#their postures and expressions and the newspaper

[rain--pitter-patters]

#when the date went so wonderful that you don't even mind that you forgot your umbrella at home#crowley is doing his best and aziraphale appreciates it very much#aziraphale's very special version of pride and prejudice can't get wet#so you gotta use the four year old newspaper you found in your bentley#I am not mentally ready for season 2#it will change me in a way that I cannot even explain#thank you neil gaiman love of my life fr#good omens#good omens 2#good omens fanart#good omens 2 fanart#aziracrow fanart#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#aziraphale#crowley#david tenannt#micheal sheen#neil gaiman#digital art

we go just right.

[randomshyperson]

Baby, I'm Yours - Wanda Maximoff Oneshosts

Summary: The Avengers gain a new member, and Wanda Maximoff mistakenly assumes she has gained a rival instead of a friend. Or the one where Wanda has a crush that she doesn't know how to deal with. [Requested]

Warnings: really fluff, enemies to lovers, some kissing and a lot of teasing, avengers being a family, emo!Wanda and her first gay crush. | Words: 4.564k

A/N-> This was requested a while ago and I used it as practice for a winter soldier!reader idea that I had. Idk if I would ever make a series out of this idea, but it was fun to write this reader.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

Seven months after she joined the Avengers, someone else did too.

Unlike her, Sam was extremely excited by the news, he woke up early and somehow managed to convince Vision to join him in the welcome. 

Wanda would have skipped the interaction - She only went to get breakfast and intended to spend the rest of the training-free day filled with interactions between the team, hiding in her room and watching old TV shows. But as soon as she noticed the little witch sneaking around the kitchen trying to go unnoticed by Sam's excited theories about who the new avenger would be, Natasha whistled and called out to her.

"Good morning, Maximoff. Do you intend to welcome our new colleague in pajamas?" The widow asked, hiding a teasing smile behind a cup of coffee. 

The question already implied what Wanda had feared, and made her sigh. "I didn't know I was expected to take part in the welcome."

Nat grimaced softly - she seemed to be finding the whole thing very amusing.

"What an idea, Maximoff, of course you are! We were all there waiting for you when it was your turn."

She forced a smile, resisting the urge to snap back something bratty like "Thor wasn't". Deciding she had no reason to argue with Natasha, she busied herself with preparing some toast and pouring herself some tea.

When Sam suddenly tapped on the counter, everyone looked at him.

"I got it!" he declared excitedly. "I bet the new guy is Spider-kid!"

Nat frowned. "Who?" and then chuckled to the Falcon's obvious disappointment.

"Come on, the colorful vigilante who keeps throwing webs around? How come you've never heard of him?"

Assuming a thoughtful expression for a moment, Nat flipped through the newspapers on the counter before clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

"Ah, I think Tony's got his eye on that one." She says. "But, no, Wilson. The new recruit isn't the spider. And there's no point in giving me that look, as I won't spoil the surprise."

It looked like the subject was ending - at least that Sam was going to give up. It wasn't long before the rest of the team showed up for coffee, and Wanda mumbled a few good mornings back quickly before making her way to her own room, to change into something more presentable than fluffy pajamas.

But on the way to the bedroom, from one of the glass entrance doors, Steve Rogers appeared and he was accompanied.

"[...] Come on, we're early, they must still be having breakfast." Commented the older Avenger, busy taking off his coat, it took him a moment to notice that Wanda was in the hallway. She was staring, probably. "Oh, good morning, Wanda. I want you to meet someone."

But Wanda already knew you, straight from the television. And from the Shield's files of potential Avenger-level threats. 

So maybe that's why when Steve said your name, patted you on the shoulder and you held out your hand for Wanda to shake, she just stared.

"Okay, not a handshaker." You mumbled awkwardly, lowering your arm. "You're Wanda Maximoff, mind reader and former enemy, right? I didn't expect the shock, given the circumstances."

"Hey, easy." Steve grumbled at your aggressiveness, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. Wanda narrowed her eyes at you, but you didn't look too intimidated, your posture relaxed and your hands in the pockets of your leather jacket. "That's in the past. We're all friends now. Aren't we, Wanda?"

With some resistance, she eventually forced a smile and tried to relax her posture. She sighed and nodded. "Of course, Steve. It's nice to meet you apart from the news, Miss Barnes. Should we wait for your brother to join us or does he still have Interpol on his back?"

You chuckle dryly. "Listen here, you-"

"Okay, enough." Steve interrupts, pulling you by the shoulders and giving Wanda a disapproving look. He also whispers that he'll have a talk with her later, but the witch turns away, dragging her feet back into the bedroom while you and Rogers head in the opposite direction.

On the way to the kitchen, you mutter: "And here I thought superheroes were polite."

The soldier chuckles briefly. "You tried to blow up the White House, you can understand the hesitation. Now come on, we've got the rest of the team to shock." 

It had taken her hours to see you again, not that anyone had asked her opinion, but Steve had put you in the room next to hers on the justification that it would be good for the two of you to have someone close in age to pass the time.

Wanda grimaced and reminded him that you were about 150 years old. Steve chuckled.

"Technically, yes. But she spent almost all that time on ice, so she was only really around for less than 20 years. Can you please try to be friendly? You have more in common than you might think."

Wanda begrudgingly agreed to be the one to give you a tour of the tower. And so she could also discover that she was apparently the only Avenger who was hesitant about your presence on the team.

She knew your list of skills off the top of her head, but still wondered if you could read what she was thinking when you added; "Your hesitation is totally fine, Maximoff. It must be hard to share the podium as the team's coolest person, but you get used to it."

She chuckled awkwardly at the compliment mixed with teasing at the end of the tour. You offered her a farewell wink, thanking her for the favor before muttering that you needed a shower after several hours of driving. You disappeared to your own room before Wanda could come to a coherent conclusion as to why her heart was racing inside her chest.

Perhaps she was having a panic attack? 

Wanda turned on her heels and made her way to Bruce's lab. A quick check-up would clarify things.

While assuring her that she didn't have a chronic arrhythmia, Bruce also - under the influence of Natasha and Tony - diagnosed her with something very common to teenage patients: a crush.

"Did you consider Miss Maximoff, that perhaps, you may have just liked her?"

She did not take this very well. 

"What? That's ridiculous! I'm not even gay!" Bruce looked up from the normal results of the cardiology test she had demanded and offered her a small smile.

"All right, Miss Maximoff, maybe I made a mistake. You're probably just anxious about your return to action next week." The doctor suggested and Wanda stood up from the lab chair with an impatient huff.

"That's definitely it." She assured him, not wasting any more time on Bruce and his absurd theories after thanking him for the tests.

After such an unfortunate situation, Wanda began to avoid you. It was the most viable solution when someone caused her to have irregular heartbeats, sweat or tremors. Perhaps she was allergic to you.

Obviously, she should keep her distance.

But it seems that the team had other ideas.

"Barnes and Maximoff, you're together. No gloves, come on." Natasha arrived at the gym announcing, an iPad with the training schedule in hand. Wanda, who had spent a good few weeks with the successful plan of interactions limited to greetings, nearly had a stroke. At least her partner, Sam, was keen enough to hold off his punch before it got to her. Wanda hadn't even heard his comment about her getting distracted in a fight and her feet were moving towards the mat, her eyes quick to notice your breathless figure removing the fighting gloves you had been using on a practice dummy for the last few minutes.

"Let's see if training with Wilson has taught you anything, Maximoff." You commented with a smile that made her stomach jump. Something about your sweaty, panting appearance was making her dizzy. 

The rest of the team spread out on the edges of the mat, interested to see the exercise, and it was only Natasha who came up to you to lead the whole thing.

"Start with the basics, I want to see Wanda's reaction time." The widow explained, squeezing the two of you on the shoulder. Before turning away completely, she raised a finger in warning to the younger brunette. "And no magic tricks, Maximoff. Even if you're losing."

Wanda smiled, rolling her eyes. Only once had she done that to Natasha and it seemed the widow would never let that story die.

Before the whistle blew, you looked her in the eye. "I'll take it easy on you, little witch." You whispered teasingly, and Wanda felt something burn in her lower belly. She also decided that she had to win because she had to get that smirk off her face.

It was an easier task than it looked - and it was all down to the fact that if there was one thing Hydra had taught her well, it was to exploit weaknesses. 

And yours was to care about her. Every hesitation in your movements, your awareness of the super-soldier strength that could hurt her, made it very easy for Wanda to exploit it, slip away, and dodge all your blows. And there was something else too; a soft choke in your breathing every time she got too close, tangled up between one move and the next. The way your ears turned three shades redder when she managed to knock you over and landed on your chest. 

"Wow, Maximoff really is kicking your ass." taunted Sam from the corner of the room, grinning at Barton and Nat.

You didn't seem to mind, licking your lips as you took a second look at the position Wanda now found herself in; sitting on your hips. 

She did, however, give you an annoyed look. "Don't hold back, I can take it." 

"I'm sure you can, little witch." You retorted ironically, leaning yourself fully back onto the mat. 

Wanda grunted angrily, then grabbed the collar of your blouse. "Fight for real! I don't need you to take it easy, I can handle it."

The disarming was so quick that she barely had time to blink - one second she was on your hips, the next her back was pressed to the mat with her hands pinned to the side of her head.

Your body on top of hers, pressing her to the floor, made her choke.

For a moment, as your dilated eyes descend to her mouth, you also seem to forget what you were doing, and the audience around you.

But suddenly, you let go; a dry, humorless laugh escaping you as you stand up. And you turn to Nat as if you hadn't just dropped Wanda on the mat.

After ignoring you for weeks, she thinks she deserves it.

"Her fight is decent, so I think we had enough."

Nat raises an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Oh, are you the one deciding on the training now, Barnes?"

You smile briefly before retorting; "Come on, everyone knows she's not punching her way out of fights when she can use the energy tricks. It's a waste of time making the girl train like a soldier."

Natasha doesn't seem to agree. She follows you towards the locker room, arguing how important it is to eliminate the team's vulnerabilities, while the rest scatter around the gym, some giving up practicing to get something to eat and others going back to wrestling.

Wanda regrets sitting on the mat because in that position she can watch you at the locker room door, tugging at your training shirt, exposing a strong muscular back and a lot of skin because of the sports top that doesn't do much good to hide it. 

Natasha continues to talk to you without taking any notice of the gesture, so Wanda is sure she's the problem. Her stupid brain and heart are clearly forgetting that she can't handle a crush right now. 

She doesn't even have Pietro anymore, who, as soon as he'd finished tormenting her about it, would give her advice. Because he's always had a natural talent for this kind of thing, while the last time Wanda tried to flirt with a boy, it sounded like a threat. 

She can't do this on her own. And with that conclusion, she tries to get over it. Maybe Google has some tips, or maybe, the walking computer that hangs around the tower can help.

"Vis?" 

The synthesized man took his eyes off the book in his lap when Wanda called out to him, a few days after the training session where, since being pressed into a mat by you, Wanda found herself unable to think of anything else. 

"Hello, Wanda." He greeted her gently, closing the pages and waiting for her to approach.

"I need your help with something."

"Oh, what would that be?"

Wanda pressed her lips together, her hands restless in front of her body. "Would you be able to tell me the most efficient way to... get over someone?" Vision frowned in surprise, and Wanda sighed. "Someone we shouldn't like. Definitely inappropriate."

Vis opens her mouth, still in shock at the whole thing, but it's someone else who speaks;

"What's definitely inappropriate?" Tony asks, and Wanda thanks the gods he didn't hear the first part. 

"N-nothing!" Rebuts the witch quickly, the color of her cheeks probably giving her away. Stark looks at her suspiciously, then at Vis.

"Okay, what are you two love birds talking about?" The Vision would have blushed if he could. He gets visibly embarrassed, smiling shyly.

That's great as if Wanda needed one more extra thing to stress her out. 

She can barely contain her grimace at the nickname, but Tony doesn't bother; Vision is at least quick to change the subject, and surprises Wanda with his ability to lie very well. 

"We were just commenting on how inappropriate General Ross's accusations were at the last meeting." And that's enough to distract Stark.

Wanda practically flees the scene after that. For a long moment, she had even forgotten about the tension that had been swirling around the Avengers over the last few days, precisely because your absence from the compound made her - not that she would admit it - miss you terribly. And all she could think about was inevitably you, busy on missions with Steve in search of your brother James.

With your presence increasingly rare in the Compound, Wanda hoped that the crush would go away, but every time she happened to bump into you between missions, the feelings came back with an overwhelming force, like two lovers the war kept apart. It was frustrating, to say the least. Especially since Wanda was nothing more than a teammate. Hardly a friend.

When Lagos happened, and it was the worst thing that could possibly occur, at least Wanda had something else to think about. And this time, Ross's visit to the Compound was more than inappropriate - it was final.

Accords and fights between the team led to an unbearable situation. With half of her colleagues out for meetings with the United Nations, Wanda was still grounded at the Compound, waiting for news.

She didn't expect you to be sneaking around.

"You shouldn’t be here." That's the first thing she says as she fully opens the bedroom door you left ajar. Wanda could lie about being your fault that she found you, when in fact she had become an expert at sensing your aura over the last few weeks, the ability to just know when you were around, perfecting itself every time you two met.

You chuckle, without diverting your attention from the task of filling your backpack with as many things as you can squeeze inside. Wanda had the impression that many of the items you came to collect in your room were old presents; everything the others had gotten you over the last few holidays. Things that were precious.

"I'm aware. I won't be long." You retort, folding some socks together to put them away in the closet.

Wanda should call Vis - he's working as a sort of watchman for the tower or something. And he was supposed to notify Tony of your presence. But instead, she closes the door.

Twisting her fingers in anxiety, she asks:

"Where are you going to run off to?"

Offering her a quick glance as you returned to your suitcase to put away some underwear that made Wanda look away, you replied; "I can't tell you that, little witch."

Wanda almost smiled at the nickname. Instead, she took a desperate step forward.

"Would you take me with you?"

Standing back, you chuckle. "Funny."

"I wasn't joking."

You leave the St. Petersburg snow globe you got as a present from Natasha on the dresser and turn with a frown to the witch behind you. "Maximoff, come on-"

"I'm serious." She insists. "Stark grounded me. Like a fucking child. “ She then chuckles sadly. “Or worse, a problem he didn't want to deal with. And I know I fucked up in Lagos-"

"Don't say that, Lagos wasn't your fault." You interrupt her with a certain determination. "You need to remember that, alright?"

Wanda smiles softly at your reassurance, looking away because her face is suddenly very warm. You sigh then grab just one more change of clothes before zipping up your suitcase.

"It's not because of the company, Wanda." You mutter suddenly, with the backpack on your shoulders. She looks at you with confusion, but you don't meet her gaze. "I just don't think it's right, everything that's happening. And I don't think we should all be fighting with each other. But that's what's going to happen from now on. If you come with me, Steve probably expects you to be choosing sides. And I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

Her heart skips a beat, but Wanda takes a chance;

"Anyone... or me?"

You're taken aback, but you don't lose your poise. You sighed deeply before approaching her without haste, without any hint of what you were going to do either. Wanda opens her mouth again, to apologize for being so difficult, but you muffle the statement with a kiss.

It's the first time she's kissed another girl if that isn't obvious. She melts, panting and so very shy; it's a good thing that you hold her waist, while your other hand keeps your face close by grabbing her chin gently. Wanda's lungs scream for air after a moment, but she refuses to pull away from a sensation as good as kissing you.

Something like a whimper of need escapes her when you break the act, or maybe it's the way you give her lower lip a gentle tug with your teeth that leaves her trembling, ready to beg for more.

"Sorry if that was sudden." It's the first thing you say, your voice is hoarse, and as affected as your breathing. You smile, your thumb wiping away some of the mess left by Wanda's gloss. "But I think it took us long enough."

She babbles like a fish, unable to form a coherent thought for a whole moment. You wait patiently, your hands touching her shoulders, sliding down her arms as a way of calming her. Wanda has dreamed so much of feeling you that the touch meant to ease her nerves has quite the opposite effect; every inch of skin you touch tingles.

"H-how... did you know?" she asks, and you give a short laugh.

"I didn't." You retort gently. "Not for sure, at least. Not until two seconds ago when you asked to come with me. I had this... feeling. And this tension. Every time we walked into the same room, every time we were alone. I just felt…” You can put it into words exactly, so you just take a deep breath and smile at her. “I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, that the way I felt was making me imagine things but then you came in here. Sneak out into my room and ask if you could leave this fancy tower to run away with me to fight. I just had to be sure."

Wanda bites back a shy smile, feeling the heat spreading from her chest to her face and eras, and knowing for a fact that it's only going to get worse because of the way you're looking at her.

She tries to get some ground again.

"And are you..." A sigh, as one of your hands settles on her waist. "Sure?"

You hum thoughtfully before breaking the distance, kissing her in a different way than before. It's more intense and hungrier. Your tongue invades her mouth, exploring everywhere and your hands prevent her from pulling away when the oxygen is off. Every needy sound that escapes her is muffled against into lips. 

Wanda tentatively follows the rhythm, one of her hands wrapping in your hair. Your backpack falls to the ground and you hold her tighter now, pulling her into you. It's a significant difference between a super-soldier's body and her own, and just the quick memory of you pressing her against the mat makes her moan into your tongue.

The sound makes you lose your mind - Your hands become more determined, the kiss desperate. Wanda struggles for air, exposing the collarbone that keeps you busy as she tries to catch her breath. You bite down on her skin and she arches against you, her hands becoming bold enough to scratch your back and pull up your blouse.

But you break into a husky chuckle, slowing the kiss and pulling away to remind her; "We have to go." Between one touch and the next, "We don't have time."

She needs a whole moment to force her brain to work, and even after you're no longer touching her, and she's sneaking off to her own room to prepare a suitcase, she's still shaking.

When you meet again, running hand in hand with suitcases back to the garage, Wanda is surprised to realize that she was foolish to be afraid of something as good as this. 

That is, of course, until reality hits again.

Wanda has never seen you in action as a Winter Soldier before. She saw it through television, Shield files, and testimonies about deserters captured by the Avengers.

But she was never there.

The Avengers split up and fought each other, and your brother fled with Steve Rogers. She thought you were safe on the plane with them, she made sure you got on - but she didn't see you climb off.

Wanda accepted being captured, she accepted being drugged as a security measure. And throughout the confusion that was the transportation of the Avengers in custody to the Raft, she thought she was hallucinating the whole way there. The masked figure attacking the soldiers and opening the cells was a projection of the sedative in her mind.

She only knew what had really happened, had been able to remember, when you both were already in another country as fugitives from the United Nations.

You were by her side the whole time. You held her on your lap after getting rid of the straitjacket that had trapped her and lay down next to her when there was finally a secure roof over your heads.

Wanda was exhausted. She had lost the only thing she had left; her freedom. There was no longer a home, a team, a brother. She was drugged and trapped like an animal by people she considered family.

She started crying, and you woke up. You didn't say a word or ask her to stop. You just held her and let her sob into your chest until she fell asleep again, this time from exhaustion rather than through the influence of chemicals.

When what was left of the team moved on the following day, to another location to avoid suspicion as Natasha clarify it, Wanda got the impression that maybe it was you who needed her to hold you until you went to sleep now.

Bucky didn't come back, and neither of you knew what had happened to him or Steve. 

Wanda let you cry all you wanted.

But then finally, everyone who had fought for Steve was back together. Even Clint and Scott, who would probably make deals for their families, to try to be with them, and would have to leave soon. For a moment, everyone was there and you found out that your brother was going to stay in Wakanda to be free again.

It wasn't perfect, but it was a good moment. Steve got food for everyone, you had something that resembled a Christmas, or at least an end-of-year celebration.

We're alive and safe. We're together. Steve was a man of words.

Even if they were sharing a safe house that was too small for such a group. Even if half the world was after them.

The team fell asleep between sleeping bags and sofas, and you left the trailer to get some air. Wanda went after you without thinking much about it.

"It's cold, witchy." You commented as soon as she was close enough, even though you opened your arms for her to wrap hers around you.

Your back was against Nat's truck, and Wanda pressed a little closer to hide her face in your collarbone.

"Where are you going to run off to?" She questions into your skin.

You sigh, one hand caressing her back. "I don't know." You confess quietly. "I wouldn't get to Wakanda with this, but I wasn't feeling very well in there. Having a Christmas meal without him."

Wanda adjusts her face to look at you. "Bucky needs to heal first."

You nod, giving her a sad smile. "I know, but Steve told me they put him back on ice. Until they found out what they were going to do with him. Just the fact that he's there, freezing again... " You look away, sniffling softly. "It reminds me of the past, our time as Winter Soldiers. And It makes me very sad.” You explain softly before sighing. “I know there's nothing we can do to help him now, but it's all so frustrating. I just needed to get out of there for a moment."

Wanda absorbs your words for a moment until she returns to her previous position and smiles as she feels you relax and put your arms around her. 

She murmurs; "It's a shame we can't go out there. Natasha said this place has beautiful spots to visit."

You snort slightly. "Actually, we could drive somewhere further away. Far from the city." You comment. "We can watch the Aurora Borealis."

Wanda bites her lip for a moment, considering your invitation, until she adds; "Just the two of us?"

You chuckle. "Unless you want to wake up the team..."

"No, I wasn't complaining!" She clarifies quickly, and you start laughing again. 

She taps you gently on the shoulder to make you stop. "Idiot."

"Your idiot." You hit back with a smirk, and Wanda's heart stops beating for a moment. There's a pause, between exchanging intense glances as you bring your hands to her face, adjusting her hair out of the way. "Don't forget, witchy."

She swallows dryly, her voice hoarse when she speaks: "I won't." She whispers back and you smile before pressing your lips into hers.

[urinarythreatinfection]

I know i have requests to do im sorry but I keep getting sidetracked with new games i get when i havent finished the first one. Have this that i wrote bc the idea came to mind while i work on some freaky shit. Oh i thought i had school tomorrow but its friday (now sat) ok sick.

Mimi Mihawk

Mihawk x GN!Reader. Fluff. 380 words. Pre Cross guild but Post timeskip.

You walk downstairs, well rested after sleeping in. Your husband is ready at the table with a plate of food for you while he reads the newspaper with a glass of wine. A smile forms on your lips, he always ends up being able to predict when you’ll wake up so the food is freshly made. “It smells nice~”

“Sit.” Mihawk says, he’s a bit of a cold husband; but you know he loves you. After all, you didn’t miss how his posture straightened when you walked down the stairs or the way he relaxed his expression. As if seeing you awake and happy perked him up and improved his mood.

‘So cute.’ You think to yourself as you sit at the table, eating your breakfast while watching your husband read the newspaper. “Interesting?”

“Not much.” He sips on his glass of wine and you stand up to look at the paper since despite what he says he’s looked focused. Once you catch sight of it your smile widens, he’s looking at news about Zoro. You can tell his eyes are focused on the picture of the swordsman fighting, seemingly checking up on his form even in the still image. It makes your heart warm and you press your cheek to the top of his head affectionately.

“Mimi~ You’re happy~?” He sighs through his nose at that overly cutesy nickname that he’s told you over and over not to use. Yet despite his clear irritation he makes no attempt to stop you from rubbing your cheek against his like an affectionate cat. “Mimi~ Answer~~”

“I have no reason to answer the baseless accusation. Seeing how someone I personally trained fights is reasonable, it’s obvious he should be doing well.” His words don’t help him though, only making you happier as you kiss his cheek.

“He’s doing well so you’re happy~ I’m happy he’s doing good too~” You kiss his face and lips happily until he’s not even able to see the paper anymore. So irritating, which is exactly why he does nothing to stop it. It would just be too much of a bother if you cried or whined if he pushed you away, that’s the only reason. Ignore how he closes his eyes in relaxation or leans into it, you’re imagining things.

[togenabi]

the language of flowers

gojo satoru x reader (royalty au)

♡—All your life, you have been training for the role of Empress... But nothing could have prepared you to be Satoru's wife.

word count♡— 4.7k (I came back swinging y'all)

genre♡— fluff, royalty au

aged up characters♡— 18+

content notes♡— arranged marriage, romance, crown prince (maybe ooc) gojo, flowers, no use of y/n, afab!reader, ur a princess we're all princesses, minor chara oc's, mentions of my other au's, reader's father is a jerk, reader is tough but falls hard, not fully proofread

author's note♡— this took a while! september was ridiculously busy for me but I did my best with this to compensate! this is also very self indulgent, but I hope you enjoy it! xoxo, belle

As a child, you found out of your engagement to the Crown Prince by accident.

On a chilly winter's evening, you had been chasing the Royal Secretary's cat around the palace. Your father, the King, would frown upon you playing games at this hour. You should be writing essays, learning dance or banquet etiquette.

But all that can wait, you think. You've just spotted the end of a fluffy tail dart around the next corner.

When you catch up to it, the orange tabby is curiously peering into a room—whose grand double doors are slightly ajar. Eyes widening, you quicken your steps but make sure to minimize any sound. The last thing you needed was to be spotted skirting your duties right in front of the King's study.

You let out a huff of relief once you've gently picked up the cat, your arms hugging it to your chest.

Just as you're about to sneak away, however, you hear your name.

From the gap in the door, streams of golden light pour out; contrasting with the darkness of the hallway. The silhouettes of your father and his Secretary leave shadowed patterns on the floor.

You listen, as these silhouettes plan your future without you.

“Ha!” The King bellows. “My daughter. Empress. I never thought I'd see the day.”

Your heart stutters. What?

“When will you inform her, Your Majesty?”

The shadow on the painted tiles waves a hand dismissively as your father does.

“I'll leave that to you, Montgomery. Tell her that she should be honored.”

Heavy footsteps sound as he paces. “It was concerning to have a daughter as a firstborn. I knew she couldn't be made to rule what I've built, but I'll finally have a steady pawn in The Empire once she's sent away.”

Pain shoots into you. Your eyes begin to sting. You had always known your brother was the favorite despite all the hard work you've put in, but to be spoken of as a pawn... Could it be that you have not worked hard enough?

You suddenly remember where you are. Remember how slacking off brought you here. Heartbroken, you hug the cat tighter.

The words your father speak as you walk away deepens the dagger in your chest.

“Do not settle for anything less than perfect for her coursework. She's to be Empress, after all.”

On that chilly winter's evening, your heart froze over like the snow-covered branches looming outside.

...

Several years later.

The carriage goes over a bump in the road, but you do not show discomfort or act without grace. Your expression is controlled and your posture is correct as you balance yourself.

Across from you, Secretary Mont holds a newspaper up, the front page faces you as he reads. Large bold letters take up the entire upper half of the paper:

‘CITIZENS QUESTION IF EMPRESS-TO-BE IS WORTHY OF THE CROWN PRINCE’

You scoff. It makes Mont meet your gaze over the paper before flipping it; he frowns disapprovingly at the front-most article.

“Do not mind them, Your Highness.” He folds the paper and sets it aside—as if it would help prove his point. “The people are not used to your presence yet, but they will be. They will see how you are the perfect choice for Empress.”

The Princess is power hungry, someone who was interviewed had said. You wanted the Empire for yourself, apparently.

Jealous. Vain. Possessive. Dramatic.

Shifting your gaze to the window, you contemplate what you had done to garner such a negative image. Could you have done anything differently?

Your father's face appears in your mind's eye. That same ever-present scowl on his face as he says you should do better. You should be grateful. You should be nothing less than what you've been preparing all these years for. Everything must be perfect.

The Imperial Palace comes into view. It stands high and grand, shining under the bright midday sun. The cloudless blue sky above it makes the scene picturesque.

After the wedding in four months, it is to be your new home.

The Imperial Princess, your betrothed's younger sister, greets you when you arrive. You curtsy to each other, and she surprises you by reaching out to take your hands in hers. She gives them a firm yet friendly squeeze.

“I'm pleased to welcome you, my sister-to-be.” She beams, and you return the look with your own small, composed smile.

“I am honored to be here. Thank you for taking the time to receive me personally.” You gently lower your hands, letting her go.

She leads you inside, passing lines of palace staff as you enter.

“Congratulations on your own engagement, by the way.” You say honestly. After assessing her for a moment, you carefully remark, “I hear you and Prince Toge are quite happy.”

“We are.” She nods, smile glowing even more at the mention of her beloved. “Please allow me to say that I hope you and my brother find your own happiness, despite the ‘political arrangement’ of it all.”

“I thank you for your well-wishes.”

“Would you like an escort to your chambers?” The Princess offers once you reach a grand curving staircase.

“If you have other duties, I will not keep you.” You give her a bow, the ends of your dress brushing the polished marble flooring.

“Very well.” She nods. “A servant will inform you when dinner is ready.”

Gathering your skirt, you make your way up the steps to the east wing, where the guest chambers are.

Your eyes find the path to the west wing, where the royal families' rooms can be found. Soon enough, you would be heading there instead of east. Hopefully, the Prince will be amicable to live with.

The chambers reserved for you are exactly how you remember them. It's spotless and feels homey despite you only visiting a few times a year.

This is the only place you can be truly alone. Your father, try as he might, has no power here.

You step towards the balcony, opening the glass doors that lead outside. The wind caresses your skin like a soft kiss to your cheek, and you take a deep breath to savor it.

Four months.

That's all you have left. Four months of freedom here.

Another breeze passes. It carries with it a tiny dandelion wisp. Catching it almost feels like holding onto air, and yet it is there between your fingers. Small and weighing nothing, but there nonetheless.

For such a small thing, it strengthens your resolve.

You're not here for freedom. You're here to be Empress. And that's all that matters. You will not let anything get under your skin and interfere with your responsibilities.

...

So you said, only to find yourself in a very unexpected situation.

Dinner was uneventful, your only gripe was that your betrothed was not present. You had hoped to show everyone that you got along well... Even if you've only really spoken a handful of times.

However, once you returned to your chambers, you spot the balcony door open once more. Beyond it, looking out at the view of the city, was the Crown Prince himself.

You try not to let your unpreparedness get to you. Bowing respectfully, you greet him. “Good evening, Your Highness. May I ask what brings you here?”

The Prince turns to you, crossing one ankle over the other as he casually leans on the balcony.

“There you are.” Satoru says, his head tilting as he observes you.

You eye him warily, trying to decipher his intentions. If he wanted to see you, he could have simply shown up to dinner. “What are you doing?”

He steps forward. You step back. “Is it a crime to want time alone with my—”

Sighing, you should have expected him to want more time with the future—

“—wife?”

The word knocks the wind out of you.

Of all the names you have been called, ‘wife’ is a new addition to the list.

You are your parents' daughter, your country's princess, and are to be the Empire's most powerful woman.

And yet, to one person... to Satoru, you are to be his wife.

It's almost strange to think about. Your earliest memory of your betrothed is back when he was small and scrawny. It was difficult to take him seriously back then.

Now, something has changed in him. Or it could also be that he's always been like this, and this is a side to him he doesn't show to others that often.

Satoru watches you process the word, seeming to have something to say, but decides against it. You half expected him to tease you for being flabbergasted, but he patiently waits for you to speak first.

“Why are you here at this hour?”

He grins, eyes bringing shame to those distant stars hanging in the sky behind him.

“I didn't want our first meeting in ages to have so many spectators." Satoru explains. “If I had shown up earlier, the scribes would have taken note of how many times I blinked or how fast I chewed."

His jesting does not put you at ease at all. “I have a feeling you have something to say that should not be recorded or overheard.”

“That's true. However,” Satoru says pointedly, “The hour is far too late for all that I wish to say, so I will simply bid you goodnight with this...”

Out of nowhere, he pulls out a red flower with curling petals.

You keep your eyes on his as you reach for the flower's stem. Satoru watches you back, smiling softly. He's backing away before you can thank him, but he doesn't look like he minds. He seems to be happy you didn't reject it.

“Goodnight, my dear.” He bows, and makes his exit.

...Through the balcony. Again.

You step out and try to find where he disappeared to, but he's gone.

The moonlight out here allows you to get a better look at the flower. How curious. Usually, people in the Empire give roses, don't they?

The red carnation twirls between your fingers, and you think of how much more grand and tangible it is compared to the dandelion wisp that found you before dinner.

...

Carnations mean many different things, according to this book on the language of flowers you picked up. It all depends on the color.

Pink carnations symbolize fondness and remembrance. Some also consider it to mean not being able to forget someone.

White carnations mean purity, good luck, and new beginnings. It's a common way of wishing someone safe travels.

Yellow carnations have varying meanings. Sometimes, they are used for apologies. But most often they are given to express disdain, symbolizing a hopeless state of mind. You stare at the illustration next to the passage. The yellow watercolor is so bright and vibrant, it makes you wonder what it did to deserve such sad connotations.

Setting the book down for a moment, you rest your eyes by scanning the library. Countless shelves with even more countless books. A golden candlestick here. A priceless painting there. A stack of yesterday's newspaper lying a few tables away.

Something unpleasant settles in your chest. You ignore it and resume reading.

Naturally, as is the case for most red flowers, the red carnation means love. True, passionate love and affection.

You shut the book softly, tracing the embossed petals on the cover while thinking of the red carnation sitting on your bedside table.

Things could have gone worse, you suppose. At least Satoru didn't give you a striped carnation, which has no other meaning than rejection.

Secretary Mont enters the library before you could dwell more on that thought. He's arrived with several palace staff for additional wedding plans.

“Your Highness,” Only Mont greets you, but they all bow in unison.

You nod, and gesture to the table. “Be seated. Let's begin with the urgent concerns first.”

Apparently, the most urgent problem was that Satoru had not approved any of the table dressing color schemes. When you review the options, you think you can assume why. There can only be so many shades of white and cream and pearl.

“What shall we do, Your Highness?” One of the butlers ask.

“Give me a few samples, I'll talk to the Crown Prince myself.”

You almost regret saying that, because once you did, several staff began tripping over themselves, requesting you bring up other preparations with Satoru.

Secretary Mont asks if he should schedule an appointment with your betrothed, but you decline. Something tells you that he will show up again tonight.

And so, here you were after dinner in your chambers. A box of wedding planning materials rests next to you on the bed. You left the balcony doors open this time, and he shows up just as you predicted.

“Aw, were you expecting me?” He's smiling at you as he approaches, but it falters once he sees the box.

He lets out a loud breath before settling on your bed too, the box sits between you. “Alright, let's do this.”

“Start with these.” You hand him some fabric swatches, he looks at them in disdain.

“Pearl, then.” He says, barely even looking through all the options.

“Don't decide hastily.” You can't help but reprimand. “It's not just the color you have to consider, but the material as well.”

Satoru blinks, but presses his fingers to feel the texture of the fabric at your suggestion. “Is pearl not good then?”

“It's pretty, but it's too shiny.” You explain. “The sheen doesn't make it soft or comfortable to use.”

“Ah.” He breathes out, understanding what you mean.

You tell yourself your heart doesn't beat louder when he picks the one you had your eye on. Satoru holds the sample fabric up, the label attached reads ‘Snow’.

A clean, classic sort of white. Soft to the touch, almost fluffy. You don't have to tell him that you agree, he can already guess from the way you glance at him.

He doesn't need to know that your eyes strayed to his hair. Soft. Fluffy.

Clearing your throat, you change the subject by bringing out some tableware samples. “Shall we discuss these, next?”

An hour and thirty kinds of invitation cards later, a short break is due. You're writing down your decisions when Satoru calls your name.

You've moved to your desk by now, since your bed has become some sort of wedding moodboard. Something clinking together reaches your ears, and you turn to find that Satoru had tea brought up. He pours you a cup and carefully hands it to you.

“Thank you.” You respond gratefully, taking a sip before turning back to the lists in front of you.

“Aren't you tired?” Satoru asks, reading your writing over your shoulder.

“This is actually quite easy for me.” You admit. “Wedding planning is unexpectedly... Pleasant.”

Satoru laughs softly. “You're probably the only one in this palace who thinks it's pleasant to work with me.”

After a moment, he continues. “I suppose... That's a good thing, if we're to be wed.”

His words make you pause writing. You suddenly feel shy, warmth spreading on your cheeks. The kind you're sure isn't from the flame crackling in the fireplace.

How silly that you're becoming bashful after being engaged to him since you were children. The thundering of your heart can wait.

“I agree.” You respond, not turning to face him. You will not allow him to see you uncomposed like you did the previous night. “I wasn't sure what to expect from our marriage, but I would appreciate it if we were companionable.”

The rest of the evening proceeds smoothly, though you do notice Satoru becoming more silent as the night goes on.

The next day, you spot Satoru speaking to foreign delegates. Something is different in the way he carries himself in front of them. His posture is that of a proper Emperor, not a cheeky prince that sneaks into your room at night.

... It's probably best that no one finds out about that, lest a scandal breaks before you even get married.

When the delegates leave, you're about to approach and greet Satoru when he, unmistakably meets your eyes, then walks in the opposite direction.

You're left there, confused and perhaps even a little hurt. But you stone your expression and carry on as if nothing has happened. Your lessons taught you to be graceful, even in times you feel anything but.

By late afternoon, it's painfully obvious that Satoru is ignoring you. When he rushes through his lunch and gets up right when you take your seat, you try your best to look unaffected.

Hopefully, you're the only one who's noticed so far. If word reaches Secretary Mont, word will reach your father... That troubles you more than you can put to words.

Satoru doesn't show up for your scheduled wedding planning session with the rest of the staff. You're careful not to say that you'll speak with your betrothed, and thankfully no one mentions it even if it shows they wish you did. You're not even sure if he'll show up at your balcony tonight.

When the hour turns ten, the time he's usually here, he isn't. You sigh and can't help feeling a little disappointed.

Perhaps you said something wrong last night. Maybe you should apologize for something. Or he could just be busy, you tell yourself. You can't expect the Crown Prince to always have time to sneak away to you, can't you?

Something taps against the glass of the balcony doors. It breaks your train of thought, and causes your heart to leap just a bit.

But when you go to check, no one's there. You open the doors to find a single red carnation, just like the one he gave the first night.

You're only barely successful at hiding your relief. You reach for it and glance around once more, just to make sure if he left any other trace of him. There are none, but after you lock the doors and turn in for the night, two carnations in a glass vase calm you in a way you hadn't let yourself feel in a long time.

...

A maid knocks at your door a tad earlier than you're used to. When you ask about what's going on, she says she has to prepare you for the Crown Prince's departure.

“He's leaving?” You ask as you rise from bed, already headed for the bathroom to clean up.

“Yes, Your Highness.” She sifts through your wardrobe for your clothes. “He is to go on a business trip to settle trade agreements.”

“How long will he be gone for?”

“I cannot say for certain, Your Highness.”

Pausing in thought, you look to the balcony doors.

A rush of determination fills you as you ask the maid, “Could you prepare something for me?”

The head butler said that he could be gone for two or three weeks. Weeks before you see that face of his, which has a surprisingly forlorn expression on it.

“Thank you for seeing me off.” Satoru acknowledges you with a smile, but his eyes reveal how tired and troubled he truly is.

You say nothing at first, silently taking steps closer to him. You could practically feel the air freeze over as everyone watching holds their breath. This is the closest the two of you have appeared in public.

You reveal a white carnation held in the hand you hid behind you. The stem is cut short, just enough so that it fits into the pocket on his coat.

“I will take care of things here while you're gone.” You assure him, taking a step back to admire how the white flower suits him.

Satoru seems to be at a loss for words, but his eyes regain their usual spark when he addresses you again. “It seems I have nothing to worry about, then.”

You feel stares at your back as the carriage departs, but pay them no mind. You intend to keep your word and perform your duties while the prince is gone.

On your way to the library, you overhear the Imperial Princess and Sir Nanami speaking to each other.

They're in the next hallway, and you were just about to turn to it when you hear your name spoken. You press your back to the wall and listen.

“I'm glad Her Highness seems to have liked my brother.” The princess says. “And of course, I know Satoru would have been over the moon because of that flower.”

Sir Nanami hums. “His concerns were nothing to be worried about after all.”

The princess laughs. “Oh, what was it again that he said? That she friendzoned him?”

“It was that she companion-zoned him.”

You huff quietly. So that's why Satoru had been ignoring you yesterday.

“I look forward to their blooming relationship. I'm sure Her Highness will come around.” Is the last you hear of their conversation as they continue on their way, their footsteps fading further into the hall.

Come around? To what?

A grandfather clock chimes to signal the change of the hour, and you realize you've dilly-dallied for long enough. The rest of your way to the library has no people whispering about you and your betrothed or the flower you sent him off with.

But you would be lying if you said you'd forgotten about what the princess said.

...

Ever since Satoru left, he's been writing you letters. He said his sister gave him the idea.

You've given up on replying on every letter he sends. It seems as though he writes to you daily, and you simply can't keep up. He insists on writing no matter how busy he gets.

His fifth letter is so short that it should be called a note:

‘The flowers here are lovely. I had a bookmark made for you.’

That same bookmark, a dried pink carnation, sits between the pages of the novel you're currently reading. It makes you consider pressing the red carnations Satoru had given you so that they're not just left to wilt.

You write back once a week. But what you lack in quantity of letters you make up with the number of pages you write, and you tell Satoru as such. There are many things you want to report, so you don't hold back on anything.

Well, perhaps you don't quite tell him that you can't fall asleep until you spot the moon through the balcony glass. Or that you think of him whenever you're not distracted enough.

In Satoru's fifteenth letter, he brings the unfortunate news that his return will be delayed. He will have been gone for four weeks before he comes home, and the journey back will take three days at the latest.

Unable to express your disappointment outright, you instead imply that he should make haste for the wedding preparations. That he shouldn't miss the food tasting or the floral arrangements.

‘I trust my wife to make all the right decisions. Even if you don't, I'll consider them right anyway.’

There he goes again, calling you wife when you haven't married yet. It also dawns on you that Satoru has only ever called you by name, or addressed you as his wife. He's probably the only person who hasn't referred to you as Empress-to-be.

You're quickly learning that with Satoru, you're finding yourself again. It's rare for you to feel more than just a princess or Empress in training, but he makes it effortless with just a few words.

...

You begin counting down the days when Satoru writes that trade negotiations have finally concluded. He should be home in four days, and you can hardly wait to see his face again.

But of course, Satoru finds a way to bewilder you by arriving home early. In the middle of the night, no less. And naturally, through the balcony.

Wiping the sleep from your eyes, you try to decipher if his visage is a dream or a trick or the light. But when he laughs, and tells you he missed you dearly, you need no further proof.

Satoru clasps your hands with his, running his thumbs over your fingers and knuckles. Your eyes travel down to his boots, which are filthy with dirt and grass. His hair is ruffled and windswept.

“Did you,” The word settles on your tongue when you pause. “...Rush here on horseback?” You ask incredulously.

Satoru laughs again, and wraps his arms around you. “Are you complaining?”

You blink, and tentatively wrap your arms around his middle. “No. I'm glad you're home.”

Satoru is so warm compared to the night air that surrounds you. You almost complain when he pulls back, but the serious look in his eye makes you keep your mouth shut.

He clears his throat and rubs your shoulders before taking your hands again. You're completely shocked when he sinks to one knee.

“I know that we're already engaged.” Satoru begins. “I know that we've been preparing for this for years, but I just wanted to ask you properly. Because you deserve it.”

He pulls out a ring, a diamond shines at its center.

“Marry me, and I shall spend every moment of my life proving my love for you.”

“Yes. I will.” You respond, and he slips the ring onto your finger. How does he keep getting more and more lovely?

You place your hands on the sides of his face, pulling him up to you. You kiss him, and the air ignites like a spark brought to life.

It's tender, and careful, and carries all the things you wish to say to him. How you missed him. How you love the flowers he gives you. How excited you are to have him by your side for forever.

When you break apart, he seems surprised to find you reflecting his happiness back at him. He's about to speak, but not before he can resist the urge to kisses you again.

You smile into the kiss, but place a hand on his chest, pushing him to ask, “You were about to say?”

“...I've always known I would treat you right when we got engaged. That was always a given.” Satoru cradles your face gently, making you feel like the most precious in the world to him. “You were chosen because you're smart, and you worked harder than anyone else.”

“...But I saw you one day, when we were kids.” He speaks carefully. “You were trying your best to impress your father, but not at all happy...”

“From then on, I decided to make it my mission to make you smile.” To prove his point, he places his thumbs at the corners of your mouth to drag them up playfully. You laugh and swat his hands away.

“A real smile, just like that! None of those diplomatic half-smiles you always throw out to please people. That won't work on me.”

“Before you are the Empress, you are my wife. And I will love and treasure you as such.”

...

He says those same words at the wedding. You jest that he has no originality, but it brings you to tears just the same.

The wedding happens in the palace gardens, surrounded by countless beautiful flowers that dance and sway under the sun when the wind blows. Everything is, in every sense of the word, perfect.

For this moment, you are not the Empress. Not yet. The world can wait a day, you decide. Everything else can wait while you bask in the glowing warmth this man offers you.

As you leave the ceremony behind with your arms linked together, Satoru leans into your ear so you can hear him over the cheering crowd. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” Petals shower you both on your way, and you can't help but smile. “Just that we're perfect together.”

Satoru laughs in agreement. “Damn right we are.”

Several staff are positioned at the exit of the gardens, ready to escort you both to the carriages that will take you through the Empire to greet your subjects... But something makes you pause at the end of the aisle.

You pluck a red carnation from one of the floral displays before turning to your husband. You tuck the flower into the chest pocket of his suit, snug in front of his pocket square.

When you glance up to see his reaction, he's already beaming at you, looking indescribably happy.

“I love you too.” He says, taking your hand and pressing the softest of kisses on top of your wedding ring.

When you sent him away back then, you remember thinking how the white carnation matched well with him. Looking at him now, however, the red flower over his heart seems to overflow with all the love and all the words that need not be spoken. You like this one much better.

He leans down to pluck another identical flower, and gently tucks it behind your ear.

Satisfied, he holds your hand tight, leading you to the rest of your lives with the assurance that he will never let go.

© togenabi 2023 | see here to be added or removed from my taglist

taglist♡— @flowerjun @mellozhi

[girl-next-door-writes]

Hi! :) was wondering I'd you could have someone get flirty...inappropriatly so with Mycroft then shows up to find him

@theweepingvulcan91 Thank you so much for this gift of a gif. It might have got away from me a little - Em.

The soft glow of the reading lamps illuminated the high ceilings and grand bookshelves of the Diogenes Club, casting long shadows that danced upon the richly decorated walls. Mycroft Holmes, his posture upright yet relaxed, was nestled in a plush armchair near the fireplace. The subtle crackling of the fire added a comforting backdrop to the scene, a stark contrast to the day's relentless demands.

The other members of the club, equally committed to the sanctity of silence, moved about with deliberate quietness, their footfalls muffled by thick carpets. Some were engrossed in their newspapers, others in their books, all sharing an unspoken agreement to preserve the tranquillity of the space.

Mycroft's evening reading was a well-worn ritual, a necessary retreat from the cacophony of his responsibilities. His sharp eyes scanned the pages methodically, each piece of information absorbed and catalogued with precision. The club's unique environment allowed him to process the day's events, each new fact or observation finding its rightful place in the intricate tapestry of his mind.

The atmosphere was one of serene detachment, a haven where even the most burdened of minds could find respite. As the fire continued its gentle murmur, Mycroft turned another page, the rhythm of his routine restoring the equilibrium that had been disturbed by the day's incessant challenges. Here, within the hallowed halls of the Diogenes Club, he found peace. That was until his phone vibrated, drawing his hawkish attention.

Mycroft's eyebrow arched as he glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noted the sender. Shuffling through his mental rolodex, he realised this was that strange woman from acquisitions who always smiled at him. He barely said a word to her, and yet she always seemed to go out of her way to say hello to him.

He wondered how she had managed to acquire his private number. Mycroft prided himself on his meticulous control over his personal information, a necessity in his line of work. That she had pierced this veil of privacy irked him greatly. This imposition was an irritation, a security breach.

With a silent sigh, he leaned back in his chair, allowing the shadows of the flickering fire to play across his face. The club’s atmosphere, usually a fortress of calm, now seemed to buzz with a faint undercurrent of urgency. Perhaps this message was a necessity, something which required his immediate attention.

He opened the message, his expression becoming one of confusion.

"Did you miss me today, Mycroft?" read the message, followed by a winking emoji.

Mycroft's fingers tightened around his phone as he read the message again, disbelief warring with irritation. His mind raced, analyzing every interaction he had ever had with the woman from acquisitions. Each encounter had been brief, polite, and decidedly unremarkable—at least from his perspective. What had he missed? How had he overlooked someone slipping through his carefully constructed barriers?

He set the phone down on the mahogany table beside his chair, the flickering firelight reflecting off its screen. The message stared back at him, its casual tone completely at odds with the seriousness of his current predicament. Mycroft was not accustomed to being caught off guard, and the sensation was deeply unsettling.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. It would not do to let this minor breach unsettle him. He needed to address the situation methodically. His first step would be to ascertain exactly how she had obtained his private number. That would require some discreet inquiries—he had no doubt that the answer would reveal a lapse in his own protocols, and that was unacceptable.

For now, he had to respond. Ignoring the message was not an option; it would only embolden her to further intrusions. Mycroft picked up his phone again, considering his reply carefully. He needed to convey his displeasure without revealing too much, to reassert his boundaries firmly but without provocation.

After a moment of contemplation, he typed out a response:

"I believe you may have mistaken this number for a more public line. Please refrain from using it in the future. – M.H."

He sent the message and set the phone down once more, feeling a measure of control return. The fire crackled quietly beside him, and he let the warmth and the familiar surroundings of the club soothe his irritation. This would be dealt with swiftly, just like any other anomaly in his meticulously ordered world.

Unfortunately for Mycroft, the matter was far from settled. It appeared that once she knew this was indeed his number, it only encouraged her to send further messages. Each one was more flirty and suggestive than the last, making him feel increasingly uncomfortable. Despite his best efforts to ignore the texts and hope they would stop, they persisted, leaving him in a state of constant unease. Mycroft realized that he would need to take more definitive action to address the situation, but he wasn't quite sure what steps to take next.

Sherlock had asked you to stop by the Diogenes Club on your way home to drop off a file for his brother. As you entered the room, ignoring the glares that quite obviously not being a member earned you, your attention fell on the look of total frustration on Mycroft's face. His entire being practically vibrated with it. It was clear that something was deeply troubling him, and it wasn't just the breach of the club's strict non-communication policy by your presence. Mycroft, usually the epitome of calm and control, seemed to be battling an internal storm. His fingers drummed impatiently on the armrest of his chair, and his eyes, though focused on his phone, were filled with a mix of anger and discomfort. It was a rare sight to see the elder Holmes so unsettled, and you couldn't help but wonder what had pushed him to this edge.

As you approached, his phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and rolled his eyes, frustration rolling off him in waves.

"Trouble at work?" you queried, taking a seat opposite him. Your voice pierced through the silence, earning you more than a couple of black looks from other club members.

"Nothing I cannot handle," Mycroft huffed, his jaw clenching as his phone vibrated once again. The urge to throw the damned thing into the fire grew stronger with each low hum emanating from the blasted machine.

You glanced at his phone, then back at him. "It doesn't look like nothing," you remarked, your tone gentle but probing.

Mycroft's eyes flicked to yours, a mixture of annoyance and resignation in them. "Persistent... nuisance," he admitted, the words forced through gritted teeth.

You raised an eyebrow. "Anything I can help with?"

For a moment, he seemed to consider the offer, then shook his head. "No, but I appreciate the gesture. It's a personal matter that requires a delicate approach."

"I doubt a 'delicate approach' from a Holmes is possible," you said, raising an eyebrow and trying to suppress a grin.

The phone buzzed once more, breaking the moment. He reached out and grabbed it with such force that his knuckles turned white.

Without a word, you extended your hand, eyes locked on his. He hesitated but eventually handed over the phone, his gaze never leaving your face. As you scrolled through the messages, your eyebrows shot up and a smile tugged at your lips; the messages were becoming increasingly bold.

He watched, his curiosity piqued, as you typed a reply and hit send. Then, with a smirk, you handed the phone back to him.

He held it in his palm, expecting another buzz, another daring message in response to whatever you had sent. But the phone remained silent. Intrigued, he opened the message thread. A look of amusement spread across his features as he read what you had sent to his rather persistent admirer:

"Consider your approach noted. Best of luck, but persistence doesn't always equate to success. - someone with a much better approach to courting Mycroft Holmes."

[brooklynisher]

Alright, I'll post it here. Please be nice, it's my first published writing on here :}

CW for emotional distress, yelling, and animal abuse

Green Light

The Spine has been called on by Peter Walter to participate in a few tests, but The Spine can’t help but feel that there’s something very wrong about these tests.

The Spine stood still counting the number of wires in the room. He counted the wires, then the flasks, then the ratio of flasks, empty to full to partially full. He would read the paper. Making sure to read each and every word carefully and slowly. Refusing to continue until he understood every last bit of what he just read. This is how he spends his free time. It’s not like he has much else to do. Aside from the fact that he and all of the other robots haven’t been around for more than a few months, there’s also a lot he’s simply not allowed to do. But as much as he hates being unable to do anything he wants, he has developed some essential skills considerably faster than the others.

When he learned how to read, that’s all he really did, though he limited himself to the newspapers. He was pretty caught up in current events as a result. Counting, fractioning, identifying things around the room, while being relatively simple tasks to most adults, was a huge learning experience for the titanium robot. Anything he can do to be just a bit smarter was propitious. 

Peter Walter walks in with a strange expression on his face. The Spine can’t tell if he’s angry, passionate, if his feelings are strong or dull, he simply can’t tell. He feels it’s a failure in his ability to identify facial expressions.

“The Spine,” Peter starts.

“Yes sir?” The Spine straightens his posture.

“I need you to come with me.”

He makes a small gesture urging The Spine to follow him. The Spine spine responds with a simple, “Yes sir.” before taking his inventor’s lead. He tries to make sure any anxiety doesn’t show. He’s a robot after all. He’s not supposed to be feeling things like anxiety. Yet he can’t help but feel slightly anxious every time Peter calls on him to do something he doesn’t know anything about. They arrived in a small concrete room. It’s mostly empty with the exception of an oddly colorful board hanging high up on the wall. The board contains the names of each Walter automaton followed by 5 red lightbulbs. A few of the bulbs for each robot are green, but none are out of order. Peter orders The Spine to stay put before leaving the room. The Spine tries to make observations while he waits.

“Rabbit… 3 green lights… 2 red… Zer0… 5 green lights… 0 red… Hatchworth-”

Peter Walter has returned. The Spine straightens his posture once again. Peter seems to be pulling a large wagon of some kind. The contents inside the wagon are covered with a beige tarp. Peter approaches The Spine.

“The Spine,” Peter starts.

“Yes sir?”

“Take my wrist.”

He pulls up his sleeve. The Spine notices that Peter’s wrist seems to be oddly beat up. He’s not sure what this could mean, but he must obey orders. He grips his wrist as gently as possible trying not to harm him.

“Squeeze it,” Peter commands.

Squeeze it? But The Spine is made out of metal. Peter is made out of flesh. The Spine doesn’t have sensory receptors. Peter does. For all he knows, he already has a tight grip around Peter’s wrist. What if he hurts him? What would he do? But The Spine has learned that obedience is better than defiance. Even if it’s at the risk of causing more issues. He squeezes his wrist.

“AUGH!”

Peter pulls his hand away and turns his back towards The Spine. The Spine is instantly filled with regret, grabbing his own hand as if to keep it under control. He canes his neck just enough to see the damage he has caused. Peter’s hand is limp. Oh god.

“Pe- Mister Walter! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean- I- I was just-” He tries to apologize, but the words struggle to escape him. He’s not even allowed to apologize. If he apologizes, then that means he made a mistake. And mistakes are a no-go here.

“Stop your stammering!” Peter hisses at him.

The Spine only hangs his head low. Ready to endure whatever it is that he deserves. Peter takes a big shaky breath in.

“You’re… you’re fine… This is good. You’re very strong. Maybe even the strongest automaton I’ve built yet… I could do without the apologizing and the stuttering.”

What? Good? He just broke his inventor’s wrist! Of all the mistakes The Spine made in his short lifespan, how was THIS the one that Peter excuses? Hell, he seems more angry about him apologizing and stuttering than he is about him breaking his wrist. What kind of twisted logic is that? Does he want The Spine to hurt him? But those are questions for later. The least The Spine can do right now is be considerate. He waits for a couple of moments to gather his thoughts before speaking.

“Sir, will your wrist be alright?”

“The depths of science in which I have delved are unlike any other. If I can build such a great number of automatons in such a short period using a substance I alone have discovered, then surely I can heal a broken wrist.”

He takes a controller out of his pocket with his good hand and pushes a button. One of the lights next to The Spine’s name turns green. He then turns to the wagon and pulls off one of the tarps, unveiling a dummy. He drags it out of the wagon and places it down on the ground using one arm. The Spine feels bad leaving him to struggle on his own like this, but he didn’t ask for help, so it’s best he just leaves it to him.

“Alright The Spine. Hit it.”

“... Anywhere?”

“As hard as you can.”

The Spine nods and faces the dummy. He can’t necessarily hit “hard” as he doesn’t have muscle but he can hit fast. So he curls his hand up into a fist and punches the dummy in the head as the humans do in news stories at full speed. The body is pushed back, head flying off. The head slams into the wall creating a small shockwave of dust. The Spine flinches. Peter side-eyes him but doesn’t say anything. He hits another button, and another bulb by his name goes green. He moves back to the wagon unveiling another dummy. He drags it to the center and looks straight towards The Spine.

“Activate voice protocol. The Spine,”

The Spine nods involuntarily.

“Activate blue matter ray projector arrays.”

And just like so, The Spine’s arm shifts into an intense-looking weapon. This throws The Spine off guard, but he keeps quiet.

“The Spine, I’d like you to shoot that dummy.”

The Spine looks at the dummy, then back at his hand.

“... How… How do I do that sir?” The Spine asks unaware he even had this feature installed.

“You’re going to have to figure it out on your own. Just as you will in order to disable it.”

The Spine looks back up at the dummy. He doesn’t understand what to do but still points his arm in its direction. He tries to move each part of his arm as if it were normal, and to his surprise, he is successful. The blue matter ray charged up. He aimed it toward the chest of the dummy feeling slightly uneasy. Something about this feels wrong, but he shoots. Before the beam hit, Peter managed to open up an umbrella, shielding himself from the bright red substance that now covers the room. The Spine’s body becomes a mess of red. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. What… What was that? While The Spine was still trying to process what had just happened, he didn’t notice Peter’s glare.

“Relax yourself.”

The Spine closes his mouth, straightens his posture, and tries to rest his shoulders and eyes. However, he finds that he is struggling to calm down. He doesn’t know why he feels so distressed, but something about that didn’t sit right with him. The third light next to his name turns green as Peter hits the button. He pulls out one more dummy, which makes The Spine feel nervous. 

“Activate voice protocol. The Spine, activate chainsaw.”

His other arm switches into a chainsaw, alarming him quite a bit. He tries to disable his other arm so that he has a free hand. As he does this, Peter simply stands against a wall and watches. He doesn’t say anything. The Spine looks back at him, hoping he tells him to do something different, but Peter only observes. It’s obvious what he wants him to do. The Spine turned back to the dummy.

“It’s probably just ink…” He thinks to himself still feeling uneasy. He preps his chainsaw and turns it on. The vibrations it produces are undeniably strong. It was almost as if he could feel it. He closes his eyes and slashes the chainsaw through the dummy. His eyes reopened to the sound of screaming. It’s even messier than before. He pulls his chainsaw back staring at the brutalized dummy now dyed red. Did it scream? Was it alive? He doesn’t move. His chainsaw slows to a full stop. What did he do? Another light turned green, he’s now down to his last light before all five of them turn green.

“Are you ready for your final test?” Peter asks.

Is that what they were? Not that it mattered what they were. The Spine was not ready. If anything he was afraid. He was afraid of what came next. He was afraid of Peter Walter. So of course, he nodded. Peter unveils the final hidden object in the wagon as The Spine deactivates his chainsaw. The final hidden object is none other than a crate. A crate… He opens the crate and pulls out a dog…

“No.” The Spine accidentally says out loud. He looks away, trying to hide his face.

“I’ll let you use any method you’d like.”

“No.” Though it was stupid before, it’s almost as though he can’t control himself. He knows what’s going to happen. He’s not going to follow through with this. Peter doesn’t say anything for a second. He then starts to speak.

“You know… there’s a reason why I’m not with the others right now.”

The Spine doesn’t respond.

“The others are sweet robots. And lighthearted ones at that. But they’ve always been a little bit… zany. Compared to you at least.”

The Spine grimaces.

“The only reason why I’m so ‘normal’ compared to the others is because you forced me to be! If I had it my way, I’d be just as wacky as the others, if not a bit more mature.” He wanted to say. But he knew arguing wouldn’t do him any good. Especially in a situation like this where that’s not the problem. So as much as he wanted to fight Peter on this, the best he could do for himself was bite his tongue.

“Such wild and eccentric personalities… They’d never want to hurt a soul… but that doesn’t mean they won’t.”

By now, four of the six main automatons have already achieved all five lights. That leaves one other who has yet to complete the test.

“And I’ll admit, it was partially my fault. My idea of the perfect robot would’ve never led up to this moment, yet it has. So for the sake of humanity, I’m going to need you to let go of some of what I had taught you. Obedience is key. Listen to me The Spine.”

The Spine slouches a little shaking his head.

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“But I can’t.”

“The Spine-”

“It’s a living creature! I can’t make myself do it…” The Spine then makes the mistake of looking at the puppy. It yawns a big yawn before lying down. His resistance grows stronger. How is he supposed to kill this thing?

“Kill the dog The Spine.”

“Why don’t you just make me kill the dog? Won’t that be easier? It’s not like you don’t have the power to.” His response comes out much more disrespectful than he meant it to, but it seems like there’s no stopping himself at this point. Peter’s eyes widen.

“You’re going to kill the dog whether you want to or not.”

“That’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? You’re asking me to do things on my own accord but not unless you allow me to. What kind of sense does that make?” It was unlike The Spine to talk back so much. Even during moments where he was defiant, he’s never been this much of a brat about it.

“Spine-”

“You want me to kill Rabbit next? Make me kill your favorite robot just so you can yell at me for it afterward?” At this point, The Spine’s retorts became less relevant. Peter is getting fed up with his behavior. His patience now gone.

“DO YOU WANT THE BECILES TO WIN OR NOT?” Peter yells. This is enough to get The Spine to quiet down. He’s not sure if he knows what he means.

“WE ARE ON THE BRINK OF WAR. BECILE HAS GONE MAD AND IF HE WINS THIS COULD DETERMINE MORE THAN THE FATE OF SCIENCE. IT COULD DETERMINE THE FATE OF OUR STATE. IT CAN DETERMINE THE FATE OF THE WORLD. A SCIENTIST AS CRAZY AS HIM SHOULD NOT HAVE ACCESS TO SUCH INTENSE TECHNOLOGY AND SUCH INTENSE POWER. DO YOU WANT HIM TO GET AWAY WITH THAT?”

The Spine only looks down at the ground out of guilt. He’s not quite sure what Peter is talking about, but he knows he’s blaming him for… something. At least, that’s what it feels like. He pauses for a few seconds before finally saying something.

“I’m sorry Mister Walter… but… I can’t help it that I’m… I’m an individual… and I can’t… I can’t kill an innocent creature. I just can’t… I don’t want the Beciles to win, but I’m just not capable of this sort of thing. I’m sorry…”

Peter is about to respond when he hears a small yelp from the other room. The Jon’s 5th light has turned green. He looks back down at The Spine, but he doesn’t say anything. Even so, The Spine knows what he would say. When it comes to animals, The Jon was always the best with them. Something about his presence would just attract animals stronger than any bait. He loves animals, and the animals love him. It could not have been an easy assignment for him to kill a creature of any kind. Especially one as innocent and as sweet as a puppy. Yet he still had the guts to kill it. The Spine’s relationship with animals was minimal, yet he refused to kill one just because he didn’t want to. He knew this made him weak, but it didn’t change his stance. He simply hangs his head low out of shame.

Peter notices that he’s still reluctant to complete the task, so he turns to his last resort. He sighs as he lights a match. The Spine hears this and looks up at him. His eyes widened in terror. He’s heard horror stories about being burned alive. He knows what he’s going to do.

“Don’t. Please Mister Walter don’t hurt it-”

The Spine continues to beg Peter to leave the puppy alone, but ultimately he ignores him. Soon enough, the small animal begins screeching and yelping in pain. The sounds were enough to drive The Spine over the edge. He pulls out his blue matter ray and shoots the poor thing down as quickly as possible. The Spine can feel an intense amount of steam leaving his body, yet his body still feels unbearably hot. It’s as if the steam from his body wasn’t releasing fast enough. That was the last thing The Spine wanted to do, but he really didn’t have another choice. There was nothing he could’ve reliably used to put out the flames and even if he did find something, he wouldn’t know how to heal the small pup. It would only die slower. The only thing he could do was speed up the process.

Peter places a hand on his shoulder. The Spine stiffens. He’s using every last atom in his metal body to resist the urge to tear his inventor apart.

“Why did you kill it?” Peter asks.

“I- You set it on fire! It was suffering! It was in pain! I couldn’t just let it die such a terrible fate like that…”

“Mm..” Peter nods.

“The Spine, there’s something you need to understand.”

The Spine only looks at him.

“In war, everyone is always suffering.”

“...”

“Now, come with me. It’s clear to me that you need some serious repairs.”

The final red light turns green.

[immeasurablesaladagere]

Can we get a fic about Wilson&House finding out Chase regresses please 🙏🙏🙏

Fun fact! I already had a prompt similar to this sitting in my notes app before I ever made this blog, so I decided to work on that! It just includes cg!House, I hope that's alright. House would have a very... ahem, interesting first-time-cg style.

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Word Count: 1230

Summery: House can tell that something is up with Chase on an overnight shift.

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Something was wrong with Chase.

House stared at him through the glass of his office, watching him go back and fourth between flipping through the patient’s files and a newspaper crossword. At least, that was what he was pretending to do. Chase’s eyes were obviously unfocused and staring directly through the papers, and it looked more like he was moving them around on autopilot to seem busy in front of his boss who he knew would be spying on him through the window. A smart move to be sure, but ultimately a pointless one. 

Chase picked up his pen and hovered it over the newspaper like he was going to write in an answer, then stopped and put the end of the pen in his mouthfor the dozenth time.

House wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was never using that pen again. It was definitely covered in bite marks and saliva, and while there was probably a large clientele who would pay too much for pretty-boy’s spit, he wasn’t one of them. If it wasn’t the pen, then it was biting the top half of his thumb or pointer finger, before he would get a look on his face and switch back to the pen or the cuff of his coat sleeve.

Then there was the fidgeting. For the most part, Chase matched the expected appearance of a man who had been awake for twenty-four hours on an overnight patient watch; sunken eyes, painfully-bored expression, slumped posture, and a general air of ‘I’d rather be having steamy sex with a hooker right now’— or maybe that was just him— but Chase was fidgeting almost constantly. It consisted mostly of swinging his feet back and fourth under the glass table or mindlessly shaking his free hand up and down. When he was particularly lost in thought, he would begin rocking in place to entertain himself. 

It was when the thought crossed House’s mind that Chase looked more like a little kid waiting for their parent to finish up at the DMV than a doctor trying to stay awake that he began to think that Chase was more than just tired. 

Age regression was a zebra, but Cuddy hadn’t given him his own team and office because he was an expert at finding horses. 

He watched as Chase yawned and rubbed his eyes, then rested his head on his hand and slipped his entire thumb in his mouth. If it wasn’t regression, then House got an embarrassing habit to hold over his head for the rest of time.

It was probably best to test his hypothesis before they were called to deal with the patient and Chase’s toddler brain accidentally killed her. He turned to his laptop and typed ‘colouring pages’ into Google, then printed the first result; an ocean floor scene with corny cartoon dolphins and fish.

At the sound of the printer starting in the office, Chase seemed to snap back into some kind of focus and pulled his thumb from his mouth, hastily tucking it against his cheek. 

When House walked in, Chase pushed away his file and cleared his throat. “Did you find something for the patient? I can’t think of anything.” 

“Forget the patient, I have a much more important question.” He set down the colouring page in front of Chase, “How do you feel… about sea creatures?”

He watched as Chase’s eyes went wide for a split second before he schooled his face into confusion. “What’s this?”

“Sea creatures.” He tapped the cartoon dolphin’s face, “See?”

“Yeah, uh… Why?”

“You tell me. Why would I, as your boss, distract you from a case with a children’s colouring page?”

Chase shrugged, looking anywhere but directly at the picture. “I ‘dunno…”

“Sure you do.” House nudged at the pen on the table. The plastic end was completely mangled by teeth marks, and it left behind a small trail of spit as it rolled. “And the sleeve, and the thumb, and the fidgeting like a four-year-old.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, House—“

“Tell me the truth, or you’re fired.”

Chase looked up at him in disbelief. “W-What?”

“You’re showing signs of an altered mental state. What if you were drunk? Or on drugs?” House wondered aloud, “The hospital wouldn’t take kindly to that, and what would that say about me? I can’t have a drugged-out doctor on my team—“

“I’m not on drugs! Or drinking!” 

“Then what?“

“It’s age regression, okay?” Chase blurted, “It’s this thing I do, I-I was thinking like a kid and it’s not like— why am I explaining it? You already knew, I’m just— I was tired and we weren’t getting anywhere with the case, s-so…”

House smirked with vindication. “So you figured it was fine if your adult brain took a vacation for a few hours, right? The patient’s not important, I get it.”

Chase buried his face in his hands. The tips of his ears were bright red with shame. “Please don’t fire me. I swear, it was a one-time thing, I’m not— I can control it, I—“

He hummed and tapped his fingers against his cane in dramatic thought. “I don’t know… I’m pretty sure you need to be at least eighteen to be a doctor, and you’re, what? Five? Cuddy wouldn’t appreciate the liability, and I don’t know if I can trust you to be a big boy if you can’t handle a—.”

Chase sniffled. Ah, crap.

“M’sorry,” He mumbled and stood up quickly to leave, but House grabbed him by the arm before he could run away and lightly pushed him back down into the chair.

“Sit down, relax.” He wanted to mess with the kid, not make him cry. “I’m not going to fire you.”

Chase looked up at him, eyes round and wet like a sad puppy. House grimaced. “But you said…”

“It was a joke. I was just messing with you.” He didn’t look convinced. On one hand, House was happy that his theory was correct. On the other, now he was stuck babysitting his employee who he’d inadvertently worked up into a panic. Why couldn’t kids ever understand sarcasm?

“Oh…” Chase shrunk in on himself and fiddled with the end of his tie. “…Sorry.”

“It’s fine, kid.” He sighed. “How young am I dealing with here?” If he was babysitting, he at least wanted to know what he was getting into.

Chase stared at him owlishly like he was afraid to answer, and his face flushed pink as he answered, “Six..?”

“So I was close! Look at me go. Listen, we’re going to talk about this later, but you’re not fired, got it?”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, and you’re off the case until you’re an adult again. If you get paged, I’ll go. I was serious about the liability, Cuddy’ll be up my ass if I let a toddler perform CPR.”

Chase frowned indignantly. “That’s not a nice word. An’ I’m not a toddler.”

Oh good, the language police. “You’re close enough.” He turned to grab the cup of pens on a nearby counter and set it down next to the colouring page. “Here. Not much for colours, but it’ll do.”

Chase looked between him and the pens a few times before hesitantly picking up a red one and beginning to fill in the crab.

“Oh, and no eating them. Those are my good pens.”

[bun-lapin]

NRC Staff Story: Food Thief

Summary: Someone is stealing food in the staff break room

A/N: I feel like there's not enough crack fics featuring the staff characters! There are many days where I just want to laugh at the exploits of our beloved, silly teachers lol I love thinking about the funny hijinks they could get into as a ragtag cast of coworkers~! <3

Word Count: 1.3k CW: crack, silly, dramatic shouting, childish insults, someone says 'ass' lol

“There is a villain in our midst.”

Professor Crewel closes the fridge door with a decisive snap of his wrist and then turns to face his colleagues assembled in the staff break room. He crosses his arms over his chest, an expression of deep annoyance plastered over his elegant features.

Raising an eyebrow, Professor Trein peers over his teacup at the younger professor and dryly asks, “Would you care to elaborate on that cryptic remark, Divus?”

Crewel briefly closes his eyes and lets out a frustrated sigh. Opening his eyes once more, he levels a petulant glare at Professor Trein and explains, “There is a thief in this room. Snacks have been taken without permission all week and now the criminal has taken something of mine.” He raises his arm and then brings it down in a grand sweeping motion, pointing a red-gloved finger at everyone in the room, “It has to be someone in this room right now! I placed a slice of apple rum cake in the fridge, stepped out of the room for ten minutes, and now I find that my cake is gone!”

Trein looks over at Coach Vargas. Leaning against the far wall, the athletics professor shifts the dumbbell in his hand to the other and then silently shakes his head at Trein. They both look over to Sam, who is lounging on a small, red sofa filling out a crossword puzzle. He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head with a small shrug of his shoulders. The three men turn their heads to look back once more at Professor Crewel.

With a weary sigh, Trein states, “No one here has taken your cake, Divus.”

Planting his hands on his hips in a defiant posture, Crewel scoffs with indignation, “I’m telling you, my cake is gone! One of you has to have taken it because no one else has come in or out of this room this whole time!”

Sam chuckles quietly and flashes an easygoing smile at Crewel. He raises a hand in a calming motion and says, “Snacks have indeed gone missing this past week, Divus. But you should remember that everyone here has also been a victim of this food thief, myself included! A thief can’t steal from himself, can he?”

Professor Crewel’s stance softens slightly as he considers Sam’s words. Narrowing his eyes, he mutters with some reluctance, “I suppose that is a good point…”

Setting his dumbbell down carefully on the floor, Coach Vargas lets out a boisterous laugh and says, “I know I definitely didn’t take it! Today isn’t a cheat day and there’s no way I’d eat the useless calories from your little cake.”

Crewel’s posture immediately bristles and he yells at Vargas, “Oh shut up, you lumbering meathead! Why don’t you go suck an egg?!”

Vargas folds his arms over his broad chest and raises an eyebrow at Crewel. “There’s no need to shout. And for your information, I’ve already had my raw egg shake for the day.”

Professor Trein slowly shakes his head and turns back to the newspaper in his lap. Without looking up, he tiredly states, “Ashton. The phrase ‘Go suck an egg’ is a dismissive insult.”

“I- I knew that!” Vargas sputters out in obvious surprise. He quickly composes himself and then glowers at Professor Crewel. Stalking over across the room, Vargas points an accusatory finger at Crewel and shouts, “Just because you lost your dumb cake somewhere, that doesn’t mean you can insult me like that! You wanna take this outside and settle this like men, you scrawny beanpole?!”

With a small huff of exasperation, Crewel sweeps back the white hair framing one side of his face. Through gritted teeth, his voice low with barely checked annoyance, he growls, “I didn’t lose my cake, you useless pile of muscles. I placed it in the fridge just a few minutes ago and now it’s disappeared!”

Slowly rolling up the sleeves of his red athletic jacket, Vargas shakes his head with restrained outrage, “Now you’ve gone and done it. No one calls my muscles useless! Let’s take this outside where I can really kick your ass!”

The two men lunge towards each other with fists raised. However, before either can strike, Sam steps smoothly in between the two and firmly pushes them apart. “Alright, gents! Let’s cool it down now. Fighting is not going to solve this situation.” He shakes his head with a playful smirk on his face and asks, “What would the students say if they saw two professors of this esteemed institution duking it out like a pair of street thugs?”

Glancing up from his newspaper, Trein scowls at the young men and remarks, “Sam is correct. You two should know better than to jump to violence over something so trivial.” Turning back to his reading, he adds with a disapproving sniff, “Do try to keep some semblance of professionalism in the workplace.”

Both Crewel and Vargas take a step back, away from each other, and exchange irritated glares. Straightening out their clothes, the two men mutter barely audible excuses. Then, as the break room door suddenly swings open, everyone turns to look at the dark figure in the doorway.

Holding a small, white paper box in his hands, Headmage Crowley takes a few steps into the room and turns to address Professor Trein, “Ah! Mozus! Do you have the test scores I asked to see this morning?” Opening the box in his hands, he takes out a small wooden fork and nonchalantly takes a bite of the apple rum cake packaged inside.

Blinking rapidly with utter disbelief, Crewel furiously points at the box in Crowley’s hands and shouts, “That’s my cake! How did you get that?!”

Crowley, startled by the sudden outburst, regains his composure and answers in a matter-of-fact kind of voice, “I got it from the fridge, of course.”

Sam shakes his head in bewilderment and explains, “What Divus means to say is, how did you get the cake from the fridge, Crowley? None of us saw you come into the break room to take it.”

Taking another bite of cake, Crowley answers, “Ah yes! I’ve had a small mirror portal installed in the back of the fridge so that I can grab myself a snack without having to walk all the way from my office to the break room.”

A heavy, thoughtful silence fills the room as the group considers Crowley’s explanation. Without a word, Coach Vargas strides over to the fridge and opens it wide. Looking inside, everyone takes in the sight of a miniature mirror portal, about the size of a dinner plate, attached to the back wall of the fridge and half-hidden behind some tall juice cartons. A collective sigh of disappointment and frustration is heard as they all turn back to glare at Crowley.

Closing his eyes tight with a grimace, Trein pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “Crowley, those snacks all belonged to various member of the staff. You’ll have reimburse everyone you stole from.”

Professor Crewel raises a hand high in the air and angrily shouts, “You can start with me, seeing as how you’re literally eating my cake as we speak!”

Crowley glances down at the paper box in his hands and then looks back up with a nervous laugh. Taking a step backwards through the open door, he calls out in a fast-paced, reassuring tone, “Ah! Yes, of course! I’ll just go a fetch my wallet now so that I can pay you back for this delicious cake!” Crowley then turns and hurries off down the hallway.

The four men watch the animated headmage disappear into the distance and sit for a minute in silence. Breaking the quiet moment with a cynical laugh, Sam mutters to himself, “We’re never going to get paid back.”

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter three | Entre Deux Mondes.

masterlist.

pairing : bruce wayne x fem!oc

author’s note : chapter three is here! Get ready to see a new side of Maryam and Bruce… ;) Just a reminder that English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes. xx

cw : maryam = older sister core, bruce playing emo as usual, mafia, bruce being a dick as usual, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, comedy, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE DINING ROOM was enveloped in the gentle embrace of late morning light, its golden rays filtering through tall windows, casting intricate shadows that danced gracefully across the polished mahogany table.

Two young executives sat at one end, their suits and neat ties an almost jarring contrast to the timeless elegance of the room. They leaned forward, their expressions taut with a mix of impatience and unease, eyes locked onto Bruce Wayne, who sat at the head of the table, a pair of dark sunglasses shielding his eyes. His posture was as impenetrable as his expression, a stone-faced calm that hinted at anything but interest.

One of the executives, his voice tight with the gravity of their situation, began to speak, "I'm afraid we're at a critical juncture..." His words hung in the air, but they seemed to drift past Bruce, who had barely acknowledged their presence since the meeting began. Instead, Bruce's gaze slid distractedly to the newspaper folded neatly beside him, an artifact of another world amidst the spreadsheets and balance sheets dominating the conversation.

The other executive, sensing the lack of attention from their host, leaned in, desperation edging into his voice. "At the very least, we'll need your signature to cover these losses..." His words trailed off as Bruce, with deliberate slowness, reached for the newspaper. The quiet rustle of the pages seemed louder than it should, filling the room with a subtle tension.

The executives exchanged a glance, their confidence faltering in the face of Bruce's indifference. Alfred, standing by the side with a composed demeanor, offered them a polite, almost apologetic smile, as if to say, this is just how it is. The room felt heavier with every passing second, the silence more telling than words.

Bruce opened the newspaper, his gaze scanning the sea of letters before him. To the young executives, it must have seemed as if the words on the page held the key to something far beyond their understanding, something that captured Bruce's attention more completely than their urgent pleas ever could. The wheels in his mind turned, not on the financial crisis they presented, but on something deeper, more distant.

"Mr. Wayne...?" One of the executives ventured, his voice a thin thread of hope in the tension-filled room.

Alfred's calm voice broke through the silence, an understated prompt, "...what?"

Bruce glanced up, his expression momentarily blank, as if pulled from some far-off place. He blinked, his mind refocusing on the present, on the weight of the situation that sat before him in the form of two nervous executives.

"I... I need your signature, sir..." The executive’s voice wavered slightly, the formality strained against the raw need for Bruce’s attention.

Without a word, Bruce took the pen offered to him, his hand moving with the same detached efficiency with which he had flipped through the newspaper. As he signed the papers, the young executives watched, a mix of relief and wariness settling over them.

The hum of the Batcave's high-tech machinery filled the space, a constant reminder of the endless work that took place within its shadowed depths. The dim light cast a cold glow on Bruce's face as he stared intently at the computer screen before him, his mind racing with possibilities.

Bruce’s voice, calm yet edged with intensity, broke the silence. “What if it isn’t a partial key...?”

Alfred, standing beside him, frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “What do you mean?”

Bruce’s fingers flew across the keyboard as he brought up the cipher on the screen, the intricate web of symbols and letters taunting them with its complexity. “What if it’s the whole key? Ignore the symbols we don’t have letters for, use only the letters from ‘he lies still,’ and leave the rest—”

Alfred’s eyes widened in sudden understanding as he followed Bruce’s line of thinking. “—blank, yes—I understand,” he murmured, his hands moving to delete the unnecessary letters from the cipher. “But that will leave most of the cipher unsolved... I don’t see how that—oh…”

His voice trailed off, his expression shifting from confusion to realization as the pattern began to emerge on the screen. The seemingly random jumble of letters and symbols was now stripped down, revealing something far more deliberate beneath the surface.

“Well.” Alfred’s tone was a mixture of surprise and admiration as he stared at the screen, impressed by Bruce’s insight.

They both gazed at the laptop, where most of the cipher was now blank. But the remaining letters, scattered across the page, began to align themselves, forming a clear, undeniable message. It was like a game of connect-the-dots, the letters slowly coming together to spell out a single, massive word across the screen:

“DRIVE.”

The word hung there, stark and unmissable, its significance yet another piece of the puzzle that they were slowly, methodically, beginning to solve.

                   After meeting with Gordon at the diner, Maryam returned to her apartment, feeling like she was about to just wither away. 

It was her only day off that week, and although she usually cherished it, her mind was too cluttered to truly enjoy it. She tried to sleep but kept tossing and turning. Frustrated, she picked up her phone and scrolled aimlessly through social media. With no notifications to distract her, she eventually threw the phone onto her bed with an exasperated huff.

Rising from her bed, her silk robe trailing behind her, she wandered into the small kitchen that overlooked her living room. She opened the fridge, only to find it almost empty. Muttering a little curse under her breath, she grabbed a lone carrot, rinsed it, cut off the ends, and took a bite. Pulling her phone out from inside her bra, she unlocked it and called the Japanese takeout down the road.

"Hey, Li, it's Maryam. Can I order the usual, please?" she asked, chewing on the carrot.

"On it. It'll be delivered in 15 minutes," Li replied.

"Thanks, see you soon," she said before hanging up. She then headed to the couch, flopping onto it. Grabbing the remote, she flipped through the channels—news, more news, reality TV, even more news, cartoons. She finally settled on an episode of Sex and the City.

As she waited for her food and half-watched her show, her phone buzzed. It was a notification from her sister Nadia, linking to an article titled, "Falcone Heir Spotted on Secret Date Night—Gotham's Underworld Buzzing!"

Maryam’s eyes widened as she read the headline. Vittorio Falcone, known to his close circle as Vito, was the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, the notorious mafia kingpin. Vittorio was strikingly handsome, with an air of mystery that made him a magnet for women. Despite his involvement in the family business, he was considered one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelors—second only to the reclusive Bruce Wayne, who, despite rarely being seen in public, still held the top spot in Gotham’s bachelor rankings. Vito's charm and loyalty to his family were undeniable, and while he had ambitions to make the Falcone empire legitimate, his ties to the criminal underworld were far from severed.

“Oh my God, are you kidding me?” Maryam muttered.

She couldn’t resist opening the article to see for herself. As she scrolled through the piece, her suspicions were confirmed—it was indeed about Vittorio and Alma’s date. Although the article didn’t identify Alma, Maryam recognized her sister instantly. That auburn hair and the red coat she’d gifted her years ago were unmistakable.

The article dripped with juicy gossip: 

"One of Gotham’s infamous bachelor, Vittorio Falcone, was spotted dining with a mysterious woman at an upscale restaurant last night. While her face was hidden, her auburn hair and chic red coat caught the attention of onlookers. Sources say the two seemed quite cozy, fueling rumors of a budding romance. Could the notorious Falcone heir be off the market? And who is the lucky lady that’s captured his attention? Gotham’s underworld is buzzing with speculation, and many are eager to see how this potential match could impact the Falcone empire."

Maryam rubbed her eyes in frustration. She was about to call Alma when the doorbell rang. Grabbing some cash, she opened the door, took her order, and handed over the money. 

Sitting on her kitchen counter, Maryam took her sushi out of the bag, the smell of fresh seafood mingling with the soft hum of the refrigerator, setting each piece neatly in front of her like little treasures. She tried calling Alma—no answer. Her eyes darted to the clock—4:34 PM. The room felt too quiet, too still. "Probably working," she muttered under her breath, the sound of her own voice a comfort against the silence. 

Without much thought, she dialed Nadia, who picked up after just two rings. 

“Have you seen it?” Nadia's voice burst through the line, skipping any pleasantries, her eagerness sharp as a blade.

“Yep,” Maryam replied, popping a piece of sushi into her mouth with her chopsticks. The wasabi heat lingered, but her tone remained cool. “Not shocked.”

“What?!” Nadia exclaimed, her disbelief palpable even through the phone.

“Okay, maybe I’m a little surprised it made the tabloids, but I’m not shocked he asked her out. I had my suspicions ever since I saw him at the restaurant where she works, looking at her like she was the last light in a dark room.”

“I can’t believe she actually accepted,” Nadia said, her voice tinged with disbelief. “And that wretched article—ugh, I swear I’ll always hate Vicki Vale!”

“She told me he kept pestering her,” Maryam said, her voice trailing off as she chewed her sushi, the thought lingering like the taste of ginger on her tongue. She shrugged, trying to brush off the unease creeping into her chest.

“Maryam, aren’t you worried? How—” Nadia’s voice rose, a tremor of fear threading through her words.

Maryam set her chopsticks down with a sigh, her calm facade barely masking the frustration bubbling underneath. “Of course, I’m worried. I’ve warned her over and over, but she’s as stubborn as a mule—just like the rest of us. I can’t control her anymore,” she sighed again, the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders. “She’s 24 now Nads, finishing her studies, and working like anyone else. She’s an adult, for better or worse.”

Nadia's voice softened, but the concern remained. “So, we’re just going to let this happen?”

Maryam sighed once more as she opened her curry rice container. The steam rose like a beckoning hand, enveloping the kitchen in the warm, rich aroma of spices. “She says they’re just friends. That he’s not as bad as we think.”

Nadia snorted on the other end, the sound of traffic buzzing in the background. “He’s in the mafia, Maryam. And not just any mafia.”

Maryam rolled her eyes, stabbing at her rice with her chopsticks. “Girl, that’s exactly what I told her. But try telling Alma she’s making a mistake. She’ll just brush it off and say I’m overreacting—again.”

“Well, you are kind of a brat,” Nadia teased, the smirk in her voice unmistakable.

“Only because you make it so easy,” Maryam shot back, a brief smirk flickering across her lips before fading, the frown returning to her sharp features. “Better a brat than blind,” she muttered under her breath.

Nadia hummed in acknowledgment. “Touché,” she conceded.

Maryam shook her head, the humor fading as quickly as it came. “I don’t get why he’s interested in her when she’s not even Italian.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing!” Nadia said, her voice rising over the distant honking of cars. “Aren’t they supposed to marry Italians? You know, to keep the tradition, the bloodline, or whatever.”

“That’s exactly why I’m worried she’s just another fling to him. She doesn’t deserve that,” Maryam said, her voice tight with a mixture of anger and protectiveness. “Plus, he’s not just some regular guy—he’s not just another stupid boyfriend she can break up with when things go south. This is literally a mafia boss. He has enemies, and God knows what could happen to her if someone tried to get to him through her.”

“Ugh, don’t even mention it. It’s terrifying. And his family! His father’s reclusive, but everyone knows he practically runs Gotham with all his illegal dealings. His mother died a long time ago, his sister’s in Arkham, and God knows where his brother is!” Nadia paused, her tone shifting. “Not gonna lie, I kind of feel bad for him.”

“Yeah, me too,” Maryam admitted softly, scratching her nose as her mind wandered back to old memories. “She told me he wants to make his business legitimate. When I used to work for Fish, he wanted nothing to do with the empire. But when his mother died, everything changed. He got more involved. He’s always been the most down-to-earth in that family, but still… I’m worried. I talked to Alma, but now I’ll try to talk to him.”

“What?! No, Maryam—”

“Yes, Nadia. I’m going to talk to him, persuade him to leave her alone.”

“And if he refuses?” Nadia asked, her voice dropping to a whisper, as if afraid to hear the answer.

“If he truly cares about her, he won’t refuse,” Maryam said, more to herself than to Nadia.

“What… what if he actually likes her? Maybe even loves her?”

Maryam paused, the question hanging in the air like a heavy cloud. “Then I won’t have a say in it. It’s between Vito and her if their relationship gets serious. For now, according to Alma, they’re just friends. So, I’ll try to persuade him to back off.”

Nadia hummed in thought. “So, you’re going to…” she trailed off, uncertainty lacing her words.

“I’m not sure—” Maryam began, her voice wavering as she stared at the remnants of her meal. “Honestly, I just don’t know,” she confessed, feeling the weight of the situation settling over her like a thick fog.

“Be careful, please,” Nadia’s voice softened, worry evident in every syllable.

“Haven’t I always been?” Maryam tried to lighten the mood, though her heart wasn’t in it.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I thought you left that life behind years ago, but somehow, it always comes back to haunt you,” Nadia said, frustration creeping back into her tone.

“It’s not like I have a choice. I’m doing this for Alma. I’ve always done it for all of us,” Maryam said sternly, her voice firm, but a trace of sadness lingered. “Desperate times—”

“Desperate measures, I know, I know,” Nadia cut in. “It just bothers me that you always have to be the one to deal with it.”

Maryam stared at her phone, the screen reflecting her own troubled expression. “Older sister duty, I guess,” she said quietly, the words heavy with resignation. “Look, I’ve got to prepare. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.” The call ended with a click, leaving Maryam alone in her kitchen, the silence pressing in like a heavy weight. She stared at her phone for a long moment, the conversation replaying in her mind, the sushi long forgotten.

After staring into the void for who knows how long, she finally decided that some stalking was in order.

With a determined sigh, Maryam picked up her laptop and typed "Vittorio Falcone" into Google. The search results flooded in instantly, painting a vivid picture of Gotham’s notorious mafia heir.

The first few links were standard—news articles from various tabloids, all speculating about his latest escapades. One headline screamed, “Gotham’s Most Eligible Bachelor? Inside the Life of Vittorio Falcone.” She clicked on it out of curiosity.

The article was a deep dive into his life, filled with photos of Vittorio at high-end galas, charity events, and exclusive restaurants. In each picture, he looked every bit the part of a modern-day prince of the underworld: impeccably dressed in tailored suits, with sharp, chiseled features and piercing brown eyes that seemed to look right through the camera. He was often surrounded by beautiful women, none of whom seemed to stick around for long, fueling the rumors that he was commitment-averse.

Further down the page, the article detailed his upbringing as the eldest son of Carmine Falcone, Gotham’s most powerful and feared crime lord. There were mentions of his education at elite private schools, his brief stint at a prestigious university in Europe, and how he returned to Gotham after his mother’s death. The article touched on the tragedy that changed everything—how Vittorio, once seen as the more distant and detached son, took up the mantle in the family business after his mother's passing, much to the surprise of Gotham's elite.

Maryam scrolled past the glitzy photos and superficial gossip to the more serious content. There were links to investigative pieces about the Falcone family's alleged criminal activities. These articles painted a darker picture—of a man who, despite his outward charm and good looks, was deeply entrenched in the world of organized crime. There were accusations of money laundering, racketeering, and even more sinister dealings, though none had ever been proven in court. It seemed like Vittorio was always just out of reach of the law, his lawyers too skilled and his connections too powerful.

Another article caught her eye: “The Enigma of Vittorio Falcone: Gotham’s Underworld Prince with a Conscience?” This one speculated on his intentions to legitimize the family business, citing anonymous sources who claimed Vittorio was seeking to clean up his father’s empire. Yet, the piece also noted the challenges he faced, not just from the outside world but from within his own family, where tradition and loyalty to the criminal code ran deep.

Maryam found herself staring at a photo of Vittorio from a charity event. He looked every bit the polished gentleman, a slight smile on his lips as he shook hands with Gotham's mayor. But the eyes—those intense dark brown eyes—held something deeper, something she couldn’t quite place. Was it guilt? Determination? Or just the heavy burden of a man trying to walk two paths at once?

The more she read, the more conflicted she felt.

On one hand, he seemed like a man trapped by circumstances, trying to do right by his family while also seeking a way out of the darkness. On the other, he was undeniably dangerous, a key player in a world that had no room for weakness or sentimentality.

And then there were the comments—hundreds of them—debating whether Vittorio was a misunderstood anti-hero or just another ruthless criminal in an expensive suit. Some praised him for his charity work and the rumors of his attempts to go legitimate, while others condemned him for his involvement in the mafia, no matter how tangential he tried to make it seem.

Lighting a smoke, Maryam let the tendrils curl around her as she exhaled slowly. With the cigarette perched on her plump lips, she decided to dig deeper into Vittorio's family.

Her thin fingers danced across the keyboard as she first searched for his father, Carmine Falcone. The results were exactly what she expected: a mix of old newspaper clippings and online articles chronicling Carmine's rise to power, his iron grip on Gotham's underworld, and the whispers of his influence over city officials. Included were several grainy images of Carmine, embodying the essence of a powerful patriarch, alongside snapshots of his younger self with his parents, revealing a glimpse of his past.

Next, she turned her attention to Vittorio’s mother, Louisa Falcone. Unlike her husband, there was scant information about Louisa, aside from a few mentions of her being a devoted wife and mother. Most sources focused on her tragic death, which appeared to be the catalyst for Vittorio’s deeper involvement in the family business. There were no public photos of her, just a few images of her attending the Catholic Church of Gotham, which only added to the mystique surrounding her.

Maryam then turned her attention to Vittorio’s little sister, Sofia Falcone. As she typed her name into the search bar, her fingers trembled slightly, an instinctive reaction to the heavy air that seemed to surround the very mention of Sofia. The results that flooded the screen were deeply unsettling. Sofia, infamously known as the Hangman, was a rehabilitated serial killer currently housed in Arkham Asylum—a chilling title that sent a shiver down Maryam’s spine.

She had heard whispers of Sofia’s story before, but now, as she read the articles, the horrifying details began to unravel. The screen illuminated her face, casting a pale glow as her expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief. She leaned closer, biting her lip, her brow furrowing with each gruesome revelation. The articles painted a portrait of a woman who had taken her family’s legacy to a terrifying extreme, a twisted sense of justice fueling a brutal killing spree.

Maryam's heart raced as she scrolled down, her hand instinctively reaching up to rub the back of her neck, a gesture of mounting unease. Her eyes widened, and her jaw clenched as she processed the horrific acts Sofia had committed. The chilling accounts felt surreal, each one more gruesome than the last, each detail more haunting. 

The doctor shook her head in disbelief, as if attempting to erase the haunting words she had just read with sheer determination. She struggled to comprehend how someone could rationalize such brutality. She had seen her fair share of darkness, but this was something entirely different.

Finally, she moved on to search for Alberto Falcone, Vittorio’s little brother. This profile, while less notorious, still carried its own shadowy weight. As Maryam read through the sparse information available, she could feel the tension in her shoulders begin to ease slightly, but her mind remained restless. Alberto was known as the black sheep of the family, often overlooked and underestimated, a quiet figure lingering in the shadow of his more infamous relatives. Yet the whispers surrounding him hinted at darker inclinations, rumors of his involvement in the notorious Holiday killings that had haunted Gotham years ago.

A frown creased her forehead as she thought of the fractured family dynamic, the burdens each member must carry. With a sigh, Maryam leaned back, taking a moment to process everything she had just read. 

The Falcone family was a labyrinth of intrigue and peril, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that unraveling their secrets was crucial to protecting Alma.

She found herself grappling with a deep sense of hypocrisy. Who was she to pass judgment? Of all people, she was far from innocent herself.

Satisfied with what she had uncovered, Maryam turned her attention to tracking Vittorio’s movements for the night. 

She started by stalking the social media accounts of his known associates and relatives. And to her frustration, Vittorio himself didn’t seem to have any social media presence—no Instagram, no Twitter, nothing. The most she could find were accounts belonging to some of his younger relatives, mostly teenagers posting selfies and mundane updates.

But then, one profile caught her eye: a cousin of Vittorio’s, a certain Francesco Vittorio, who went by the Instagram handle "frankiefalconethegreat." The name made her roll her eyes, but as she scrolled through his recent posts, she stumbled upon a video in his story that piqued her interest. The clip was taken at the Iceberg Lounge, Gotham's most notorious nightclub, known for its shady dealings and criminal clientele.

In the video, Frankie was doing something stupid—likely showing off or trying to be funny—but it wasn’t him that interested Maryam. Behind him, in the dim lighting of the club, she caught sight of someone familiar. She quickly screenshotted the video and then zoomed in on the background. The lighting was poor, so she increased the brightness on her phone, enhancing the image.

And there he was—Vittorio Falcone. He stood partially obscured, talking in hushed tones with a man she didn’t recognize. A cigarette was dangling from his fingers, and his white shirt was open at the collar, the top two buttons undone, giving him a relaxed but undeniably commanding presence.

“Bingo,” Maryam whispered to herself, her heart racing slightly as she stared at the image. She had found him. 

Taking the last sip of her Sprite, the fizz tickling her throat before she tossed the empty can into the bin. The clink echoed in the quiet apartment as she made her way to her room with a determined stride, the air thick with purpose as she prepared herself mentally for what lay ahead. 

The decision was made. Her sister was right—she was going to suit up.

Tonight was no ordinary night; it was one that demanded more than just her usual resolve.

And it had been a while since she—transformed herself, hadn’t it? "A while" might be stretching it; it had been exactly two years since she last donned the costume.

But oh well, here she was again, slipping back into that familiar darkness, like an old lover who never truly left, always lingering in the shadows, waiting for her return.

As the silk nightgown slid off her shoulders, leaving her in just her undergarments, the cool air brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps—a fleeting moment of vulnerability before she transformed into something else entirely.

She first reached for a fitted, long-sleeved black shirt. The fabric was soft but durable, clinging to her form like a second skin, offering both comfort and the freedom to move. It absorbed the light, rendering her nearly invisible in the shadows.

Next, she pulled on a pair of tailored black pants, reinforced in all the right places for both flexibility and protection. They hugged her hips and legs, allowing silent, fluid movements and tucked neatly into knee-high boots—sturdy, well-worn, and perfect for silent, agile movement—essential for the night ahead. 

With her base layer in place, she began to suit up. 

First, the black scarf, soft yet deadly, was wrapped around the lower half of her face, transforming her into a phantom. The material clung to her skin, muffling her breath, but she was used to it—the silence, the secrecy.

Then her cloak, black as the void itself, draping over her shoulders and sliding down her arms with the weight of a familiar embrace. It flowed around her like liquid shadow, designed to hide her every movement, to make her one with the night.

Her hazel eyes, naturally vibrant like the light filtering through a forest canopy and always seeming to hold a kaleidoscope of emotions, were the final detail to mask.

She reached for the black contact lenses, slipping them in with care.

They turned her gaze into a pair of dark, unreadable pools—voids that reflected nothing back, hiding her true self even further.

With her transformation almost complete, she knelt down and pulled a box from beneath her bed. The lid creaked as it opened, revealing a carefully arranged collection of tools.

Her fingers brushed over the small, gleaming knives, their blades catching the dim light, each one honed to perfection. There were also vials filled with venomous liquids, each labeled with delicate precision.

They shimmered ominously, deadly in their silence.

Small, unassuming pills nestled beside them, tiny capsules that could bring about a world of pain or relief, depending on the dosage.

She began to arm herself, slipping two of the knives into the straps on her thighs, another pair into the hidden pockets of her boots. Six more found their place at her waist, resting just behind her back, ready to be drawn in an instant. The thinnest one, almost like a needle, was delicately tucked into her updo, a silent promise of lethal grace.

The pills were carefully placed in her pockets, their weight barely noticeable but their significance undeniable.

Each one was a solution, a safeguard, a final measure if all else failed.

As she tugged on her sleek black gloves, each movement was deliberate, like a distant ritual. 

She glanced back at the mirror, where her reflection stared back with an almost haunting intensity. It was as if the mirror had captured a shadowy echo of her true self, someone who was both there and not there, like a wraith emerging from a fog.

Heart racing, she darted through the kitchen, barely noticing the empty mugs and crumbs scattered on the counter. Her footsteps were quick and light, barely a whisper on the stairs as she ascended with a mix of urgency. 

Her destination? The Iceberg Lounge, where her favorite penguin awaited

previous chapter (chapter two) | next chapter

Maryam while stalking her victims 🙂 :

author’s note (number two) | Umm, so my hands were itching to write a scene between Alma and Vitto, but… I was kind of scared you all would get too bored with it, even though I’m totally obsessed with this little ship. I wanted to add more depth and show things from their perspective, you know? So if you're interested in reading something like that, let me know!

And don’t worry—Bruce and Maryam are definitely on their way; I’m just busy building the narrative, lol.

Seriously, tell me what you think! Who’s your favorite character and why? I love reading your comments; they keep me motivated to write more!

[normal-person-i-promise]

slurred teases and sweet kisses

arataka reigen/female reader

tw for drinking, bars, intoxication

You roll your eyes as he takes another sip of his drink, his mouth set in smug grin as he swirls the liquid in his glass and watches as the ice clinks against the walls of his cup. With each sip he takes, his face gets more flushed, his words get more slurred.

Arataka has an embarrassingly low tolerance to alcohol, and you're witnessing it firsthand. He's feeling it too; that urge to kiss you is a lot stronger than usual...

★ ★ ★

...Should he invite you? You're just his employee after all, and the both of you would be alone in the bar...

Arataka glances at you for a moment, looking up from the newspaper he was reading at his desk. He's not actually reading it, of course — he can barely concentrate on breathing when you're in the room with him. You're just so... Distracting, he can't help it.

The slow rise and fall of your chest, the motion of your hand as you tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, the way your eyes would flit between him and the window — Arataka could watch you for hours and not grow bored.

If Arataka invites you to just... Go to that bar he used to be a usual at, then the two of you would be alone. Like a date, which it— it isn't, of course— that would be crazy! There's no way you'd want to date Arataka, of all people, it just doesn't make sense for you to like him!

You think of him as an employer, a friend, maybe a close one, but just that! Nothing more, nothing less!

Arataka exhales sharply through his nose, flipping the page to look like he's reading the paper. He can feel the grain of the grey newspaper between his fingertips as he rubs his finger absentmindedly on the edge, pick up that faint scent of printed paper in the air.

You risk a glance at him, and your eyes shimmer with the evening sun's light as you study his features: his disinterested gaze, his relaxed posture, his incurious expression. He's... Mesmering to look at in this state, this boredom, especially since he's so expressive usually.

He also looks rather attractive, but that doesn't really matter.

You can see him stiffen, trying to ignore how hot he feels with your eyes roaming all over his body, but... Not that he doesn't enjoy it, of course — Arataka adores when you study him, just like how he studies you. You've noticed a lot of things about him by now; the way he'd adjust his grip on the newspaper, the way his eyes skim over the text, the way he leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed; bored.

You quickly avert your gaze, and Arataka feels a pang of sadness at the loss of your attention.

You, yourself, are not doing much. You're just... Sitting quietly at the little couch in the corner of the room, waiting patiently for the customers to come in. You're staring out the window, watching as the pedestrians on the streets walk along back to their homes or to the restaurants and bars, watching the way the trees sway in the light breeze, some of their vibrant green leaves falling off the sharp brown branches.

It's your job, after all — the job Arataka is paying you for — to be whatever customer service is needed when he's too busy exorcising the client's spirits or helping talk through their worries.

You take a slow, deep breath, inhaling that familiar scent of salt and incense, of sweat and cologne.

Arataka doesn't need you, not really. He just wants an excuse to see your face day after day after day, hear your darling little voice call his name when you need help.

He likes it most during that little frame of time when Mob has left to go back home, but you're still in the office — alone — with him, simply coexisting in eachother's presence. This is the time that he'd talk to you, joke with you, spend time with you — but just because he enjoys talking to you for every second of the day you're with him doesn't mean that he isn't content in settling into a comfortable silence with you. He likes... Coexisting with you, whether you're on your phone or looking out the window, whether he's reading the newspaper or watching the little TV in the corner of the room.

It's... Nice, in a way, to have someone care about you just as much as you care about him.

"The sky's pretty nice, isn't it?" You say to Arataka, tapping on the glass with your finger and bringing his attention to it.

It is rather pretty; golds and oranges are strewn across the sky like an artist's first experimental brush strokes on their canvas, the colours shifting with every minute that passes as the sun goes lower and lower on the horizon. The clouds are rimmed gold — a delicate, thin outline to show its form, shimmering and soft as the light bounces off it.

It's not sunset yet, no, but — oh, how that golden light spills into the room, how it makes Arataka's eyes sparkle—

"Yeah, it is pretty."

His words are simple, but it's evident that he's fighting himself to keep his tone disinterested. He doesn't want to show interest in you: he'd look like a fool. He doesn't want to look like a fool in front of the girl he likes.

You clear your throat (you always do that when you need to distract yourself from your thoughts, Arataka's noted), and you settle back in your seat. He grins, an opportunity to tease you coming to his mind, the words already beginning to brew.

"You what looks nicer, though?" He asks, his tone playful as he looks you up and down, feeling pleasant shivers run down your spine. It feels so... Good, to be the object of his attention, to be the subject of his praise.

"What?" You ask, crossing your legs as you lean back in your chair. You're grinning pridefully, knowing that he'll most definitely say you're prettier.

Arataka's thin smile widens noticeably, his eyes narrowing in delight.

"Me, of course."

You roll your eyes, though it's clear you mean nothing malicious by it. "Oh, please, Arataka," you say, your tone teasing, "you're full of yourself. You're a lot uglier than the sky."

A lie. To set off any suspicions that you like him.

He just grins wider, settling into his seat like a proud king.

Even though it's nothing more than light, playful banter, every second Arataka spends with you feels like a moment in heaven — your voice the angel's songs, your hair their shining halos. You never refuse any of his silly little jokes, always laugh at those half-wit puns he makes, and it... It sends waves of butterflies to his stomach, knowing that you enjoy being around him, knowing that you like being his friend.

And vice versa — every second you spend with Arataka is such fun, such enjoyment, that you lose track of time and go back home hours later than intended. He's just so... Fun to talk to, what with his witty replies and clever jokes, his carefully placed puns and playfully sharp remarks. He's such a joker, always able to make you laugh, and he likes it. He likes hearing your laugh. He likes it a lot.

The newspaper crinkles loudly as Arataka folds it, placing it on the desk. Struggling to keep his expression neutral and his voice level, he asks you a simple question.

"Wanna go out for drinks later?" Grinning, now, "I'll pay."

Please say yes. Please, please say yes.

You hum in thought as if you don't know your answer already. Your voice is light; playful, and Arataka can hear the grin plastered on your face when you reply.

"I don't know... I don't drink."

You don't, that bit is true: you've tried, and failed, to enjoy alcohol and intoxication. It's just so... Sour, and overwhelming, and it feels so horrible the next day.

Arataka lets out an exasperated groan, but the both of you know it's fake.

"Come on— please?"

He leans on the desk, his whole upper body resting on the wood, trying to get as close to you as he can to you without getting up. His eyes almost seem to sparkle as he smiles wide, trying as hard as he can to convince you, knowing you can't say no to that god forsaken smile. "Pretty please? It's my birthday!"

He's almost pleading as he tilts his head innocently, his cheeks resting comfortably in his hands, his elbows planted on the desk. "You don't wanna upset the birthday boy, do you?"

You sigh, though you aren't annoyed. You can't say no, the both of you know that — especially since it's his birthday. And, unbeknownst to you, it's the first birthday Arataka will be spending with a friend in a long, long time. He's ecstatic, Especially since it's you.

Even if it's just one friend, and even if that friend is a girl he really likes is his employee, it's still counted, right?

You... Are a friend, right?

Because the way your pretty little lips would curl into a grin whenever you'd tease him, the way your words would cause him to erupt into fits of laughter, the way you always enjoyed the little games of banter the two of you often shared certainly made it seem so.

You roll your eyes at his display.

"Fine, fine, okay. I'll go celebrate your birthday with you or whatever."

Arataka has to hide his excitement, struggling to keep himself from smiling ear to ear, struggling to ignore how his heart flutters, struggling to ignore that familiar feeling of butterflies in his stomach.

He always feels this way when he's with you though, so he's gotten pretty good at ignoring it.

"When do you say we should go?"

Arataka tilts his head more heavily to the side as he asks you that question, his eyes roaming around the room as he thinks. You watch as he shifts in his chair, trying in vain to get comfortable in the god awful position he's sitting in.

His grin widens. "Now?"

Flitting your eyes to the clock and reading the time quickly, you answer him, your voice level; though there's a slight undertone — barely even there — of a playful, almost accusational chide. You're just buying time to annoy him, giving him pointless excuses.

"It's still ten minutes to closing."

Arataka sighs in dramatised exasperation, putting such an emphasis on the rolling of his eyes that it makes you scoff in playful annoyance. It makes his heart flutter, knowing that you're entertained by him. God, how he loves that voice of yours... How he loves you...

Spinning his hand so fast that it's a blur, he stops abruptly, pointing to himself as he grins proudly. "I'm the boss, here. I can close this place any time I want."

He gets his elbows off the desk, kicking his feet onto the wood as you hum in response to his words. Nodding as you speak, you agree with him. "Good point, good point."

Arataka and you clean up the office a little, sweeping the corners here and dusting the chair over there. The two of you are in a comfortable silence, content enough with the fact that you're in each other's presence.

As you clean, Arataka can't help but notice — he always notices — all those little things you do: the way you place one foot in front of the other to the beat of the song stuck in your head; the way you hum softly to yourself, quiet enough to think he can't hear; the way your eyes would catch glimpses of his every so often.

More often than not, he'd get lost in all your little habits. It's just... The minor ways you'd entertain yourself as you clean, the manner in which you would tuck your hair behind your ear, the way you'd roll your sleeves up before doing anything, is so... Cute, you're so cute...

It's not long before the place is as good as new, and Arataka is switching the lights off and taking the keys to the door.

"After you, m'lady," he says in an unnecessarily posh voice, bowing slightly as he opens the door for you. You nod, thanking him as you step out, bathed the hot summer night air — it's humid, the air thick with moisture as you breathe in the scent of moist pavement and soaked leaves from the rain that had happened a few hours earlier.

The more you walk, the more you can hear the bustling of the shopkeepers in their kitchens and behind their counters, pick up the buzz of the neon signs just beginning to flicker on, listen to the indistinct chatter of the night life starting to settle into the bars and night clubs. Though it's faint, it's most definitely there, and it's getting louder and louder with each minute that passes.

The walk to the bar isn't quiet; it's never quiet when the two of you walk together. The air is always filled with friendly conversation, laughter and giggles peppered in here and there, occasional glimpses at his soft, pink lips...

Arataka is taking in every little thing about you, from the way your smile would form to the tapping of your shoes on the pavement. You're... Perfect, you.

He tries his best to match your pace, making sure that his footfalls are in tandem with yours, making sure that you both are walking as one.

If someone was looking on at the two of you, they'd think you were a couple.

A few minutes later, Arataka is pushing open the door of the Happy Trails bar, gesturing for you to enter. The floor is sticky, the air thick with the sharp smell of alcohol and sweaty office workers. The lights are dim; warm, inviting, as you take a seat after Arataka pulls one out for you.

"So what'll you have?" He asks, flashing you the most charming grin he can muster. He settles into his seat, getting more comfortable: unbuttoning his suit jacket, loosening that pink tie on his neck, undoing the top buttons of his immaculate white dress shirt. God, he's so hot—

It's hard to keep from staring, but you manage.

You shrug. "Just soda."

Arataka nods, not questioning it as he calls the bartender over and ordering for both you and him: an iced cola for you, and a lemon sour — extra sour — for him. He always orders that, and, based on the few times you've gone out drinking with him, you don't think he drinks anything else.

He settles into his seat, and you struggle to get your voice to pierce through the indistinct conversations of the other patrons.

"So, Arataka," you nearly shout, your tone playful, "how do you feel now that you're 28?"

He hums in thought, bringing a fist to his chin as he thinks about his answer.

He shrugs.

"So-so, but—" he pauses for dramatic effect, the shadow of a grin ghosting on his lips —"I'm feeling a whole lot better since you're here to help me into my old age."

You laugh slightly at his little joke. Arataka's dopey little grin widens with pride, having made you giggle yet again.

Your drinks arrive a little after this, and you can't help but notice the bartender giving you an accusational side eye as he slides the both of you your glasses, seeming to doubt the fact that you and Arataka aren't dating.

"Oh, come now, Arataka—" his heart flutters at the sound of your voice saying his name —"you're not that old." Your grin widens, your tone teasing. "You look a lot older, though."

He lets out an offended half laugh, shoving your shoulder playfully in mock offence. "How mean!" He cries, trying in vain to make his voice sound offended.

It's quiet as you sip your cola slowly, and you're not blind to the way Arataka's eyes follow your tongue as it darts out to get whatever droplets of your drink missed your mouth.

...God, how he wants to taste that sharp, teasing mouth of yours, feel every crevice and crease of your lips as they press into his... How he wants to run his hands through your soft hair as he combs it out of the way of your perfect face, how he wants whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you fall asleep in his arms...

"You should... Really watch that tongue of yours," he warns playfully, his words beginning to slur, fighting to ignore his thoughts. He's barely even had a sip of his drink, and he already looks like he's about to pass out.

He wags a wobbly finger in your face like a mother reprimanding her child. "I might get tired of you and fire you."

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

"Oh, Arataka," you tease, leaning in close — close enough to smell the scent of his expensive cologne, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, close enough to feel just how hot he is. He grits his teeth, struggling not to close the distance between the two of you as you speak lowly, quietly: for his ears only.

"We both know you like me too much."

And he— he blushes, oh, and he pushes you away with the tip of his unsteady finger to your forehead. You swallow the slight hurt you feel as Arataka replies, his response clumsy as always — more so now that he's drunk. "And we... Both know you like me too much to let yourself... Get fired."

You roll your eyes as he takes another sip of his drink, his mouth set in smug grin as he swirls the liquid in his glass and watches as the ice clinks against the walls of his cup. With each sip he takes, his face gets more flushed, his words get more slurred.

Arataka has an embarrassingly low tolerance to alcohol, and you're witnessing it firsthand. He's feeling it too; that urge to kiss you is a lot stronger than usual...

And though the motion is wobbly, unbalanced, now it's his turn to lean in close. He almost falls on you.

His grin is wide, and though it's lopsided from the alcohol, it still manages to be annoyingly smug, and... Wonderfully endearing, too, like he's trying to make you happy regardless of how his vision blurs and his head pounds. "I'm... Doing you a favour for not... Firing you, you know."

You scoff mockingly at his words, drinking your soda as you grin. "Please, Arataka"— another rush of butterflies to his stomach —"I know I'm far too important to you to just... Get rid of."

You're grinning smugly now, leaning in closer to his face. Your noses are almost touching, and you can almost taste his lips now — the sweetness of alcohol mixing with the sharp mint of his mouthwash, his saliva thick as Arataka swallows. You're not blind to how his unfocused eyes fall down to your mouth for a moment, licking his lips like he's looking at a freshly cooked meal, ready for devouring.

"Ah, but you need to... To remember," he says, leaning away from you, gripping the table in tight hands to stop himself from falling off his barstool. He squints as he talks, trying hard to form the words. "I could totally just do it right now. Nothing's... Stopping me."

You sigh, smiling, rolling your eyes but staying quiet.

Arataka downs the remainder of his drink in one swift gulp, slamming the cup down onto the wooden bar table with a loud thud.

He doesn't order another one, thankfully, because at the rate he's getting drunk, he's bound to pass out or vomit anytime soon. His cheeks are an almost bright red, his eyes half-lidded and glossed over, unfocused as he stares at you; when he breathes, you can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Hey, Arataka."

You sip your soda, licking the glass a little to see how he reacts get the drops that missed your mouth. Arataka watches your tongue, almost hungrily so, his gaze unblinking and his breathing shallow.

You want to try and get as many secrets as you can get out of a drunk Arataka, just to have something to either a) tease him about, or b) blackmail him with.

"What do you think about me?" You ask, grinning.

Arataka shifts in his seat, thinking hard about his answer, and doing it for a suspiciously long time. A plan to avoid your question brews, half-finished in his mind.

He gives you a lopsided grin, leaning in with a shaky, unsteady motion, before abruptly jerking away and pressing his hands to his mouth as if he's trying to prevent himself from vomiting. As he hunches over on himself, your face immediately shifts to one of concern, your brows furrowing and your grin disappearing.

"...Arataka? You okay...?" You ask gently, rubbing his back. You've seen him vomit aggressively after taking so much as a sip of alcohol, and you're definitely preparing to wipe bile from the corners of his mouth.

It's quiet for a moment, save for the clinking of glass and the chatter of overlapping conversation.

"I... Eugh." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing as he feels his head pound — and that plan, that drunk one that sober Arataka would definitely not approve of, starts forming more clearly in his mind.

You grow more worried the more you watch, his movements shaky, his words all blending together. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job at looking like he's going to vomit — and since you're acting so worried about him, then he'd wager that his plan is working.

"Arataka, are you okay?" You ask again, your voice firmer, though still retaining that soft, quiet worry. You rub what you hope are soothing circles on his back, and you can see him visibly relax, letting out a long sigh.

"'M fine," he mumbles, swatting your hand away, his eyes struggling to open.

It's working, it's working! Keep going, Arataka!

Just as you're about to speak again, Arataka opens his mouth, faking a retch, and you panic. He falls — definitely not accidentally — straight into your lap, and it takes a moment to register that no vomit has come from his mouth before you hit him playfully on his forehead. His heart skips a beat when you don't push him off, merely just hitting him.

"Ow!" He exclaims, his grin crooked as he struggles to fake a grimace of pain, rubbing the spot you hit him.

"Even when you're drunk, you still manage to annoy me," you grumble, though the amused smile on your face gives away what you're feeling.

You ruffle his hair a little, tangling your fingers in between the delicate golden strands — and he lets out a sigh at your touch, closing his eyes in contentment. Your heart beats faster as you look at him: his flushed cheeks and content, closed eyes, his relaxed body resting in your lap — god, you have to fight yourself not to plant a kiss on his low, pointed nose.

Arataka pries open his eyes when you stop combing through his hair with your fingers.

"What... Can I say," he says slowly, looking at you with a gaze that can only be described as one of a lover's: sweet, tender, and affectionate. "I love... Seeing your smile."

Your heart flutters.

The two of you stay in this position for a while, a position a lot like a couples'. Neither of you complain — if anything, the both of you enjoy it — and it's not long before Arataka's eyes slowly shut, his breathing slowing as he starts to fall asleep in your lap.

You feel butterflies in your stomach when you gaze upon his calm expression: his eyes closed firmly shut, his kissable lips curved in a slight smile, his face relaxed.

The bar is almost empty now, save for three or four people having a conversation at one of the tables in the corner. You can pick up their mumbling: they're talking about the two of you, how Arataka didn't vomit yet, how he used to be a usual at this bar, how he never brought any girls with him until today, and what a surprise that he managed to pull such a pretty one.

"Happy birthday, Arataka," you say — and, smiling, you push those golden bangs out of the way with a hand and plant a firm, chaste kiss on his forehead. It's a kiss you've wanted to give him for a long time, but also one you're forced to keep short, just in case you're overstepping boundaries.

Arataka's eyes snap open and widen considerably, his face flushing even more than you thought was possible. He's speechless for a moment as he brings a shaky hand up to feel where your lips touched him, his heart beating a million times a minute, his breathing quick and shallow.

He just... Stares at you, starry eyed, for a minute, his mouth slightly agape.

He snaps back to reality.

"Again," he says impatiently, his tone demanding as he brings his hand down to rest, clasped with the other, in his lap. "As... The birthday boy, this is... Is my birthday gift from you. Kiss... Me, again."

You smile, letting out a slight chuckle at his slurred demand.

"You're sure you won't regret it tomorrow...?" You ask slowly, playfully, as you rake your fingers through his soft, blonde hair. You know he most definitely will.

Arataka shakes his head vigorously in your lap, though stops immediately when he starts to feel his head pound, wincing.

You just watch him for a moment, combing gentle fingers through his hair, smiling in amusement at his impatience. He whines when you don't do what he asked for yet, just staring at him, and he repeats his demand.

"Kiss me. Right... Here," he mumbles, tapping a shaky finger to his forehead.

You oblige, pressing a gentle kiss to his skin, pushing his bangs aside. He sighs, closing his eyes. And when you pull away, "Again," he says almost immediately.

You happily oblige, kissing him there once more.

He stops for a moment, breathing shakily, before getting up from your lap abruptly and wrapping his arms around you tightly. In the process of doing this, his unsteady movements cause the both of you to fall onto the bar stools beside you, so that Arataka is lying down comfortably on top of you; your noses almost touching, your lips just inches away from each other. He's so... Drunk, and so, so cute...

The bartender gives you a stern look, and you flash him an apologetic smile.

Arataka's eyes, half-lidded, fall down to your mouth, and he brings an unsteady hand to cradle your chin as he runs a shaky thumb over your bottom lip.

"...Can I...?" Arataka asks in a low, mumbly slur, his eyes unblinking as he stares at your lips.

You heart races as you nod, and it's barely a moment before he's pressing his lips tightly to yours, shifting and moving them until they're slotted comfortably against each other. His eyes flutter shut as he gets comfortable lying on top of you, getting more accustomed to the soft cloth of your clothes as he runs a hand down your side, getting more used to the soft strands of your hair that he's been itching to run his fingers through.

Arataka tastes... Sour, mostly from the drink he had a few moments ago. There's the faint, sharp tang of the alcohol, too; a sweet, distinct flavour, a rich undertone to the myriad of tastes you manage to sample as his lips shift against yours.

His lips are cracked, chapped, and dry, but you couldn't care less as he tangles a hand in your hair, the other holding your head in place as he tilts his own head to press his lips even more into yours. He grunts, seemingly not satisfied, and pushes his lips onto yours until the kiss is almost bruising.

Your face is flushed when you break the kiss. Though it's short, sweet, and chaste, it's clear that Arataka wants more. You both do.

Just as he's leaning in to kiss you again, the bartender taps your shoulder, glaring at you sharply and jabbing a thumb in the direction of the door. You blurt out a mumbled apology, scrambling to get up, Arataka nearly falling. As promised, he slips the bartender about one and a half times more money than owed.

You both wordlessly exit the bar, and as you walk, Arataka stumbles behind you. He's unsteady; his path is a winding zigzag in comparison to yours, struggling to keep to a straight line and nearly falling onto the road multiple times — and as a way to counter this, you wrap your arm securely around his waist. Arataka responds by leaning his weight onto you, and you both continue on without much issue or argument.

It's much later in the night now; the cars on the road are whizzing past the two of you, the shops all closed with their shutters pulled down over the windows.

The air is heavy with humidity, and you can feel Arataka's sweat from where he presses himself against you. Arataka himself smells of that familiar sharp, sour smell of sweat; the faint scent of salt; and that sweet, sweet cologne he wears. The fabric of the suit is soft as you grip him tightly, every step he takes making him sway more and more until it's clear he's going to either vomit or pass out.

A few moments later, he calls your name in a mumbly, shaky voice, before hurriedly pushing you off him as he staggers to the drain. Before you know what's going on, you're at his side as he vomits a sickly green bile.

You pat his back reassuringly, now only registering that he's vomiting.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Arataka grins at you, though his eyes are struggling to open and his smile is lopsided.

"We're staying... At your house, right?" He mumbles, though he stumbles slightly, and alarm flashes across his face as he swings his hands about to get balanced before he manages to stand straight again. He widens the skewed grin in his face, trying his absolute best to look charming, and failing. It's still adorable, though.

You snicker, nodding in response.

"Let's go, Arataka."

You slide your arm around his waist, and he leans nearly all his bodyweight on you as the two of you walk to your flat.

The walk is quiet as Arataka struggles not to vomit again, barely being able to stay awake to avoid falling unconscious in your arms — it would be a shame if you held him tenderly and he wasn't there to experience it. Nobody's on the streets, so it's just the two of you, save for a car that comes every so often.

The only sound you can hear is the steady tap, tap, tapping of your shoes on the pavement, followed by the much more unsteady beat of Arataka's shiny black dress shoes as he walks beside you.

Neither of you say anything when you walk, neither of you speak when you unlock your front door, neither of you argue when you lead him to your bedroom.

You set him down on the bed slowly, slipping off his grey coat and undoing his necktie. The whole time you're doing this, Arataka's just... Watching you. His eyes, fixed on you, are glassed over, unfocused — but full of so, so much love.

He doesn't say a word as he gets comfortable in your bed, and when he holds you in his arms, falling asleep, it's silent.

★ ★ ★

thanks for reading!!

second chapter !!

[venusphoriia]

— The Pain of Loving You

;; ₍ # ₎ ⁀➷ Diana Prince x Fem! Reader

─ In the grief of losing one, she also lost you.

cw ཿ⠀ wlw. angst. hurt no comfort. mentions of losing a loved one. mostly proof read. the reader speaks a little greek, but the translation could be wrong (sorry if it is (｡•́︿•̀｡)). 860 words.

ପ a/n ; might do a part 2 to this. i’ve been wanting to write for diana for a while now. a really quick story, i hope you enjoy!

She sees your smile in old photographs, newspapers, and paintings. To her, it was a sight that rivaled even the most magnificent artworks. She hears your laughter in her dreams, an endearing sound that makes her heart flutter. Her hand reaches out towards you, yearning to feel the warmth of your skin under her touch, but her fingertips are always met with the coldness of your absence.

The dull, painful ache pulls her from her slumber. She groans softly as she turns to stare at the ceiling. Another night’s rest ruined in the grief of loving you. Or perhaps, not loving you is the more appropriate expression for it. The loss of her previous love, a noble pilot who had managed to capture her heart, had made it difficult to fully love another.

She had loved you. She truly did, but she couldn’t love you the way you deserved—not then. So, she let you go. A brilliant researcher and journalist with an insatiable hunger to explore the world. She refused to let her heartache keep you from pursuing your dreams, no matter how much you were willing to stay. She can still feel the bitter ache from the argument that night, but regardless of your stubborn protests—she refused to let you allow your dreams to die for her.

You were given an opportunity, a once in a lifetime. She couldn’t let you pass that up—not for her. The sad smile you gave her as you fought back tears slips into her mind. She shuts her eyes in protest, trying to block out the memory, but the unwanted reminiscence persists.

She stood with you at the docks, her hands tenderly held yours. Your hands felt so cold despite the thickness of your gloves. The cold spring air betrayed the clear, sunny morning. The sight of a beautiful day was nearly as deceiving as the forced smile that rested on your lips. Your gaze was avoidant as you focused solely on her hands wrapped around yours.

“(Y/n)?” She called your name softly, quickly catching your attention. You looked up at her with teary eyes, your smile seeming more sorrowful by the second as you hummed softly in response. Her heart breaks, a brief moment of regret over her decision to let you go. In a moment of weakness, she almost wanted to plead with you to stay, “Stay safe.”

Almost. She doesn’t miss the way your smile faltered, the small hopeful look in your eyes dimming a bit more. She knew what you wanted her to say, but she wouldn’t. It would’ve only given you more of a reason to stay.

You cleared your throat, steadying your voice. Your posture straightened a bit as you tried to maintain your composure. You adjusted your smile, it was less forced—much more relaxed. Your voice wavered a bit, “I will…”

You opened your mouth to say something else, but stopped yourself. You looked away, laughing softly to yourself, trying to keep yourself from breaking down. She smiled softly as she watched you pick up your bags before looking back at her. The tears in your eyes looked as if they would fall in any minute, but the smile you gave her brought a pleasant feeling to her heart. You were never one for sad goodbyes, always finding them more heartbreaking than anything else, “It’s been wonderful knowing you, Diana.”

One final goodbye, she thought. She hummed softly in response, not being able to find it in herself to say the same in turn without tears following shortly after. You didn’t seem to mind though, walking onto the ship without so much as another glance. Another effort to save face Diana knew.

Once the ship blared its horn, parting its way with the docks, Diana turned to leave. She took a few deep breaths, pushing down the tears—along with the heartache. She tried to delude herself into thinking that these feelings weren’t so deep, that she wasn’t—

“Diana!” Your voice breaks through her thoughts. She looked back towards the boat, sailing away, seeing you leaning over the railing, waving to get her attention. Your smile was genuine, as pure as the sun painted in the sky, your tears slip from your eyes the moment they meet hers.

She hears you. She heard you. But for a second, she doubts she hears correctly—immediately believing it was just fabrication of her own delusions until she hears you yell it out again, just as proudly and longingly as the first.

“Σ'αγαπώ!”

A small, depressed laugh slips past Diana’s lips as all her efforts to hold her composure become futile. She breaks away from the memory and the tears come flowing all over again. She cries heavily, resting her arm over her eyes in embarrassment. She felt like a child, sobbing over something treasured and lost.

She knows her feelings of regret are reasonable, and so are her tears. She just wished you were here to soothe her back to sleep like you did all those years ago. She loves you. She truly does. She just wishes she could have another chance to love you the way you deserved.

[ “I love you” in Greek is Σ'αγαπώ (S'agapo). Here, Σε (se) means “you,” and αγαπώ (agapo) means “I love.” — fluentin3months.com ]

© venusphoriia 2024 — do not copy or repost any of my works on any other platform, please and thank you !! ( ˘ ³˘)♡

[defectivehero]

warnings: child abuse, neglect, murder

"You seem jumpy today, detective," the villain whispers from just over their shoulder. The detective flinches and stiffens all at once, questioning how they didn't notice their enemy lurking in their office. Just how long have they been standing there? They don't realize the villain is waiting for an answer until they're coughing pointedly.

"Me, jumpy?" The detective asks wryly. They're not sure they manifest enough confidence to convince the villain—they're not even convincing themselves. "No." They turn their attention back to the newspapers in front of them, scanning for a name.

"Hm," the villain hums. Their hand is burning through the fabric of the detective's shirt, straight into their shoulder until their skin fuses together. The detective is trying their best not to pay their adversary any attention, yet even they can tell that there is an entirely different sentiment in the air today, in the interaction that has barely begun. "You think I haven't noticed?"

"You're going to have to be more specific," the detective spits out, their eyebrows furrowed. They return their attention to the newspaper, flipping a page with a shaking hand. They feel their shoulders shrinking as the villain casts a menacing shadow on the wall across from them.

For a moment, there is only silence as their enemy looks over their shoulder. For a moment, the detective is deluded enough to think that, perhaps, the villain's curiosity has been sated. But of course, their curiosity hasn't been fed. And of course, the villain's patience is a fickle thing.

Suddenly, the villain is reaching out and slamming a hand on top of the newspaper, snatching it from their desk and crumpling it into a wad, before shoving it in their pocket. The detective doesn't even bother to let out a protest, knowing it will fall on uncaring ears.

They decide to stare at the wall in front of them. Eye contact feels daunting right now. Unfortunately, their adversary doesn't share the same sentiment, as their chair is roughly spun around until the detective is forced to look up at the villain.

This conversation—if one could even call it that—is utterly confounding. The detective isn't sure if they should even bother to pretend like they know what's going on.

Their bewilderment only increases upon hearing the villain's next remark. "You've been avoiding me," they hum, a soft yet dangerous whisper in the still air.

"I've done nothing of the sort," the detective frowns, crossing a leg over their knee. They don't need to see the skeptical expression on the villain's face to know what they're thinking.

"Haven't you?" The villain murmurs. This is a new side to their enemy, a side the detective has not seen before. The villain has always seemed to find comfort in the shadows, in the smaller gestures. Now, their posture, their body language, is infuriatingly silent. The detective can hardly perceive the person in front of them. "Lingering on cases that went cold years ago, rereading files..." They break off, their gaze falling to the newspapers littering the surface of their desk. "You've practically gone full radio silence."

At that, the detective frowns. "I don't recall having an obligation to tell you everything," is the unfortunate phrase that rips its way from their lips. They almost flinch instinctually, waiting for a blow that doesn't come. Instead, the villain just breathes out a laugh.

"Of course not," their enemy acquiesces, with a flippant gesture. Their gaze has not moved in minutes. The detective is immensely uncomfortable, being so intensely scrutinized. They're supposed to be the one doing the scrutinizing, the one taking in information and drawing conclusions from it. "And yet, I find myself wondering. You seem to be... hiding from something."

The detective is rattled, they'll admit it. They never thought their behavior was so so mind-numbingly predictable, so easily deduced. They suppose they tend to fall into a world of their own creation when they dive into cold cases, neglecting even the most basic of rituals and activities. The detective is a frequent visitor of the shadows, soaking them in and absorbing their camouflage when necessary.

The villain is studying their every reaction. The detective is trying to keep the expression on their face as blank as possible, and they're sure it's not nearly convincing enough to fool anyone—let alone the villain.

"Or, perhaps, you're hiding from someone?" The villain asks, raising an eyebrow at them. And something in the detective snaps. All of the fear, rage, guilt, and helplessness brewing inside them just... slips out. They feel as if they're spilling their guts all over the ground, leaving puddles of bloody gore oozing out of their form as the purpose behind their actions is slowly teased out.

"Okay, that's enough," the detective hisses, pushing the villain away and getting up from their chair. They don't know where they're going—they just know they need to get away from here. It's getting too close for comfort now. Before long, they are going to cross a line they can't come back from. "I've entertained this silly farce for long enough, if you'll excuse me-"

Quick as a flash, the villain brandishes their knife. The metal gleams tauntingly, hovering a breath away from the detective's throat. The detective freezes in place. There's a wicked grin on their adversary's face. The detective's stomach turns in unease.

"Tell me what changed," the villain demands. There have been few times when they have appeared truly dangerous in the detective's eyes—now is one of those times. "Now."

"Fine," the detective says. "You really want to know? Fine. Let go of me." Something in their tone is commanding enough to convince the villain to release their grip and let their arm fall to their side, as if they'd been burned. The detective turns their back on their enemy, despite knowing full well the villain could sink that knife into their back right now. Then again, the villain is seeking answers. They're not going to kill them before they get those answers.

After a moment of rifling through their rather disorganized filing system—they really need to dedicate some time to sorting that out—they find what they're looking for.

"Years ago, when I was at the precinct," the detective starts, "I was asked to help out with a case. Child neglect, abuse; two siblings living in inhuman conditions. I was young, then. It turned my stomach."

It still does, the detective pointedly does not say. "The children escaped, made their way to the precinct. A few agents were sent to investigate the home they had been trapped in, only to find the dead body of their parent, horribly mutilated beyond recognition.

"The children were called in for questioning: they had an age gap of a few years. The younger sibling was clearly terrified. The older one seemed a bit more aware of their surroundings, but still wary. There was dried blood buried under the older one's fingernails and caked in the younger one's hair.

"After a rather lengthy interrogation, the children—well, young adults, I suppose—were determined to be innocent. What was left of their parent was cremated. The murderer was never found. The case file collected dust at the precinct.

"Years later, when I transferred to my own private agency, I took the file with me. That was very illegal, of course—had my coworkers caught me, I would've been in prison. But something didn't feel right.

"For a while, the file collected dust as it sat hidden in my desk. I resolved never to think about that case again—after all, it was my first. Arguably, my first failure.

"And then you showed up. Suddenly, those two siblings were following me into my dreams. I couldn't stop thinking about them, about the remnants of the house they were found in, about the trail that had gone cold and then simply... vanished.

"A few nights ago, I couldn't sleep. I found myself sitting at this desk in the bleak hours of the morning, tripping over the words the older sibling had uttered all those years ago. For some reason, I was getting a sense of déjà vu."

"Get on with it," the villain seethes, seemingly tired of waiting.

"Very well," the detective sighs. They suppose they were fortunate to get as much time speaking as they did. They hold the newspaper clipping up to their enemy, pointing at the picture buried in the corner. "This is you, isn't it? The older sibling?"

The villain takes a step closer, squints at the photo. It's small, after all. The detective watches as their eyes flit across the page, reading the headline: Child Abuser, Found Dead in Remnants of Home. The detective's heart is thundering in their chest. They wait for an answer.

"So it is," the villain hums disinterestedly. The detective feels their breath stall. The clock on the wall ticks mockingly, a haunting rhythm. The detective can't get rid of the inexplicable conviction that they've just made a horrible misstep. "And what are you going to do now?"

"What?" The detective chokes out. The voice that leaves their lips sounds foreign.

"What are you going to do?" The villain repeats slowly. They hand the newspaper clipping back. The detective tries to take it, but they miscalculate and it falls to the floor. Neither of the two notice or bother to bend down and pick it up. "Now that you've figured me out?"

The detective feels dread prickling along their skin. The villain continues. "The truth has been revealed. The mystery you were so desperate to solve.

"You wanted to understand me... And now, you have."

No. No. That can't be true. Surely, that can't be true. The detective watches helplessly as the villain regards them for a moment, before turning on their heel.

"I have nothing more to say to you," the villain says. The detective can't see them, but they know there is an utter lack of expression on the villain's face. And there is no emotion in their adversary's voice.

The detective watches silently as the villain walks away. The door to their office falls shut with a soft click. The detective stares at it in complete disbelief. They have never felt more lost and uncertain in their entire life. Yet, one thing is clear: they will never see the villain again.

©2024, @defectivehero | @defectivevillain All Rights Reserved.

________

whew I went for the jugular in this one, huh...

and I really gave the detective a shuichi backstory, too... sigh....

I had originally written this to fit into the existing detective/villain pairing I have going (@red-is-the-reputation4444 this is loosely inspired by your ask with that detective quote)... but this snippet quickly spiraled out of my control. I figured I could keep things ambiguous and let the reader decide if this is a continuation of the existing pairing, or the creation of a new one. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

"they will never see the villain again" mhmmmm sure, sure.... definitely....

anyway. thanks for reading! <3

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[noturprobiem]

The wangxian part of my hualian crossover fic

I don't think you need any context to get the premise, so

Now, I've heard stories about terrifying entities before, of course, but it did not prepare me for how horrifying it would be to see a Necromancer in action.

The report told us that on the outskirts of the city, in an old neighborhood, drunkards began telling stories of zombies and demons roaming in the dark. It was our job to check, and Professor Lan enthusiastically (I'm assuming he was enthusiastic, you know how he is) took the case. The demons didn't seem to cause any harm, just asked weird questions and stole a newspaper once, so I wasn't too worried about my safety. My last encounter ended with me being swiftly sent home before I could see the events unfold, so I even got pretty curious.

We arrived in the morning but didn’t see anything odd until twilight. I thought we would spend weeks there and come back with nothing again and was already thinking of extending our stay. But before I could check the difference in ticket prices, the creature appeared.

I thought that deer was sick at first. The smell coming off of it was foul, like rust and moss, and there was something unnerving in the way it moved, something fundamentally wrong with its weak and shaking posture. Professor Lan didn’t seem surprised or scared it and slowly approached the animal. The deer looked at him with two dead, unblinking eyes. Its jaw unhinged with the sound of breaking bones.

“Lan Zhan,” the creature moaned, voice strained as if its voice chords were dry and torn. The sound made my skin crawl.

Professor Lan, on the other hand, looked star-struck. His eyes shined with an emotion I couldn’t recognize as I’ve never seen his expression change at all.

“It really is you,” he whispered.

“You may say that,” that terrible voice answered. “I was him at some point.”

The ground shook. Hundreds of birds took off the ground, screaming and rapidly flapping their dark wings, covering the sky until the last rays of light could not reach us. I felt a knot tie in the pit of my stomach, my head was spinning so hard it was impossible to see anything. When I could finally breathe again, in front of me stood a handsome young man in black robes, surrounded by three vaguely human silhouettes in red. He was petting the dead animal as if it was a cute little dog. His lustrous black hair streamed down his back like a waterfall, and there was a rusty hue to them that made me think of dirt and dried blood.

“Long time no see,” the man said. “You’ve matured.”

The silhouettes giggled behind him. They turned out to be three young women and two young men with heavy make up. At least that’s what I thought until one of them smiled, revealing a mouth full of bloody, rotten teeth. They didn’t blink. The skin on their hands was old and paper-thin, exposing veins underneath.

“You’ve changed, too,” Professor Lan said, his face so calm I almost thought he didn’t see the laughing demons. “But you shouldn’t reanimate humans.”

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! I haven’t seen you in years, and yet you can’t wait to scold me,” the entity said with a bitter laugh. “Did you miss it? Threatening me with your cute little institute?”

“I’ve never threatened you. I only warned.”

“Of course,” the entity smiled. “Come, drink with me. My friends can walk your intern to the hotel room.” It turned to face me then. “They don’t bite unless you want them to. They can serve food and drinks, some even sing.”

“I would rather be mugged,” I said.

“You, humans, are funny creatures. What, you don’t like demons just because they don’t look nice and pretty? You think it’s disrespectful to let them exist as anything less than beautiful?” The entity mocked. “Oh, but you don’t like when things are too perfect either. That poor little soul, Luo Binghe, didn’t you kill him too?”

“Do they…have their souls inside?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Duh. How else would they find you cute? And Lan Zhan handsome, of course.”

“Oh. I was taught…Well, we assumed you are puppeteering the bodies.”

Professor Lan nodded then, looking conflicted.

“Well. Don’t you want to get to know them, intern?”

So we went our separate ways. The demons told me their life stories in the hotel room for the duration of the weekend, and Professor Lan was nowhere to be seen until it was time to go back.

[ay0nha]

DEATH IS A MIRROR | N.K. (Prologue)

SUMMARY: The sick joke of it all was even now, year after brutal year, Nanami would still lay his life in your hands. It wasn’t a question of trust, responsibility, or necessity—it was desire. Against his better judgment, he only wanted his soul to be cradled in your palm, stripped bare of everything else. As your touch alone was far more valuable than life itself. 

PAIRING: Nanami Kento x f!reader (anti hero/opposite of Nanami)

WORD COUNT: 1K

WARNINGS: (ex- friends to) enemies to lovers, ANGST, jjk canon-typical things, Satoru playing match-maker/meddling, mentions of blood, mentions of dying, etc.

A/N: Hello! After this poll, Nanami won so here is a brief prologue of a series I'm starting in remembrance of our sweet boy. Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged! Enjoy.

COMMENTS ENCOURAGED. PLEASE.

TAGS: @chimamire-ga @togenabi @eliuriastwo @betterthanuyou @satorulicious @moon-taffy @thefutureastronaut @planetahmane @musababy @kannra21

part I

Nanami sat idly, eyes glazing over a newspaper he’d spent far too long on. The words blurred just as the images faded, as his focus was on the clock’s pendulum. It swayed in tandem with each throb of his headache. 

It was tempting to crush it, for him to channel anger through his limbs just to strike an unlucky antique. Yet, his posture remained alert despite the desire to cave into frustration. His body begged to succumb to the restlessness he smothered wholly. And so, the soft chime marked every second of his dwindling patience. 

You were late. 

You taunted him even in your absence. Nanami pictured you purposefully rising late to crawl under his skin. There, you’d settle until your arrival with weak excuses of traffic and forgetfulness. 

No—Nanami knew better than to think you’d come with airy politeness. He doubted, regardless of the years gone by, you’d ever lose your brashness, especially when it fed off his involvement. 

It’s the idle hours that often leave a man to ruin, he thought. 

“It’s just theatrics…” Satoru hummed, plucking at his blindfold. It was his third time repeating a false-bottomed promise. He knew he wouldn’t have luck with a fourth. “She’ll be here…” 

Nanami’s chest filled with vexation. The entire thing was a weak ploy to make amends for something that had been severely cemented—severed. However, he was willing to fall pretty to prove a point.

 “She is unnecessary.” The newspaper was still a prop of the conversation, Nanami’s expression attempting indifference.

 He flipped the page harshly, taking a quiet breath at the paper cut that had yet to allow the blood to surface. He promised himself to wait until it pooled to leave. The excuse was ready on the tip of his tongue if need be. 

“She’s essential.” Satoru corrected, sitting up from the lounged position he favored. “With her help, we get in, no questions asked—” He smirked, “—just this once, I think mixing business and pleasure—

“Enough. We are not in school anymore.” Nanami adjusted his glasses. His brow furrowed with irritation, and his stern features set as he gathered himself. “You have wasted energy centering this around her for something that should be handled alone.”

The mission was straightforward, requiring quiet moving and first-grade sorcery. It had the potential to fester into something sinister.  To Nanami, that was a driving reason he’d distanced himself. Nothing was ever painless. 

“They’re already watching me, you know this…”  Satoru’s tone was always teasing. Nanami's memory was etched with the deep-chest laugh you’d reward Satoru with. You connected better with him because of it. 

Nanami used to reflect on how it was the only time his so-called stoicism became a disadvantage. The more he dwelled on it, the more he realized you played him. 

“Excuses won’t work, Gojo.” Nanami's words were blunt. The grand “they” were always watching, and repercussions seemed to slip past his friend. Nanami never had such luck. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Satoru chewed at his lips playfully as if it were a schoolyard secret. “It wouldn’t matter. You’re the only one I trust—

“And her?” Nanami adjusted his glasses. The weather section anticipated rain and storms. The irony made his stomach churn. “You must be desperate.” 

Satoru knew his power of persuasion was unnecessary, as dangling you was enough. “Don’t deny her talent—

“Talent?” Nanami scoffed, finger beginning to burn. “A petty thief cannot be classified as such.” 

You were talented beyond his insult. Yet, in Nanami’s eyes, you refused to apply yourself. Everything was a game you mocked and pushed the boundaries with your skill. You favored loopholes even if they caused torment to everyone involved. 

Saying you were different didn’t hold as much value as one would think. The world you occupied was shared with things whose inherent nature was to be in constant flux. Everything was different—special. You were more of an insignificant blip in an overwhelmed radar. Your abilities didn’t matter when there was always something better or more pressing than you. 

Now, you demanded attention. 

Nanami detested your methods of disregarding logic in hopes of entertainment. If you weren’t given a show, you became the spectacle of excess. Your eyes would sparkle as you never transferred wrath through your blows. Each hit made your smile just a bit wider to reveal that you thrived off fear. 

“You’ve always been so hard on her…” Satoru groaned. It was more like a whine, a childish way to push his friend’s buttons. “Don’t you miss— 

“Don’t.” 

The statement was heavy, poking what felt like a freshly healed scar of the past. 

Nanami’s chest felt heavy, burdened by a truth that he was determined to smother. His newspaper creased with tension and fell onto the glass table, his exit clear through his upset. 

“C’mon, Nanami—”  Satoru thought fast on his feet, a trait he’d always used to his advantage.  He heard your footsteps approach and, within seconds, decided against a warning: a make-shift reprimand to bear witness to Nanami’s exterior crumble. 

You pushed through the door as if you were there all along. Your pupils blew large at the burden before you. The spotted tie you were met with flooded your vision, causing your lips to turn down. 

The frown on your face was misrepresented as it genuinely held a mix of remorse and interest. It made sense that Satoru led you here under pretenses. You were no fool when it came to his sporadic behavior, but he had bested you just this once. 

“Kento.” You didn’t let your surprise show. Instead, you leveled with his obvious conviction. 

Nanami still towered over you, but your confidence overwhelmed him. You sucked the life out of the air as if you were Death herself. On your breath out, you filled the room with envy. And your voice, mature with age, still dripped along the walls like honey.  The warmth you carried was a suffocating trap.  Nanami would be a fool to fall for it again. 

But he knew you had already won the game.

[yourtoocleverfox]

"Mister O'Hara",

He looks up from his newspaper, eyes coolly regarding the woman next to you over the frames of a pair of sleek glasses. He sat, broad and imposing, behind an equally broad and imposing desk, one long leg casually crossed over the other. Your new boss.

Your position was coveted. Personal Assistant to Miguel O'Hara, CEO of Nueva York's largest and most successful Biotech Enterprise. You'd gone through several rounds of interviews over a period of weeks, and even played shadow to one of the company's Executive Assistants, just for a chance at this job. Now, here you stood, hands clutching your worn tablet for dear life, as you came face to face with the man you'd be working under for the foreseeable future.

"Your new assistant, sir." The receptionist placed a guiding hand on your elbow, urging you to take a step forward.

His eyes were on you then, expression unreadable as he held your gaze captive. You felt yourself waver on your feet, compelled to say something, anything, but your voice was betraying you.

You'd been warned about this, from employees and executives alike. Miguel O'Hara was an intimidating man, unrelentingly serious and painfully aloof. This was something you'd need to grow used to if you planned to spend any time in his presence.

You drew in a quick, silent breath to steel yourself before speaking. "Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. O'Hara. I look forward to working together."

His eyes fell to your lips as you spoke, watching each shape they formed with masked stoicism. Perceptive and analyzing: he was taking in every detail about you, reading you and disclosing nothing in return.

"I'm certain you and I will make a great team."

He made a humming sound as you fell silent once more; you couldn't tell if he was affirming your statement or not. You supposed you'd just have to wait and see.

"That's all for now, Danielle."

The first words you'd heard him say. His voice was well suited to him, you decided. Assertive without any of the posturing associated with his position. Even toned and slightly accented, the type of voice that tended to draw amatory attention.

The receptionist, Danielle, who'd been your days companion up until this point, retreated from the room without another word. The sound of the heavy office door closing behind her was underscored by the silence that followed. It was just the two of you now.

"Have a seat."

You did as you were told, your heels clicking softly as you approached one of the two leather chairs in front of his desk. He moved as you sat. The newspaper he'd been holding was neatly folded and placed in the center of his meticulously organized desk. His glasses were removed and tucked safely in a desk drawer, the watch on his wrist adjusted after a quick check of the time. Particular, something you'd have to keep in mind.

He fixed you with another one of his penetrating gazes and you sat up straight in your chair, holding steady beneath the weight it. There seemed to be a flicker of approval in his eyes, or maybe that was simply something you'd hoped to see from him.

"There's a lot to accomplish today."

Immediately, you produced your tablet, determined to tackle whatever he decided to throw at you. You'd been extensively trained under his order before you'd even signed your contract. He expected you to be prepared the moment you entered his office. He expected perfection.

You looked at him, fingers hovering over the keys.

"Ready, sir."

He nodded once.

"Good. Let's get started, shall we?"

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[steviesbicrisis]

It starts out as any other Sunday morning. Eddie takes his time to come out of his room and finds his uncle already in the kitchen, the usual cup of coffee in his hand.

“‘Morning son” Wayne greets him, looking up from the newspaper.

“‘Morning” mumbles Eddie, still half asleep.

Per usual, Wayne tells him about stuff that happened to him during the week, since he works night shifts and they don’t get much time to talk except on Sundays.

“Oh, you won’t believe what I witnessed on Thursday night” Wayne begins, catching Eddie’s interest “we were grabbing something for dinner when I caught this piece of shit launching himself on another man! A disgusting scene to witness, I was so mad. Just like that, out in the open, in that alley next to the diner, you know that one?”

Everything Wayne says after that, Eddie barely registers.

The sound of his voice is muffled, Eddie can feel his jaw clenching, his knees weak, his vision blur. He keeps himself busy making his breakfast, trying not to show his inner turmoil, but something betrays him. He doesn’t know if it’s him putting salt in his coffee or pouring water on his cereals instead of milk.

“Son, are you okay?” Wayne sounds concerned.

Eddie snaps out of his trance, he really tries to act normal but he can’t, he’s so tired of hiding in his own home.

He knows that diner alley too well, he has been there one too many times, risking getting caught doing exactly what Wayne got disgusted about.

“I’m fine” Eddie forces himself to say but, for better or for worse, his uncle knows him way too well.

“What’s going on? Is it something I said?” Wayne gets up from his chair and moves a step closer to him, Eddie flinches.

They've never experienced a situation like this, whenever one of them has a problem with the other, they just say it out loud, bicker for a while, and then go on with their life. Eddie has never had troubles telling his uncle anything, until now.

"What I've said about those men, upset you?" Wayne tries again, and Eddie cannot keep looking at his uncle and lie.

"You said it was a disgusting scene to witness. You're saying that people like me are a disgusting scene to witness."

They look at each other in silence for probably a few seconds but it feels like a lifetime from Eddie's perspective.

Then Wayne rushes to his side and envelopes him in a tight embrace.

"Son, that isn't what I meant- I don't care what you are, what I said about that man has nothing to do with you" Wayne has trouble expressing whatever is going inside his head.

Eddie has never told this to anyone before. He tries to interpret his words the best he can "but I am like that man, you can't just hate every queer that ever existed but me just because I'm your nephew."

Wayne grips his shoulders as if he was afraid Eddie would run away any second. Eddie realizes he is probably right: his gaze was scanning the room behind Wayne, searching for a way out, without fully realizing it.

He feels extremely stupid for coming out like this, without a backup plan, right after Wayne had shown him just how much he cannot stand gay people. He knows Wayne loves him like a son, but being fucked up like Eddie has to be too much even for him.

Wayne takes a deep breath, finally recollecting his thoughts. He moves his hands on Eddie's cheeks "Eddie, I want you to look at me. Look at me in the eyes, son."

Eddie focuses his gaze on his uncle's face. His hands are shaking, his posture stiff. He decides in that moment that whatever happens he will take the hit, fight back and run away.

"I love you Eddie, you are my son. I don't give a shit about who you wanna sleep with as long as you're cautious and you're safe. I don't have prejudice for anything, people can love whoever they wanna love, I don't fucking care. Are we understood?"

Eddie releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He really focuses on Wayne's expression, looking for any indication of him lying but he finds none. He seems concerned, determined and also sad at the same time.

"This changes nothing, I love you just the same."

It could have been because his uncle never told him he loved him so openly until now, because he was scared shitless and an adrenaline rush was running through his body, or because as soon as he figured out he was gay he had always feared the moment Wayne would find out.

It could have been all of those things at the same time that make his eyes watery. He looks away and rubs his arm on his eyes, Wayne lets him without a fuss. He knows Eddie won't run away now.

"But what about those men you were telling me about?" he asks, once he feels calm enough.

"The piece of shit was harassing the other man, it was clear from a mile away, I was pissed he thought he could do it out in the open and that no one would've stopped him" Wayne grumbles.

"Most people wouldn't have stopped him" Eddie says, still stunned.

"Well not your old man... wait, has that ever happened to you?" he questions, Eddie goes red in the face.

"Of course not! I can defend myself!" Eddie sputters, making his uncle chuckle.

Another silence spreads between them, but a much comfortable one.

"Listen, this ain't gonna be a piece of cake. I don't care, I told you, but there's people out there who do. So, when you're out, be careful but when you're here... this is your home Eddie, you have to feel free in here."

Eddie mentally curses him for turning what he thought was a dangerous situation into a sentimental one in a span of ten minutes, making him go to the verge of tears once again.

"Are we understood?" Wayne asks once again.

"We are" Eddie nods, and that's the end of it.

When the time comes and Eddie brings someone home, a boyfriend, to spend the night there and live comfortably around each other without any fear, Wayne knows he has done his job right.

----

So... I came out to my parents today. It wasn't planned, I was scared, but it went the best way I could've imagined. They're both an uncle Wayne, if that makes any sense ahahha But yeah, this inspired me to write Eddie's coming out. Wayne really doesn't care about queer people, he just wants Eddie to be okay, as any parent should.