#the things that are currently in my head about him are not suitable for public disclosure

[leopardom]

if anything, Bojan sure knows how to sway those hips 🕺🏻

source: x

[radioactive-cloud]

he can't keep getting away with this

source: x

[delta-pavonis]

Last Line Tag Game x4

I have had FOUR people tag me in this game in the past few weeks but my life has been categorically WACKYDOODLES so I am just getting to this now. And SINCE it has been so long since I posted a single slim word, here is one blurble for each tag. @tj-dragonblade, @tryan-a-bex, @zzoomacroom, @moorishflower thank you for the tags!! In return I tag... anyone who is excited about A Thing and wants to share! I want to know what y'all are working on that you are excited about! ALL OF YOU!! BWAHAHA. From a still untitled Castlevania: Nocturne (blame @dancinbutterfly for pointing me towards Olrox fic) Olrox/Adrian WIP that is fanfic of the fanfic Until the Sun Rises Again by @ifishouldvanish:

He decides to deflect, smirking as he looks at Adrian through his lashes. “Are you asking me about vampires who I have taken as lovers? Bold move. Considering applying to join their ranks?” One golden eyebrow arches. Something flashes in those keen eyes as he lets the silence stretch. Olrox feels the temperature of the air change when Adrian makes a decision, a fraction of a second before he responds. “Apply? I thought I was already offered the position.” The surprise alone makes Olrox throw his head back and laugh, a burst of deep amusement the likes of which he has not felt in far, far too long. Adrian sits with a smirk clear in his eyes as Olrox lets his laughter peter off naturally. When he is done he tilts his head to the side, studying the beautiful, witty thing before him with simmering desire coursing through his veins.  Throwing caution to the wind, Olrox leans forward and grabs Adrian’s hand, brings the bone-white fingers towards his lips, and enjoys watching the dhampir’s pupils dilate. “That you were. And the offer stands for there are so many different positions you could fill.” Something dangerous glints in his eyes and then, with a twist of his wrist, Adrian is holding Olrox’s chin in his hand and pressing the nail of his thumb into the vampire’s bottom lip. He doesn't gasp, not quite, but he does freeze, entranced by this turn of events. “So you agree that I would be the one doing the filling, do you? Pity,” the nail, sharp as a razor, slides sideways and brings up the smallest drop of blood. “I had rather hoped there would be a struggle over it.” Olrox inhales sharply and stares. This is it. This is the fulcrum, the turning point. He can taste it.

Now three Dreamling WIPs... which I will put under a cut because not a single one of them isn't filthy, first two more than the last. CW for D/s relationships, edging, fisting (and mention of some extreme versions at that), charity auction for a date with a person, concerning lube choices, semi-public sex in the back of a car

From the next fic in the museum curator Dream/doctor and TikToker Hob series, currently titled Special Exhibition, where Hob ended up fisting Dream before Dream got up to ride him:

“Another night you’re gonna come like this, with half my arm buried in you,” Hob looks up and meets Dream’s heavy-lidded, lust-fogged gaze with his own. “But not tonight.” He pulls his hand out, slowly, with some extremely loud protest from Dream, but then grabs the lithe man by the waist and rolls them so he is laid out on his back with Dream straddling him. The leather chaps creak with the quick movements. “Now take what you need, my sweet Dream.” Dream growls greedily, teeth bared, as he maneuvers himself over Hob's hips. “Gladly. Though you may soon rethink the suitability of the adjective sweet.” He howls when he seats himself onto Hob's cock then immediately starts seeking his pleasure, riding Hob fast and hard, changing angles and rolling his hips until he finds the spot that forces all the air out of his lungs all at once with a deep groan. Dream repeats the motion, slamming himself down faster and harder on each pass until he is making one constant warbling noise. 

It’s hot and slick and not goddamned enough. Dream is busy using Hob’s cock to pound his prostate into oblivion, without a care for the fact that he is so deliciously open his hole isn't actually giving Hob much to work with at all. He is held hard by the ring around the base, but otherwise it is a maddeningly teasing glide of heat around him. Dream is hard and leaking and Hob watches as his spine arches and Dream… doesn't come. He has his long fingers wrapped tightly around his cock, squeezing out a noise of frustration. “Gonna edge myself on you, baby. Use you to drive myself to insanity. Only after I’ve had my fill am I going to take that ring off you. Maybe then I’ll be tight enough to provide stimulation for you.” Sweet Christ.

This is from bury me with my guns on, the WIP I have where Hob is former mafia doing a fishbowl rescue with his former lover (my OC Sandro). Dream is having post-fishbowl touching people issues and Sandro has the bright idea that Dream should instead tell Sandro what to do to Hob, to act through Sandro. They've just finished that scene and are playing with the idea of Dream calling Sandro "his tool":

“Anything you ask of me,” tumbles out of Sandro's mouth before he can think better of it. “I know every sexual fantasy of every human who has ever dreamt upon this Earth.” His eyes are heavy-lidded, smoldering. “There is a terrible variety of things I could ask of you.”  “Hob knows better than you my willingness to comply… to obey.” He can’t help but smirk. Dream’s expression darkens further. “You wish to be tested?” Sandro can tell that Hob is going to interrupt, so he speaks loudly and quickly. “You said you wanted to see what I am capable of, yes?” “Sandro, don’t–” “Then I will see you take Hob’s fist,” Dream practically purrs. “And then his arm. To the elbow.” Sandro is pretty sure he blacks out for a minute at the thought. When his awareness returns Hob is soothing him as if he is a scared animal. “Please, my bird, you don't have–” “I have never wanted anything more.” Hob's mouth snaps shut and he stares at Sandro. “Do it, my love. I would have you fuck me wider and deeper than I have ever been. Show Dream his naming me his tool is not misplaced.” He grinds in Hob's lap. “And perhaps, if I am Dream’s tool, I am his substitute, then if you do well enough with me, you will be allowed to do the same to Dream himself? One day?” Hob goes deathly still and just his eyes slide to Dream, who has gone even more lax in his corner of the couch.  “Hmm,” he runs a hand down his black T-shirt clad chest, down his abdomen, and it cuts the fabric as it goes, opening it like he pulled a zipper. “The fae folk call me the Shaper of Forms. It would be of little consequence for my body to accept both of Hob's arms up to his biceps if he wished it be so.” The cry that emerges from Hob is the sound of a man going insane.

Last is from a brand new WIP inspired by an ask that @gabessquishytum answered that my brain took in a totally different direction, including flipping who is on the auction block... for context Hob and Dream knew each other in college and Hob is now the increasingly popular host of Britain's Favourite Dancer, who is up for "auction" as a fundraiser. Dream bidding an obscene amount for him is the first time they have seen each other since Dream promised he would come back to Hob 15 years ago. They barely make it to Dream's car out back.

Dream is pulling Hob out of his suit with ruthless efficiency, clothing being flung all over. He’s down to his skivvies when Dream’s shirt is finally coming off and Hob cannot help but boggle even as he is wriggling out of his underpants. “Holy hell, when did you get all this, dove?” Hob’s got his boxer-briefs around one ankle and that will have to do because he refuses to take his hands away from all the dark chest hair that has just been revealed to him. Pale skin takes on a charming blush everywhere Hob touches. “I… used to wax. Thought you,” Dream groans and leans into Hob’s hands, “I thought you preferred it.” Hob stops his roaming hands and brings them very deliberately up to frame Dream’s angular face, forcing eye contact, which only makes the man above him blush more. “I should have been clearer then. I prefer you. It doesn’t matter what it is or how it looks: if it is you or yours, that is what I want.” Dream is kissing him in an instant, with a lack of finesse and hungry teeth, as he shucks off the rest of his clothing. “Then there's no question that you want to take my cock.” He says that as he settles between Hob's thighs, presses both their pricks together with one of his hands. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” Hob arches into it, voice high-pitched and thready, eyes slamming closed. “But if you keep twisting your hand like that I’m gonna come before you get to the main event.” Fuck. Dream’s hand actually speeds up. “Good. I could use something other than spit to finger you open with.” Hob doesn't even try to contain the moan that image draws from him. “Then I am going to fuck you until you’re hard again. Might take a while. Maybe until the benefit auction lets out around us. Can you imagine that? You never were a quiet lover… you know that I can make you scream loud enough for passersby to hear. Think they would recognize your voice, hoarse with pleasure? I can see the headlines now, Beloved TV Host Out on Medical Leave–Railed to Within an Inch of His Life.” Hob would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't busy coming harder than he has in the past decade. 

[zahri-melitor]

Thinking again about the whole "Dick told Damian he would have adopted him" scenario and remembering how ridiculous this is:-

Firstly, Bruce would have had to be dead. Since Bruce became aware of Damian, Bruce has always been a fit parent in the eyes of the law; there's no evidence of any situations that would lead to Damian being removed from Bruce's custody, and in terms of what a social worker would care about, the worst that's going on is...Damian runs away on occasion, plus your standard set of vigilante bruises.

For Bruce not to have at least partial parental responsibility for Damian, some of the following elements would need to be in place: Damian has a birth certificate without Bruce's name on it; nobody has provided a DNA test showing that Bruce is Damian's father; someone has legal paperwork stating that Damian has two different, legal parents; Bruce has permanently relinquished custody of Damian; a parenting order has been made that says Bruce doesn't get custody or parental responsibility (whether by agreement or by court order). Aside from the fact we don't know what's on Damian's birth certificate, none of this is the case.

Damian is clearly in Bruce's custody, legally, from about Battle for the Cowl onwards, and has had visits to the household prior. This is because, as far as the public and the legal system is concerned, Tommy Elliot is currently 'Bruce Wayne' for any public appearances. Now you could have a (fun!) scenario where Damian needs a DNA test to prove his identity and since Tommy obviously would not match, the courts find Damian is not Bruce's biological child...but given Dick is literally also building his own forensic testing lab as part of Wayne Enterprises at that time, they'd obviously do it in house and use a sample Bruce had on file.

Bruce provides care, support, housing, paid supervision (Alfred), and so on for Damian whenever Damian is in his custody or in a Wayne household.

Damian also specifically chooses during B&R09 that he wants to be in Wayne custody not in Talia's (after his back surgery) and everyone involved actually works to make that happen, including Talia (and preference of the child is something that's taken into account in terms of parenting orders).

And in any circumstance where Bruce is not considered to be a fit parent for Damian (due to, for instance, being dead), then Talia is still Damian's biological mother and the person who had parental responsibility and custody of Damian up until the age of 10. You'd need to prove that Damian should not be in Talia's custody and that the circumstances were such that she couldn't even have, say, supervised visits. Now whatever the DCU position on international assassins having custody of their children is, Talia, unlike Jade Nguyen, has never been charged or convicted of killing people, to my knowledge. She doesn't have a known criminal record.

To show Talia to be someone whose rights as a parent have been removed, you'd need something of the following: Talia would need to agree to give up all parental responsibility (which she has never done, see how often Talia drops in to 'sort things out' for Damian); Talia would need to be found by a court not to be a suitable parent for her child; Talia gets imprisoned for killing people and thus couldn't have custody of her kid; Damian has paperwork that says Talia isn't her mother/we have DNA evidence showing she isn't his mother.

For Dick to have any chance of adopting Damian, they would have needed for both Bruce and Talia to be legally dead, have had their parental rights removed, or have voluntarily relinquished their parental responsibility, to permit the adoption to occur.

This isn't a small thing. Bruce might have been 'dead' during that period but he was also legally alive in the eyes of the law. Talia has a legal existence in the US under her identity as Talia Head. For Damian to get adopted, he'd need both of them to sign that Dick could adopt him, or be in the custody of the State and have the State agree for Dick to adopt him.

There are scenarios where you could get to that point, particularly if Bruce had remained dead. But in the stories we have? As much as Dick thinks it might have been a nice thing to do, he absolutely could not have done it without a protracted legal fight (or agreement of both Bruce and Talia) and he'd probably lose that fight.

[novankenn]

A Side kept hidden... (3)

( Table of Contents )

Junior frowned and shook his head as he watched his business partner sashay her way into his office. Her current assistant and his one time body-guard following close behind. Junior stood and welcomed the pair with a slight bow of his head. He waited for Pyrrha to take a seat before his desk, before he took his own seat, while Miltia took her place standing at Pyrrha's right shoulder.

"You wished to speak with me?"

"Yes, I do."

"I see." Pyrrha sighed and shook her head. "Are my contributions not enough to cover the services rendered?"

"This is not about your... contributions." Junior responded.

"It's not? Then why have you called me away from my entertainment?" Pyrrha's emerald green eyes narrowed as she suddenly leaned forward and clasped her hands together in her lap. "I was in a happy mood... my last match was quite... exhilarating."

"That is what I want to speak with you about." Junior was used to dealing with dangerous and powerful personas, so Pyrrha Nikos' actions were not foreign to him. "Your... needs are drawing too much unwanted attention. Police attention."

"I see." Pyrrha's body language suddenly relaxed, and she leaned back in her chair. "As I understand it, and correct me if I am wrong... Prevention of police interference is under your purview of our agreement."

"It is, and that is why I am speaking with you." Junior replied unfazed. "You need to slow down. Take a break and let things settle."

"But..."

"Too many people have vanished. It has been noticed, and because of that it has become to troublesome to not only locate... combatants, but to also relocate your winners, and dispose of the losers."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"I am not stupid, and I am not careless." Pyrrha snapped her eye flashing with annoyance and anger. "I have the funds and influence, you have the means. That is why we have our arrangement."

"Then take my advice. Slow down, or better yet stop altogether for a little while."

"How little is this while?"

"A couple weeks. Maybe a month."

"A month without any entertainment? You are asking very much."

"I understand that, and I can discount..."

"This has nothing to do with money." Pyrrha snarled. "It's about MY mental health!"

"Well, maybe try another outlet?"

"There are no other... outlets that satiate my appetites."

"Well I don't know what to tell you Miss Nikos, but right now the public and the authorities are become hyper vigilant about these... disappearances." Junior held Pyrrha's gaze. "I know it's not what you want to hear, but you pay me to tell you how things are without the pomp and ass-kissing. This is how things are. You have to slow down, preferably stop for a bit."

"That I do." Pyrrha snorted and bit her bottom lip as she drummed her manicured nails upon the arm rests of her chair. "Will I continue to have the services of Miltiades and Melanie... during this... hiatus?"

"You will." Junior answered, without pause. "They are your assistants, and as long as you require their... services they remain in your employ."

"Fine." Pyrrha stood up, and sighed in an exaggerated manner. "I will put my... entertainment on hiatus for now... but do take this time to scout out suitable... candidates for once I return."

"That can be done."

"Very well, if there is nothing else, I will take my leave."

"That is everything I wished to speak to you about. Thank you for being so accommodating." Junior replied as he also stood and once again gave Pyrrha and Miltia a nod of his head.

"Good evening Mister Xiong."

"Good evening Miss Nikos."

"Come Miltiades." Pyrrha purred out as she causally placed a hand on the small of Miltia's back. "We have a play date to attend."

"Yes... Yes Miss Nikos."

Junior dropped into his seat with an exasperated sigh, and shook his head shortly after Pyrrha and Miltia left his office. he knew she was bad news when he first met her. He knew he should have turned his nose up at the money.

"You stupid fucking ass." Junior chided himself. "Getting involved with that psycho bitch was a big fucking mistake. a big cluster-fucking mistake."

[daintyduck99]

when they compliment something that they've been insecure about and it just breaks them for Rulie pretty pretty please?

Julie's miserably stirring her mashed potatoes when a playful nudge returns her to the real world. 

"What's the matter, Jules? Don't tell me I need to fish your favorite bracelet out of the vent in Mr. Salter's room again." 

"That was one time," she defends, pointing her fork at Reggie, who just grins. 

Oh, he's close. Their knees and elbows graze like this, and it unleashes a swarm of butterflies in her chest. She bites her lip. 

He shrugs, and she feels it when he does, burning all along her arm. His eyes shine.

"I mean, I'm not gonna stop teasing you about it, but I'd do it again." 

Luke chimes in from across the table, giving her the perfect excuse to look away.

"Really, though. Why the long face?" 

"I wasn't making a face!" 

"You were," Alex says apologetically. 

Luke and Reggie nod along, with Reggie adding, "Yeah, it was like—" 

They all make exaggerated frowny faces, and she huffs a laugh, shaking her head. 

"Okay, okay! Cut it out, or I won't tell you." 

That's when Flynn reappears. She takes her place on Julie's right. "Tell them what?" 

"What else?" Julie sighs, spearing a nugget. "My latest dance class disaster."

"Okay, well, maybe I can help," Alex offers.

"Not unless you can square dance. Nick, surprise surprise, cannot." 

Reggie hums. "I thought you liked Nick." 

"I do!" 

She flushes as Reggie turns to her more fully, keeping her eyes glued to her food. 

"Not—I like him well enough. He's nice. But he's a horrible dance partner, and sometimes it's like. He's not really present? It makes it hard to have a real conversation with him, or a connection." 

Reggie knocks their shoulders together. 

"Luckily for you, you do know someone who'd be a suitable partner. As in, they can square dance and hold a real conversation. Just saying." 

Julie abandons her lunch completely. 

"You?" she breathes. "You could help me?"

He lifts his chin with a smirk. 

"I didn't go to public school in Georgia for several years for nothing. I've got you." 

"Oh—" She throws her arms around his neck. "Thank you thank you thank you!"

"Don't thank me yet," he says, suddenly sheepish, but he returns her fierce hug. 

With Reggie's help, she's able to master most of the basic calls. She still can't quite get the promenade right, though, and the whole thing gets difficult when other people are meant to enter the mix. 

Not to mention she has to turn around and teach everything to Nick, and the week swings wildly between fun and frustrating. 

Reggie finally suggests that they go to an actual square dance so she can get more practice with the right amount of people, given that she has another week left to go before the unit exam. She eventually agrees, which is worth it for the giddy way he lifts her off of the ground alone. 

Her nerves come flooding right back once they're standing in the square, though. She wobbles to the record like a newborn deer, even on the steps she knows. 

Reggie does his best to keep her steady, guiding her gently when he wraps his arm around her waist for the first promenade. 

"You've got this," he murmurs in her ear, which has the opposite of the intended effect; she instantly stumbles over his foot.

The next call is one that splits them in separate directions, and she do-si-dos around the next guy with a nervous smile. She stays on the beat, at the very least. 

Until she glimpses the redhead who's leading Reggie through the next promenade, anyway. 

Her hair shines in copper braids, and she keeps stealing smitten looks at him through her equally bright lashes. A coy little smile plays around her mouth. 

Not to mention that her hand curls over his in a way that makes Julie want to crush all of the fingers of her current, unwitting partner. She seethes, stomping a little harder than necessary on the next beat. 

Okay, near the next beat. She mumbles an awkward apology to the unfortunate blond that's been saddled with her. 

It's ironic, she knows. 

Reggie twirls the redheaded girl out of the promenade with a grin, a flourish that Julie's never even seen. She's storming out of the square before anyone can stop her, blinking stupid tears from her eyes. 

"Julie!" 

She shakes her head and keeps going, only to squeak when strong arms wrap around her waist, catching her before she can plunge into the misty evening rain. 

"Let go," she says in a small voice. 

"Will you stay if I do?" 

This is met with sullen silence. 

Reggie sighs. "Julie, what's the matter?" 

"It doesn't matter!" 

The words burst out of her, echoing in the entryway. She takes a shuddering breath and wills the small voice to come back. 

She'd rather sound fragile than cruel. 

"It doesn't, so just let me go. You can keep dancing with—with that other girl. I'll scrape by on my exam, okay? Clearly, I'm just—holding you back!"

"That's what this is about?" Reggie says incredulously. He spins her around, clutching her shoulders. "I don't care that you're a beginner. I love dancing with you. Any way, always. You're my favorite partner. I'd love to work up to the fancy stuff with you, if you wanna stick with it."

She swallows, searching his eyes. 

"Really? And that's why—you've never spun me like that?" 

"Really! I didn't want to throw you off. Especially when you've gotta get past that test, and reteach everything to Nick, and honestly, I—" 

He ducks his head, but it doesn't hide his flushed cheeks. 

"I didn't want to teach you that move just so you could do it with him. You're amazing, Julie, you're such a quick study. And you could do so much better. You'll surpass all of us, someday. Okay?" 

Her breath catches. 

She lifts his chin with trembling fingers. 

Her mind is a jumbled mess, unraveling every implication and twisting it in a million directions. Her heart isn't any better, galloping away at a speed that leaves her dizzy, so she simply follows her instincts. 

She follows his lead, the pull of his eyes. 

Their lips meet tenderly, and the rest goes quiet as her eyes flutter shut. The world narrows down to the slope of his jaw and the soft press of his lips, the whisper of his hands as they slide into her hair. 

Kissing Reggie is easy, a coordinated dance of silent cues. She vastly prefers it over the square dance calls. It's delightful, and she doesn't mind the dizziness, the way she'll surely wobble like a fawn again.

She knows he'll be there to steady her. 

"Don't ever tell me," she says breathlessly, "that I deserve better than you. You're the one that I want. Okay?" 

A beautiful smile spreads across his face.

"Like—as a partner, or a dance partner, or—" 

She huffs a laugh, cutting him off with another kiss. "Yes, Reggie." 

"We'd better get back in there, then. Are you ready to knock everyone's socks off?"

Her laughter echoes through the entryway, this time. She finds that she means it when she laces their fingers together and says—

"Yeah. I am." 

[joylinda-hawks]

Maybe a little cruelty first thing in the morning. Kidding. In line with the current trend, I chose a photo of ZZH from the airport. Lest we forget what style ZZH preferred when traveling. This airport style ZZH has evolved over the years. This process can be compared to aging fine wine - the longer the wine matures, the better it becomes. The same can be said about ZZH, the longer it was in the industry, the more refined its styling became. Regardless of the circumstances, ZZH paid attention to his clothes. Of course, different types of clothes are suitable for important events or galas, and others are suitable for traveling. When traveling, you have to focus on comfort, staying in a tight space for several or a dozen hours is not a pleasure, even if you travel in business class. (unless you have your own plane with amenities) ZZH's job and the very large area of CN required air travel, although I assume ZZH also traveled by high-speed rail. But many of the ZZH photos come from different airports. In this case, ZZH can be admired in loose, sporty styles. In the photo I chose, ZZH is wearing a nice red Balenciaga sweatshirt. Besides, ZZH seems to have a weakness for this brand's clothes. I'm not surprised, their designs are quite original. The figure of the designer Cristobal Balenciaga and his story attracts attention. Balenciaga was self-taught, he couldn't draw a pattern, but he still had a vision and implemented it. Coming back to the outfit, this sweatshirt was designed to support the World Food Program. Since 2018, the company has supported this program by issuing limited editions of clothing and accessories. A portion of the proceeds from this series goes to WFP. Therefore, purchasing and wearing this sweatshirt is a ZZH manifesto. It is clearly visible that, as a public figure, the actor supports the fight against world hunger. It may seem like such a small, insignificant element, but it gives good testimony to the ZZH, which cannot remain indifferent to people struggling with food and water shortages. For this I respect ZZH very much. Wearing this sweatshirt sends a message, because I wear this outfit, you are my fan, do something for this organization, help the hungry. You don't have to buy clothes and accessories, but make at least a small donation for this purpose. I think that was ZZH's message when he chose this particular sweatshirt. But back to the photo, I chose the one that shows us the moment when he stopped for a moment and signed a photo given to him by a fan. Even when ZZH was tired from the journey, he stopped for a moment and talked to fans, signing photos. Looking at this photo, ZZH looks adorable in a red sweatshirt (it's one of his favorite colors), the lush cutout on his head highlights his facial features, and the glasses make him look intriguing. A white backpack fits this style perfectly. There is not the slightest error in this. Because this is the real ZZH, a young man with a huge dose of empathy and an excellent sense of style.

[dabisqueen]

Falling in Love Ch.7

Rockstar Dabi (Touya) x fem!Reader

⇢ word count: roughly 4.5K

⇢ series plot: after receiving a VIP ticket to a concert of the most popular rock band, you go and it proves to be a life-changing event.

⇢ current plot: getting ready for your first concert with the LoV, Dabi sure takes your mind off of things. But, what does his bandmate Keigo say to all of that?

⇢ warnings: 18+, minors DNI, alcohol consumption, kissing, groping, sex in public, unprotected sex (duh), creampie, lots of jealousy

Personal note: finally got my head out of the gutter enough to finish this. Thank you @/hunajan for being my beta. And thank you @/crumbly-scrombly for being the second brain on this.

Series masterlist

Taglist

Arriving at the venue, Dabi handed you an all-access pass and you happily pulled the badge around your neck. Dabi grinned as you smiled up at him, nodding almost too eager when he said, "Let's go!"

Soon after everyone met up, the band met up for a quick sound check. It was fascinating to see how they had their process down to a science, their set-up, and plug-in. 

Sitting down at the edge of the stage and letting your legs dangle off the platform it was amazing hearing the little previews of carefully dialed-in bass tones and guitar effects. 

As Keigo grabbed the microphone and went about saying "Checking one, two…" Dabi continued to tune his guitar before playing a few rifts.

Eventually, it was his turn, and stepping up to the microphone, he winked at you before deciding to put his own spin on the sound check, "Test Test Testicles."

Keigo snorted into the microphone, grinning hard while Tenko muttered, shaking his head, "I'm too old for this shit---"

Dabi’s smirk grew wider as he kept staring at you, his eyes glinting mischievously, "Check check, check her out."

Your ears started glowing a deep red while Dabi kept doing his own version of a sound check, using an array of expletives with Keigo's laughing next to him into his microphone asking for him to keep them coming.

Once the Front Of House sound had been adjusted, the sound engineer went about setting up individual mixes for each band member, which were delivered via in-ear monitors. 

Eventually, they moved to run through a portion of their set. The sound of an electric guitar being strummed blasted from the speakers, and Dabi's distinctive voice started echoing through the venue, resonating in your ears.

The sound engineer kept adjusting the volume of each instrument and tweaked various frequencies to ensure the sound was clear, well-balanced, and set at a suitable volume.

Seeing Dabi on stage, in his element, you realized what music meant to him. It was an escape, from this world, from all the suffering and pain. It sent chills down your spine, seeing his expression going soft, all worries and troubles fading from his world. Joy bloomed in your heart, having you yearn for him even more, making your heart ache for his presence.

With him at the center, the LoV radiated with this incredible confidence that made it seem like they were actually performing. Even some of the crew stopped what they were doing, listening to the band go. 

It was only then that you saw Keigo standing off to the side, and a strange feeling overcame you. His golden eyes stayed fixed on Dabi with an expression on his face that spoke of deep longing and craving. Your breath hitched in your throat, wondering how you never noticed before and your heart started feeling weighty.

He continued staring at Dabi like that until his bright eyes flicked over to meet yours. His expression darkened considerably and– averting his gaze– he turned his back to you, continuing to play the current song. 

As fast as the spectacle had started, it was over again and even though it was merely a sound check, you already felt like you had watched the entire show.

While Dabi and the rest of the band went to an organized Meet and Greet, you took the time to walk around the venue a bit. Even before the event got underway, there were people hustling and bustling everywhere. It was electrifying in a way, like the buzzing of a bee hive ready to greet its queen.

The stage was set in the northern part of the stadium. Giant speakers were placed in the four corners to make the music highly audible. Three huge LED screens were set at the back of the stage, glowing with the radiant blue of the LoV logo. They made sure that even the fans in the back of the stadium could see the band play live on stage. 

Hundreds of LED lights were set in the lighting rigs, ready to recreate dozens of color combinations with the push of a button, and spotlights in the balcony to follow around the band members. All of them were ready to unleash their spectacular light show on the viewers and pull them into the emotion of the songs, of the show.

You stopped and exhaled shakily, trying to comprehend the magnificence of what was coming up, already capturing the mood and the vibe of the show before it even started.

Looking up you saw Dabi waving over to you, signaling the Meet and Greet to be over. With everyone heading back to their dressing room, they started preparing for the upcoming show. 

While the stars started to spread across the darkening clear sky above the stadium, the crowd slowly started to pour into the empty venue.

An array of snacks waited for you back in the room, consisting of fruit, assorted cheeses, some crackers as well as drinks. Seeing some Ichiro’s Malt Chichibu Whiskey with Dabi's name tag on it accompanied by another bottle of The Macallan Rare Cask Whiskey with Keigo's name on it, you rolled your eyes, laughing lightly.

What was unexpected, was the flat screen sitting off to the corner, several consoles and controllers hooked up to it. While Dabi and Keigo went straight for the Rider, Tenko headed for the game area, grabbing the controller to turn on the system. 

You sauntered after your boyfriend and while he poured himself his first drink, you asked Dabi about it. 

Dabi’s lips formed into a pout as he muttered that it was Tenko’s way of taking his mind off the upcoming show and relaxing.

"Why'd ya ask? You wanna join him?" He narrowed his eyes at you, "My company not good enough?"

Nudging him into his side you scolded him teasingly, "Dabi, don't be so jealous…"

"'M not," he scowled, turning to pour himself a glass of whiskey, "Just saying what I'm thinking."

It was still over an hour to go, and the opening band was just starting to play on stage. While you nipped on your water, Keigo and Dabi rehearsed more of the nightly program, going through the run-off the assistant had passed out and picking the songs for the encore. 

Dabi held tightly onto your hand the entire time, not giving you a chance to part from him. Each time you tried to, his arm circled your waist, keeping you closely pressed against him. It was like he needed you, that he wanted to make up for the time being apart from you coming up.

Hearing his name being called, he turned to see his manager wave over to him. 

"Wait here for a moment," Dabi pecked a kiss on your cheek before sauntering over to the other men.

Seeing this as a chance to approach Keigo, you took a deep inhale to calm your shaking nerves and greeted him with an awkward smile, "Hey Keigo."

Keigo kept his gaze fixated against the wall, continuing to sip his drink when he muttered back a brusque, "Hey."

"Maybe we haven't had the best start," you gulped, gathering some more courage, "But I still want to let you know that I'm not what you think I am."

Keigo snorted, his golden eyes flicking to yours, "Enlighten me."

"My feelings for Dabi are honest." You tried a timid smile. 

"Doubt that," he said bluntly before turning his attention back to his drink.

Stepping closer to him, you looked up at his stern face, "C'mon Keigo, I realized that maybe you're fighting with me for the wrong reason."

"And what would that be," he laughed derogatorily, knitting his eyebrows together.

"I know you have feelings for Dabi as well so—" you started but he harshly interrupted you with an upward raised palm.

"My feelings are none of your fuckin' business—" his expression turned sour, feeling caught, frozen because you saw right through him.

"Keigo please, I saw the way you looked at Dabi…" you tried again.

His intense golden-brown eyes were like slithers and he leaned in close. You could see little flecks of black in their irises. They were beautiful and you gulped, the air around you suddenly seeming to blister with heat.

"Aren't I right?" You added softly. 

His breath hitched and for a split second, you could see hurt in his eyes too.

"You don't know Dabi at all." Raking his manicured hand through his ash blond hair, he scoffed, "Not the way I do – I know him better than you, I have been with him for years."

"Keigo, I don't want to fight you," you pleaded, wondering what else he knew that you didn't, "So what is this all about?"

"That Dabi is better off with me," he almost growled before shouldering past you towards where the manager and Dabi were standing.

Your shoulders slumped and you sighed, the urge to seek comfort with Dabi dampened by the fact that Keigo was standing beside him by now. 

You turned to see Tenko sit on some pillows on the floor, legs crossed and immersed in some ego-shooter. You took a glance back at Dabi, who was deeply engaged in a conversation with the crew and Keigo.

"Winding down a bit?" You asked, sitting down next to him.

Without averting his eyes or pausing his gaming, Tenko just rasped "More like, trying my best to get riled up enough to join those two dingbats back there later on…"

You burst out giggling, something about his uncomplicated ways just so cute and boyishly. The way he was always so rough yet transparent with his emotions put a light in your heart and made you feel relaxed around him. It's the same feeling you had when being around your roommate. 

"Aw Tenko," you leaned forward and pecked a friendly kiss on his cheek, "It's always so nice talking to you."

He blushed all the way to his ears and almost dropped his controller. A gunshot followed by a gurgling grunt sounded from the speaker as his character took several hits and died.

"Shit, sorry," you laughed out loud, the screen turning bloody red, while Tenko grumbled an array of curses into his headgear. 

He lightened up your heart and after that depressing exchange with Keigo, you needed that more than anything else.

Behind you, Keigo and Dabi were watching you both, the lead singer's face turning pensive as he endured the scene before him.

"Seems like she's getting along pretty well with Tenko, isn't she?" Keigo nonchalantly dropped.

"None of ya fucking business," Dabi answered, lifting the glass to his lips to take a sip.

"Aw c'mon, you know she'd never betray you," he placed his palm on the low of Dabi's back.

"Aren't I right?" He mused, watching Dabi from the side. 

Dabi never averted his eyes from you. Watching how you leaned into Tenko, brushing your hand over his arm. His emotions surged, a pain spread through his chest and he felt anger, jealousy, and hurt.

"Hurts, seeing them together, doesn't it?" Keigo absent-mindedly stroked his thumb along the glass in his hand.

"Shut it," Dabi growled through gritted teeth.

Keigo leaned in, his lips brushing along the lobe of Dabi's ear as he whispered, "You know I'm much better for you than her." 

Dabi didn't respond, biting the inside of his cheek. After a moment of silence, Keigo spoke again.

"Mark my words," Keigo laid his palm on Dabi's shoulder, assuring him with a false sense of certainty, "She's just another groupie."

Dabi couldn't reply, watching you with a suspicious look on his face as you leaned into Tenko and laughed lightly. Keigo turned and walked away, a satisfied smirk on his face.

Over on the other side of the room, you had just stopped laughing. 

"Well, sorry about that," you wiped the tears from your eyes, "But I need to get back now" 

"Yeah yeah," Tenko muttered, scratching his neck, trying to hide his grin behind his pale unruly bangs, "I needed to finish anyways, we're starting soon…"

Standing up and scanning the room, you just saw Dabi disappear into the bathroom. Following behind and clicking the door shut behind you, you saw him place a small package of white crystalline powder on the counter. 

"Dabi," you approached him. "There's no need—"

"The fuck are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't do?" He snorted, unable to meet your eyes, gaze still fixed on the package.

"Nice move, tough boy," you crossed your arms, cocking your head, "Says the guy who seemingly wants to control who I converse wi–."

"You kissed him!" His voice was clear and loud as he slammed his hand on the counter. 

His rage-filled eyes met yours, glowering at you. You took a sharp inhale, shocked by his sudden outburst. But then you straightened up and replied.

"Touya, that was a peck on the cheek for crying out loud!" You bit back, just as startled as him when you heard those sharp words tumbling from your mouth.

He flinched, his hand flying up to press against his chest as a stabbing pain spread through it. He gasped for air a few times, cold sweat starting to form on his forehead. 

He stared at you, his sapphire eyes beautiful and mesmerizing as ever. Yet, underneath that beauty, there was a frightening mixture of fear and uncertainty.

Raising your hand to cup his cheek, you waited, gently stroking your thumb over the damp skin of his cheekbone, feeling the quivers that ran through him. He covered your hand with his own, keeping it there, leaning into your touch. 

After a while, the fear in his azure eyes slowly faded and made room for something else, something full of hope and affection. The tremors shaking his body slowly subsided, his breathing evened out and he broke eye contact, his gaze dropping to the floor.

Staring at the small pouch with the cocaine in it he spoke quietly, "What if I need this to forget? To forget my jealousy…"

"Touya," you dropped your arms to gently circle his waist, pressing your body against his.

"You're the only one for me, don't you know that?" You whispered against his chest, "I— I love you."

A moment passed by in silence with Dabi's eyes widening.

"You… love me?" His fingers hooked under your chin, lifting it so his brilliant blues met yours, his eyes full of warmth and adoration.

"Of course I do, you idiot," you gently tugged a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

His body language made it clear that he was on the verge of breaking.

"Please," rocking on your toes, you placed a kiss on his lips, "I'm yours. You don't need drugs to make you feel good."

His eyes flitted back to the package and then to you. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling so awful for getting all worked up. Burying his face into the crook of your neck, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your fragile figure against him. Your arms were tight around his waist as you snuggled against the warmth of his chest.

Staying like this he caught the faint hint of your own sweet scent. He felt something in his chest, that feeling of being at home again, a deep peace spreading through his body. 

Dabi knew you were the only one, and now that you were so close to him, there was no way he was going to let you go. 

If only he could tell you though.

Lifting his head, he cast his eyes to the wall, chin resting on your head as you relaxed against one other.

"Ok," a faint smile spread across his face, as he leaned back to cup your face and kiss you gently on your lips.

"But I need you to show me how much you belong to me," he cocked his head, a mischievous grin painting his lips. 

His crotch pressed into you, making you feel the heat down there – and the growing bulge straining against the leather of his pants, "Let me mark you."

With that, he picked you up and you giggled lightly, knowing what was about to happen.  Spinning you around to place you on the bathroom counter, his lips sought yours for a hungry kiss, his fingers sliding under your dress, pulling it up until it pooled around your chest, starting to squeeze your bare tits.

Hearing the sound of the clink of the buckle and sound of a zipper, you asked as he pulled down his pants, revealing his unclothed hard cock, "Always going commando, huh?" 

"Only for you," he grinned against your lips, tugging your panties aside while lining up with your slick folds, slowly sliding inside.

You groaned at the stretch, still not used to his size, and started panting when he pressed further inside until his hips were flush with yours, the tip of his cock pressed against your cervix.

"Don't have much time," he rasped, bending down, his hot mouth lazily pressing wet kisses against your pulse.

Quickly pulling out to slam back inside, he started picking up a rough pace, "H-Hope that's OK."

"Don't worry–haa–," you bit your lip to suppress louder moans, "with you I'm always close."

The way his pierced cock kept hitting that perfect spot over and over again, you felt yourself being propelled towards your orgasm.

“God, I want to mark you so badly...” His voice had gone smoky, his eyes heavy-lidded, burning with desire when he looked at you.

Breathing against your pulse, his teeth sank into the soft flesh, pulling a sharp gasp from you.

"Then –ah ah– do it," you replied, feeling him latch his lips onto your skin and starting to suck with vigor.

As he kept pounding into you, the lewd squelch of his balls slapping against your ass filled the otherwise quiet room. You were so submerged in the feeling of chasing your high you almost didn't hear someone calling Dabi's name.

"Shit," Dabi panted but before either of you could react, the door flew open and Tenko barged in.

You squealed, frantically trying to cover up your blushing face with your palms.

Seeing you on the counter, legs spread wide with Dabi buried to the hilt inside of you, Tenko came to a stuttering halt. He turned a deep red, his eyes starting to bulge before swallowing loudly, turning on his heels.

"The fuck, dude," he cleared his throat, gaze flitting to the floor as he stammered, "L-Lock the fucking door, for fucks sake."

You tried to squirm away but Dabi held you tight by your hips, tutting quietly, not stopping to move his hips, sliding in and out of you at a rapid pace, "What do you want, Tenko?"

Fiddling with the doorknob, Tenko ripped it open to hurry outside, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Haven't you already done it once today?" His irritated rasp sounded from outside the bathroom.

"Once? This is the fourth time," Dabi chuckled and Tenko cursed in response. 

"Are you two trying for a kid?" You could make out the sarcasm in his tone, "You guys certainly fuck like you do—"

"Heh, he's right," Dabi chuckled, "We have been going at it like bunnies…" 

Just as you opened your mouth to retort with a snarky reply, Dabi thrust into you at a particularly deep angle, drawing a high-pitched moan from your lips.

"Just - hurry up will ya?" Tenko grunted nervously, "Everyone else is waiting already."

"Yeah," Dabi groaned, starting to feel his insides tightening up, "Gonna cum now anyways."

"Ew– spare me the details," Tenko huffed as you heard him leave.

"Oh fuck, Touya," your fingers dug into his shirt, as you felt your entire body tensing, your walls starting to flutter around him.

"God I love it when you call me that." His head fell into the crook of your neck, his breathing turning heavy and hot against your skin.

His thick cock missed none of your sweet spots while his thumb found your needy, neglected clit, starting to rub frantic circles in it.

"I'm g-gonna—" you shakily breathed out, toes curling in your boots. 

Dabi let out a broken moan as you threw your head back, starting to cream around his fat girth.

A lazy smile on his lips, he watched you through heavy-lidded eyes as you came undone around him, feeling you clenching around him, repeatedly clutching his cock.

"Fuck, you're milking me, doll." He groaned as his balls tightened and his hips started to stutter. 

You moaned out his name as he started to twitch inside you, shooting the first spurt of cum into your tight cunt.

"Take it all, baby," he hissed through gritted teeth, emptying the rest of his sticky load into you, "Gonna mark you mine, got that?"

"Yess–" you wailed as he rolled his hips a few times lazily into you, making sure that you were filled good.

The room had grown quiet again, the silence only broken by the distant sounds of the concert continuing and your shaky breaths.

“Holy shit.” Dabi chuckled, twitching cock still buried deep inside of you.

His cock slipped from you, and he wiped it off on your naked thighs.

"Ew, you're gross Dabi," you complained, scrunching your nose.

But he just chuckled, "Don't have time to clean up," tugging his still erect cock back into his leather pants.

Buckling up his belt he pecked you a short kiss, "Gotta run, ok?"

"Yeah," You looked down at the mess he made and sighed, "Go get 'em, tiger."

Slipping out the door, he swore under his breath when he looked back and saw you staring at the ceiling with dazed, half-lidded eyes, your combined juices dripping from your red puffy folds onto the counter below.

After he closed the door you slid off the counter and proceeded to rid yourself and the poor bathroom cabinets from the remnants of your heated encounter. 

Following the lines on the floor towards the stage area, you arrived just in time to hear Keigo speak, "Dude, you seem stiff, got a stick up your ass?"

And Dabi chuckled, "Na bro, just a stiff prick in my pants–"

"Told you already– spare the details!" Tenko interrupted while everyone else burst out into laughter. 

When you met up with them, Dabi and Keigo were just checking their equipment, with the assistants readjusting the headsets as well as applying the final touches of makeup.

As soon as he was ready, Dabi looked up to see you standing off to the side. He strolled over, circling his arms around your waist, pulling you close. His breath heavy with whiskey, tickled your lips as he whispered against them, "You alright, doll?"

"Yeah," you ran your fingers through your hair, "Maybe kinda–nervous?"

Pinching your cheek, he clicked his tongue, "I should be the one being nervous, you lil mouse."

His mouth met yours before you could reply, his tongue licking across your lips demanding entrance. You sighed and he slipped in, his hands trailing down to grab the plush of your butt cheeks, his digits digging in, making you squeak.

His taste was heavy on your tongue, whiskey, smoke, and - him.

It made your heart drop in your belly as he pressed his pelvis against you, a growing bulge starting to strain against his leather pants again.

He pulled back, a string of saliva connecting you both. Smiling sheepishly, he whispered against your lips, "Fuck doll, you get me all riled up again."

"Time for showdown!" a voice interrupted your make-out session and Dabi sighed but turned around to see everyone grabbing their equipment. 

"Gotta go," cupping your face, his lips met yours again before he said, "And keep your eyes on me.”

"I-I will," You nodded. “And you look for me in the crowd, ok?”

"I'll do," his lips brushed yours one last time before he sauntered over to his pitch black Strat with an LoV logo and grabbed it.

Just as he stepped up to the stage, he turned and grabbed his bulge, squeezing it once before throwing you a kiss and stepping into the stage lights.

As he ran on stage, he looked so stunning with the sleeveless shirt, a raging boner sporting in his tight leather pants. It was so obvious that the crowd erupted in frantic screams in an instant. With his electric guitar around on his shoulder, his silver piercings glinting under the light, the fans went berserk seeing the way his shaft piercings were visible because he was pushing those leather pants to their limit.

The crowd roared, screaming his name and you could see through the huge LED screens how Dabi smiled cockily when he grabbed the microphone and turned towards you and - poking his tongue at you - rutted his hips forward in a quick suggestive way.

You could feel your cheeks growing hot, your heart violently jerked in your chest. You rolled your eyes and saw him laughing when he turned back towards the hungry fans, lifting the microphone to his mouth.

"Hello, y'all! Are you drunk enough yet?" His voice, raw and deep, thundered through the stadium and sent shivers down your spine, "Cause we're here to. Fuck. You. Up tonight!"

The audience screamed loudly in response to his words when he placed his hands on his guitar, one on the neck, the other holding the plectrum, hovering over the strings.

There was something so irresistibly sexy about him as his airy laughter sounded through the speakers, the way his eyes glistened with pure joy before he turned his head to nod at Keigo.

And then, with Tenkos count, he slammed into the chords and LOV kicked off the show, too loud, but not loud enough. Clouds of smoke billowed into the air with fountains of fire erupting on stage while the world around started to fade, being replaced by the sound and vivid colors of their performance.

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Winning the Championship Date

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 夺冠之约, which has not been released in EN! 🍒

[ Released on 28 September 2021 ]

The vibrations of my phone rouse me from the tediously long document. After looking at the caller, I answer it hurriedly.

MC: Gavin? Has your mission ended?

Gavin (on the phone): Soon. I’ll be back before the weekend. I should be able to make it in time for that café event you mentioned.

I suddenly recall how I had mentioned this event to Gavin before he left for the mission last month, but...

MC: Sob sob. I can’t go this weekend. I’m producing a new show, so I’ve been busier lately.

Gavin (on the phone): Is it a difficult show?

MC: A little bit... Come to think of it, Gavin, what type of sports shows appeal to you?

Gavin (on the phone): ...appeal to me? Competitive sports with commentators.

Just as I’m hesitating on whether to tell him about the problems I’m facing, someone on the other end of the line seems to be calling for him.

MC: Go and do your thing. I’m not facing any issues.

Gavin (on the phone): Okay. Contact me anytime if needed.

Right after hanging up, Minor knocks on the door and comes in.

Minor: Boss, I’ve made the arrangements for the collaborative filming of “Life’s Limits” with the City Sports and Culture Bureau. As per your request, I’ve selected a group of amateur racing hobbyists. The name list and materials have been sent to your e-mail.

MC: You’ve worked hard.

Minor: Boss, why don’t you take a break? Your dark circles have appeared.

MC: The company competing with us for this project is Light Media, and it’s much more experienced in producing sports shows as compared to us. We can’t let our guard down.

After more than half a month of research, I locked in my decision regarding the filming site - Hurricane Club.

This club is very well-known amongst motorcycle enthusiasts, and often organises competitions for amateurs.

This weekend, the club will be conducting a three-day training, and participants will be guided by professional coaches. There will even be a friendly race at the end.

The competition has a very novel format - it’s a three-person relay.

I intend to search for three photogenic motorists to form a small team. By following their daily experiences throughout the entire process, including their training sessions and the race, I’d produce a story about the team.

Minor: Boss, according to your request, isn’t the best choice Bro Gavin?

MC: That’s true...

During the initial planning stage, the first person I thought of was actually Gavin.

However, he doesn’t like appearing on shows, and was only willing to appear in previous shows because of me.

Moreover, he’s been away for a mission which lasted close to a month, and should get a proper rest over the weekend.

MC: In short, he... doesn’t quite fit the standard. You can leave work for now.

After sending Minor away, I re-focus on the thick stack of materials in front of me.

-

Before the peak hour on Friday, I head towards Hurricane Club in a rental car. While doing pre-filming checks, I answer the phone.

Minor: Boss, the three people we agreed on have set out. I’ve also found a suitable substitute. After careful selection, he’s definitely a top quality choice. I can guarantee that nothing will go wrong! You’ll get to see him once you reach the club! Boss, thanks for your hard work!

Before I have a chance to probe further, the dial tone sounds in the next second.

MC: This fellow is once again acting first before reporting afterwards... there shouldn’t be a problem, right?

Upon reaching the club, I meet up with the three team members we had contacted earlier.

Based on background research conducted by the company, they are generally outstanding, and are very enthusiastic when it comes to racing.

One of them is a young participant called Kelly, who obtained an amateur championship title in the past.

I quickly introduce the details of the shoot to them.

MC: Bro Liu, Xiao Yu, Kelly, thank you all for participating in this shoot. Afterwards, the club will be allocating you to your coaches for guidance. Even though this team was put together at short notice, I hope everyone can have faith in each other, and motivate each other. We also prepared a substitute team member...

??: Sorry I’m late.

A familiar voice drifts from behind me, and I immediately turn around.

Sunlight falls on every step Gavin takes towards me. The pair of eyes looking at me are bright and clear.

Gavin: I’m the substitute team member, Gavin. I’ve kept you waiting, Producer.

-

After the club assigns the coaches and enters the test run phase, I finally digest the “unexpected surprise” of Gavin’s sudden appearance.

I initially think of finding a chance to talk to him privately, but the coaches who arrive one after another leave me with no choice but to retract the gaze which keeps straying towards that figure.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on my current task. By the time all the filming angles are checked, most of the morning has already gone by.

Scanning my surroundings, I don’t see Gavin anywhere.

MC: ...where is he?

-

Walking along the racetrack and towards the vending machine, I decide to get a bottle of coffee to fill myself up before looking for Gavin.

Perhaps because I didn’t have breakfast, I suddenly feel dizzy after taking a few sips.

By the time I regain my senses, I’m carried over to a long bench by a familiar force. Meeting Gavin’s evidently frantic gaze, I quickly tug the corners of my lips upwards into a smile.

MC: Gavin, I was just about to look for you. Turns out you were here.

He doesn’t speak. Lifting his hand, he wipes away the thin sheen of sweat on my forehead lightly. Then, a breeze envelops me gently, warm and comforting.

He takes the coffee in my hand smoothly, then retrieves soya milk and a sandwich from the bag in his hand.

Gavin: Eat your breakfast.

MC: ...okay, I’ll listen to Sir Gavin.

I munch on the sandwich obediently, occasionally blinking at Gavin to convey a message which says, “I feel much better, so there’s no need to worry”.

Gavin’s slightly furrowed brows finally arch subconsciously.

Gavin: I heard from Minor that you’ve been working overnight to prepare for this show.

MC: Haha, don’t listen to his nonsense. It isn’t that exaggerated...

Gavin: I also heard that I didn’t fit the standard. What standard did you set?

MC: ...

I clench my fists in secret, condemning Minor from the bottom of my heart for his “heinous act” of betraying me.

MC: I can explain! You don’t like appearing on camera, and your identity in STF is a pretty sensitive topic...

Gavin: Mm, you’re right.

Gavin deliberately elongates his words, as though he doesn’t plan to let the matter go just like this.

Gavin: So what’s your standard?

MC: ...we hope for the motorists to have a certain level of professional competence, to be sufficiently photogenic, and most importantly, to have an enthusiastic heart. But I really didn’t mean to say that you didn’t fit this standard!

Gavin is finally unable to suppress the upward turn of his lips.

Gavin: Once you’re done today, sleep early tonight.

-

The training proceeds methodically, and filming goes very smoothly.

The roar of motors drift from the club’s racetrack, and motorcycles of every hue speed freely along the racetrack.

In the camera lens, two blue and white motorcycles seem to be speeding at the same pace, as though they’d break through the finish line at the same time.

Kelly: Have you ever participated in professional racing?

Gavin: Nope.

Kelly: The way you cornered the motorcycle a few times - you can’t do that with ease without a few years of experience. How did you do it?

Gavin: I just drive often.

Kelly: Let’s find a chance to ride together some time.

Kelly pats him on the shoulder before continuing the training. Gavin walks over to me, twisting open a bottle of water before taking a sip.

Gavin: Is filming going well?

MC: There’s too much footage from the training sessions. I might consider adding a special segment for interviews.

While speaking, I’m struck with an idea.

MC: Mr Gavin, why don’t you have a pre-interview with me to test out the effects?

I lift a bottle of water towards Gavin. 

MC: What made you like motorcycles?

Gavin: I don’t have a precise answer. By the time I realised it, I already liked them.

MC: In that case, are there any motorcycle-related experiences which left a deep impression on you?

Gavin is silent for a moment. He seems to think of something, then chuckles softly.

Gavin: The time it overturned.

MC: Overturned? When did that happen? You can tell me in secret - this will definitely not be disclosed to the public.

Gavin looks at me, and he speaks in a volume only the both of us can hear -

Gavin: [whispers] The time when I rode on a snowmobile with the girl I like.

The snow field in my memories is cold, but the breath at my ear causes the temperature of my ear to rise.

[Note] This is a reference to Snow Mountain Date

MC: [blushing] Cough, that was...

All of a sudden, a clamour from the racetrack interrupts my words. The both of us stand up, only to discover that a motorcycle has overturned on the track.

Many people are standing at the side, and some call out for the medical staff.

Gavin: That seems to be Old Liu. Let’s go over to have a look.

-

Doctor: There are soft tissue injuries to your wrist and leg. Recuperate properly over this duration, and don’t engage in any intense activities.

Bro Liu: What about the competition tomorrow...

MC: Bro Liu, just recuperate. The doctor said that once your injuries are healed, you can still ride motorcycles in the future.

Bro Liu glances at Gavin.

Bro Liu: I guess I must admit that I’m getting old. It’s time to hand the baton to the young.

After contacting Minor and telling him about what happened, Gavin and I leave the hospital.

MC: Bro Liu worked so hard over the past two days. He must have really wanted to participate in tomorrow’s competition...

Gavin: In that case, we’ll work hard together with his effort. This is when the substitute steps in.

-

It’s the night before the competition, and I’m looking through the contents of the edited shoot over the past two days in my room.

After cutting the cornering training, I modify it into a slow-motion feature, then insert a few casual interactions between the team members as embellishments.

But no matter how I edit it, the clip is unable to convey the feelings I hoped it would.

I grab my hair in frustration, unwilling to accept my defeat. I locate the original video, watching it from the start.

The sound of the doorbell interrupts my slightly muddy train of thoughts. Opening the door, I see Gavin standing outside.

Gavin: I saw that the lights were still on in your room, so I came over to take a look. Why aren’t you sleeping?

MC: Gavin...

Hearing the gloominess in my tone, he takes my hand and pulls me over to sit down on the sofa.

Gavin: Filming didn’t go well?

Placing the notebook laptop between us, I play the recording.

MC: For this shoot, I wanted to edit it into a small unscripted story to showcase the competitiveness and fun of being a racer. As of now, the story aspect is going smoothly, and the interactions between people are interesting too. But I think it’s missing something which can grab one’s attention immediately...

Gavin looks at the screen and ponders for a moment. Then, he suddenly asks me a question.

Gavin: Want to go for a stroll? It’s too stuffy in the room. Getting some fresh air might give you new inspiration.

-

Likely to conserve energy for the competition tomorrow, everyone has returned to rest very early, and the racetrack is completely empty.

Gavin leaps onto the bleachers, then reaches out to me.

Gavin: Let’s go for a spin.

He takes my hand, guiding me onto the vehicle. Then, he puts on a helmet for me, teaching me how to grab the throttle and brakes.

MC: Gavin, are you sure this is okay?

Gavin: You can’t go onto the road, but we’re still within the venue. After filming for days, don’t you want to experience it yourself?

MC: I want to!

Gavin sits behind me, two arms securing me steadily in his arms.

Along with the familiar sound of the engine, the motorcycle moves. The speed is incredibly steady, and is just right for enjoying the pleasant evening breeze.

MC: Gavin, can we go a little faster?

Gavin: We can. Sit tight.

A loud roar drifts to my ears, and the motorcycle flies forward like an arrow leaving a bow.

Very soon, the most difficult part of the racetrack appears, comprising of consecutive bends. During the training sessions, many motorists faced many trials at this area.

Gavin grips my hand, loosening the throttle, causing the the motorcycle to slow down.

MC: There’s no need to step on the brakes?

Gavin: No need. Engine braking is enough to reduce the speed.

While speaking, the motorcycle tilts at an unbelievable angle at a turn. Gavin controls the direction with composure, air currents at the side keeping the motorcycle steady.

The motorcycle dangerously yet steadily completes the curved track, returning onto a straight track and picking up speed once again.

Gavin: MC, can you see where the cameras are? That’s the goal. On the racetrack, that’s the only thing in a racer’s eyes.

The sound of wind at my ears seems to quieten down. The moment we charge past the finishing line, I suddenly have a feeling that a full stop has been drawn on the racetrack.

Even after the motorcycle makes its gradual halt, I’m unable to return to my senses.

Seeming to understand my silence, Gavin doesn’t speak. He simply pushes the motorcycle that I'm on patiently, walking slowly.

MC: Gavin, I know what this story is missing. Stirring the emotions of viewers requires the most important thing which can make them seethe with excitement -

Gavin: Winning the championship.

MC: That’s right. All the effort from before is meant for the final sprint towards the goal. Winning the championship is the core of a competitive spirit, and is also what the show’s theme of “limit” is seeking after. But... Gavin, do you think we have a chance at winning the championship tomorrow?

Gavin: Yes. But while we’re improving, others are improving as well. Everyone on the racetrack will be aiming towards victory. The people you selected are very outstanding. Believe in them, and believe in yourself.

MC: Mm, everyone has already worked very hard. When it comes to winning, it’s good enough if they try their best.

Gavin parks the motorcycle properly, then carries me down from it.

Gavin: Go back and have a good sleep. You don’t have to worry too much about the competition tomorrow.

-

It’s finally time for the competition. Seeing the filled audience seats, I feel incredibly nervous.

Kelly: I didn't expect to see so many people.

MC: It’s a Sunday, and the club decided to open the venue to the public as publicity.

I take a deep breath to calm my emotions.

MC: Let’s enjoy the fun of racing to our heart’s content! Shall we do a pre-competition ceremony?

While speaking, I stretch out my hand. Gavin cooperates, placing his palm over the back of my hand. He gives it a gentle pinch, and it feels as though an endless stream of strength is being transmitted.

It’s a sense of security belonging only to Gavin.

MC: Safety first, the competition second. Everyone, all the best!

All the motorists have taken their places at the starting line. Based on prior suggestions by the club, I’ve arranged Kelly to take on the first battle, and Gavin will be the finale.

With the green light signalling the start of the competition, twenty motorcycles which have been waiting for action seem to sprint forward at the same time.

The sound of motor engines causes everyone’s adrenaline to spike, and the crowd becomes immersed in the competition.

I’m positioned closest to the audience seats. This is the first time I’m viewing a competition from such a close distance. Even though it’s an amateur competition, it’s sufficiently astounding.

Xiao Yu makes a few minor mistakes at the bends, causing the team to lag behind temporarily.

Carefully observing the changes on the racetrack, I don’t feel overly anxious.

Because it’d be Gavin’s turn next. With him around, I always feel exceptionally at ease.

I look at Gavin as he waits at the handover area with a helmet over his head. He seems to sense my gaze, and turns around to see my thumbs up.

In the next second, his motorcycle charges into the racetrack.

The blue and white motorcycle courses past the bends nimbly in almost “L” shape movements.

As compared to my experience last night, I can see Gavin’s cornering techniques even more clearly from the audience seats.

Although the camera is unable to capture his expression, it isn’t difficult to imagine his focused and bright eyes from underneath the helmet.

When the competition enters its final round, Gavin has already reached the second place, and there’s hardly any difference between him and the first competitor.

The audience’s emotions are stirred by this intense competition, and the sound of cheers surge forward like a tide.

I find myself being influenced as well, staring fixedly at that sprinting figure.

After the upcoming bend, the goal will not be far.

Unexpectedly, a motorcycle behind suddenly accelerates towards the bend, using its full strength to make a last effort.

However, the motorcycle tilts too much. It’s clear that the centre of gravity was not controlled properly, sending the motorist collapsing onto the track.

At this point, Gavin’s motorcycle is already over half of the bend. He controls the dip of the motorcycle, barely avoiding the fallen vehicle.

Because of this incident, some distance is pulled between himself and the motorist in first place.

On the straight road, Gavin’s motorcycle suddenly accelerates, keeping pace with the motorist in front.

In this moment, time seems to slow down. I hold my breath, feeling as though my spirit has become one with that sprinting figure.

The rustling of leaves, the flapping wings of birds, the yelling of the audience, the checkered flag waving mid-air... all of them gather into one voice-

Announcer: The first place goes to No. 07!

On the big screen, Gavin’s name is listed impressively at the top.

At the final moment, he attained first place with a 0.06 second difference, winning the championship.

Gavin did it!

The motorcycle comes to a gradual halt. Gavin removes his helmet, droplets of sweat reflecting bright rays of light beneath the sunlight.

The smile on his face is sparkling and dazzling, bringing with it the confidence belonging to a victor.

Such a result is both unexpected yet within my expectations.

Gavin turns around, looking squarely in my direction.

He shakes his head casually, which has gotten messy from his helmet, and says two words.

Gavin: We won.

-

The employees push the motorcycles back to the venue. Gavin heads over to the referee’s seat, lowers his head and says a few things before walking to me.

The gold medal in his hand dangles slightly, reflecting a dazzling light.

Cheers from the surroundings grow brighter as he draws closer. Separated by the bleachers, he stretches out his hand towards me -

He leans over the bleachers slightly. As he draws closer, I can detect the scent belonging only to Gavin.

Gavin hangs the medal around my neck, announcing our victory.

Gavin: The champion title - we’ve got it.

My mouth opens, but I have no idea what to say. My body reacts faster than my brain. I stretch out both arms, hugging him with all the strength in my body.

Scorching warmth and the dampness of sweat from the competition linger on him.

Gavin returns the embrace. It’s as though this hug is enough for us to understand each other’s sentiments.

Gavin: I think I heard you cheering me on.

MC: I did it so softly, but you could hear it?

Gavin: Mm, the wind told me. Everything you say - I can hear them.

MC: There’s still one thing the wind hasn’t had the time to tell you. I’ll say it myself right now.

Turning my face to the side, I bring it close to his ear.

MC: Gavin, you’ll always be the only champion in my heart.

🏍 Call and Moments: here

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[obutsuwrites]

devotion (douma x f!reader)

summary: His pet watched as the metal was heated. Douma held the poker like it was precious; watching in delight. Black steel turning dangerously red was quite the show. Certainly, his excitement was sweetened by… her. Even now, Douma was sure she regarded him with disinterest. She would learn this was to her benefit.

"Are you excited, little one?" Douma mused.

She simply nodded, words unable to form. Her savior finally saw her bare. Heat bloomed across her face. She wanted his hands to roam her body and learn every curve. Waiting for his touch left an ache in her chest. Her breathing came out in spurts. The room felt too hot -- too humid. 

warnings: blood and injury, mild gore, vaginal fingering, cults, public humiliation, branding, yandere elements, dismemberment, loss of fingers, smut, etc. etc.

word count: 3.3k

shoutout to @calslaundry for the beta read

a/n: hello friends, apologies for the lack of content! i haven't written in a while + this my first kny fic 😭

twitter | masterlist

She came to him in a miserable state -- her delicate body broken. Blood, like ribbons, flowed from her stomach. The wound was deep and hideous. Yet, the woman before him wore a serene expression, as if unaware of her current state. The sight brought amusement to Douma. His thin lips pulled into the phantom of a grin. Rainbow eyes dilated and focused on her pitiful form. 

Behind her bounded a man; his skin filthy and caked in dried crimson. He looked disheveled, as if the listless woman struggled. Sweat kept his hair slick across his forehead. In his hand, his shaky little human hand, was a butcher knife.  

"Stay out of this! She's…" The man trails off, waiting for the words to materialize, "My wife." The word sounds slimy, uncomfortable, coming from him. To punctuate his love, a calloused hand gripped the woman. 

No sound came from her. Perhaps, she was his wife. Douma continued to observe the dramatic affair; fingers laced together. His expression was nothing less than curious. A carnal morbidity he wanted to see through. 

Suddenly, the woman collapsed. Her skin lacked the rosy pigment so beloved by mortals. The man stumbled and instinctively cradled her wound. Disgust formed onto his features -- the man seemingly unaware of her state. 

Douma felt blood drumming in his ears. This tiny, injured woman came to him near death, but didn't utter a single grievance. She had remained stoic despite her hideous wound. "Leave her." 

Without a second thought, the man abandoned his would-be wife. His rapid footfalls echoed down the hall as Douma examined his pet. He noted how elegant her kimono was -- its silk now reddened and ruined. Douma believed the blood complimented her, and brought out her softness. Softness Douma wanted to destroy. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness slowly. The room was unlike her little hovel. Innate gold and rubies were encrusted within every aspect; nothing less of excess. A room fit for a god. Perhaps this was her afterlife. Delicate fingers prodded her stomach -- the flesh swollen and blemished. Her fingertips brushed against the barb of wire. Lifting the simple Yukata, the woman noticed how intricate the stitching was. Black wire woven into itself to mimic the intricate shape of a flower. 

"You're awake, my dear friend!" The voice was cheerful and deep. The sound not unlike the rumble in a summer storm. 

Silence marked their conversation. 

Floorboards creaked; a sign her mysterious caretaker was advancing. "Is my dear friend deaf?" This time, the man's voice held annoyance. A blatant disregard for his kind words left a rotten taste in the demon's mouth. 

"I apologize for the trouble I caused you," she confessed, head level with the floor. The newly stitched woman was bowing before him. Had she hoped to mimic his congregation? 

Unlike his devotees, her body didn't shake. No, her insignificant form stayed rigid. The slender curve of her back was straight, eyes still regarding the floor. Truthfully, Douma found himself savoring the view of this mortal. She seemed so obedient -- so unafraid of him. 

The damned sentence stumbled last Douma's lips, "Stay with us; with me." Suddenly, the woman sensed a large hand atop her head, "You need to heal, my friend." 

Tears began to foam at her eyes -- this man's kindness was unfamiliar. This rainbow eyed stranger not only stitched up her broken body, but offered sanctuary. 

"Thank you." Douma noted the monotonousness of her voice. Here this pitiful woman was, her briny tears reeking, and yet she remained stoic. The scent was pleasant; as if crushed roses and salt had been mixed. Douma had noticed her blood carried a similar scent. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

The days that followed were… familiar. Her days fell into structure. First, worship in the morning. Then, chores and her first meal followed by more chores. Finally, as dusk settled, her makeshift family gathered within the main hall for a special dinner. However, the dinner wasn't any fundamentally different. The menu still consisted of rich meats and exotic fruits, but their meal was special because of him. 

At the end of their long, gold flecked table sat the rainbow eyed Douma. His face carried his typical jubilant expression. A soft smile graced his face -- leaving his eyes bright and lively. He watched his flock with interest, his eyes all too often falling upon his wounded pet. 'Pet' seemed to fit this woman far more than any word; she was compliant. The woman finished every task created for her. Her devotion to him -- only him -- brought a budding flush to his cheeks. 

It was true the women of his cult would die for him. Their single-minded loyalty was stereotypical, expected. They chose to bleed for him, but once faced with their own mortality, his devotees lost steam. And yet this harpy had bled at his feet -- asked for his forgiveness. 

Douma watched as the woman carefully gripped her chopsticks. Her hands were slender, and as soft as blooming flowers. In another world, Douma would have described her as delicate, but all the demon could feel was disdain. There was something so innocent about her fingers. Douma's eyes continued to flick between her face and hands. Such soft things devoid of callouses -- devoid of humanity. 

His mind didn't typically race like this. Images of this woman seemed to plague him during dinner. She was a sickness that he couldn't shake. Her body had infiltrated him -- illustrating fantasies of him breaking her fingers and laughing as he ate them. Would she finally scream, finally allow herself emotion? Or would she succumb to him? 

Douma's thin lips curled into a grin. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

"I don't want to ruin the elaborate textiles, sir." It was a habit to call him sir as her eyes bore into the floor. The woman acted like she was… unworthy to even glance at the demon. She seemed to make herself scarce when Douma was around. But now, she was forced ⁸to meet his face. Forced to tailor his clothing, despite the woman having no seamstress experience.

Douma didn't mind if his clothes were ruined. He merely wanted to observe his pet create with her hands. 

A large hand rested atop her head, "Do not worry, my dear friend! I picked you for this. Do you not trust my judgement?" His question was more of a test than anything. He wanted to see more of her sickened devotion to him. 

"I trust you," the woman replied, her hands buried in rich fabric. His clothes made her hands itch. Yet, she hid any discomfort. This was a task bestowed upon her -- it was the least she could do. This man had saved her life. 

In the corner of his view, Douma saw it, the phantom of a smile. His emotionless pet still held humanity. However, the happiness stopped at her lips. Nothing seemed to reach her eyes. 

"That expression suits you," his breath tickled her ear, "little one." The sensation of him -- his warmth was enough to quicken her pulse. A blush rose to her cheeks. 

Before she could thank him, Douma vanished. She wanted to glance into his chromatic eyes. They held a light she hadn't noticed before. Something so spectacular and light. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

Darkness naturally crept into Douma's eyes. The demon couldn't pinpoint a moment of emotion. It was as if he was born void of humanity. Perhaps that was his reason for being so disgustingly soft upon this woman. 

She was in a tangled mess before him; eyes perpetually to the floor. The more he saw her like this -- the more Douma longed for her gaze. He was the only one worthy of her. 

"This little runt broke the vase, my lord." Beside his little pet stood a woman; one of his most devoted. Yet, her very voice annoyed him. 

Douma shifted in his throne, "What of it?" His face was contorted into happiness, but there was a callousness to him. A viper waiting in the grass. 

The woman's expression hardened.

"Shouldn't she be punished, my lord?" Her question wasn't more than a whisper. This was common for his most loyal of followers; cowardly mortals that were afraid of him. 

Douma leaned forward, his rainbow eyes lacking any compassion, "Are you telling me what to do?" 

"N-no! I'd never, my lord! Please -- please forgive me, Lord Douma!" Her pleas flowed like a river; excuse upon excuse. Douma used to take pleasure in a maiden's distress. Now, he simply felt bored -- empty. 

Certainly punishing his pet and maiming her would bring relief. Mortals were for his enjoyment, after all. 

"Stand up," Douma commanded. 

His voice sounded of the gods; nectar too sweet for human ears. His wounded pet felt heat rise to her cheeks. Gently, she assumed a knelt position, hands folded in her lap. They looked so delicate, so perfect for him. Saliva pooled in his mouth. His fantasy of her seemed unending. 

"Sit," the demon motioned to his feet. "You are to stay until I find a suitable punishment, my dear friend." Without hesitation, his pet assumed her position. Her hands were now clear in Douma's view, tiny things clasped together. 

As if satisfied, his devotee blended back into the crowd. 

Even his presence was warmth; she could feel his radiance. Lord Douma was the opposite of her husband -- his chromatic eyes held nothing but comfort. He had opened his home to her, and allowed her to join his congregation. He was the sun; bright and nourishing. 

His pet felt as if her heart would burst. Being this close to him -- to Lord Douma was almost overwhelming. He practically dwarfed her; his frame tall and muscular. Lord Douma's presence was suffocating above her. Lewd flashes of her savior played on loop. Silver hair slicked back, his bare chest on display, muscles flexing. 

Quickly, she looked away from the demon with a silent curse on her lips. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

Several days pass. Douma's pet had yet to leave his side. Her punishment was decided the second day she sat at his feet, but Douma found her presence… human. Slowly, she brought forth an emotion; serenity. Her very breathing seemed to lull him. In another life, she would have made a man very happy. 

The demon's eyes shifted to his maiden. Her face was stoic as ever. She looked… Miserable? The thought made Douma's blood burn; sitting between his feet was a privilege. No other woman of the cult had been so close to him before. 

Douma's thick brows knitted together in annoyance, "We should prepare for your punishment, shouldn't we?" Plastered on his face was the smile she yearned for. 

"Yes, my lord." 

Douma clapped his hands. Suddenly, his harem of women began to spill into the room. They looked to him like god; eyes wide and wanting. He cherished his cult for their devotion, something that would benefit him today. 

He tilted his head and pointed, "Strip her." Douma's instruction was materialized before him. Her body laid in the brood of his women. Bruises marked her body like bee stings; his most devoted had such vicious means. Her exquisite yukata was ruined. Shreds hung to her trembling form. 

She made him sick. 

"Hold her down, my dear friends~!" Douma's feigned happiness crinkled at his eyes. To any nonbeliever, he looked human, yet his followers knew better. They knew behind the facade was a monster; a man bent on misery. "Bring me the brand." 

His pet watched as the metal was heated. Douma held the poker like it was precious; watching in delight. Black steel turning dangerously red was quite the show. Certainly, his excitement was sweetened by… her. Even now, Douma was sure she regarded him with disinterest. She would learn this was to her benefit. 

"Are you excited, little one?" Douma mused. 

She simply nodded, words unable to form. Her savior finally saw her bare. Heat bloomed across her face. She wanted his hands to roam her body and learn every curve. Waiting for his touch left an ache in her chest. Her breathing came out in spurts. The room felt too hot -- too humid. 

The demon sauntered over to his pet, the brand now smoking. "Stay still," he murmured. It was her shred of justice before Douma plunged the brand between her breasts. First there was silence. Then came a cry unlike any before. Loud. Anguished. Heart wrenching. It was the sound of his pet bearing her soul. Something so private, meant only for him. 

He pressed the metal further into her flesh. Burnt skin reached his nostrils; her scent wasn't unlike roasted boar. Rich, gamey. His mind painted her nude and covered in sake. Underneath his regalia, Douma felt blood rush to his cock. Douma looked at her, waiting for another cry. Yet, she regained composure. Her skin was balmy and she trembled. 

Finally, her eyes met his. Douma sees the hint of relief -- as if she wanted this. "L-lord Douma," she slurred. His gaze shifted to her lips; anticipating her speech. Nothing left her except a heave. A soft little noise before she passed out, limp and vulnerable. Somehow, Douma felt sorry for her. 

✼ •• ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ •• ✼

The woman woke with a jolt; air burning her lungs. Gasping, she took inventory of the dimly lit room. The space was more of the caricature of a room. It was a bedroom, but looked almost unlived in. Everything was too perfect. The realization came as she touched her chest. This was Lord Douma's private quarters. A place reserved for his most devoted. 

...and here she was, laying in his bed. 

Her chest was tender. The skin was charred and bandaged. She wondered if Lord Douma himself had treated her. The fantasy brought a flush to her cheeks. She fingered the wound; gentle to trace its shape. Between her breasts was a delicate lotus; her body marked forever. 

"I can hear you, my dearest friend," his voice sounded like rainfall after a drought. "Come. Bring me more sake." 

Beside the futon was a gourd. The object was heavy; enough for two hands if not more. Truthfully, his pet struggled to lift it. The liquid inside sloshed around like the sea. It carried a sweet smell. Fruity. Radiant. The scent reminded the woman of Lord Douma. 

Soft humming filtered into the room, the source not far. Practically dragging the sake, his pet ventured towards the sound. Towards him. 

With the push of a door came humidity and steam. The atmosphere was sticky and too warm. Lord Douma had created a swamp instead of a bath. 

His booming tone shook the room, "Come closer, little one." The phrase sent goosebumps up her spine. 

She continued to drag the gourd across slick tile. His pet didn't want to make a fool of herself. However, with each step came unequal footing. She wobbled, trying to keep her grace and sake intact. One particularly heavy footfall was miscalculated. She fell onto the porous ground with a sharp bang; the gourd in pieces at her feet. 

"Clumsy, aren't we, little one?" His tone is lousy with arousal. The sentence vibrated from his chest. 

"I'm sor--"

Douma only uttered a simple phrase, "Join me, my pet." 

Her legs moved without authority. Douma had complete agency over her; bewitching his prey. It was the kindness she deserved, after all. She was his most devoted -- his most prized slab of meat. Partially, Douma believed she was plagued with bad luck. First the damned woman is stabbed, then she falls desperately into his lap. She was a fawn -- clumsy and aching for attention. 

Muscles were the first thing she noticed, followed shortly by ashen hair. Somehow, his chromatic eyes still shined within the haze. He had to be a deity -- someone special. 

Quickly, she averted her eyes. This sight wasn't meant for a mortal like her. Crimson hung to her cheeks like warpaint, the woman more blush than skin. His pet removed her yukata without ceremony. The elaborate fabric crumpled at her feet. Douma felt air pitch in his chest and blood rush to his cock. 

"Sit in my lap." 

His lover looked at him; her eyes curious and wanting and wide, pupils dilated. She shuffled into the bath, like a babe taking its first steps. Gingerly, she sat beside him. A hiss escaped her lips as the hot water meets her burn. Mortals -- as Douma knew -- were devoted to a fault. 

A cold arm encompassed her waist. Douma pulled the mortal closer, her smell mixing with the bath. Saliva dotted at the corners of his mouth. His polite aurora seemed to drop -- the predator now before her. "It's okay, little one," his breath tickled her neck, "you can relax. You're safe." 

Safe. He was safe. Her body untensed in his grip. The woman leaned into him, her bare back pressed into his chest. Her rapid heartbeat echoed into Douma; his body rang with her life force. It hurt to hold her like this. His instincts demanded he tear her apart, her blood diluting the water. Yet, he resisted. Instead, he took inventory of her hands. They were tender -- fragile. His broad hands engulfed hers as he rubbed circles into her palms. 

Douma -- with grace -- lifted her fore and middle finger into his mouth. His fawn exhaled a gasp. The sudden movement caused her to wobble atop his knee. A hand rubbed her stomach, as if to provide comfort. Slobber leaked down her hand. Lord Douma's saliva. She wanted to bring the spit covered hand to her chest -- to feel a part of him. Douma sucked at her fingers. His tongue rolled over her knuckles and savored her. 

"Lord Douma --"

Her words hung in muggy air. Only one sound penetrated through the room; a sob. The woman's blood mixed with unholy drool. In Douma's mouth were two delicate fingers -- her fingers. The sudden pang subsided, yet her heart continued to race. She was stuck; fear had collapsed in her veins. Her weak, mortal body shook. The sensation was uncontrollable. 

"Stay still, my pet," Douma mused, his voice obstructed by gore. He refused to relent; his tone still cheery. Her body demanded she move, but her mind screamed for him. Torn between heart and brain, she quaked in his lap. Her hand fell limp into the bath water. Red blossomed beside her. 

Douma's hands trailed down her body, as if to memorize her shape. His cockhead ached for stimulation -- for her. Without the air of a lord, Douma shifted his pet, her cunt now exposed to the heat. Carefully, he removed her disembodied fingers from his mouth. "Let me take care of you." His words were little more than a command -- no -- a threat. 

Harshly, the demon shoved a finger into her cunt; the very finger he bit off. Disgust and lust bubbled together in her stomach. Naive eyes looked down as Douma pumped into her. A bloodied chin rested on his pet's shoulder. His humming vibrated into her bones. Thunderous. Awful. 

Heat bloomed between her thighs. Lewd sounds of her core bounced off the walls. She bit her lip, stubborn and refusing to give into the demon. 

Rainbow eyes drifted to her face, "Are you not satisfied, little one?" His tone faltered before a second finger jams into her soaking cunt. The woman's mouth betrayed her. Out came a wanton moan. Loud and squealing. Douma's face contorted into a grin, his breath beating upon her. "What's that? You want me to go faster~?" His pace burst into an almost hellish speed. The fingers hit her walls, scissoring her entrance. Douma acted as if he knew her very body. Roughly, he tweaked her nipple. Another cry pierced the air; his reward for her devotion. 

"Come for me," Douma commanded, heavy humming now vibrating her jaw. "Show me your devotion." His voice wasn't more than a whisper, yet she felt the warmth between her thighs explode. The bundle in her stomach dissipated into bliss; eyes closed and breathing even. 

Douma rubbed her cheek. This was perhaps his only action of humanity -- of charity. As his most devoted, she was worthy.  

[radioactive-cloud]

i'm so not surviving the high quality nace pics if a photo full of watermarks that i had to crop from a fucking screenshot Does Things to me

[rheawritessometimes]

A Not-So-Bad Deal

{ Childe x GN!Reader }

{ Summary } Babysitting Childe has its ups and downs. Series Masterlist

{ Warnings } Swearing, Injury, Physical Intimacy, Mild Spice, PDA, Not Beta Read, Barely Proof Read.

{ Notes } Reader is implied to have commitment issues. Accidental flirting, because intentional flirting is awkward and hard. Didn't explicitly state what each breakfast item was, but they're based on popular Russian breakfast foods. Ahah, not me setting myself up for yet another part?? Masterlist

{ Word Count } 2,955

The sentiment of spending Childe's recovery with him being a simple endeavor was quickly thrown into the garbage when you were awakened before the sun had even begun to peek over the horizon to the sound of what you were sure was a break-in. Rolling out of the bed with your sword materializing in your hand was done entirely on instinct, you were still too groggy to have any proper thought. Stealthily exiting the room, you made your way to the source of the noise, the kitchen.

Needless to say, you were more than annoyed to find that the 'break in' was actually a familiar Harbinger making breakfast, tearing apart the kitchen in the process. Your sword dematerialized as you brought a hand up to massage your temples to ward off a headache. Childe was humming cheerily in the middle of the mess of ingredients and cookware, some of which you were certain had not been necessary to whatever it was he was making. There was no way that many bowls were necessary for any recipe.

The Snezhnayan flashed a bright grin when he saw you, but the gesture did nothing to ease the scowl that had settled onto your features. That didn't seem to dampen his mood in the least, he merrily continued preparing what appeared to be enough food to feed a lot more people than were currently occupying his apartment. Was he expecting a lot of company this morning?

"I thought we made a deal that involved you resting and not cooking enough to feed a small army at ass in the morning," you remarked, the sarcasm laid on thick enough to be dripping from each word. Much to your frustration, this only made him laugh as he turned the stove on.

"Well, I usually wake up early but this morning I had nothing to do since someone broke my bones. So, I decided to make a nice breakfast for my guest to enjoy with me," he responded with faux innocence, though there was laughter in his voice that easily gave him away. His words were still effective in making you feel a little guilty, so you wordlessly brought the dishes you were fairly certain he was done with to the sink and began washing them.

The two of you fell into a comfortable quiet after that, you were busy cleaning a mountain of dishes and Childe's focus was on frying a few eggs and cutting up a bowl of strawberries. You were mindful to stay out of the way as Childe cooked and he made an effort to set the cookware he was finished with beside the sink for you. The rhythm you two had quickly settled into felt startlingly domestic, something you reminded yourself not to like, and certainly not to get used to.

"Maybe I did make a little too much," the Harbinger muses somewhat sheepishly as he looks at the table he had just finished setting. It was without a doubt too much food for only two people, the table at risk of collapsing under the weight of it all. You could only nod in agreement.

"Your guard might appreciate a plate," you offered, as though one more person would make much of a difference against the mountain of food. You had to admit, everything did look delicious. The table was laid out with fried eggs, some porridge, a few sandwiches with sausage on them, what appeared to you to be some kind of crêpes, pancakes of some sort, the bowl of cut strawberries, and a kettle of tea. It would be no trouble finding people willing to eat the excess food.

"I suppose my subordinates deserve a nice breakfast," the redhead sighs dramatically, "They're lucky they have such a nice boss."

"Mhm, and if you ever fall out with the Fatui you could certainly find a job as a cook," you reply after sampling a forkful of his work. Living in Liyue had you more accustomed to chopsticks, but it was evident after going through Childe's kitchen that he did not own a pair. As a witness to his attempts at using them, you weren't very surprised by this finding. A fork was easy enough to figure out, anyway.

"I'm glad you like it," the redhead responds with a grin, quickly busying himself with his own plate. As he eats, he begins to talk about having similar breakfasts with his family in Snezhnaya. This turns into him recounting learning how to make these dishes with his mother and you quietly listen along, making the occasional comment and smiling fondly at his memories and the way he became more animated as he spoke about his family.

The sun had emerged by the time each of you had eaten what you could, and you cleared the plates while Childe ordered his guard to distribute the remaining food to his subordinates stationed in Liyue. You were halfway through cleaning the dishes when the Snezhnayan waltzed into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He contented himself with watching, not bothering to even offer his assistance.

"I was thinking we should do something. I've been cooped up for too long. Maybe a casual hike up Mt. Aozang?" he suggested, causing you to pause in your ministrations and glance back at him with a raised brow. No hike up Mt. Aozang would be a casual one considering the terrain and potential enemies of the area.

"It's been less than a full day," you pointed out, "And, hm, what was it? Oh yeah, and you have a few broken ribs."

"What are a few broken ribs to a Fatui Harbinger?"

"It's a no, Childe," you firmly insisted, causing him to groan and mumble about you being a 'spoil sport'. It was easy enough to ignore him as you finished up with your small chore.

"I'm using your shower," you informed him once you turned away from the sink. He only hummed in response, still pouting against the counter. It was all you could do to not roll your eyes at his childish behavior.

"What am I even supposed to do for six weeks if I can't go out and fight things?" he whined, and this time you did roll your eyes.

"Well, maybe you can still improve your fighting," you mused, "Have you ever tried working on your strategy? Because that could definitely use some improvement."

The Harbinger huffed indignantly at your words, taking the mature route and sticking his tongue out at you as you left the kitchen to take a shower. He could pout to himself in the kitchen while you had a relaxing shower.

The apartment's bathroom was on the smaller side, but it was still easily workable and didn't feel at all cramped. You had brought with you your own toiletries, but that didn't stop you from poking around Childe's well-organized things out of curiosity. There wasn't anything of particular interest so you decided to just get cleaned up and figure out what to do for the day.

Leaving the bathroom wrapped in a towel and feeling refreshed, you made your way to the guest room to pull out something to wear for the day. You decided on something comfortable, it didn't seem like you'd be going out today anyways and if you did you could always change into something more suitable. After getting dressed and taking care of a few more things, you left the guest room in search of Childe.

It was a simple task finding the Harbinger, he was seated at the table flipping through the pages of a book. You were more than surprised to see it was a book on battle strategy, although you noted it was one focused on group tactics to be used in war organization. You supposed it shouldn't have been any great shock to find he had such books, considering his position as a Fatui Harbinger who was known for his knack for combat. But to actually find him taking your advice was not something you had expected.

"Finally done with your shower?" Childe asked, looking up from his reading, "Good, you were stinky."

His tone made it clear he was joking, and you gasped in mock offense. You both laughed at this, his cerulean eyes shining with amusement. You weren't sure you'd ever seen eyes more beautiful than his.

"Anyways, I was thinking we should go for a walk around the harbor and have a late lunch a Wanmin. Then we can just wander looking for stuff to do, or we could go out to that one boat. Or maybe Zhongli will be at the market and invite us for tea," Childe suggested, setting the book down on the table. You raised your brows at his 'plan'.

"It's been a long time since I've had any time off and I don't know what to do," he justified, crossing his arms over his chest. You only shook your head, smiling softly at his pout.

"Alright, I wouldn't mind a walk around the harbor, at least. Lunch at Wanmin sounds good too. We'll see what happens afterward," you conceded, watching his expression immediately brighten. Just a walk shouldn't be too strenuous, so you weren't terribly worried about his bones. Plus, you wouldn't be able to keep him in bed all day and this was a much better alternative to him going out and finding a fight.

"Let me just get changed into something more presentable."

It wasn't long before you were walking along the docks of the harbor with Childe. You were hand in hand with him, the redhead had grabbed your hand early on, intertwining your fingers with a cheeky grin. You didn't resist when he did this, comfortable with showing the small amount of affection even in public.

Looking out across the calm waters of the harbor, you couldn't help but think it matched the blue of the Harbinger's eyes. While he had an excellent poker face when necessary, Childe's eyes were often very expressive, allowing an easy read of his mood at a glance. Smiling fondly at the thought, you squeezed his hand gently before moving on.

The rest of the day progressed just as pleasantly, both you and Childe enjoying the sights of Liyue before getting lunch at Wanmin as he'd planned. After eating, you browsed the various stalls of Liyue's busy market, admiring the vast array of goods on display.

As the Snezhnayan had earlier predicted, you did meet Zhongli at the market and he did invite you two for tea. You wondered if he had planned it with Childe, but the polite man seemed entirely surprised to have encountered the both of you.

Tea with Zhongli turned out to be quite a lengthy endeavor, and you were rather exhausted by the end of it. He had recounted the history of Liyue well into the evening, in a way that reminded you of a professor during a lecture. It was Childe who was finally able to excuse the both of you, after several hours of education on the historic importance of Silk Flowers.

"Well, I did make a promise that I would rest, so I'm afraid we must be going."

"Ah, yes. It is always good to keep your promises," Zhongli agreed sagely, his words carrying a strange gravity. With polite goodbyes, you left with Childe to return to his apartment. The walk back was through darkness thanks to the hour, but the streets of Liyue were lit and there was still plenty of activity.

It was no surprise that both you and Childe were ready for bed by the time you made it through the door. He mumbled out a mostly unintelligible apology for how long tea with Zhongli had lasted before kissing the top of your forehead and disappearing into his room.

You stood in the hallways shocked by the affectionate gesture for a few seconds before deciding it would be best to just go to bed and forget about it. Surely the action was purely the result of exhaustion.

This time when you woke up the sun had already risen. Silently, you thanked Morax for not having to wake up to Childe's noisy breakfast-making. Even if his cooking was really good, without sleep you'd eventually become rather cranky, to put it lightly.

Exiting the spare bedroom, you found the Harbinger sprawled out on the couch looking through a stack of papers. You assumed it was Fatui business, something which you wanted nothing to do with at the moment. Maybe at another time, you would be interested in their secrets, but as of right now, they weren't really your problem.

"How are you feeling? In any pain?" you asked casually, making your way to the kitchen to retrieve some ice. Regardless of his answer, it was still advised to ice his side regularly.

"Mm, I'm fine. Took some of the medication earlier," he replied, most of his focus still on the documents in his hands. You briefly wondered how often it was that the Eleventh Harbinger did paperwork as opposed to fieldwork. You would have assumed he had a secretary or something for this kind of thing, though you supposed it made some sense for him to do it if he wasn't out in the field.

Leaving the kitchen with another makeshift icepack, you noticed he had set the papers down on the coffee table and draped an arm over his eyes. You raised a brow at this but didn't say anything as you placed the icepack on his side and sat on the couch where there was space beside his legs.

"I don't think I can last six weeks like this. I'm already dying of boredom," he confessed, raising his arm to see your response.

"I'm not sure I can last six weeks either," you replied snarkily. It seemed lost on him as he nodded in agreement before furrowing his brows and scowling at you. Realization.

"Hey, wait! What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, sitting up quickly and wincing at the resulting pain. You picked up the icepack that had slid down and pressed it against his side until one of his hands came up to hold it in place.

"It means I think sometimes you're a bit much," you laughed in response, ruffling his hair and causing his scowl to deepen. He swatted your hand away from his hair using his free hand, and you only smiled in amusement.

"I'll have you know I'm a fucking delight and you adore me," he asserted, staring you dead in the eyes with a challenging look. Now that he was closer, your eyes were drawn to the light smattering of freckles that crossed his nose and dusted both cheeks. From a distance, they weren't really visible, but now you could clearly see them.

"Mhm," you agreed absently, bringing a hand up to lightly cradle his jaw, swiping your thumb slowly across his cheek. It was only when he started leaning in that it dawned on you exactly what you were doing and how intimate it seemed. By the time his lips were pressed against yours, heat had risen to your cheeks and you were certain your face was a brilliant shade of scarlet. Luckily his eyes were closed so he couldn't see you in such a state, but you had a feeling he was able to feel the heat radiating off your cheeks.

Despite your flirtations having been unintentional, you didn't push Childe away. Instead, you wrapped your arms loosely around his shoulders and fell into the slow rhythm he had set. You heard the soft thump of something being tossed onto the coffee table, but you were distracted from that when his hands found your sides and he pulled you into his lap.

A soft breath left you when his lips moved down to your neck to place gentle kisses there. The featherlight touch had goosebumps raising across your skin and you were almost embarrassed by your body's reactions.

"Alright, maybe six weeks won't be too bad," Childe murmured against your neck and you could feel his smile. It made your heart flutter, you weren't sure you liked that.

"Oh, what made you change your mind?" you asked innocently, a hint of laughter in your voice.

"Mm, I wonder." His lips began trailing back up your neck and over your jaw until he sealed them over yours again. The drag of his tongue across your bottom lip had you opening your mouth for him without a thought. In response, he pulled you closer to him, one hand reaching up to tangle in your hair.

When he finally pulled away, he smirked at your flushed appearance and the fact you were a bit breathless. The way he looked at you made butterflies flutter in your stomach and when his ocean eyes dropped to gaze at your lips you felt the overwhelming urge to flee.

"I need to go. I want to get you some proper icepacks from Baizhu and I should probably do some grocery shopping for you," you blurted, standing up. His arms fell easily away from you, but he looked up at you with a surprised and what you thought might be a slightly hurt expression.

"Um, okay," was all he could say as you retreated to the guest room to get dressed in something more appropriate for going out in public. Changing didn't take very long and you made sure to bring Mora along as you fled the apartment with barely so much as a 'goodbye'. Childe was still sitting stunned on the couch as you breezed out the door.

Running away was always a good way to deal with your problems.

[stephspurs]

A Family Affair | Euro 2020 Football Fanfiction

Life is beautiful and life is cruel. This is a window into the souls of the victorious and the vanquished. In a way, football did come home during the summer of 2021. Follow along Amelia’s journey, navigating the football world as a tactical analyst for the Italian football team, with a brother and father part of the three lions. Will Amelia leave Italy and come back to England? Will she leave the Serie A for the Prem? Will she set aside the bianconeri stripes for new colours, leaving behind friendship for love? Maybe she can have both...

hey girlypops! here is part 5!!! thanks for the feedback on the last part - i've gone back through and edited slight bits to make it more straightforward who her brother is and who it isn't. Nothing has been changed to the story line so no need to go back and re-read (unless you want to lol love yas). Part 5 is a whole lot of fun! As the warning suggests, you can expect a few too many drinks, some heavy flirty & a very smug italian.

Love always, Steph xx

Part 5. | parte quinta

warnings; a few too many drinks, heavy flirting and a smug italian.

word count; 1704

writing tools; third person until dashed line, first person thereafter.

next update; Wed 04/08 5pm AEST. Updates are three times/week (Monday, Wednesday & Friday)!

Tags (as requested by users); @footballffbarbiex @obsesseds-world @abysshaven

link to fic masterlist here

Day rolls into night, which rolls into the next day and before she knew it Amelia had been under the Mykonos sun for 5 days. Her brother and his teammates, who she should now probably refer to as her friends as well, did nothing but welcome her into their group with open arms and tried to include her in every activity they were doing. Most times she declined their invitation, opting to just relax on her own. She was very comfortable with her own company, she never felt like she needed another person to be able to exist. It was something she was proud of.

No doubt there were times she often missed companionship. She had her fair share of flings that gave her what kind of satisfaction she needed at the time, but she never felt like she needed someone else’s air to be able to breathe. This Mykonos trip, however, reminded her of how much she was beginning to miss her players. They had a group chat, La Cosa Nostra, which was probably a pretty poor group chat name but she was inducted into the already established group when she became close with some of the players & besides it was just Our Thing.

She missed the gentle bullying that she received on the daily from the serie a superstars, and also missed dishing it out to them so that they could keep their feet on the ground and their heads out of the clouds. Laying on her bed in a towel, after a nice shower, she contemplated taking up her brother’s offer from earlier in the evening. Does she go out and meet him and their mates at the club? Why not?

Getting up off her bed, she put on some makeup for the first time in a few days, making her feel somewhat human again, blow dried her freshly washed hair and put on her favourite Camilla bikini, covered up by a white slightly-sheer and flowy mini dress. Putting on her white sneakers and grabbing her cross body bag, comfort was the theme of tonight, and also because she wasn't in the mood to break her ankle on the grecian cobblestones.

Walking to the club that her brother had messaged her the name of, she noticed a ridiculously long line to get in which was honestly long enough for her to consider just going home, but she had committed to the plans & her brother was already expecting her - plus she had already put on her mascara and she was not wasting it. Approaching the line she went to join the back when her arm caught that of someone else walking past her.

_____________________________________________________________

“Sembra che tu non riesca a starmi lontano, vero?” (you can't seem to stay away from me, can you?) Looking up, I had linked arms with my midfield maestro, Jorginho. Who was smiling down at me with the cheeky grin that told me he saw me coming and couldn't help himself.

“Ciao! Come sei stato? Che sorpresa incontrati qui!” (Hi! How have you been? What a surprise running into you here!) I begin to say to him as I kiss both his cheeks in greeting.

“I’ve been good, enjoying time off as a double champion” He joked with me. He was right, he was a double champion and no one could take that away from him.

“Bella Amelia, this is Thiago. I play with him at Chelsea, which I'm sure you already knew. Thiago, this is the brains behind the organisation, Amelia” Jorginho introduced me to his Chelsea counterpart, which he was correct about - i did already know exactly who he was.

“Are you guys coming into Tropicana? I’m meeting up with my brother and his mates - some of them play with you guys at Chelsea. You should join us!” It took very little convincing for the two footballers, who looked like they were a couple hours into their long night, to join me in the club.

Unsurprisingly, we got let into Tropicana quite quickly. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the two mega famous and ridiculously good looking footballers I had looped around each of my arms. Walking through the club, the smell of cigarette smoke and vodka wafting around me, I managed to find the british players.

“Now now boys, no bad blood here! I know you all managed to get over my Italian affiliation so don’t hold it against my boy Jorgi here!” I address the group jokingly, as I wrap my right arm around his neck and he wraps his left around my waist.

Of course the Chelsea boys welcome him with open arms, they’ve known both Thiago and Jorgi longer than they’ve known me. The other boys offer their hellos before continuing to dance and drink with their mates. I say hi to everyone, give a big hug to my brother and Kyle (my chosen brother) before I'm wrapped into another hug I wasn't expecting.

“I’ve got to admit, you give a good hug” I say as I whisper into his ear.

“You’re a pretty easy person to hug, Mils”

“Always a smooth talker you are, Jack”

We parted and I grabbed myself a drink before spending the night dancing on top of the table with the girlfriends of the boys that I had only just been introduced to. Bonding over the fact that I was desperate for some female companionship, and also that I was the only single girl in the group, leading to the conclusion that they needed to be my wingwoman...all of them.

The night thereafter was spent finding suitable prospects for my whirlwind night of fun and romance, which I insisted wasn't necessary but also couldn't help but admit that it excited me just a little. It had been a while since I was close with a guy in that sense, and to be honest, the tequila shots that the girls had me doing was loosening me up in more ways than one.

Feeling the need for a break and some fresh air, I grabbed my purse and walked outside to sit along the retaining wall. We had reached that part of the evening where there was no chance I wasn't going to be allowed back into the club - the bouncers and security guards becoming more relaxed and carefree as it neared the time that the sun would reappear. Without thinking twice, I asked for a cigarette from some guys standing outside and a quick light, before returning to my little spot on the wall.

“They’re right bad for you, ya know” A voice to my right startled me.

“Jesus! You need to stop scaring me like that!” I shrieked.

“Nah not Jesus, just Chilly. However the beard has me thinking I do look a little bit God-like these days..no?” He says as he runs his fingers through the barely-there beard. Sure I could agree with stubble, maybe even a little bit more than stubble, but a beard? Not yet. However, I wasn't about to dim his sparkle.

“I like the beard, Chilly.” I confirmed.

“I like you, Mils” Wow ok. Straight to the point then.

“Well thanks, you’re not so bad yourself.” I tried to play it off, it was obvious we had both consumed far too much alcohol this evening and the cigarette was currently working wonders in its purpose of sobering me up.

“Ya know, the girls were out there tonight looking for your Greek Adonis to come and sweep you off your feet. They were looking a bit too hard though, if you know what i mean” he sweet talks me, and its working.

“Wow Ben, you’re really out here laying it on thick tonight - factor 50 i would say. I’m sure you’re just looking through rose coloured glasses right now” I joked back with him. I can’t say I didn't notice all of his longing looks, extra attention to me, constant protection when we would be out in public, but I knew at the end of the week that I would be going back to Turin, so there wasn’t any point.

Finishing up our little chat (read: heavy flirting session), we headed back inside together to join the group. Before long, Jorgi comes up to me with a drink and a smug smile on his face.

“Che cosa?” (what?) I questioned him in Italian, trying to limit as many people understanding our conversation as possible.

“Cosa succede a mykonos, rimane a mykonos, no?” (what happens in mykonos, stays in mykonos, no?) He says as he leans into my ear. To anyone else it would just look like two friends trying to have a conversation in a loud club, but I understood his message loud and clear.

“non sto facendo niente di male, né l'ho mai fatto. non voleva etichette, quindi è quello che ha ottenuto” (i'm not doing anything wrong, nor have i ever. he wanted no labels so that’s what he got.) I say back firmly. Jorgi let go of my shoulders and moved to stand in front of me.

“It’s ok tesoro (darling), I’m sure Federico would agree with you” He said back to me in English, it was obvious that he wanted someone around to understand the premise of our conversation. He smiled cheekily at me, before taking a swig of his drink and dancing backwards into the crowd as I shook my head at him.

Jorgi and I developed the kind of friendship that would last through time. We were equals. We listened to each other's problems, offered the advice that we needed to hear & not necessarily wanted to hear. We promoted each other's happiness and tried to get each other to not take life too seriously. This was his way of bringing me back down to earth, reminding me of what I have waiting for me back in Turin, but also making sure I knew what was right in front of me. He left the decision up to me to make, but he played his part to make sure I knew all of my options. He really was a good friend, which would make my next career decision a little bit more challenging than anticipated.

Part 6. | parte sesta

[soulmate-game]

“Are you paw-sitive this is alright?” Selina half-purred half-asked. The slender cat thief was dressed casually— for her, anyway— in a floor length amethyst purple gown that swept just barely above the floor, accentuating her curves and coming down in a deep V neck that was just barely within the constraints of being acceptable for public appearances. Her companion, almost half a foot shorter even in her short heels, was a stark contrast. It was as if all the two women had in common was their hair color, a rich deep black that shimmered blue in the right lighting.

Marinette, with her hair done up in two buns and wearing a sensible pink-and-white cheongsam top with apple blossom embroidery paired with an ankle-length denim skirt that had a knee-high slit in the front, nodded even as she eyed her friend’s choice of outfit with a small frown.

“Of course. Bruce is in the media’s eye all the time, and he knows I don’t have a care for the spotlight. But you do,” Marinette stopped talking for a second, snapping her fingers and reaching into her purse. She pulled out a gorgeous inch-thick collar necklace that was made entirely of thick panels of flawless silver and high-quality diamond. At the very center of the collar necklace, where it would hang right in the center of Selina’s collarbone, was a diamond-and-obsidian cat face. “I knew I was forgetting something! Bourgeois owed me a favor for doing the outfit for her last magazine cover pro bono, so I asked for this as payment. It’s exactly what your outfit is missing.”

Just because Marinette didn’t like revealing clothing didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate someone else wearing one well, after all. And Selina wore her dress perfectly.

Selina quirked an eyebrow, eyeing the necklace with her expert gaze. Gently, she trailed her fingertips over the tops of the diamonds in the thick bands of the collar as a small smile flicked over her lips. She raised her eyes up to Marinette’s, light green eyes sparkling with mischief and knowing.

“You got this as a bribe for me, didn’t you kitten?”

Marinette smiled unashamedly. “I know you’re a proud lesbian, but would you mind playing the role of Bruce’s girlfriend, just for the media? And only while you’re single, of course. If you ever want out, you only have to say the word. Bruce already agreed, but he also doesn’t mind continuing to play the careless bachelor if you aren’t willing.”

Selina scoffed, rolling her eyes and grabbing the necklace. Effortlessly, she swung it around her neck and clasped it in place. “Please, darling. You and I both know it drives you up a wall when Brucie is hounded by gold diggers every time he steps foot out of that mansion of his. I’ll play the camera-girlfriend, but only for a maximum of a year. And you two can only call on me one a week at most, a girl’s gotta have some time to herself.”

Marinette nodded eagerly. “That’s fine! We probably won’t even call on you that much, Bruce is planning to play the ‘we want to keep our relationship pretty low-key’ card for now. Just an appearance once a month or two ought to satisfy those vampiric paparazzi.”

Selina just smiled. She had practically adopted Marinette years previous, during a trip to Paris where she had found out she apparently had a male doppelgänger. Now the two were sisters in all but official (Not-forged) legal documents. And because of that, Bruce had somehow become her brother.

Which Bruce later found out, meant that Selina would relentlessly tease him every time she needed to appear as his “girlfriend.”

Relentlessly.

But Marinette and Bruce had a Plan. She wasn’t quite ready to make a public appearance as his real girlfriend, mostly because of loose ends that still had to be tied back in France. She was making so many trips back and forth between the two countries that they couldn’t see each other in person much to begin with, so they also didn’t want their few in-person meetings tainted by greedy D-rate journalists.

But yes, they had a Plan. One year was the perfect time frame for the last stretch of said plan. Marinette would tie up the last few things she had to do in Paris, start an official branch of her fashion company in Gotham, and they would stage an entire break-up with Selina, a three-month “break” to “recover” and then a suitably dramatic, romantic “meet-cute” between the two of them to start what the media would see as a love-at-first-sight, fairytale relationship.

Nobody needed to know about Marinette and Bruce’s five-year pining session, or their one-year fumble through figuring out how to date one another before actually getting it right, or the most recent three-years of dealing with the fact that they were both highly experienced hero/vigilantes, the leaders of their own hero teams, and highly accomplished business people.

It was a hard relationship utterly riddled with drama, but they had finally reached the stable point where they were ready to commit. Sort of. They just needed Selina to fake-date Bruce in the public eye for a couple months, and then everything would be fine.

—*—*—*—*—*

One year and three months later.

Marinette shifted her purse on her shoulder. This would be her first time in over five years actually setting foot inside the Wayne Manor. She was excited to see Alfred again, and to hash out the last details for her and Bruce’s public “meet-cute.” But Alfred didn’t open the door this time, a short green-eyed boy with an all-too-familiar frown on his face did.

And once again, Marinette knew that Selina was not the mother. Her pseudo-sister was, as she had said so long ago, a very proud lesbian. But Marinette did know of a past fling of Bruce’s who did possess the proper genes to help create a child of this age.

Marinette smiled, pushing her inner rage at the thought of Talia Al Ghul out of her mind. She was still pissed beyond all rational thought when she heard about what Talia had done to Bruce. But this child was not at fault for any of it, only an innocent by-product.

“Hello. My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Would you mind telling Alfred I’m here?”

“Tt. Why should I?” The apparently bratty boy asked, crossing his arms and glaring straight at her. Marinette felt her eye twitch.

“I am a close friend of Bruce— Would I be correct in assuming he’s your biological father?” Immediately upon her question, the boy’s eyes widened ever so slightly in shock before his glare intensified. Marinette chuckled. “He didn’t tell me that he adopted any new children, and he always tells me when he adopts. Which means he didn’t have to adopt you, suggesting you are related to him directly. You can’t be a cousin or nephew, he has no living blood family. And all his pseudo-siblings are alive and fine, so you weren’t left to his care in anybody’s will,” she deduced out loud for him. “Plus, the green eyes and tan skin— I know of exactly one of Bruce’s past… suitors… who happens to fit the timeframe and features necessary.”

The boy raised an eyebrow. “Most assume that I am that harlot Selina Kyle’s spawn,” he snapped, but it lacked the same heat this time around. He was now analyzing her face closely, and Marinette noticed. She was careful to keep her eagerness toned down. She really just wanted to see Bruce and be able to hug and cuddle him for the first time in almost a year, and this child was her only obstacle at the moment. A very stubborn one.

Marinette sighed. “Selina is like a sibling to me, don’t call her a harlot. If Selina was ever pregnant, I would have known. Hell, Selina would have given me her baby to raise because she doesn’t have any interest in being a mother. Now, the polite thing to do when someone introduces themselves is so introduce yourself back. Not interrogate or intimidate them.”

The boy huffed, straightening his emerald turtleneck and rolling his shoulders back. “I am Damian Wayne,” he replied imperiously. “And Father has never mentioned a friend by the name Marinette. Which leads me to believe you are yet another no good hopeful suitor, and Father is still recovering after he and Kyle finally split up for good.”

Marinette froze, and slowly her eyes narrowed. “He never mentioned my name? Ever?”

“Tt. I already said no.”

Finally, the shape of Alfred Pennyworth came into view behind Damian. He had obviously heard the last bit of the conversation, because he just sighed and shared a long suffering look with Marinette. It was that look that made Marinette’s eye twitch a second time.

“Alfred,” she said slowly. “Has he mentioned me at all to any of his kids?”

“He has not,” Alfred replied. “And furthermore, Miss Selina would not stop giving him a hard time whenever he had to call her out for an appearance. It seems all of the children mistook their relationship for actually being of a romantic nature.”

Damian spun to the butler, eyes wide and swimming with a multitude of emotions. “What do you mean, ‘actually’, Alfred?”

“He means,” Marinette began before Alfred had the chance. Her eyes were narrowed, matching storms of dark, furious blue. “That Selina was only pretending to be Bruce’s girlfriend so that the press and gold-diggers would leave him alone. And apparently I need to beat some sense into my stupid, idiotic boyfriend, who I should have known would do something like this,” she looked up at Alfred, jaw clenching. “That man would never be able to pass for a functioning human without either you or me keeping his head screwed on. Where is he?”

“Not at the manor currently, Mademoiselle Marinette.”

“Alfred.”

The butler gave Marinette a rather mischievous little grin. “Master Bruce has forbade me from telling you where he is currently, he wanted you to stay at the manor and sleep the jet lag off until he got back. But I can tell you that he is not currently on Earth or on a mission.”

“Alfred!” Damian hissed, shocked that the man would say something so revealing. Alfred was the perfect secret keeper, why would he tell someone Bruce had never mentioned something so telling?”

“Oh, calm yourself Master Damian,” Alfred soothed. “Marinette has known about Master Bruce’s nighttime activities since before you were born. If anything, I believe he rightfully deserves the wake up call he is about to receive.”

Marinette nodded, eyes still stormy and determined. “Alright, so he’s at the Watchtower. The Zeta tunes are still in the Batcave, right?” When Alfred nodded, Marinette wasted no time. She easily slid around Damian and stormed into the manor, finding her way to the Batcave on pure muscle memory and rage.

“Wait, Alfred! I demand an explanation!” Damian’s loud voice slowly grew quieter as Marinette stormed down into the cave, ignoring how Alfred began to calmly explain the situation to the boy. She just slid right in to the Zeta tube, and commanded the computer to send her to the Watchtower.

“P-001, codename LADYBUG, recognized.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Batman pinched his nose from where he stood at the head of the meeting room in the watchtower. The briefing was supposed to start over an hour ago, but Hal Jordan had been twenty minutes late. No surprise there. But still, SuperMan had insisted that they wait until everyone arrived. And really, normally Batman would too. Except that his long time girlfriend was going to be landing in Gotham any minute now, and he would rather be back at the manor to greet her.

And the asinine argument that had been going on for the past forty minutes was finally going to end, even if Bruce had to hogtie every last one of his insufferable coworkers himself and force them through the rest of the meeting strapped to their chairs.

“Okay, can we PLEASE begin the meeting now, or so help me I will break out my kryptonite restraints,” he threatened darkly. He might have only mentioned Kryptonite, but everyone knew that that threat was actually aimed at all of them. Batman knew every last one of their weaknesses and was not above being petty when they strained his last nerve.

Quickly getting the hint, the entire room rushed to fill their seats and at least fake at paying attention. But of course, nothing goes quite right in the life of Bruce Wayne. Right as he turned on the slideshow he had prepared and began the meeting, the sound of an enraged woman’s voice echoed down the hallway in a deafening roar.

“BRUCE THOMAS WAYNE, YOU ARE IN SOOOO MUCH TROUBLE!”

Batman felt as if someone had just shoved him into a cryogenic freezer, a harsh shiver of dread running down his spine. There was exactly one person who could terrify him with a single word, and it just so happened to be the woman he was hiding a wedding ring from.

For the past eight years, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Oh shit,” Bruce breathed, but found he was unable to move from his spot. Yes, he wanted to see Marinette so badly that it hurt. But he also would like to stay alive.

SuperMan leaned forward, not really concerned since Batman would have reacted much differently had the voice been coming from a real threat. Instead, the man leveled his old friend with a very teasing smirk.

“Why is your heart suddenly racing?”

Bruce could only glare daggers at Clark before the door to the meeting room swung open, a tiny French woman standing there in a long, formal white-and-pink knee-length gown with a cheongsam neckline and one of her leaf-green heels held in each hand threateningly.

“You absolute idiot! When I said I wanted to keep our relationship out of the public eye, I didn’t mean to keep me a secret from EVERYBODY!”

“But darling—“ Bruce cut himself off as he was forced to dodge one deadly-accurate piece of flying footwear. “You don’t understand. The boys cannot keep a secret to save their life.”

“They have secret identities, don’t they?” She slipped her other shoe back on. She had known that her shoe never had a chance of hitting, and with Bruce in full Batman gear, even if it had hit him the high heel would have felt like she had only thrown a pillow. Had it been otherwise, she wouldn’t have even joked about throwing her shoes at him. But as it stood, she knew none of the normal things she had on her would be able to so much as make Bruce say “ow.”

Marinette placed both of her fists on her hips, marching up to Batman and pulling him down the full foot it took for him to be able to look her in the eye. His resulting gulp was clearly audible, and visible, to everyone else in the room. “You absolute, emotionally dense moron,” her voice had dropped from a yell to a mildly fond, but still very annoyed, grumble. “Your kids are mostly adults now, you know. And you never told me about Damian either. Did you honestly think I’d be mad?” Bruce looked away from her, which was honestly all the answer she needed. Marinette sighed, letting him go and softening her voice. “You need to trust your kids more, Bruce. I never wanted you to keep me a secret from your family, or even your close friends. Just the annoying ass paparazzi. And trust me a little bit more, yeah? I know it isn’t exactly your strong suit, but I’ve known you long enough that you should know I’m not gonna run for the hills just because you have a biological kid that wasn’t with me.” Marinette risked giving him a slightly vulnerable, lopsided smile. And Bruce immediately deciphered what it meant. His shoulders slumped.

The cost of using the Ladybug Miraculous for so long was that Marinette had to give up her fertility. She could never have children of her own, and Bruce had felt guilty that he had had a biological child, even though he hadn’t exactly consented to it, without her. But now he could see where he went wrong.

Marinette was just happy to have another piece of him to take care of. She never would have resented him for what had happened with Talia. And, seeing all of those facts written on her face now, he felt more than a little blind.

“... sorry.”

Marinette just huffed out a short, soft laugh before grabbing Bruce by the bicep. She turned to look at the other heroes still in the room, half of them uncomfortable with seeing such an emotional display while the others looked like they were incredibly invested in a good soap opera. She shot them a grin.

“I’m stealing him for the next few days, okay? Don’t worry, I’m sure you can make do with making Diana read the slideshow. I know from experience that it has everything you guys need to know and more. Don’t call us, I’ll field all your contact to Agent A!!” With that, she dragged Bruce by the arm out of the room.

To be fair, he wasn’t exactly resisting. Even if the reunion was far from ideal, just having this little bit of contact was extremely relaxing for the vigilante. When they reached the Zeta Tubes, he stopped Marinette and pulled her in for a kiss.

When they inevitably pulled away for breath, he smiled at her. “As soon as we get back, I’ll call everyone in and explain the situation,” he promised. “And then, we can spend the rest of the night doing whatever you want.”

Marinette smiled back, shoving him into the Zeta Tube. “Then get ready, because I wanna sleep off this damn jet lag and I plan on cuddling you like a koala the whole time. No escape.”

“B-001, Codename BATMAN. Recognized.”

“Can’t wait,” he replied right before he was whisked off. The sound of the love of his life laughing followed him through until he reached the other end of the teleportation.

—*—*—*—*—*

@maribat-writing-and-prompts

[qqueenofhades]

For the spooky prompts, "Violent Thunderstorms" for Fivan perhaps? 😳

Anonymous asked: Heyyy 2 Vampire for fivan (how to ask for the chapter 2 witout asking for chap 2)

Anonymous asked: Fivan and #2 🧛‍♂️🧛‍♂️

Very well, I see what the people want, and that is a sequel to this one-shot. I have thus combined these prompts for reasons.

Fedyor spends the next fortnight attempting – with notably indifferent success – not to think about Ivan Sakharov. The Conclave was less than pleased to hear that Fedyor came back empty-handed, having not even secured a promise for Ivan and the rest of the Black Hand to leave off their mischief-making, and in fact has empowered them in their belief that there is nothing the law can do to them. Considering the earful that Fedyor got on that accord, he saw nothing to be gained from mentioning that not only did Ivan blow him off completely, he did it after he had fed on him. It’s entirely possible that Ivan accessed sensitive thoughts, memories, or plans, any scrap of useful intelligence that Fedyor did not carefully hide away in his mind before that too-distracting bite. In short, he has comprehensively botched the entire situation, the Conclave is well within their rights to be very angry with him, and to demonstrate the extent of their displeasure, they have temporarily revoked Fedyor’s right to enter their territory and feed on their drones – willing humans kept for the purpose, who are hoping to be selected for the transformation in exchange for their service. That means if Fedyor wants to eat, he has to go out and hunt an animal, or bamboozle and beguile an unwitting passerby to let him chomp on their neck. Truly, being a vampire can be such a terrible drag.

Fedyor figures that if he keeps his head down, meekly accepts his punishment, and doesn’t make any trouble, the Conclave will get over their anger and reinstate him sooner rather than later. It’s not like he has many other options. If he wants to stay in Belgrade, he will remain in their good graces, and he has no desire to get mixed up with the Black Hand. The rumor is that they were founded by the Black Heretic himself, who has remained out of sight for many decades but is now said to be active again, and the Black Heretic is the scion of the Conclave’s greatest enemy, the vampire that all other vampires fear. Absolutely no good can come of throwing one’s lot in with that crowd, and Fedyor wonders if he is going to have to find a new home. If a stupid supernatural war blows up this city, he’s out.

Most of the fortnight passes without incident, but the flaw in the plan is the unfortunate fact that Fedyor is very hungry. He’s still a young enough vampire that he can’t go two weeks without feeding, and he really hates the messy business of corralling an unwitting human. Besides, the Conclave’s headquarters and chief place of business are on Knez Mihailova Ulica, the most fashionable downtown district right in the middle of Belgrade, and what with Fedyor’s current banishment from the premises, he can’t go there anyway. Hunting it has to be.

Fedyor waits until it is dark, a soft summer rain pattering on the steep-roofed eaves and glowing streetlamps, and then, having changed into clothing more suitable for getting a lot of bloodstains, he slips out. He moves silently in the shadows, past the well-dressed gentlemen and evening-gowned ladies out at the ball or the opera or the latest society supper-party, and escapes the precincts of Belgrade proper for the low green hills that surround it. This is on the Sava side of the river confluence, to the west, and once Fedyor is out of the city, the trees close in thickly. They are only broken by the occasional tiny village: small churches with square steeples and double-branched Orthodox crosses, red-tiled cottages crowded together along narrow dirt lanes, a lantern burning here and there to keep the monsters away. Fedyor can hear human voices, sense the shadows of people moving around behind the shutters, and it gives him a pang. No wonder he is clinging so closely to the prospect of timely reinstatement to the Conclave. Without them, he would truly be entirely alone.

The rain starts to come down harder as Fedyor climbs through the thick green underbrush, and by the time he reaches the top of the hill, it is slicing into his face with a vehemence that even a vampire finds intensely disagreeable. Squinting and swearing under his breath, Fedyor shields his eyes and takes a deep whiff, searching for the scent of a prey animal. He could always hop a fence and grab a cow, but cows can kick surprisingly hard, a poor farmer doesn’t need the hassle of his one beast of burden keeling over, and maybe it is just the city-boy aesthete in Fedyor, but crouching in a muddy farmyard, doing your damndest not to get murdered by a large and angry bovine while you valiantly attempt to suck its blood, is just fucking terrible. There’s nothing to recommend it. Now that he’s out of the fledgling bloodlust, Fedyor has no intention of ever going back.

Thunder booms overhead, making him jump, and a jagged spear of lightning sears the horizon from sky to ground. A tree not that far away lights up in blinding white, and a scorched scent of ozone drifts through the pounding rain. Fedyor flinches, as he has no desire to be set on fire, and decides that either he raids a farm or he heads back home and waits for better weather. But he can catch another scent just ahead, and he’s hungry enough to risk it. He breaks into a run, almost loses his footing, dodges around an enormous dripping tree, and spots a thin crescent of lights high on the bluff ahead. Wait, is that a house? Some Serbian royal bureaucrat’s elegant country retreat, or – something else? Fedyor doesn’t recall that he has seen it before, although he has not spent much time out here alone. That, or –

He has only a split second of warning, his supernatural senses screaming at him to get the fuck out of here right now, before he realizes two things at once: first, that the scent is very definitely hostile, and second, that something is dive-bombing directly toward him, on the strength of a ferocious leap that is remarkable even for a vampire. The next second, it – he – hits Fedyor like a ton of bricks, and they go crashing down the slope, kicking and thrashing and biting at each other in a flurry of blows too fast for a human eye to see. Another enormous clap of thunder rattles Fedyor’s fangs in his head, he slams down on his back hard enough to break his bones if he was human, and then, in the flash of the succeeding lightning bolt, his eyes confirm what his nose has already told him. Of all the stupid, stupid things, he appears to have unwittingly trespassed onto Black Hand territory and tried to hunt their game, and the angry supernatural soldier determined to beat the unholy tarnation out of him is therefore none other than the one and only –

“Stop!” Fedyor wheezes, although he has no idea why he expects it to make any difference. “It’s me! Fedyor Kaminsky! From Terazije!”

The rain stings his eyes hard enough to make him grimace, just as a third incandescent bolt of lightning rattles across the sky. From what Fedyor can see, which is not very much, Ivan looks almost as startled as he feels. They remain staring at each other, their faces barely an inch apart, Ivan’s fangs bared in a way that it is really not the time to find disturbingly attractive. Then Ivan springs off and barks, “What the fuck are you doing out here, Conclave whore?”

“Sorry.” Fedyor sits up. His dark hair is plastered to his head and getting in his eyes, there is mud all over his clothes, and even for an immortal who technically does not need to breathe, he is winded. Ivan, to nobody’s surprise, really packs a punch. “I was just… hungry.”

“You have your own arrangements.” Ivan eyes him suspiciously, arms folded, rainwater running down that magnificently disdainful Slavic nose as if from a statue in the public square. “If anyone besides me had caught you out here, you would be dead.”

Well, that is (not) encouraging. It does, however, point out the fact that Ivan has already had the chance to murder him and held back, and Fedyor is not about to speculate on why exactly that might be. It’s not a good idea, but he’s wet, hungry, has just had to unexpectedly fight like the dickens, and irritated at Ivan for being the one who got him into this mess in the first place. “The Conclave demanded that I return their visiting card,” he says shortly. “I’m not allowed to feed on their drones for some unspecified length of time – which is, I might add, entirely thanks to you.”

“What? Why is that my fault?”

“In case you’ve forgotten our last meeting,” Fedyor snaps, “it was at the Golden Cross, on the Lumière brothers’ film night. I relayed the Conclave’s warning to stop your illegal behavior and associations, and you completely ignored it. As a result – ”

“What, they cut off your feeding access?” Ivan interrupts. He looks utterly incredulous. “That’s charitable of them. A good way to build loyalty among your people. Besides, what the fuck did they expect? That you would walk up and ask me nicely, and that would solve it?”

He does, Fedyor has to loathingly admit, have a point. The best he can muster is, “The Conclave is accustomed to being obeyed.”

Ivan eyes him up, with an expression on his face as if that riposte is so pathetic, he isn’t going to dignify it with the effort of a reply. He is poised on edge, as if he doesn’t consider this matter to be entirely settled by the previous bout of violence, and Fedyor is equally tense. He very much does not want to scuffle with a Black Hand hardman who looks like that and fights like that, especially in the throes of encroaching frenzy, and the attendant loss of control. His fangs dig into his lower lip, seeking out the nearest blood – his own – and Fedyor clenches his fists. “Do you have an animal I can borrow?” he asks, as politely as he can. “I’ll – pay for it.”

Ivan surveys him up and down, dripping like an undead drowned rat and otherwise looking as miserable as Fedyor generally tries not to look (after all, presentation is everything). Then he jerks up an impatient fist. “Follow me.”

Fedyor is unsure what this might entail, but shamefully – whether it is due to his increasingly desperate hunger, or something else – he is not altogether opposed to it. He trails after Ivan, trying not to slip in the wet grass or fixate on Ivan’s scent; he will just get another smackdown for his trouble, like a horse flicking aside a fly, and he is not in the mood for it. After a climb of a few minutes, they reach the top of the hill and cross a deserted lawn to a manor house, scattered lights flickering in steep gables and pointed turrets. It is otherwise entirely dark, even to Fedyor’s vampire senses, as Ivan unlatches the heavy front door and drags it open with a screech. “In.”

Well aware that this is an even stupider idea than the polite request to knock it off – he is putting himself voluntarily in the power of a Black Hand operative, on enemy territory, where nobody knows where he is or what Ivan intends to do with him. If Fedyor’s drained corpse turns up floating in the Danube tomorrow, a warning to the Conclave never to interfere in their business again, he can’t say that he didn’t expect it. He hesitates at the threshold a moment longer, and then, given permission – it’s not essential, but it does help – steps inside.

The hall looks almost exactly as you would expect a secret vampire mansion to look: dusty suits of armor, glowering paintings, a sweeping grand staircase with a gothic balcony, and a chandelier which struggles to illuminate the cracked black-and-white chessboard flagstones. Still dripping, the thunder dulling to a muted rumble, Fedyor looks warily from side to side. There doesn’t seem to be anyone here except the two of them – or at least, he certainly hopes that there are no unwitting humans asleep upstairs. In the state that he’s in right now, he isn’t sure that he could control himself. Unless Ivan is trying to make some tiresome point about the inherent monstrosity of vampires, the sort that certain factions like to use in order to argue against the Conclave’s attempts to civilize them and make them follow human-like rules and laws. Fedyor hopes not, because that would be deeply irritating, but he’s so hungry that he’s about to bite his own wrist, and it would not be his finest hour.

However, Ivan does not lead them upstairs, but through a dim warren of corridors to a small, curtained study in the back of the house. Sullen embers glimmer in the hearth; vampires don’t need fires for heat, or to see by, but the human habit is hard to break, even if it’s one of the few things that can hurt them. Then Ivan shuts the door behind them and says crisply, “I’ll make you a deal. Give me useful information on the Conclave, and I will let you feed.”

“What?” Fedyor gapes at him. That was clearly a starvation-induced hallucination. “On – on you?”

“No,” Ivan snaps. “On the davenport, you idiot. Yes, obviously on me. Or I can throw you out and send you to try your luck in the nearest village. Yes or no?”

Fedyor continues to gape at him. Obviously he does not want to go and rip some screaming innocent villager out of their bed, like the very worst of the strigoi horror stories, but he is not in a hurry to jeopardize his ticket back to the Conclave’s good graces by informing on them to Ivan bloody Sakharov. (Indeed, literally.) Did Ivan make that offer because he knows that Fedyor wants it, and remembers how much of a reaction Fedyor had to Ivan feeding on him back at the Golden Cross? It was impossible to hide it entirely, blast him, and Ivan is too canny not to take advantage of an adversary’s weakness. He’s caught Fedyor dead to rights, trespassing on Black Hand territory, and as he himself said, Fedyor is lucky to escape with his skin. It’s Ivan’s right to exploit that fact, nothing more. If Fedyor refuses, what in the hell is he going to do?

“I don’t know,” he stalls. “I’m not sure that I can – ”

Ivan shrugs, then lifts his own wrist to his mouth and bites the back of it. Slow, rich, dark blood beads up, and he wafts it temptingly in Fedyor’s direction. “So, you don’t want this, then?”

Yes, Fedyor wants it. Fedyor, in fact, wants a few other things while he’s at it, and there is no way that Ivan, with hearing and senses and smell as acute as his own, doesn’t know it. He takes a step forward, but Ivan dances aside. “Information first,” he orders. “Then you may have your reward. Come now, Conclave whore. Why is it any different from last time?”

“Don’t call me that.” Fedyor is seeing red – which, at this point, could be due to just about anything. “I have a name, remember? Fedyor – Mikhailovich – Kaminsky.”

He stumbles a little over the patronymic, as it is an ongoing debate whether proper etiquette for Slavic vampires entails the use of the birth father’s name, or that of the vampire sire. Opinion generally comes down on the side of the latter, since it represents proper respect for one’s new immortal status and supernatural bloodline; you’re supposed to let go of your human family, since pining to go back complicates the already-difficult adjustment period and is impossible anyway. But since Fedyor isn’t entirely reconciled to it, and tries to hold onto his humanity, he tends to introduce himself as Fedyor Mikhailovich, not Fedyor Dmitrievich, and the flicker in Ivan’s eyes means that he has taken note of that struggle. Then he shrugs, crooking a taunting finger at him. “Fine then, Fedyor Mikhailovich. It is your choice.”

“What do you – ” Fedyor is having trouble seeing straight. “Want to know?”

“Anything that might be useful.” If he is worried about being shut in a small room with another vampire on the verge of total frenzy, Ivan doesn’t show it. Indeed, in this paramount confidence and command, Fedyor realizes that Ivan is much older than he initially thought. He took him for one of Catherine the Great’s courtiers, from the late eighteenth century or so, but the well-worn shadow of violence that sits on Ivan’s shoulders is of considerably longer use than that. It’s something else to puzzle out when Fedyor regains the use of his higher critical faculties, which is definitely not the case at the moment. “That is, if you can bring yourself to actually – ”

At that moment, he is cut off as Fedyor, deciding that two can play this game and he is tired of being jerked around by this arrogant bastard, lunges at him. Ivan jumps six feet straight up, hissing, and they end up somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling, only to crash back down to the floor. Even vampires are not immune to the laws of gravity, and they roll around in a second deeply undignified flurry of kicking and biting, as Fedyor finally gets hold of Ivan’s wrists and tries to get his mouth as close as possible to that maddeningly enticing trickle. Then, for a crucial instant, he hesitates. He is very far gone, but there’s enough of his brain left to remember that feeding without permission is regarded quite dimly, and he is trying to prove that he is not a total savage. He gulps and gasps, fangs cutting into his lip, struggling and thrashing, not even able to properly articulate his request, as Ivan still looks – bafflingly – as if he is rather enjoying this. Then he smirks and says, “Very well, Fedyor Mikhailovich. Take it if you can.”

Now that is a challenge, and while it would be very enjoyable to throw it back in Ivan’s face in another fashion, Fedyor has only one concern at the moment. He presses his mouth to Ivan’s wrist, sinks his fangs, and sucks and licks like a man dying of thirst in the desert. Ivan utters a contented purring sound, his head falling back on the carpet, and certainly does not bother to keep struggling while Fedyor is otherwise occupied. Silence falls across the drawing room, except for the soft sounds of Fedyor feeding. He is half on top of Ivan, between his legs, and Ivan does not appear to be objecting in the least. Well. That was… unexpected.

When Fedyor has drunk enough to feel sane again, he pulls back with a jerk, remembers where he is, and fights the wash of embarrassment that floods through him. He wipes his mouth with the cuff of his shirt, then bends down and licks the bite wound closed, which is common vampire practice even if Ivan failed to do it with him. (After all, some supernaturals have manners.) Then they look at each other, and Fedyor doesn’t think it’s his imagination that Ivan’s breath is coming short, a flush visible in his pale cheeks, an enjoyment bearing a remarkable resemblance to Fedyor’s own. The silence persists a moment longer. Then Ivan groans, his legs sprawl further apart, and he orders, doing his utmost to sound gruff and commanding, “You will give me information on the Conclave now, yes?”

It is extremely tempting to tell him to take a long walk off a short pier, to pay him back for that underhanded trick at the Golden Cross, but that requires more command of his verbal processes than Fedyor currently possesses – or indeed, expects to possess in the near-to-medium future. He leans down instead, his nose brushing the hollow of Ivan’s cheek and his mouth ghosting against Ivan’s neck, his fangs tracing the line of the vein as if he might bite there too. Ivan’s hips buck, and his big hands settle heavily on the small of Fedyor’s back. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough rasp in his throat. “You are wasted on those idiots.”

“Mmm.” Fedyor nips Ivan’s lower lip, with just a hint of fang. Then – although it’s the most difficult thing he has had to do in his life or his afterlife – he rolls off and gets to his feet, leaving the fearsome Black Hand anarchist vampire flat on his back on the drawing room floor. “It has,” he says, “been a lovely evening. But I will be taking my leave now. Good night.”

And with that, in the somewhat shameful epitome of quitting while he is ahead, but wanting to make absolutely sure that the point has been felt, Fedyor turns around and books it. He doesn’t dare to look back as he bursts out of the dark house, pelts across the lawn, and skids down the hill, in the thick and slippery knots of mud and moss. He doesn’t slow down until he spies the lights of Belgrade, and in a few minutes more, he’s thundering into his flat, clothes disheveled and hair a mess and mouth and head and heart still full of the taste and smell and feel of Ivan Sakharov. It’s intoxicating. It’s unbearable. But it can only be once. It will be only once.

The Conclave, Fedyor reminds himself. You’re doing this to get back to them, and you managed to get out of there without saying anything. They’ll appreciate it. They will. And it’s what you want. Keep your head down and don’t do anything else stupid, and it will work.

It’s what he wants.

It’s what he wants.

It’s what he –

Ah, fuck.

[rococospade]

Regarding my characterisation of Laurence, the First Vicar

Okay so anyone who’s had to talk with me for more than five minutes knows I have *a lot of feelings* on the First Vicar and while I’m going to try and keep this to stuff I can support via lore, that will almost certainly bleed over in here and I apologise in advance. I’ll try to stick to things I can support from canon.

Other notes: I will be referencing deleted content for this, and it is a long post because I have a lot of thoughts. So post under the cut, beware of spoilers, so on.

(As an aside, if you read my fics, dear god does this post have spoilers for those too, since a lot of my fic world building is me trying to piece lore together!)

@fishbowlcarnage thanks for getting me to write this. It’s incomplete and unfinished, and I’ll definitely want to add to it as I play through DS3 and the Fishing Hamlet in BB, but I hope it’s enjoyable as it is. Also thanks to Marie for gently pushing back on my assertions so I have to find a basis for them, and to every lovely person who’s chatted with me about lore and this strange and beloved game.

General notes:

Most of this is predicated on a handful of things:

Laurence was probably a Choir member. He stole the Choir from Byrgenwerth, and it’s noted that the church uniforms are based on Byrgenwerth’s. And if you look at it, what does it most closely resemble? Willem’s clothes. So either Willem had disciples’ outfits designed to look like less fancy versions of his, or else Laurence chose an outfit that visually conveyed “I’m taking your job” for himself and his own minions. 

Laurence was not from Yharnum: it comes up in deleted lines that the person who founded the Healing Church was a foreigner. While that line was cut, we do still hear the huntsmen blaming foreigners for their plight, and while I will admit that nationalism and xenophobia are a big part of Bloodborne it would make an… interesting sort of sense if the Healing Church was actually headed by one. Also, Laurence and Willem have different accents to the rest of Yharnum, at least to my ear. I’m also a filthy American, so feedback on this point is very welcome.

Laurence was probably a combatant: this is probably my hardest argument to make because it relies on the most abstract points. Laurence is found with the Gentle Beast’s Embrace rune. That’s a combat rune. Even if he’s trying to heal the scourge, if we operate on the presumption that he did want to help people, and he found a rune that seemed to safely turn him into a stronger bestial form, don’t you think he’d take up arms if he hadn’t already? Aside from that, the clerics use a lot of blood. Now, @msoftserved has pointed out to me that that was probably a religious thing as much as a functional one, but I’m still fascinated at the idea that the clerics could somehow take enough blood to over a long enough period to become giant beasts without also being hunters (since hunters are noted for their extreme willpower, and being able to do things like force themselves to stay awake under the effects of blue elixir). I also suspect the clerics fought, since it’s noted that the Hunters of the Healing Church made the Hunter’s Workshop redundant, and the hunters we see from the Church are dressed like… clergy. I may add to this section later, as my brain is currently refusing to articulate my thoughts in any sort of useful manner.

Actually! Coming back to this, with something a little less tenuous: the Vicar’s Pendant has a blood gem inside for hunting beasts. Why would they have that if they weren’t actively hunting beasts themselves? It’s not on display, you have to break the amulet to get at it. So… if it were purely decorative, you’d expect it to be visible. And if it weren’t, one would expect them to have something support based. But no, it’s an attack up specific to beasts. Which to me implies two things: the amulet could be used for offensive casting/spells, and the owner of the amulet was expected (at least some of the time) to fight.

In addition to this, Gehrman also refers to the Clerics of the Healing Church as “the guardians” of Hunters, and cries out for Laurence to help him in his sleep. Even if Laurence was not a combatant, I found that to be a really interesting detail; it speaks to Gehrman’s belief in Laurence’s competence. Especially once you finish the game. He’s not crying out for a god to save him. He’s crying out for Laurence, and Willem. 

About Laurence’s personality:

I think it’s fair to argue he was probably charismatic. He managed to repeatedly amass a following; first at Byrgenwerth, where he stole Willem’s best students from under his nose (including Micolash, someone who seems to fundamentally disagree with Laurence on how to ascend humanity? Which is pretty wild in and of itself) but also convinced several major characters to help him, including Gehrman (who seems to have had heroic intentions, though he’s of course Not Okay because this is a Soulsborne game) and freakin’ Ludwig (first Church Hunter! First man to organise the hunts instead of having everyone do whatever with 0 coordination! And canonically stated to be from a long line of knights, which implies Ludwig was probably a noble or at least a member of the gentry, but signed on to work with this foreigner. 

Laurence was likely either ostentatious, or found the appearance of being so valuable: dude has a weird skull elevator and I’ve never been able to forget it. I thought it was weird when I found it but wrote it off as typical Bloodborne… until I read “fool me”, which pointed out that the elevator was probably, in fact, something Laurence either designed or commissioned. It was definitely way more expensive than just installing a ladder or stairs… But organisations thrive on symbols. And the Healing Church is rife with symbolic imagery, from the architecture to the decorations to the uniforms. There’s really no functional reason to have the members dress like they do, which means it was likely a case of needing to present a certain image or be immediately recognisable to the public. (On a loosely related note, the Church Giants wearing items from the Black Church Set is… kind of cute in a weird way. Who made the clothes? Who dressed them up? These questions haunt me.)

Laurence may have been capable of miracles or pyromancy: this one is a big stretch, but I’m going to bring it up anyway. Laurence’s attacks in his Cleric Beast form (specifically the ones that leave lava in their wake) resemble a pyromancy from the Dark Souls series. We also see patients from the Research Hall that cast miracles in the Hunter’s Nightmare. Seems like a jump to attribute miracles to Laurence from there, right? Well… the Vicar’s Pendant that Amelia uses to heal herself is noted to have been passed down amongst the Vicars of the Healing Church. Presuming she’s using the ‘heal’ miracle, then the pendant is apparently her talisman. She had to have learned the technique somewhere, and talismans in the Souls series aren’t unique to one caster — anyone with sufficient faith can utilise a talisman to cast miracles. So it stands to reason that if Laurence had the necessary faith, he could have wielded the amulet in the same way. 

Misc notes:

Willem was doing some horrifying stuff at Byrgenwerth. I’m kind of surprised more people don’t seem to address that? Byrgenwerth is the only area with the garden of eyes enemy in the main game. Those things are wearing patient gowns. “What we need… is more eyes” seems rather chilling in the light of that particular enemy, and its official name.

In addition to that, at least two of his prized students turned out to be… you know… insanely charismatic cult leaders. I’m talking about Micolash and Laurence, of course. What are the chances he collected two dangerous twinks that would betray him entirely on accident? Oh, but two’s a coincidence, right? Except… Gehrman. You know, the First Hunter. He was apparently rather attached to Willem too, since he calls him ‘Master’… so that’s… three students of Willem’s that decided, actually, let’s do this extremely morally dubious thing in pursuit of knowledge/power/good of mankind? Oh! And Gehrman amassed a following too, actually. The original Hunter’s Workshop. That’s… That’s definitely a pattern by now. 

The Gentle Beast’s Embrace rune grants reduced fall damage. I ran with the idea from there that cleric beasts (probably beasts in general) have an instinct common to both canines and felines — get the high ground. Now. This is also supported (as much as anything is supported) by where you find Cleric Beasts — the first one is sitting atop a roof over the great bridge, essentially the highest suitable platform in central Yharnum, while Laurence the first Vicar is sprawled dramatically in the arms of a statue over his altar in the Hunter’s Nightmare. So I tend to depict him perching in high places when left on his own, especially once he’s begun falling to beasthood.