady Danbury a heart attack,” Colin muttered, and Anthony shot him a look.

A footman opened the door, and Anthony practically pushed past him, leading Edwina through the house, with the other two brothers hot on their heels.

In the dimly lit drawing room, the only light coming from a roaring fire in the fireplace, sat Lady Danbury, Daphne, and Kate.

“Ah, Bridgertons!” Lady Danbury grinned, nodding at Edwina. “And a Sharma, as well. Come to collect your sisters, I presume?”

Benedict muttered a quick, “Something of that sort,” as Anthony said, with the last shred of politeness left in his body, “I’m afraid we don’t have time for small talk tonight, Lady Danbury.”

He shot the older woman a strained smile, then turned his attention to Kate, who sat on the sofa with Daphne at her side. He shooed his sister away, and ushered her and everyone else, except for Kate and Edwina, from the room. Now it was just him, the Sharma sisters, and Anthony’s rage — which burst from him as soon as the drawing room door clicked shut.

“What on earth do you think you’re playing at?” He hissed, his eyes burning with a fire that was similar to the very one roaring on the coals in the fireplace. “Your sister—“ He pointed at Edwina. “She arrives at Bridgerton House and tells me you’ve demanded to duel with Lord Mountbatten!”

Kate rolled her eyes and stood. “He—“

“He made a comment to your sister, yes, but that is hardly something to duel over, Miss Sharma. Do you know Lord Mountbatten is one of the best marksmen in the ton?”

“No,” She said, eyeing him closely. “But—“

“He can kill you, Kate.” Anthony told her, his voice deathly serious, and her eyes widened. “Kill. You.” He repeated, either to get the words through her silly skull, or, perhaps, his.

Anthony stepped closer, his manners being swallowed up by the anger and fear growing in his chest. “He would aim that tiny bullet right here—“ He pointed to a spot just below her collarbone. “And you’d be gone before the doctor on site could get to you.”

She swallowed thickly, lowering her eyes to where his finger hovered in the air, just several inches from her skin. The air crackled with something electric and unsaid, and Anthony felt his jaw unclench as he lowered his hand.

“That won’t happen.” Kate said finally, looking past him, at her sister.

“You don’t know that.” He barked out a twisted sort of laugh, the sound almost getting caught in his throat. “If you did, you wouldn’t have demanded satisfaction in the first place. Seriously, what were you thinking?”

He turned away, his eyes burning from something that must have been the smoke from the fireplace - nothing else could’ve caused it, he was convinced - and looked at Edwina. Whatever words he intended on saying were forgotten once he heard Kate’s unforgettably calm voice reach his ears.

“Lord Bridgerton—“

“Miss Sharma, you must know that there is a person in this room who is very intent on not losing you!” He cried out angrily, interrupting her and effectively silencing both sisters. The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire, his pocket watch ticking, and his heavy breathing. He sighed.

“I know that your sister would rather you not die because of your protective and impulsive nature. My sister felt the same about me just a year ago.” Anthony admitted, looking down at his boots.

“And I realize that.” Kate responded quietly. “Which is why I rescinded my demand for satisfaction as the ball came to a close. Lord Mountbatten was… strangely understanding, and admitted that his comment was made impulsively, as well. Everything is more than alright now.”

“Oh.” Anthony said aloud, and Edwina breathed a sigh of relief, rushing forward to hug her sister.

“Well, Mountbatten’s foot isn’t,” Kate mumbled as she hugged Edwina, a devilish sort of smile spreading across her face as she caught his eye.

Anthony bit his lip to keep a laugh from escaping him. Good God, how many toes had she stepped on?

Soon after that, as he led the sisters to the drawing room door, Kate nudged his arm with her elbow.

“Why’d you do that?” She asked. “You know, come here to save me from death and whatnot?”

Anthony paused. He didn’t know how to respond. He really didn’t know why he was so set on stopping Kate from dueling. Was it because he knew how quickly one’s life could change due to a single moment, how a family could be irreparably altered by death? Or, perhaps, it was because he was so desperate for her to stop objecting to his suit of Edwina.

“Well,” He said, stalling slightly. “I suppose it’s because I care.”

“Oh.” She sounded genuinely surprised.

“About your sister.” Anthony finished, trying to ignore the way her face hardened. “Losing someone can be terribly difficult, and I would never want my future wife to known that kind of pain so soon.”

Edwina would have to accept his death in nine years, at most, but it wouldn’t matter all that much, since they weren’t likely to get very attached to one another.

“So you wanted to be a hero?” Kate muttered, walking through the doorway and joining Benedict, Colin, Daphne, Edwina, and Lady Danbury.

“I suppose.” He shrugged, and she rolled her eyes.

“Well, you’re not one yet. Keep trying, I suppose,” She replied, before taking Edwina’s arm and heading to the front door, with Daphne in tow. For a brief moment, Anthony wished that he could accompany the sisters home, instead of his sister.

And as he bid Lady Danbury goodbye, prepared to walk back to Bridgerton House to drop off Benedict and Colin, and finally head to his own lodgings, he was struck by the oddest feeling that when he became a hero, Kate would be there to see it.

[prettyblfan]

Coffee Shop Boy

That can remember the softness in those dark brown eyes as the wound on his knuckle was treated, That can remember quite well the pretty boy at the coffee shop in the oversized pink hoodie, That can definitely remember the pretty boy at the coffee shop and he might just have made a habit out of visiting at unreasonable hours with injuries. Sorawit the said pretty boy at the coffee shop looks forward to seeing the handsome boy that always turns up at 4.30am all battered and bruised but he just hoped he'd stop getting injured.

And somewhere along the lines they both fall in love, but neither of them are quite sure where.

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

All in all a That x Sorawit coffee shop au that no one asked for but I delivered anyway. Essentially, gangsta That falling in love with the pretty boy at the coffee shop all whilst his boss falls in love with the owner of the coffee shop that may or may not be the brother of that said pretty boy.

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

Chapter One.

From Sorawit perspective.

Sorawit flipped over the sign on the door, which read in bold.

The Pink Lily is now open for business.

It had been almost three months since him and Bun had moved to the area. So how did they end up with a coffee shop you wonder? Long story short Bun with his upright sense of justice couldn't stand to see a poor old lady being swindled out of her money so he decided to buy the coffee shop from her at the price it was actually worth. And i know what you're thinking why couldn't he just have told her she was being scammed, well you see she was desperate for the money as her husband needed urgent treatment. Hence why she was willing to settle for what ever price she could get.

So, that's how Sorawit ended up wiping down tables and organising coffee at 4.20am in the morning.

But of course he didn't mind he loved the Pink Lily with all his heart it was covered in his favourite thing flowers, from head to toe there wasn't a corner without them.

After all the Pink Lily was designed to be a place that you could go and put your worries to rest at least for a while.

Today was Sorawit's first time doing the early morning shift which started at 4am and ended 7am. He usually did the evening or late evening shift depending on how much work and studying he had to do as he was still a highschool student. Unfortunately that became a problem when he couldn't function in class or stay a wake for long, so Bun ended up having to switch him out so he'd have more time to rest in the evenings.

Regardless of the shift change Sorawit didn't really care although he would have to say that he preferred the early morning shift a lot better already as it was quieter and he got to work alone, usually with the evening shifts he would work alongside two other members of staff and although they were friendly and easy to get along with Sorawit albeit being the outgoing person he is liked to be alone sometimes. On the other hand the late evening shift was much worse he had to work along side Bun, not that his brother was bad no quite the contrary he was amazing and Sorawit couldn't live without him. You see the problem was after work he was a complete nightmare, and Sorawit tried to understand it must be hard to work in a hospital not only being a doctor but also a forensic pathologist but there is only so much nitpicking he can handle.

Being so caught up in his thoughts Sorawit hardly heard the door chime, he quickly turned around to greet the customer. He was slightly nervous as unlike the other shifts he didn't know what kind of customers he'd get and although Bun tried to ease his nerves by leaving a note with the coffees that the regular early morning customers would get and their names, Sorawit was pretty sure none of them arrived this early.

"Morning what can..." Sorawit trailed off fast, the rest of his sentence had already left his head as he stared at the handsome boy standing in the door way.

His black hair was push back and out of his face, allowing his facial features to stand out more. Although they had a certain sharpness to them Sorawit couldn't help but think he was kind of cute, the roundness of his face and the puffiness of he cheeks contrasted heavily with the rest of his overall look.

He was dressed in black from head to toe and if that didn't slightly intimidate Sorawit then the cold arura he gave off definitely did. But despite all of this one thing he couldn't deny was the fact that the boy standing in front of him was handsome, too much so that he lost half of his sentence just by looking at him.

"Can I have a caramel latte" the boy spoke as he sat down at the table closest to the door.

'How funny' Sorawit thought nodding his head at the boy, he would have never pegged him as the type to like sweet things he seemed way more like a bitter kind of guy.

The boys voice was alot deeper than he was expecting it to be and the fact that he never broke eye contact with him also made him feel a bit tingly. It was like he had ran a marathon, his heart was pounding in his chest.

'Should I ask Bun to check it out' he pondered the last thing he wanted to end up with was a heart condition.

"With cream or without" Sorawit replied after he had finished making the coffee.

"With." A short response came from the customer sat by the door.

After finishing the last touches on his latte Sorawit brought it over carefully, you see he had the tendency to be quite clumsy on his first day he managed to spill at least 10 cups of coffee in which resulted in Bun saying that he's lucky he's cute. He never really got what he meant by that how did being clumsy have anything to do with being cute?

"Would you like anything else to go with that we have pastries." Sorawit smiled gently at him before placing the coffee down on the table, whilst doing so he couldn't help but catch a glimps of the boys bleeding knuckle which he failed to see earlier.

Actually now looking at him closer he seemed to have faded bruises on his cheek and near his mouth.

"No." Hearing a response Sorawit quickly pulled his attention away from his face and turn around heading back to the kitchen area.

The entire time he felt eyes on him.

'I think I might seriously have a heart problem' he thought resting his hand against his chest.

Once he had managed to settle his heart he open the cupboard storing the first aid kit and pulled it out, before making his way back over to the table. By this time he had already finished half of his coffee.

"You're bleeding." Sorawit pointed out obviously but he didn't know how to go about the situation, wouldn't it be a bit strange if he asked.

"Umm" like before the boy kept his response short staring blanking at Sorawit.

Again Sorawit had seemed to lose the ability to breathe, he really needed to make a mental note to tell Bun about this.

"Do you want me to..." Sorawit trailed off unsure of what to say, he wasn't usually like this he was actually very confident around people he just met. However, Sorawit couldn't help but feel a bit nervous he didn't want to mess up.

Without a reply the boy simply just put his bleeding hand on the table.

"Ah" Sorawit quickly realised what the signal meant and pulled out the chair next to him.

Treating and bandaging wounds was no problem for him after all not only has he learnt from Bun but his whole family had worked in the medical field. His dad was a doctor whilst his mum worked in dentistry, when they were still alive he felt a huge amount of pressure to follow in their foot steps just like his brother. Although they had never forced him and were completely supportive in whatever he wanted to do he still felt as if it was like an unspoken rule. That coupled with the fact that Sorawit had no idea what he wanted to do in the future, the pressure had always seemed to build up but more so now after their deaths he felt as if he should honour them in some way.

"How did you get injured" Sorawit spoke pulling himself out of his thoughts, the silence was too loud and it was killing him.

"I fought" he said looking up to meet Sorawit's gaze.

'How can someone be so handsome' Sorawit pondered before breaking eye contact and focusing back on his hand.

"Ah, so you lost?" Sorawit teased, finally becoming more comfortable.

"No, you just haven't seen the other guy" he shot back raising his eyebrow.

It was then for the first time Sorawit saw him smile even if it was a small one, teasing and filled with ridicule Sorawit couldn't tell he was too taken aback to notice. He was alot more handsome when he smiled.

"Why did you fight?" Sorawit continued to question, curiosity filling his eyes.

"Because...." he paused running his other hand through his hair before saying with a light smirk,

"Not telling." "Huh, fine." Sorawit said followed by a short pout.

"Why not." Sorawit ask again quickly trying to force an answer out of him, as to his surprise the other gave in.

"They picked a fight" the boy responded pulling back his hand seeing that he had finished.

"Why?" Sorawit asked, he wasn't sure why he was asking all these question but he couldn't help himself but want to know.

Whilst he was waiting for a response he started to clean up the mess he had made when all of a sudden a bandaged hand came up to his chest and lifted up the name tag hanging from his oversized pink hoodie.

"Sorawit huh, you're quite curious" he said completely ignoring his question.

It was then when he realised that he completely forgot to ask for his name. But feeling a little bit embarrassed Sorawit didn't bother to ask now.

"It's natural to be curious It's not every day someone walks in looking like death" he fired back quickly getting up to return the first aid kit back to It's place.

Ignoring Sorawit once again he pulled out his wallet and placed some money on the table before saying,

"That. My name if you were also curious about that"

And like that before Sorawit could respond That was gone.

'Weird.'

Sorawit thought, That was strange. Viangpa Mork was a pretty small village and he'd like to think that although they've only been there for three months they've practically already met everyone. Yet the boy named That had seemed to appear out of nowhere, he looked about Sorawit age or may be a year older which could explain why he hasn't seen him in school but overall That was a very mysterious character.

Sorawit quickly got over it there was no point dwelling on it he mostly likely never see the boy again. He walked back over to the table to collect the money only to see that the odd and mysterious That had left 620 baht for a 300 baht coffee.

'Did he also hit his head' Sorawit thought it was either that or he was stupid.

*^*

Love at first sight all whilst being completely oblivious we love that for you Sorawit.

Next chapter in the making but I am a procrastinator so it may take a hot minute but as I mentioned before I am very dedicated to That x Sorawit so I will not let you guys down.

P.s this chapter was like a mini intro hopefully they'll get a bit longer but I mean I wouldn't bet on it my procrastinating game is strong. I would also say I proof read but I didn't so mistakes will change when I read over it and notice them but also don't be shy feel free to point them out to me. And no I did not forget Nam the iconic trio will live on.

[imagineabrighterworld]

The Saint and the Prince

Summary // During a visit to a neighboring kingdom full of saints and monsters, Todoroki finds his attention drawn to a girl seemingly ripped out of a page of a book of saints. Why does he feel so drawn to her? Why does she disappear at dusk? And why is he the only one who can see her?

When Shoto was tasked by his father to visit the small kingdom neighboring their own, he gladly took to the roads and left as soon as the caravan was prepared. He would have left sooner if he knew he could go alone.

Anything was better than to be with his father.

He hadn't been out of the kingdom since his brother's death, and so when he was picked to visit the monarchs of the Alshanun kingdom, he immediately began to polish up his knowledge.

Luckily he had a friend who was well versed in history to help him with understanding the kingdom's culture. With his help, he learned of how they were well set in their ways when it came to their saints and spirits. Unlike in his own kingdom, they had no particular set of gods. The ruling class had tried to implement a set pantheon, but the cities and tribal people held tight to their own beliefs.

One such being they clung to was the Alshanun Iraziz. The Sun Saint. A benevolent spirit that provided for the lost and weary, lighting their way to good fortune and health. Supposedly it took the form of a young man in orange and yellow clothing, so every year they set aside a day to pray for him to come and bring them good luck for the rest of the year. At least that's what he could translate from the scrolls his friend had gotten a hold of.

“It looks like we'll be right on time for the celebration.” Midoriya says with barely contained excitement. He rolls up the scripture and returns it to the chest they had been using to store away the pamphlets and books they collected on their way to the inner ring of the kingdom.

Right now they were on their way to one of the bigger cities just outside of the “heart”, a place where only the ruling families and gentry were allowed to live. He wasn't looking forward to meeting them, but visiting the local people was proving to be quite fun. At least for his friends who had joined him.

Shoto smiles demurely, nodding his head as he looks out of the carriage window. Already he could see preparations being made. Carnations and marigolds lined every window and rode, icons of saints dotted the rooftop, their faces painted in gold. Surprisingly, despite color painting every house and fountain, the people wore black and shades of gray. What was the reason behind it?

“Midoriya?”

“Yeah?”

“I believe we may need another set of clothes.”

- - - - -

Upon arriving at their hosts mansion, Shoto and his band of friends changed into clothes in order to better blend in with the people. He felt their clothes that rivaled the color wheel would be.. offensive.

“Soon will be a day of great joy.” Their host, the gracious Bachar Malik, professes as he leads them through the city and to the bazaar. “I would say that the Iraziz’s day is second only to the crowning of the king when it comes to celebration! The Alshanun Iraziz is a most important being, we owe her much.”

Shoto tears his eyes from the mountains of spices to look at Bachar with curious eyes.

Iida speaks up from his spot behind Shoto. “The spirit isn't a man?” He had also read the same scrolls they had. Shoto was secretly glad he wasn't the only one who mistranslated.

Bachar laughs heartily. “No no my young friend, the Alshanun Iraziz is a woman. No worries, we will help you.”

As they proceed through the bazaar, Shoto catches a glimpse of something orange in the corner of his eyes, the smell of something sweet wafts through the air, cutting through the spices and perfumes surrounding him.

He looks around, trying to find the source of the color, but it is hard to see past the flowers and silks decorating the bazaar.

Again-

The end of a saffron ribbon whizzes past.

His eyes hone in on the figure of a young woman walking past him.

She was dressed head to toe in shades of yellow and orange, ribbons were braided into her hair.

His legs begin to move before he can process what he was doing.

“Shoto?” Midoriya calls from behind him, but the prince is gone and out of the bazaar before he can stop him.

Slipping through the stalls of vendors and patrons haggling down prices, Shoto keeps his sights locked onto the girl who stepped through the people like a stream of water. Never did she have to slow her pace or step aside, it was as if the people naturally knew to move away at the last minute.

Shoto wished he was as lucky as she.

By the time they were out, he had several clouds of color on his clothing and smelled of jasmine from passing through the perfume stalls.

“Miss-” He pants. “Miss- Why are you dressed that way?” Was that really all he had to say for himself after following a complete stranger? Really? He curses himself for his silliness as the girl finally turns around to look at him. The air leaves his lungs as he takes in the sight before him.

“You can see me?” The girl asks, her eyes wide with surprise. She looked to be his age, but he felt something off about her. She felt distant, if he reached out for her, he was sure his hand would pass through her.

“I can. Is that a bad thing?” Was she not meant to be out? It was well into the afternoon, and the streets were packed full of people.

The girl shakes her head, a flicker of emotion behind her eyes as her face turns somber. “No, it's fine.” She looks to him again, scanning him for a moment, dissatisfied with whatever she saw in him. “You seem too young to need me, that's all.”

“You hardly look much older than me.” If at all.

Her lips twitch upward, a spark lighting behind her coal dark irises. “You would be surprised princeling.”

“You know who I am?”

“All princes have the same air about them.” She continues walking, glancing at the stalls full of sweets and fruit, her gaze full of hunger. “You're not the first prince that has come here, and you won't be the last. But I am astonished that this is the first time I've been needed by one.” 

Shoto battles back his frustration. What did she mean? Who was she to be saying these things? “You don't make any sense. Why would I need you?”

“Kaf. Enough.” She stops at a fountain full of copper and silver plated coins coating its bottom. She sits down on the edge, moving her hand in the water, stirring it idly. The painted markings on her skin do not budge or fade despite it. “Come back tomorrow, and maybe you will get your answers.”

Shoto frowns, weighing the girl’s words. This could all be a ruse, a trick in order to rob him or hold him for ransom. He didn't need to listen to her. She meant nothing to him.

And yet he nods. “Very well. I will see you tomorrow.”

The girl in persimmon smiles. “See you tomorrow princeling.”

[crystxlclear]

sudden desire

chapter one: cupid fucked up

part two of sudden desire

prologue / masterlist

in which two best friends won’t admit they’re in love so decide to have a baby together instead.

pairing: marcus pike x female original character

warnings: mentions of divorce?

word count: 2.2k

author’s note: not much to say other than i decided this isn’t going to have any smut & it’s just going to be cute af because i’m not comfortable writing it and also the whole issue with under 18s reading & engaging in 18+ content makes things worse. so just enjoy this mostly wholesome but also sad and angsty fic about everyone’s favourite FBI agent falling in love :)

At first, Loren Hull wanted to throw Coraline Meyer a divorce party. Some massive, elaborate party with all their friends. "To celebrate the fact my best friend is finally free!" She'd explained, the day the final paperwork came through. But Coraline decided against it, making some paper-thin excuse that she had some work thing that she couldn't get out of. So, instead, she finds herself alone and sprawled out under far too many blankets on her couch, eating spoonfuls of ice cream like her life depended on it, watching some shitty horror film. At first, she’d tried watching some equally-shitty rom-com but the happy moments made her cry, which she found completely pathetic and embarrassing. Instead, she's resorted to laughing at the characters in the first cliche horror she could find for being so stupid and letting themselves get killed. She'd been in a couple of cheap horrors when she'd first started acting; they were all embarrassingly bad and Coraline likes to pretend they'd never happened.

The doorbell rings halfway through some drawn-out chase scene, fake screams falling from the blonde actress' mouth as some knife-wielding maniac in a cheap mask hunts her down. Coraline begrudgingly hauls herself up from her comfy position on the sofa and shuffles towards the door, socks scuffing across the carpet. The moment the blankets fall away, she’s freezing again, though she’s vaguely aware that her apartment’s about fifty degrees too hot. Still, she wraps her cardigan tighter around herself, finding it impossible to shift the shivers.

Coraline’s greeted by the grinning face of Marcus Pike. "Hey, sunshine." He grins.

Sunshine. The nickname he'd given her the first day they'd met, when she'd shown up far too early to a briefing. Cora’s older brother, Daniel, had been opening an art gallery in downtown D.C. and was convinced scammers were already trying to sell him fake paintings for exceptionally high prices. Marcus and his team were tasked with helping out; Coraline had been roped in by her brother to help, since she’d be there for the grand opening.

She’d been wearing some bright yellow dress she'd found at the back of her wardrobe; he'd complimented her when he'd arrived a few minutes later and it had been so long since anyone had given her a genuine compliment that she'd grown flustered and almost spilt coffee down herself. They'd grown closer and closer since then and she had no hesitation in calling him one of her best friends.

Marcus holds up a paper bag. "I brought Chinese food."

"Oh, you're an angel." Cora returns Marcus' grin, opening the door wide enough for him to step inside. She takes the bag from him and cradles it close to her like it’s a newborn baby, the warmth flushing through her body.

"I try." He chuckles as she pulls him into a hug. They hold each other close for a while, lingering just a little longer than normal, her hand clutching at the back of his t-shirt a little tighter.

Coraline slumps back onto the couch when they finally let each other go. She immediately combs through the bag in search of the chow mein she knows will be in there; their weekly Chinese takeout nights have become a tradition in the few months they've known each other and he knows her order like the back of his hand.

Marcus settles into the armchair opposite, grabbing his own food. "Happy divorce day, by the way."

Coraline groans. She'd hoped he'd forgotten about that — she hadn't mentioned it to him, either. The less said about it, the better. "Oh, god, don't remind me." She flings her head back dramatically against the couch cushions. "But, hey, I'm a single woman now. You should take your shot while you still have chance. I'm in high demand." She jokes.

"Are they lining up at your door?" Marcus chuckles, leaning forward in his chair.

"You know it, I'm a catch." She mumbles through a mouthful of noodles, wiggling her eyebrows at him. Marcus smiles wistfully over at her.

"Anyone would be lucky to have you, Cora."

"Oh, please." She snorts; she can feel her cheeks flushing as pink as the blanket she sits beneath. She still finds herself taken aback whenever he compliments her, she can’t help it. There’s just something about the way he seems to mean it that makes her heart swell inside her chest. She stares down at her food and pokes at an onion with the end of her chopsticks, hoping he won’t notice the bright flush of red that has swept across her face. "I'm never falling in love again, anyway."

"Why?"

Coraline looks up at him through her lashes. He’s still staring at her as she pokes at her noodles. "Too much unnecessary heartbreak." She pokes her toe out from under her blankets, nudging the half-empty pint of ice cream she'd been eating before he arrived. It’s melting and staining a ring onto her coffee table. It makes her shiver more than she already was. "I'd rather not go through the trauma again."

"Don't be so dramatic." He sniggers, kicking her lightly in the ankle.

Coraline fakes offence. She pokes Marcus back, furrows her eyebrows and pouts. "I'm not dramatic," she mumbles, ignoring the fact half an hour earlier she'd been crying into her ice cream like some character in the movie she'd been watching. "I just don't want to get hurt again."

Coraline has always had a problem with heartbreak. It seems to follow her. It happens too quickly, too often, and each time it chips away a little more at her heart. She's started to think that it’s inevitable, now. The sum of her heartbreak just makes her fragile.

Her first heartbreak at thirteen made her feel like her world was ending. By her second, at nineteen, she realised just how trivial that had been. The third heartbreak was the worst. It came at the expense of her younger sister Eve, barely seventeen with so many hopes and dreams, snatched away by a drunk driver on one quiet Sunday morning, as the sun shone brightly and the breeze ruffled the trees. The pain hit her where she was weak and left a spider-web of cracks inside her mind. She patched herself up with fractured smiles and make-believe until a little more sunshine crept through and she was herself again. Or, at least, half of herself.

When the fourth came, at the hands of the very person who'd helped her through the darkness, the person who stood by her side as she pulled the broken pieces of her heart back together, she was almost numb. Almost. It was almost like there was nothing left to break, nothing left to feel. Except there was and the cracks inside her threatened to burst apart.

Coraline has always known that hearts are easily broken, even when she was a child. The idea had never phased her until she felt it and it hurt more and more and more, until her bones were hollow and straining to hold together the pieces of her aching heart as it tried to tumble from her chest.

The thought of getting hurt again is a little too much.

Marcus smiles. "I get that." He’s silhouetted by the warm light of a street lamp that streams in through the window behind him. It turns the ends of his hair golden and his eyes amber as he tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure something out. Amber eyes gaze over the slight furrow of her brow and the glimmer that has appeared in her green eyes. "I hate him for hurting you, for making you think that way."

Coraline shakes her head. "Don't." She smiles, a great big beaming smile, that she’s worried might come off as fake, flashing across her face. "It was inevitable." Truthfully, she was half-gone before Scott even met her, dwelling too heavily on past heartbreak. They were perfectly wrong for each other; they'd both known it for a few years before things had turned sour but, back then, pretending to live in some blurry version of perfection, both silently screaming because it wasn't right. They weren't meant to be. They didn't work anymore, and hadn't for far too long. "And it was my fault, too."

When she and Scott first met, something made them believe things would work out. Opposites attract or some made-up cliché shit like that. She'd found herself drawn so quickly towards him; he was confident and sure of himself and he gave her this smile that sent welcome shivers through her bones. They got caught up in a whirlwind, pushing and pulling them, unrelenting. Things just moved too fast and they loved far too much, then far too little.

Coraline just wants to fall in love, slowly, to feel it smouldering so deep down in her bones for months before she realises what it is, when she’s head over heels and has fallen so deeply there‘s no way out. She doesn’t want to feel forced into loving someone, to spend her days convincing herself that she does. Because there would be nothing to doubt, she'll just know with complete and utter unwavering certainty. And she just wants someone to love her back, really, truly love her back, without compromise. Someone who’ll treat her right because he wants to, not because he has to.

"Aren't you hot under all those blankets?" Marcus questions. He's been wearing a suit jacket beneath his coat — it was so cold outside that the rain turned to ice the moment it hit the sidewalk — and he huffs out an uncomfortable deep breath as he pulls it off. "It's ridiculous in here."

"I'm always hot." She jokes with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. She tucks the blankets — all four of them — up under her chin. "But I'm freezing."

Coraline has had shivers set deep in her bones for months now. She can never seem to keep warm, permanently troubled by a chill that flushes through her. It’s becoming a real problem. Mostly because her heating bill is almost double that of normal, from the sheer number of times she dials the thermostat up as high as it will go.

Marcus scrunches up his jacket and throws it at her. She bats it away before it hits her square in the face, the button narrowly missing her eye. "Hey!" She protests, poised to launch the jacket back across the room directly towards his head.

"Wear it." He insists before chuckling as her expression softens. "Another layer to keep you warm."

"Oh.” Another pause, weighing up his expression, her eyebrow half-cocked in mild scepticism. But he seems genuine. “Thank you."

...

Coraline must have fallen asleep half an hour later. She'd trailed off mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed, breath falling steady as she relaxed against the couch cushions. She's barely slept lately — an infuriating result of worrying about her impending divorce and a hectic filming schedule that is still in full swing — and neither she, nor Marcus, is surprised that sleep has prematurely pulled her under.

When she finally reopens her eyes, the dull light of daybreak is threatening to spill through the curtains and everything is neat. Marcus is gone; the entire apartment is silent, save for the soft hum of voices from some old black-and-white rerun on the TV. She doesn’t remember falling asleep or even closing her eyes; the last thing she remembers is Marcus throwing her his jacket and them talking for a while about nothing in particular as she’d turned off the horror film that had been playing in the background the whole time. She’s still wearing that jacket, now, her fingers tangled in the sleeves that are far too long for her. The jacket still smells like him, all familiar and comforting.

Coraline pokes her head out from underneath the blankets that are covering half her face. Her head had been resting on a small couch cushion when she'd fallen asleep — she'd been far too lazy to grab any others — but now the pillows from her bed prop her head up. Marcus must have put them there before he left; sometimes she sleeps so deeply that she isn’t surprised he hadn’t accidentally woken her up.

She finally manages to peel herself from the spot on the couch she's been laid on for over twelve hours, her knees protesting with a loud crack, every blanket tumbling to the floor. Her feet brush from her rug to the cold wooden floor and she shivers again because, of course, she’s unbearably cold again. Only her hands, that are stuffed into the pockets of Marcus' jacket, are warm.

The apartment is always quiet, now. Especially since Scott had moved out. Everything just feels empty, like she’s living in the house of a ghost, passing by empty picture frames that she's been too distracted to fill. She’s sure that Marcus has cleaned before he left; the half-melted tub of ice cream and empty Chinese food cartons are gone and even the dirty dishes she'd dumped in the sink have been washed and tucked away in the cupboard.

It’s the smallest of gestures, bringing her pillows so she’s comfortable and throwing out the trash, probably small and insignificant to anyone else. But the idea of doing any of it had bled all the energy from Coraline's bones and she’s so grateful.

She’s so painfully and heartbreakingly grateful for Marcus Pike and he has no idea.

[xbellaxcarolinax]

Forging A Heart (Ivar the Boneless) 5- Replaceable

Pairings: Ivar x Artemis (OFC)

Word Count: 2154

Warnings: Light dream violence?

4- Distaste

...

She could hear herself breathing, her heart rate accelerating at inhuman speed. Her eyes were closed. She was afraid to open them in fear of seeing the horrors of a living hell.

She felt a wetness about her bare feet that seeped between her toes, warm and sticky. The scent of iron was strong in the air. Glancing down she opened her eyes slowly, gagging at the sight of the pools of rich blood surrounding her, as well as the bodies of the holy men thrown about with arrows embedded into them. She stared wide eyed at the massacre, lifting up the hem of her white dress to see it covered in the red of the monks.

The pristine walls of the monestary were covered in the blood of its men that worshipped within its walls. The statues of the saints melt away into the bloody mess on the marble floors, and the gold she had welded with her own two hands were gone.

Artemis let's out a sob, willing the screams in the distance to stop, for the madness to stop...and then there was silence.

Somehow the silence was worse than the screams.

"It is beautiful, don't you agree?" She whipped around quickly, staring into eyes of endless blue oceans that would surely drown her.

Ivar stood tall, looming over her like a great oak tree, a long bow in his hands. Blood streamed down his face and into his eyes, but he didn't seem to care.

To see him at his full height and not crawling about on the ground set a fear in her heart. Before she could do anything, he stretches the bow string as far as he could with a wild grin, releasing the arrow with lightning speed, and then, she saw nothing.

...

"Wake up, you lazy cunt, you're dreaming again!" The hits of the wooden spoon were enough to jolt Artemis into conscienceness. Sweat rolled down her brow and her breathing was erratic. It was still dark out, not yet sunrise.

"There she is, now get up, the Prince's should be waking soon and the hall must be spotless. Wouldn't want Ivar to cut that pretty little face of yours, hmm?"

Artemis rubbed the sleep from her eyes, doing her best to ignore Edda, the head thrall of the household. She was a feisty older woman with an unpleasant tone who had worked under Queen Asluag in the days when the boys were young. She was round, with a build as large as her personality. They must have fed her well these past years. Edda was quite fond of her late Queen and had resented Lagertha, but those were the old days, and a new era was upon them. Perhaps the murder had affected her just as it did the sons.

The main hall had been empty that morning, except for the few slaves that lingered about. Edda, that old hag, had sent her to clean up mess after mess. Artemis supposed that was her main purpose there, besides tending to the crippled prince. Cleaning up messes was tedious, but at least she wasn't forced upon the fortifications of the wall. The monks of Crete served that purpose.

Artemis blinked tiredly, slowly dragging her feet to the hall. It was to her surprise that not much needed to be cleaned and tended to. The brothers had thrown a small feast among themselves, and the remainders of last night hung in the air and draped over Artemis' shoulders like a cloak. Articles of clothing were thrown about, and horns of ale sat untouched on the table. She collected the clothing and cups, passing them off to one of the kitchen maids and the laundress.

She sighs, tending to the hearth before going over to wipe spilled ale off the large table. On the center of the table was what looked like a lute. It was a beautifully crafted instrument, the wood carved to perfection. Patterns were etched on its front with the same strategic lines she had seen carved on the rocks and boulders around the village.

She tossed the cleaning rag to the side, momentarily forgetting her task and letting her fingers brush atop the smooth wooden surface. The wood was soomth to the touch upon her heated fingers, just as she expected. She then passed her fingers over the thin strings that were rough to the touch. She plucked one of them, and the resonating sound made her smile. The sound was a comfort to her, a nostalgic ringing in her ears that made her want to pluck another string just to bring the feeling back.

"Do you play?"

Artemis turned quickly, suppressing a shriek of surprise. Behind her stood one of the princes, Sigurd, who bore a tired smile. When she remained quiet, he stepped forward slowly, ignoring the look she gave him.

"Do you play?" He asked again, this time a bit slower, assuming she didn't understand. He points at the lute. He gave no air of a threat, but Artemis could not be too sure, so she didn't let her guard down. She didn't know this prince as well as the others. Ubbe was sensible and kind, Hvitserk was extremely playful, and Ivar crazy, so where did Sigurd fit into?

She realizes he was waiting for an answer, and she quickly cleared her throat before putting her hands behind her back and setting her gaze to the floor.

"I'm not very skilled, Prince," She spoke quietly but firmly, and almost jerked back when he gently grasped her chin, pushing her face up towards him. Her eyes bore into his odd blue ones and his smile could be described as blinding.

"Your eyes," He begins, "Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?"

"No." She replies flatly, shaking herself from his grip.

Sigurd wasn't angry.

He stepped past her, grabbing the lute and plucking a few strings to create a tune. He smiled at her again before handing her the instrument.

"You try,"

She looks at him with uncertainty before grasping the lute, cradling it softly within her arms like a child. She plucked one string, then another, bringing back a tune from deep within her memory.

She remembered her mother was a skilled musician, trying her best to pass on the knowledge to her, but Artemis never really cared for it. She always gravitated towards the work of her father and brother. Her mother always joked that she bore two sons. The thought made Artemis smile as she continued to play, just as her mother had taught her, a lullaby played to her when she was a little girl. It had been so long since she'd heard it, yet somehow it remained fresh in her mind.

She stopped abruptly, fingers hooking over the strings as mixed emotions ran through her. She felt angry hot tears swell in her eyes, blurring her vision. She choked back a sob that threatened to spill from her lips. The memories of her old life resurfaced and hit her like a crashing wave. She fought so hard to keep them at bay.

Overwhelmed, Artemis placed the lute back on the table with shaking hands. She spared a glance at Sigurd, wet eyes revealing the resentment swimming within. It wasn't his fault she was there, but he was associated with the ones who did, and that was enough for her soul to be gripped with animosity.

"Why do you cry?" Sigurd seemed genuinely confused. The idiot. He steps closer, raising a hand in an attempt to dry her tears, but right before she made a move to shift away from his touch again, they were interrupted by a growl all too familiar.

It had grown silent, even the crackling embers of the building fire had grown silent as if fearful.

"Ivar," Sigurd says his name with an annoyed sigh, not bothering to turn around. He knew his youngest brother had the eyes of a vulture.

"What can I do for you, little brother?"

Ivar had the habit of appearing from the shadows unnoticed despite the scraping of the metal buckles round his legs, but he quite liked it that way. He crawls across the floors in an eerie manner as he slowly approached the pair with eyes that was nothing short of murder.

"I just wonder brother," He began softly, continuing to drag himself ever so slowly until he reached Sigurds boots, "I wonder who gave you the authority to touch my thrall, if it was not I who gave the order?" Ivar feigned confusion, lifting himself up to sit at the table. He watched Artemis intently, noticing how rigid her posture was, as if ready to pounce on the defense if need be. Sigurd held his ground as he always did.

"Must I ask permission to command a slave, Ivar?" Ivar hums in response, drumming his fingers harshly against the table that resonated throughout the hall. Sigurd was never a good liar, even now, Ivar could see how his brow twitched, a sign of Sigurd's obvious dishonesty. He had fooled Ivar as a child many times, but he wouldn't be misguided as easily as before.

"Command? This isnt an ordinary slave, dear Sigurd, this is my slave. Would you like it if someone else were trying to toy with your property, hmm?" His tone was condescending, a ploy to bring Sigurd to his boiling point. It had almost worked, and the youngest brother watched with glee as Sigurd moved to react, hands turning to fists, but it was Ivar's slave that reacted first.

"I was never a man's property, not in my homeland, and certainly not here," Artemis growled, hands bawling into fists at her sides. Whatever ounce of fear she had of Ivar had disappeared, as rage clouded her vision. All thoughts of potential punishment had ceased from her mind, nose flaring and eyebrows arched.

She faces Ivar with a hardness in her eyes, shining like pearls ready to be plucked from the sea. Perhaps it was her nightmare that ignited the fire, the image of Ivar ready to kill her was implanted in her mind. Ivar grinned madly, a reaction he was not expecting from her, but a reaction he enjoyed nonetheless.

Sigurd watches on with wide eyes, speechless at her outburst. It was only moments ago in which she almost appeared as a mute. Leave it to Ivar to make even the most silent of persons angry.

"My, how your vocabulary has expanded!" Ivar taunts, "I'm impressed, really," He slams his hand against the table with a loud smack, and the force of the hit sent the lute crashing to the ground, forgotten in the tense silence of the hall. Then he gets deadly serious.

"The fact of the matter is that you are now a slave! To hel with your past life, it does not matter anymore. Here you are nothing but a slave under my command. Relinquish your thoughts of your homeland, you have no use for it here,"

"You are much too cruel, brother." Sigurd sighs, glancing at Artemis before taking a seat across from Ivar. He was in no mood to argue.

"The truth can be quite cruel," Ivar says, glaring at his brother before turning his gaze to Artemis. He brings a dagger between his fingers, the same one he put to her throat only days ago. It seemed to glitter in the light of the fire, as if mocking her mortality.

"Well? Will you not fetch us food? It is nearly time for breakfast," Ivar smiled, quickly driving the dagger into the wood of the table with a hard stab. Artemis, fuming with anger, remains silent. Her hands shook and she felt the heat rising to her cheeks. Sigurd sent her a sorrowful look, but she ignored it, snatching the rag in a tight grip and turning on her heel to exit the hall. How infuriating Ivar was, to constantly express his superiority. He compensates weak legs with extreme pride, and uses fear as a way to control.

Hvitserk and Ubbe walked past to meet their youngest with Margarthe in tow. Hvitserk winks at her as he usually did at but Ubbe's eyes were hard. He grabbed her forearm tightly, succeeding in emiting a squeal from her.

"Obey him, Artemis," She blinked. It was the first time he'd given her some form of scolding, "You may have never been a slave before, but that is what you are now, and that is the path the gods have chosen for you. If you value your life, obey him. You are replaceable."

With that, Ubbe leaves as if no words have been exchanged at all. Margarthe sends her a look as if warning her, but disappeared with her husband and lover into the hall.

Angry tears escape her eyes and she wipes them away furiously. Tears wouldn't help her.

...

@heavenly1927

[eirabach]

Skin Deep [TAG post 3x26]

Oh my god. Oh my GOD.

Okay, here's my first mini dive into post canon TAG. It is unlikely to be my last 😂

----

Jeff Tracy has five sons.

A five times fic that isn't really a five times fic at all. After all, a man rarely comes back from the dead more than once.

----

----

I can feel my heart beating as I speed from

The sense of time catching up with me

----

It starts with a mission. 

Nothing too out of the ordinary, just a freighter struggling at the edge of the atmosphere, an unstable fuel supply, and his teenage son piloting a rocket to relieve them. Perhaps it is a little out of the ordinary. He does try not to show it though.

Alan is certainly an accomplished pilot, maybe even better than Jeff himself. He's certainly better than Jeff had been as an eighteen year old, taking pretty girls out for joyrides in his mother's ancient turboprop.

Alan is doing just fine.

Scott? Not so much.

Jeff had been led to understand that John had fielded all of IR's calls during Jeff's long absence, a fact that certainly accounts for the dark circles beneath the boy's eyes,l. So it was John's toes he'd worried about stepping on when he'd begun routing calls through to his desk, though John had assured him he'd be glad of the rest.

It isn't John's voice interrupting his every order.

He mutes the line between himself and Three, and spins his chair to glower at his eldest. Scott is pouring over the telemetry, his knuckles white against the edge of the pad.

"Scott," he says, as strongly as he dares. "You're confusing the kid. I know what I'm doing."

"But Alan --"

"Is my son!" He regrets it at once, the way Scott's jaw drops and his hands fall. Hates the way he sounds -- like a bitter old man. Jealous.

He hates the way he means it, how Scott's single nod sits like satisfaction at the back of his throat when it ought to sting.

"I know," Scott says, all quiet and reasonable as though he might be Virgil in a mask. "but he's still my brother."

Soft words gently said, yet they leave a burn he feels right across his heart.

He doesn't quite know why. 

---

Virgil is his grandmother reborn, with one fairly major difference. Virgil is absolutely big enough to pick Jeff up and put him in his room if he thinks for one moment that Jeff might be overdoing it.

It seems he thinks Jeff is overdoing it a lot.

It's the third full med scan of the week, and Jeff has undergone less torturous poking and prodding in order to be shot into space than Virgil appears to deem necessary for him to be allowed to head down to the hanger under his own power.

It's touching. It's sweet. It's… getting a little old.

He isn't likely to tell Virgil that though, because although he's treating Jeff as though he's made of glass it's clear to anyone with eyes to see that Jeff's not the fragile one in this room.

Another vial of blood, another heart rate monitor. Another whisper, directed somewhere around his right knee.

"I'm so sorry, dad."

This has to stop. "For what?"

"Scott never gave up."

Ah. Jeff's been gone a long time, but some things never change. Virgil has never been one to admit to being wrong. This is probably as close as he'll ever come, and it's so damn unnecessary that if it weren't for his son's downturned expression Jeff might be inclined to laugh.

"Tell me something Virgil. Do you still play?"

"Yeah, yeah when disasters allow. You know how it is."

Jeff very much doesn't, but he fears a reminder of that fact might just tip Virgil over the edge.

"You stopped for a while, as I recall. After your mother went."

"Yeah. It hurt too much, knowing she'd -- that she'd never hear me again." Narrowed eyes. "You remember that?"

"I'm getting old, Virgil. I'm not senile." A smile. "Did you ever give up painting?"

Virgil stares, then, shaking his head.

"No. I never gave up painting."

Jeff thinks of his own art, scratched into the walls of his hellish home. The villa. Three. His Lucy's eyes scrawled over and over until they became too much to bear and were hidden behind a washing machine. Those same eyes look up at him now.

"Hmm." Jeff squeezes his wrist, lies back on the med bed, and closes his own. "Glad to hear it."

---

He doesn't know what to make of it, any of it. John's standing there with a computer in his hands and an expression on his face that suggests Jeff needs to tread very, very carefully.

Unfortunately, this has never been his strong point. Eight years of isolation have not helped.

"What is it?"

The computer flashes, a circle of yellow light, and John winces. A voice Jeff doesn't know echoes around his lounge. 

"I prefer she."

"My apologies," he manages, because his mother's watching and she didn't raise an oaf. "What is she?"

"John made me."

"She's yours?"

John shuffles on the spot, awkward, as though he's confessing to something rather more dire than the writing of a computer program.

"She's not -- I don't own her. I created her, but she's -- she's her own person. Kinda. We're working on it."

"Working on it?" His voice goes up at the end. John winces again. The computer glows. Amber to red to amber. "She's sentient? You created a sentient being?"

Gordon laughs, because Gordon would, and claps Jeff on the shoulder.

"Your first grandkid is a sociopathic sentient computer code. Bet you weren't expecting that one."

"I do not like you, Gordon Tracy."

Gordon beams at this, and John rolls his eyes. It almost looks like they've had this conversation before. Rehearsed it. He'd believe that of John. He'd believe almost anything of John. But this --

"See?" Gordon's still grinning. John's still watching him, the computer held close to his chest. "She's totally John's kid. Grandpa, meet Eos. Eos, this is your Gramps."

"Charmed," the computer says, an echo of John's laugh in her voice, and Christ, he needs a scotch.

Grandchildren. He'd never dared dream of them.

(He knows why, and shame chases the whiskey down his throat.)

---

He spends a lot more time out in the pool now. It starts as physiotherapy, Virgil and Gordon guiding his struggling body through the motions that will help to strengthen atrophied muscles and support weakened bones, but becomes, in time, a place he spends the hours after dinner, watching his youngest children and wishing for things he'll never have.

He does it a lot, enough that his space pale face is now bronzed and pink, enough that Gordon and Alan think nothing of a cry of 'c'mon, get Dad!'. Enough, that when Gordon grabs him round the waist and goes to throw him, he shouldn't be shocked. He should have noticed.

There's a great silver-red scar arching from his boy's shoulder and curving up his spine, stopping just where the high collar of his blues must hide it. 

What the hell happened? What the hell happened?

He must say it out loud, or maybe his face says it for him, because Gordon freezes, releasing him, and then just stands there. A little hunched. A little sheepish. In the pool Alan treads water, silent. Waiting.

Alan knows. Jeff does not.

That's just the way of things, now.

"Had an accident."

Alan scoffs, his voice louder across the water. "Nearly got murdered, more like."

Jeff's grip tightens until Gordon flinches. He lets go as though burnt, but his hand still hovers there, just above the puckered ridge of skin. Waits.

"Son?"

Gordon shrugs, the scar pulling tight.

"Alan's exaggerating, dad. It wasn't --"

"He nearly died!"

"I got better," there's a false sort of brightness to it, a twist to Gordon's mouth that suggests Alan is probably closer to the truth than Jeff would like. "It's no big deal, dad. Swear. It's nothing. I don't want to make a thing of it."

The sun dips below the horizon and throws a last burst of red across the water, across Gordon's back and Jeff's hand and he wants to argue. Wants to demand. Wants the information that's owed to him as this boy's father. Who would dare lay a finger on his boy? Just how close had he come to losing him without even knowing?

But his funny little boy isn't a boy anymore, and Jeff's rights to his stories are lost somewhere in the trail of the stars.

"Of course, son," he tells him. "Of course."

---

He catches Alan at the table, some piece of electronic junk spread out in front of him like a childhood jigsaw, his brows furrowed.

"Everything alright there, Alligator?"

Alan's nose wrinkles at the old nickname, as though he's forgotten. Probably he has. Jeff had left him just a little boy, and he's come back to, if not a man, then a boy right on the cusp of adulthood. A boy who's already been taught to shave, and fly, and behave by other men who are not and never will be, him.

"Yeah, yeah all good." He looks up and smiles. Alan's smiles were the purest memory he'd had, out there. They're more beautiful than he'd remembered. "What's up?"

"Not much, believe it or not." Jeff sits, fiddling with a transistor as Alan blows dust from a circuit board. "Electrical engineering, huh? You thought any more about college?"

Alan turns the board over and over in his fingers. "Not really?" He shrugs. "Like you said, I've got a rocket. I save people. I dunno what letters after my name are gonna do to help."

"Well," Jeff says mildly, "it never hurts to have a plan b, son."

Alan drops the circuit board, shoves the various pieces as far away as he can reach, and turns on Jeff with an expression half fury and half abject terror.

"For what? What do I need a plan b for, dad? What's gonna happen now?"

And though Jeff is a man, a grown man, he doesn't have an answer for that.