#title: (luggage handling)

[cruzzramirez]

@jere-me--oh-my

She was glad to see her attempts at humor were not lost on him. Sometimes she didn't know if her jokes, often lame ones, would hit with people she didn't know that well, which made it all the nicer when they did. Or, at least, when someone let her believe they did. But Johnson's smile seemed sincere, like everything else about him, so she would take it.

"Maybe, yeah! Never know when it comes to paperwork," she said with a little sigh. Which was true. She had tried to prepare everything she needed but one never did know what little details would suddenly pop up for the sake of pure spite.

Luckily she had her magic in her back pocket in case time got away from her. Just would have to be careful about using it since they would not longer be in the safety of Swynlake.

"If I don't see you, good luck, yeah? Or er- wait, am I supposed to say break a leg?" she asked, suddenly worried she'd just jinxed him.

Luggage Handling - Open

[lipglossanon]

Red Flags and Long Nights

Real Dad!Leon S. Kennedy x daughter fem!reader (one shot)

hello hello 👋 this is the fic written for the milestone celebration poll winner (real dad taking accidental viagra); big big thanks to all of you who have gotten me here!! 💜 💜 I’m so thankful everyday that you guys choose to read/like/share/interact with my fics and just me in general! 🥰 so without further ado, I hope you enjoy this one shot!!!

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, INCEST, dead dove content, dad/daughter incest, groping, slight cnc, dirty talk, breast play, oral (m receiving), kissing, teasing, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread 😅 some of it was written while sleepy so hopefully it makes sense haha

title from Red Flags and Long Nights from She Wants Revenge

<<prequel: Oh By Gosh, By Golly>>

One day, your mom calls you up out of the blue wanting to talk about planning a family vacation this year. Somewhere with sandy beaches and clear blue water. Something over an extended weekend once everyone can take off work. She’s already talked it over with your dad and he’s agreeable as long as it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. 

As she talks, you pull open your calendar and look over your work schedule. Once you find a date that works, she promises to text you the details of the Air B&B she plans to book. You bid her goodbye and hang up the phone, quietly excited about a beach trip even if it is with your parents. 

You keep busy as you slowly count down the days; long graduated from college but still struggling to find work in your major, you’ve had to settle for any job opportunity that will pay the bills. Luckily enough, you were hired to work at the local post office. It’s not a glamorous job by any means, but you do get federal holidays off and your boss is pretty lenient with you. It’s a cinch to put in your PTO for the extended weekend you plan to spend with your parents. 

The morning you drive down to the beach house is pleasant; it’s early enough you miss out on a bunch of traffic which helps you save enough time to splurge a little and grab some coffee. Following the GPS, you get to the beach house in the afternoon with plenty of sunshine left to enjoy. Your parent’s car is already parked outside so you don’t have to worry about figuring out how to unlock the joint.

You grab your small suitcase and make your way into the lovely three story home. As you walk up the gravel sidewalk, you take in how secluded the area truly is and how lucky your mom was in getting such a nice place. You’re pretty sure it cost out the ass, but hey who’re you to deny such generosity?

The door swings open before you touch the handle and your mom pulls you into a hug. 

“Oh honey, I’m so happy you could make it!”

Breathing in the perfume embedded into your brain from childhood, you give her a quick squeeze back before pulling away. 

“Me too,” you smile, “this place is amazing!”

She laughs and moves further into the house, looking back as you follow along behind after closing the door. 

“A friend of a friend owns this place so it was pretty easy to get. Even your father can’t throw one of his little hissy fits about the cost,” she rolls her eyes and you breathe out a laugh. 

“Where is he?” You look around but only see the open kitchen leading off into the dining room. 

“Down at the beach,” she points to the sliding glass doors on the other side of the living room, “I told him I wanted to stay up here for when you arrived.”

You nod and smile at her again, “Thanks, I appreciate it. I’m gonna go put my stuff up and change then we can head down ourselves.”

She nods, “There’s a handful of bedrooms on the second and third floor. Your dad and I are staying in the master down here so you have your choice of rooms.”

“Nice, be back in a sec,” grabbing your luggage, you climb the stairs to scout out where you want to sleep. 

You pick a cute room on the third floor; it has a little balcony with a couple of chairs that gives you a fantastic view for miles around. You toss your clothes into the dresser and quickly change into your swimsuit. Grabbing a towel and some sunscreen, you slide on your sandals and make your way back downstairs. Your mom, wearing a big floppy hat, is already standing outside the sliding doors. 

You chatter with each other, just catching up on your day to day, while you both make your way down the little path that leads out onto the beach. As soon as your sandals hit the sand, you see a huge beach umbrella. 

“Glad to know he won’t burn,” your mom laughs, toeing off her own sandals to walk barefoot over to your dad. 

Following her lead, you take off your sandals and carry them over to the blanket underneath the shade of the umbrella. 

“‘Bout time,” a groggy baritone meets your ears. 

“Shush, Leon, it didn’t kill you to nap on the beach now did it?”

Your dad just mumbles a reply to your mom before raising up. He squints over at you, eyes heavy lidded from sleep as you set your stuff down. 

“The drive okay?”

You laugh and finally look over at him, “It was fine.”

His blue eyes sharpen as they read your expression before darting down to give you a once over. Your nipples tighten against your will and his gaze seems to linger there for a split second before flicking back up to your face. Plastering on a fake smile, you sit down and grab your sunscreen. 

“Want some help with that?” Your dad nods to the little bottle in your hands. 

“S-sure.”

You kinda hope the ground splits open to swallow you whole, but instead you just move over to where your dad is sitting up on the blanket, hand outstretched to grab the sunscreen. 

“Well while you two do that, I’m going to go take a dip,” your mom beams at you, completely leaving you alone to wallow in this newfound awkwardness. 

Keeping your back to your dad, you feel his broad calloused palms drag the slick lotion all over your back and shoulders, deftly massaging it in. For the last few years, there’s been a line of tension between you and Leon. An accidental kiss under the mistletoe where you both used too much tongue to be appropriate (any tongue isn’t appropriate but you’re blaming the alcohol everyone had been drinking).  

Since then, you’ve both watched the other. Glances too heated to be innocent, brushing against each other unnecessarily… and now with his sun warmed hands rubbing across your back, your brain empties as your body buzzes with arousal.

It’s why it takes a second for you to realize that your dad has moved on to rubbing in the sunblock across your ribs and over your clavicle. His hands come up and cup your breasts, stiff nipples showing through the fabric. 

“Gotta make sure to get everywhere,” his breath gusts past your ear as his hands slip under your top and massages the fat of your breasts. 

“Ohh,” you whimper quietly, cunt pulsing warmly in time with your heartbeat.  

He squeezes and rubs across your soft skin, fingers plucking at your stiff peaks until you moan brokenly. 

“Dad,” your breathy exaltation has him pinching and twisting your nipples before groping your breasts roughly in his hands. 

“‘M almost done,” he licks the shell of your ear and your thighs twitch, “you’ve got such nice tits, princess. Don’t want’em to burn.”

You press your hand over your mouth to muffle the whine you let slip. With one last harsh pinch to your nipples, he lets go, scooting back away from you. 

“Should be good to go,” he grins at your dazed look, “don’t keep your mom waiting.”

Shaking your head, you blink rapidly and slowly climb to your feet. As you pass by Leon, his hand reaches up and smacks your ass hard. 

“Be a good girl, okay?”

“Y-yeah, dad.”

You pad out to the ocean, waving to your mom as she looks for seashells in the shallow water. Wading out far enough for water to hit your chest, you finally let yourself sigh out loud. 

“What in the fuck?!”

You rub wet hands over your face as you gaze out onto the horizon. Flirting is one thing, but getting felt up by your dad is definitely crossing the line. You shiver, clit still throbbing as you reach down to press your palm against your cunt. Even as messed up as it may make you, you wish he would’ve slipped his hand down and fingered your pussy. 

The sun glaring off the water makes you squint even as you enjoy the scenery, trying your best to squish all the other thoughts and feelings you’ve had in the past half hour down into a little box you can open later. It works for a time, until the squinting becomes too much and the glare is driving sharp little needles into your brain. 

Leaving the water, you make your way over to your mom as she scoops up more shells with a net. 

“I’m gonna head in, got a bit of a headache,” you wince as the sun bounces off her watch into your eyes. 

“Let me walk with you,” she frowns, “you’re looking a little washed out.”

You nod and follow her back up to the beach blanket, eyes skirting over where your dad’s lounging reading a book. 

“We’re headed up to the house, do you need anything?”

Your mom grabs her bag and your stuff as your dad sets his book down onto his lap. He looks at you then back to his wife. 

“No, once I finish this, I’ll be heading up, too.”

She hums and takes you by the arm, helping guide you back to the house since the pain beats a tempo behind your eyes and makes your vision a little blurry. Once in the house, she helps you upstairs to your room. In doing so, she makes sure to stop in at the bathroom on the bottom floor to point out the migraine medicine in the cabinet.

Entering your room, she sits you down on your bed. She tucks you in and makes sure to close the blinds before walking back into the hallway. Turning, she gives you a concerned look.

“I’m going to head into town. It’s about an hour's drive from here so I won’t be back til later. If you need anything, call, okay?”

You hum in reply already drifting to sleep in hopes you’ll feel better once you crash for a few hours. The nap helps and by the time you come to, your headache is completely gone. Waking up is a chore however; it takes you a minute to realize where you are, eyelids sticking together, gummy with sleep. 

Raising up on your elbows, you reach over to the side table and grab your phone. Eyebrows pinching together, you blink sluggishly until you can read the time. It’s only late afternoon even if it feels like you’ve slept through the night. Climbing out of bed, you change before leaving your room with a plan on grabbing some water from the kitchen. 

It’s noticeably quiet as you finally step out on the bottom floor. Your mom must still be gone since you don’t see her shoes by the front door. 

“Fuck.”

You hear the muttered curse from the half open bathroom door that you’re walking past heading to the kitchen. 

“Everything okay?” 

You slowly press the door all the way open and your dad fumbles with a towel before placing it over his lap as he sits heavily down on the edge of the tub. 

“I thought you were out with your mother,” he bites out, tone sharp.

“No,” you frown, leaning against the doorjamb, “I had a headache and took a nap. Are you alright?”

He blows out a breath and scrubs a hand over his face. 

“I’m fine. What time did she say she’d be back?”

You shrug, “Couple of hours I think. I don’t really remember.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Should I call—“

“No,” Leon nearly shouts, “no, don’t. It’s not a big deal.”

“Dad, I can help I just need to know what’s wrong,” you step closer into the bathroom. 

He laughs without any humor, “Sure.”

You go to ask him why when your eyes catch on the bottle sitting by the sink. It’s similar to the migraine medicine you saw in the medicine cabinet earlier, the one your mom pointed out if the nap didn’t get rid of your headache. Who knew your dad needed help getting it up?

“Did you..?”

You trail off, feeling awkward and nervous and disgustingly turned on to think your dad’s dick is hard underneath that flimsy towel. 

“Yes,” he sounds tired, “I thought it was the other medicine.”

“Ohh,” you bite your lip, brain completely in the gutter as your eyes drift down to his lap, “I mean, I can still help.”

It seems insane but your dad’s not stopping you as you shuffle closer to stand between his legs. His blue eyes stay steady on yours as you kneel in the floor, knees digging into the soft rug in front of the tub. Leon tugs his briefs down and his cock slaps against his stomach, precum drooling from the head. He’s so hard, the foreskin has drawn back from the tip showcasing how red and swollen his cock has gotten from the medication. 

“Oh my god,” you breathe out, eyes greedily taking him in.

“Fuck, don’t look at it like that,” he groans, hands gripping the tub so tight his knuckles blanch.

“You’re just really big,” you press the dough of your thighs together, trying to put a little pressure on your throbbing clit, “you’ve got the fattest cock I’ve ever seen, dad.”

You watch as precum blurts from the tip to drip all down his length while he moans low in his throat. 

“Christ, you’ve got a filthy mouth,” his pupils are blown as he gazes down at you, “since you like how big my dick is, sweetheart, why don’t you show me, hmm?”

Your tongue licks up all the precum leaking down his dick before softly suckling on the head.

“Oh fuck, that’s it,” he grunts, “suck that cock.”

Moaning, you bob your head down, tongue tracing the thick vein you can feel on the side as you sink down inch by inch. Your dad pulls out to trace your lips with his drippy tip, smearing precum across your mouth like sticky gloss. You moan and press a kiss to his dick, tongue lapping at the crown until he’s rocking back into your mouth. Humming low in your throat makes his cock kick in your mouth, precum coating your tongue.

“Damn, so good,” he groans, hand smoothing across your jaw, cradling it as he pulls his cock out, “never get head from your mom anymore. Feels so good.”

More slick wets your panties as you mewl, throat clicking as you swallow around his thick length. You hungrily suck his cock, tongue circling his head before dipping into the slit to taste more of his precum.

“Like sucking me off, sweetheart?” he tosses the fringe away from his eyes while he rocks his hips, pushing himself deeper into your throat with smooth strokes until you gag heavily. 

“Love that, choke on it a bit more and I’ll be spilling down your slutty throat.”

Thick strands of saliva bridge between your mouth and his dick like shimmery spiderwebs as he slips out. You moan when he ruts his cock across your tongue. Leon groans and reaches down to tap his cock against your lips before feeding it back to you. Whining, you suck him deeper into your mouth, licking across the head before messily bobbing your head further down his thick length.  

“I'm about t’cum, swallow it all up, princess,” he thrusts a few more times before pulling out until the tip is sitting fat and heavy on your tongue. 

Leon grunts and moans as hot thick spurts of cum fill your mouth. Swallowing quickly, you try to keep his cum from spilling out around your lips, but it ends up leaving a sticky mess to drip down your chin in thick strands. 

You watch as he groans, stomach flexing while you suckle on the head of his dick, making sure to not miss any of his hot jizz as his balls empty into your mouth. After giving the tip of his dick a kiss, you pull back and wipe the spend from your face with the bottom of your shirt. 

Your cunt feels soaked, panties sticking to your pussy lips as you shakily stand onto your feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Your dad stands up beside you, cock still hard and leaking, making you whimper. Pulling his briefs back up, he leaves his shorts and shirt lying on the floor. He grabs you by the forearm and leads you out of the bathroom and all the way upstairs into your room.

“No surprises if your mom comes home early,” he informs you, pushing you further into your room followed by closing and locking your door. 

Heat radiates from your cunt, more slick dripping into the already soaked gusset of your panties. Leon shoves you back onto your bed before climbing on top of you, kissing you heatedly as he sinks down onto your body. You wrap your legs around his waist while you run your hands through his messy hair. You're so turned on you can’t think straight anymore. 

“Thatta girl,” he coos, pulling back to drop kisses across your neck, “can’t wait to feel your wet little pussy, baby.”

You whimper and pull him back up into another kiss. This time he licks into your mouth messily, spit dripping from the corners of your lips to slide down your jaw. You feel him grind his cock against you before pulling away. 

He sits back on his haunches and slips his briefs off, maneuvering until he can toss them into the floor. Next, he leans forward and grips the bands of your panties and shorts. You help him, shimmying to move your clothes down off of your legs. As he moves those into the floor, you slip your shirt off and let it too fall onto the pile of clothing. 

“God, love your tits,” he groans, shoving his face into your breasts, mouth licking and biting every inch of skin they come across. 

His mouth suctions around a nipple, tongue teasing the stiff bud as he tweaks the opposite one with his fingers. 

“Dad,” you moan, nails digging into his scalp.

“What?” He coos, “your dad can’t show his appreciation?”

A whine rasps from your throat and Leon laughs meanly before biting the swollen bud he was sucking. With a grunt, he moves across your sternum, leaving hot open mouthed kisses across your chest until he can suckle and tease the other nipple, fingers plucking and pinching at the now wet one. 

Your hips writhe, leaking cunt dragging against his stomach as his cock grinds against the cleft of your ass. 

“Gonna let daddy stuff your tight wet cunt?” He chuckles as your eyes flutter as he lathes your nipples with broad swipes of his tongue. 

“Yes,” you whisper, “wanna feel you split me open. You’re so big.”

Whining on the last word, you rock down, feeling his tip catch against your pussy lips and driving you crazy. 

He growls and sits back on his heels, taking his cock in hand to smack it against your clit. 

“So slutty,” his pupils swallow the blue of his eyes, “want daddy to stretch this little hole out? Show you how a real dick feels?”

Nodding along with his words, you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, teeth sinking into the plush skin.  

“Goddamn,” he mutters, spitting in his hand to slick his cock before pressing the head against your soaked heat. 

Using his thumb, he presses his cock down so the tip slides into your hole. Keeping it there, he rocks against your hips, sinking inch by inch into your pulsing cunt as his thumb keeps his cock steady. Pulling halfway out, he flexes his hips and thrusts forward faster than before. 

“Even your mom doesn’t let me go raw anymore,” he chuckles, bottoming out so fast you choke on air, “so this is a real treat, sweetheart.”

“Ohh god, dad,” you moan, voice high as he starts sliding his cock in and out of your pussy, rough thrusts that make your breasts bounce. 

You whine when he grinds against you, his pelvis rubbing over your swollen clit just right. His balls smack against your ass on every thrust, the loud plap plap plap of skin driving your arousal even higher. 

“Dad, fuck, s’too much,” you gasp out another whine, head feeling dizzy as your blood rushes, arousal making your pulse feel heavy in your throat. 

He groans and drops his weight down on you, bare skin sticking together from the sweat building between your bodies. Leon kisses across your neck, mouth grazing your skin with barely there nips that makes your pussy flutter around his cock. 

The thatch of hair at the base of Leon’s cock grazes your sensitive clit, sending little electric shocks of pleasure that brings tears to your eyes. You feel so good, you can’t stop the slutty noises from leaving your mouth. Rutting into your body, your dad’s fat cock grinds against the spongy spot along the front of your cunt. Slick gushes from your pussy as he hammers your g-spot so perfectly you can’t help but squeeze him tighter and tighter. 

“Princess,” he murmurs in your ear, “is this little pussy gonna cum? You’re so soft and wet— I can feel you tightening up around me. God so much tighter than your mom, can’t believe I’ve been missing out.”

His words push you over the edge. You babble out little chants of dad, dad, dad until a guttural moan spills from your throat, thighs jumping as your pussy clamps down on Leon’s dick like a vice.

Your low moaning twists into a scream as his hand sneaks down to rub and tease your clit. Instead of your orgasm tapering off, it ramps up, gaining speed until it hurtles you into cumming again. 

“Aww, she’s gripping me so tight,” Leon mocks sweetly in your ear, “yeah, that’s it, sweetheart.”

“Dad,” you whimper, tears clumping your eyelashes, “dad, please.”

A moan rumbles from his chest and he humps your cunt faster, cock never pulling completely out as he ruts inside your slick pussy walls. Half a dozen thrusts more and he’s growling down at you, pressing his cock balls deep into your cunt, thick cum spurting from the tip of his dick to stuff you full.  

“Oh so tight, baby,” he sighs, hips pressed against yours as he spills inside your snug little cunt, “your little pussy fits me like a glove.”

Shuddering, your walls milk another small load of cum from his heavy balls and he pants noisily against your clavicle. He presses up onto his forearms, hips swiveling to pull his cock halfway out before sinking it back inside, a mix of your creamy arousal and his spend making a ring around the base.

“Good, huh,” his laugh tinges on mocking, “don’t worry, ‘m not done with my daughter’s cute pussy, gonna keep you here for as long as it takes.”

After that, it’s all a pleasurable blur. You're unsure how many orgasms your dad has given you at this point, but you know he’s only had three and his cock is still so thick and hard. 

“Think this one will be it, princess,” he grunts, hoisting your limp thighs up, the bend of your knees slotting perfectly over the bend of his arms. 

You can only pant in reply, mouth as dry as cotton. He notches the head of his drooling dick at your entrance, dragging the tip up to smear the cum from his last creampie all over your used cunt. 

“One last load for your greedy little pussy,” he grins down at you, “then we can take a shower.”

He sinks his cock into your sore pussy at the same time he leans forward, pressing your sweaty bodies together. Your eyes roll back as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, thighs shaking against his arms. 

“So deep,” he groans, “best cunt I’ve ever fucked and to think it belongs to my sweet daughter.”

Your pussy spasms and clenches down on his thick length as you cry out. Brain melting pleasure seeps down your spine as he pulls out to grind across your g-spot before fucking back into your cunt roughly. 

“S’good, dad,” you mewl, mouth drooling as he hammers his cock into your sensitive hole, “so good.”

“I know,” he croons, “I feel good, too. Not g’nna be able to give up this sweet little pussy. She grips me too good, baby, I’m gonna want her all the time.”

Another orgasm slams into your body, pussy pulsing and sucking his cock into your hole as your head thrashes against the bed. Leon’s hands grip your wrists to push them down against the bed so you don’t scratch him. 

“Fuck, milking your dad’s cock like you’re made for it,” he groans, humping into your pussy with deep strokes until you’re crying from overstimulation. 

“Shh, shh, just take it a little more, ‘m about to cum,” he licks into your mouth, biting on your bottom lip before pulling back, “that’s it, take it, take your dad’s dick deep into that hot, greedy little pussy.”  

Hiccuping a sob, your cunt steadily milks his cock as he buries himself all the way, as deep into your pussy as possible. He grunts against your skin as he grinds his dick against your cervix, spilling rope after rope of cum to paint your walls white. The sticky heat makes your clit throb even as your body aches, wanting to succumb to exhaustion. 

The distant question of how your mom isn’t back yet buzzes at the corner of your consciousness. You must slur it out loud cause Leon laughs as he pulls his softening cock from your puffy leaking cunt. 

“She texted you to say she got stuck in a traffic jam and the road’s blocked for a few hours,” he sighs as he slaps his cock down onto your messy pussy, a wet splat that makes you wince. 

“Dad, ‘m sore,” you pout.

“So sorry, baby,” he coos, a grin overtaking his face, “want me to kiss it and make it better?”

Chest fluttering at the thought, you go to agree when your phone buzzes with an incoming call. Leon grabs it to silence it but turns to look at you. 

“It’s your mom,” he chuckles, handing it over to you, “better see what she wants.”

Sliding it open, her voice rings out clear in the quiet of your room. 

“Hey honey, your dad didn’t answer but I wanted to say I’m about five minutes from the house if you wanted to preheat the oven for this frozen pizza I picked up,” she laughs to herself, “well, it was frozen.”

Your dad sits down on the edge of the bed, listening in to the conversation. 

“Okay, sure, we’ll see ya when you get here,” Leon nods at you, “bye, mom.”

After she says goodbye, you put the phone back on the side table. 

“Well we should get cleaned up,” Leon helps you stand on weak legs, “I’ll help you to the tub and I’ll head downstairs.”

“Thanks, dad,” you smile up at him and he drops a kiss on your cheek. 

“Of course,” he leads you out into the hallway, helping you inside the little bathroom next to your room. 

He sits you down onto the toilet, turning on the shower to allow it time to heat up. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss on your temple, “I know it’s all kinds of fucked up, but I still love you.”

Heart beating double time, you give him a crooked smile, “I love you too, dad.”

He presses his lips together, looking like he wants to say more, but he blows out a harsh breath and walks back out into the hall. 

“I’ll handle the oven and your mom, you just come downstairs when you’re ready.”

“I will,” you say as he swings the door shut. 

Sitting there with your thoughts, you let yourself feel. Satisfaction filters through followed by a smidgen of guilt and shame. You hate that your mom is an innocent party in all of this, but you don’t regret letting your dad fuck your brains out. And since this is a complete one off, it’s just a little family secret that you’ll both be taking to the grave. 

Once steam wafts from the shower, you stand up and step into the warm water. You whimper as the heat works on your sore muscles. By this time tomorrow, this will all seem like some really deranged fantasy you dreamt up. Finishing up in the shower, you dry off and make your way back to your room. Getting dressed, you descend downstairs, the smell of pizza growing stronger. 

“Oh there you are! Feeling better?” 

Your mom comes around the counter to feel your forehead. 

“Yeah, I just slept it off.”

She ushers you to sit down at the table and brings the pizza over, your dad following behind with the drinks. Your mom sits to your right and your dad sits across from you both. He catches your eye and winks, making you look down at your plate out of shyness. 

“Eat up, I’m sure you’re wore out from the hard day,” his mirthful tone draws your gaze back up. 

“Yeah,” you clear your throat and take a drink, “it’s been a hard day alright.”

[orchidyoonkook]

To What We Were Before, And All The Things After | JJK | Ch. 6 | M

Title: Eastern Arrivals and Unwanted Doubt

Pairing: Prince!College Student!JK x Fine Arts Major!(F)!Reader

Series Rating//Genre: (M) | College AU, Mild Royalty AU, Smut, Angst, Fluff, S2F2L, Indiffernce to lovers, sloooowwww ass burn

Summary: Nel's here for the week and you couldn't be more excited!! Jungkook's another story though...

Warnings: M, fluff, smut, swearing, drinking, pining, angsstt, slight boundary pushing (not sexual), unwanted/ unneeded overprotectiveness, jealousy, lying, [reader eats bacon and eggs but it's not specified what kind or where it's from, just bacon and eggs, so whether that means veggie, vegan or normal is up to you], intentional pissing off of Nel, a little spat between major characters, sex as a plot device.

Mature warnings under the cut.

Word Count: 6,945

Release Date: April 20, 2:00PM

A/N 1: 6 months later and we have chapter 6! slow updates, but they will be written and they will be posted. I have no plans to abandon this, I just, very unfortunately, have a bit of an outernet life now. So not a lot of free time to be creative which I hate. But it's here!!

Series: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

Mature Warnings: Consensual sex x 2, both reader with Nel and JK with Ady -> sorry not sorry cuz it's plot sex. We got us some: kissing, protected sex (as we should), missionary, fingering, oral (f. rec), tiny bit of groping (consenual), multiple orgasms, loud sex, like annoyingly, sex as a terrible coping mechanism (imo), fantasizing.

Bouncing lightly from foot to foot, you’re buzzing after finally receiving the text you were waiting on a few minutes ago.

Nelly <3 [10:10pm]: Landed. See you soon 😘

He’s almost here. He’s almost here!

Just a few more seconds until—

The gates slide open. A flood of people in a mixture of sweats and business casual wear with luggage of all sizes and neck pillows walk through. You hold up the sign above your head with both hands, a smile that could outshine the sun plastered on your face, and search.

Where is he? Where is he, where is he, where is he, you think as you scour the bodies filing out of the automatic doors. You can’t see him. He’s none of the nameless faces that pass you by as they find their family, friends or rides. 

Is this even the right group of people? What if his luggage got lost and he won’t be out with this group. What if he got taken aside for some reason, and now he’s being held in some dusty room being asked a bunch of stupid questions he doesn’t know how to answer? What if he’s fig—

But then there’s a gap in the crowd, and the boy you’ve spent the last half decade of your life with comes into perfect, crystalline view. His lips pulled taught, teeth beautifully bared as he sets his sights on your sign high in the air, then down to you.

And you're running. 

You’re running and dodging and swerving until you’re jumping into Nels arms as he abandons his suitcase in favour of keeping you both up right. He buries his face into your neck, holding you so tightly you think he’ll never let go. And that’s just fine with you as you hold on just as tight, taking in a big breath of him too. 

He smells like airplane and coastal breeze and most importantly, home. 

Nel smells like home.

A muffled, “Ohhhhhhh, I missed you,” greets your ears, and you melt into him even more if that's even possible.

“I missed you too,” you say, pulling back and kissing him. You don’t really care if there’s an audience or not right now. Not when Nel’s here, and he’s in your arms, and he’s yours for a whole 9 days and life is as it should be once again.

He releases his hold slightly, but your arms don’t leave his shoulders. The sign still clutched, now crushed and crinkled, in one hand. 

“Car?” he asks, a kiss to your nose.

“This way,” you lead, releasing your hold.

Luckily, his suitcase is small, so he forgoes rolling it, instead gripping the handle at the top and carrying it in one hand. Your own reaching for his other and not letting go. He’s going to have to peel you off him if he wants space right now. 

Nel’s wearing his usual fall attire; a dark green school sweater that has ‘ECAD’ written over the chest in a large, academic looking mustard yellow font, regular old blue jeans, and dark brown lace up boots. His short, dirty blond hair's covered by a hat you’d gotten him as a highschool graduation present, and his ocean blue eyes remain as gorgeous as they were the day you met. 

Passing through doors to the outside and back to lot J, you hop in the car as he puts his bag in the trunk.

“How have you been? What’s new? What’s not? Tell me everything,” he asks as he climbs in and sits beside you, hand finding yours again. 

Never gone for too long. You relish in the comfort and happiness that alone brings you. 

He’s finally here. You finally have him back.

“I’m great. Yuri’s still Yuri, classes are only a little more challenging this year, but I’m still at the top of them,” Nel slips in a ‘not surprised’ and you smile brighter as you continue. “They’re already telling us to start brainstorming ideas for our thesis show next year,” you have no idea what you’re going to do, but you’re working on it. “Campus is the same, dorms are the same, the cafe’s the same. Though, they have the egg tarts I like in more, which is awesome for my taste buds and terrible for my bank account.” 

Vivian stayed true to her word, and now they had the tarts in every week. 

“I can only imagine,” Nel jokes.

“Uhhmm, what else…” a thought pops up, and you guess you can tell him. It doesn’t reveal anything the whole world doesn’t already know. “The prince is dating Adaline Dupree.”

His eyebrows raise, remembering, “Oh yeah, that’s right, the prince goes to your school now.”

“Yep.”

“Have you met him?”

Is he seriously not completely shocked at the prince dating Adaline? You only bitched about her to him all the time.

“Uhhh… yep, once or twice, I guess.” 

You hate it. You hate lying, especially to Nel. You hate it so much, but it’s for the greater good. It’s to keep the peace. But that doesn’t stop the burning feeling in your chest nor the roil in your belly.

“The day he arrived Yuri dragged me down to see him speak. She made us sit front row because Yuri,” Nel nods, knowing exactly what you mean. “He had everyone assemble to hear why he was at school and tell us not to treat him like a prince. He wants to be able to study without his title getting in the way.”

You hit your blinker, making a one handed left turn. 

“Makes sense. Is he nice at least?” Nel doesn’t sound at all suspicious, and why should he? You’ve never given him reason to not believe you at your word before. Never lied to him before.

Fuck you hate this so much. It was so much easier when he was 5000 miles away. But now that he's right beside you? This week may end up being more difficult than you thought.

“He was very princely. Tried to kiss my hand like he did like every other girl there, but I made it a handshake instead. Figured if he wants to be treated like everyone else, I would liste—Oh!” you laugh before you can even get the words out.

“What?” he asks, intrigued but confused.

You can barely speak coherently. “You should have seen Yuri’s face when I called him Jungkook and not Prince or Your Highness...her eyes nearly fell out of her head,” tears are starting to form from laughing so hard. “It was great.”

“He didn’t mind?” Nel asks and you shake your head. Yuri’s face that day will forever be seared into your brain for whenever you need a pick-me-up. 

“No, he was grateful actually. I was the first person that had addressed him like that, the way he’d asked to be.” Stopping at a red light, you're finally regaining yourself.

“Well,” he squeezes your hand, “you always were good at first impressions,” and looks at you so softly you can’t help but smile into the kiss you give him. 

He remembers that school art fair just as fondly as you do. 

Nel pulls away first with a thought. “Is Yuri with us this time?” 

Yuri hadn’t been able to go home last year, her parents too busy on a work trip, so she stayed back and kicked it with you two, but also gave you your space when needed.

Lots and lots of space.

“Nope! Parents welcomed her with open arms this afternoon, I’m sure. They’re all on some tropical island down south. She’s bringing me an ocean bottle though, so I’m excited for that. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to add a new one.”

Everytime you travelled somewhere with a beach you got a glass bottle and filled it with half sand, half water, added in some shells or rocks and labelled it. Instead of towels, keychains, or magnets, you did ocean bottles. They lined a shelf in your room back home. 

You probably have at least fifteen of them by now. Your mum likes to travel and make sure you experience the world around you, not just your little corner of it.

“Oh that’s great babe! I know how much you love those.”

“Yeah, it is.” You lean your head on his shoulder, basking in his presence for as long as the light remains red. 

He’s here. He’s yours. 

You only have to do this for a couple more years and then you’ll be together all the time. God you can’t wait. But you are nothing if not disciplined. 

And it’s going to be so worth it in the end.

The rest of the ride to your dorm goes by quickly. 

Some more red lights, some more kisses. You point out the same things you always do on the way back, and Nel acts like it’s the first time he’s seen them, just like he always does.

His hand never leaves yours over the center console. 

Soon enough, you find yourselves flopping down on your bed. Bags, jackets and shoes, scattered. Nel pulls you into him, his head on your pillow, yours lying on his chest. True peace settling in for the first time in months.

“I can't wait until we’re done school and I have more than four and a half months with you a year,” he sighs.  “It’s not enough. I want more. Need more.”

“Me too. But good things come to those who wait.”

“Yeah…I’m just really sick of waiting.” 

“Me too,” you repeat in a yawn. 

Nel’s breathing slowly evens out as you lie there, content to be in your arms again. And you look up to see his eyes closed, warm exhales brushing over your face from his nose. 

You can’t blame him for being so tired. He’d had an early morning exam before flying out, even brought his suitcase to it so he could leave the second he was done. Then, the flight alone was ten hours, plus travel times to and from the airports was about an hour each way, and the wait time before boarding was another two. 

Shit, he’s probably been awake for around eighteen hours straight at this point because he’s also the type that can’t sleep on planes no matter what he tries. 

Oh, Nel...Of course he’s exhausted.

Giving him a squeeze before getting up, you take off his socks and jeans carefully, then tuck him into bed as much as you can. You’d try the sweater, but it involved too many working parts and you didn’t want to wake him, so you figure it’s best to have the window open tonight instead. 

Grabbing your phone, you tiptoe to the bathroom and do your night time routine. It’s not an overly complicated one, just brushing your teeth, washing your face and a simple 3 step skincare routine of cleanser, toner and moisturizer. Short and sweet, but it does the job. 

Halfway through brushing, you do your friend due diligence and send Yuri a ‘back safe’ text, just like she’d sent you her own ‘here safe’ when she’d landed.

You spit and rinse, moving onto washing your face and applying cleanser.

Teeth clean and face moisturized, you sneak into your room again. Nel's still out cold. 

You sneak out of habit—your mom wakes at the sound of a pin dropping. But absolutely nothing could wake Nel now outside of his mother’s voice and his morning alarm. It’s a talent of his you’ve always been jealous of.  

Removing today's clothes and tossing them in your overflowing hamper—reminder to self: do laundry—you slide on your pjs and climb into bed beside him, plugging in your phone and setting it down. 

A thought pops into your head and you pick it back up, shooting a quick text before you can think twice. 

You [11:26pm]: home safe

It pings not seconds later.

PJK [11:26pm]: Thanks Picasso  PJK [11:27pm]: glad ur home safe

Your heart beats a little louder at the nickname, and you chalk it up to the excitement still in you at having Nel here and being tired. 

But you sleep better that night than you have in a long time. 

A short, repetitive, rhythmic vibration. 

Picasso [11:26pm]: home safe

Jungkook is still standing in the same corner by the wall, Adaline somewhere in the crowd in front of him dancing with her friends. She asked him to join her, but he declined. He doesn’t need to see himself more than half drunk and dancing on the cover of tomorrow’s news cycles. Not to mention his security team would shut the party down the second a camera flashed.

His guards are carefully stationed throughout the house, all dressed down in casual wear, a few with empty cups in their hands. One is watching some sort of beer pong like game in the corner, another is mingling with some guys over in the kitchen. Three he can’t immediately see. And he knows his head guard is outside in a black car ready to get him out at a moment's notice.

Nobody can tell they aren’t here for the party, not unless they’re sober enough to notice watchful eyes continually making their way over the crowd as the night goes on. 

Your text woke him from the stillness he’s adapted from standing so long, trying hard not to draw attention to himself. 

You were home safe. Home safe from the airport. Home safe from picking up Cornelius. 

Your boyfriend. 

Cornelius, your boyfriend. 

He doesn’t acknowledge his teeth grinding.

You were home from picking up your beau but even then, you’d texted him to let him know you were back on campus safely. To let him know you were okay. 

It’s the first thing that makes him smile all night.

So he sends back, a bit to quickly: 

Me [11:26pm]: Thanks Picasso Me [11:26pm]: glad ur home safe

Because it means something to him that you deem him close enough to send a ‘home safe’ text too. 

That you want him to know you’re back.  

Want him to know you’re safe.

Whether you know it or not, your safety means a lot to Jungkook, so that little two word text makes his heart lurch. 

He needs to leave. 

He needs to get out of this fucking house and back to his dorm. He came, he drank, he observed, he fulfilled his boyfriend duty.

That’s enough for him. 

He shoots Adaline a text that says he isn’t feeling well and gets out as fast as he possibly can, dodging bodies left and right and doing his best to hide his face. 

Once he’s out, security team in tow, the cooling midnight air does him some good. 

“Someone make sure she gets back to her dorm safe,” he says in their general direction, brain too muddled to be polite in this exact moment, but it’s nothing they haven’t seen before. 

This is going to be such a long week.

He can’t wait till it’s over. Till he doesn’t have to share anymore. 

He was never very good at it anyway. 

The smell of bacon wakes you. 

And toast, and…

Eggs? 

You think, at least. Since when do you have bacon? Or eggs? Toast is a given, it’s part of your life’s blood.

Opening your eyes, you blindly reach for your phone, successfully unplugging it and bringing it to your face.

The screen is too bright but you suffer through it, squinting.

9:27am. 

9:27? 

You slept for ten hours!?

You can’t remember the last time you slept more than 6 consecutively, aside from recovery nights, and even then it was fitful.

Nel comes in with two plates, his full with a very Eastern breakfast of pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon. Yours with two pieces of toast, lots of bacon, a bit of eggs and some fruit. Where did he—?

He smiles at your confusion, “You have a cafeteria that sells breakfast food, you know.”

You know that.

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because the look on your face says otherwise.”

You flop back down and pull the pillow over your head, mumbling incoherent nonsense. You rarely used the dorm cafeteria for breakfast. Much preferring the greenhouse cafe or simple toast and juice that you can make in your dorm.

He chuckles. “Two breakfasts for me then, okay, if you insist,” Nel moves to leave but you screech, uncovering your face.

“Noo! I want it. Please, sweet nutrition,” he hands the plate over when you sit up, arms out stretched, and you dig in. 

After a piece of bacon, you ask, “How long have you been up?”

Nel’s sitting with his legs crossed at the end of your bed, munching away, “Long enough to get changed, grab my wallet, get food and come back.”

The bacon is really good. You’ve never been so glad he knew you so well as you grab another piece from the dwindling pile.

“You slept well then, too? That’s good, I’m glad. You needed the rest.”

“Having you around always makes it easier to fall asleep,” he nudges your knee with his elbow.

Even after five years he can still make you blush.

“I know the feeling.”

You two fall into step, starting your weeks in advance prepared plans, the rest of your day passing quickly. 

Too quickly. 

And so does the next day, and the next, and the next. 

All of your activities are going great. The zoo, picnics, study dates, restaurant dates, historical, artistic and architectural museum tours. Even a swim at the school’s indoor pool, and there’s plenty more to come. 

Things slip back into being easy, just as they always have been with Nel, ever since that first day back in tenth grade. 

He knows you like the back of his hand and predicts your moves before you make them, just like you do for him. 

You know his favourite foods, and where he prefers to park when driving—always avoiding open curbs—you know his dream travel destinations, and who his favourite musicians are. You know his favourite pencils to design with and his favourite pencils to shade with, that he always put on his right sock first, then right shoe, then left sock and left shoe. You know that his drink order is an iced coffee with two cream and two sugar, that he prefers loose shirts over fitted ones, and that his favourite colour is orange.

It’s a pretty orange too, not just any orange. You wonder if it’s anything like Jungkook's–

Wait. 

You search your memory for the information, going through favourite foods, drinks, music—all discussed previously, because you know their answers. But colour?

Nothing.

How have you never asked what Jungkook’s favourite colour is?

Isn’t that usually one of the first things people ask when they’re trying to get to know one another? Funny. Guess you’ll have to inquire the next time you see him. 

Anyways, just like you know everything there is to know about Nel, he knows everything about you too, including your routines. 

Which is why at twelve noon every day, he starts getting ready to go to the greenhouse for your afternoon study session.

Including today.  

Your week’s already half over and you hate it. Time always moves far to fast when all you want it to do is slow the fuck down. 

You only have five days left. Five days.

You’re lucky the greenhouse cafe is open during break, some places on campus are required to stay open for the students who can’t make it home, but greenhouse chooses to. 

As you and Nel turn the corner you see a familiar figure sitting in his old spot at the back of the patio. The same hat, mask and hoodie, now paired with a leather jacket on top due to the weather starting to cool down.

You can tell Jungkook wasn’t expecting to see you by the way he stiffens before those all too familiar brown eyes of his meet your own. Which is fair, your schedule shifts a bit when you’re on break, he isn’t used to you being here at twelve on Wednesdays. 

But as quickly as he sees you, his gaze is back on his laptop, like he never saw you in the first place. 

Like you asked him to do. 

And a sharp pain stings inside your chest.

When you and Nel get to your table, he sits in the seat opposite to where you always do, leaving where Jungkook usually sits beside you, empty. 

A part of you is grateful for that, though you can’t figure out why and table that self discussion for a later date. 

Setting down your things, you ask Nel if he wants coffee. He answers yes, like always, and after a quick visit with Viv, you're pulling out your chair and setting down your cups. Your back faces Jungkook. It’s a small mercy you can’t see him. Maybe you can forget he’s here and actually focus on your work. 

But it’s also exactly because of your position, that you can’t see as Jungkook subtly watches you over the rim of his laptop while you and Nel talk quietly and study. 

Nel can though. 

It feels weird to ignore him. To pretend you don’t know one another when for the better part of the last seven weeks all you’ve done is talk, hang out, study or a mixture of the three, every day. 

When having him sit behind you and not beside you feels so wrong and so foreign. 

But this is your own doing, you caused this. So you need to suck it up and get used to it. 

This is exactly what you asked for all those weeks ago. The perfect solution to your problem. 

No one can know. 

Not Nel. 

Not anyone. 

But fuck, if it didn’t absolutely suck in practice. 

Setting some of your books out around you and on the table Jungkook usually uses, you dig into your business homework. Having a major and a minor are great for job prospects, on paper, and in practice after you’ve completed them.

But getting them? It takes years of hard work and dedication with no distractions. 

None.  

You spend almost every free moment you have doing homework or practicing, trying to get ahead, trying to stay on top.

…Trying to beat Adaline. 

But you just use that as fuel for your drive to be better. To be the best. 

Competition is healthy. Especially when you’re winning against the rich brat who’s used to getting what she wants. 

Not that you're petty.

Ehh…You are. But only a little bit. At least you can admit it.

Nel gets to work as well, the sunlight from his spot is great for drawing. He’s working on a rough version of his thesis project that’s due at the end of the year. He has to have multiple completed renderings as well as a scale model, and he’s been brainstorming since last year about what he wants to do.

Currently, he’s drawing up an airport, trying to design so that it’s not confusing and complicated for first time users. 

However, his occasional swearing and muttering to himself makes you think he’s having a tough time with it. 

You try not to laugh, but a small giggle slips out. 

“What,” Nel asks, a little distracted.

“Nothing.”

“No really, what’s up? I could use a laugh right now,” he insists, eyes on you at first. But then something behind you steals their attention every few seconds. 

Someone. 

“You just…you still make funny sounds when you're frustrated with a drawing. It’s endearing.” You reach to place your hand on his knee, trying to gain back his full attention. 

Ignore him, Nel. Please ignore him. 

“Yeah...” he exhales. “I guess airports are out,” his hand covers yours quickly and you hear a faint chair screech from behind you. Nel doesn’t miss it as he says. “But I do have a much bigger appreciation and understanding for all those who came before me,” pupils now unmoving from their target behind you. 

Fine. 

You’ll acknowledge it. 

“Is everything okay? You keep looking at something? Is there an animal or…” You know what he’s looking at, but go so far as to turn anyway, playing up the ‘confused girlfriend’ role. But Nel squeezes your hand, stopping you. 

He leans in, placing a fake mask of serene on and lowers his voice. “That guy keeps looking at us, moreso you. And he looks pissed off.”

Fuck, think of something.

Anything. Anythi—Oh!

You lean in too, so close your noses almost touch. “He’s probably just upset we’re talking. The greenhouse cafe is usually a quiet place to work,” good enough, you think. That’s believable, right?. “It’ll be fine. Let’s just ignore him and get back to work.”

You place a quick kiss on his lips but Nel isn’t letting up on his unnecessary vigilance. But then again, he doesn’t know that Jungkook is the opposite of a threat to you. So you reassure him, in your own way.  

“Babe, seriously. If you’re going to be all protective or whatever, don’t. I come here everyday when you're not here and I’m still alive and unharmed. Go get a sandwich or a refill to get your head off of it and say hi to Viv. She’s still here, and I’m betting she remembers you. You’re kinda hard to forget.” 

You can tell Nel’s about to reject the idea when you insist. “I’ll be fine, Nel. Promise. Three years and not a scratch on me.” 

He sighs through his nose, but relents. 

Placing his drawing pad on the table, he gets up, but not before placing another kiss to your forehead and mumbling, “Scream ‘cumquat’ if you’re in danger and I’ll come running, okay?” 

You laugh outright at that. “Will do.”

You watch him as he goes, and the second he’s inside, you’re racing for your phone, typing at an astounding speed.

You [1:45pm]: Didn’t your royal upbringing teach you not to stare so blatantly!??? Nel caught you

You hear a quiet ping from behind you followed by a small exhale that sounds more like a disguised chuckle. 

PJK [1:45pm]: Yes.  

You [1:45pm]: So you intentionally got caught?

PJK [1:45pm]: Maybe

You [1:45pm]: Shithead

PJK [1:46pm]: Rude

You [1:46pm]: You deserve it

PJK [1:46pm]: I know. I’m just making sure he’s treating you right.  PJK [1:47pm]: and trying to see if he acts differently when he knows he’s being watched. He’s very protective you know 

Jungkook saw the second Nel noticed he was watching you. 

His posture changed from easy going to on alert. His hand went so quickly to yours on his knee and his public displays of affection increased significantly. 

It was pathetic, really. It went above a normal amount of protection. Nel was claiming his ‘property’, making sure Jungkook knew not to touch. 

And the nasty look Nel gave him as he entered the cafe—gratefully still unrecognizable in his disguise—was another silent way to say back off, stay away, and don’t try anything or you’ll regret it. 

It was a red flag in Jungkook's mind. A small one, but it’s still there because his efforts are completely unneeded. After five years together, Nel should know that you can handle yourself. 

Hell, Jungkook knows that and it’s only been two months. 

You [1:47pm]: yes I know he is, and I already told you he treats me well because he always. Does. Not just in public or under watchful eyes  You [1:48pm]: and since when does my boyfriend of half a decade need your ~princely~ seal approval?

He ignores the small jab. You only ever brought up his title when you were mocking or upset with him. And he knows that in this case it's the latter.

PJK [1:48pm]: Since now PJK [1:49pm]: And it’s not that I don’t trust you at your word, but I usually like to decide for myself

That has you reeling. 

Where does he get the audacity to think he has any say in or about your relationship? Your very solidly built, five years strong, healthy, happy relationship?

Because he’s the Prince? You’re pretty sure you established on day one that you didn’t and still don’t give a fuck about his birthright. 

If he thinks he gets an opinion on any of this he’s got another thing coming the second he asks you anything about Adaline again. 

You’re in the middle of typing out a paragraph explaining all of this when another text comes in.  

PJK [1:49pm]: Because I’ve seen far too many women in love who are blind to certain things PJK [1:50pm]: And far too many hurt in the end because of it. 

You pause. Fingers frozen mid swipe.

Blind to what?

How many women did he know that were in love but missing something about their partner? Surely there couldn't be that many. Right? 

But this was Jungkook you were talking to, he’s lived numerous lifetimes already. That fancy birthright of his you don’t care about having given him far too many life experiences to have at his age. And they’re only going to increase from here.

So instead of hitting send and cursing him out quite spectacularly, you stop and think for a moment. 

What did he see that they didn’t? 

That you might… not?

You’re a decent judge of character if your record tracks. And it does. 

So your curiosity gets the better of you as you delete your rage paragraph and settle for a simple two word question instead. 

You [1:50pm]: Like what?

You can see that he’s typing out a response but the bell on the cafe door rings and you put your phone down. It buzzes with his response a few seconds after. 

You’ll check it later.

Nel takes his seat again, and you notice he has his sandwich, but also that he’s moved his chair and starts sketching from the new position giving him a direct eye line with Jungkook. 

You internally scoff at that. 

Nel has always been protective. But he was raised that way and you don’t mind too much. You don’t expect him to change his core values for you, just like he never expects you to change yours for him, even when a couple of his are just the slightest bit overbearing. 

But that’s part of a relationship. Give and take and compromise. No one person is going to be perfect for another. It’s healthy to have differences. 

That being said, Nel doesn’t change positions for the rest of the hour. Even as Jungkook packs up and leaves, Nel eyeballs him until he’s out of sight. 

That night while Nel is brushing his teeth and you're lying in bed, you check the text from Jungkook. 

PJK [1:51pm]: Like if they’re getting treated the way they should be or if they’re settling for the best they think they can get or for the first guy that showed interest. The one who hasn’t grown up even though time has passed. The one who’s holding her back by not setting her free

You stare at your phone. At the text. At his words. 

And dismiss it. 

You aren’t one of those women. 

You know yourself. 

You know what you deserve and how you should be treated. You didn’t settle, you just happened to find your love at a young age. That’s something special and rare and should be protected. And Nel has most certainly grown up as time passed. 

Jungkook is being ridiculous for absolutely no reason. Surely he’ll have seen that today. Seen how Nel loves you, treats you how you deserve to be treated, holds you up. Supports you. 

You’re confident he’ll be eating his words soon enough.

Finished brushing, Nel comes back to the bedroom and snuggles up behind you and you put down your phone. 

He cuddles you for a minute before placing a kiss at your neck. Then another. And another before he’s mouthing up your neck, and sliding a hand up your thigh and to your waist. It pauses on your stomach with teasing caresses, before dipping lower and lower, beneath the fabric of your sleep shorts, and under the elastic of your underwear. 

A small moan sounds in your throat at the touch. His fingers meeting your folds and the sensitive bundle of nerves at their apex.

You wanted this. 

Need it. 

He’s grown, you think; as a finger slips in you and you gasp at the stretch, legs opening wider for him. A second finger plunges in and you can feel yourself getting wetter and wetter with every thrust. Just like you can feel a bulge forming behind you. 

You know what you deserve; as he uses them to scissor you open, making sure you’re ready. You roll over, now on your back with Nel over you as he pulls your shorts and underwear down to get better access, your own hands removing your shirt.

You’re not settling; as Nel moves down, tongue making a couple swipes at your entrance and you hiss in pleasure before he’s reaching over, grabbing a condom from the nightstand drawer and sliding it on, length hard and dripping at the sight of you bared before him. 

Nel wasn’t the first guy who’d shown interest, just the first you’d said yes to; and he slides in. Both of you moaning at the snug fit.

“Fuck...” he says and you nod, agreeing, before pulling him down into a deep kiss.

He eases into a slow, steady rhythm that has you breathy and his abs tensing. 

But it’s not enough. You need more. You need to erase these past two months without him, and take enough to last for the next two. It’s never enough, but you try. 

“Faster baby,” you beg, “Please…faster.”

Nel isn’t holding you back. Jungkook doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. 

Nel picks up the pace and you start moaning, louder like you know he likes. Likes to hear he’s doing a good job. He’s grabbing your breast and sucking in a nipple, tongue swirling and you're bringing your hips to meet his with every thrust. 

It feels good. It always feels good with Nel. 

He was your first everything. First kiss, first intimate touch, first love. 

Only love.

And he makes you feel good with that love. That touch. His kiss.

He makes you feel safe, inside and out. 

Jungkook can go eat grass. He doesn’t know your relationship. Doesn’t know the first thing about it. 

“There, right there!” you whine as Nel hits your sweet spot once and you arch. He tries again but misses, continuing faster, his peak coming quickly. 

Jungkook can never understand what you two have. What you two have built in these five years. The understanding and security that comes with it. 

He’s being an unrightfully opinionated ass on something he knows nothing about and— 

Fuck! Why are you thinking about Jungkook? You’re having sex with Nel. You shouldn’t be thinking about anything or anyone other than that. 

Than him. 

So why can’t you get what Jungkook said out of your fucking head?

“Ahhh… oh fuck. I’m cumming.” Nel’s hips stutter, his face contorting in pleasure as he releases, filling the condom.

You kiss him passionately to rid yourself of your princely plagued thoughts, the ones filling you with unwanted and unnecessary doubt. You want them gone, gone, gone. Nothing but Nel in their place. 

And you slip an, “I love you,” in between kisses for good measure. 

Jungkook could never understand. 

Nel kisses you back just as hard, dramatically slowing his thrusts, drawing out his high for as long as possible. 

“I love you too.”

Jungkook doesn’t know anything. 

Nel groans into your lips when it becomes too much and pulls out. 

Removing and tying off the condom, Nel goes to the washroom to throw it out and starts the shower he knows you’ll be joining him for when you're done. 

A routine you’re all too familiar with. 

One you created. 

He knows you need a few minutes to get yourself off. 

You’ve never been able to cum from sex with a partner. No matter how hard you tried. No matter what you did. 

Most would think Nel wasn’t a good lover or wasn’t trying enough, but it was through years of constantly trying anything and everything that you learned you just…couldn’t. 

No amount of fingering or oral or penetration from your partner could make you orgasm. 

So Nel knows to wait for you in the shower as you finish yourself off, your own fingers making quick work of it, because you always could for some reason. 

It isn’t your ideal situation, and it isn’t anyone’s fault. But it works. You both get the intimacy you crave and you accepted a long time ago that you were just one of the unlucky few. 

Screams fill Jungkook’s ears as a hand finds his hair and nails rake against his scalp. 

Adaline isn’t a quiet receiver. 

“Ohmygod!” She shouts for the twentieth time. “Yes! There…so goo-oohhhh,” the last syllable turning into a loud moan. 

He’s holding her downwith a forearm by her pelvis, mouth full as he brings out her third orgasm of the night, juices flooding his tongue. 

He’s working out earlier frustrations and proving a point to himself in this fucked up version of self therapy. 

He shouldn’t be. 

But he does.

Has to.

Seeing you today with Cornelius spurred feelings within him that he didn’t know he had. Sure, there were bits and pieces of something stirring he refused to name, but today? 

They were in a whole different ballpark. Different than anything else he’s ever felt before, brewing inside him, bubbling up to the surface even though he’s been trying his best to pop them and shove them down.

Anger? 

Feelings he doesn’t want to have. 

Jealousy? 

Does have. 

Wanting you to look at him the way you look at Nel?

Can’t have. 

Not for… 

He admits he provoked Nel because he could. Dick move, but it was because Jungkook knew just by looking at him that giving you any form of attention would piss him off.  He seemed the type. 

Overly possessive, overprotective. 

Overbearingly so. 

Suffocatingly so. 

Because Nel knows how lucky he is. That you chose him. That you still choose him. 

He knows he has to keep others away. 

Knows he isn’t good enough for you, holds you back. But keeps you anyway.

The selfish prick. 

So Jungkook eyed you up and down, leisurely, and for as long as he wanted. Purely out of the need to prove to himself he was right about his little assessment of your boyfriend. At least that’s what he told himself. 

Was it childish and unnecessary? 

Yes. 

But he was right. And that felt good. 

He could see in your posture and your hushed words you didn’t want Nel’s protection, didn’t need it, and that Nel ignored that wish of yours. Did what he wanted to instead of respecting your ability to make decisions for yourself. Bulldozed your opinions. 

It pissed Jungkook off. 

He’d left a little while after sending you that text to read, but you never did. At least not since the last time he checked. And so he’d made plans with Adaline the second he was out of your earshot. Calling her up and setting a time for what’s currently taking up his primary focus. 

Because even though it was Adaline underneath him, for the very first time, that’s not who he imagined it was. 

Not who he just dragged a fourth orgasm out of with his fingers because he could. 

Because he would. He would be so much better. Give so much more. If only… 

Fuck.

Jungkook stands and drags his cock over Adaline’s entrance, whacking it against her clit a couple times before running the tip through her folds and pushing in. He hisses at the feeling. At who he was sinking into in his head, splayed out in front of him. Skin glistening with sweat mixed with arousal. Mouth open, slack jawed in pleasure. 

Adaline moans loudly and it dissolves his visual. 

His tattooed hand moves to hold her hands above her head, the other silences her mouth. 

“Quiet now,” he whispers, low and deep. A bead of sweat dripping off his brow, hair sticking to his neck and temple.

He intends it to be sexy for her, but in reality, he’s just sick of hearing her. It’s ruining his mental image. Not that she’ll ever know that though. 

To Adaline, this session is all about her and making her feel good. 

But constant screams and loud, pornographic moans aren’t appealing to him in the slightest. They're taking him out of the mood. Making him soft. 

Once or twice when it’s genuine? Sure. But the constant assault she loves to give his eardrums? Not even a little bit.

He sets a fast, rough pace, and Adaline’s eyes roll back in pleasure, screams finally subsiding in white hot bliss, replaced by bitten lips and smothered whimpers.

He is going to prove this point to himself over and over again. All night if he has to. 

And he has to.  

To get whatever it is he’s feeling for you out of his system.

To keep his sanity. 

To forget. 

And while it’s Adaline’s name is on his lips when he cums. 

It’s not the name he repeats in his head like a prayer. 

Chapter Seven: Hard Goodbyes and Favourite Colours

A/N 2: Thanks for waiting for this chapter. I'll try my best to have 7 out as soon as I can get it. I promise.

A/N 3: As always, Thank you for reading, loves. Xoxo - Yoon <3

<- Back

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to A Great House (19th-20th Century)

(I know, I've been slacking but I'm still alive)

When we think of the Victorians, the grand old Gilded Age or the Edwardians, we all think of those big mansions and manors where some of our favourite stories take place. But what and who did it take to run a great house?

Meet the Staff

Large numbers of staff were always needed to run great houses. Every department had its own management and its own teams, all working together to ensure everything ran smooth. There was both an interior and exterior team.

Interior

You can split the interior of the household into three departments: Service, Upkeep and Food Preparation.

Service

Butler: The Butler was the Head of all the household staff. He acted essentially as the manager of a great house, directing the staff on a day to day basis or at events on the command of the lord/lady/employer. Make staff would report mostly yo him and he would be in charge of keeping an eye on them. The Butler had charge of the wine cellars, the dining room, sometimes the pantry as well. As the manager of the house, Butlers were afforded the title of Mr. X. Our favourite examples being of course Mr Carson and Mr Pennyworth.

Valet: The valet was the male servant who handled the dressing of the men of the family. He would be in charge of his master's clothes, ensuring he was always dressed in the right outfit for the right activity (there was a lot) and be in charge of helping him into the outfit in question. The valet would also be in charge of cleanliness, sometimes shaving his master or running his bath. Valets were referred to as Surname and ranked in how their employer's ranked, for example the Lord’s valet would outrank his son's.

Lady's Maid: The lady's maid was similar to the valet. She was in charge of keeping the ladies of the house looking their best and handling their needs. She would style hair, care for jewels, mend clothes, care for clothes and often act as a companion, accompanying her lady on visits or day's out. The lady's maid was referred to by their surname.

Footman: The footman was a male servant who served at table, fetched items, handled heavy lifting such as luggage, opened and closed doors. Most footmen were young men and en chosen for good looks. Footmen polished the silver services at great houses and when called upon would often take on the role of valet to guests without a servant to help. Footmen were referred to as their firstname. Footmen were denoted by rank, the highest being first footman who had charge over the others and would assist the butler in some tasks.

Upkeep

Housekeeper:The housekeeper was second in command but she ran her most of the interior staff, especially those who took care of the house itself. She supervised all female staff. She helped the lady of the house when it came to running events and caring for guests. The housekeeper is always Mrs. Surname even when she's unmarried.

Housemaid: Housemaids clean the house. They would dust, make and strip beds, straighten things up and keep the house looking it's best. The housemaid was a servant that was almost never seen, usually rising early, lighting the fires, cleaning the house as the family moves from room to room. She was called by her Firstname.

Scullery Maid: The scullery maid is the lower ranking maid. She would also have been younger and less experienced. She was in charge of the more unsightly work: laying the fires, scrubbing the floors, emptying chamberpots, cleaning servant's chambers. She may even do mending and washing for other servants. She was called by her first name.

Hall boy: The hall boy was also young and handled the worst jobs. He would polish boots belonging to the family and sometimes staff, cempty the servant's chamberpots and waited on on the higher ranking servants. He was called by his name.

Food Preparation

Cook: The cook or chef was the third highest ranking servant downstairs and they ran their own department. They were in charge of the kitchen staff. All cooks and chefs would meet almost daily with the lady of the house to discuss menus and ordering but would answer to both housekeeper and butler. As with the housekeeper, a female cook or chef is Mrs Surname despite martial status and make cooks/chef are Mr.

Kitchen maid: The kitchen maid helped the cook/chef in preparing the food. She would be one of the first servants up, in charge of lighting the ovens and starting the breakfast for the family and servants. She would clean the kitchen, boil water when needed and bring food up to the servery when needed. She would be called by her first name.

Exterior

The house would needed a team on the outside to handle the stables, the gardens and any outdoor activity.

Gardeners: They would be responsible for the upkeep of the grounds itself, caring for the gardens. There would be multiple at a great house led by a head gardener.

Stableboy/groom/kennelmaster: They would take care of the family's horses and dogs. They would take care of tack, help plan hunts and riding pursuits and handle carriages.

Chauffeur: As automobiles became popular in this period, a chauffeur was needed to drive the family and take car of their motor.

Lives of Servants

Servants were paid very little at this time, mainly because most staff got free room and board. Most of the interior staff would live in the house itself and be supplied meals. Chauffeurs, gardeners etc would live nearby on the estate either as locals or be supplied a house as a staff member. Staff uniforms were also supplied. Days off were rare but not withheld. Permission was needed to leave the house either to visit the shop or take a few days off.

Servants were expected to be obedient, modest and humble at all times. They were expected to stand in the presence of their master's, speak only when spoken to and never question an order. They had to be ready for anything at the drop of a hat. You've set for a dozen guests but now there's five more coming? Tough luck, change the table settings. You get seasick? Nevermind that, your gentleman is going across the sea and as his valet you're going with him, like it or not.

Servants from one house often travelled to with the family to their other residences: the butler, footmen, chef, kitchen maids, lady's maid, valet would all go with the family while everybody else would get left behind. Every house would have its own housekeeper if it could be afforded. Housemaids and other staff needed could be hired locally when needed.

The Daily Routine

The working day of a servant in a grand house was a long arduous one.

Morning: At 6am, the servants rise. The scullery maid gets up and begins lighting the fires, starting with the kitchen. Then she cleans the kitchen top to bottom before the staff get in to cook. The kitchen maid would rise at the same time, helping with the cleaning. She would set for the servant's breakfast and start cooking it. The footmen open the shutters upstairs, cleans whatever tools they will need such as glasses and silverware, tend the lamps and sets for breakfast upstairs. The housemaids go about the house cleaning up after the night before, starting in the rooms that aren't being used (any room that's not the bedrooms). At around 8, the cook rises and starts the day. The kitchen maid serves breakfast to the other servants before returning to the kitchen to eat her own breakfast with the other kitchen staff. After breakfast, the housemaid will change her apron and deliver hot water to each of the bedrooms for the family. At 9, the family rise. Married women have breakfast in bed with all other family members and visitors eating in the dining room. Valets and lady's maids would have dressed them prior, gathering up any clothes to be mended or washed. The footmen and butlers will serve while the housemaids go into each empty room and begin their chores.

Midday: Just before midday, the chef would speak with the lady of the house to discuss menus. At around 11, the staff were permitted their first break, just enough time for a drink usually a cup of tea before they started again. The chef would start preparing for the main dinner of the evening with the lady's approval. Footmen would take their places at entrances or attend the family where he may be needed. At noon, the servants would have their dinner. At 1, the family would sit for their lunch. Once lunch is over, a footman might be permitted to attend personal business (with permission from the butler first) or be sent on errands out of the house such as delivering messages. While the family sit for breakfast, the maids tidy up any room they have been using since getting up.

Afternoon: The family take tea around 4. The footmen clear the tea before heading down to take their tea - a light meal- with the other servants around 5. Afterwards, the footmen will start to light the lamps, close the shutters and draw the curtains. The butler would oversee the laying of the table for dinner with the footmen. The first footman carries the silver, the second the china, while the butler sets the silver and glasses. If a guest is coming, a footman will remain on the door to see them in.

Evening: At 8, the footman or butler signals the start of supper. This is done by the rinibg of the gong or bell which gives the family and any staying guests, 15mins or more to get ready. Valets and lady's maids would already be upstairs at this point, helping their master/mistress. When the family head downstairs, they linger in the drawing room to chat while a footmen keeps an eye on them. Any guests visiting for dinner would be let in by a footman and announced upon entry. The butler announces dinner and escorts the family in. The footman serve the food while the butler pours the wine (chosen by the Lord with the butler's help). The footman stay in the dining room all throughout dinner, excepting when they go to the servery to collect the food from the kitchen maid. They serve and clear the plates for every course. When dinner is over, a footman will stay with the men while they drink their port while another serves the ladies their coffee in the drawing room. While dinner is on, the housemaid would tidy the empty rooms, check the fires and turn down the beds. At 9, the servants eat their supper while the family chill. When supper is over and the family is done for the night, the valets and lady's maids would ready their masters for bed. A footman would wait in the hall with candlesticks for the family and show any departing guest out. The kitchen staff would start to clean up while the butler starts locking up the house. The staff would get to bed about 11:30 - 12.

[igotlovestruck]

not me! [ lando norris ]

[ 𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦 ] — dad!lando norris x mom!reader . ⊹ ✶ ㄔ 🫂 °.   *

[ 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗗 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗧 ] — 782 words . ⊹ ✶ ㄔ 📲 °.   *

[ 𝗗𝗘𝗧𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗦 & 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 ] — fluff, comedy . ⊹ ✶ ㄔ ℹ️ °.   *

࣪˖ 💭 .. 𝗘𝗬𝗔’𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘𝗦 ⌕ another one from baby reveal 📸 and first written fic for 2024! 😆

this work is purely fictional. names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. © httpsuniverse, 2024. do not steal, repost in other platforms, translate and/or claim this work as your own.

“alright, milk’s in the fridge. burp him after giving him that, make sure to do it gently or he’ll vomit on you. i made food for you as well, so just reheat that in the microwave.” you instructed your boyfriend of 4 years as you fix your bag last minute. “i know you don’t need it, but this is the number of any emergency services. you have mum, max and dad’s number, right? call them if you can’t reach me.”

“yes, babe.”

“okay, good. now let’s talk diapers–”

lando stands up from his seat and walks behind you, planting a kiss on your shoulder before hugging you from behind. “i got this, baby. don’t worry.” he says, “me and luke will have fun today, nothing to worry about. i’m his dad and i know for sure i can handle taking care of our baby.”

you sighed, finally zipping your bag and titled your head so you could look at lando. “i know you can, but it’s just… it’ll be the first time i’m spending almost the whole day without luke. it feels weird.”

“only without luke?”

“lando, i have spent many days without you by my side. most of them because you travel around the world while i finished university back then, not to mention we were in a long distance last 2020.” you reminded him, it was crazy to think that 2020 was four years ago and back then, your relationship with lando was just starting. it was a challenge for the both of you, but having known each other since kids (all thanks to your brother), you managed to get through it. but today, lily offered to take you out on a little date while oscar was with his family. “okay, the baby wipes are in the room, there are also unopened ones in the luggage–”

“babe, i’ve got this. don’t worry about me and luke, just focus on your day with the lily.” lando reassured, picking up luke from his crib and started bouncing him. “right, lukey? mummy should enjoy her day with aunt lily, tell her that we’ll be fine. we’ll be fine, mummy! daddy will do a great job!”

you let out a laugh when lando tried to voice luke, you grab your stuff before walking towards your boys. you plant a kiss on luke’s forehead and on lando’s lips, “okay, i’ll go now. lily’s waiting for me at the lobby, you sure you can do this?”

“duh, easy peasy.” lando smiled confidently, “now go, have fun with lily. don’t forget to send me pictures of your adventure in melbourne!”

within seconds, you were out of the door and it was only lando and luke left behind. luke looked at his dad, sucking on his pacifier as if waiting for lando to say something. “okay, little man… mummy’s gonna kill me if i don’t give you your milk on time so let’s just put you on your little jolly jumper here while daddy prepares your milk.”

luke stares at his dad while he puts him on his jolly jumper. when he was settled in he started bouncing and making little happy noises while lando walked to the fridge. lando smiles at his son, luke was almost 7 months old and his dad still couldn’t believe it. a little baby that’s half his, half yours, made with love and born in a loving household.

lando settled luke on his back, making sure that he was protected enough not to roll and fall from the bed. he fed luke, smiling as his baby kicks his little feet and his little hand hold the baby bottle. luke had almost half of the bottle when he lets go of it, meaning that he was done with it. lando held him up and burped him, smiling when he heard the little man’s noise. lando held luke for a while, showing him the view of their hotel and pointing out things that luke would find amazing.

“okay little man, it’s time for tummy time!” lando cheered, gently putting luke on his stomach while letting him play with the teething toy you brought. lando was grabbing the tv remote om the other side of the room, when he came back, he saw luke’s tiny middle finger standing and the others folded. “lukey! oh i gotta take a photo of this.”

lando was laughing as he took the photo, immediately uploading it on instagram for a good laugh. a few minutes later, he sees your name appearing on his phone screen. “hey baby! how’s melbourne with lily?”

“LANDO, IT’S ONLY BEEN AN HOUR SINCE I LEFT AND YOU ALREADY TAUGHT HIM BAD STUFF!”

“NOT ME!”

ynfewtrell and landonorris

liked by oscarpiastri, maxfewtrell, carlossainz55 and others

ynfewtrell well, guess i know where luke learned it from 🙃

view more comments

landonorris not me! i didn’t teach him that

ynfewtrell not me my ass

maxfewtrell 😆

landonorris we really are banning you for life max

maxfewtrell you can’t ban me for life yk

oscarpiastri which one is lando

ynfewtrell tbh, i don’t know which one... 🤔

user both are little lando norrises

user not y/n using the 🙃 emoji 😭 yk she’s pissed

user someone’s sleeping on the couch tonight landonorris

landonorris as if i’m sleeping on the couch, i just got a podium in ‘straya 😎

ynfewtrell yeah? you’re not sleeping on the couch tonight

ynfewtrell because i’m locking you out of the hotel room

landonorris not funny 😔

[violetmuses]

Opposites Attract - A. Aretas (Part II) ❤️‍🩹

Title: Opposites Attract - A. Aretas (Part II) ❤️‍🩹

Fandom: “Bad Boys” Film Universe

Character: Armando Aretas

Pairing: Armando Aretas + Detective!Reader

Main Storyline: Working with the Miami Police Department, you meet criminal Armando Aretas for the very first time. @adoresmiles @nobodygetsza 🏷

Part I ❤️‍🩹

======

2024

“Where did she come from?” Armando Aretas revealed this question about you while facing Mike and standing in his brand-new portable cell.

This federal transport would send everyone back to Miami, Florida.

“Joined our department and she's been pretty quiet until this point.” Mike defended your work here. “Almost fought me before we visited you last time.”

“She swung?” Armando wouldn't laugh despite the joke.

“No, but she'll definitely kick some ass when provoked.” Despite noting Aretas, Mike turns your way regardless. “Just like you.”

Across this space, you closed your eyes while trying to sleep. Even Mike's longtime partner and best friend Marcus Burnett trailed the operation.

______

Once everyone returned to Miami safe and sound, you watched surveillance cameras as precinct staff observed Armando.

“What happens now?” You looked toward Mike and Marcus. “We can't keep Armando in the building all night.”

“Her place…” Marcus pointed near you without thinking twice.

“I'll smack right upside your peasy-ass head, Marcus!” Mike then scrunched up his face. “No.”

“If anyone's harboring a fugitive, it might as well be her.” Marcus brought you up once more.

“That's crazy.” Mike couldn't believe what's going on.

“I can't bring Armando near the house with my family and you don't want to scare Christine, either.” Marcus continued speaking.

Burnett even referred to Mike's wife Christine, a physical therapist. She also helped Mike heal throughout the shooting recovery years back.

“I'll do it. Just tell him.” You say, gathering your belongings to leave with Armando.

Here we go. You thought.

_____

No more restraints, but Armando still joined the backseat of this car that night and small luggage occupied your trunk.

“If she calls from any bullshit, you're dealing with me.” Mike handles the warning for Aretas and still protected you.

“Same rule applies.” Marcus also stepped up. “I made the suggestion, but don't make me knock you out. She's like family.”

“Back off.” Armando grumbled from his spot while sitting in your car. “I'm not stupid.”

“Open the back door right now and whoop his ass, Mike!” Marcus nearly erupted over Armando talking back.

“Stop arguing. Can I leave?!” You finally roll down the driver's seat window, pissed.

“Go.” Mike then lifted both hands to absolutely surrender, watching your car exit.

_____

Organizing essentials at home, you straightened up the guest room while Armando waited.

“Everything's set up whenever you're ready.” You find Aretas looking downstairs, mainly focused on pictures.

You loved ones gathered different snapshots around the living room. Even Mike and Marcus invited special moments through photographs.

“Oh, hey. Thanks.” Armando realizes your presence.

“Of course, but I have a question.” You look near Aretas.

“Sure.” He waited again.

“Before Mike cut us off, what did you plan to say at the prison?” You seemed curious.

“I wanted your phone number.” Aretas flirted right back.

“No chance.” You scoffed. “By tomorrow, Mike should come back here and you'll be gone.”

“Fair enough. Good night.” Armando dropped this conversation and headed upstairs, leaving you.

_______

The next day, you're kind enough to make breakfast and share that kitchen table with Armando.

“Mike just texted me. Everything's packed?” You cleaned up this space.

“Yeah. Thank you.” Armando clipped the response once more and didn't talk much otherwise.

“You're welcome. See you around.” You at least bid farewell. Aretas would still join AMMO sooner than later.

Heading outside, you watch Mike's classic Porsche roll up.

“Good. Armando didn't burn your shit down last night.” Mike jokes with you when leaving the car.

“Don't kill each other.” You kept squinting through the Florida heat.

“Sin promesas, cariño.” Armando pulled his native language of Spanish.

“Hey!” Mike gasped upon realization. Even you cracked up watching both men bicker when the Porsche left your home.

Father and son indeed.

[definitelynotamhafan]

Punishment (Darkness pt. 1)

“Hurting someone is easy…..But healing? You wouldn’t know about that, now would you?”

Alone. That’s what you first felt when you entered the world. When the first winds produced by the primordial goddess sent you to the Egyptian dunes scorched over by her light, when your eyes had opened for the first time, when the only thing shielding your eyes from the fiery ball of madness in the sky was the sun goddess herself.

Am-Heh, that was the name spoken in fear by many, even by Ra herself. Once a goddess which you trusted, which had suddenly banished you to the underworld.

Devourer of millions, Eater of enternity, The One in the Dark. As much as these titles swelled you with honor, as much hurt and pain they stabbed in your heart.

But now, those times of sorrow and pain are now over. Trapped in the underworld as you were, you didn’t have much to complain. You sat in your lake of fire and scorching lava, watching the bubbles blow from time to time, chatting your days away with whatever poor soul you could find, which had maybe gotten lost from the field of reeds, or escaped Osiris’s watchful eye. Your boredom however, was increasing moon by moon. And trust me, the dark confines of the land of the dead were really starting to piss you off. That was, of course, until you heard a scream.

Screams here were rare, since there were only dead people, who had nothing more to fear. Well, that was except for the newcomers who failed the weighing of the soul test. But of course, they never let out screams that loud.

You grabbed your headdress, pulling on your black shendyt, as you dried the lava off yourself. You tiptoed towards Osiris’s chambers, not knowing what the incredibly evil pea-looking bastard was up to. He wasn’t there.

I wonder why…

Your eyes gazed towards a hole in the sky, well, what you would call the sky of the underworld. There it was. After millennia of being stuck here. An exit. You crawled out, dragging your whip with you, which you managed to recover from a chest under Osiris’s bed, which hadn’t been hidden quite well.

The stars. You hadn’t seen them in ages. They looked even more beautiful than you remembered.

——— It has been at least a moon or two since you had escaped from the underworld, your betraying lover’s scorching eye searching restlessly for you each day.

“Honestly Ra, give me a break.” You mumbled to yourself, pushing back your grown out hair out of you face.

You groaned to yourself as you pulled the veil over your nose and mouth, preventing the specks of golden sand to creep where they shouldn’t be. Just as you were about to walk over to the Foreign God and complain about the poor condition of the tent which he had you in, you noticed a red haired beauty laying on his bed. If it wasn’t for red hair, you wouldn’t have recognized him in the first place, and yet….. how could you? You barely were there for Nut’s birth, let alone his.

You had only heard rumors, of course. Of the Great Seth, who Osiris was pretty much simping for. Every minute you would spend in your lava bath, casually trying to enjoy your exile as an ex-god, Osiris would strut in, waving his hips like a schoolgirl and twirling his nonexistent hair as he rambled on about how perfect Seth was. Damn. Now you could see why he was so obsessed with him. No wonder he acted like that.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a whistle from behind you, and a friendly shoulder pat.

“Well well, Am-heh. Like what you see?” The Foreign God asked.

“Shut it.” You elbowed him in the ribs. “The tent you gave me is ripped!”

“Awwwww, can’t you handle a little wind?” He teased, his hand tracing your shendyt.

“Paws off, this fine ass belongs to someone else.” You retorted. “And no. Sand has gotten in places I didn’t even know I had in the first place!”

“Alright, alright. You can sleep in my tent tonight, if you’re so insistent.” He winked suggestively.

“You smooth fucker.” You mumbled as you entered the tent, dragging the little luggage you had, only to be interrupted by a groan.

the red haired sleeping beauty was waking up, and he wasn’t exactly pleased.

“What the hell? Don’t you know how to keep quiet for at least half a-“ He stopped himself as soon as his red eyes landed on yours. They widened in horror as he realized what you were, grabbing the nearest object and throwing it in your direction, which happened to be a pillow.

You caught the pillow in one hand, effortlessly before chuckling.

“And who might you be? FG’s little boyfriend?” You teased. “What? You act like you’ve never seen a god before.”

“Y-you…..Y-You!” He stammered out. “You’re him! Am-heh!” He pointed at you, shivering.

“Relax, kid. I’m not gonna hurt you.” You chuckled, reaching to tuck out a red strand of hair which had gotten in Seth’s face.

He pulled away as if he had just been bitten by a venomous snake. He backed up against the wall, staying as far away from you as possible.

“I know about you! I read the scrolls-! And the hieroglyphs on the temple walls! And-“ he raised his voice.

“I know….I know…” you tried to calm him down, putting your hands out in a protective manner. “See? I’m harmless! I can’t do anything.” You showed him you hand, which was marked by a curse.

Its black veins molded in with your skin, the ink-like substance making your very existence a pain in the ass. The little flakes and specks of silver and gold, which had been your only map to the sky in your exile to the underworld. His Ruby red eyes stared at your open palm, his own cursed one reaching out to examine it, only to pull back away.

“I don’t trust you.” He hissed.

“I know.”

[detectivemarvelingcomics]

Not Your Classic Vigilante [Ch. 11]

Alternate Dimension AU TW: Language, Light Alcohol CW: OC Use, See the OC Guide [Here] Genre: Drama, Action, Angst, Light Comedy Pairing: Batfamily & Batsis!Reader, OC x Reader YN Pronouns: Female (She/Her) Word Count: 7.4K

(11/?) [First] | [Previous] | [Next] [DC Masterlist] | [Not Your Classic Vigilante Masterlist]

Notes: This has to be the fastest I've uploaded an update AHAHA also quick heads up I updated the OC Guide

Disclaimer: This series is originally by @fandom-meanderer who is a close friend of mine, but she has since fallen out of her Tumblr days and asked me to finish a few series for her, hence why I am now in ownership of the Not Your Classic Vigilante series, I hope I can still live up to her writing as I rewrite this series! (I promise not to change too much, hehe)

2015

“I’m home,” your keys hung loosely from your hands. “Hello?” Usually, you would’ve been greeted by at least Alfred. “Timmy? Cass?” Still, no response. “Well, what the fuck,” you shrugged and trudged upstairs. The manor was unnervingly quiet today, and you knew well enough that there was something amiss. Then, finally, you heard a conversation just ahead.

“I apologize if it’s a little cramped,” Alfred remarks. You stuck your head in. “Ah, Miss (Y/N), welcome home.”

“Hey, Alfred,” you looked at the child in front of you. “Huh… they get younger every year,” you crossed your arms.

“And who the hell are you?” He snarks. “A maid?”

“Oh, and he’s feisty,” you leaned against the door frame. “What’s your story then? Orphaned? Stole tires? Figured him out?” You went down the line and counted on your hands.

“Not necessarily,” your dad walks in from behind you and you jumped in your shoes.

“Hello to you too,” you rolled your eyes.

“(Y/N), this is Damian,” your father introduces him. “He’s your brother.” Your eyes widened. You looked at Damian again and, now that you really thought of it, you could see the resemblance to older pictures of your dad.

“Half brother, I’m guessing,” you added.

“Right. This will be his home from now on, help him get adjusted,” your father places the luggage in his hands down. “But, I’m not too worried about you.”

“Huh, have you told Dick yet?”

“He got here half an hour ago.”

“Oh, well, I guess I’ll clean up whatever mess happens,” you pushed off of the door now. “It’s nice to meet you, Damian, let’s get to know each other better later once you’re finished unpacking. I know a great arcade in the city you might like,” you adjusted your backpack and crossed the hall to your room. You leaned your backpack against your desk and went straight to work. The college application deadline was fast approaching and you had to be on top of it, then exam season was also following in its heels so you had to remain vigilant of that.

“So what exactly is your role, then?” Damian’s voice came behind you. You ignored the way your heart stopped from shock and turned around after taking a deep breath. You'd never get used to being snuck up on, even after having to deal with your brothers.

“Heiress. You?”

“You? Heir to what? The Batman title?” He was seated on your bed with his arms crossed.

“Oh no, no way, heiress to Wayne Industries of course,” you corrected him. “I have no intentions of doing whatever vigilante work dad or any of you usually do,” you crossed your arms and shook your head.

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“No, sir, I am not,” you nudged your head toward the desk behind you. “Plus I have more important things to worry about.”

“So you have no formal training at all?” Damian asks with heavy skepticism.

“I mean, I have basic combat skills that I learned from Dick and Jason, but that’s about it, just enough to handle my own, but not enough to do any vigilante work,” your eyes shifted to the side in thought. “Why?”

“I find it hard to believe that anyone would pass up an opportunity to become stronger.”

“I’m stronger in my own way, thank you very much,” you rolled your eyes and turned back around to your desk. “If you need anything else, just let me know. We’re siblings so I’ll always be happy to help you out,” you opened your laptop and started typing up one of your college essays. Damian didn’t respond, and when you looked back to check on him, he was gone. “They get stranger every time too…” you mumbled right as Dick sent a text to the sibling group chat.

‘THERE’S ANOTHER ONE?!’ You chuckled and shook your head.

‘Yeah.’ Tim’s response was blunt and your heart suddenly sank. Especially when just moments later his contact name appeared across your screen. You answered without hesitation.

“Hey, Timmy, what’s up?” You asked.

“Hey, sis, are you busy right now?”

“Just working on college applications, but I have plenty of time, where are you?”

“Let’s grab a coffee together, my treat! I just want someone to talk to right now.”

“Of course, Tim, I’ll be right over, our usual spot, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll save us a table. Drive safe, (Y/N).”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m heading out now, bye!”

“See you.” He hung up first and you grabbed your things before heading out of your room. Damian, meanwhile, kicked off from the wall next to your room.

“Where are you going?” He asks. You toss him a quick glance and a shrug.

“Out, why?”

“Out to patrol, right?” He presses. You shake your head.

“Nope, I already told you, I don’t do that stuff,” you walked down the stairs and he followed.

“Not even like Gordon?”

“Uh… Mr. Gordon or Babs?” You ask.

“Barbara.”

“No, I’m not too versed in tech, not on her level at least,” you grabbed your keys. “I’d invite you to join me, but I’m meeting up with Tim so maybe next time,” you tossed them in your hand now.

“For an intel report?”

“Why are you so set on me being a vigilante? I want nothing to do with that stuff, Damian,” you turned to him now. What was so hard for him to understand that you just weren’t a fighting person?

“It’s just…” Damian stops. You realized now how small he was, he couldn’t have been older than ten. “My… our father is the Batman. My mother is Talia al Ghul and yours is Selina Kyle.” Huh, he did his research. “I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that you’re wasting your potential. Why would you choose to be ordinary when you could be extraordinary?” He asks. You hummed and crossed your arms, what a way to put your decision down and by a child no less. You didn’t know Damian well at all, you’d just met him today and here he was putting your life on blast.

“Well, I guess that’s something we’ll both find out together later, huh? I’ll see you later, Damian,” you cut the conversation off and walked down to the garage. This time, Damian didn’t follow you.

~

2022

“I’m sorry you had to come here while it’s in this state, Damian,” you grimaced. You start moving around the apartment to tidy it up at least a little, “as you can tell, we’re not usually home,” you start piling beer bottles in your arms and tossing them in the bin. “I’ll be back, their majesties call,” you said with an annoyed tone before disappearing into one of the rooms.

“It feels like I have a massive hangover,” Nixon whines as he collapses on the couch.

“I think all my ribs are broken,” Carter mutters next to him.

“It’s not a competition, boy scout,” Nixon groans. “Alex?” He looks over at him.

“Get in line,” Alex finishes up wrapping Eve’s hands with fresh bandages.

“The fact that you two can both self-heal is fucking bullshit,” Nixon cries.

“It’s actually reattachment, which is much more painful than regen,” Alex replies, “Damian, come over here, (Y/N) would kill me if she saw so much as a scratch,” he gestures to the chair and Damian sits down hesitantly. “I don’t think you remember me.”

“I don’t.”

“Blunt, much?” Nixon snickers.

“I was penpals with your sister,” he rolls the bandages over Damian’s arms. “Nothing more, we had a thousand miles between us and your sister had a reply period of two business weeks,” he rolls his eyes. “Oh, Evangeline, could you look around if we have something for the lad to eat? When was the last time he ate anything?”

“When he scarfed down my lunch two days ago,” Nixon answers.

“Has it been two days?” Alex taps his head. The time period he’s been here had gone by in a blur. He didn’t even realize it had been that long at all. Landing here on this Earth, nearly being eaten alive by god knows what, and waiting in the cold dirt floors of the regroup encampment, before finally landing here. He wondered how many people went into battle because there were only fourteen people who made it to the encampment.

“I’m not hungry,” Damian cuts in. Just thinking of the brief moment he’d seen the aftermath of the battle nearly turned his stomach inside out.

“It’s not that, Damian, look at your hands,” Alex starts opening drawers and cabinets. Damian looks down and feels his throat go dry. His hands seemed nearly transparent as if he could stick them through anything and they’d easily go through.

“Explain, now!”

“This Earth’s protective spell is rejecting you since you’re not from here, eating anything from here will bypass that spell and make it seem like you’re native,” Alex opened the fridge. One beer and one egg.

“How old are you again, Damian?” Alex asks.

“Sixteen.”

“That’s old enough,” he took the bottle and hit the cap on the counter. The cap bounced off with a quiet clink and he handed it to Damian.

“He’s a child!” Eve gasps.

“Would you like to eat a raw egg, Damian?” He asks. Damian shakes his head. “Bottoms up then,” he hands the beer bottle to him.

“Wow, you two really live like this,” Nixon groans.

“How do you still have the energy to be an asshole?” Carter asks him.

“My sister surrounded herself with idiots,” Damian says with a quarter-finished bottle of beer. Just in time for you to walk out in a cleaner uniform. You adjusted your gloves over your hand.

“Oh, you gave my baby brother a beer,” you observed. “You could’ve given him the egg, you know.”

“You broke both our pot and pan,” Alex reminds you.

“In self-defense,” you grabbed your keys off the counter. “How you holding up, kiddo, tired? Hungry?”

“Confused,” Damian watched the color return to his hands.

“Wow, you two really are siblings, huh?” Nixon asks.

“I know, you think they’re idiots, it’s fine, come on, I have to take you with me,” you nudged your head toward the door and waited for Damian to follow. “Someone already reported Damian to her majesty, she’s demanding an explanation and I have about half an hour to bullshit a good one.”

“Oh, man, she’s going to give you hell, (Y/N),” Nixon’s laugh turns into a groan of pain.

“Dumbass,” you rolled your eyes. “Come on, Damian, I’ll explain everything on the way,” you gestured for him to stand up and he did so. “Eve, do me a solid, can you warp us to the castle?”

“Of course,” she places her hand on her heart and bows slightly before waving her hand in a circular motion. A portal opens up next to her and inside Damian could see the faint traces of a regal room on the other side. 

“You head in first, Dami,” you urged him in, and, carefully, he stepped through and landed in what looked like a waiting room. He turned around and saw a distorted version of your apartment within the vortex’s walls.

“What are you going to do about him, (Y/N)?” Alex asks.

“Get him home, obviously. But not now, the royal family is watching him because some idiot reported him as a survivor,” you shook your head. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Until then, he’d going to have to act.”

“I know, that’s what I’m worried about. I'm just trying to make sure he doesn't freak out,” you said before you finally stepped through and it swirled closed. “Okay so…” you looked Damian over, “I asked his highness for a favor, you can’t go in wearing your uniform,” you brushed the ashes off of his shoulder. Then, behind you, there is a knock at the door.

“Captain? May I come in?” Calvin’s voice was only loud enough for those in the room to hear.

“Door’s open.” The prince slid in with a bundle of clothes in his hands.

“Oh, goodness, when I heard you’d brought back a child with you I didn’t think the rumors were serious,” Calvin stares at Damian for a moment longer before turning to you. “These should fit him, I think, it’s the uniform we give to the wards when they’re still training.”

“I know what these are, I usually hand them out anyway,” you shrugged. “Damian, this is His Highness the Crown Prince, Calvin Reinhart. Your Highness, this is my younger brother, Damian Wayne.”

“I see, there is a subtle aura to you both that I now understand runs in the family,” he says vaguely. You handed the clothes to Damian.

“Get changed into those, kiddo, then we’ll talk,” you nodded.

“Comfort room is just across the hall,” Calvin points in its general direction with two fingers and Damian turns to you. You just nodded your head again and he left, just barely catching the conversation behind him. “I never took you as one to pick up a ward.”

“He’s in my care for the time being and he’s interested in Knighthood.” Your voices fell silent as soon as he closed the door behind him. He looked at himself in the mirror for a brief moment, spotting the scars and the healed-over gashes as well as the bandages, before slipping on the fresher pair of clothes. He folded his tattered uniform carefully, the encircled R staring back at him as he walked back.

“We should have him complete a field test then, you know what people would say if you just let him in.” Damian walked into the rest of the conversation and you held your hand out. He placed his uniform on it and you pushed it carefully into a backpack that you handed to him after.

“Oh, of course, I’ll do it by the books,” you reassured him. “What should I expect walking in?”

“My father wants a full report on what happened, you can just ignore whatever chide remarks my mother sends your way though,” he says.

“And you?”

“I don’t have a say in any of this,” he sighs. He looks at Damian. “Wow, a perfect fit.”

“He’s as ready for this as any of those other kids are,” you crossed your arms.

“Are you sure? That test is difficult, I barely got through it,” he says.

“Yours was a formality, your highness,” you reminded him.

“Right, right,” Calvin nods with a knowing smile. “I’ll see you in the throne room, then,” he bids goodbye and closes the door quietly behind him.

“Look at you, handsome devil,” you rubbed his hair gently and leaned against the table in the room. “Alright, Damian, ready for your first mission on this new Earth?”

“Absolutely,” he straightens up.

“Mission one on the new Earth: Be good, blend in. Look, the royal family can’t know that you dropped from another Earth, okay? As far as they know we’ve all been born and raised here, very few people know about where the Brigade members came from. So, let’s get our story straight,” you leaned down and spoke in a quiet voice. Your eyes moved side to side to ensure that no one was listening. “Like usual, you are my younger brother. Our parents are living in the mountain regions and sent both of us down when we were teenagers to find livelihoods. I’m all done, but you’re just starting, I brought you in to live with me because you were interested in joining the Knight’s Order, and from today on you will be my apprentice,” you spoke in a steady voice and he nodded.

“Anything else I should know?”

“Don’t look into the eyes of the queen directly, she’ll know that you’re lying,” you told him. “Each member of the royal family has a special ability that has kept them in power. The King can crush your bones at the snap of his fingers, the Queen can know if you’re telling the truth with a simple glance at your eyes, and the Prince can throw anything and it’d reach it’s target. The presence of these innate abilities and the power to grant them is proof of royal blood,” you explained. “But, you don’t need to worry about all of that, hell, you don’t even have to worry about the practical exam coming up to enter as a Knight’s apprentice, at your skill level I’d promote you to the highest already,” you laughed shortly. “But, let me do all the talking in there, just observe, and if you notice something’s off, find a subtle way to tell me,” you stood up and he followed you out. You knew the layout of the castle already, having been here almost as many times as your own home, and finally you stood beyond two grandiose doors that stretched higher than Damian thought normal.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” he nodded his head and you opened the doors, together, you both walked into the grand throne room. Before you sat three of the most powerful people in that world and, to say the least, Damian felt the pressure in the atmosphere. It was similar to those few times when he knew his enemies out-skilled him. He found himself subconsciously moving toward you and, as if you understood, your hand pulled him closer.

“Captain,” the King spoke.

“Your Majesty,” you stopped a good distance away from the thrones, bowed your head, and put your hand to your heart. Damian followed suit.

“What is that behind you,” the Queen spat. Damian didn’t miss the annoyed look in your eyes as you looked up at the other woman.

“My younger brother, and soon to be my apprentice,” you explained.

“I see,” she relaxes into her seat. “Quite the predicament you’ve found yourself in. If he will affect your duties, dispose of him.” Damian’s fists clenched behind his back, but he said nothing.

“That won’t be a problem. You’ll soon see that he is a very capable young man.”

“Tch,” the Queen turned her nose. Damian suddenly realizes why Jason would be so pissed when he did that to him. “So he’s virtually untouchable.”

“Yes.”

“Give me news on that village,” the King cut into the conversation.

“It’s unsalvageable, Your Majesty,” You replied curtly. He shifted slightly.

“How many survivors?”

“Five…”

“Hundred?” He cut you off.

“No, your majesty. Five,” you touched your heart again. “Correction, three, not including us from the Knight’s Order.”

“My god,” the Queen shook her head. “How could your team, your special operations unit, have failed?!”

“I believe I’ve told you before, Your Majesty, there have been frequent sightings of a new and much stronger daemon in our midst. Usually, we have been able to handle these mutations, but, for reasons unknown, an entire herd of a new variant descended upon the village,” you stood your ground and continued to explain the situation, all of which Damian already knew as Eve filled him in.

“Usually?” The King’s stance straightened and the Queen’s expression grew grave.

“Father, if you’d recall, I gave you a brief report on the Brigade’s findings a few days ago,” Calvin spoke up. The King held his hand up and Calvin stopped. “Captain, you look like you’re about to say something,” he gestures toward you.

“Yes, Your Majesty, I can assure you that the Brigade has everything under control.”

“New variant?” She asks. “How long have you been dealing with these beasts before informing us?!”

“Near a year now, Your Majesty, but with much smaller variants.”

“A year?! When were you planning on reporting this?!” She shouts.

“The Brigade has had this issue under control up until now. The mutations were advancing at a slow rate until now, and thus we kept a watchful eye on them. As I said, the variant that destroyed that village is a new one. We have never seen one that advanced that far,” your voice remained firm.

It was a presence that Damian wasn’t used to. The longer he stayed here, the more he realizes how much you’ve changed. Especially now, you look just like their father. Damian’s eyes wandered to the Prince, who was silent this entire time. He was almost entirely different than when he saw him earlier, whatever warmth he thought he saw in him was replaced with a bitter coldness that matched his parents, it was almost impressive. Calvin was watching you with a strange mix of curiosity, confusion, and concern. His head rested on the palm of his hand as he tried to feign superiority, but he held a similar annoyed expression that you had, with his eyes constantly shifting to the Queen, who seemed ready to boil over with rage.

“I see,” the King tapped his foot, the sound bouncing off of the room’s walls. “Then continue doing what you’ve been doing.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Await further orders then, Captain. You are dismissed.” You bowed your head again, turned on your heel, and left, Damian following close behind with every hair at the back of his neck standing up from the stares alone.

~

“What do you mean, you can’t find him?” Dick shouts. Tim rubs his head angrily and gestures toward the screen.

“Do you see him on the radar? No? Well, neither can I!” He argues. Jason rolls his eyes.

“Stop arguing,” Bruce sighs.

“Why am I even here?” Jason grumbles. He takes his helmet. “I’m out, this is stupid. We’re wasting time using this tech, I’ll find him myself and drag him back, yeah? Maybe the kid found (Y/N) already too,” he says.

“Jason has a point, we’re getting nowhere configuring this system,” Bruce concedes.

“Jason, Bruce, wait, come on, we should make sure he’s alright, the fact that he’s not pinging here is a huge problem,” Dick reasons. Tim turns back to the bat computer and a notification pings. “Hold on, there’s some noise about a strange light in the third district, it might be something to look into.”

“Pull it up, then,” Bruce says.

“Yeah,” Tim answers. He pulls up the grainy CCTV footage, speeding through the footage to find something of interest, and once he saw the bright light he scrubbed back a few minutes, and the figure centered in it was unmistakable. They watched as Damian ran around the area, asking random people who happened to be passing by, and whatnot, then a stranger walked up to him and inaudibly told him something. Whatever he said, Damian listened carefully, before the stranger pulled out what looked similar to a pocket watch. Damian watched the pendulum move from side to side before falling to the ground. The stranger lifted him and disappeared into the alley, a bright light emitting from it, and the footage ended there.

“Shit… I should’ve known it was one of the three,” Steph frowns.

“Three?” Tim turns to her.

“You know… aliens, robots, or wizards? This has to be wizard, it’s written all over it,” she says.

“Damian was not kidnapped by wizards,” Tim drags a tired hand down his face.

“Holy shit, Damian was kidnapped by wizards?!” Jason looks up from his phone and then it was Bruce’s turn to sigh, but before the argument could continue, then a notification pings on the batcomputer and Tim was quick to navigate to it.

“Whoa… what’s that?” Jason looks at the picture on the screen.

“I think (Y/N) left it behind, I found it on her seat after I woke up,” Tim skims through the report. “Damn… no matches.”

“Looks like it belongs to a wizard,” Steph whispers, and Cass snickers.

“Wait, try cross-referencing it with the CCTV from earlier,” Dick cuts in.

“You sure?” Tim asks.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he was holding a watch.”

“It could just be a pocket watch, you know?” Jason argues.

“Who the hell carries pocket watches in the 21st century?” Steph chides.

“It’s a match!” Tim nearly jumps from his seat.

“Shit, never mind then,” Jason shrugs and Tim pulls the pocketwatch from its spot on the console. He opens it quickly.

“Take a look inside of it, I noticed that the watch face looked too peculiar,” Tim tapped it and so far, no dice. There was no reaction or movement whatsoever. Inside the watch face was a series of concentric circles that were intersected by a number of hands that extended the length of each circle’s radii.

“Yeah… uh… maybe it also reads milliseconds,” Jason hums.

“I doubt that,” Tim grimaces.

“You guys really think it’s magic?” Dick asks.

“I’m thinking more of that it could be some complicated tech that neither of us understands yet,”

And so, operation Save Damian is a go.

~

2015

“So… how’s the new kid doing?” Steph asks. You, her, Cass, and Babs sat at a cafe table, you just wanting to eat your sandwich while the three of them were extra intent on hearing the drama from you firsthand.

“Damian’s doing good, stellar, actually, like… he’s probably one of the best Robins from the get-go,” you shrugged.

“Best Robin? That’s a loaded statement,” Steph chuckled.

“I did say from the get-go. But, to be fair, Damian’s raising situation was a little different than the others.”

“Right, the al Ghuls,” Steph says with an exaggerated tone. 

“If you want to ask about Robin stuff you should ask the guys though, I’m not involved in that stuff,” you shook your head. “Like… Jesus, the kid’s only ten! I know it’s not my place to judge but… I kinda want to give him at least a bit of a childhood but he’s so…” you trailed, trying to find the right words to say.

“Bratty?” Steph asks.

“Rude?” Babs tries.

“Conceited?” Cass says before drinking her iced coffee.

“Those are a bit harsh,” you shook your head. You sighed and played with your straw for a bit. “Lonely. He seems very lonely,” you drank some of your drink, trying to ignore the hinted tension at the table now. “I don’t know… I mean, I get it, I do. He grew up to be an assassin, and he didn’t have time or the privilege to make friends, I don’t have the full story so I can’t assume, I just want him to feel comfortable,” you rest your chin on your palm.

“Takes one to know one, huh?” Cass asks.

“Yeah,” you answered absently. Then, in the blink of an eye, you smiled and shook your head. “Not that I was lonely, you know? Obviously, I had all of you, my brothers, my mom, and Alfred so I had plenty of people, and you’re all so wonderful so… I just want Damian to see that too. I get why he doesn’t want to be close with me since I’m just ordinary, but I hope at least Dick gets through to him,” you said.

“Well, Dick has a way with people so I’m sure they’ll bond somehow,” Babs nods.

“Ordinary… you’ve never used that word before,” Cass taps a finger on the table and you shook your head.

“It’s no big deal, it’s just the truth,” you shrugged. “When I first met Damian he said something interesting to me, actually,” you adjusted yourself so you were more comfortable on the metal chairs, “he brought up how our dad is Bruce Wayne, then he brought up how my mom is Selina Kyle, and he asked me why I settled to be ordinary when I could’ve been extraordinary.”

“Yeah, sis, he’s just a brat,” Steph deadpans.

“Hey now,” you shot a pointed look at her and she shrugs. “Anyway, I got to thinking about it over with Tim—”

“Aw, hell, Tim! Shit, how’d he take the news?” Steph asks. You shook your head.

“You didn’t hear it from me, but not well. Wait for him to talk to you about it though,” you told her. “But back on topic… I discussed it with Tim and he told me that of all of us, I was the most important member,” you rolled your eyes. “I didn’t buy it at first but…” you took a deep breath. “Every super family needs a civilian, right?” You finally said. Cass reached over and held your hand in hers, squeezing it with some amount of reassurance.

“You are so much more than just an ordinary civilian, (Y/N),” Steph says. “You’re our sister, through and through. Not just anyone can shut Jason up the way you do,” she adds with a short laugh.

“Yeah, I’m sure Damian is hurting right now, he needs time to open up,” Cass says.

“He’s an interesting boy, he’s so mission-driven that it surprises me,” Babs sighs. 

“Dad thinks that me taking him out is a waste,” you sighed.

“Bruce said that?” Babs masks her surprise.

“He said it in a very Bruce Wayne way, you know? I told him I’d be taking Damian with me somewhere and he would hit me with the “Again?” and ugh it just makes me angry,” you grumbled.

“Well, he was never able to control you either, so there’s probably not much he could do to stop you,” Steph says.

“Like he’d try,” you leaned back against the chair and stole a glance at your watch. “I should head back to the manor, I still have assignments,” you sighed.

“Oh, need a ride? Let’s share an Uber,” Babs says.

“Sure, yeah, how about you two?”

“I have to go on patrol,” Steph says.

“Ditto,” Cass readjusts her scarf and you nod.

“Good luck, then, stay safe,” you gave the both of them hugs before following Barbra.

“You know, (Y/N),” Barbara spoke up when you were a good distance away, “I think what you’re doing for Damian is good,” she says.

“What am I doing?”

“Giving him a chance,” she says. “You’re right, he’s still a child, even though he acts so mature, sometimes I hear a sliver of the child he is and it reminds me that normally he wouldn’t be handling these kinds of missions,” she says.

“Yeah, I always worry about him,” you shake your head.

“(Y/N), about what Tim said, he’s right, you know. You keep us in touch with our human side, I know sometimes you feel left out when you walk into our meetings, but you are an instrumental member of our family,” she continues. “Remember that, (Y/N).”

“I know, I know,” you nodded. You’d known ever since you renounced the vigilante business. The looks you got from everyone were just different, and the looks you got from people after were just as bad.

~

“Thirsty? You should drink something,” you pulled out two discs from your pocket while you and Damian walked along the castle halls. Holding the discs close together, you firmly grasped onto the handles and twisted them to open and, as you separated the discs, water gathered between them.

“Whoa…” he observes it and you hand it to him. “How do I drink this?”

“You can hold it with one hand,” you chuckled and reached over, pulling out a small sphere of water and popping it into your mouth. “We have actual water bottles, but it’s just easier to carry that around,” you said.

“Is this magic?” He copies you and pulls a small sphere of water from the middle before drinking it.

“Yup, Alex brought it from somewhere,” you answered while Damian handed the device back to you. You resealed it and put it away. “Now, today’s the entrance practical for new knights, I gotta admit that we lucked out there. Like I said earlier, I’m pretty sure you’ll pass with flying colors,” you turned him down a hallway.

“What should I expect?”

“It’s divided into two exams. The first is an obstacle course, you have to get through it within ten minutes. The second is a mock hunt, you’ll have to fight and capture a beginner-level beast,” you say. “Easy, for you, trust.” You both walked out into the training grounds, Damian shielded his eyes from the harsh sunlight while he looked around seeing knights of various backgrounds roam around. “See that building over there? The one with the green banner on it? That’s for you and the other examinees, go ahead and make yourself comfortable there for now while I meet with the others to prep the course, and, oh! One more thing Dami!”

“Yeah?”

“Be nice to the other kids, okay? Not everyone's as cool as you.” You urged him forward and you waited for him to reach the practice house before taking off yourself.

Damian opened the door cautiously, seeing boys and girls similar to his age all talking amongst themselves and preparing for the exam. 

“So the rumors are true, they let in a homeschooler?” One of the boys snarked. Damian turns to him, unamused. “Guess what, mountain boy, this exam isn’t for bumpkins like you,” he sneers.

“Oh, leave him alone, Hugo!” One of the girls grimaces. “Here, new kid, come sit with us,” she waves Damian over to a table with a few others and, remembering your words, obliges. “I’m Retta,” she introduces herself.

“Damian,” he sits next to her.

“I’m Niers!” The platinum blond boy next to him is next.

“My name’s Luciana,” the tanned girl goes next.

“And I’m Lowen,” the last boy introduces himself.

“So, is it true? You didn’t go to any of the academies?” Niers asks. Damian nods.

“Yeah, I trained… in the mountains,” he holds back a groan. Maybe you didn’t change at all, your lies were still obvious.

“That’s so crazy, I always forget there’s a whole village up there,” Niers hums. “Shoot, so you don’t know what to expect, huh?”

“I have an idea,” Damian eyes the tarts that Retta stacks on his plate.

“Eat them, they’re good for you. They have some mild stamina enhancers in them,” she smiles.

“I mean, we’ve kinda always known what the exam has,” Luciana mutters. “Lowen and I have siblings in the Knighthood already,” she says.

“Really?” Well, that’s a coincidence.

“Yeah, my older brother’s Aldryn,” Lowen says it with a slight hint of disdain. “Luci's are the twins in lab coats.”

“My older siblings! Marion'll be at the test today too, I’m so nervous,” she chews on the inside of her lip and Retta places a cookie on her plate.

“For the nerves,” she says. “No worries though, depending on how you fail you get a retest,” Retta explains.

“Is it really that difficult?” Damian asks.

“Oh, you don’t even know,” Niers shudders. “But… all of this for one reason!” He says. The four teens put their hands in the center and a blazing determination appears in their gazes. They glance at Damian, waiting for him to join in and, with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, he does so.

“To meet the Captain Wayne in the flesh!” Luciana says. Damian is taken aback for a moment.

“To meet the Captain Wayne!” The other three announce. What are the odds he gets sucked into his sister’s fan club?

‘Good grief…’ he could feel his battery draining already.

“Examinees, to the exam field,” Nixon walks in holding a clipboard. He eyes Damian but makes no other attempts at acknowledgment before leaving.

“That’s our cue! Follow us, Damian, we help each other out in this group!” Retta smiles.

“And who said I was in this group?”

“We all did now go!” Niers pushes everyone forward.

Damian listened in on all the conversations on their way to the site, trying to get a general idea of what awaited him. He’d heard many different things, but if one detail was certain, it was that the beast at the end was what they called a ‘Hamig’ whatever that was. You had mentioned to him that it was a beginner-level beast, but he still remained on his guard.

But when he saw the test site, he had to hold back a laugh. And when he spotted you walking toward the group, the eye contact alone almost made you both laugh.

You were right. This was child’s play.

“Students of the 28th class, today is your practical exam to join the Knighthood. My name is Captain (Y/N) Wayne and I oversee all the affairs of the Knighthood and the Brigade. Today myself, Nixon Jones, and Carter Adara will be observing your exams and grading you. You will know if you passed or failed as soon as you complete the exam and you are allowed one retest and one only. If you fail both of those, you will be held back to the next class practical which will happen exactly a year from now. We will be conducting the first exam now, then we’ll have a break, and finally the second part. Don’t let your guard down, and impress us. Your rankings will be given to you today as well,” you instructed. “So, who’s first?” You looked among the crowd. Damian crossed his arms, the first rule of undercover was easy, don’t stand out. He would have to observe the general skill level of everyone first just in case. “Ah, a volunteer already! Let’s see if I’m remembering correctly, Hugo Gardner?” You asked. Damian’s gaze moved over to the boy who pushed his way forward.

“That’s me, I’m glad you remember,” his bravado’s unmatched.

“Right, hard to forget you,” you smiled.

“This is Hugo’s fourth time retaking the practical,” Lowen says quietly, and Damian fights back a snort. This was the kid who tried to demean him? He couldn’t wait to see him fail the course.

And fail he did. Landing face first into the mud below because he didn’t gauge how far the next platform was.

“Gardner, back to the group, you’ll be retesting after everyone completes their exam,” Carter says.

“Whatever,” Hugo spats. “See that, mountain boy?! If I could barely get through it you could kiss this title goodbye!” He laughs. Damian glares at him and you shook your head. Not yet, it was a reminder.

Then, students came and went, students passed, and students failed, and, finally, that left Damian. He had looked over everyone’s abilities enough that he could replicate it to avoid attention, he didn’t want to make this more difficult for you, at least. He had heard a range of different times already, he’d heard eight minutes, nine minutes, eleven minutes, and more and less. The best time right now was five minutes and forty-two seconds. He could complete this in two, but he knew he shouldn’t, don’t draw attention.

“You can still drop out, mountain hobo!” Hugo’s insults were obviously forced.

Aw, whatever, Damian couldn’t resist a chance to show off against people like that. So, he stood at the starting line, and once you had blown the whistle, he took off.

The first course was simple, climbing. One jump and a strategically planned landing point had him at the top in seconds. Then, where Gardner failed, the jump to the next platform. Easy, Damian didn’t have to think of it. The next section was a series of spinning columns with various protrusions, and this one took out a lot of the cohort already, but, again, easy. The trick was to see the pattern before running in, and he’d seen it so many times already. The final part stretched over a small body of water with various buoys set up. There were many strategies for this one, such that he’d seen, either use momentum at each buoy or use them as floaters. Damian decided to do neither of those and used them as platforms instead, moving with ease among each and landing at the finish line.

“Two minutes,” Nixon clicks the stopwatch, and surprised gasps and cheers followed.

“That was crazy, Damian! Why didn’t you tell us you were that good?” Niers compliments him. “Shoot, now I feel kinda embarrassed, you’re a pro!”

“We worried for no reason,” Luci's shoulders relaxed.

“Hey, check out Hugo,” Lowen grins. Hugo had begun his retest, standing at the top of the climbing tower and staring at the platform. Be good, Damian thought of those words again. After years of living with his father, of being good, maybe this new Earth was a chance to try anew.

“Hey, Gardner!” Damian shouts. Hugo glares at him. “Focus on the platform before you jump, trust your instincts! If you’d been training for this, then you can handle it,” Damian instructs. Hugo takes a deep breath and, assumably, follows Damian’s instructions and successfully lands on the platform.

“Shouldn’t we call that out,” Nixon nudges you.

“No, I don’t think I can handle watching Hugo come in another year, he’s been working hard for this. Teamwork and trust are also tenets we emphasize,” you say. You watched Hugo continue through the course with difficulty and, once he’d reached the finish, Nixon checked the stopwatch.

“Eight minutes and seven seconds,” he calls, “congrats, Hugo, you advance to the final test,” he says. Hugo stands for a moment, catching his breath, when tears finally slipped down and his friends rushed over to him, all congratulating him on his achievement.

“You did good, kid,” you nudged Damian with your clipboard and he shrugs it off.

“Whatever…” he says. You slipped a lunch bag in his hand.

“So, let’s take a break, then we’ll complete today’s exam. Everyone who didn’t pass, don’t take it to heart, use this as a learning experience to prepare for the next exam. And those who did pass, don’t let it get to your head, the second exam is much harder,” you announced, walking past Damian as if nothing had happened.

“Damian! Come over here!” Retta calls him over again and he follows while he opened the paper bag and spotted the salad and fruits inside, and beneath it a wrapped veggie burger. Then, as he sat down, Damian felt an overwhelming sense of nostalgia and, if memory served him right, then your note should be sandwiched under the fruits and bingo. He reads the note in the bag, keeping his privacy about himself as he does so.

‘Why did P stick with J? Because P is butter with J! - Big Sis’ There is no Earth where that would have been funny. But, call it instinct, he flipped the note over and lo and behold, the actual message.

‘Hey Dami, the lunch they’re serving is boar roast and, obviously, you can’t eat that, so I had my assistant run and grab you these. They might taste a little different than what you’re used to, though, just keep an open mind.’ 

Keep an open mind? Damian pulled the salad out, eyeing the purple lettuce and pink spinach.

Oh.

~

As soon as the elevator doors opened, you walked straight forward, stopping in front of the cage with the beast inside, still standing, and still looming, but still silent. You looked at it carefully, going over all the details with a new understanding.

“Hello, old friend,” you crossed your arms and the beast seemed to bow its head. Unable to speak, it raises it now, exposing the dog tags melted into its fur. You looked at the protective circles around it, stepping through them carefully to approach the cage and, just barely, you could just barely make out the name on it.

‘CK - 78’ was engraved on it. Whoever this was, they weren’t part of the Knighthood.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are,” you backed away from the cage and the beast whimpered, lowering to the ground and lying there peacefully.

“Captain,” you look over your shoulder and watch the two twin scientists enter.

“That’s the most relaxed it’s been,” Inigo speaks up.

“All day, every day, that thing snarls at me and snaps at whoever nears it. It likes you, Cap, I don’t know why though,” Marion shakes her head.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mary,” you lied. Again, you looked at the beast, who watched you with one eye.

“Pitiful creature, if we weren’t studying it then I would’ve put it out of his misery,” Inigo shoves his hands into his lab coat pockets. “So, what can we help you with, Cap?”

“Just looking, there’s something that’s been bothering me since the last attack,” you crossed your arms. “The report said that this beast displayed an unparalleled strength, and after dealing with similar variants I can confirm that,” you looked over the beast again.

“We’ve been trying to heal the wounds too,” Marion says, “it won’t let us get close.”

“The beast is guarded, most wild beasts are,” you nodded. “Well, keep up the good work, it’s about time I proctored the second exam,” you looked at your watch.

“Damn, that time of the year already? Cut 'em some slack, Cap.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved your hand and left the room, hearing the beast stand up behind you with sounds of metal hitting the cage to prove it.

Not Your Classic Vigilante: @gabytodd @peachydokii @marshmallow12435 @f0leysgurl @luminaaz @lolsnack @akuri-shinsou @pansinspace @time-shardz @lovely-maryj @urminebutidontwantyou @y3oudsc 

[chaxiu]

what fish feel

pairing: osamu x fem! reader

summary: what we hold in the time we have – a return to japan and the unfamiliar roads of your heart. title stolen from a bashō haiku that loosely translated goes something like

what fish feel

birds feel, I don’t know—

the year ending.

notes: my official petition to let osamu have an absolute disaster of a partner. post-timeskip spoilers for occupations (specifically of the inarizaki crew). reader is japanese-diaspora (heavily implied to be japanese-american.) my japanese is poor so please correct me if there’s something not right! loosely inspired by the documentary jiro dreams of sushi (which you can watch for free on youtube, i think!). 

for all my diaspora lovelies and for everyone who, as a child, used to think i want to go home, no matter where they were. here’s hoping the road there is warm and well-lit. 

cw: casual mentions of racism, sexism, xenophobia in relation to japanese culture. second-gen immigrant guilt (and by default an obsession with food as a love language.) very in-your-face flouting of health and safety codes for restaurants.

___

Summer, and the sky is nothing but blue. 

Your airplane touches down on the runway in a fit of grinding gears and last-minute jolts, but it pales in comparison to the way your legs are cramped and sore, a product of so many hours sat in the same place – the perils of a window seat – alternately staring out the window and dozing against the shade.

Your neighbor, next to you, smiles at you. You’ve spent some time talking to her – listening to her talk, really, the nice old obaa-chan in the middle seat who is just coming back from visiting her son and his wife and their newly-born daughter abroad, who spent at least an hour of the trip painstakingly swiping through photos while you smiled and nodded along.

“日本へよこそ,” she says. Welcome to Japan. You wonder if it should feel more momentous, this first welcome to the country in which your roots are deepest. The first few minutes of a month-long stay, your longest time in this country by far.

Instead, what is: you really do have to pee.

Finding a bathroom in the airport is simple enough, as is making your way through the customs line, although there’s a brief moment of confusion when the customs agent sees your face, your features, and attempts to wave you towards the line for returning nationals. You put your hands up, bow apologetically. “日系人,” you say, and her face clears of confusion. 

She points you to the right line. 

At the very least, you think, standing with your passport dangling between two fingers, at the very least you speak the language – slowly, in fits and starts, with gaps where your vocabulary should be and absolutely no understanding of any slang – but at the very least you can do things like tell the customs officer what you are. Foreign-born, Japanese descent: close enough by generation that this land should maybe be familiar to you, should maybe be something approaching yours. Far enough that it’s not, not really.

Once you’re through customs and baggage claim – luggage collected, both you and your suitcases a little worse for wear – there’s nothing to do but make your way to the exit, where your cousin is waiting. She looks like you, maybe, if you squint and tilt your head a little. You try your best not to think about it, about how maybe this is what you’d look like if you stayed. She regards you for a moment.

“Hey,” she says in Japanese.

“Hey,” you say back. It is not the first time you’ve felt uncomfortably aware of your accent – how much it must stick out. How everyone who comes into contact with you must know right away how much you're not from here. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

She raises an eyebrow, grabbing one of your suitcases, ignoring your half-hearted attempt at protest. “Come on. Mom’s making dinner.”

Dinner, at least, is something you know. You grip the handle of your remaining suitcase. Follow her out into the sunshine.

Your aunt lives in the suburbs of Tokyo, and you make it there just as the sun begins to set. Stepping out of the car, you shield your face against the glow. “It’s pretty,” you say, half to yourself, half because the car ride had been awkwardly quiet enough that you’d begun to say any inane comment that sprung to your mind out loud, in hopes of starting any kind of conversation.

Your cousin spares it a glance, then pauses. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess so.”

Inside, your aunt fusses over you in a way that makes you feel equal parts uncomfortable and longing – this is what I could’ve had, over and over in your head like a drumbeat. Dinner is already on the table, uni – sea urchin – as the crowning glory.

“You liked this when you were little,” your aunt says, “the last time you came to visit us. Do you remember?”

You don’t. You say you do anyway.

The truth is you think probably you would say you liked anything – even as you take your first bites and realize sometime between childhood and now, you’d unlearned how to like the texture. It’s okay, you think. It’s enough to be here, in the light around the table.

You eat without waiting for your uncle, who gets home halfway through the meal. He toes his shoes off in the genkan, and you stand when he steps inside. From what you remember of him, he is a quiet man. His wife does enough talking for the both of them. Still, when he smiles the corners of his eyes crinkle, and it strikes a chord of remembrance. 

“Tadaima,” he says.

You mouth it along with your aunt and cousin. “Okaeri.”

That night, with the grime of the airport washed off of you, wearing your softest T-shirt and pants probably a size too large, you sit on the futon that’s been unrolled for you – in your cousin’s room, right by the window – and stare at the moon. It looks the same. You feel the same. Your cousin, in bed already, is only illuminated by the glow of her phone screen. “Good night,” you say, tentative.

“Good night,” she says, rolling over in bed to face away from you.

The next morning your uncle is gone before you wake up – off to work. Your cousin has class at university, and so you follow your aunt around. It settles in a pattern of the next few days, and you have to actively fight against feeling like a lost duckling. She takes you to the Tokyo Skytree, and you make all the appropriate sounds and take the right photos to send home, of Tokyo’s beautiful skyline. She takes you to Shibuya, and you marvel at the densely packed crowds of people together. She takes you to Tsukiji, the smell of the brine and the ocean lingering on your clothes for hours. She takes you grocery shopping and in the evenings you cook next to her, losing yourself in the familiar repetition of the knife. It could probably be enough, if you let it.

On the sixth day of your visit your aunt’s friend has to go to the hospital – nothing serious, your aunt assures you, but better that they go now – and for the first time since your arrival you are left to your own devices, with nothing but time and the sky above you.

You attempt to go back to the places your aunt’s taken you, to get some shopping done – gifts, maybe, for the people you’ve left at home – but there’s something in you so uncomfortably aware that all the places she’s taken you are tourist destinations, first and foremost. That no one from Tokyo really ever goes. 

You pivot away from Shibuya and start walking.

Down the streets, turning when you feel like it, almost definitely walking in a circle more than once – there is something about the act of it, about walking these streets. About pretending, for just a moment – pretending what, you’re not sure. You walk until it’s far past lunchtime and your stomach is reminding you incessantly, until you’re scanning the signs you walk by – an udon restaurant here, an izakaya closed until the evening there – for something you might want to eat.

One of the signs, simple white characters on black font, catches your eye, and you slow to a stop. Sound out the characters in your mouth, clumsy and fumbling. Onigiri Miya, it reads, and you rock back and forth on the heels of your feet as you ponder. This time of day – too late for lunch, and too early for dinner – it’s likely to be just you in there. This could be good: you could be able to eat quickly and quietly, in and out. Or it could be awful: everyone who works there could whisper about you behind their hands, talking about the odd foreigner with the too-loud voice and too-crooked accent, always a beat behind the conversation. As the seconds tick on your thoughts turn towards dread, and you make to turn away instead.

“Hey,” says a voice. You startle.

The man standing behind you is dressed in what must be the uniform of the shop, black pants and black shirt with the Onigiri Miya logo embroidered on the breast. He smiles at you, crooked and reassuring. Says something in the most heavily accented Japanese you’ve ever heard – not that it’s much of a competition – and you blink at him. He must not be from Tokyo, then – must be from a rural prefecture – although where, you certainly couldn’t hazard a guess. 

The realization – how much of a stranger you are, even in this country that should know and be known by you – fills you with hot, irrational shame.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak, bowing to him, shoulders so high they’re almost touching your ears. You turn and flee without a backwards glance.

____

The next day, a little calmer, a little clearer-headed, you think through it again and realize that fleeing was almost certainly the absolute weirdest thing you could’ve done. 

He must think I’m such a freak, you mourn, chopping the green onions with a little more force than necessary. Such a weirdo. What kind of person stands in front of a store for minutes on end, and then when an employee comes to help you, runs away? What kind of person –

“Hey,” your cousin says, dropping her bag by the door. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve just lost all your life savings and your house burned down in a fire. What’s wrong?”

It all spills out, then – the streets, the store, the man, his polite confusion. How you had essentially run away. She blinks at you, nonplussed.

“Oh… kay,” she says, finally. “Listen, I’m not gonna pretend that was a super weird thing to do –”

You moan, setting down your knife to bury your face in your arms. It’s nice here – dark. Safe. Quiet. Maybe you should never leave.

“But,” she says firmly, “the way I see it, you have two options. Number one, live on forever in shame, knowing for the rest of your life that man will be thinking about the weirdo who showed up at his store and then ran away for the rest of his life. You will forever be Weird Runaway Girl to him. Like some fucked-up version of Cinderella.”

You bury your face deeper.

“Number two, you go apologize. And it’s weird and maybe super awkward but then it’s over and you have closure and you never have to see him again.”

You inhale. Exhale. “Can’t I just get deported,” you say into the crook of your elbow. The words come out muffled but she must hear you anyway, patting your back semi-awkwardly. 

“We’ll call that Plan C,” she says, before rolling her sleeves up. “Here. What else needs chopping?”

The next day you make your excuses to your aunt – not telling her about the Great Onigiri Miya Debacle, because having one other person know about it is already embarrassing enough – and set off on your own again, attempting to retrace your steps. Somehow you make enough wrong turns and backtracks that when you make it back it’s almost the same time of day it was yesterday. You pause when you catch sight of the storefront banner fluttering the breeze, hands fisted in the hem of your shirt.

“Just go in,” you mutter to yourself. “Apologize. Then you’ll be done with this and no one has to know ever again.”

“It’s you again,” a familiar voice says, half-confused and half-amused, and for a second the idea of getting deported becomes more appealing than anything else in the world.

“It’s me again,” you agree bleakly. “I’m sorry – would you mind – speaking a little slower? My Japanese – it’s not –”

“‘Course not,” he says, voice a little more enunciated, the deep bass of it picking carefully through the syllables, and you finally gain the willpower to peek up at him. He’s rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, a little abashed. What he could possibly have to be embarrassed about when the sum total of your interactions with him have been 1) you running away from him and 2) you telling him he talks too fast, you’re not sure, but it fills you with an odd amount of confidence. 

“Sorry,” you say again. “I just – I wanted to –”

He pauses, regards you regarding him. His cap is slightly askew. You want to reach out and adjust it. You want to see if his hair is as soft as it looks. (You want to file a restraining order against yourself, on his behalf. Before it’s too late.)

“Why don’tcha come in?” he says finally. “We’re closed right now, but I’ll make ya something.”

Closed –! 

All of this and they’d been closed this time of day anyways. What an absolutely humiliation of a punchline.

Face burning, you follow him in. 

“Have ya had onigiri before?” he asks, flicking the lights on, the air conditioning humming to life. You watch him tie an apron around his waist. Normally a question like that would make you flush with embarrassment – of course you’ve had onigiri before, you’re not that much of an alien – but something about the way he says it, the drawl of it. Something about the sleepy-slow light of the store, pale wood and tables gold-lit by the sunlight.

“Yes,” you say. “But really only mostly from konbinis.”

“The best kind,” he says. “We used t’ get those after school all the time. Walk home together eating ‘em.”

Your childhood had involved nothing of the sort, but you can imagine it – the long walk home. A boy jumping up, hand outstretched, to slap the leaves of a tree’s low-hanging branch. You hum. He washes his hands, salts them. You watch as a clump of rice begins to take shape between them. 

“Yours aren’t the best?”

He grins at you. “No, they are,” he says readily. Watching him in the summer light, you’re inclined to believe him. “Just a different kind of best, ‘s all.”

“You didn’t grow up in Tokyo,” you say. More an observation than a question, but he hums assent anyways.

“‘M from Hyogo. That’s why my Japanese sounds all funny – it’s the Kansai-ben.” He does not ask where you’re from. You’re grateful even as you hate yourself a little for it. It’s not that you’re ashamed, really. More like you’ve spent your life as one kind of other and it is less pleasant than you imagined it would be, to suddenly find yourself as the exact opposite but still on the outskirts.

“Sorry,” you say, abrupt. “For… for…”

“The running?” he asks. He doesn’t look up at you, focusing on the rice between his hands. “‘S okay. Ya had places to be.”

At the time the only place you’d had to be was away from here, but you recognize the out for what it is and take it gratefully. “Still. I imagine it was pretty startling.”

He shrugs. “I have a twin brother who does weird shit all the time. I’ve gotten kinda used to it.”

You have to laugh a little at that, and his eyes flick up to yours, looking – maybe you’re imagining it – pleased at the sound. “‘M Miya Osamu,” he says. 

“You own this place!” you say, delighted but mostly unsurprised – something about the way he holds himself in this space gives it away – before hurrying to introduce yourself. He repeats your name to himself, as if testing how the syllables feel in his mouth.

“‘S a good name,” he says. Places the onigiri in front of you. “‘A plain one, to start. Want ya to be able to taste our rice. Next time you come I’ll make you something different.”

There’s a flush of delight in your chest at the next time. Obediently you pick it up, feeling the heft of it in your hands. 

The rice is soft and good and a little bit like childhood, the ache of it. The lingering sweetness. You tell Osamu as much, and he grins at you, satisfied. “‘S my old senpai who grows the rice,” he says. “If anyone knows good rice, ‘s him.”

“He does,” you say fervently. The rice is sticky and filling and you’re definitely getting grains on your face but it’s hard to care – it’s simple food, but it’s good, and it’s oddly comforting for food from a restaurant you’ve never been to before in your entire life. 

Osamu wipes down the counter, watching you eat out of the corner of his eye. He seems oddly pleased by how much you’re enjoying the food. When you tell him as much, he grins, a little sheepish. 

“I want the people who come here t’ eat well,” he says. “Good food is better food when it’s shared.”

You smile at him, a little tentative. “Thanks for sharing this with me.”

“Thanks for sharing it with me,” he says back, then shoos you out without letting you pay. “Next time,” he says, and you let him tuck your credit card back in your wallet and your wallet back in your pocket.

Your cousin eyes you over the dinner table, but doesn’t say anything about the secret smile at the curve of your lips. In her bedroom that night all she says is “Okay?”

“Okay,” you agree. It is summer, and you have nothing but time. 

When you visit again the next day the store is already open. You can see him through the windows, and it’s enough to make your lips tug up again in an involuntary smile as you step through the doorframe.

“Hi,” you say, a little shy, suddenly. A little envious of how grounded he seems, here in this space. 

“Hi,” he says back, jerking his chin at the counter. “Wanna sit?”

It’s umeboshi filling that day, plum tart on your teeth. Tuna mayo the next. Unagi the day after, and he slowly takes you through the menu, watching your face keenly as you eat each one. 

The month passes slowly, honey-dripped and sweet. You tell your aunt that you’ve made a friend, maybe, and watch as her face splits in a smile that makes her look years younger. When you were little your mother used to tell you she could see the resemblance between the two of you. Now, more than anything, you want it to be true. 

“Not a fan, huh,” Osamu says on the day he gives you uni-topped onigiri – unigiri, he’d joked as he’d handed it to you. One of our experimental ones, ya know? – and you blink at him. You’d gotten good at hiding your discomfort with the texture.

Osamu clicks his tongue at you, the sound both disapproving and fond. “Don’t make yerself eat it,” he chides, sliding it away from you. “I’ll make ya another one.”

“Oh – no, you don’t have to, it’s okay, I couldn’t –”

He reaches over and carefully flicks you on the forehead. “I know I don’t hafta,” he says easily. “But I wanna. I want ya to eat well.”

Abashed, you watch as he makes you another one. The careful press of his fingers. The arch of his wrist.

“My parents are from here,” you say suddenly into the silence. He glances up at you, but doesn’t say anything. 

“From Japan, I mean. They left the country before they had me.”

“Where’d they go?”

You tell him, and he whistles, low. “‘S a long ways away.”

“It is,” you say. “Makes traveling hard. I haven’t – haven’t been back here since I was little.”

“Ya got family here?”

“An aunt – my mom’s sister. Her husband. Their daughter. A few other relatives, though I think those are scattered around Japan. I don’t know them too well.”

He hums, considering. “Didja like it? Where you grew up?”

You think about it. About a sepia-toned childhood, about wide streets and dry summer grass, pricking your skin.

“I was very well-loved,” you tell him. “But I was still – I think I was still lonely.”

Osamu nods. “Ya know my twin, Atsumu? When we were in high school we played volleyball t’gether. ‘Tsumu sorta – I think he took it for granted that we were gonna play together forever. That we’d always want the same things. Took a long time for me to be brave enough to tell him I wanted to do this – ” he gestures to the shop around him. “ – for a living. Took me even longer to stop bein’ so mad at him that I had to tell him in the first place. That he didn’t know me as well as I wanted him to.”

He finishes making another onigiri. Pushes it over to you. Then rounds the counter and sits next to you, picking up the first one he’d made you, the one delicate bite taken out of it.

“And now?” you ask. 

Osamu, partway through a bite of your abandoned onigiri, freezes mid-chew. He swallows. “And now?” he echoes.

“And now? Do you think he knows you?”

He snorts. “That idiot would need to get his head out of his own ass, first.” He pauses, considers you. “But. I think these days ‘m less worried ‘bout being known perfectly.”

You blink over at him. He’s turning the half-eaten remnants of the onigiri over and over between his hands. On instinct, you reach over and place a hand on his. The skin of it, the bone of it. The pull of tendon and the flex of muscle and the fluttering pulse. 

He doesn’t look at you. Under your fingertips a muscle jumps, then quickly relaxes.

“These days,” he says, “‘M much happier t’be loved. In spite of all the parts of me he doesn’t understand.”

You think about this, even as he pops the last of his onigiri in his mouth. “Come out with me, tonight,” he says.

“To where?”

He shrugs. “M’friends are in town. Want you to meet ‘em. Even ‘Tsumu will be there, though can’t guarantee he’ll behave.”

“This is the brother that does weird shit?”

Osamu rolls his eyes heavenwards. “Yeah, ‘n I’ve only got the one brother, thank God. Would be willin’ to bet our ma saw how he acted ‘n decided it was enough for her.”

You tactfully avoid mentioning that Osamu himself would probably have been a factor in that decision, if that were the case. Instead you busy yourself with the onigiri in your hands, fiddling with it, breaking off one of the corners before catching yourself. Osamu always laughs at you when you do that. Quit playing with yer food, he’d said once, flicking you gently on the forehead. The mark hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes. The feeling stayed for days.

“Come out with us,” he says, again. His eyes, when you peek at them, are gray and the steady of a long winter.

“Okay,” you say, without much thinking. It’s almost worth it to see the crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes when he smiles. 

You stuff another bite of rice in your mouth to avoid the thought.

____

Us turns out to be Osamu himself, of course, broad-shouldered and dependable and somehow uniquely capable of being a pain in the ass; Suna Rintarou, a sleepy-eyed man with the worst posture you’ve ever seen and a unique talent for instigating; and Miya Atsumu, the infamous Miya Atsumu, with brassy-blond hair that must come from a bottle and a voice pitched at exactly the right frequency to be as annoying as possible. 

“What a funny accent!” is the first thing Atsumu says upon meeting you, grinning in a way that, if he weren’t Osamu’s brother, you would call a leer. “This is the cute little foreigner ya’ve been tellin’ us about, then, huh, ‘Samu?”

Calmly, without surrendering his grip on the tongs he’s been using to grill, Osamu smacks his brother upside the head with his free hand, hard enough to make him pout. “Just ignore –” he begins to say to you, apologetic. 

“You should stop dying your hair yourself,” you say to Atsumu, frowning at him over the table. The smell of the yakiniku is a sore temptation – never mind that it hasn’t finished cooking, according to Osamu – and you can readily admit to yourself that the hunger is making you more irritable than you’d be otherwise. “You’re frying it, and besides, the color is awful. You can’t tell me you were going for that shade on purpose, were you?”

At the sound of his twin’s spluttering noises Osamu starts to laugh – a borderline cackle, mean-spirited and still somehow so lovely. He laughs like how Atsumu does, you realize. There’s something very lovely about it.

To distract yourself from that thought you grab a too-hot piece of meat with your chopsticks and shove it in your mouth. It burns your tongue but rather than spit it out, you shovel in a load of rice, to counteract it, and pray you don’t choke.

Suna watches you with the kind of fascination that you’d thought previously reserved for seeing a particularly exotic zoo animal for the first time. 

“I can see why he likes you,” he remarks, absentmindedly.

What do you mean, you try and say. There’s too much rice in your mouth. You choke.

Osamu somehow manages to simultaneously pat you on the back, put more meat on your plate, and punch Suna’s shoulder at the same time. You resolve to study his abnormal skill at multitasking at a later date. “Y’alright?”

“Fine,” you gasp, trying your best to take a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

Conversation flows smoothly. It’s all-too-easy to tell that they’ve known each other for years, falling into a rapport that’s clearly practiced. It’s even easier to let yourself get swept along in the banter, to pretend that you, too, have known them for years, that the lives they’ve painstakingly carved out for themselves here have always had space for you, too.

It’s an achingly sweet thought. You refuse to let yourself dwell on it for long. 

Osamu insists on walking you home. “‘S almost two in the morning,” he says, “‘sides, I’ve had about enough of him –” he jerks a thumb at his brother, now slumped against Suna’s side, whining about something or other about their volleyball careers (a botched serve, maybe?) while the latter pokes and prods at him. 

You consider this. “Yeah,” you say. “Fair enough.”

Outside the air is warm and Osamu’s presence by your side is warmer. “Thanks for inviting me,” you say to him. The words feel inadequate, for all that he’d let you pretend tonight, even though he couldn’t have been aware of it.

“Thanks for comin’,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “They liked ya.”

“You think?”

“I know,” he says, firm. “They wouldn’t spend so much time teasin’ someone they didn’t like.”

The thought suffuses you with an oddly warm glow. You duck your chin into your chest, hoping he doesn’t notice. If he does he doesn’t mention it.  

“Are ya comin’ by the store tomorrow?” he asks, and you hum, affirmative.

“It might be the last time, before I go.” Saying it out loud is somehow both better and worse.

“Ah,” Osamu says. You walk in silence for a few beats, footsteps falling in time. 

“Come by tomorrow,” he repeats – a statement this time, not a question. You nod anyways, and he walks you right up to your front door, lingering there as if waiting for something. 

“Goodnight, ‘Samu,” you say. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“See ya tomorrow,” he affirms, but makes no move to leave. You frown at him. He pulls a face right back, half-mocking, half in deliberation.

In one fell move he takes the cap off of your head and puts it on yours. It fits strangely – your heads must be too dissimilar of a shape. You would go to sleep wearing it if you could. 

“Goodnight,” you say again, dumbly. 

Osamu’s smile in the moonlight is sharp and a little something else, something you can't read. “G’night,” he says. When he turns to leave the streetlights make the black of his hair look almost blue.

Your cousin, when you slip back up to her room, is still awake. The glow of her smartphone lets you see the jaw-creaking yawn she lets out when she sees you.

“Tadaima,” you say, quiet.

“Okaeri,” she mumbles.

“Sleep well,” you add, but she’s already set her phone on the nightstand, breaths slipping into something quiet and even, as if the only permission she’d been waiting for was the sound of your footsteps at the doorway. You are so full of love you think you could choke on it.

The next day when you show up to Onigiri Miya there’s no onigiri waiting for you. You deliberate feeling betrayed for a second before Osamu steps out of the back, throws a wad of fabric at you. You just barely manage to catch it, uncrumpling it to reveal an apron.

“An apron,” you say.

He grins. “Nice hat.”

You flush almost immediately, resisting the urge to tuck your chin into your chest – it would really only make the hat more visible. “Thanks,” you mutter. “Apron?”

He swings open the gate dividing the front of the restaurant and the kitchen. “You wanna learn?”

The prospect of this world opening up to you leaves you feeling more trepidation than anything. You slip the apron over your head, tie the strings around your waist. “Do I look professional?”

“That’s a Michelin-star chef right there,” Osamu says.

And he’s right, in a way – if ‘Michelin-star chef’ meant ‘uniquely creative in one’s ability to mess up’. The rice doesn’t clump. It sticks to your hands. You grab it when it’s too hot and burn yourself, even through the gloves. You salt your hands too liberally. You don’t salt your hands enough. The clumps of filling are too large. You shape it too firmly and it all falls apart, crumbling in your hands. The remains of your failures are scattered all over the kitchen – “Don’t worry,” Osamu had told you, “I’ll feed ‘em to ‘Tsumu.” – by the time you have one half-presentable one. Half-presentable as in not falling apart. Mostly not falling apart. You cup it in your hands with all the reverence one would hold a baby bird that’d fallen out of its tree.

Osamu plucks it out of your hands. Inspects the way it sags between his fingers. “Huh,” he says.

“Huh?” you parrot, hopeful. He ignores you, taking a bite. Chews. Swallows. The expression on his face is inscrutable. 

“Tastes surprisingly good,” he says.

“Thank you! I – what do you mean, surprisingly?”

Osamu grins. “We’ll make a chef outta you yet.”

The afternoon is spent at his side. “Packin’ an order,” he says. “Wanna help?” You make one onigiri to every five of his, determined to neaten up your technique, but it’s fun anyways. 

“Why onigiri?” you ask him, frowning down at the mass in your hands. “Why not – I don’t know, ramen or yakisoba or something?”

He hums. His hands are steady and large and careful. “I mean, for starters, I like eatin’ ‘em.”

You wait for him to continue. Eventually: “They’re a simple food. Nothin’ fancy. No crazy ingredients. No one’s gonna get a Michelin star for doin’ the stuff I do.”

“Except me,” you say, and Osamu lets out a bark of laughter.

“Except you,” he agrees. “But they’re a comfort food, y’know? I told you we used to get ‘em from the konbini on our way home from practice. Or – for lunch, sometimes, I used t’ make bentos for me n’ ‘Tsumu. The first thing I learned t’make was onigiri. My ma taught me.”

“You love them a lot.”

He scrunches up his nose, displeased. “Not like I’d ever tell ‘Tsumu,” he says. “But – well. ‘f course I was gonna make him food. ‘f course I was gonna learn from my ma. ‘S just what we do.”

The depth of it – the quiet love, the steadiness – leaves you a little breathless. Osamu keeps his eyes fixed firmly on his hands, although you’re certain he doesn’t need to.

“I was – such a lonely child,” you say. He knows this already. You’d told him this already.

He finishes shaping the rice in his hands, deliberate. Strips his gloves off. “Wanna go sit on the steps outside?” 

Outside the sun is setting, and the sky is streaked with color. You sit shoulder to shoulder and watch the people pass by. 

“I can’t imagine,” he says, “growing up so far away.” Far away from what, he doesn’t elaborate. You know what he means anyways.

You think about your hometown, think about the summers and the smell of chlorine, the winters and the whole world muffled and still. Think about the wide-open sky. How close and how far away it all felt, all at once. 

“There were good parts,” you say.

“There must’ve been,” Osamu says. “Look at how you turned out.”

“It was very – very far,” you say, “from the people that were supposed to love me no matter what I did.”

He hums. The crickets are beginning to sound. You dread to think about the mosquito bites you’ll find on your skin tomorrow.

“I – it’s not that I’m not grateful,” you say, because you are. “Not that I’m not grateful for the things I have. The life I’ve built.”

“I know,” he says.

“I know I’m lucky to be where I am. To have grown up where I did, in the way I did. My parents wanted the best for me. They gave up a lot for it.”

“Probably,” he agrees. 

“And maybe – maybe I’m romanticizing it. Painting living here as something a lot grander than it is. But – ”

In another life you are sitting in your cousin’s bedroom and listening to her wax poetic about some topic neither of you will remember in the morning. It’s late but in this life you’re young and the moon is full and reassuring. In another life the most intimate way you know your family’s faces is not reduced down to three pixels. In another life each street of this city holds a different memory. In another life you know this place like breathing.

“I could’ve lived here,” you say. “I could’ve had this.”

Osamu regards you, considering. In a way it’s almost a relief, that he’s neither quick to assure or to laugh in outright disbelief.

“You could’ve,” he says at last. “I think you still can.”

“It’ll never be like it could’ve been,” you warn.

“No,” Osamu says, affable. “But I think we could still make it good.”

He offers you his hand. You take it.

“Hungry?” Osamu asks. You consider this, the feel of his hand in yours. You picture: standing outside of his store and watching him, gentle and careful and good, with his callused hands and his patient smile. Here are hands that were made to hold. 

In this dream you step inside, and he looks up at the sound of the door.

Welcome, he says to you. You know what he means by it.

In a few days there will be a plane seat with your name on it – an ocean and everything that lies between. Still, it’s summer – here and now and the rest of your lives – and you have nothing but time. Summer, and there is a space for you at the table. 

You grin at Osamu, squeeze his hand. He squeezes back: once, twice, three times.

“I could eat.”

[kamy2425]

(Discworld Fanfic) The Meaning of Death: Chapter 11

*Living Biography Books~A School Field Trip To The University~Where IS That Cup Of Tea Death Mentioned?*

“So…um.”

SQUEAK!

Rincewind squinted at the creature, fairly certain he’d heard something vaguely intelligible beneath the squeaks. “I don’t think I’ve got any cheese on me, no.”

The hooded rodent stomped its skeletal foot with impatience.

SQUEAK! SQUEAK!

Failing to make useful conversation, the Death of Rats tilted its head and pointed at a door with its miniature scythe.

“Right,” said Rincewind, chuckling nervously. “As if I’m going to follow a suspicious creature into the hallways of Death—”

The Luggage, ever the opportunist, bolted after the rat.

The Death of Rats lunged through a crack into the large, ominous door, with the Luggage crashing into it, attempting to wedge its bulk through.

“Are you quite finished?” Rincewind asked, giving the Luggage just a few seconds before its legs gave up, splayed pathetically on the floor. It glared at its owner with something between wounded pride and spite.

“I reckon it’s one of those doors you have to pull,” Rincewind said dryly.

The Luggage tilted its lid.

“Oh, don’t believe me, do you?” Rincewind muttered, stepping forward and grasping the handle. “Watch and learn—”

He froze mid-sentence, eyes darting through the now open door. The Luggage leaned forward as well, crowding behind him. A library. Not just any library—a vast expanse of books spiraling into infinity. It almost rivaled the Unseen University’s.

Almost.

But something was off. These books were... too well-behaved. No chains, no growling. No rebellious incantations trying to leap off the page. Not one book rebelling against their readers. Rincewind ran a hand along their spines and sensed something—importance. And oddly enough, they were all named after people.

“Biographies.” Rincewind muttered under his breath, “These must be books written by-wait no that’s not right.” He ran up with such energy, putting his finger breeze through the pages as his mind wandered into a world of words. 

“They’re alive.” he said, wide-eyed, “Each one of them is a person, and this is their life! Written here! Everything! This is fascinating I-”

No. Don’t. He told himself. Get a grip. You’ve done this before. 

That little curious spark inside him did him no good. Last time he got curious with a book was when he was a teenager and got dared into reading the Octavo. Long story short, it caused one of the spells to enter his head and prevented him from casting any magic. Even if he went to the whole trouble of taking it out, his magic abilities never came back. 

Just look. He told himself, no touch.

Closing his eyes, he could hear the faint, endless scribbling. The lives of millions, buzzing around him, their stories in constant conversation. But what about the others? The ones not glowing with gold lettering?

Rincewind’s gaze fell to the bottom shelf. He barely hovered a finger near one of the duller books when it began to crumble into dust. He stepped back, hand over his mouth, bumping into the Luggage.

“Sorry.”

The Luggage, as usual, showed no inclination to understand or care, already wandering off in search of the Death of Rats.

Rincewind frowned, deep in thought. If these books capture every second of a person’s life, they must also record... their last.

A sudden chill ran down his human spine. With much speed, he skimmed the titles of every book that started with the letter T. Rincewind scratched his head and turned over to the F section. 

“Ah, of course.” Rincewind sighed as his arm rose to a particular book and turned over the more recent pages. 

It reads:

2:30 pm, Twoflower is enjoying a peaceful lunch in the park. A blue butterfly lands delicately on his finger. He regrets leaving his iconograph at home.

Rincewind smiled. He could see it clearly. The non-existent pen scribbled on:

2:35 pm, Two-Flower found a coin on the ground. What a lucky day, he thought as he picked up the coin. He tossed it at a nearby fountain, closed his eyes and began to pray.

‘I hope my letter will arrive safely to him’. He wished, ‘Too bad I didn’t get a picture of that butterfly. I shall draw him one!’

Rincewind closed the book as though it were on fire. "Right. The letters…”

He cringed, picturing the pile of unopened letters stuffed under his mattress. It’s not that he disliked the guy. Quite the opposite. Twoflower was probably the only human alive who liked him. Who didn’t see him as a failed wizard or a coward. And that’s why... the letters stayed unopened. And Rincewind won’t even dare to write him back. Yup, that makes total sense.

Trying to distract himself, Rincewind decided to search for his own biography. Oddly enough, his was encased in glass, a worn, red-leather tome.

Well, that’s…ominous.

He lifted the glass and opened the book, noting the red bookmarks scattered through the pages. Just to be thorough, he flipped to page one:

“WOMAN RAN AWAY. THEN RINCEWIND WAS BORN.”

Yup. Sounds about right. The book didn’t even bother with the details. Rincewind had very few early memories, though he did recall one when he was about eight years old. Yes, that was when he first visited the University.

He visited the University as a school trip, you see. Children were lining up to place their little curious hands on an orb that measured their magical potential. On his turn, little Rincewind put up his palm on the device, which of course, caused it to break instantaneously. Having to be chased down by the staff and the students that didn’t get a turn, Rincewind hid behind the curtains for the rest of the day. Since then, the University didn’t quite remember as to why they had one more student in their faculty. And Rincewind stayed there ever since. 

It is safe to say, they never let another school trip to that place. It was, of course, for the safety of the wizards. 

He never thought much about his past. He never thought of a life outside being a wizard in general. But those little red bookmarks? They piqued his interest. As his hand touched one, the seam of gold thread flew from the book, manifesting a door in the wall. "Rincewind" was inscribed above it. The door swung open, beckoning.

A gentle force nudged him forward, but a familiar voice echoed behind him.

CURIOUS? asked Death.

The door slammed shut. Rincewind spun around, defensive.

“Curious? Me? Haha, that’s pretty much the OPPOSITE of what I do. Curious. haha.”

Death hummed as its flaming eyes looked over the non existent door,

HAVE YOU ENJOYED YOUR STAY?

“Not exactly my cup of tea,” Rincewind muttered.

WHAT ABOUT THIS ONE?

Death handed Rincewind his much awaited drink.

“Erm, thanks.” Rincewind sipped.

Blast it. 

It was perfect. 

This tea really is to die for.

For the Fic!

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Make That Kitty Purr

Title: Make That Kitty Purr

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Mike x Reader, August Walker x Reader

Fandom: Hellraiser: Hellworld x Mission: Impossible - Fallout, Crossover AU

Word Count: 3.5K

Summary: Uncle August doesn’t give a shit that you’re Mike’s girlfriend.

Warnings: voyeurism, cheating, unprotected p-in-v (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, breeding kink, August is an asshole, Mike deserves better (hurt/comfort with time)

A/N: This post (sort of) inspired this fic. So a special shout-out to @peyton-warren. I DO NOT CONDONE CHEATING, but these are fictional characters. This story is dark, so FAIR WARNING. Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best. (more notes at the end of the work - I am very nervous while posting this! 🫣)

Dividers by: @saradika

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist 

When Mike invites you up to his Uncle’s cabin for the weekend, you are beyond excited. You’ve never been away with him and this is the perfect opportunity to have a little fun away from your college roommates. You love them, but it’s so hard to get some alone time with two other girls breathing down your neck.

You pull up to the cabin on Friday afternoon and notice another car already in the driveway, a tall man dressed rather sharply grabbing a suitcase out of the trunk. As he turns around, you recognize Mikey’s Uncle August. I guess we’re not going to be alone this weekend after all.

Mikey puts the car in park and jumps out before you can even unbuckle yourself. “Uncle August, what are you doing here?”

“My schedule changed so I figured I would come and check on the cabin while you were up here,” August put down his luggage and rolls his sleeves up before running a hand over his mustache.

“Well, we were kinda thinking we would have the place to ourselves, actually,” Mike says, walking around the car after turning it off.

“We?” August’s head tilts as his eyes land on the passenger window.

You watch the exchange from the car, seeing that August has finally noticed you. Exiting the car, you close the door behind you and join Mike who puts a possessive arm around your waist.

“Uncle August, this is my girl. You remember her, right?” 

August nods and correctly remembers your name, letting it pass over his tongue slowly. While Mike is smiling down at you, August lets his eye rake over you from head to toe. If Mike had seen, he would not have been happy. But, you decide it’s best to just let it go. Just harmless fascination. Isn’t it?

“Michael, why don’t you get the bags while I take your girl inside out of the cold? You can handle that, right?” Before you know it, your hand is taken by a large paw and you are led inside the cabin. August walks close to you and you can smell his aftershave up close, the scent intoxicating.

You’re surprised when it takes Mike as long as it does to get all of the bags into the cabin. You packed pretty light, but August has him take everything to the rooms instead of leaving them by the hallway. You notice August is staying on the bottom floor of the cabin while you and Mike are staying in another room on the second floor.

While Mike is upstairs, August goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of wine. He pours two glasses and offers you the other. You don’t miss how his fingers linger on yours.

“What shall we toast to, Princess?” You don’t hide the shiver that runs down your spine at the pet name.

“Um, to…a hot tub and time away from annoyances,” You lift your glass over to connect with August’s. He holds your gaze as he takes a sip. Alright, maybe not a harmless fascination.

Mike’s voice startles you as it booms through the cabin, “Sweetcheeks, you wanna get in the hot tub now or later?” Sometimes you really wish Mike had a chill mode, but you really loved the adorable goofball.

“August, do you wanna join us?” You try and appear innocent in your offer but you also are intrigued about seeing the muscular man shirtless.

“Maybe later, I’ll get started on dinner while you two have some time alone,” August takes your wine glass and tops it off, and sends you up to find Mike. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk away, but you don’t dare look back.

As you get in the hot tub after getting changed into your bathing suit, the sun is setting over the mountains. Mike’s hands and mouth are over you in an instant, not caring what his Uncle may be seeing. He pulls you into his lap and attacks your neck. Your eyes close at the sensation and when they open, a gorgeous set of oceanic blues lock on you.

August is watching you as Mike slides a hand into your suit bottoms. You know you should tell Mike to stop but the idea of putting on a show for August is a temptation you can’t ignore. Your mouth opens in a silent scream as Mike’s fingers circle your clit before sliding into your entrance. Clutching a hand in his hair, you bite your lip as you ride Mike’s fingers.

As August watches you, he grips and strokes his cock through his pants. You reason with yourself that since you aren’t touching each other, this isn’t cheating. This is just slightly inappropriate, nothing to truly worry about.

Mike’s attention to finger-fucking you is gone as he pulls out his cock, pulling your bottoms to the side. He swiftly enters you and pulls you down onto him fully. Within seconds, you adjust to Mike’s cock and start to ride him while maintaining eye contact with August.

Mike pulls out your tits from your suit top and gives attention to your nipples. The man loves your boobies and it keeps him occupied as you continue your impromptu sex show for August. The older man unzips himself and for a moment, you think you’re going to be graced with the sight of his cock, but he only reaches in to stroke himself. Watching him watching you is enough to send you over the edge. Mike follows after you shortly, spilling inside you.

You watch as August pulls his hand out of his pants, zips himself up, and walks out of your field of vision. It doesn’t look like he came and you instantly want to help him over the edge but hold yourself together as you lift off of Mike’s sensitive cock. You move yourself to sit next to Mike and rest your head against his shoulder as you both catch your breath and readjust your clothing. A million thoughts run through your head, the most severe of which is gnawing at your soul.

You want August, and it’s obvious he wants you back. How could you want something like that? Mike isn’t perfect, but he’s yours. He adores you and you think the world of him. Yes, he can be a bit aloof, but he’s genuinely interested in your happiness. He doesn’t deserve to be fucked over by your own selfish desires.

You are broken out of your reverie minutes later as August beckons you both to come in for dinner. You both towel off and put on robes. August already has the table set with three plates and he sits at the head of the table with you and Mike sitting across from each other. 

The conversation comes easily enough, August mostly focuses on asking you about what you are studying and what your future plans are. Mike seems to be none the wiser that August is paying you so much attention as he shovels pasta in his face. August refills your wine glass, handing it to you, his fingers once again lingering. August finally turns his gaze to Mike and asks what you all have planned for the weekend. 

Mike mentions you are scheduled to go to a beer garden tomorrow and you would be meeting some friends afterward. You don’t remember making plans to meet up with friends but you go with it anyway. Mike’s friends were pretty cool anyway, at least the ones you’ve met. Well, Derrick could be annoying and could make Mike completely miserable to be around but hopefully, he wouldn’t be there tomorrow.

You all finish dinner shortly thereafter, a few glasses of wine in your system. August gets up, and you assume he is going to start clearing the table. “August, you cooked, we can clear the table.”

“Nonsense. You’re a guest here,” he says, waving you off, “Michael can clean up the kitchen while I give you a quick tour.” He holds out his hand to lead you through the living room, and that same hand ends up on your lower back. 

Your bare feet pad softly on the hardwood while his shiny shoes clack next to you. Your robe is the only thing preventing August from touching your skin directly. The heat coming off of his hand is enough to elicit a shiver from you. Instead of mentioning it, he just smiles down at you and walks you into the spacious entertainment room.

A large television screen is in front of a sectional couch. Two vintage full-height arcade game systems stand against either side wall. A pool table sits on the right, while a poker table is to the left. You’re impressed with the setup and you say as much.

“Yeah, I like to entertain sometimes. You’re welcome to this room whenever you want. Most of the streaming apps are already set up and there’s a Playstation and XBOX as well if you’re interested,” August points over to the tv, leaning in as he speaks.

“I can already see Mike getting lost in here for a few hours,” you snort, trying to hide your obvious annoyance.

“I’m sure you can keep him occupied, Princess.” There goes that pet name again. You look up at August and he grins like the Cheshire cat down at you.

If Mike hadn’t walked in when he did, you would have leaned into that smile. “I was looking for you guys. Sweetcheeks, are you ready for bed? I’m exhausted.”

“You’re tired from cleaning the kitchen?” August teased, knowing full well that wasn’t what tired the younger man out.

“Yeah…well, it’s a big…kitchen, so,” Nice save, Mike.

“Sounds like a good idea, baby. Let’s go,” you grab Mike’s hand and turn toward August, “Night, August.”

“Goodnight, you two,” August hums, looking from you to his nephew.

The two of you head to bed upstairs, arm in arm. It takes everything out of you not to turn around and look at August once more.

In the middle of the night, you pull yourself out of Mike’s grip and head to the bathroom. You notice your throat is dry and decide to go to the kitchen for a bottle of water. August is already in the kitchen, pouring himself a drink. As he picks up the lowball of amber liquid, he turns to greet you.

“You alright, Princess?” The genuine concern in his voice almost overshadows the fact that he is only clad in a tight pair of boxer briefs. Almost. 

Instead of answering, you are entranced by his hairy chest and defined abdominals. Muscular arms and thick thighs are on full display. You’re sure you’re staring but he doesn’t seem to mind as he makes his way over to you. It seems like he moves in slow motion and your brain doesn’t fully comprehend when he reaches out to you.

His warm hand on your arm reminds you that you forgot to put on a robe before coming downstairs. Your crop top and cheeky underwear leave little to the imagination and you look down at yourself before looking from his hand back up at him. As if seeing your thoughts across your face, August removes his hand from your shoulder.

“I just came down for some water.” You’re surprised that you were able to get those words out, as whiny as they were. Your dry throat returns after you speak.

August nods and turns around to go back to the fridge. The ass on this man is ridiculous too, that’s just unfair. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and brings it back to you. He holds it out to you, and you take it shakily before opening it and taking a sip. You cap it again and hold it up to your suddenly warm neck. You let out a sigh and close your eyes for a beat. When you open them, August is standing closer to you. You didn’t even hear him take a step.

You slowly lower the water bottle from your skin and August takes it, putting your bottle and his scotch down on the nearby dining table. When he turns back to you, he reaches up and holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He takes his time leaning in, giving you an out to easily lean back.

But you don’t lean back, you lean into him as he slots your mouths together. You whimper into his mouth and it is all over from there. He drops your chin, his hands sliding from your face to your neck and down your back until they settle under your ass as he lifts you up into his arms.

“Tell me you want me, Princess,” August whispers, the heat coming off his clothed cock blazing into your core, “You want me to take care of you?”

Fuck.

“Yes,” you whimper, carding a hand through his thick head of hair. 

“That’s my good girl,” he groans, walking to his bedroom. He kisses your neck, nipping at it as he settles you back upon his bed. He hovers over you for a moment, rubbing your covered sexes together. Letting you have ample time to change your mind while making sure you won’t.

“Please,” you whine, no longer able to hide your desire to have him inside you.

“Please what? Say it,” he grunts, pressing his groin harder into you.

“Fuck me, August.” is all he needs to hear before he’s pulling your underwear down and off. He doesn’t remove his own, only tucks them under his balls as he runs the head of his dick through your sopping folds. He enters slowly and gradually, letting you adjust to his girth and length.

Once he is fully seated inside you, he begins a punishing rhythm that has your cervix screaming. Your legs wrap around his waist and his hand finds your throat, placing slight pressure on the sides. The older man has you in a daze soon enough, filthy words leaving both of your mouths.

Fuck, this pussy is too good…

Who do you belong to?

Oh, my God, harder, please! 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…

That’s right, come all over this dick…

Gonna breed this tight little cunt, Princess!

His hips stutter in their movement and you are soon flooded with his spend. He doesn’t stop fucking you until you come again, some of his seed leaking out past his cock as he pulls himself out. He looks down and smiles watching you leak with his spunk, before laying next to you. He draws you closer to rest your head on his chest.

He kisses your forehead in a sweet gesture. Juxtaposed with the filthy act you’ve just committed, you suddenly feel nauseous. You bite back bile as you rest against August. You wish the Earth would open up and swallow you whole. You stay like that for a minute more, feeling your legs get wet with his cum as it leaks from you. 

Your world implodes, the gravity of cheating on Mike suddenly screaming its way into the forefront of your mind. You hate yourself and you hate August for tempting you.

You get up quickly, finding and putting on your underwear before all but running out of August’s room, his voice calling behind you doesn’t stop you. You reach the upstairs bathroom connected to your bedroom and make it to the toilet in the nick of time. Your dinner comes back up so harshly that you end up waking Mike up with your gagging.

He comes to hold your hair out of the way and rub a soothing hand on your back. As you finish, you spit, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You close the lid, sitting down on the floor next to Mike as he looks at you concerned.

“Mike, baby, I’m so sorry.” 

“Sweetcheeks, what are you sorry for? You just got sick is all.”

“Not saying sorry for that, I have to tell you something.”

“Babe, you’re scaring me, what’s going on?” Mike’s voice quivers and it is all you can do to stop yourself from kissing his frown away because you’re about to break his heart.

“I…slept with August,” you blurt out, and you start to cry before you can help it.

Mike isn’t saying anything and you wonder what is even going through his head. You hazard a look over to his face. His jaw is working in anger and he pulls his knees up to his chest.

“Mike, I’m so sor-”

“We’re leaving. Get dressed.” Mike cuts you off and gets up from the floor. You get up and follow him to the bedroom, pulling on your jeans and hoodie quickly as he begins to pack your suitcases quietly.

You watch him move about the room mechanically. You wish he would talk to you. But, you know you don’t deserve to be comforted. He needs and deserves better than you. As he finishes, he pulls on his own clothes and takes your things downstairs.

You follow him down, pausing when you both see August now wearing just pajama bottoms. He actually looks surprised to see you both dressed and holding your luggage.

“Go to the car, I’ll be out in a sec, ok?” Mike’s voice is eerily calm as he hands you the car keys and ushers you outside.

“Mike, let’s just lea-”

“I said, go to the car. I’ll be right there,” he barely raises his voice, but he pushes slightly on your shoulder to get you outside. Like he doesn’t want you to witness something.

You grab your own luggage and head outside, closing the door behind you. You try and block out the sounds of a struggle in the cabin as you walk across the gravel driveway. You put your suitcase in the trunk and get in the car. You’re putting on your seatbelt as Mike comes out of the cabin, his hair and clothes a mess. He gets in the car and white-knuckles the steering wheel as he stretches his jaw.

“Mike?” You cautiously reach out to move hair behind his ear and he lets you.

“I want you to know that I know he put the moves on you. I forgive you, but I can’t forget. I hate him, not you,” he groans, putting a hand over yours, “When we get back, we’re gonna start over ok? We’ll get through this.”

“Ok, baby,” you sniffle, trying to hold back your surprise that he still wants to be with you.

You make the long journey back to school and Mike comes up to your room. You both remove your shoes and lay down in your bed. He wraps his arms around you, your back to his chest. He pulls you close and you relish his warmth. 

“I love you, Sweetcheeks.” 

“I love you, too, Mikey,” you tangle your legs with his and thank your lucky stars for another chance to make this exquisite man happy.

You both decide to never speak about your time at the cabin ever again. 

You don’t bring it up when you see August at the grocery store weeks later. The remnants of a black eye and an angry scar going down the right side of his face are a sight. Enough to have you turning around and going down another aisle before leaving your cart behind and exiting the store.

You end up going to another grocery store before heading back to your dorm. Mike is there waiting for you and trying his best to work his way through a term paper. He looks up as you enter, getting up to take the bags from you and kissing your forehead.

Sometimes, you can still see the look of sadness on Mike’s face out of the corner of your eye. You can still feel the sting of Mike’s promise to never forget with every I love you. You know you deserve to feel the pain of your actions and you do with every day that passes. You also know Mike will always deserve better than you, even when he tells you that he’s so blessed to have you.

Years later, Mike takes you to your favorite restaurant. He walks you along the boardwalk, waiting until you are all alone, and gets down on one knee. You’re so surprised that you immediately start to cry. He chooses his words carefully and he puts the ring on your finger. As he stands to his full height, he wraps you up in a hug. He tells you he loves you and you melt in his arms.

You try and push down the thought that he’s settling for you, but you know that is a futile effort. The only thing on your mind is making Mike happy. And you’ll do whatever he asks, with a smile on your face and love in your heart.

A/N: Can you tell I was in a depressive state when I wrote this? This was a songfic originally and then *stuff* happened.

A/N: I’d like to apologize to both fans of Mikey and fans of August. While this story is dark and a complete AU, I still feel the need to say I’m sorry for this portrayal of August and that Mikey was hurt. I was thinking, for my crimes against humanity, I owe fandom very fluffy Mike fics. Two fluffy stories to make up for this, actually.

Make That Kitty Purr [Director’s Cut]

**Tag List**

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Let me know if you wanna be added and for what plz  😁 Also, if you want to be removed from tags, lemme know!

[tolietpaperdreams]

Warned You Chapter 2 (Shawnter)

Sorry this fic is taking a lil bit to cook, I keep writing ideas, finding they don’t work and then saving them for later so this chapter took a hot min. But I’m back in the kitchen yall!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58413820/chapters/149478107#main

TW: panic attacks and a lot of self loathing happening here so be mindful!

(the gif has nothing to do with the story)

🗣️ BUT YEAH COME GET YOUR DINNER !!!

Things calmed down after that for a while. Shawn took his healing seriously, and Hunter eventually headed back on the road when they both decided Shawn would be able to handle himself. He couldn't help but feel like a child who was finally allowed to be home alone for the first time, but instead of being excited, he dreaded it.

Whenever Hunter was home, they didn't talk about work. Shawn would ask how things were going and get a simple answer along the lines of ‘good’ or ‘build-up needs work.’ He would never go into details, and even when Shawn would pry, Hunter would just tell him he wasn't in the mood to talk about work.

It’s not like Shawn was entirely isolated from the company, he still had a few friends, but he felt like he’d be going behind Hunter’s back. Watching Raw wouldn’t give him all the answers he needed either, but what else could he do?

With DX just being a pedestal for Hunter now, he was slowly but surely leaving them behind for more on-screen opportunities; he’d get a title shot soon enough.

Maybe Shawn was jealous that Hunter seemed to be thriving in his career without him or he was mad that he wasn't there to at least witness it. Unfortunately, it was really starting to affect Shawn.

All the extra attention at work had Hunter away for longer periods of time, and the fact that they hadn’t even discussed it had Shawn reeling.

He was so clingy when Hunter was home that he’d practically follow the man into every room he went into in the house. Shawn was so jealous of someone potentially trying to get at what was his that when Hunter was in the shower, he’d dig through his luggage to look for any signs of infidelity, but luckily, never found any.

“Do you jerk off on the road?”

Hunter’s brows went straight to his forehead, “What a fucking bizarre thing to ask me after I just fucked your brains out.”

Shawn was sprawled on top of Hunter, using the bigger man’s chest as a pillow. It was the first night Hunter had been home in over a week, and it had been a really tough week for Shawn all alone.

“Do you think about me when you do it?” Shawn propped his chin up on a hand.

“Baby, I do not wanna have this conversation right now,” Hunter said, exasperated.

Shawn groaned and rolled his eyes, “That’s what you say when I ask you anything. You never talk to me anymore.”

“I do too,” Hunter gave Shawn’s ass a squeeze, “I call you every day I'm gone.”

He couldn’t argue that. Hunter was good about being frequent with his calls, but again, he never went into details about work. It felt like Shawn was missing a very big part of not only Hunter’s but also his own life.

“Have you heard from Kev and Scott recently?” Shawn asked, changing the subject.

Tracing lines up and down Shawn’s back, Hunter nonchalantly nodded, “Yeah, I saw them when they were in St. Louis the same time I was.”

Shawn swallowed, “You didn’t see… him, right?”

“Would it be a problem if I did?” Hunter’s brow furrowed, “He’s your ex, not mine.”

“When I talked to Kevin a while back, he said Bret asked about me,” Shawn averted his gaze.

“Should I be concerned?” Hunter asked before continuing, “When I saw him he asked how you were and I told him you were fine. And before you ask, he knows we’re together. So can I ask, why do you care what Bret has to say?”

“I don’t!” Shawn got defensive quickly, “No, you don’t need to be concerned. I just don’t have a lot of closure.”

Hunter stopped the gentle traces with his fingers and clenched his jaw, Shawn shouldn’t have said that.

“Can we just go to bed?” Hunter went monotone.

“I’m sorry, babe that’s not what I meant,” Shawn pleaded.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Hunter shifted and turned so his back was facing his partner.

***

The next morning, Shawn woke up hoping he could fix what he had broken. Make-up sex with Hunter was always something both parties enjoyed, but the other side of the bed was cold when he opened his eyes.

Hunter was always an earlier riser, mostly out of lifestyle habit, so Shawn wasn’t concerned that he’d run off, but it still stung a little that they couldn’t curl up together this morning. Not like Shawn deserved it.

‘I don’t have closure.’ God, what was he thinking? He practically admitted to Hunter right there that he had some sort of feelings left for Bret. Which wasn’t true, that he knew of.

All Shawn wanted was answers; he didn’t want Bret. Hunter stood by Shawn’s side through everything, and he had the audacity to ask for more.

“Hunter?” He called, sitting up slowly, his back letting him know that it protested the movement.

There was no answer so he tried again, “Hunter?”

Silence again. Panic started to creep in. Maybe he had left. Shawn couldn’t be alone, he wasn’t good by himself, and Hunter knew that. Hunter wouldn’t leave him alone would he? Not in the shape he was in.

Shawn winced as he stood and threw on the nearest pair of shorts before practically limping into the hallway. His heart rate skyrocketed at the thought of being left behind, but the guilt made it feel deserved.

He turned the corner hoping to find his partner in the kitchen, but there was no one there. There was, however, a fresh pot of coffee and a note that read, ‘In the garage, will make breakfast when you’re up.’

Shawn closed his eyes and exhaled, relief flooding his system. He took a minute to pour himself some coffee and calm his racing heart before heading into the garage.

The larger man was in the middle of a set of curls when Shawn opened the door. Seeing Hunter there physically had Shawn exhaling a calming breath, he did his best to look like he hadn’t been freaking out a moment ago.

Hunter soon took notice of Shawn’s presence and set his weights aside before getting up to turn the loud music from the stereo down.

“Hey babe,” The larger man greeted, planting a kiss on Shawn’s cheek and wrapping him in a hug, “You sleep okay?”

It didn't matter that Hunter was sweaty and shirtless to Shawn, he took in the other man’s scent and relaxed at his touch. Hunter wouldn't leave him, not that easily, even though Shawn knew he deserved it. He wrapped his arms around Hunter’s waist and tucked his face into the crook of his neck.

They stayed like that for a bit, Shawn slowly coming back down from the panic and Hunter acting as his anchor. If the bigger man could tell something was wrong, he didn't mention it.

“I still want to talk about last night,” Hunter said calmly, pulling his face back to look Shawn in the eyes, “But it can wait ‘till after breakfast.”

Shawn opened his mouth to apologize, but Hunter stopped him, “Breakfast, first. I’m starving.”

After their meal, Shawn broke their somewhat comfortable silence, “I’m sorry about what I said.”

Hunter took a sip of his coffee and sighed, “I know Shawn,” He set the mug down and scratched his cheek, “But how am I supposed to feel knowing you're still thinking about your ex?”

“I don't think about him,” Shawn said with little confidence, “Not in the way you think. You're my everything, Hunt. I think I’m just a little bitter about how things went down with Bret.”

“So there's still a door that hasn't been closed with him,” Hunter's jaw clenched after he spoke, he looked like he was trying his best to keep his cool and be patient, “But it shouldn't matter, Shawn. You moved on. Sometimes no closure is closure in itself.”

Everything that his partner was saying made sense, Hunter was entirely rooted in logic, which wasn't always the best when it came to Shawn’s overzealous emotions. How could he convince Hunter that his words didn't match his thoughts? The only thing he truly knew was to show him with his body, but that wasn’t how Hunter worked. He always wanted to talk things out.

“I just need to know that if he’s ever around is it going to be a problem?” Hunter asked with a finality.

“Why would he be around?”

Bret was as good as gone. Shawn never even considered going to WCW, and with the way Hunter’s career was headed, he’d never have to go back, either.

“I’m surprised Kevin hasn’t spilled it yet,” Hunter’s eyes met his partner’s.

Shawn’s gut dropped, “What are you talking about?”

Hunter exhaled, “Bret’s coming back to the company.”

There was only a certain amount of bullshit Shawn could take, and this one had to be a joke. Hunter was definitely fucking with him.

So he laughed. He laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it; Bret hated the company and everyone involved, especially Shawn. There was no way he'd be willing to come back, even with Shawn out of action.

“Okay, I deserve that, that's a good one,” Shawn wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.

The look on Hunter’s face was not playful at all, and that's when Shawn’s heart sank again.

Shawn gaped, “You’re serious.”

Suddenly, his back reminded him that he hadn’t taken his medications and a sharp pain ran throughout his spine.

Hunter sighed, “He’s been in talks with Vince for a few months now.”

“It’s hardly been a fucking year since he left,” Shawn’s voice was quiet as he spoke.

“Kevin said he only signed a year with WCW, so it was just a matter of time.”

Kevin. Traitor.

“Why wouldn't he tell me?” Shawn was feeling every emotion at once; his heart rate began to rise and he was once again on the verge of panic.

“Probably to keep you from freaking out,” Hunter said all too calmly.

“How long have you known?” Shawn’s tone became accusatory.

Hunter hesitated for a moment before coming out with the truth, “About a month.”

“And you didn't tell me because?” Shawn was furious and devastated at the same time, he felt lied to.

“Because the only thing you need to focus on is your healing and getting back in the ring, babe,” Hunter reached for Shawn’s hand, but he quickly yanked it back, “You’ve been under so much stress, I was trying to protect you.”

“I don't need protecting, Hunter. I'm a grown man, not a fucking damsel in distress,” Shawn sat back and ran a hand through his hair, still unkempt from the morning.

A moment of quiet stretched between them, Shawn’s emotions and Hunter’s logic butting heads at the same time.

“You keep losing focus on what matters,” Hunter said, finally.

“Really? That's what you chose to say right now?” Shawn scoffed back.

“Do you want your career back, Shawn? Or do you want to keep worrying about what other people are doing with their lives?” Hunter seemed at a loss, he wasn't meeting Shawn’s angry energy.

Move on, get over it. How could he? One of the biggest regrets of Shawn’s life was what he did to Bret in the end. He was a coward and a lowlife; he deserved everything bad that happened afterward.

Storming off wouldn't fix anything, but how else was Shawn supposed to react? Hunter wasn't wrong, he rarely was when it came to this type of thing, but there was just so much of his relationship with Bret that Hunter didn't know about. Those unclosed doors haunted him and as much as he wanted to forget, Shawn knew that he was just hit in the face with the reality of it all. He was going to have to live with the consequences of his actions.

Shawn’s demeanor changed. He wasn’t angry anymore; he didn't want to yell. He was regretful, but wasn't a big part of life supposed to be about growing and changing? It was so easy for Hunter to look past it all because he was on the sidelines of everything, but for Shawn, he was one of the main players.

“You can make things right, but you have to give yourself some grace,” Hunter again reached for Shawn’s hand, this time he allowed it.

Shawn in turn, squeezed his partner’s hand, tracing his knuckles with his thumb. The patience and love Hunter had for him was everything he could have ever dreamed of, but he’d never felt like he deserved it.

***

The weeks continued to burn by and Raw was in town for the night, which meant Shawn could actually attend the show. He still wasn’t in a great place to travel, but as soon as he got the clear, he’d be back on the road with Hunter. He wanted to be around wrestling again, even if he was just backstage. He’d follow Hunter around like a groupie if he had to.

“You sure you’re up to go tonight?” Hunter asked as he packed his gear bag.

Shawn was sprawled out on the bed staring at the ceiling, “I might not have a lot of friends at the moment, but it would look bad if I didn’t go.”

“Chyna will be happy to see you,” Hunter offered.

Shawn considered that for a moment, “That’s true, she’s a sweetheart.”

“And there’s Road Dogg and Pac and Billy.”

“Oh right. The guys you replaced me with,” Shawn’s voice was monotone.

He hadn’t brought up his grievances with the way Hunter was using DX as a stepping stool, but there were bigger issues than that in his life at the moment. Shawn would never rag on Hunter’s success; it just felt like the faction they’d created together was getting tossed to the side.

“You weren’t replaced, Shawn,” Hunter tossed an extra shirt into his bag, “DX isn’t some secret club.”

“X-Pac is the only one that gets a pass,” Shawn sat up, luckily with little pain for the time being, “And that’s only because he’s family.”

Members of the Kliq were always referred to as family by Shawn and Hunter. At the time, X-Pac was known as the 1-2-3 Kid, and he was often the butt of a lot of their ribbing, but he was still a brother to them. There was a long period of time where they were all each other had, especially being on the road fifty weeks out the year. The guys in the Kliq were tight; no matter how far away or how long it had been, especially now with Kevin and Scott tearing it up in WCW.

“Take it up with the boss, it’s already been done,” Hunter shrugged.

Sometimes his logic irked Shawn. Wasn’t he allowed to just be irritated sometimes?

Shawn groaned in annoyance and stood, “Whatever, can we leave now?”

Hunter shouldered his bag and gave Shawn a look, “If you’re done whining, darling.” He said sarcastically.

Shawn repeated what Hunter said in a mocking tone, making the other man grin. Sometimes they were a little mean to each other, but it always came down to them not just being partners but best friends as well.

Hunter followed as Shawn made his way out of the room, earning a yelp from the shorter man when he pinched his ass.

***

Shawn shouldn’t be nervous. This was his domain, the WWF was where he excelled; he was a top guy. So why did he feel like he was going to throw up? It had been months since he’d even been backstage and there were so many people who were entirely too happy to see him go, even if at times it felt entirely deserved. But Shawn was working on bettering himself and that meant he owed a lot of apologies.

For a long time, Shawn expressed his anger and frustration by lashing out, it was something he continued to struggle with. The fact that Hunter continued to stick by him even at his lowest spoke volumes. The least Shawn could do was support his partner at an event.

They didn’t see anyone on the way in, which was a relief to Shawn, but sooner or later he was going to have to face his fears of putting on a genuine smile and trying to play nice.

“You alright?” Hunter asked as they made their way into his dressing room.

Being a new top guy had its perks, and with it came a private dressing room. Shawn was immensely grateful for it at that moment.

“I’m not sure,” Shawn took a seat in the nearest chair, “It kind of feels like I don’t really belong here anymore.”

“Of course you belong here,” Hunter set his bag down and started to change, “You’ve been gone for a long time, it’s gonna feel a little weird.”

“Yeah that’s probably what it is, just nerves,” There was no way to explain the complex series of emotions that Shawn was feeling.

When Hunter finished changing, they left the dressing room so he could get a warm-up in. Shawn knew Hunter liked doing his warm-ups alone so he could get into a good headspace, which meant that he was going to be left to his own devices. He could opt to hide away in the dressing room, but he at least wanted to say hello to a few people.

He walked around for a bit, taking in the commotion backstage. It felt odd being on the other side of everything; observing instead of getting ready for a performance. Shawn hadn’t realized how little he paid attention in the past; there was so much happening all at once. Roadies running around putting things together, the glam department, the caterers; It took so many people for this organization to run. Was he really so egotistical that he’d taken all of it for granted?

“Hey stranger!”

Shawn turned his head towards the feminine voice and his anxiety melted. Chyna was as beautiful and buff as ever and she genuinely looked happy to see him. As much as he loved and adored Hunter, only seeing one person for months at a time probably wasn’t very good for him.

“Look at you!” Shawn greeted as he wrapped her in a hug.

“It’s so good to see you, Shawn,” She squeezed him then pulled back, “How are you feeling?”

Normally, Shawn loved to talk about himself, but he didn’t want to bore her with the fact that all he did as of late was gripe and moan and lay around the house waiting for Hunter to give him attention.

“I’m alright,” He shrugged, “Hunter keeps me spoiled.”

Chyna huffed a laugh, “I’m sure he does. When do you think you’ll be in the ring again?”

“Not sure yet, I’m just hoping I can one day,” Shawn tried to sound positive but his tone betrayed him.

Chyna gave him a sympathetic look, “You will be. They can’t get rid of you that easily.”

Shawn ached to change the subject, even though he appreciated her kind words.

“How do you feel about all the changes to DX?” He asked. If anybody knew anything, it would be her.

“I don’t love it, I'll be honest, I miss having you out there. But it’s been pretty good for everyone’s careers, especially Hunter,” She replied.

“I know,” Shawn scratched his chin, unsure of how to word what he wanted to say, “Did Hunter ever run any of it by you before it happened?”

“He just kind of started making decisions after you left. He talks to McMahon a lot more than he used to,” Chyna explained with a shrug.

So Hunter was working his way up the corporate ladder. That wasn’t inherently a bad thing, but Shawn knew firsthand how much of a slippery slope it could be.

“He hasn’t talked to you about any of this?” Chyna raised her brow.

“We don’t talk about work much,” Shawn feigned a half smile, “Try to keep home life and work life separate y’know?”

Shawn wouldn’t mention the fact that every time he turned on Raw and saw Hunter continue to move on from what they had created tore his heart in half. He also wouldn’t mention that he was so bitter about his injury that even watching wrestling in general almost brought tears to his eyes.

Chyna nodded in response, and moved to give Shawn another hug, “I have to go get ready for the show, but call me sometime, okay? I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” He squeezed her gently before letting go.

As Chyna walked away, Shawn felt his heartstrings tug; maybe he had more friends than he thought he did.

What she said about Hunter was troubling, though. Shawn always knew Hunter was meant for big things, but if Vince got too into his partner’s head, it could backfire. Hunter spent a lot of time protecting Shawn, but he’d never considered that Hunter needed protecting back. In that way, he’d been selfish.

After a moment, he continued walking throughout the backstage area, not really looking for anything in particular. Shawn knew there were certain people he wanted to avoid; Vince being one of them. He still technically worked for the man, but any interaction with Vince would just lead to talking about Shawn’s injury or his plans with Hunter, and that was something he wanted to avoid.

He wandered into the catering room with the idea of sneaking a donut on his mind when he was met with a familiar head of shaggy bright blonde hair. Shawn felt the blood drain from his face at the sight and turned to escape, but if there was any chance for him to sneak away, it was quickly ruined.

The individual in question had caught him, “Shawn?”

Shawn grimaced inwardly before responding, “Hey, Owen.”

The youngest Hart brother wasn’t someone Shawn had prepared himself to see, but as awkward as it was, Owen was a good guy. He was also someone who deserved an apology from Shawn, especially after the end of his relationship with Bret; he hadn’t seen a need to be kind to Owen, even though he had nothing to do with what happened.

And as Shawn’s luck would have it, Owen was holding a plate stacked with exactly what Shawn was looking for. The donuts backstage were always one of Shawn’s favorite treats; so much so that the talent would often bicker about there not being enough. It looked like Owen had just nabbed the last few, no doubt to bring some to share with his buddies.

“Are you healed up?” There was zero animosity in Owen’s voice because of course there wasn’t, he was always kind.

Shawn hesitated for a moment,”No, not yet. Just here to support Hunter.”

“Right,” There was an awkward silence that followed.

Shawn couldn’t blame Owen for not having much to say, in the other man’s world, Shawn was a villain. Someone who hurt his brother and tortured him afterward just for being related. Owen had no reason to even give Shawn the time of day, but here he was, asking if he was healing okay.

Shawn didn’t deserve Owen’s forgiveness nor did he deserve one of the other man’s donuts, but if he was going to try to be a better person, he needed to commit to it entirely.

Clearing his throat, Shawn finally took the long-awaited leap, “Listen, Owen. I need to apologize to you.”

Owen didn’t say anything, but he didn’t run off or punch Shawn in the face, which was a good sign that he was willing to hear what Shawn had to say.

“You didn’t have anything to do with what happened between me and your brother, and I shouldn’t have been such a dick to you. I’m sorry.”

Owen exhaled and gave Shawn a puzzled look, “I don’t know man, you used your pull with Vince to get me thrown to the mid-card for six months. I could’ve been fired if I didn’t prove that I was worth something.”

“I know, I-” Shawn felt himself getting flustered, “God, I didn’t realize I was that bad.”

Owen let out a chuckle at that, “Yeah, it wasn’t great,” he paused for a moment, then held out the plate of donuts, “Saw you eyeing these.”

Shawn gratefully took one, a smile forming, “Thanks.”

“I think you’ve suffered enough with an injury like that,” Owen shrugged, “People can change. I don’t think you’re a bad guy, I think you just have some work to do.”

Few and far people in between would so easily forgive someone like Shawn, but that just proved the decency of Owen’s character. It felt good to be on the right side of something for once.

Shawn figured he’d ask the dreaded question before things got too sappy, “So, Bret’s coming back?”

He took a bite of the donut so he didn’t have to say anything else.

Owen nodded, “He’s here tonight if you want to give him the same spiel.”

The donut turned to ash in his mouth. Of course, Bret was here. Shawn quickly swallowed and tried to think of something to say. Suddenly, the urge to hide away in Hunter’s dressing room was overwhelming; he needed to escape.

Owen must have caught on to Shawn’s change of feeling; he offered a solution, “I won’t tell him you’re here if you don’t want me to.”

“He’ll find out sooner or later,” Shawn shook his head and relented, “It’s alright. Thanks for being a good sport. I’m gonna go find a place to watch the show.”

Shawn gave Owen a pat on the shoulder before heading out of the room; he shoved the rest of the donut in his mouth and tried to think of a way he could hide and watch Hunter at the same time.

***

“There you are,” Hunter greeted Shawn at gorilla with a kiss to his temple.

“Hey,” Shawn wanted to lean into his partner’s touch, but there was too much going on around him at the moment.

Hunter was waiting for his music to hit so he could interrupt a title match. The other members of DX weren’t in sight so Shawn assumed Hunter would be going out on his own.

“I talked to Chyna,” Shawn brought up, “She said she missed me.”

“I told you she does,” Hunter said as he continued to stretch and stay warm.

Part of Shawn wanted to start an argument and bring up the fact that Hunter said nothing about Bret lurking around backstage, but then again, he’d been warned plenty in advance that Bret was coming back in the first place.

“I saw Owen in catering.”

Hunter stopped his movement and raised a brow, “Oh? How’d that go?”

“He gave me a donut,” Shawn shrugged.

Before Hunter could respond, his music hit and it was time for him to exit, “We’ll talk about it later.”

He gave Shawn’s hand a squeeze and hit the ramp; the crowd going absolutely wild at his presence. A pang of pride swelled in Shawn’s chest as he watched Hunter’s entrance on the monitor. In the years that Shawn had known Hunter, it was good to finally see all the hard work pay off. He just wanted to make sure that Hunter didn’t end up going about success in the same way Shawn had; practically letting it ruin his life and all the relationships around him. But Shawn would be the first to admit that Hunter had more of a level head on his shoulders than he did at the time. For now, he’d let the issue rest, but he promised himself to keep an eye on Raw, even if it hurt.

The event went off without a hitch and Shawn actually enjoyed himself. He’d been trapped in his head a lot and really wanted to be present for Hunter. He wanted so badly to get back in the ring himself and sometimes when he forgot how much the sport truly meant to him, it took something like a live show to bring him back in.

Knowing that Hunter would be busy with post-show interviews and promos, Shawn waited for him in a quiet area backstage. He said hello to a few of the younger wrestlers as they made their way out of the arena, assuring them that he'd be back and better than ever in no time.

Soon enough, he finally saw Hunter coming his way and politely excused himself from the small talk he’d been making.

Hunter looked exhausted but no worse for wear; Shawn was positive the man wanted nothing more than a shower and to sleep. His partner gave him a smile as he approached, but got distracted when someone called his name.

At first, Shawn assumed it would just be another employee asking about the details of next week or telling him where to be for the next house show, but Shawn could never be so lucky.

Bret made his way over to Hunter with a big smile on his face, Owen following. Hunter quickly made eye contact with Shawn before acknowledging the other; almost as if it were an apology. Shawn watched as Hunter took Bret’s hand and gave a friendly greeting then the same with Owen.

Dread filled Shawn’s mind but he tried to fight it. It was inevitable that he’d see Bret again one day given their history, but watching his current partner act friendly with his ex-partner did nothing to squash his nerves. He wanted to run up and tug Hunter away without saying a thing; he wanted to keep what was his and not share with anyone.

The only thing that made it so difficult was that they seemed to genuinely enjoy talking to each other like they’d been familiar for a while. Hunter knew the history; he’d watched it all happen from a bird’s eye view. In the end, Hunter ended up with Shawn, so shouldn’t he be quick to side with his lover?

It wasn’t until Bret turned and finally saw Shawn standing there like a deer in the headlights, that the true apprehension set in.

He saw Owen give his brother a tap and mouth something as he pointed in the other direction with his thumb; sweet Owen, he was always looking out for others and their feelings. Bret hadn’t broken eye contact with Shawn though, and he could feel his heart rise into his throat.

Shawn looked to Hunter, the man who saved him, someone who always had an answer to the problems, but the bigger man had no solution as he let Bret approach him.

The anxiety and fear of facing his biggest regret caught up to Shawn too fast and it suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. The room was getting entirely too small; he wanted Hunter, an anchor, someone, but Shawn suddenly realized how alone he truly was.

He turned and ran.

The car. He needed to get to the car. He’d wait for Hunter and then be as good as gone. Ran was an overstatement, Shawn’s back wasn’t going to let him go anywhere fast, but at that point, he didn’t care.

He’d almost made it to the parking garage entrance when his back finally made a protest he couldn’t ignore. The sharp pain ran down his spine causing Shawn to stop in his tracks and grimace in pain, he wanted to cry out but his panicked breathing made it too difficult. He reached out to grab the wall for support and leaned his forehead against the cool concrete.

Shawn expected pandemonium around him, but nothing came. The backstage area had mostly cleared out as it was, so there weren’t very many people to witness his panic attack, but that didn’t change the fact that Bret was still nearby and had seen all of it.

A gentle touch was soon laid on his shoulder and Shawn knew that it was Hunter. Relief should have flooded his system, but all Shawn felt was shame. He was such an embarrassment, and he couldn’t blame Hunter if he decided to leave.

“You okay?” The bigger man asked gently.

Shawn shook his head still pressed against the wall, he was still trying to catch his breath.

“I told them it wasn’t a good time, they’re gone,” Hunter added.

Shawn winced at Hunter’s words, he’d never felt so defeated in his life, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Hunter said with finality, “I need to change, but I’ll forgo the shower so we can get home quicker, okay?”

Nodding, Shawn finally pulled away from the wall, “I don’t know what happened. It felt like I couldn’t breathe-”

“Shawn, Bret’s not going to hurt you,” Hunter tried to reason.

It wasn’t that. Shawn knew Bret would never physically lay a hand on him, at least outside of the ring, but that wasn’t what set him off. It was the remorse and blame he felt towards himself. Shawn had been able to face Owen and give a proper apology, but with Bret, the flame of anguish burned so much deeper.

Shawn just shook his head, as much as he tried, Hunter wouldn’t understand.

[lipglossanon]

You’re All I’ve Got Tonight

⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙ ███████▒▒▒ 70%

part i

office exec!Leon S. Kennedy x personal assistant fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, dirty talk, kissing, nipple/breast play, grinding, unprotected sex, creampie

Actually looked over with a second pair of eyes by the ever lovely @rex122303 ✌️ you have my unwavering devotion 🙇‍♀️

title from You're All I’ve Got Tonight by The Cars

⋘ 𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠…⋙ ████████ 100%

You’ve been giving Leon the cold shoulder since that scandalous night in his office. You know it’s not his fault he was suddenly called up by the CEO to handle some business altercation out of state. 

But he could have called you or left a message or, hell, he could have emailed you. So when he shows up a week later, you’re short and to the point, never staying late and always disappearing if it looks like you’ll be alone with him. 

If he’s frustrated with you, you don’t really care (you do, but you’ll never admit it). He’s still cordial, still touchy feely when he can get away with it, like when brushing past you in the boardroom, but you stay firmly polite even if his touch makes you press your thighs together. 

It all comes to a head a few weeks later when an overnight trip to a business summit’s announced for the small team under Leon’s advisement. This small team also includes you, much to your chagrin. So you prep and plan, making sure all the emails are filled with the correct dossiers and agendas for each individual person and marking off the calendar accordingly. 

Leon tries to corner you time and again as you get everything setup, but you’re able to duck out of it every single time. You know it’s not very mature of you to avoid him, but you still feel embarrassed about the reaction you had when he ghosted you, even if it wasn’t entirely his fault. Your pride took one hit already, so now you’re just trying to avoid another. 

The date for the summit arrives far too quickly and you’re all holed up in the rental van to drive out of the city to the nearby retreat that’s hosting. You make small talk with Ark, a really sweet guy who works in IT. He’s friendly without being overbearing so the drive passes by comfortably although not quickly. 

Arriving at the retreat, everyone piles out of the van, grabs their luggage, and makes their way to the front desk. Bad luck on your part lands you at the end of the line standing next to Leon. Surprisingly, he doesn’t try to chat you up or anything, just scrolling on his phone with a little furrow between his brows. You stare ahead watching as the rest of the team grab their room keys and disappear further into the foyer.  

“Hi there and welcome! Checking in?”

The perky brunette behind the desk smiles at you, making you smile back, but before you open your mouth Leon steps in front of you. 

“Hi! Checking in for Kennedy.”

Your smile tightens as you side step so you’re standing a little behind Leon now. The lady sends you a quick sympathetic look as she types in his name. 

“You’re all set, sir,” she hands him a keycard, “if you need anything whatsoever please don’t hesitate to contact the front desk or the concierge. Please have a wonderful stay!”

She turns to you and repeats the same greeting making you internally wince in sympathy as she types in your information. Her smile falters and eventually drops into a confused frown. 

“I’m terribly sorry, but it seems like your party has all checked in and there are no more rooms available,” she types for a few more seconds before turning back to you with an apologetic smile, “and seeing as we’re fully booked, you can check and see if one of your colleagues—“

“She can room with me,” Leon offers flippantly, giving the brunette another smile, before turning back to his phone, “it’s not a big deal.”

She turns to you, eyebrows raised in question and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“It’ll be fine,” you plaster a fake smile on and look over at Leon, “I appreciate it, Mr. Kennedy.”

He gives you a smarmy little grin, “Not a problem, madam secretary.”

You roll your eyes at him and turn back in time to grab the spare keycard. 

The young woman rattles off the same spiel as you grab your luggage, “If you need anything whatsoever please don’t hesitate to contact the front desk or the concierge. Please have a wonderful stay!”

You follow Leon through the foyer and over to the elevators, thanking your lucky stars no one from your office will actually see that you’re bunking with the boss. Butterflies threaten to flutter in your chest but you tamp them down, not letting yourself get swept away like last time. 

Leon lets you stew in your own thoughts as you enter the tenth floor, leading you down the hall to the room you’ll be sharing. He unlocks the door and holds it open, gesturing for you to enter first. You nod and roll your luggage case in behind you only to stop dead in the little hallway into the room. 

“There’s just one bed,” you blurt out, disbelief sweeping over you. 

Leon walks up next to you, letting the door swing shut. 

“Oh wow, that’s really unfortunate,” he shrugs, sounding a little too blasé. 

You squint at his side profile, “I’ll see if they can send in a roller bed—“

Leon scoffs, “Look it’s a king size bed, we can share like civilized adults.”

You purse your lips, “Mmhmm, and it’s not just awfully convenient we ran out of rooms for everyone and now we just happen to have to share a bed?”

Leon grins at you, the one that always makes those damn butterflies flutter.

“Just really weird co-winky-dinks,” his grin widens when you fight the smile wanting to slip out, instead giving him another eye roll. 

“Okay,” you throw your hands up with a sigh, “it’s only a short weekend trip.”

One of the reasons you’ve been avoiding Leon is it’s so easy to slip into the comfortable back and forth you’ve already built up. So it’s next to no time before he’s already weaseled a laugh out of you with his shitty one liner jokes. You’re a little nervous now that you’re kinda back on friendly terms, especially after you explained yourself. 

Now, he’s ordering room service for you both while you jump in the shower, letting yourself spend some extra time on shaving and primping before leaving the bathroom. Not for any ulterior motives or anything you think to yourself as you finish putting on your moisturizer. 

When you come out of the bathroom, Leon slips past you and shuts the door. You see that he hasn’t eaten yet, deciding to wait on you to finish up, which makes you feel warm and fuzzy at the thoughtful gesture. So you wait in turn, drinking some water as you channel surf, settling on a show about an elderly mystery writer who always stumbles upon a murder that needs solving. 

You’re pretty engrossed with J.B. Fletcher’s hunt for the killer, but when Leon steps out of the bathroom he draws all of your attention. His face is obscured as he dries his hair with a towel, leaving you to ogle his bare chest and toned stomach with his low slung sweats sitting on his hips, his happy trail catching your eye last. 

You make sure to be looking away by the time he drops the towel around his shoulders. 

“You should’ve went ahead,” he nudges your side, sitting down next to you on the bed. 

“Eh, just thought I’d wait,” you smile at him, nudging him back as he grabs one of the food containers. 

You grab another container and you both watch the rest of the show as you eat a late dinner. After tossing the trash away, you brush your teeth side by side at the double sinks, and find your way into bed. 

After settling underneath the blankets, Leon rolls over and props his head up on his palm. 

“So no goodnight kiss?” 

You roll over to mirror him, eyes taking in his half smile and damp fringe. 

“What makes you think you should get a goodnight kiss?” 

“Lots of reasons,” his hands shoot out to grab your waist, yanking you into his body. 

“I think you owe me a lot of making up, honey,” he murmurs, dropping a kiss to your cheek. 

One heated kiss leads to another and before you know it—

“Oh god,” you whine, grinding slowly against Leon. 

His cock is trapped in your panties, rubbing all along your dripping slit as he ruts against your cunt. His back rests against the headboard of the hotel room bed with you straddling his lap. 

You’ve been like this for an hour already; his lap and your thighs are soaked in slick and precum. 

“S’good,” he mutters under his breath, dilated eyes watching your tits jiggle, “wanna stay like this for the rest of the weekend.”

Goosebumps trail down your arms as you shiver, body completely bare except for your panties. 

“What about the presentation, sir? The actual summit?”

Leon grins lazily, dragging his eyes up to your face, “What about’em? I’m just trying to hump this little pussy.”

You whimper and rock against him harder.

The grin on his face widens, “Yeah, you like it too, like my fat cock rubbing all over this soaked cunt.”

“Leon,” your nails dig into his shoulders, eyes clenched shut.

“I wanna slide it in, but this feels too good,” he grunts, feeling your clit catch on the tip of his dick, “c’mere and let me suck on those tits, know you like that.”

You rock forward, pressing your chest out as his mouth leans up to suck on your hard nipples. He groans low in his chest as his lips and tongue work one hard bud while his fingers tweak and pinch the other. Your hips give short little thrusts as sharp bolts of arousal buzz in your clit. 

Sloppy sounds of sucking fill the room along with your pants and whines as Leon lathes your breasts with his attention. 

“Leon I want it, want your cock in me, please,” you gasp out as he bites your nipple and runs his tongue across it over and over until you’re squirming against him. 

“Think you deserve it?” he kisses across your breasts, teeth nipping at the skin as he swaps to the other nipple.  

“Please, want it, I’m so empty,” you whine.

“You've been ignoring me, honey,” he mockingly pouts up at you, lips swollen and hair messy, “outright avoiding me, I’d say.”

“You were mean,” you whine and he pinches your nipples hard making you buck against him.

“I’m being sweet now, aren’t I?” he grunts, sliding his fat cock into your pussy making you squeal from the stretch.

He’s so much bigger than you remember, making your back bow, head tipped back and mouth open, panting while he bullies his dick deeper and deeper into your pussy until he’s bottoming out.

He shushes you as you sink down on his dick with a low cry, “Such a good girl for me. Damn, missed this tight little pussy.”

You shove your breasts into his face making him growl, hands tightening on your hips, sinking you fully down on his cock. Leon’s mouth hotly kisses across your tits, sucking bruises into the sensitive skin. Groaning, he suckles your nipples eagerly until you’re bouncing on his dick. 

You let your hands sink into his soft hair, rocking your hips down hard onto his lap. Mewling, you tug on the silky strands as Leon’s tongue laps across your swollen nipples making you squirm. His hands move up to your waist as he humps your hot wet pussy, burying his cock deep in your throbbing cunt.

Feeling over sensitive, you try to pull his head away from your chest but he only groans, suckling your hard bud deeper into his mouth. His cock kicks and throbs as you slump forward, smooshing your tits into his face. 

“Leon, they’re g’nna be so sore,” you gasp as he nips at the swell of your breasts before pulling away. 

“But you like it, squeezing down on me so tight,” he grins, shaking the hair from his face as he tilts his head up, “now kiss me, sweetheart.”

You whine in the back of your throat and drop your mouth down on his. You feel as Leon scrapes his teeth against your bottom lip. He moans, licking into your mouth, tongue running along yours teasingly. 

He tugs you closer and closer, the kisses becoming more sloppy with spit dripping past your swollen lips. He chuckles when your fingers drop from his hair to cup the back of his head, pulling him forward til there’s no space between you. 

Pulling away for a breath, Leon just tugs you back in for another messy kiss, his hot tongue licking into you again and again.

“Been driving me up the wall, wanted to talk to you so bad,” he lets his head fall back to rest against the headboard as you grind dirtily against him, “had the best sex of my life and when I came back you pretended I didn’t even exist, honey.”

“‘m sorry, sir,” you whimper, eyes fluttering as his cock grinds just right against the spongy spot at the front of your pussy, “just got into my own head.”

“S’okay,” he coos up at you, letting one of his hands drop down and tease your swollen clit, “just gonna let this sweet pussy milk a nice thick load outta me.”

“Yeah, yeah, gonna milk your cock so good,” you slur, arching your back so your breasts brush against his mouth. 

He snarls and bites at your soft tits, “That’s it, squeeze my cock.”

You whine, body jerking as he pinches and rubs your pudgy clit, sucking each of your nipples between his teeth to run his tongue across them. The coil in your belly’s winding tighter and tighter as Leon teases your nipples and clit at the same time. 

“Oh,” you gasp out, “g’nna cum, Leon—“

A low cry spills from your mouth as you clamp down on Leon’s dick, pussy walls fluttering and milking his throbbing cock as he fucks you through your orgasm.

“So sexy,” Leon’s hips thrust up into your squelching pussy, “so fucking sexy. Gonna make me cum, baby. Y’ready?”

“Yes, yes, please,” you moan, digging your nails into his chest making him curse under his breath and bury his cock into your sopping wet hole. 

You feel rope after rope of hot, sticky cum spurt inside your cunt, stuffing you so full that it leaks out around his throbbing cock. 

“Beautiful,” he places open mouthed kisses across your clavicle up to your neck, letting his tongue tease across your skin, “such a good girl for me.”

You sigh, feeling blissed out and utterly satisfied. He tugs your head down to kiss you softly at the corner of your mouth.  

“If you want, just relax and I’ll bring a cloth in to clean you up.”

You smile at him sleepily, “Wanna snuggle.”

He returns your sleepy smile with a small one of his own, “You got it, sweetheart.” 

[bleachification]

trojan horse - dazai

+ dazai x reader (fantasy au)

+ this is ch. two of all that glitters is not gold (the prologue)

ch. one is here: dissonance

ch. three: in reverence

Golden armadas decorate the sea like jewels fastened upon a crystal hand, dotted plains of might and power—all at the behest of your nation’s adversary. The kingdom’s greatest foe… Prince Dazai Osamu. 

Princeling, as you used to call him. A nickname borne of affection and sullied by betrayal. 

Tonight, the royal fleet departs for its homeland with jewels, satins, and you aboard. In less than four hours, your vows will be cemented into your country’s history and the war shall halt—on paper, that is. The mere thought makes your head throb. 

Waving the useless deliberations away, you turn away from the window. A sweeping glance across the space before you elicits a tingle of discomfort that crawls up your spine and burrows its way into the back of your throat. Wooden chests and velvet cases filled with your most prized material possessions line the north-facing wall. The furniture, stripped of any and all embellishments, look like skeletons. Your room seems infinitely more spacious now that everything is packed up. Barren of comfort, you swallow at the sight. 

It is almost as if you are a stranger in your own home. 

“Is everything ready?” You ask. 

“Yes, your highness. As you requested, I have packed up all of the items written on your list,” the man behind you replies.

“Including…?”

“Yes,” he hesitates. “Although, if I may speak, your highness…”  

You turn towards the large window, gaze drifting across the sparkling cityscape wrought with peachy hues and sharp outlines. “You always do Chuuya. Go on, say what you intend.”

Chuuya runs a hand through his hair, huffing in irritation. “This is dangerous… foolish. Even for you.”

You crack a small smile at his bluntness. It is a comfort. “Did you just call me a fool?”

You’re teasing him. Just like you always have. Just like you did back when titles did not matter and your loved ones were not handpicked in favour of court politics. Back when things were much, much simpler.

Chuuya only scoffs. “You had to hear it. It may as well be from your childhood friend.”

You level your gaze at the ginger-haired man, the face you have known since birth only stares back at you, unfazed. “Ah, so you’re speaking as my friend, then? Not my personal aide?”

“And if I am?” He asks. 

“Then I appreciate your concern. But I will be fine. I have gone through much worse than that of a wedding, remember?” You raise a brow when he rolls his eyes so dramatically you fear they’ll fall out of that thick skull of his. When he doesn’t speak, you continue on, “I can handle this. I can handle him.”

“He is not the person we used to know! He never was,” Chuuya protests. 

A shooting star falls across the sky, leaving a glowing path in its wake. You make a silent wish and pray the heavens hear you. “I understand.”

“Do you really?” Skepticism coats his every word. 

You turn your head slightly, just enough so you can see him from the corner of your eye. Chuuya crosses his arms, impatiently tapping his fingers against his bicep as he expresses his disdain.

“Yes.”

Your answer only irritates him further. “If that was the case, you wouldn’t be packing belladonna in your bags and strapping daggers to your legs! If you insist on going down this path, Y/N, you could–”

“Die?” 

You are well aware of the consequences of your plans, death included. But if the cost of revenge is your life, you will gladly pay that price. 

Chuuya realizes this and his irritation fades to something softer. Something sadder—more fearful. “Yes. Precisely that. You could die.”

You step down from your windowside and make your way to Chuuya's side. Luggage litters the marble floor, causing a misstep or two. In what feels like a mere moment, the dying sunset casts the already lustrous room in a gorgeous light. Warm orange tones pour into the room like a golden tide, flooding out any and all dullness. 

You nudge his shoulder with your own, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. Chuuya looks like he’s about to go and strangle Dazai himself just to keep you from coming to harm. “You don’t believe I can do this? That I can hurt him? Bring him to his knees?”

Chuuya shuffles so that he is facing you, still scowling, still with arms crossed. “You know it’s not about that. He… Dazai is out of his mind. Who knows what he’ll do to you if he uncovers your true intentions.”

Chuuya says his name with such scorn you almost feel bad for Dazai. Almost.

“Do you really think that I’m unaware of how… cruel he is?” You pause, a distant memory floats around the back of your mind; a painful past you can never outrun, “I experienced that inhumanity firsthand, Chuuya… watched as it destroyed my family, and nearly my empire as well. I couldn’t burn the image out of my mind if I tried.” 

Your best friend falls silent. You do for a second as well, resolve hardening in the process.

“For that, he will pay. By no one’s hand but my own,” you vow. 

A hand that you have trained for years, all for the sole purpose of hurting him. To be able to bear the heavy weight of a blade—to lift it and apply just enough pressure that you are able to draw fear from his eyes and a line of red across his throat. The thought of having that much power over Dazai… it is addicting. Exhilarating. Terrifying. 

Chuuya stares at you in both irritation and concern, his nerves firing at every end as he paces the length of the room, muttering as he does so. “So damned stubborn… Cannot believe… Just like when…”

“Are you done cursing under your breath? I do still require your help with preparing for the ceremony,” you comment, rolling your eyes as his grumbles get louder. 

Chuuya practically stomps his way back to you, huffing in defiance. “If there ever was a record, let it be shown that I am vehemently against this moronic plan.”

You make a noise of agreement. “Duly noted. If that is all, will  you come help me with my cosmetics now?”

You stroll over to the cushioned seat tucked under the shimmering vanity hidden away in the corner of your room. A round mirror pebbled with milky pearls and brushed with diamond powder sits atop a glossy desk surface. The ornate piece was gifted by your father for your birthday many years before. For a second, you are glad for the marriage. For as long as it lasts, you will never have to see that sickening thing again—never to be done up on the whims of the Emperor. 

You sit down. The chair is soft—too soft—and you sink further into the cushion than desired. 

Chuuya grabs a few elaborate accessories, powders, and a shockingly large pile of fabric from the drawers and closet next to you. He drops them unceremoniously onto your empty bed and shifts through the mess before he finds what he is searching for; a small pot of safflower lotion. 

“Yeah, yeah. I still don’t understand the reasoning behind all this dress-up,” he mutters. He hands you the lotion and busies himself with the mountain of clothing on the bed. 

“It is something I hope you never come to understand, my dear friend,” you sigh. 

After all, there is no worth in a canvas without paint, much less a doll bare of face. 

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . 　  

Four days and four nights. That is how long you have been at sea, a prisoner of your father’s accord on the enemy prince’s ship—No Longer Human. You find the name a bit morose for your liking, but there’s no accounting for taste, you suppose. The others following aren’t much better. You spared the various liners a glance before boarding the capital ship. From memory, there was one called Twin Dark, and another painted with swirling red letters of: The Crystal Rose. You’d much prefer being on the latter—roses are your favourite flower. They have been ever since childhood. 

You wonder… 

No. You shake the inkling of a thought out of your head. The chance that that man would remember something so obscure about someone he so despises… laughable. 

But you don’t laugh. You don’t do much at all. You stare out of the floor-to-ceiling glass that is more akin to a wall than a window. Vast ocean greets you, sparkling like a veil of crushed gems under the setting sun, sitting snug below an infinite sky. 

Someone knocks on your door—three quick raps. You make a noise of confirmation and the door quietly opens to reveal a stranger. The man who walks into your room is tall and lean, with thin wired frames resting on the sharp bridge of his nose. His hair, long and so blonde it almost glows, falls across his shoulders and ends at the small of his back. There is a sternness to his expression—humourless and collected, but not cold. In fact, there isn’t anything antagonistic about him. 

Under normal circumstances, you would give him a friendly smile, say hello, maybe even compliment him on his clothes. Today is not a normal circumstance. He wears garments stitched of a gorgeous blue silk, reminiscent of the midnight sky. Layers of fabric pool off of him, white and grey, all covered by a traditional robe. The robe is lined with silver edges and tied together at his front with a matching sash. The patterns on the outerwear swirl together, falling lotus petals that almost come to life with his movements. From the looks of it, he must be a high-ranking official in Dazai’s court. 

The blonde man pushes his glasses up with his left hand and adjusts the box he holds in his right. It doesn’t exactly look impressive, a rectangular package wrapped in silver paper. It’s the size of a large book. The only thing out of the ordinary is the black lettering on the surface; a phrase written in glittering cursive. Your name. 

The blond man bows. “I greet Your Highness, heir to the Northern Empire. I am Doppo Kunikida, Chief Minister and personal aide to His Majesty.”

“His Majesty?” You raise a brow. Last you heard, which was only three days ago at your marriage ceremony, Dazai was only a prince.

“Yes,” Kunikida says. 

You wait. The Chief Minister stays silent, something  you are sure he does quite often. 

“I am in no mood for games,” you state plainly. 

Kunikida straightens and nods his head almost imperceptibly at your thinly-veiled irritation.  “Apologies. His Majesty, Dazai Osamu, has succeeded the throne as of two nights ago. The formal coronation is set for three days' time, the evening after our arrival.”

You blink. Dazai is… king? The little boy who used to pick out flowers and break down sobbing when a thorn pricked him is now the leader of an entire kingdom? The leader of the enemy kingdom, you remind yourself. As the king, his power has risen considerably, along with the stakes of your position and plans of revenge. 

Guess you really can't call him Princeling anymore. 

You swallow down the uneasiness in your throat and turn your attention to the silver box, hoping Kunikida doesn’t pick up on your anxiety. 

“What is it?”

Kunikida hands it to you before taking a step back. “A gift.”

“Let me guess, a gift from His Majesty?” 

If Kunikida notices the sarcasm in your tone (and it is quite difficult to not notice it), he doesn’t show it nor comment on it. “A wedding present, he said. A small offering of peace.”

You want to shove the new King of Yokohama’s peace offering down his throat until he takes the shape of a rectangle. Sadly, Dazai isn’t here for you to do so, and it would be quite the scandal; ‘Royal marriage ends after three days due to newly appointed King Dazai’s death by cardboard box.’’

You thank Kunikida for the gift and he quietly leaves with another bow. It might be your imagination, but the stony-faced Chief Minister seems relieved to be dismissed. You hadn’t let your annoyance show that clearly, had you? 

The box isn’t very heavy. You set it on the large four-poster bed in the center of the room. 

You haven’t seen Dazai since the wedding—if you can even call such a stifling event that. He disappeared right after and left you in the care of the soldiers and attendants of Yokohama Kingdom. They are the ones who brought you aboard the ship and showed you to your cabin. Though “cabin” isn’t quite the accurate description for your quarters. Aside from the huge bed laden with piles of silk and cotton and the seemingly never-ending glass wall to your left, the room has everything and anything you can possibly think of. 

The marbled tiles under your feet are cold to the touch, and the deep blue reminds you of the midnight sea. Rows and rows of clothing, shoes, and accessories line the walk-in closet in the back, right next to the silver-gilded fireplace that lights up the room with warmth.  Across from it sits a large loveseat tufted with silk and made of black velvet.

And yet… despite the glamour and luxury of your accommodations, the only thing that catches your attention right now is the gift. You pick it up and stare at the shining letters. You should throw it into the fireplace. Let it burn to ashes. Better yet, you should chuck it off the side of the ship and pray a shark eats it. 

Your fingers twitch. 

About all of three seconds pass before you rip open the outer wrapping of the package and uncover it. There is a folded note sitting atop a gently folded bundle of satin—a stunning article of clothing. The garment is noticeably traditional wear, and very formal. It shimmers with every little touch, every little breath. It is coloured a deep red, a shade not unlike blood, that is beyond flattering against your complexion. 

The sight of it makes you want to hurl. First it was your father, now it's Dazai who thinks he has the right to dress you up… to show you off like some sort of war prize. 

You won’t let him have the satisfaction. You toss the clothing aside and reach for the envelope that came with it. You open up the folded paper and immediately recognize Dazai’s handwriting. It hasn't changed much since he was young. Slightly more polished, and definitely less chicken-scratchy. 

Y/N,

I have drafted letters like this one every single night for the past ten years, only to throw them all into the fireplace out of frustration. Or perhaps it was out of cowardice and shame. Even now, I am nervous—no—terrified at the notion of you reading this. Even now, you have such a startling effect on me. 

You must hate me. I understand. Anyone would feel the same in your shoes. Although…regrettably, I cannot say the same for myself. But that is an indication of my own weak constitution more than anything else. 

No matter. You hate me and that is that. But we are married now and I am set to change things. Our countries require our amicability, despite any personal feelings you may harbour. I will not force you to care for me—but I will try, for as long as I am able. 

Please join me for dinner service tonight. In three hours time; southern side of the upper deck. 

We have much to discuss. 

P.S. After much deliberation and many sleepless hours, I decided that red would look best on you. Though I fear even a paper sack would leave me quite speechless as long as you were the one wearing it. 

Your (beloved) husband,

Dazai Osamu

Your first thought is to punch a wall. Your second thought is to punch a certain king right in his smug face. After so many years, he is still pretending to be on your side. Still pretending that there is anything left between you that isn’t the shattered remnants of a tragic history best left in the past. 

The fireplace flares as it swallows up the last of the note and garment, leaving nothing behind but charcoal dust and a soft warmth that rolls over the room. You sigh, both satisfied and exhausted; completely drained from the emotional turmoil of the past week.

The sun is long gone underneath the waves, dark midnight now settled in its place. The moon, in all its glory, lights up a path across the sea for the ship to follow and casts a silver sheen over your room. There is not a speck of land in sight. It is as if the world had been swallowed by the sea, with only the stars as companions. The sight makes you sleepy… and just a little bit homesick, which surprises you. 

Kunikida shows up a short time later, ready to bring you to Dazai. You insist on taking your dinner in your quarters, much to Kunikida’s protests, and lock the door behind the maid that brings it. Just in case. Though the lock didn’t do much to block the incessant knocking on your door that sounds just as you are about to fall asleep. 

Peeved and a little puzzled, you stumble out of bed in a daze, making your way to the door that is currently taking a beating from the other side. 

Is it Kunikida? The maid from earlier? Who the hell could need you at this ungodly hour?

The answer comes in the form of Dazai Osamu. His hair is tangled and sticking in all directions, like he was tossing and turning. His clothes are nothing but a cream cotton robe covering a pair of loose matching bottoms, wrinkled and creased. He is still as beautiful as ever. 

You slam the door in his face. Or at least, you try to, but Dazai anticipates it and sticks a foot out to block it. He winces, ever slightly, but gives no other indication of discomfort. 

You are positively irked. 

Before you are able to cuss him out and physically push him away, he speaks up.

“Apologies. I couldn’t sleep. It seems that even in the dreamland, you manage to plague my every thought,” he says with a slight frown. 

Confusion and irritation swirl in your chest as you take in… everything. Is he out of his damn mind? More than usual? 

You narrow your eyes at him, not buying this innocent act of his for even a moment. “What, pray tell, am I supposed to do with that information? You act as if this problem is one I can, or even want, to help you solve. Though I assure you that is not the case. Unless there is an emergency—a real one—leave me be, Your Majesty. You and I have nothing to speak of.”

His frown deepens. “Who…You don’t need to call me that.”

Your left eye twitches. “What?”

Dazai swallows, an air of nervous energy pours out from him, along with annoyance. That just makes you even more mad—if anyone should be annoyed, it should be you. It also puts you on edge—Dazai is rarely nervous. 

“There is no reason for you to call me by a title. My name—it is yours to use freely,” he says.

“I disagree. Now, Your Majesty, why are you here?” You reject him flatly. 

Dazai is clearly unsatisfied with your decision but decides to drop it. For now. He clears his throat. “You didn’t come to dinner.”

“I didn’t want to.”

If your reply hurts him, he doesn’t show it. He just nods like he expected that answer from you. “Right. Is it because of the clothes? Kunikida said that it would be a nice gesture, a way to show goodwill, and I thought it would look—”

“No, not because of the clothes,” you interject. Is he messing with you right now?

“So it was because of me.”

You cock your head. Your mind is on overdrive trying to work out his motive for being here—for bringing up all these strange, irrelevant things. “If you knew that, why come here at all?”

He smiles sadly. “Wishful thinking on my part. I thought…” He hesitates, clearly unsure if he should voice his feelings out loud. He tries anyway, “Well, let’s just say it is a treacherous thing to be stuck in a past that no longer exists. I was feeling… nostalgic. It will not happen again.”

A small lump forms in your throat at the finality in his tone. You swallow it down and make a noise of agreement. “A wise decision.” 

You expect him to leave, but Dazai lingers at the doorway. This entire time he has been nothing more than a foot away from you, yet the distance between you continues to grow into an insurmountable gap. You wonder how you ever loved him; how you ever looked at him and felt something other than heartache and hostility. Those memories feel like a mere figment of your imagination nowadays. Perhaps they are.

After a moment of silence, he says: “It was never my intention to hurt you, you must believe me on that.”

Your knuckles turn white from how hard you clench the doorknob. It takes all your willpower and patience not to put a blade through his head, right then and there. 

Not his intention to hurt you? Believe him? Such pretty words undeserving of being spoken by such an ugly liar. 

“It's a shame I am not the naive little kid that you used to know. Because if I was…” You lean into him, until your mouth is right next to his ear. 

Dazai stills. 

“I might actually believe you,” you hiss. 

You pull back and ignore his stricken expression. 

Dazai shakes the shock away and nods. He takes a step back, understanding his cue to leave. He turns and takes a few steps before stopping and looking back at you.

“Good night, Y/N,” he softly whispers.

You shut the door without another word. 

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 3 - HUNGRY

It’s almost embarrassing, really, how utterly Arabella fails to realise what she’s going to do until she’s already halfway to doing it. (It certainly wouldn’t be the first time; she is less aware of herself, a lot of the time, than she would prefer to believe. Just think of how desperately she clung to the deep forest roads of Valenwood until her metaphorical fingers were dislocated with the force it took to rip her away; just think of the College, and how spectacularly that all went. Just think about nearly dying, her body almost left to deform with foreign rot into a foreign tomb’s dead dirt.)

It is after she and the two other Nightingales – still, the title wears strange in her head, as pretty as it is pompous – have dragged themselves, gagging and spitting, half-frozen, from the waterlogged cave, what little is left of their luggage soaked nearly through and their clothes almost iced; after they have set up some ratty little camp across the lake with what’s left, been spelled blisteringly dry, a hasty campfire lit with all the set-jawed, dogged ferocity of the sun. The sky is shaded dark, moons cut down to slivers. They’d sorted through what remained of their belongings, the spoils of their fight in the cave handled precious as blown glass; found an unreadable map and set of ruined playing cards, among other things, though Brynjolf’s prized ivory dice seem by some miracle to have made it unscathed; found little in the way of eatables besides a jar of dribbling-thin honey, cracked, seeping over everything else in the canvas pack, and a bag of soggy nuts. There isn’t so much as a wedge of cheese or some wet salted meat. Brynjolf and Karliah divvied the nuts up and ate them. Arabella lit the fire, then crouched down on her haunches in the snow and hissed breath through her teeth until she stopped seeing stars. Something a little too watery-thin to be blood started leaking from somewhere on her left hand; the creases that run through her palm and bisect the bends of her fingers have worn thin enough to glow. That used to only happen over the fascia of her palm. Probably a bad sign. But they got the bastard – and at the time, that was all that mattered. Arabella has never been very good at planning ahead.

Brynjolf has gone off in search of something more substantial to eat, though they all knew he’d be the worst pick for it – a city man through and through, that one. Arabella is of the Valenwood, so she’s as comfortable with hunting as she is with barter, and Karliah has spent the better part of the last decade in the wilderness on her own, but Arabella was preoccupied with swearing under her breath as the fire crackled itself properly to life and Karliah is searching through the damp dregs of their supplies for anything approaching medicine. She’s having precious little luck, even after Brynjolf’s tramped inauspiciously off into the snow; not much is left, and what is there is all of the sort she used after Arabella was stabbed in the belly of the tomb. The salve that stinks, grassy and green; the flaxen sutures she’d cut out of her own neck one by one. She expresses more consternation over this than Arabella does; Arabella just nudges the broken jar with the back of a knuckle (even that bloody stings) and tells her to just make a honey dressing. It’s the best thing they’re going to scrounge up.

She asks, after a moment’s silence, to see the Key; woodsmoke curls luxurious from the campfire (dead sticks, wet in the snow, doesn’t count when it’s unavoidable); Karliah puts it, gentle, into her hands. It’s cold against the blurry brilliance of her burns. Lavishly painful. Arabella bites down on her tongue until the rich copper-tang of blood – bright and meaty as bone marrow, and fuck, she’s hungry – distracts her. She looks at the Skeleton Key, hard-earned, personally meaningless but said to hold such great power, and she thinks, what now?

And then she thinks, oh.

(Arabella has never been very good at planning ahead, but she always has ideas running for what comes next – and next – and next. She didn’t mean to stay in the Guild as long as she did – but she’d been embroiled in a conspiracy, which caught her interest, and then she’d been cut open and left for decaying dead in an empty Nord tomb, which gave her something of a personal stake in this fight. And she’d been caught up in it; distracted by the present; because she so rarely plans ahead, and because she is less aware of herself, a lot of the time, than she would like to believe. But now the mystery is unravelled and her debt is paid, and there is nothing left to keep her here. Nothing substantial.)

(And if the Key is all it’s said to be –)

(Unlocks doors – throws open the blinds – looses the restraints and makes every possibility tangible, in the literal and unliteral sense – if it can do away with the limitations of a person, make them anything they want to be – good enough to do anything –)

(Well, then, she already knows what she’s going to do, doesn’t she. She has known since the beginning.)

A pit like a peach’s settles in her stomach as she turns the midnight-cold metal in her hands. She tells herself it’s anticipation, because she doesn’t know why it would be anything else

Karliah is tipping everything back into their overstuffed pack with sodden irritation. Arabella remarks, “It doesn’t look so special.”

“Powerful things rarely do,” Karliah says, sounding vaguely, smugly satisfied, and Arabella thinks, again, untapped abilities - thinks not just physical barriers – thinks limitless.

Arabella twists it again in her hands, frostbite-sharp against the worn, inflamed skin of them; there is still blood gushing into her mouth. She is still hungry. Lightly, she says, “It’s a shame we have to take it back.”

Karliah’s reaction to that is more understated than the feared it might be; she just exhales, mist-bright in the cold, and heaves their wreck of a pack nearer to the campfire. “You have no idea,” she replies – her tone surprisingly wry – and she holds the broken honey jar to the light. “It would be – incredibly useful for the Guild, for a little while. But the Mistress of Shadows has barely forgiven our last failure – she’d never let the Guild forget if we broke our oath again.”

Arabella twists the key again; watches stars spark and fizzle in its bow. “What we?” she asks, glib. “I wasn’t even here.” It shines, so very darkly, like the whole expanse of a sky; like an aurora, or an absence of it. It feels colder than metal usually does, smoother, too perfect to be the fruit of any forge or put to shape by any key-cutter. It winks with reflected firelight. “And what oath, I ask? I’ve still never had my end of the bargain.”

An exhale, short and sharp and almost-laughing. “Not until it’s returned.” With a faint noise of triumph, Karliah produces a bent metal spoon.

“She’s sharped me,” Arabella says with mock indignation; she licks her bloody tongue over the points of her teeth. Bluish light flickers over the key’s end, flashes bright in the crooks of its teeth. “Why, at this point – my due so recanted – I’d say our bargain doesn’t even count.”

The fire flickers, spitting charred wood embers; Karliah snorts. “You sold your soul,” she tells her, flat-voiced, sets the jar down, leaking, in the snow. She licks the honey off her fingers and pulls a face at its sweetness, looks, firelit, over her shoulder. “Mercer tried to outsmart Nocturnal, and you saw how it went for him. You can’t nitpick your way out of a contract – hell, even if we wanted to, even if we succeeded, she would exact the price and all accrued interest from it when we were dead, all the same.”

The Key glints. There is blood like mutton marrow in her throat. Arabella thinks limitless and Arabella thinks potential and Arabella is so desperately, ravenously fucking hungry.

She hums and says, slippery as her own oil-slick blood in the cave’s freezing water, “I’m not dead yet.”

(She didn’t think about what she would do next, because she never thinks about what comes next, because that would ruin it all; but she is always thinking about what came before, no matter how much she turns her head away. She can’t look away from it completely, the past pressed into the curls and creases of her palms, marked behind the lopsided rows of her teeth, braided into her hair. She hasn’t gone home in going on ten years and home is the bloody mess and meat of her heart; she craves it like sunlight, like air, like space to run. She misses it like a limb. She’s never full. She stayed as long as she could, and then longer still; stayed well past the point where it became glaringly inadvisable, because as Mercer learned tonight she is stubborn and she is vengeful and she is a child of the Valenwood who pays her fucking debts, but she conceded, in the end. Left, still owed and owing. And she’s never been able to escape it.)

(She didn’t want to leave, but she had to; she’d torn her gums to shreds and no matter how desperately she tried, how she remade herself and remade herself again, it all ended at the bounds of her own skin. She tried to make herself brave but skittish cowardice still pooled in the soles of her feet and valour lay just out of reach. She couldn’t contort herself enough to be a saviour. She was feral-fierce and runagate and all she could ever manage to do was watch it all as it burned, but if the Key works like they said – if she can turn it on herself, crowbar open the doors and tear out of her skin singing – make herself an ocean instead of a dish, spin herself any story she wants, be what she couldn’t when she realised she couldn’t stay – then there’s no choice, is there?)

(She has never wanted anything else. If it’s even on the table, then nothing she has now matters.)

She’s not quite glib enough, perhaps, because Karliah turns, her face sharply shaded under the edge of her ever-present hood, and she says with half a smile, “You’re not serious,” and Arabella doesn’t say anything at all.

The Key shines with all the glowing dark of nighttide; Karliah’s smile drops from her lips, languid as dripping syrup. “Arabella,” she says, quiet, breath misting in the frozen dark, “what are you doing?”

“Nothing.” The fire crackles. Something clearer than blood is beginning to dribble down the inside of Arabella’s wrist, into her sleeve. Her teeth click, arrowhead sharp. “I’m not doing anything at all.”

Karliah’s face goes cautious-blank as a clay mask in a theatre.

Then – and this is unexpected – she lunges, low, like a pouncing cat, and Arabella takes a hasty and instinctive step back, closes her hands around the cold line of the Key even as Karliah grasps for it, tearing with narrow fingers –

The snow is shocking cold against Arabella’s back; she snaps her teeth with little effect, Karliah prises her hands open, and then fucking ow ow ow it’s burning – rips the Key out of her grip, and, it feels like, half her blistered skin with it. In the very edge of her peripherals, Brynjolf reappears from the little thicket. Karliah reels back as if Arabella might try to follow; Arabella stays in the snow, unsticks her jaw and lets out a high, sodden whine. (Wearing pain so openly is not her instinct. But this way, Brynjolf sees it. And it really does hurt.)

Brynjolf comes running, asks what on earth is happening – “She scratched my hands,” Arabella snarls, on the heels of a sharp, fluting curse, and shoves herself up, clasping them, red and weeping, to her chest. “Of all the thankless – I lit them on your hearth –”

Karliah’s clay-flat face falters, for a moment, but all she says is, “I don’t want her holding the Key.”

“Well, congratulations!” Arabella snips. “I’m not! Will someone please give me the honey? I’m bleeding again.” She is; though it’s perhaps closer to pus, skin raked up and inflamed in neat nail-lines. It’s an interesting contrast to the blooming curls and swirls of the base scars. Hurts like nothing else. She’s still keening, breath ragged; Karliah tucks the Key silently into a pocket inside her jacket, and Arabella marks its placement through squinting-shut eyes.

“I left for fifteen minutes,” Brynjolf says, one brow raised and hair still damp; “how did you have time to fight? I couldn’t find anything for you,” he adds, with something like sympathy. “Sorry.”

Fire crackles, bright on the snow. Arabella says tightly, “It’s fine. And we’re masterfully gifted at squabbling, I suppose – I certainly am. Help me with my hands.”

Brynjolf lathers them, ineptly, in honey mixed with river-water, an inelegant sort of poultice, and does a much better job of binding them with the cut-up ends of a woven wool tunic. Green-dyed; but she can only afford to be so picky. And she won’t have to keep making concessions, soon enough. He’s happy enough to start talking, changing the subject, and Arabella is very good at pretending things never happened (she does it all the time) (she’s beginning to do it now) so Karliah is the only one who stays reticent and watchful. Arabella catches her imparting, in low tones, that she’d been acting strange, but Brynjolf doesn’t put too much stock in it and Arabella spends the rest of the night being very, very careful not to give the assertion credence. Brynjolf has brought back a heaping pocketful of berries that Karliah says are safe to eat and nothing else; Arabella licks what’s left of the honey jar clean. It tastes wet and swampy. They all turn in early, then, snow kicked onto the fire to smother it into something more safely self-contained. Karliah doesn’t stop looking at her. Arabella doesn’t meet her eyes.

By morning, it will have burnt down completely, and Arabella will be gone. There’s no other way it could go. This is a singular chance; and she would burn all the flesh clear off her carpal bones before she can let it slip through her fingers.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕎𝕙𝕠 ℍ𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕊𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕃𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝔽𝕠𝕣 - ℂ𝕙. 𝕀: 𝔸𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕒𝕝 𝕒𝕥 𝕒 𝕊𝕚𝕝𝕖𝕟𝕥 ℍ𝕠𝕦𝕤𝕖 ⚜

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ ✧.*★ Thank you to @evren-sadwrn for the beta read!

Summary: Our story opens on Vincent and Chidi in their 20s, with Chidi employed as an ordinary yet promising Myrmidon under Vincent's father. Although Vincent is rarely at home, Chidi finds himself looking forward to every visit from this volatile, princely heir...and wishing he could somehow help him.

TW: arguing, lashing out

Author's Note: The Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont is referred to here as the Comte Vincent Bisset de Nevers, because his father is still alive and holding the title of Marquis. According to the French peerage system (as well as I can understand it from google searches), the heir to a title cannot hold that same title, but must instead hold the title below it in rank paired with a different region owned by the father, if the father has such a region. Comte is below Marquis, and I decided to give the family ownership of a region that had a cool name. The region of Nevers actually doesn’t exist anymore, but we’re in an alternate universe anyway, soooo…

The estate of the Marquis Àlderic De Gramont was as silent as an empty shell, in which only the practiced bustle of servants roared softly, as the rushing ocean does when a shell is pressed to one’s ear. Both its masters were abroad, and it had no mistress – hadn’t for over two decades. The early sun stretched out over the gardens, whose winding hedges and white roses met that light with the same pristineness as the cold marble of the satyr-filled fountains at the center of the courtyard. If the stone could crack, if the rose could wither under any excess of summer heat, it showed no sign of such a capability.

The only stirring of any kind came among the security detail, a special subset of the Marquis de Gramont’s precious Myrmidons. As usual, they convened in the entrance hall before beginning their daily rounds. There was, among them, a universal restlessness, passed down from their leader, Eric. Their numbers were reduced by half, with a dozen men accompanying the Marquis on urgent business in Germany. He had left the previous evening, without giving word to anyone but those who accompanied him.

Eric paced in front of them, giving orders. “As you are aware, the young master of the house returns today. To operate with reduced personnel at this time demands increased vigilance. I expect not a moment’s delay.” He divided them into a further two groups, one of which would handle luggage and vehicle search, followed by outdoor patrol. The other would inspect kitchens and domestic spaces, followed by indoor patrol.

Only one member of the security detail seemed immune to all the nerves or irritation of being stretched so unexpectedly thin. Chidi’s eyes never wavered from Eric, his blocky mouth set into a line that might, if one looked closely, be turned upward at the ends in eager acceptance of a challenge. He had good enough reason to be happy - he was at least in the same group as his favorite colleague, Fritz.

Fritz was a wiry-haired man, the thinnest of their bunch and looking deceptively frail when in fact, he was at least as capable a fighter as Chidi and far more agile. “You’re over the moon today,” he said as they dipped poison test strips into the latest batch of kitchen ingredients.

“Why do you say that?”

“Your face looked like it might smile earlier, and it never does that.” He took a swig of the milk they had just tested.

Chidi immediately proved him wrong with a laugh. “Fine. You got me, it’s a nice day. Shame we weren’t posted outside.”

“Are you sure you aren’t pleased that the Comte is coming? You talked with him in a personal capacity last time he was here.”

Chidi’s eyes narrowed. “That would be extremely improper.”

“It would be,” he said pointedly, setting down the milk and taking on a more serious tone. “And unwise, too. Even friendship with a man so high above your station is…”

“I know. I don’t intend to get myself fired.”

“Killed,” he corrected. “That man is dangerous. Even if we didn’t work for him, I’d tell you that.”

“I know what I’m doing,” he said, with more emphasis this time.

But it didn’t dampen his mood. He was pleased. Or maybe pleased wasn’t the right word for it…he felt eager, felt time advancing towards the moment of the Comte’s arrival. It was difficult to say why, except that the arrival of the young master was always a treat. Not in the sense that it meant the day would be an easy one – generally it meant the opposite. Twice as many demands, awkward familial scenes, and outright humiliation if the Comte’s interest fell on any of the Myrmadons long enough to toy with them. But there was something absolutely captivating about being in the presence of the Comte. It felt like encountering a big cat at a nature reserve, seeing something beautiful and wild moving in front of him. It could only hurt him, but many people were willing to be hurt for the sake of such a view. There was little in Chidi’s life to occupy him, outside of work, and work was a monotony most days. But when the Comte was there, things were suddenly strung with a violent tension, always on the point of breaking into chaos.

Fritz took the boudoir next while Chidi made his way through the young master’s bedroom after the servants were through, dusting for toxins along the tops of nightstands and inspecting the lock on the window – the usual rounds. There was the lavish canopy bed where Vincent rested at night behind drawn curtains, cloaked in a world of extreme softness on all sides, just as such a princely figure ought to be. Chidi touched it as if it might burn him and pulled away the test strip the very moment it had changed color. The bed was, as expected, completely fine. The room had not been occupied for six months, as Vincent spent most of his time studying in Italy. Chidi knew little about what these studies involved – there was painting, yes, but he doubted that was all, and the Comte seemed to come back more vicious in his fighting skills every time. Chidi had worked for the family for three years now, and though they met rarely, he’d seen him improve significantly on top of already impeccable swordsmanship.

He entertained himself by speculating about what Vincent might have done in Italy while he wandered the halls, polished shoes clicking over polished tiles in rhythm with the antique baroque grandfather clock in the parlor. He would never know, but what a joy it was, he thought, to be surrounded by such interesting people. He wished that he had been assigned outside, where he might see the Comte’s car approaching and get the first glimpse of him. But at the same time, he relished that he was assigned inside, where there was a good chance Vincent would be throughout the majority of the day.

He heard the Comte before he saw him. His voice carried from the entrance hall, wordless at this distance but sharp and commanding, interspersed with the replies of a servant. Chidi recognized it immediately, even before his earpiece crackled to tell him the young master was on premises. He did not break step, allowing his assigned path to take him away down the west wing before circling slowly back and approaching the scene of what was rapidly becoming an altercation, prepared to pass it without even looking. But he did look. Things had escalated in perhaps record time. Vincent was standing awkwardly close to the servant, towering over her with one hand on his hip. He appeared every bit as domineering as Chidi remembered, though perhaps a little more gaunt. Again, Chidi found himself wondering how he had been living in his time abroad. In the light streaming through the windows, his grey suit shimmered with strands of gold and his skin glowed an almost unearthly, cherubic pink, flushed with frustration.

“Comment ça, il n'est pas là? Il m'a convoqué lui-même. [What do you mean he is not here? He summoned me himself.]” Vincent must be referring to the Marquis.

“Ne vous a-t-il pas prévenu à l'avance ? [Did he not send word to you ahead of time?]”

“Espèce d'idiot - Pourquoi te demanderais-je, s'il l'avait fait, hein? Où est-il allé? [You daft - Why would I be asking you, if he had, hm? Where has he gone?]”

“Je ne sais pas, monsieur. [I don’t know, sir.]” The two of them looked equally desperate. Chidi glanced up the staircase and saw Fritz on the upper landing, giving him the tiniest shake of the head as if to say, “Don’t get involved.”

Well, too bad. Chidi stopped, knowing he was the only person who could diffuse the situation. So much for passing by without interfering. “Si je peux me permettre, le maître de maison est en Allemagne, monsieur. Nous avons appris hier soir qu'il avait des affaires urgentes là-bas, et la moitié de notre équipe l'a accompagné. Il n’appartient pas à quelqu’un comme moi de savoir plus que cela. [If I may, the master of the house is in Germany, sir. We learned last night that he had urgent business there, and half of our detail went with him. More than that is not for one such as me to know.]”

Vincent’s eyes turned on him with something akin to loathing. Chidi would be lying if he said it did not thrill him. Vincent was not one to spare the messenger, as he very well knew. “Tu parles à contretemps, Chidi. [You speak out of turn, Chidi.]”

“Je m'excuse monsieur. [I apologize sir.]”

“Et quand, je vous en prie, reviendra-t-il? [And when, pray tell, is he coming back?]”

“Cela, je ne le sais pas non plus, monsieur. Aucun de nous n’a été informé. [That I do not know either, sir. None of us have been told.]”

He laughed, and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Bien sûr [Of course],” he muttered. “Inutile [Useless].”

Something about that made Chidi’s heart twist with sympathy, but he did not move or make any reply.

“Je suppose qu'il s'attend donc à ce que j'attende son retour. Comme si je n'avais rien de mieux à faire de mon temps. Et avec la maison à moitié gardée par vous, incompétents. [I suppose he expects me to wait for his return, then. As if I have nothing better to do with my time. And with the house half guarded by you incompetents.]” Chidi could not contradict him.

He took a step away, seeming almost about to leave the room, but Chidi had seen him this way often enough to know that he was merely winding up before a strike. He braced himself. In another moment, the Comte’s knife was drawn and swung in a swift arc inches from Chidi’s neck. It severed his tie at the knot and Vincent pulled it out of the front of his vest, holding it up by two fingers as if it was something very disgusting. “Il semblerait que quelqu’un puisse trancher jusqu’au cou un homme par ici sans le moindre défi de la part des gardes de la maison. Quelqu'un ne fait pas son travail. [It seems someone can slash right up to a man’s neck around here without the smallest challenge from the guards of the house. Someone isn’t doing their job.]”

“Il semble que oui, monsieur. [It seems so, sir.]”

“Alors au travail! Hors de ma vue. [Get to work then! Get out of my sight.]”

Chidi nodded and was already turning when the Comte looked up to the landing, the piercing beams of his gaze falling on Fritz. “Qu'est-ce que tu regardes? J'ai dit de sortir de ma vue. [What are you staring at? I said to get out of my sight!]” He ascended the stairs fast enough to send Fritz hurrying off down the hall, turned into his bedroom, and was not seen again for the remainder of the afternoon.

How frustrating that discovery must have been for Vincent…He was strangely relieved that he had been there as an outlet for the Comte’s anger. All was silent again as Chidi returned to his rounds with a very exposed feeling at the front of his chest where his tie should be. His hand went to it again and again involuntarily, fingering the torn fabric with something like a thrill. Eric raised a knowing eyebrow at him when they crossed paths. But he didn’t care. He only felt that gaze locked onto him, loaded to the point of heaviness with a burden that he wished he could relieve.

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