#too much responsibility too little supervision

[wow-an-unfunny-joke]

I think we should talk more about how no teenager should have the amount of power that Dazai had at 16.

I think it’s worth mentioning that being given that much power over others that young might’ve fucked him up a little.

[dragongirlbunny]

every day i take immense psychic damage and have to bite my tongue due to the fact that management is actually a critical component to get any sort of group effort done, but the job is so overvalued by corporations and infested with incompetent jackasses that the average non-mamager has a very understandably sour view of the role

[euthymiya]

sharks and cameras — ft. ryomen sukuna

you leave yuuji under sukuna’s supervision for the day. something tells you that your boyfriend is a far more doting uncle than he likes to let on

before you read: fem reader ; non curse au/modern au ; established relationship ; uncle sukuna and baby nephew yuuji ; aquarium visits with yuuji and sukuna aka the most troublesome (and adorable) duo

notes: more uncle kuna here! ; this is dedicated to the nonnie with the proud uncle kuna ask (i accidentally deleted the ask im so sorry </3)

“Uncle Kuna took me to see the sharks today,” Yuuji tells you excitedly across the dinner table. You look over at Sukuna, watching as he takes a sip of his water and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, the brat wouldn’t quit begging. Annoying little shit,” he grumbles.

“Sukuna,” you scold sharply, sending him a glare as he scoffs, “no cursing in front of children. Or at the table.”

“He doesn’t even understand—” your narrowed eyes make him pause. He contemplates for a moment before conceding, grumbling under his breath before he clicks his teeth and looks off to the side. “Kay, whatever.”

“What else did you see, Yuuji?” You ask sweetly, reaching over to ruffle his hair as he giggles. You wipe at the corner of his mouth, cleaning it off as he leans into your touch.

“A fish!”

“They were all fish, you idio—brat. You brat.”

Your boyfriend is at least smart enough to catch himself before he finishes his sentence, correcting his choice of words as your head snaps towards him with a dangerous glint in your eyes.

You leave Sukuna with Yuuji alone for the day. Usually, you’re there to babysit the nephew of your boyfriend (who should be more involved in being responsible for his own flesh and blood, you like to think), but work has other plans.

So you leave for the day, snacks stocked and cartoons ready on the tv screen, extra clothes laid out just in case and picture books assorted on the shelves. You give Sukuna a list.

Nap time is at two pm. Snacks every few hours, but not too much. No more than three pieces of candy throughout the day. Juice only boxes at room temperature (because Yuuji is just getting over a cold). Bath time at six pm. Dinner will be takeout that you bring home with you—no touching the stove without someone else to occupy Yuuji (because Sukuna is bad at multitasking).

And most importantly, absolutely no scary movies. None.

Evidently, your boyfriend takes his nephew out to the aquarium, however. You’re not exactly alarmed by the gesture, but something about Sukuna alone with a child out in the real world gives you a small sense of anxiety.

He’s not…the most attentive person at times.

“What color were the fish, Yuuji?” You hum, helping him take a bite out of his dumpling.

“Rainbow,” he beams.

“Rainbow isn’t a color,” Sukuna says flatly, “it’s a bunch of colors at once—”

“Can you let the kid live, you asshole?” You pinch your nose, glaring at him for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

Sukuna only grins. A smug, amused, victorious little grin as he chuckles lowly. You almost want to smack the look of his face—but first, you need to figure out the hell is so funny in the first place.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “you’re such a bad influence, y��know. No cursin’ in front’a kids. Or at the table.”

His grin only widens when he catches the empty takeout box you throw at him, throwing his head back and cackling as you huff in agitation.

“You’re the bad influence,” you snap, “if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t lose my temper enough to say that.”

“I like when you’re mad,” he grins slyly, eyeing you up and down as he crosses his arms, “makes you look cute. Like a little kitten hissing, y’know.”

“Enough of you,” you shake your head, turning back to Yuuji. It’s too much trouble (and stress) to go back and forth with Sukuna, so you let him smugly count this as a victory as you quit entertaining him. “Did you like the fish, Yuuji? Were they big?”

“Uh huh!” He nods enthusiastically. And then, with a stubby little tiny finger, he points to the phone in Sukuna’s hand. “Uncle Kuna took pictures!”

Sukuna pauses. You slowly turn to him—and this time, it’s your face that stretches to fit a wide, smug, satisfied little grin.

“Is that so? Uncle Kuna was enjoying himself to take pictures of you, huh?”

“I wasn’t,” he instantly hisses, “I had to because the kid begged me to. He was askin’ for it—”

“We took a selfie! Wanna see?”

“I would love to, Yuuji,” you nod quickly, eyeing the pure horrified look on your boyfriend’s face as Yuuji climbs out of his chair, waddling to his uncle and gently grabbing the phone out of his hands.

It looks practiced. Like he’s used to getting away with taking it just as much as Sukuna is used to letting him. You fight back a wider smile at the thought.

And just like that, Yuuji opens up the photos in his uncle’s phone. (It’s not lost on you that he knows the passcode, either, but you think you’ll tease Sukuna about that later. The poor guy can only handle so much in one sitting, and you do have at least a little mercy on your boyfriend.)

“This is the shark,” Yuuji tilts the phone so you can get a good look, shaky grip on the large screen that’s held in his tiny hands. You cup your hand behind his, helping him secure his hold before letting him swipe with a chubby finger and point once more. “And this is me! With the shark!”

“How cute,” you giggle, poking his nose, “you look so handsome.”

“And this is me and Uncle Kuna. Look at me, I was tall!”

Yuuji swipes and you pause. You’d like to say you want to tease Sukuna about this one, too, but really, you can’t. Not when your heart is too busy melting and bursting at the seams. Your eyes soften as you carefully take the phone in your hands and zoom in.

“Seriously? You don’t gotta zoom in,” you hear a gruff voice scoff, but you’re too busy admiring the precious sight documented in the form of pixels.

Yuuji is sat on Sukuna’s shoulders, happily grinning as his chubby fists grip at Sukuna’s hair. And Sukuna…well, Sukuna is smiling. It’s a faint, barely-there little thing, but it’s there all the same.

He’s got one hand securely wrapped around his nephew’s ankle, keeping him in place, while the other holds the phone to take the picture.

You just barely keep yourself from squealing.

“How adorable,” you breathe, “my two cutest boys in one photo! Let me send this to myself.”

“Don’t even think about—”

Sukuna rubs his temples as you ignore his warning, watching as your thumb makes quick work to send yourself the sweet little picture. The buzz of your phone on the table confirms his worst nightmare.

“That’ll be my new lock screen,” you beam at Yuuji, poking the tip of his nose as he giggles. “Did you have fun with Uncle Kuna? Isn’t he really nice when he wants to be?”

Yuuji nods instantly, his face filled with awe as he says gleefully, “Uncle Kuna is the nicest!”

You grin at Sukuna. He scoffs and looks away—the faintest traces of blush dust his cheeks and his eyes dart to Yuuji for a brief, fleeting second.

You don’t miss the soft, fond little gleam in his eyes before he glares over at you.

“Make sure ya don’t pick a day to babysit the runt again when you’re not here,” he mutters, “I’m not here to play parent.”

“Okay,” you nod, fighting back a knowing smile, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Baby Yuuji and Uncle Kuna are very special to me. You don’t get it

[heavyhitterheaux]

Wife and Mother To Be

Synopsis: While you and Joe are shopping for a friend's baby shower, he has a realization about his future with you.

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Girlfriend!Reader

Requested by @hoodharlow 😘💕

Please Do Not Repost My Content Anywhere

Standing in the baby section of Target and holding up two different onesies to compare them, your phone started to vibrate in the back pocket of your jeans. Placing one of them across your arm, you pulled your phone out to answer it and was greeted by a frantic boyfriend.

“Baby! Where did you run off to this time? You said we were coming in here for toothpaste and face masks. Next thing I know, I turn around and my girlfriend is missing! Are you at Starbucks again?! You ALWAYS do this when we come in here.” You heard your boyfriend say as you picked up and didn't wait for a proper greeting.

“You were literally standing there for fifteen minutes comparing different ones so I walked away. I'm in the baby section looking at clothes. And no, I already went to Starbucks and my drink is gone so I'll need to make another stop before we leave.”

“No, no, and no. I am literally taking you to lunch so no more stops and wait a minute, why are you in the baby section? Is there something you need to tell me?” Joe asked and you immediately rolled your eyes.

“For Gabby! Her baby shower is tomorrow, remember? Just come over here and help me pick things out for her.”

“Oh, right. Be right there, I'm walking over now.”

It was another two minutes when you saw Joe coming towards you and he greeted you by placing a soft kiss on your lips.

“Wait a minute, why do you have a cart? We got a basket when we came in here. What did you plan on buying her? The entire section? Am I paying for this?”

“Joseph, will you relax!? I'm just getting her a few things and then we can go eat. Now what do you think about these?” You asked as you held up the same two onesies to show him.

“Hmm, what is she having again?” Joe asked as he was looking at both of them.

“A girl, Joe. Both of these are pink.”

“So? What's your point? I wear pink too.”

“But not something that says princess on it!” You responded to him as you laughed.

“At least not yet anyway and I like both of them.”

“Okay good. Both it is and I’m ignoring you.”

“I should ignore you for leaving me by myself.”

“Oh, that's right. I forgot that you need supervision all the time.”

“No, that's you. I'm a responsible adult. You're the one who comes in here for one thing when you tell me you'll be back in twenty minutes but an hour goes by and you're nowhere to be found.”

“And you use whatever I bring back home so you benefit from it so I don’t want to hear it.” You told him with a smirk and now it was Joe’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Come on and help me. Sooner we finish, the sooner we get food and go home.” You told him and he quickly agreed as he started browsing the baby toys.

Before you knew it, another thirty minutes had passed by and the two of you had a cart full of different things for Gabby. You were satisfied with how much you had gotten, but Joe was still browsing.

“Babe, come on. This should be enough.” You told him as you came up behind and wrapped your arms around him as he was now comparing two different diaper brands and you suddenly got a flashback to the toothpaste situation.

“You can never have enough diapers though, right?”

“Sweetheart, we got her four packs already.”

“Yeah, but are those really the best ones? I think that these might be better in case she has a blow out. My nephew did that to me and I still have PTSD. Therapy was needed after that.” Joe told you as he put the other diapers back and you couldn't help but to laugh.

“Not funny, babe. I didn't realize how much shit could come out of someone so little.”

“It is funny, Joseph and I wish I was there to be able to see your face when it happened.”

“Keep going and I'm not feeding you.” Joe told you as he put the diapers you had gotten in the cart back and replaced them with the brand that he wanted.

“But, I need energy in order to ride you later.” You replied and Joe immediately turned a bright shade of red as you began to laugh.

“BABE!”

“What? What'd I say?”

“You know what you said. Come on so we can go.”

Later on that night you were sitting on the middle of the floor in your shared bedroom with Joe when he walked in to see what you were doing.

“You run away from me in Target and at home. Did I do something?” Joe playfully asked as he sat across from you and began to help you wrap the gifts for Gabby.

“Nothing at all, Joey. Doing this so I can spend the rest of the night cuddling my amazing boyfriend whom I love to the moon and back.”

“Just the moon, not further?”

“Well we aren't going to the sun unless we want to burn to a crisp so yeah the moon.”

“I'll take it.”

You were folding the onesies when Joe was simply admiring you. Before he could stop himself, he blurted it out.

“When are we going to have one?” He asked and your mouth instantly hit the floor, but you tried to compose yourself.

“Um, have a what?” You asked clearly flustered and Joe simply laughed.

“You know what I mean.” Joe responded as he pulled you to sit in his lap as he kissed the top of your head while his arms wrapped around you.

“You want a baby? With me?” You asked with your voice dripping with uncertainty.

“I want everything with you. I thought that much was obvious. And not just one baby, multiple.” He answered and you turned around to look at him.

“You're serious?”

“I love you and I'm as serious as a heart attack.”

“Well you low key just gave me one.” You muttered against his chest and he laughed.

“Don't you want that with me?”

“Of course I do. I want nothing more than to make it a reality. I just didn't really know how to tell you or if you were ready. I mean you are literally at the peak of your career.”

“Baby, you can tell me anything and everything. You know that. And so what? If this is something that we both want, we're going to make it work.”

“You're not messing with me?”

“Now, why would I do that? I want to make you my wife too whenever that time comes. Mrs. Sheisty has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

Now it was your turn to shy away and hide in his chest and all he did was laugh.

“In that case, I can't wait for you and our daughter to have matching pink outfits.”

“Oh, so you want a girl first?”

“Of course, girls run the world and she is going to have you wrapped around her little finger just like I do now.” You told him as you poked his nose.

“If that's the case, you want to get started? I heard that making the baby is the fun part.”

[dollfacefantasy]

kinktober day 10 - hybrids (again) leon kennedy! x fem!black-cat-hybrid!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, hybrids, heat cycles, daddy kink

Sweet and silent. That's how you moved about Leon's home ever since the day he brought you in. His precious little black cat.

He hadn't really been looking for a companion of any kind when it happened. His most recent string of hookups had all amounted to nothing as usual. He didn't even know if he was capable of anything long term anymore. Living life in service of the D.S.O. kept him away from home often enough that any woman with aspirations of a family would pack her bags before she ever got the invitation to move in.

Though with you, he never really extended that offer in the first place. You sort of just fell into his lap after being discarded by your unit in the BSAA. You'd been the lone feline in a unit of canines. After realizing what should have been obvious, that it was a horrible idea, they cut you loose. With nowhere to go, Chris brought you to Leon's attention, knowing the other man had been going through a hard time and could use a companion of some sort.

While he was reluctant at first, those cute curious eyes of yours were hard to resist. And now that almost a year had gone by, he couldn't have been happier about saying yes.

During the days you napped on the couch right where the sun cast through the window. He'd come home from work and find your soft form glowing, radiant under the orangey yellow rays. Your eyes would flutter open as soon as you sensed his presence, and you'd lazily rise to greet him, dragging your cheek across the expanse of his chest and nuzzling into his muscles.

At night, you drifted through the halls curious about what you could get up to without his supervision. It was never anything too troublesome, just the natural urge to explore more than anything else. He didn't mind. You'd gone from being trained for stealth missions to being allowed to laze about for however long you pleased. A little restlessness was to be expected.

Plus, that wasn't the most jarring form of restlessness he saw from you.

When you'd come into his life, Chris had warned him about 'heat cycles.' He told him what it meant and how he could deal with it, but honestly, Leon hadn't been too concerned with the idea. He figured it would be like normal ovulation, if not slightly more intense.

He didn't expect the power with which it affected you. The way you clung to him as if the smallest bit of separation would kill you. Your face stayed in the crook of his neck, taking deep huffs of his scent every few seconds. And your hips, they never seemed to stop moving. You were constantly squirming, trying to grind up against him and get some friction on the aching bundle of nerves between your legs.

Finally, he gave in and fucked you out of pure necessity. He was worried you'd throw yourself into pure exhaustion from how desperate you seemed.

But like the initial choice to take you in, he didn't regret this one either.

The change in your relationship didn't make things awkward. It didn't feel weird or uncomfortable now. The two of you were closer than ever. He could see how much you loved the affection. It was obvious now that your craving for it was a big part of what had you so restless in the first place.

And now the two of you could have days like today. Time where the hours passed with you tangled in each other's arms, him nice and snug inside of you.

“I understand why you like laying in the sun so much, sweetheart. Makes you all warm,” he murmurs into the back of your head.

He nuzzles you gently as his hips pump against your ass in a lazy rhythm. The two of you were laid up on the couch. It was your favorite time of day to sprawl out for a nap. The sun cast through the window at the perfect angle to bathe the sofa in its radiance.

You nod languidly in response to him. “Mhm,” you purr, pushing hips back against his body.

“Such a good girl for me,” he whispers.

He grabs your waist tighter and keeps thrusting. Even with the increased pressure, the pace remains soothing. His nose drags up the back of your neck as he takes in your scent.

He'd never known bliss like this before you. Prior to your arrival, life seemed so bleak. It was job after job, and the space between them was as bleak as the missions themselves. He never imagined himself experiencing peace like this. So calming it melted into genuine happiness.

"My sweet girl. So perfect for me. Don't know what I'd do without you," he mutters.

"Don't know either. Always need you," you mumble, the tone in your voice breaking into a whine.

His free hand glides up to massage at one of the obsidian ears atop your head. The move brings a deep rumble of pleasure from your chest, causing his dick to throb within you.

"That's my baby," he grunts, "You know just what daddy likes, don't you?"

The title makes your clit pulse, and your ass automatically writhes backwards. He knows the effect that word has on you. Ever since you'd accidentally let it slip once, he'd never allowed you to live it down.

"Mhm," you hum in response. Further words weren't needed. Both of you knew it was the truth. That everything you did in moments like these was for the other.

He now takes his hand off your head and brings it down and around to the front of your body. His fingers wrap around your palm, clasping your hand in his own. You can feel the tiny tremble in his limb. The shiver of impending release.

"You gonna make daddy cum, baby? Gonna let him get you all warm and full?" he rasps.

You nod eagerly. That was a question you would never say no to.

His pelvis keeps connecting with the swell of your ass as he thrusts deep inside. His tip kisses all the little internal sweet spots inside you. It's only a few more pumps before he spills himself inside you. His fingers drop your hand to swirl around your clit and get you there too. It feels like heaven, riding out the high with him, bathed in warm sunlight.

When the both of you have started to come down, you feel kisses being laid upon the back of your neck. He rubs your belly at the same time, long soothing swipes of his hand stroking back and forth. It brings you back to earth, but you still feel a little hazy since he hadn't pulled out.

"What do you think about taking a nap now?" he asks softly.

You nod, already drowsy yourself. Now you just had the added bonus of him staying with you.

[hiddenonyx]

Obey Me! Beach Day Headcanons

a/n: oops I fell off the face of the earth. I'm slowly working on stuff, trying to clean what shit I had started, before I work on other stuff, but here's a little something that I threw together. *this is mostly unedited so apologizes

Prompt: what each cast member does during a day trip to Diavolo's beach.

Lucifer - reclines on a sun-lounger in the shade with a tropical (alcoholic) drink and either reads, or sleeps. He was told to relax so he is - and he's not responsible for anything his brothers do, nor will he fix any problems that they inevitably cause.

Mammon - goes swimming and does a little bit of diving. Often gets roped into doing something on the beach - such as building sand castles, burying people, or some sport - or helping Asmo take photos.

Levi - either buries himself in the sand or goes swimming. If he decides to be buried, he's going to take a long nap - making up for all his lost sleep from late gaming nights and early mornings for conventions. If he's swimming, he's probably trying to spook people (mainly Mammon) by pulling at their legs.

Satan - likes to look for tide pools and see if he can't name everything in them, or he walks the shore line during low tide to see what turns up. He also tends to be the one asked to identify any weird creature anyone else finds. If he's not poking around tide pools, he's reading in the shade with a nice, easy drink.

Asmo - takes pictures. He takes pictures of everything - himself, his brothers outfits, food, drinks, the environment, you name it, he's probably already taken a photo of it. When he's forced to put the camera down, Asmo enjoys building sand castles or sitting on the shore line and letting the waves gently wash up against him.

Beel - does a bit of everything, almost. Tags along for swimming, and him and Belphie often accompany Satan on his walks to the tide pools. Beel also enjoys helping Asmo build sand castles and doesn't mind simply relaxing in the shade either. He's the one who offers to take care of Luke so Simeon can finally go drink relax.

Belphie - just sleep. Picks a nice shady hammock not far from where everyone is and just passes out. Though he is willing to be woken up for a poke around tide pools and the shoreline at low tide.

Diavolo - is very much like Beel, and does a bit of everything, though he does prefer activities involving water. Probably accidentally start a water fight, and then while he's dripping wet, go hug Lucifer who protests immensely because he didn't want to get wet at all.

Barbatos - stays exclusively in the shade. While he might be an aquatic demon, Barbatos is more used to the icy black depths of almost arctic water than warm tropical water. Man is sweating and counting down the minutes till they go home (there's still 5 hours to go). Despite being in the shade and wearing (and reapplying) the most sunscreen ends up being incredibly tan or sunburnt afterwards.

Simeon - supervises Luke for the most part. Helps him build sand castles, and holds his hand when the big waves come to the shore while they're walking. Picks up a few shells for Luke too , and when someone else (Beel) offers to take care of Luke so Simeon can relax a bit, he drinks almost as much liquor as Lucifer does.

Luke - is so excited that he doesn't even care if he's showing it. Tries everything minus actually swimming in the ocean (everyone agreed that that activity was probably a little too much and too dangerous for Luke). Even lets himself be buried in the sand. Ends up a little tan and maybe with a light sun burn, but can't wait to go again.

Solomon -ends up also in the shade, probably next to Barbatos so that they can be grumpy together. Didn't even bring anything to do because he knows he's going to sweat too much to really tinker on anything. Futility applies sunscreen knowing damn well he's going to walk away sunburnt regardless.

-------

The Master List

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[millenialfanfictionaddiction]

Being their pregnant partner featuring

Osamu, Bokuto and Sakusa

Osamu Miya x GN! Reader; Kotaro Bokuto x GN! Reader; Kiyoomi Sakusa x GN! Reader

Warnings: absolute fluff

An: I’m continuing this series because I love it so much and it helps me get myself back into the writing mode

Osamu

“Sweetheart, darling! Where are you?” Osamu yells from the opening of his newest branch of Onigiri Miya.

“In the back!” You respond, picking up yet another crate of rice and plopping it down on the stainless steel countertop.

“YN what the heck? I told you to stop lifting stuff!” Osamu scolded, walking into the back just as you were about to set the crate down. You rolled your eyes, dusting off your hands as you went to grab the last crate. Before you could reach it, the crate was swept up into your husbands arms as he narrowed his eyes on you before setting it down on the table. You scowled back at him, daring him to say what you knew he was thinking.

“Darling, I told you to stop lifting heavy things. You’re 8 months pregnant, you should be resting. I thought Kita would have helped you, he always offers.”

“Oh he did offer but I told him you’d be doing it. Then he said in his Kita dad voice ‘YN don’t you lift those crates’ and I said ‘scouts honor’” you mocked and giggled as Osamu just shock his head in response

“And what happened to scouts honor?” He asked as you showed him the fingers you had crossed behind your back.

“There’s always a way out of a scouts honor Osamu, you should know that by now!”

Osamu sighed, putting his hands on his hips and contemplating. What was he going to do with you?

“Maybe should have Atsumu babysit you when I can’t be around? Now that we have so many restaurants, is hard for me to always be here.”

You neck snapped to Osamu, eyes wide as you practically scream, “Atsumu? Babysit me? You’re joking Samu! We’d go under in a week if Sumu was here everyday! Are you saying you don’t trust me?”

Osamu sighed because he did trust you but he also knew you weren’t going to just sit and rest like the doctor told you to do.

“Ok how about this? How about we hire you an assistant and they can help with the heavy lifting? That way you can still supervise and help me cook but I won’t have to worry about you accidently popping our child out too early?”

You giggled at the concept before agreeing to your husbands suggestions, hugging his waist as he gently kissed your forehead.

Bokuto

“Hey everyone!” You shouted, walking into a gym packed with sweaty, buff volleyball players. You’re hands were full of lunch items as you slowly attempted to navigate your belly and the food to the center of the gym.

“Whoa YN hold up!” Your husband Bokuto yelled, feet racing towards you as you continued to make your way.

Suddenly, one giant hand grabbed the bags of food while the other hand gently guided you along your back to the benches at the side of the court.

“Kotaro, you know I’m capable of walking right? The doctor even said it was good for me!” You whined as Bokuto narrowed his eyes on you.

Ever since you’d found out about your prepgancy, your usually goofy husband had become rather strict.

“YN how much sitting have you done today?” Bokuto questioned as you pretended you didn’t hear him.

“Let me go set up the food first, then we can talk ok?” You remarked going to stand as your large husband pushed you back down, prompting chuckles from the peanut gallery behind him.

“Kotaro, you’re embarrassing me! Let me go!” You whisper shouted as Bokuto stood tall, his arms across his broad chest as he glared down at you. Normally you’d this extremely attractive but right now, the only thing Kotaro was doing was being annoying.

Bokuto sighed, knowing he was being a little strict with you but it was for your own good. He wanted you and your baby to be safe and healthy.

“Well I guess Akaashi did say I was being a little overprotective,” he spoke as your eyes lite up, “but you need to sit down while setting up the food ok? No attitude Yn!”

“You got it!” You smiled, standing up and kissing your husbands cheek as he grabbed your hand and walked you towards awaiting team of hungry guys.

Sakusa

“YN I’m home!” Sakusa shouted, the overwhelming scent of cleaner hitting his face as you rounded the corner, mop and bucket in hand.

“Oh thank goodness your home! I need help emptying there buckets of dirty water and refilling them,” you hummed as Sakusa sighed silently.

You were in the deeps of nesting and it was nearly impossible to get you to rest your very pregnant body. Try as he might, Sakusa had been unable to put a stop to your chaos.

He’d woken up many times in the middle of the night to you fast asleep in the nursery, amidst piles of unfolded baby clothes and diapers. He even come home on day to every single dish drying on the counter after you’d throughly cleaned the cabinets.

“Sweetie why don’t you rest for a few minutes? I bought your favorite home!” He proclaimed excitedly, hoping the allure of food would get you to rest your tired feet for a few seconds.

“Just a second love, I’m almost finished recaulking around the toilet!” You answered as Sakusa set down the food and made his way to the bathroom.

Sure enough, there you were, on your hands and knees apply caulking to their toilet. He rolled his eyes before coming behind you, putting his arms under yours and hauling you up.

“Babe I was almost done and now the caulk will be messed up!” You whined as he hauled you to the kitchen before setting you down in a chair. He began gather your food and setting it in front of you as you pouted.

“Eat first and then you can finish. You need a break. How much have you done today anyways?” He questioned as you began shoveling food in your mouth.

“Well, let’s see,” you thought, mentally going over your checklist in your mind.

“You know what, never mind babe, you can just show me after we are done ok?” Sakusa conversed, knowing very well that you’d again outdone yourself.

“Can you help me with the water for the buckets after dinner kiyoomi?” You again requested as your husband just smiled before leaning over to kiss your forehead.

“Of course my love.”

[skzdarlings]

final part: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 19k words)

warning for this chapter: the usual story dynamics plus explicit violence, intense peril, threat and injury to reader, graphic depictions of death, explicit sexual content.

-

Your father will be here soon.  He kept his distance during the rescue operation but will reconvene with his team before the journey home. 

You and Felix wake long before his anticipated arrival, when dawn is only just peeking into the hotel room. 

You lay in bed, your head on his bare chest and his arms around you.  You discuss the potential confrontation ahead.  Last time you were taken, your father was less than sympathetic to your plight.  Even though this was more his fault than yours, you are certain you will take the blame.   He cannot take responsibility for a misstep.  If he is fallible, he is weak, and that puts his whole existence in jeopardy.  It must always be someone else’s fault.    

Therefore it is likely he will punish you.  Therefore it is likely he will ask Felix to do it. 

“Felix,” you say when he does not look at you.   He is staring out the window with a look of pure frustration. 

“I know,” he says.  “You want me to do it.  Last time I…” 

“Yes.” 

There is no need to discuss last time.  You both know he fumbled that exchange.  Felix is meant to be the personification of resolute strength and obedience, the perfect soldier.  His moment of weakness snared your father’s attention, as weakness always does.  Your quick response remedied the situation well enough, but you will not be so lucky next time.   The only thing worse than a moment of weakness is the persistence of it.  He cannot hesitate again. 

“If,” you say slowly, “we want to find a way out… then now, more than ever, we cannot give him any reasons to be suspicious of us.” 

“I know,” he says, but his jaw is still clenched and his gaze is faraway.  

“Felix.”  You touch his jaw, minding the darkening bruise, and turn his face to yours.  His expression softens when he meets your gaze.  “Thank you,” you say.  “I love you.  I trust you.  It will be okay.” 

He cups your cheek and lifts your face.  His looks at you like he is studying every small detail.  Even though he must know your face perfectly – seeing it when he wakes, before he goes to sleep, every day for so much of his life –  he looks at you like he is seeing you for the first time all over again. 

You laugh when he flicks your bottom lip, the little pout he has long since called his weakness. 

“You could convince the sky it wasn’t blue,” he says, and kisses you tenderly.  “I love you too, sweetheart.” 

Maybe it is the novelty of hearing that out loud, or maybe you will just be crazy about him forever, but you feel flustered.  You laugh and squirm, your skin hot.  It makes him laugh, the menace kissing down your throat just to make you wriggle more. 

“Don’t let my daddy catch you then,” you tease, breathlessly.  “He wouldn’t like that very much.”    

The returned chuckle makes you shiver.  You run your fingers through his hair but he grabs your wrist and pins it down.  Your breath catches when he sucks a bruising kiss on your throat.  He is usually so careful about leaving marks, but today he dips his head to the soft skin of your breast and bites a mean little mark into the tender skin, making you gasp and buck beneath his hold. 

“No, he wouldn’t, would he?” Felix says, his deep voice dropping even lower.  “What would everyone say, hmm?  Your daddy, your guards… all those rich boys at those fancy parties who think they have a chance with you…” 

“Everyone thinks I’m a frigid bitch,” you reply, joining his game, smiling knowingly.  “And I am, aren’t I?  Nothing but trouble.”

“Nothing but trouble,” he says with a grin.  He flicks the covers off, then his hands are on your hips and he flips you as smoothly.  You yelp when he drags you halfway down the bed, arranging you as he kneels behind you.  “You can’t fool me, sweetheart,” he says.  One hand curls around your throat and the other snakes down your backside.  “Frigid?  Mm. I don’t think so.  I actually think you are very, very soft… and warm…” 

His fingers slip inside you easily, wet from your previous lovemaking and wetter still from his voice.  Every little breath and tortured groan has you twitching and gasping. 

“Felix,” you say.   

It is the right thing to say.  You are clawing at the bedsheets moments later, hiccupping on each watery breath as he holds your hips and fucks you right down into the mattress.  You press against it like you could disappear there, fucked into freedom, never to return to this dire world again. 

You sink into the bed and float in your mind, sighing when he wraps his arms around you and covers you with his body.  He is hot and whole and so alive, and everything seems possible while you are joined together.  You have each other, completely and irrevocably.  That is all you need to survive. 

You finish not a moment too soon.  You are nestled in his arms, kissing and kissing and kissing, flushed and satisfied and content, when reality comes knocking.  Felix throws on some pants while you scurry into the bathroom and close the door. 

Felix steps into the hall.  Between the bathroom door and the hotel room door, you only hear muffled voices.  Then a few clicks, then another knock, then you jump.   You are wearing a blanket and it slips with your surprise.  You adjust it frantically, but Felix says, “It’s just me.”  

You crack open the door to Felix in a t-shirt and his combat pants.  You recognize the tired lines on his face, cracks in the mask he is struggling to don.  His reassuring smile is not convincing. 

“Here,” he says, handing you some clothes.  “Your father is here.  He wants to see you at breakfast.” 

“Of course he does,” you say, just for something to say, letting your frustration seep into your tone. 

The bathroom tiles are cold under your feet.  A sharp snap of sensation and a reminder of reality.  Felix makes the world feel small in comparison to him, but the world is still there, ever turning with its usual machinations and politics and powers.  You are still suspended helplessly in the centre of it all.  Though you pushed the darkest truths to the corner for a few hours, making love and comforting each other, all those hurts and agonies are still there.  You see it in his eyes, his glance flickering from here to there as he roams with his thoughts.   

Neither of you have ever had a normal life and you do not know what to do with one.  He has been making difficult choices since he was a child.  Neither of you truly knows if you are making the right one now. 

You do the best you can with a strong hug.  It is a lingering, affectionate embrace, fitting your bodies together until you feel grounded. 

Felix looks over your shoulder, catching his own reflection.   You look back as well, his cheek against yours, your eyes meeting in the mirror. 

“I couldn’t stand the sight of my own face,” he says, his voice low even though you are alone, like the words are fighting his tongue.  It is hard to admit.  He swallows hard but continues, “I hated the stupid kid looking back at me… I wanted to be someone better, someone who could actually do something right…” 

You look at him rather than his reflection.  When you touch a strand of blonde hair, he closes his eyes, as if he can feel the pad of your finger on a lock of hair, smarting more than his bruises. 

“Is that why… the hair?” you ask clumsily.  You do not know how to wade through ten years of emotion.  Felix has coloured his hair regularly since the day you met him.  The blonde suits him but it is clearly unnatural.  It has not been soft in a very long time, coarse from repeated dye jobs. 

The colour is just one more layer of his meticulous mask, crumbling in front of you as he nods and sighs.  An admittance.  He could not stand to look in the mirror and see that other version of himself, the boy he was, the boy who made all those mistakes.   You see him, the years of questioning his choices, the impossible tether around his throat.  There has never been a day he has not questioned his choices.  Working for one bad man or another.  Rescuing his friend or his lover.   Letting violence happen or letting the violence use him.

You kiss his cheek, then below his jaw, threading your fingers through his hair.  You scratch at his scalp, just a feathery light touch, one that makes him melt in your arms.   

“I love you,” you say.  You find it is an addicting word yet it never loses its potency.  Your heart still races when he touches his forehead to yours, when he strokes your sides and hums a gentle sound of pleasure.  “Things have changed a lot over the years.  But we’re still here.”  Still living your lives, even in broken bits, those stolen pieces you mentioned so long ago.  “We’ve changed.  We’ll change again.  Things will happen and we’ll figure it out.  But please don’t hate that boy anymore.  I care about him a lot.  I want him to be happy too.” 

His face scrunches with the threat of tears, but he controls himself.  He pushes the emotion into a laugh, though it is humourless.  Then he closes the space between you and kisses you, cups the back of your head and holds you there until you are both satisfied. 

“All right,” he says in a rough voice.  “Get dressed.  It’s going to be a long day.” 

“You’ll be there, though,” you say. 

“Always,” he says, a hint of amusement touching the corner of his lips.  “I’m your bodyguard, hmm?”

You laugh and kiss him again. 

“Right,” you say.  “Always.” 

-

Your father sits at a dining table in the penthouse suite.  Behind him, a window wall flaunts the city skyline.  Daylight casts a glow around him like some deified king lording over his petty kingdom.  Guards loiter in the room and the corridor, keeping their eyes sharp as hotel staff prepare the table. 

You sit across from him with the sunlight in your eyes, the usual position of discomfort and inferiority.  He does not look at you, nor does he greet you, his eyes on his phone until the table is set.  A staff member goes to serve him but he dismisses them. 

“All of you, go,” he says, not just to the staff but his team as well.  They filter out of the room one by one.  

The penthouse is a ostentatious space, all white linen and gilded frames, tall ceilings and bay windows, but as the room empties, it becomes frighteningly big.  Or maybe you just feel frighteningly small, his tactics working as they often do.  Your father knows how to push your buttons because they are the same as his.   He is scared.  It makes him angry.  He makes you scared.  It makes you angry. 

“Felix,” he says.  “Stay.”

Felix is all that tempers you.   He stands against the wall but you do not look at him, staring at your father until he finally looks your way.  Despite the light, you hold his stare, feeling a modicum of triumph when he looks away first. 

“Did they damage you?” he asks.  His phrasing almost makes you laugh.  Damaged.  As if outside forces were needed for that. 

“I’m fine,” you say.  “My bodyguard rescued me.  Your team was damaged, though.”  You throw the word right back at him.  You cross your leg and sit back, like you are as unbothered as him.    

You know that underneath his cold exterior, he is anything but casual.  He is letting his rage simmer as he builds to some awful retaliation.  He was conducting a mission, sending his best asset on a job, and it was interrupted by your kidnapping.  A kidnapping that nearly lost him more than his heir, but that same irreplaceable asset.  An asset that previously made a mistake in front of his eyes.  This is no longer a game, a squabble between a parent and child, but a real world crisis with dangerous consequences.    

You should not provoke him, and that is why you do.  Because provoking him is something you have always done and you need him to see you as that hapless child if you are going to beat him.  You do not want to arouse further suspicion in him, that you are sitting here thinking about your own schemes, that you know more about his assets and operations than he could ever suspect.

So you toss your rejoinder and he catches it, as he always does, with a cruel smirk. 

“There are more where they came from,” he says.    

Returning like cockroaches and squashed just the same.  If only a multi-generational empire could be toppled as easily.  But your father is more than a man across a table; he is ten men in the corridor and more on the ground, he is paid staff and investors and a whole society.  

Though you feign nonchalance, inside adrenaline pounds.  Sweat gathers, your heart races.  He is good at making you feel small, but at least it is predictable.  The scene unfolds  in your mind before it happens, the script playing before a single action is commanded.   You will be scolded.  You will be reprimanded.  You will be punished. 

“Felix, come here,” your father says.

You predicted he would involve Felix after what happened last time.  The only question is what manner of punishment he will force from his hand.  All you can do is trust Felix to play his role so you can play yours.  You made it clear the physical pain was meaningless, that you could take whatever he inflicted.  Just another inside joke between you.  You will laugh about it one day. 

You do not look away from your father.  Your eyes are locked in a challenging stare, daring the other to break.  You are scared, but you feel so much more than fear and rage.  With your love for Felix, with the hope in your heart, you are an ocean of feeling and you are not ashamed of it anymore.  You stare your father down and mutely convey that you are not broken, that he did not win, that he never will win. 

His answer is the flick of a kitchen knife.  It slides across the table and nearly tumbles right over the lip.  It teeters within arm’s reach of you.  It is tempting to look and consider its purpose with the trepidation you feel, but you do not.  You tell yourself he will only hurt you so much, that putting you in true peril would surely be counterproductive to his overall efforts.  Whatever plan he has for that knife will be a momentary pain you can recover from.

Then he says, “Felix.” 

Felix steps into your periphery, the black of his fatigues a shadow at your side. 

“Pick up that knife,” your father says.  “Put it through your hand.  Right through to the table.”

It is not the demand you were expecting, not by a long shot.  As your father stares you down, steady where you start to waver, you realize this test is not for Felix.  It is for you.   

“I trust,” your father hisses the word, “you know the spot that will inflict the least permanent damage.”

The last time your father made this demand, you and Felix were kids at the start of your messy life together.  Instinct propelled you to stop him.  Over the years, you have mastered schooling your reactions.  The girl who tackled Felix, the girl who sobbed while he was beaten, that girl learned to save her tears for later.  Your father’s version of you is a cold, headstrong, hateful fool.  She might stop Felix to combat her father, or she might let him suffer out of pure hatred. 

Both options feel wrong.  Regardless of what you choose, you feel like you are giving something away.  You feel like your father will see right past it.  He stares at you like he will find your secrets written on your face.    

You have seconds to decide and that is not enough time.  The moment passes you by.  Felix plants his hand and takes the knife.  Your father does not count him down.  He watches you, willing you to make a mistake, to show your weakness.  To prove him right. 

You flinch when the knife thuds into the table, the soft reverberation of the wood accompanied with a gross little squelch that sounds too loud in this too big room.  Your reaction is strongly stamped on your face, disgusted and upset.  You look away to stop the tears that stab behind your eyes. 

Everything that has happened, everything you have done, and you are right back here.  After everything, he still ended up with that knife in his hand. 

Your father rips it out.  Felix catches his breath but does not cry out.  You catch a glimpse of the bloody knife before your father tosses it on the floor, as if he is discarding something insignificant. 

You slowly meet his gaze.  He is still assessing you.  You cannot tell if you passed or failed his test.  By the scrutiny of his regard, it seems he does not know either.  All you can do is look at each other while Felix bleeds beside you.

“You may go,” your father says, cold as the ice that locks your limbs.  It takes you a moment to stir life back into them. 

“Felix,” your father says.  “You stay.  We have business to discuss.” 

You do not look at Felix.  You cannot bear to look at him.   On the escorted march back to your room, you are quiet, biting the inside of your cheek to stop any more unwanted reactions.  Only when you are alone in the room do you let it out, an aggravated cry as you rip a pillow off the bed and whip it blindly across the room. 

This was never going to be easy, but now it feels like the ongoing struggle between you and your father has led to an insurmountable deadlock.  He has you enclosed in his fist and he is threatening to crush you in it. 

You do not think he knows about the true nature of your relationship with Felix.  He might suspect anything, an affair the last of it.  Even a menial friendship would be a detrimental betrayal to him.  All he sees is a smudge of a weakness in what should be the strongest cog in his machine. 

He is testing you and tormenting you.  He is perched on his pedestal, waiting for you to throw yourself at his feet in eventual penitence.   

You will not.  Not this time.  Your father is expecting retaliation in the form of equal dramatics and you will not satisfy him.  You will sit quietly.  You will do what you have been doing, stealing pieces of your life in the silence and shadows.  He controls a realm of power, affluence, and violence.  You control yourself.  Love has saved you all this time.  It will be your means of escape for good. 

You sit in quiet repose until Felix returns.  Although you promised to remain calm, you cannot help but fuss over his injured hand.  It has already been stitched and bandaged but you peek beneath the binding, almost gagging at the sight.

“All right, enough,” Felix says.  He lifts your head and guides it onto his shoulder instead.  You are sitting on the small loveseat under the window.  You throw your arms around him and hold tight. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, a tear sliding from your cheek to his shoulder.  You sniffle. 

“Don’t be,” he says.  “I can take the pain.  It means nothing.  Sweetheart, he means nothing.”

“I know,” you say, but you sniffle one more time anyway.  Gathering yourself, you lift your head to look at him.  “What did my father want after I left?” 

“I don’t fully know,” Felix says, the tenderness in his expression giving way to uncertainty.  “He said he wants to continue the job,” Felix says.  “He and Miroh, they’re both chasing these long-term investments in some government building contracts… Miroh has been getting in the way of your father’s deals, so he’s been mostly standing guard.  Then he got intel that a significant asset of Miroh’s would be involved in securing an upcoming bid…  And he thought… he thought with the right team he could… acquire whatever this asset was…” 

“Chris,” you say, a breathless note.  “That’s why he brought you on, isn’t it?  He told you the acquisition was Chris.”

“If Chris was alive, if he was working for Miroh even after everything…”  Felix swallows.  He looks pained, like all these words are hard to say.  His voice is rough and the words scratch like sandpaper as he forces them out.  “Between me, your father’s back-up team, and the element of surprise… We had a chance of stopping Miroh’s subterfuge and getting… rescuing… Chris.  Finally.” 

But Chris might be dead.  Your father might have killed him.  Miroh has a vast artillery and the asset in question could be anyone or anything.  It makes more sense your father was using Felix to eliminate this obstruction.  That is what he always does.  He uses someone like a thing, strengths and weaknesses calculated, and works them into his scheme. 

You look at the bloody bandage, wrapped tight around that wounded hand, and you cannot bring yourself to vocalize these awful, pessimistic thoughts.  You say instead, “But why would he want to continue the job now?  You no longer have the element of surprise.”   

“No,” Felix says.  “We don’t.  That’s because the job is over and your father is lying.” 

“What?”

“Chris is dead.”  Felix says it for you, with a hard set to his jaw that you recognize as a shield against emotion.  He does not look at you because it exposes that vulnerable, human part of him, and right now he is fighting to maintain his composure.  Cool, collected, he plainly states, “There is no chance of this job succeeding anymore.  Miroh caught onto us.  He interrupted us.  Whatever we were after is not there anymore.  Your father is just pulling my leash to see if I fight back.”  He takes a deep breath before saying more.  “He wants an excuse to question my loyalty.” 

“He is provoking us,” you agree.  There is a second of silence, both of you in contemplation, then you say, “We can’t let him.” 

“If I refuse this job, he will just get worse,” Felix says.  “If we try to run right now, we won’t get far.  We need to do this right, we need to—”

“Take the job,” you say.  “You said yourself, the job is over.  My father is a bastard and an idiot but he would never risk sending his best team somewhere dangerous when he has nothing to gain from it.  Call his bluff.  Take the job.” 

“I can’t leave you again,” Felix says, eyes closing as he clenches his good fist.  “I won’t leave you alone with him again.  Not right now, not like this.  Sweetheart, if something happened—”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, wrapping your hand over his fist and gently uncurling his fingers.  You nudge your nose against his chin, coaxing him to turn his head.  He finally does, sighing as he looks down at you.  You smile.  “I’ll be safe in the house.”

“It’s more dangerous in there than out here,” he says. 

“You know he won’t do anything worse than he’s ever done before,” you say.  You look down when you touch the bandage on his hand.  “We can take the cuts and bruises a little longer.  Do the job, then come back to me.  And who knows…”  You kiss his cheek, a touch of comfort.  “Maybe you’ll find the truth about Chris.” 

“I know the truth,” he says, unmoved.  “He’s dead.” 

You do concede it is incredibly likely.  If anything stopped your father from killing Chris, it was not morality, rather the practicality of breaching Miroh’s defences.  But it sounds like Chris was trouble to Miroh, so it is possible there was no pushback.    

It still breaks your heart to see Felix like this.  The burden of this bargain has caused him strife for so long, but you can see how it motivated him too.  As the hope leaves him, a light dims, and even your affection cannot ignite it. 

“How do you know that?” you ask helplessly. 

“I just feel it,” Felix says.  “In my heart.  I guess.  I think, umm.  I think.  I think I’ve known for a long time.  Maybe from the last time I ever saw him.  But I needed to believe in it.  I think I needed to believe Chris could be saved because then maybe—”  He looks down at his injured hand.  His fingers twitch when he fails to close his fist.  “Then I would have done something good,” he says miserably.  “Maybe then I could be worth saving too.”    

“Felix. Baby.”  You touch his face, still minding the bruise that grows more vicious by the second.  It only adds to the ache in your chest as you look at him, beaten and battered for someone else’s sake.  He has been taking hits every day since he was fourteen years old.  Whether it was for you or his friend, he was willing to surrender his life if it meant even a possibility of saving someone else.  “Felix, you have more heart and humanity than anyone I have ever known,” you say.  “Everything you have ever done has been because of love, despite what they tried to make you otherwise.  How can you not see what I see?” 

He looks at you, really looks at you, the way he did this morning.  He traces the curve of your cheek and brushes the subtle pout of your lips. 

“You’ve always seen more than most people do,” he says.  “You give me something else to believe in, you know?”

“Stop flirting,” you tease gently.  “This is serious.”

He laughs, his smile soft but sincere.  You kiss him slowly, until you are breathing the same uneven breaths, your hearts no doubt beating in tandem.  

Then you pick yourselves up and prepare for what comes next.   

-

Your father claims they will be gone for a week but you know it is not true.  There is no real mission so they will return in a few days at the latest.  For your part, you can only wait.  

Even though you have a tenuous plan, it is still hard being separated from Felix.  You remind yourself that you could not protect him in the field anyway, but logic is meaningless to your heart.  You imagine a version of yourself that is possessed of so many skills, she could wipe out every obstacle without breaking a sweat. 

But you are you.  Your skills are more emotional than physical and right now that physicality is even worse than usual.  You are lethargic from a brutal couple days, weak from the drugging, sore all over, and you cannot sleep well in an empty bed. 

You wake repeatedly in the night, startled by a nightmare where you are being taken, where Felix is being beaten, where your father kills him and a dozen boys like him and all you can do is watch.  The nightmares drag you into consciousness where you are barely eased, the reality of the world not so different from your nighttime horrors. 

In the daylight, you maintain the healthiest disposition possible.  You keep your distance from the security team, sitting in your room or quietly on the couch.  You do not engage when they antagonize you.   They grow bored of your presence soon enough, especially when they cannot get a rise out of you, leaving them with nothing to report to your father.

You expect the hours to drone endlessly.

Then you have a visitor. 

You ignore the doorbell.  The security team does not seem surprised by the interruption so you disregard it.  Maybe it is just another member of the team. 

You ignore the bell and the bustle of guards.  You head to the kitchen to scrounge for some lunch instead.  You hum as you chop vegetables, not paying any mind to the footsteps behind you.  You expect it is a member of the security team, stalking you in the name of supervision.  You turn to address him, a saccharine sweet smile at your face and a drole quip on your tongue, but your heart stops at the figure standing across from you. 

“Hyunjin?”

You breathe more than whisper his name, like surprise has winded you. 

You stand there, knife in hand, jaw hanging open as you stare into the face of your old friend.  He is somehow even more handsome than you remember, long dark hair framing his face, eyes fierce and cheekbones sharp.  An expensive blazer hugs his trim form.  His boots resound with a softer thump than combat boots, so you should have realized it was someone else sooner.

You never would have guessed him.  You have not seen Hyunjin in years. 

“Hello, my girlfriend,” Hyunjin says with a smile, dazzling and beautiful and oh-so very fake. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask tentatively, so perplexed by his appearance in your house that you do not know where to begin.  You nearly pinch yourself to make sure you are not dreaming. 

“Your dad called my dad,” Hyunjin says, his voice very light and casual, like he is picking up a conversation you paused an hour ago and not years ago.  “He thought you needed company so you wouldn’t try running away off or something.  So here I am.  Ta-daaa.  Company.” 

Security shuffles past the kitchen.  Hyunjin pauses, listening to the scuttle of their booted feet.  When the din quiets, he smiles at you again.  It does not reach his eyes. 

“Hyunjin,” you whisper, laying the knife down.  “What on earth is happening?  Why are you here right now?”

Voices, laughter, the team in the other room.  You and Hyunjin look at the door.  His smile droops and he leans closer when he says, “Somewhere quieter please.” 

You are still in something of a daze when you lead Hyunjin downstairs to the gym.  A guard departs after giving the room a sweep, as if anyone or anything could have gotten down here with all the security.

Then it is just you and Hyunjin. 

Hyunjin crosses the room, taking in the space and equipment.  He whistles long and low while shaking his head.  It makes you laugh despite everything. 

“No, no, it’s nice,” Hyunjin teases.  “I never saw this room before.  But I always remembered your house was very small and understated.”

It’s a joke but you cannot force a laugh because his reminiscence sends you hurtling through your own memories.  He turns and you see a younger version of him, just for a moment, beaming and bright.  Hyunjin used to be the hopeful one, the person with a plan and ambition.  He believed there was more to life and he believed he could achieve it.  He was so certain that it sparked a flicker of hope in you.  Now your flame is an inferno but there is no light or fire behind his eyes.  He is so cold that it is hard to believe there was ever a flame. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, imploringly.  “What happened?” 

“A lot,” he says.  He puts his hands in his pockets like he feels at ease, but his eyes keep darting around the room, betraying his discomfort.   

Though your friendship was short, it was substantial.  You know him.  Right now he is labouring beneath the weight of his performance, his charming expressions crooked, like poorly fitted clothes.   He looks like an uncanny duplicate of the boy you once knew. 

You step closer to him.  He does not move, frozen in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets.   When he eventually looks at you, it is with a slow lift of the head.  You swear you can see a curtain drawing across his face as it happens.  This close, you realize just how pale and wan he looks.  He is grey at the edges, like he is fading away before your very eyes. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, instinctively reaching out.  He flinches away from your touch, then tries to smile like it didn’t happen.  You do not hide your distress. 

He finally drops the pleasant façade.  His hands fall out of his pockets and swing at his sides.  His countenance is even colder, his striking features sharper than ever as he levels you with a venomous stare. 

“Don’t pity me,” he says.  “I can’t stand it.  I made my choices and I’m living with the consequences.” 

“Consequences?” you ask.  “Did they catch you trying to—”

 “I never left,” he says.  “I never even tried.  I was close.  I had a whole plan.  A way to start over.  But then...”  He turns without any warning and walks to the mirror wall where he looks at himself.  His hand hovers in the air, fingers curling.  “I met someone,” he says.  “And he wasn’t who I thought he was.” 

When he does not elaborate, you step closer.  You reach out to touch his shoulder, a consolation on the tip of your tongue.  Before your touch even lands, he spins around and looks right at you. 

“It turns out he was working for my father,” Hyunjin says.  He speaks in a plain tone, conveying facts without any unnecessary sentiment, but you can see the red in his eyes as he strains to hold back emotion.  “It was my fault for being so stupid.  With the way things were going, I should have seen it coming.  There is no such thing as selfless love.  Everyone serves themselves in the end and I was stupid to compromise my well-being for someone else.  I deserved the betrayal.” 

“That’s not true,” you say without hesitation.  He is talking about someone else but his words feel like a slap against your friendship too.   You grab his hand like you can squeeze sense back into him.  “I’m so sorry you were hurt,” you say.  “But you can’t honestly think—”

“Hurt.”  He chokes on the word and rips his hand back.  “It nearly killed me.  I wish it killed me.  I wish I was anywhere but here.  But I am stuck here because of my stupid feelings.  Everyone has a weakness waiting to be exploited and you can’t trust anyone not to take advantage of yours.”

It sounds so much like your father that you stumble back.  It resonates with a heavy slam against your ribs and the heart beating inside them.   That heart feels so wrung out these days, swollen with so much love one second then shrivelled with pain the next.  It throbs now.  You are hurt just witnessing his pain.  He has been betrayed and broken and he is unreachable in his grief.  You can only imagine what he has endured to end up back here, in this house, with you. 

You cannot blame him for guarding himself, but your combative side rears its stubborn head.

“There are good people,” you say.  “There are people that can be trusted.  You can trust me, after all.” 

“I don’t know that,” he says.  “We don’t know each other anymore.” 

“That is definitely not true,” you say.  You and Hyunjin clicked so well because your circumstances were so similar, your fears and pain the same.  “We know each other perfectly, Hyunjin,” you say. 

He looks away, blinking rapidly.  His shoulders hunch.  It looks so wrong for a man like him to curl in on himself in shame. 

“Fine,” he says.  “One person.  It doesn’t make a difference.”

“One person makes all the difference,” you say.  “Remember Minho?” 

That one really makes him flinch.  You are pretty sure a slap would hurt less. 

“And Felix,” he says, his voice softer now.  He scrunches his eyes shut like he can stop his pain with enough concentration.  He pushes through and says, “He works for your father, doesn’t he?  I remember him at that party.  He was with the security team.” 

“Yes,” you admit.  “He works for him.  In a way.” 

“And you still trust him?”  Hyunjin laughs.  He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.  “That’s just stupidity.”

“It is not.”

“He works for your father and takes his money and you still trust him not to betray you?  That’s stupid.” 

“It’s not.”  Frustration bubbles inside you.  You want to grab him and shake him around, like you can sift through and find the real Hyunjin underneath all this.  “I know I can trust him completely.”

“You can’t possibly know that for sure,” he says.  “He’ll betray you for the right price.  Everyone has a price.  You don’t think there’s something he’d trade you for?” 

That does sting, if only infinitesimally, as you recall Felix and his conflicting desires.  But you do not begrudge Felix for his life choices.  He was an impressionable boy, raised to follow orders with no thoughts of his own.  It made him wise in some ways and naïve in others.  He fell into a bad bargain with a scheming man and found himself trapped.  He was forced to make difficult decisions.  It was not about choosing you or Chris.  You would never make it about that.   

“Felix loves me,” you say.  “And I love him.   You’re right.  There are things he wants desperately.  But he doesn’t have to trade me for it.  He knows I would surrender myself willingly to see him happy.  Just like I know, no matter what else happens, he will always come back for me.  No matter where they hide me.  No matter where I hide myself.  No matter what men like my father do to him.  We choose each other.” 

“Everyone breaks,” Hyunjin says weakly.  “No one’s that strong.” 

“Not on their own, maybe,” you say.  “We’re not alone.” 

There was so much ice in his feigned arrogance that you are startled when Hyunjin starts crying.  He covers his face with his hands.  His shoulders shake and his breath hitches. 

“Hyunjin,” you say, your own voice breaking.  You rush up to him in a flustered hurry.  You touch his head and his shoulders, trying to peer at him through his fingers.  “Hyunjin, talk to me, please,” you beg.  “Something else is wrong, isn’t it?  Hyunjin, why are you here?  Where are your parents?  Why did my father call yours?”

“My parents are dead,” he barely manages to speak, gasping between his hiccupping cries.  “It’s just me.  They came for me and my father was difficult, he asked for too much, and they— and I—”

“They?” you say. 

It is then you see it.  You are clutching his shoulder and it tugs at his blazer.  A shirt button pops open and your eyes drop to the exposed bruises across his collarbone.  You blink in disbelief at the horrible mosaic beaten into his skin, angry welts of red and purple and yellow.  It seems to go all the way down his chest.  When you part the material of his shirt, something else catches your eye. 

You freeze.

“Oh,” you say.  “Hyunjin.” 

He is wired.  Someone is listening.  Your father is listening. 

You stop breathing for a moment.  The world gets quiet.  You look at Hyunjin.  An old friend showing up at your house out of nowhere, presented like an offering.  Jisung was not important enough for your father to remember, but Hyunjin is a different matter.  He is rich if not wealthy.  His parents were upwardly mobile, his father the kind of pathetic rich man who thought he was equal to a man like your father.  Willing to do awful things to his own son to keep him in his clutches, then selling him to the highest bidder if it meant advancement.  His only mistake was asking for too much when he was ultimately expendable.  There are always more where he came from. 

You want to be wrong.  Your father is a busy man.  He would not waste time finding Hyunjin and putting him through so much just for this, just to corner you into a confession.  But you know he did.  This is exactly what he would do.  He moves like a coward, killing civilians and poisoning innocent boys, then he makes a show of throwing it in your face. 

He always told you friendship was beneath you.  What a way to prove it. 

“I think you’ve fallen in with a bad crowd,” you say, forcing a laugh through the gathering tears. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, a tearful whisper.  He touches your arms like he wants to hug you, but holds himself back. 

“Me too,” you say.  You warned him a long time ago that befriending you was dangerous.  You wish you had been wrong. 

You pull him into a hug and he immediately envelopes you, his arms around your shoulders and yours around his waist.   He chokes out a sob and squeezes you so tight that your breath catches.  Then he just holds you there. 

You do not know if it is his cologne or his shampoo, but it smells so familiar.  It takes you back to that treehouse, looking over a glittering neighbourhood as the sun set and he dreamed about the dawn. 

“I still remember that rhyme, you know,” you say.  The address of that cabin, written in a rhyming lilt that you never forgot.  “If you ever have a chance again… promise me you’ll try…” 

He chokes out another sob. 

“How can you still care about what happens to me?” he asks.  “What about you?” 

“I’ll be fine,” you say.  It is spoken calmly, for all that it is a lie.  “Promise me?”

He just nods, then pulls you closer again. 

You cling to him for as long as you can.  It gives you the strength to stay upright despite your shaking legs, even when you hear footsteps coming down the stairs.  You brace yourself for the worst, halfway expecting the whole house to erupt in a violent explosion. 

It is just a guard.  He says, “Time to go, Hwang. Visit’s over.” 

You want to keep hugging.  You feel like you will fall through the floor if he lets you go.  He is just as reluctant, but withdraws when the guard steps into the room.   He does not look at you as he leaves, head down as he trails towards the stairs. 

“Goodbye, Hyunjin,” you say. 

It stops him for a moment.  He nods then continues.  There is nowhere else to go but back up those stairs. 

You are left standing by yourself in the middle of the room.  The mirror wall makes the space feel never-ending.  You look at your reflection.  You look so rough already, scarred from your kidnapping, tear-streaked from crying.  Your hands tremble uncontrollably.  You remember a younger version of yourself sitting in front of this mirror with Felix, for a moment feeling like a normal girl with her boy.  His touch brought you to life.  He made you feels things you thought you would never feel. 

It will be your own voice your father plays back to you, your own confession betraying you. 

You will not be sorry for it.  

You look at yourself and wipe your face.  You take a breath.  You walk to the stairs, one step after another.  There are guards upstairs but they pay you no mind.  They have clearly received no orders, not yet.  You could try to make a run for it, but you would not get far on your own. 

Instead, you go upstairs to your room.  You look around like it is the last time you will ever see it.  You know that is not true, logically.  Your father will not kill you, but there are fates just as devastating. 

You walk through the room.  It is plainly decorated with a mix of things owned by you and Felix.  For all that this house is not a home, you carved a shared space in this room.   You sit on the bed and study everything from discarded clothes to books to computer parts. 

Something compels you to open the drawer on his side of the bed, that same single drawer you allotted when he first moved in.  A ragged old beanie sits at the bottom of it, the first thing he ever owned.  You fold it over in your hand and squeeze it like a talisman, like it will infuse you with some magic to endure whatever storm is blowing your way. 

You cross the room and touch a few more things.  You find some university textbooks and your heart aches with the desire to return to those times.  You lived a fleeting few years like you were completely free, in love and happy and home. 

You will probably never see Seungmin or Jeongin again, but it brings you some peace to know they will live good lives.  You will never forget their willingness to intervene on your behalf despite the odds being so stacked against them.  Maybe they were not very good at it, smacking chairs and throwing drinks, but you will remember them fondly.  You wish you could say goodbye. 

With that thought, you pause.  Your gaze drifts to your computer. 

You cannot say goodbye to Seungmin or Jeongin, but you can say goodbye to someone else. 

You never wanted to risk contacting Jisung from home, just in case your father was found out.  But everything is ending today, one way or another.  There is nothing more you can lose.   You will take some comfort in a final word to an old friend before you are sealed in this gilded mausoleum.

You sit at your computer.  You log into the blank profile you made some time ago.  It is hard to tell if you are nervous because your stomach is so twisted in knots already, but you think there might be some happy anticipation.  You try to manage your expectations because there is a chance Jisung did not read the messages, seeing as they came from a blank account. 

You should have known better than to doubt him.  You log in to several new messages, laughing from the first line.

OH MY GOD!!!!!!!! IT’S YOU????? MY GIRL!!!!!!!

Okay sorry about that I am totally so cool I promise.  I’m just in shock.

I know you told me not to, but just so you know, I spent a year trying to reach you... 

Well, actually, I spent like four months crying my eyes out and being miserable and pathetic first..  On god, I eyed a jar of peanut butter with some serious thought for a minute there!!!  But then no, no way.  I had to keep going. 

I tried to find you.  Your bitch ass dad is famous because he’s an ugly rich loser so his properties are listed all over a million websites.  I found the one in town where you must live and I rode my bike there a bunch of times but uhhhhh yeah much to my eternal disappointment I am not James Bond and that security system was insane.  Don’t even get me started on when all the dudes in the army gear kept showing up.

On an unrelated note it’s way harder to buy explosives than you’d think. 

Just want you to know I did try to get in there.  You were never alone even if you felt like it. 

But it sounds like you’re not alone anyway HELLLL YEAHHHHH she is getting SOOOME.  All jokes aside I am crazy happy for you.  You deserve it for real.  He better be treating you right though or I WILL find a way through that gate and I WILL kick his ass.  Just say the word and I will be there in a heartbeat. 

He goes on for a while, the whole length of his message making you smile.  When you did not respond, he sent a few more, spaced further and further apart from each other.   The last message he sent was just a few days ago.

Hey I don’t know if you’re getting these.  I like to think so.  You don’t have to answer if you are.  I know you are in a dangerous spot.  Or maybe you’re not anymore and you got out.  In that case, I hope you never read these.  I hope you’re out there living your best life.  Maybe we’ll cross paths again but if not, I count myself lucky for knowing you at all.  I think we’re both slightly insane and everyone else I meet is way too normal haha. 

What I’m trying to say is I miss you like crazy.  I hope we can laugh together again someday.  Even if we never do, let’s say we will.   Keep smiling till I’m there.  Catch ya later crazy girl.

You smile.   Then emotion takes over, tears returning as you lay your hands on the keyboard to type a response. 

You have just hit send when there is a knock at your door, then it is opened without your permission.  You turn and look at the stoic guard who beckons you forward. 

“Your father is home,” he says.  “He wants a word.” 

You nod.  You spare one last look at you screen before logging out and shutting down.  You are certain it is the last message you will get to send.   A warmth fills your chest regardless.  You know it will reach Jisung.  His laughter and energy fills you with the strength you need to walk steadily out that door and down the hall.

-

Hi Jisungie. 

Thank you for your messages. I just read them all now. It wasn’t easy for me to check them before, but I did it today because it might be the last time I have an opportunity to do so.  My father found out about my love affair and seeing as it was with the one person he could not afford to lose, I have no doubt that a reckoning is on its way.  I thought he was bad before, but he has only gotten worse over the years.  I am sure this betrayal will put him over the edge.

I do not know what is going to happen.  I was scared until I read your messages.  They truly made me smile.  You have always made me a little braver.  I think I got less rebellious over the years because I got scared, but now… The worst has happened and I’m still here. 

I will figure it out.  But in case I never get the chance to talk to you again, I just wanted to say thank you one more time.  I miss you too, Jisungie.  I think about you so much.  I wish I could laugh with you again, the kind of laughter where nothing is all that funny but we can’t stop anyway.  Thank you for the times we did. 

I am happy to have lived my life because I knew you. I appreciate all the good times so much more because of the hard times.  You were a one-of-a-kind friend.  I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Keep smiling for me.    

Goodbye. 

-

Your father is behind his desk. 

There is no one else in the room.  They close the door behind you.  You walk calmly up to the desk and take a seat in your usual spot.  You sit as straight as you can, perched on the edge of the seat.  You are still lower than him, but you feel bigger and stronger than you have ever felt in your life. 

Your father draws out the silence, perhaps waiting for you to break down.  You stare at each other.  When he opens his mouth to speak, you interrupt him.  You are uninterested in games and dramatic embellishments, which you know he will indulge.  You simply ask, “What did you do to Hyunjin?” 

“I would not worry about the Hwang boy if I was you,” your father says spitefully.  “You have bigger concerns—”

“And yet I am asking about him,” you snap.  “What are you doing with him?”

“What I do with everything when it is no longer useful to me,” he says.

It is the answer you were expecting but it still draws your rage like a magnet.  It punches out of you, your eyes wet with tears when you say, “You’re pathetic.”

“How many times must you suffer humiliation at my enemy’s hands before you understand that none of this is a game?”  His voice rises as he speaks.  “Do you want to be out on the streets?  Do you want to be brutalized?  Do you want—”

“I would rather die rotting in the sewers with Felix than spend even one more minute under your roof,” you say.

You wonder what surprises your father more: the vicious tone or your blatant confession.  It stuns him into silence.  You know you have disrupted his script.  There is little sense in taunting you with your words if you utter them plainly before he can try. 

“I see,” your father settles on saying.  He presses a button on his desk and the buzzer in the corridor resounds.  “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

The door opens and several guards usher inside.  You spare them a fleeting glance before your attention narrows to the figure between them. 

“Felix!”  You stand but cannot reach him.  He is surrounded by guards and they will not let you touch a hair on his head. 

He moves like he is completely boneless, evidently drugged with something to make him bleary and slow.  He thumps heavily onto his knees when they put him there.  His eyes are hazy as he looks around the office.   They pause on you, flicking up and down, then he smiles through the pain. 

The pain.  It is not just a drug.  He looks like he went a few rounds with a cement wall, his lip split and his jaw bruised.  His bandaged hand is soaked through with blood, the rest him as battered.  His injuries disappear beneath his shirt and pants but you know it is not a pretty sight.  You swallow down the bile in your throat before looking at your father. 

“He’s your best asset,” you say.  “You can’t lose him.” 

“Oh?  Can’t I?” your father asks.  “Can’t I?  Can’t I?  You think you know something?  You think you can tell me what to do?  You, when all you do is destroy what I make?  I give you everything and this—this is how you—”  His yelling sharpens to a shriek before he starts breaking things.  It pulls Felix further out of his haze, his eyes tracking the frantic movements as your father smashes a vase near your feet. 

You think about that tiny shard of glass from last time, the miniscule thing that started it all.   It makes you laugh even though nothing is funny.  Laughter is an emotional output just like crying, so it pours out of you with no regard for the actual gravity of the situation. 

It only worsens your father’s rage. 

“Does something here amuse you?” he asks, but you are laughing too hard to answer.  There is a vein throbbing in his forehead and you imagine it bursting.  You imagine all your problems solving themselves as he drops dead from his own rage.   The image is even funnier because you truly cannot imagine this man dying.  He is a monster.  If you stab him, you fear he will just mutate and come back worse. 

“You want to laugh?” he snaps.  He crosses the room to Felix.  “Laugh.” 

He holds out his hand and someone places a gun in his open palm.  This snaps you out of your delirious giggles, a winded whoosh spilling out of you.  

Your father does not execute action himself.  He always puts the gun in someone else’s hand.  The fact he is pointing it at Felix should tell you that his threat is not serious. 

But he has never been this furious, his anger a white hot cascade of fire.  Felix is just inches from the barrel of the gun.  Even an inexpert marksmen like your father could drive a bullet between his eyes. 

So the moment he grips the weapon, you shout, “Stop!” 

Your father looks at you with a cock of his head, satisfied with your reaction. 

Then he jumps back because Felix rushes to his feet, most of the fog dissipated.  Your father’s stupid men did not think for a moment that Felix would repeat a strategy.  Just days before he allowed himself to be captured so he could rescue you.  It seems he has done that again, feigning the depth of his condition.  He swings to his feet and kicks out. 

His injuries restrict his movement.  He is good at ignoring pain but his body overrides his consciousness.  He fights nonetheless, struggling with the guards while you watch. 

You look around for something that can help.  You snatch a paper weight off the desk  and prepare to throw. 

Your father is a step ahead of you.  Suddenly you are staring down the barrel of a gun, your father on the other end, fuming. 

“No—!”  Felix says before he is beaten down.  With his attention diverted, a guard kicks the back of his legs.  His knees buckle and he goes down with a groan. 

You look at him then flick your eyes back to your father.  You raise both hands and lift a challenging eyebrow. 

“You want to do this?” you ask.  “Really?  After everything?”

“After everything,” your father says.  “Exactly my words.  A house, an education, unending protection.  You want for nothing.  All I ask in return is obedience and you cannot even grant me that.  You have the audacity to betray me for this animal.”  He waves the gun around like the clumsy, ungainly thing he is.  It makes a few heads duck, including yourself.  You fear this man will kill someone without even trying.  It makes it hard to listen, which might be for the best, as he goes on a long tirade about privilege and position and loyalty. 

He starts merely angry but it turns downright diabolical. 

“And you.”  He turns to Felix.  “I dug you out of Miroh’s gutter!  I made you a bargain!  I gave your meaningless life purpose!  You are nothing without me.  How dare you think to take what is mine.  How dare you think you are anything more than a dog.  How long have you kept this secret?  How am I supposed to trust it is the last?  You are a liar.  For all I know you are lying about everything.  Is that it?  Are you a spy, feeding reports back to Miroh?  Is that why I can never succeed in my missions?  Have you been—” 

Felix bursts into laughter.  His face scrunches with delight, his cheeks dimpled. The low rumble of his laughing voice sounds real, honest amusement at the proclamation.  It fades to a sigh, then he looks up.

You have never seen such a dark glare shadow his features, made all the more horrifying thanks to his bloody injuries.  It makes your stomach drop even though it is not directed at you. 

“You fail at all your missions because you’re an incompetent idiot,” Felix says.  “You couldn’t even control two children. What makes you think you can control Miroh?”

“Have you forgotten our bargain?” your father yells, waving the gun towards Felix again.  “You lie and trick your way into my household and still expect—”

“Our bargain,” Felix spits the word and some blood sprays out.  He spits the rest on the floor and shakes his head.  “I know he’s dead.  You killed him a long time ago.”   

The room is quiet for a moment.  Your father is still holding the gun, though it dangles at his side.  He and Felix stare each other down.  Although Felix is kneeling, his sinister stare is far more terrifying than your father’s blank gaze.  But then that empty gaze turns cold and your father smiles, one of those sharp smiles that opens like a slash across his face. 

“Now how would you know that,” your father says, “if you are not a spy for Miroh?”

“One of Miroh’s men told us at the warehouse,” you interrupt.  It earns you nothing but a wrathful glare from your father.  He gestures to you and a guard puts a threatening hand on your shoulder. 

“You will speak when spoken to,” your father snaps.  He looks at Felix again.  “Oh.  Yes.  You.  Whoops.  I very nearly forgot, it was so long ago when I killed your friend.  Does that make you sad?  Poor little boy.  You should have remembered your place.  Your kind are born to die for men like me.”

“Men like you,” Felix says.  Mourning will have to wait so he laughs because he cannot cry.  “You’re pathetic.  Not a surprise, though, yeah?  Since your father took care of everything before I killed him—oh.  Whoops.”  He tilts his head and smiles, speaking with the same saccharine tone your father just used to mock him.  “It was so long ago.  I almost forgot I shot your daddy in the fucking head.  Does that make you sad?  Poor little boy.  You should have remembered your place and stayed behind your walls.  You’ll never be a man like him.” 

Your father has never looked so stricken.  You did not even know his face could contort such a way.   It makes him look very human for the few heartbeats that it lingers.  You can almost picture a younger version of your father, breaking under the fist of his father before him.  

Then he schools himself.  Once more, the untouchable monster stands before you.  The gun wobbles only a little when he raises it, taking aim at Felix. 

“Stop!” you shout.  You were just picturing the passing of generations, so maybe that explains why your panicked brain compels you to blurt, “You can’t kill him! I’m pregnant!” 

This time every head in the room swivels towards you.  Even the other guards do not hide their surprise.  Your father stares, jaw agape, and Felix looks just as bewildered.  You feel bad because you can see thought flickering behind his eyes, wondering if maybe you are telling the truth.  It makes his face change, pain flashing.  Panic seeps into his veins. 

“Excuse me?” your father says. 

You almost trip on the chair.  Your knees knock and your voice shakes when you say, “You heard me.” 

“I know what I heard.”  At least it succeeds in garnering your father’s attention.  He forgets about Felix entirely as he stalks towards you, gun clutched in his undoubtedly sweaty hand.  “My problem lies in understanding how this can be.”

“Well,” you say slowly.  “I can’t imagine you really want me to explain that—”

You father backhands you across the face.  You careen into his desk, barely catching yourself. 

“It could work in my favour yet,” your father says.  “Start fresh.  Fix where I went wrong with you.  Because you are an irredeemable and entirely lost cause.” 

This baby is not even real yet you panic at the thought.  It unspools an infinite and horrifying future, this house an eternal monstrosity birthing a new generation of tyrant and monster.  Hurting and contorting everyone in the family name for the sake of maintaining that vast estate.  

This has to stop. 

“Of course I am,” you say.  You take a long, steadying breath, then you push yourself upright.  You turn to your father and meet his gaze, aware of the gun but feigning complete nonchalance.  “I can’t believe it has taken you this long to realize it,” you say.  “You lost me a long, long time ago.  You want to control everything because you’re scared of losing anything.  But you’ve already lost what you were trying so hard to protect and you can never, ever get it back.  I will not continue what your father started.  I will not be what you have become.  I am not like you and I am proud of that.  I am proud that I love my friends, and Felix, despite how much you tried to stop me. But I am me and I am not scared.” 

You dive at him, a vicious tackle spurred by that hurricane of emotion inside you.  You tackle him so quickly that it takes the guards a second to react.  The gun clatters to the floor as it flies out of his hand.  He throws up his fists to protect his face when you swing down with all your might.  What you lack in physical strength you compensate with drive, slamming your fists down without care for where they land, again and again and again. 

Then someone grabs you by the collar and yanks.  It is one of the guards, pulling you to your feet.  Your father shrieks and hollers like a wounded dog, snarling and frothing like one too.  He gets to his feet and swings at you. 

Felix rises, struggling to reach you.   You stretch out your hand, your fingertips touching before you are yanked apart from each other.  You cry out, struggling in the guard’s death grip to no avail.  Felix is fighting the other guards but his injuries put him at a disadvantage. 

You are dragged away from the chaos.  Your father picks up the discarded gun on his way. 

“Take her outside!” he shouts at the guard, then turns to the mess in his office.  “Don’t waste your energy.  Shoot the boy.”

“No!” you scream, so guttural you hardly recognize the sound.  You cry as gunshots ring in the office, but you lose sight of the skirmish as you are dragged, kicking and screaming, down the stairs and out the front door. 

You curse at your father and the guard, bits of your shirt ripping when you fight to escape.  You are smacked and twisted, your shoulder popping so painfully that it makes you wail. 

“Stop it, stop it!”  You are fully sobbing, either from pain or panic.  It does no good as you are dragged into the night.  The grand driveway is lit like a stage awaiting players, lamps and towers beaming over the pavement.  The gate opens to the street beyond.  It is pitch black.  There are no other houses on this hillside, the estate sprawling across its expanse, so there are no streetlights.  A black car is parked on the curb.  It feels like a chariot to the underworld, black and swallowed by shadow.  You are as good as dead.  Felix might be truly dead. 

You struggle some more but you are in so much pain.  Your father is shouting directions at the guard and it splits his attention.  His grip loosens and you successfully break free. 

You do not hesitate.  You run into the street, straight through the pitch black.  If you run far enough, you will eventually reach a proper street leading into the city.  You do not even care which direction you go.  You just run, ignoring the screaming pain in your muscles as your feet hit the pavement.

A gunshot pierces the quiet night.  You stumble to a stop, throwing your hand up over your heart.  You touch your chest, expecting to find a bloody wound.  But there is nothing, not a single drop.   You were not shot. 

You spin around and watch the guard fall to the ground, a bullet in his head.  Your father turns too, holding his own gun at the approaching figure. 

Your knees almost buckle as relief washes over you, Felix storming down the driveway with a gun of his own raised at your father.  Felix is badly wounded, but even at his worst he is a far better shot than your father.  They both know it too, staring each other down as Felix gets closer and closer. 

“Stop where you are!” your father screams, his voice breaking. 

Felix ignores him, gun still raised.  Your father fires a shot that goes wide.  Felix does not even blink as it ricochets off a wall.  He walks calmly to the sidewalk where your father stands.  He does not smirk or gloat.  He just looks at the frightened man who terrorized the world to make himself feel better, and he lines up a shot. 

Felix pulls the trigger. 

Nothing happens. 

His brow furrows before his face twists with fury.  The gun has jammed or it’s out of bullets, but either way it is useless.  He lowers his arm, the gun dangling from his hand as he stares at your father.

Your father just laughs, a ridiculous and semi-hysterical laugh as he stumbles back but never lowers the gun.  Felix is much closer now.   Even your father could not miss this shot.   

Felix drops his gun and smiles weakly. 

“She’s funny, you know,” Felix says.  “And smarter than anyone I know.  She picks up on things everyone else misses.  It’s too bad you can’t see it.  But then, you’re not like her.” 

“Shut up,” your father snaps.  “You have exceeded your uses, boy.” 

You realize you are running.  Even before the conscious thought reaches your mind, your body spurs you into action.  Instinct commandeers control and you hand yourself over to it.   Felix looks up just as you emerge from the dark.  He sees your face for a split second, enough time for him to realize what you are doing and shout, “Stop!”

Your father’s finger is already on the trigger.  A shot rings out and this time it does hit you, sharp and searing as you dive in front of Felix. 

The gun hits the ground.  Your father looks at you with petrified eyes.  Felix catches you, supporting your weight as he sinks to his knees with you in his arms. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, touching your face, your neck, your chest.  “Sweetheart, look at me.  Stay with me.” 

The pain is excruciating, like nothing you have ever felt before.  You cannot even tell where it is coming from.  It feels like your neck and shoulder and heart all at once.  It radiates and burns.  The pain is so overwhelming that you do not notice the wet, tacky feeling of blood.  You see it before you feel it, all over Felix’s fingers as he finds the bullet wound in your shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” he says, barely more than a gasp.  His chest is rising and falling rapidly.  You scream in agony when he grabs your shoulder and squeezes it hard in his fist.  “I know, I know,” he says.  “It exited clean.  There’s nothing vital there.  You’ll be okay, sweetheart, I got you.  I just have to staunch the blood.  We just have to—”  His voice breaks on a sob and he looks up at your father, his hand covered in your blood and his rage as red on his face.  “We have to get her help.  Now.”  

Your father’s response is to pick up the gun.  He nearly drops it, his shaking hands clammy, but he gets an unsteady grip eventually.  He points it at Felix again.  

“Are you fucking serious?”  Felix shouts in aggravation.  “Your daughter is going to bleed to death if you don’t do something.  Put the fucking gun down!”

“Get away from her,” your father says.  “Get away from her and put your hands up.  I’ll get her help.” 

“No,” you say, shaking your head then crying when pain lances down your neck.  “No, Felix. Don’t.” 

Your father will not take another shot at Felix, not with you in his arms.  Your father might want to control you, but he does not want you dead.  You are the only thing that is protecting Felix now.  If he moves, he dies. 

“Don’t go,” you beg.  “Felix, please.”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” Felix says.  He looks up at your father, venom in his voice as he asks, “Are you really going to stand there and let your daughter die?” 

“Are you going sit there and let her die?” your father retorts.  “Get away from her and I will save her.” 

You feel Felix twitch. He presses his fingers a little harder, stopping a rush of blood.  It makes you weep and you plead, “Felix no.  Please.  I can’t watch that.  I’d rather it end like this.”

“Don’t say that.”  Felix looks down at you.  His bloody hand is shaking, tears spilling down his cheeks as he looks at you.  “Nothing’s ending.  You’re gonna be fine.” 

“It never ends,” your father babbles.  He almost drops the gun when he trips over the lip of the sidewalk, stumbling backwards into the street as he stares at you.  You stare back, wondering if it is your blurry vision or if he is really crying.  All you can see is him wiping his face, the gun trembling in his hand.  “It just keeps going,” he says.  “Only I can end it.” 

He is taking aim again.  You cannot tell if he is aiming for you or Felix, maybe some half-baked delirious plan in his twisted mind to put you out of your misery and take Felix with you. 

Felix does not have time to attack.  He can only curl his body around yours to protect you from the shot. 

Then a beam of light shatters the dark.  It flies up the street, illuminating your father.  He looks in that direction.  Everyone is drowning in their sobs and it is all so loud that it takes a second to hear it: the heavy, growling drone of a speeding car, hurtling ever closer.  The white of a high-beam headlight blinds your father with lightning hot intensity. 

It is the last thing he ever sees. 

Felix is as startled as you.  You both cry out in horrified shock.  He blocks your body to shield you from the sudden and unexpected gore.  Noiseless convulsions tremble through your whole body as you stare up at Felix, not understanding what just happened. 

You both look over as the car rapidly reverses, disappearing just as quickly as it came.  In its wake is your father, or what remains of him.   

Just like that, the whole world tilts on its axis.

You cannot comprehend what you are seeing.  This man was a towering, nightmarish monstrosity, bigger than life and death, holding the world in his fist.  Even he desperately believed in his own mythology.  It seems impossible that he could be that nightmare but also be this, a broken and very human body, muscle and gristle and protruding bone, half flattened to the tarmac.  A sudden and entirely undignified death, comically animal, and as lowly as everything he ever disparaged.   

You and Felix stare at him, at the mess of his ruined dead body on the dark street.  It is so, so quiet.  The house is so still.  The street is empty.  You can hear the soft buzz of the floodlights. 

You make a hurt noise.  Felix looks down with a perplexed shake of his head.  But he only has a moment to mind you, his mouth open with some unspoken thought, when you hear the car again. 

You both look over, your heart racing and your blood spilling over his hand.  He is wearing his most determined face, braced to face an adversary. 

You do not know who to anticipate.  It makes no sense for Miroh to be here.  He would not have known anything unusual was transpiring at this house tonight.  How could he know to send someone?  Yet it is the only thing that makes sense.  The only person who could have taken down someone like your father would be someone just like him. 

You are braced for the worst when the car comes to a stop.  The dead body looks more grotesque as the headlights flash over it. 

The driver does not turn off the engine.  You hear the patter of frantic footsteps before the silhouette is illuminated by the car lights.  Wide eyes meet yours and your heart stutters.  Your tears are halted by the face staring back at you. 

“Oh my god,” Jisung says.  “That was the bad guy, right?” 

Felix reacts first, a bark of laughter made in disbelief as he stares at your startled best friend. 

Han Jisung is both the same and different, with a flop of dark hair and big brown eyes, but years have passed, leaving him bulkier and more mature.  He pushes a pair of glasses up his nose, the wide frames only exaggerating his eyes, making it very easy to hold his gaze when he looks at you. 

“Jisung,” you say, and start crying all over again.  “Jisung.”  You cannot seem to find another word.  You just gasp his name between sobs.

Jisung practically flies towards you, landing on his knees. 

“Hey, stranger,” he says, carefully touching your cheek.  “You’ve looked better, I’m not gonna lie.” 

You laugh even though it hurts, reaching for him with a shaking hand.  He takes it despite it being sticky with blood, cupping it safely in his own. 

“You’re here,” you say.  “How? Why?” 

“Of course I’m here,” he replies in a soft voice.  “I got in my car as soon as I saw that goodbye message.”  He gently squeezes your hand.  “You didn’t think I’d let you get away twice, did you?”        

Your laugh is more of a sob, in too much pain to truly smile.  Felix asks Jisung to help, showing him where to apply pressure.  Jisung complies, holding you while Felix tugs off his shirt.  It leaves him in a tank top, all his scars and bruises on display.  You want to fuss over him too but he gives you no opportunity to linger, using his shirt as a makeshift tourniquet for your wound. 

“So your boyfriend is Felix,” Jisung says while he works.  “That’s great. I was rooting for you two crazy kids.  Felix had a pretty obvious crush on you in high school.  I didn’t say anything because you kinda seemed to hate his guts but I guess that’s not true anymore.  You had some bigger bastards to hate.  Speaking of, that was your dad I got right?  I mean, I didn’t even think, I just saw him waving that gun around and I hit the pedal.  Next thing I knew—ohhh shit, Felix, you’re really strong, what the fuck, man.  Have you been working out—” 

Felix scoops you into his arms and stands.  His usual unwavering strength falters just a little, his injuries protesting his action.  You tell him to put you down because it will do no good for you both to collapse.  Jisung stands and helps steady you.  They both lay a hand on your back, taking some of your weight as your feet touch the ground and you wobble. 

“That’s my girl,” Jisung says.  “Oh man, that’s a lot of blood, ha ha ha – AHH.  No, it’s fine, we’re okay.  Careful—”

“Jisung,” Felix says, looking past you to meet his eye.  “Are you okay?”

A more than fair question considering how fast everything just happened.  Jisung stops rambling and takes a few deep breaths before he answers. 

“Okay, yeah,” he says.  “Totally fine.  For now.” 

“Okay,” Felix says.  “Because I need you to take her while I—”

Your ignore their conversation.  Your eyes are on your father.  You cannot even call it his body; it is a carcass.  His lower half is gored but his face is mostly whole.  You half-expect his mouth to open with a wailing shout.   You are so distracted with the thought, you misstep and your weak ankles give out.  You are spared a kiss with the pavement when Jisung catches you.  It is a haphazard embrace, throwing his arms around you to keep you upright. 

“Can you take care of her until I get back?”  Felix asks. 

“Uh-huh. Yes,” Jisung says.  He puts his growing bulk to use and lifts you into his arms, bridal style.  You cannot move your shoulder to lift your arms around him, but you rest your head in the curve of his neck as he carries you to his car. 

His car.  Hysterical giggles bubble inside you, quashed only by the physical ache of your body.  Han Jisung really raced back into your life and annihilated the worst of your demons by driving right at him.  

Years of nightmares and beatings and pain.  Years of your father lording his power over you and the world.  Years of believing he was terrifying and untouchable.  

Jisung always said it was that easy.  He was just a teenager, lookingat the impossible powers that surrounded his friend but believing whole-heartedly he could save her anyway.  You argued and pushed him away, but he knew better all along.  Jisung was not cowed by money and influence, not impressed or frightened by men like your father who ravaged the world and gloated about it.  Jisung had no power or influence of his own but that didn’t matter.  He saw his friend was in a bad situation and he wanted to save you.   So he did. 

He carefully rests you in the passenger seat.  In the time it takes him to circle to the driver’s side, you break down crying.  The pain exacerbates it, your body seeking release, but it is sentiment that pours out of your heart. 

Jisung gets in, looking very startled.  He adjusts his glasses. 

“Did it get worse?” he asks, reaching for you with a bloody hand.  You look at it, you look at him, very literally stained with blood on your behalf.  He is staying composed but you can see the jitters under his skin.  He just killed someone for you.  It might have been a panicked, spur of the moment decision, but the end result was the same.  Even though your father was not a good man, taking a life is a serious burden. 

And here he is, placing that weight aside so he can check on you. 

“Jisung,” you say.  You wish your hands were not so dirty because you want to touch his face or hold his hand.  You satisfy yourself with leaning towards him, touching your forehead to his cheek as you cry. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jisung says.  He shifts so your foreheads are touching, his clean hand cupping your cheek.  “I got you, okay?  It’s over now.  Felix is gonna take care of it and I’m gonna take care of you.  It’ll be okay.  Don’t be scared, all right?”

“I’m not,” you say.  “What did I do to deserve you?”

“You’re my friend,” Jisung says.  “You don’t have to do anything to deserve it, okay?  Look.  I know what will make you feel better.”  He reaches past you into the glove compartment.  You have no idea what he could possibly have in there that will make you feel better while bleeding out of a bullet wound in the passenger seat of his car, the same car he used to murder your abusive father. 

He fishes around then pulls out a bag of spicy peanuts, the same flavour you used to eat all the time in high school.  Even though he was allergic, he bought them whenever he found them, just because he knew you liked them. 

You take them slowly, staring at the familiar packaging.  You sniffle.    

“It was always going to be you, wasn’t it?” you say softly.  You could cry all over again.   “You really came back.”

Of course Jisung saved you.  You realize now your father could never be bested by Miroh or someone like him.  They would be locked in a perpetual stalemate, predicting each other’s every step, giving and taking and killing in a circle of violence with no end.  But Jisung is not like them. 

Whether the gesture was big or small, whether it was peanuts or a rescue, it was selfless, and someone like your father would never understand that.  He never saw it coming. 

“Well, yeah,” Jisung says.  “My promise was forever, remember?”

You can only nod, bumping your heads together.  Jisung wraps you in a hug then kisses your forehead before buckling in and taking the steering wheel. 

“All right,” he says.  “We can catch up after.  Let’s get away from this place.  It’s giving me the creeps.” 

-

It is strange looking at your house on a news report.  It makes you feel like you are watching someone else’s life. 

You are stitched and showered, sitting on the floor of a twin bed motel room.  You are still damp from the shower but each little trickle feels like blood, your jittery fingers constantly swiping at your skin. 

Jisung sits behind you on the bed, his legs bracketing you, double checking your stitches.  Felix said it was paramount to avoid a hospital or any other institution that would identify you.  He told Jisung to book a room at a motel on the highway and wait for him, that he would stitch you up himself when he arrived.  Jisung took the initiative, boasting some first aid training for his job at the grocery store. 

“Usually I’m putting bandages on a cut finger,” Jisung said, hands covered in blood as he fixed your wound, “but this is, uh, similar I guess.  Sort of.” 

Felix arrived while you were in the shower.  Now he is in there, cleaning himself and minding his own injuries while you and Jisung watch the evening news report.   The blinds are closed, rain pelting the canopy over the balcony, but you are tucked away from the storm, hidden from the world as it mourns you. 

“A devastating house fire is believed to have left no survivors on the premises,” the reporter says, backdropped with a video of an inferno ravaging your father’s house.  “Police are still investigating, but among the suspected dead is a prominent local businessman and his daughter.”  They show a portrait of your father and an old yearbook photo of you.   That girl looks nothing like the battered woman you are now.  You really do feel like you are watching someone’s else story end.

“Wow,” Jisung says, watching too.  “How does it feel to be dead?”

You rest your head against his knee, sighing as you stare at the television. 

“I’m not dead,” you say, staring at the photo of you.  That girl might be dead, but you are very alive. 

Felix accidentally swings the bathroom door too hard, the thud like a gunshot in your mind.  You jump a mile out of your skin, digging your nails into Jisung’s leg unthinkingly. 

“Ah ah ah ah—”  Jisung grabs your wrist to pry you off. 

“Sorry,” Felix says, truly apologetic.  He closes the door with a gentle click then approaches.  He sits beside Jisung on the bed, laying his hand on your head and looking you over.  “How are you?” Felix asks.   He pays no mind to the news report but that is likely because he is responsible for the story they are broadcasting.  You know Felix would tell you every detail if you asked, but you decide you do not want to know how he moved the bodies around.  It is enough to see the walls of that place burning. 

He packed a few things first.  A stuffed duffel bag sits on the other bed.  Perhaps it should feel daunting, that all you have left is a single bag of necessities, but it feels freeing.  You are not burdened by the weight of more.  Your hands might be shaking and you might be hurt in more ways than one, but you can exhale. 

You take Felix’s hands and kiss his scraped knuckles.

“I’m fine,” you say.  “What about you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he says.  He looks more tired than you have ever seen him, but he manages a laugh when you pout at him.  “Don’t do that,” he says, flicking your bottom lip.  “Just some bad bruises, yeah?  I’ll be fine.” 

You know he is not fine but you respect his desire for peace.  You can check his injuries later when he has settled. 

“Well then, what about you, Jisungie?” you ask.  You turn around to face him.  “How are you?”

“Uh, honestly…”  Jisung rakes his fingers through his hair then exhales on a shaky laugh.  “I’ll let you know when I know.  It’s all a bit—uh—”  

“Yeah,” you say, taking his hand.  “I know.” 

You suspect there will be no proper words for a while.  You cannot even think of recovery while your wounds throb.  There are still gunshots firing in your mind.  When you close your eyes, you see a body on the pavement.  You expect a knock at the door and a gun in your face, even though there is no reason for that.  Miroh is probably sitting back and laughing at the detonation of your father’s house.  Your father’s people and investors will scramble over the company tomorrow.  That world will turn without you.  You will not miss it.    

You struggle to sleep that night.  You lay on your back to mind your shoulder but that is not your only grievance.  Felix lays beside you where he belongs and Jisung is in the other bed, so you are not alone anymore, but your adrenaline will not dwindle.  Now that you have a moment of peace, it feels more chaotic than ever. 

When you start breathing harder, Felix wraps an arm around you. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispers.  He does not ask what is wrong.  It is more than self-explanatory.  You do not need to speak. 

You want to roll over and bury your face in his neck, but you cannot move because of your shoulder.  You suffice to hold his arm tight, closing your eyes as his protective embrace surrounds you.  His heart beats against your body and you let it lull you into a gentle repose. 

You do not sleep for long.  There is morning light when you wake but it is a bleary, early grey light.  Everything smells a little damp from the rain.  This is a small motel, meant to serve as a momentary respite for passing travellers.  You cannot stay here. 

Felix wakes when you do.  After a few morning kisses, he rises to use the washroom.  Jisung is still fast asleep in his bed, his cheek squished and his hair a shaggy mess on the pillow.   You smile, looking at him.  There is a gap between the beds but he is close enough to touch if you stretch.  You content yourself with looking, thinking about how lucky you are to have him again.  It is a light and happy thought, but it darkens very swiftly when you recall what he did to save you.  It is going to weigh on him, whether all at once or in pieces. 

The weight of trauma will be a heavy burden, but you are alive to carry it.  There are others who are less lucky.  You think about Hyunjin and your heart strains, recalling his final miserable departure.  Your father implied he had Hyunjin killed.  If he was not bluffing to antagonize you, then Hyunjin did not stand a chance.    

You are sniffling with tears when Jisung blinks awake.  He mutters in groggy gibberish before reaching for his glasses.    His tired voice is tinged with concern when he asks, “What is it?  Do you need something?” 

“No,” you say, wiping your tears.  “I was just thinking I know where I want to go next.” 

It is hard to talk about Hyunjin so you opt for vagueness over specificity.  The boys do not question the subject of the cabin when you mention his name.  You do not tell them he might be dead.  You feel like if you speak it out loud, it will make it true. 

It will take a week to reach the cabin by car.  Jisung helps you loads the necessities into the back a truck that Felix procured, only questioning its seeming manifestation after the fact. 

“I stole it,” Felix answers. 

“You stole a car?” Jisung asks.  It is a good thing the motel parking lot is empty because he practically shouts it, like stealing a car is the most horrifying thing he has ever heard.  You remember how you had the same reaction the first time Felix stole a vehicle. 

It makes you laugh when Felix draws his lips into a thin line, shaking his head at Jisung.  He turns to you and says, “You two really are identical, you know?”  

“What does that mean?”  Jisung asks. 

“I said the same thing the last time he stole a car,” you say.

“Dude!”  Jisung whips around.  “You stole two cars?”

“You know I’ve killed people, right?” Felix says dryly. 

“Well yeah, I mean, who hasn’t,” Jisung says with a nervous giggle. 

You whack him on the arm and shake your head.   “That’s not funny,” you say. 

“It’s a little funny,” he whispers while you roll your eyes. 

Though you want to keep him at your side, it feels selfish to ask Jisung to come with you.  He has a life here and he has already done so much to help you.  But he surprises you by emphatically volunteering himself, saying he at least wants to help get you there. 

“I don’t think I could just walk back into my normal life tomorrow like nothing happened,” Jisung says, tucking you under one arm.  “I don’t know what’s gonna happen next.  Can’t control it.  But I know where I want to be right now.  I’ll figure out the rest after.” 

So you take to the road, your destination a small cabin far away from your old life.  You stop along the way, at first for food and other necessities, mostly stolen by Felix, but then for pleasure when you drive through towns with interesting landmarks.   On the clearer nights, you sleep in the bed of the truck. 

You still do not stop for a real discussion.  You indulge the mental break while you can, all three of you taking the time to literally stop and smell the flowers on the journey. 

Bandages still need changing.  Stitches need minding.  The night before your anticipated arrival, you are in another motel room.  You and Felix sit in the small kitchenette, playing cards at the tiny table, while Jisung showers and goes about his nightly routine. 

You throw down a couple cards.  You look at Felix while he studies his hand.  The swelling on his face has gone down which is good for numerous reasons.  He has been wearing a baseball cap everywhere, the brim pulled low, to stop people from staring. 

There is a hard set to his shoulders.  It has been like that for a few days.  Even in your father’s house, there were moments Felix would soften, namely when he was curled up in your shared bed and the world seemed far away.  Maybe he cannot relax because the world is so immediate now.  It is strange that potential happiness can cause as much anxiety as its opposite.  Perhaps it is because it is so unfamiliar.  Your body only knows how to brace itself. 

Felix was raised for that express purpose.  Road trips and gardens and motel rooms was not in his training.  High school corridors and uniforms once baffled him, the mundanity of everyday life more exhilarating and frightening than a battlefield. 

You want to smooth his brow and soften his shoulders.  He sits like he is holding a breath and you want to draw it out of him.  A part of your stirs with arousal at the consideration, thinking how you could do that.  You have always found your humanity in that intimate space.  But you are both much too injured to try anything heavier than a kiss right now. 

This time, you reach across the table and touch his cheek, with no intention but a soft caress.  He blinks up at you, the cards forgotten.  You do not know what to say.  You just touch him.

He cups his hand over yours, holding it to his cheek.  He looks at your shoulder and other bruises.  It will take you a long time to heal, but nothing is infected.  You do not know how his injuries are faring because he will not let anyone look at them.  He claims he is fine.  You know he is not. 

“I love you,” you say.  “I swear it gets stronger every day.  Is that crazy?  Not a day goes by where I am not grateful for you, just as you are.”

He closes his eyes and swallows.  He nods. 

“I love you too,” he says in a soft, low voice. 

When Jisung leaves to get some dinner, Felix proves you wrong about lovemaking.  You are too injured for anything vigorous, but he can still lay you down, can still stretch alongside you.  He slips his hand beneath your waistband and touches you with long, careful strokes.   You unravel in his arms, your sore spots aching but the pain worth the pleasure.  You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and tug him down for a kiss.  You kiss him until he sighs and rests his forehead to yours. 

“Can I please see?” you ask. 

He finally acquiesces.  His scars are not too bad, more plentiful than painful.  He hisses but exhales when you kiss your way across a couple worse marks. 

“We’ll find a way to feel better,” you say, grazing your fingertips along his skin.  You recall what Jisung said, about how you did not have to deserve love, you just had to accept it.  “You don’t need to prove yourself anymore, Felix,” you say.  You dance your fingers down his bare chest to his waistband, kissing his shoulder as he sucks in a breath.  “Just be with me.  Let me love you.” 

“Always,” he says, dropping his head back as you touch him.  He cups the nape of your neck, squeezing lightly as you flick your wrist and stroke. 

You reach the cabin the next day.  It is late afternoon when you find the right place, passing a few other cabins before you find a quaint but charming one in the midst of a meadow.   The cabin itself does not flaunt much excess, but the meadow is flooded with flowers, a carpet of colour in the late afternoon light that makes it look like a something out of a fairy tale. 

The only problem is the smoke in the chimney.  The cabin is clearly occupied. 

“Is this the right place?”  Felix asks.  He and Jisung were admiring the meadow while you stared at the cabin, heart palpitating when you realized it was not empty. 

“It is,” you say. 

“Maybe it’s Hyunjin,” Jisung says. 

“It’s not.”  You close your eyes.  Hyunjin did not say anything about selling the property when you brought it up.  But, then again, there was a lot happening in that final exchange.  You made him promise he would try to get away if he could, but it might have been an empty platitude.  He knew he was going to die.  He knew you would never find out anyway. 

The distractions of the past week flutter into nothingness as you reckon with the grim reality of the world your father left behind.  You hang your head, swallowing hard. 

Jisung and Felix stare at you, their faces falling when they realize what you mean. 

“How?” Jisung asks. 

“My father chased him down,” you say.  “He used him.  He discarded him.  It’s what he does.” 

“What he did,” Jisung reminds you.  “And maybe Hyunjin got away.  We did!  That stupid hot weasel was a bitch but he was resourceful as fuck.” 

“Jisuuung,” you say, smacking his arm.

“What? I’m not speaking ill of the dead because he’s not dead,” Jisung argues.  “And if he was, he wouldn’t want me to suddenly be all fake and nice to him.   I annoy him.  That’s how I show my love.”  He kisses two fingers and waves it at the sky, then flips his middle finger too.  You laugh in spite of yourself, shaking your head.

Felix steps behind you and takes your hand.  He kisses your cheek. A breeze blows through his hair, his hat in his other hand. The three of you stand in the meadow for a time, looking at the flowers as you contemplate what to do next. 

The front door of the cabin opens.  You all turn.   An apology sits on your tongue, sorry for trespassing on someone else’s property.  The sight of you is no doubt disconcerting. Despite showers and meticulous first aid, you all look very rough, three obviously tired and run down people, a little dusty from the road and streaked with dirt from your hike to the cabin. 

You look at the person as they stand on the front stoop.  Your brow furrows and the apology disintegrates on your tongue, a bemused question poised to take it’s place.

“Minho?” is all you manage. 

You have not seen your first teenage crush in many, many years.  He looks older but not too different overall.  He is still very striking, even in his homey flannel and jeans, standing on the cabin stoop and looking at you with equal confusion. 

“Do I know you?” he asks, which makes sense.  You might have had a crush on him, but so did half the school.  He was a popular guy.  He knew Hyunjin but he only met you briefly. 

You want to tell him that.  You want to say you are friends with Hyunjin but you find it hard to say his name, especially with Minho gazing at you so innocently.  Why is he at the cabin?  Was he still friends with Hyunjin?  He likely does not know he is dead. 

You are spared your turmoil when Felix tugs on your arm, a sharp bid for attention.  You look at him, bemused, and he nods his head forward.  You look past Minho to the open cabin door as another figure steps into view. 

All that twisted pain unspools in your chest.  You nearly start sobbing in relief.

“Hyunjin!”  You ignore the surprised look on Minho’s face and run right past him.

Hyunjin is standing in the doorway, looking wary until he recognizes you.  Then his face breaks into a smile and those long limbs jump the porch steps.  You trample a few flowers that have grown over the path, meeting in an embrace amidst sprigs of lavender and vibrant hyacinths.   It is a very messy embrace, you and Hyunjin both forgetting you are injured.  You crash together only to yelp, your shoulder smarting and his bruised chest just as tender.  You laugh at each other then hug gently.  When your cheek touches his chest, your eyes water. 

“Am I dead after all?” you ask thoughtlessly, the beauty of the terrain and the embrace of your friend momentarily making you think so.    

Hyunjin laughs and shakes his head.  “I thought you were,” he says.  “It was all over the news.  I thought for sure—”

“I thought for sure you—”  You overlap with him, both of you laughing again.  “How did you get away?” 

“Nothing special,” Hyunjin says.  “I was being watched but they were waiting for final orders from your father.  Then word got out that he was dead so they just left.  I don’t know if they went to investigate or just abandoned post.  I didn’t stick around to find out. I packed my things and disappeared the first chance I got.” 

“We made a few stops on the journey over,” you say.  “I’m not surprised you beat us.” 

“I really thought you were—”  Hyunjin shakes his head.  “And that it was my—”

“It wouldn’t have been your fault anyway,” you say. 

“That’s what I told him,” Minho interrupts, his tone quippy but his lips quirked up in a smile.  He wiggles his fingers in a wave when you look at him.  “So you’re the friend,” he says.  “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m the friend’s friend,” Jisung says, skipping into the scene and waving at Hyunjin.  “Hey, man.  Missed me?” 

He is being playful but Hyunjin pulls him into a hug, very obviously surprising Jisung who almost falls right over.  Poor Jisung’s face goes red as a rose.  You remember his video about having a crush on his high school rival and can’t help but giggle into your palms. 

Felix puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling cordially at Minho.  “Hi,” he says. 

“This is Felix, my—”  You look at each other.  You lips move as you look for the right word.  Bodyguard is not strictly true anymore.  Boyfriend and partner sound so very mundane, but you realize that is what you are now.  “Boyfriend,” you say, feeling hot with embarrassment for no good reason.  You suspect the little things will have you flustered for some time. 

“Boyfriend,” Felix repeats, looking quite delighted for a second.  You are certain only you see the flicker of sadness that follows.  He blinks, his gaze faraway, but he covers it with another smile quickly enough.  “Nice to meet you,” he says. 

“I guess I’ll have to make a bigger dinner,” Minho says, playfully dry like the idea is a hardship, but smiling a knowing smile at Hyunjin, clearly very happy for him.  “Come on then.  Get inside already.  You’re crushing the tulips.” 

The cabin is one floor with a loft.  The main bedroom, kitchen and facilities are downstairs, some extra makeshift bedding thrown together in the small sitting area by the fireplace.  The upstairs loft is a small second bedroom, sparsely furnished with a mattress and blankets and little else.  The ceilings are low but the space is blessedly private.  You think it is some of the finest accommodations you have ever stayed in.   

You throw yourself on the mattress, curling up with a pillow and blanket.  Felix smiles and leans down to kiss the top of your head.  When he pulls away, you take his hand, regarding him imploringly. 

“Just gonna take a shower,” he says.  “Wanna clean up, yeah.”

You nod.  Even though you can see he is struggling with something, you let him go.  If he is not in the mood to talk, you will wait.  A shower will help him feel better.

He takes his bag and climbs back down the ladder.  You mean to wait for his return, but you feel such calm at finally reaching your destination.  The laughing voices of your friends float up to the loft, putting you even more at ease.  You release a breath and lay your head on a pillow.  The next thing you know, you are blinking awake.  The sky is a purpling pink, the day drawing to a close.  You can smell something cooking downstairs.  Your friends are still yammering away.  Hyunjin’s relentless giggles at Jisung’s goofy jokes makes you smile. 

You climb down the ladder and wander into the main room.  Felix was not upstairs but he is not with the others either.  He must have finished his shower a long time ago now. 

“Where’s Felix?” you ask, an edge of panic in your voice. 

“He’s just outside,” Minho says from behind the kitchen counter.  “He said he just wanted some air.”

“Oh,” you say, feeling a little foolish for panicking without reason.  “Right. Thank you.”

“Don’t worry,” Minho says, winking to comfort you.  You smile but nonetheless wrap your cardigan tighter around you, feeling a little embarrassed. 

Felix has been glued to your side for ten years.  Your instinct now panics in his absence, but you realize his absence is a good thing.  He does not need to be beside you at all times.  He is free to wander if that is what he wants.  You are glad he stepped outside for some air, rather than sitting over you. 

You step onto the small porch and look across the meadow.  You can see a shape sitting among the flowers at the edge of the field, looking down the slope to the park valley below.  You cross the flowers, minding where you step.  The breeze parts your cardigan and you tug it closed.  It is a somewhat clumsy walk overall.  Your last few steps are a proper stumble over a rock.  You miss it completely, distracted with what you find. 

Felix sits with his back to you.  You thought he was wearing a hat, but now you can see it is his hair.  He dyed it a shock of pitch black and trimmed the edges.  It is a messy, jagged cut that you will certainly have to fix later.  You suspect he did not spend much time looking in the mirror. 

“What’s this?” you ask.  “Is this why you wanted to stop at that drug store?”

Felix looks up at you.  The dark hair somehow makes his freckles stand out more.  He looks different but still very handsome.  You think you might be falling in love all over again, a little flushed inside as you sit beside him on the grass. 

“Yeah,” he says.  He runs his fingers through his hair, glancing up at the dark locks from beneath his lashes.  He sighs.  “And I don’t know why.  I just…” 

You put your arm around him, drawing him close to rest his head on your good shoulder.  He falls against you, breathing out again.  His shoulders droop, losing some of the tension that has plagued him. 

“I don’t know what to do now,” he says.  “I know this is all good, but I feel like I’ve done something wrong.  Like I’m not supposed to be here.  And I keep thinking about Chris.  How I—”  He rubs his face, then chokes tears.  “What am I supposed to do with all this life, especially when I couldn’t give him back his?” 

He cries properly now and you let him.  There is no right thing to say, not that you can think of, so you just hold him until he has expended the worst of his pain through his tears.  He takes a few shaking breaths before he sits upright, wiping his face.  You rub a circle on his back. 

“And you,” he whispers.  “It’s like, I feel everything all at once.  You call me your boyfriend and I’m happy, then I see you hugging Hyunjin and I think—he knows how to be a person.  I don’t know how to be anything.”

“Felix, you know Hyunjin is gay, right?” you ask.  You guarded that secret before but seeing as Minho is here at the cabin, you suspect Hyunjin is not keeping it secret anymore. 

Felix stutters on a shaking breath, looking momentarily confused. 

“Huh?  He is?” he asks, then gets a little weepy again, saying, “That’s nice for him.”

“Oh, baby,” you say.  You kiss his cheek and snuggle close to him, resting your head on his shoulder.  “I don’t know what to say.  I’m a mess too.  I don’t know how to do any of this right.  But I’m pretty sure grieving your friend makes you more of a person, not less.”  You look at each other.  You touch his cheek and stroke a thumb over his freckles.�� You think you have them mapped by memory, every last dot.  “You’re not alone,” you say.  “I want to be with you when things are bad, not just when they’re good.  And you and me, we’ve known a lot of bad.” 

He laughs, his breath dancing over your lips with your proximity.  You smile fondly. 

“I think it’s time we feel some good,” you say.  “We’ll figure out what that means eventually.  Together.” 

He draws you close and kisses you, a sweet kiss that deepens.  You cuddle when the breeze blows a little harder, the evening chill creeping into the sunset.  Still, you do not move, sharing heat between you and sitting among the flowers until the pink has left the sky and a blue evening blurs into the purple wash. 

Minho sticks his head out the door to call you in for dinner.  You stand first and offer your hand.  Felix takes it, then kisses you one more time.  You walk back to the cabin, hand in hand.

Warmth wraps around you like a fuzzy blanket when you step inside from the cold.  Hyunjin and Jisung are playfully arguing at the table, Minho standing over them and yammering some nonsense back.  You and Felix smile at each other before joining them all at the table.  After he has served the portions, Minho sits as well. 

There is a moment of silence, everyone looking around the table at everyone else.  They all looked flushed with warmth and life, Hyunjin smiling and Jisung beaming at you.  Felix puts his hand on your knee under the table, squeezing softly.  You look at him with another smile, then a laugh, a sound of disbelief that resonates with everyone.  You are here, impossibly but truly.  You have no idea what happens now.   

“I’ll break the ice,” Jisung says.  “Because I have a confession, while we’re all here, and Hyunjin has his hot boyfriend cooking us a meal.  Hyunjin, my man, I’m sorry for being the dick of all dicks when we were in high school.”  Jisung lays a hand on his heart and dramatically makes his confession.  Hyunjin’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline as your goofy friend continues, “Turns out having an arch nemesis is super gay.  And I was a stupid repressed bisexual who thought furiously staring at you for seven hours a day was a totally normal thing to do.  Sorry, man.  Congrats on the hot boyfriend, though.” 

“I’m not his boyfriend,” Minho says.  His elbow is on the table, chin in his hand.  He is grinning at Jisung. 

“Come again?” Jisung says. 

“Not his boyfriend,” Minho says, laughing.  “I’m his friend.  He was in trouble and asked for my help.  I’m a good friend so here I am, helping him get settled.  I’m actually married.”  He holds up his hand, proudly displaying a wedding band.  He giggles some more.  “He’s single, though.”  He gestures to Hyunjin. 

Jisung looks at Hyunjin who has gone very pink in the face.  He glances at Jisung and laughs, covering his mouth to try and contain it. 

“Oh.  Oh.  Oh.  Yeah.  Cool.”  Jisung scratches the back of his neck, then his brow, then his chin.  He taps the table and nods his head rapidly.  “Awesome,” he says.  “Well, I’m really glad we clarified that before I made a really ridiculous confession in front of everyone.  That would have been super embarrassing for me.”

You all laugh, genuinely as Jisung soaks it in with a silly little grin.  The sound of your collective delight fills the cabin before chatter begins again and you start eating. 

You glance around the table while taking a bite.  Your shoulder aches, and Felix’s bruises are still healing, and you will not be surprised if a nightmare jolts one of you out of sleep tonight.  But you will wake beside Felix, you will comfort each other, and you will fall back asleep.  You will wake up tomorrow and try it all again. 

You know the times ahead will not always be easy.   You are ready to make mistakes and try.

It is not a perfect ending, but it is a perfect beginning.   

[megamindsupremacy]

So. ive been going through your billy batson tag bc im very normal and super hinged about this kid and you ARE right about Billy growing up the normal way and how that would effect him, but I need us all to consider the opposite: The Magic went "Ah, he's pure of heart bc he is but a lad", and not *letting* him grow up. Billy being immortal but stuck as a kid forever. The realization everyone is going to grow up w/o him. That he is *always* going to be a kid. That could be a very bad time too.

OH MY HEART. you're so right and i'm kissing you on the mouth. okay i need to marinate in this now stand by

so I think it's fairly accepted now that the Wizard chose Billy to be Shazam when he was so young because all of the previous Champions were adults, and that went Badly (see: Black Adam). So obviously, if the adults can do the whole superhero thing, then we should give the role to a kid. But then, to take it a step further: if the adults can't do the superhero thing, then we should make the next Champion stay a kid.

And like, it takes a hot minute for Billy to notice. Say he became CM at 8 - he doesn't know the average rate of growth for a boy. He just thinks he's not getting as tall as quickly as his peers. It's not like there's adult supervision around to go "hello small small child, why are you still small and a child?" I could see him going at least a few years before realizing there might be something wrong. Then it takes him a little bit to figure out what exactly is wrong, and then a little longer to be in denial, before he finally has to come to terms with, yeah, he really is 8 years old for the rest of forever.

I wonder how it affects him, mentally? Because you could go one of two ways: either he stays mentally an 8 year old forever and doesn't mature, although he gains knowledge and experience with time, or he does mentally mature and becomes an adult, just stuck in the body of a child.

For angst reasons, I like the second one, but realistically, the whole reason he's in this mess is because the Wizard wanted someone who was pure of heart to stay pure of heart. Why go through all the trouble to not let him physically age but allow his mind to change? So now we have an eternally "both mentally and physically a child" situation.

I feel like, when you're that young, you can't really... process how devastating that is? He's only a little kid - at that age, you can't even imagine turning 18 yet, much less living out the rest of your life as an adult. He doesn't know what he's lost. So instead of Billy angst, it's outsider POV angst. Everyone is growing old and watching Billy stay the same as always. I imagine he reveals his identity at some point, a while into being Captain Marvel, and they have a Twilight moment of "I'm 8" "....how long have you been 8?" ("no, but actually, we've known you for 12 years, you can't actually be 8. what do you mean 'a wizard did it'."). Everyone is just quietly mourning the person Billy could have become, had he not been chosen to be the Champion of Magic, meanwhile Billy is living out the eternal childhood dream of Superpowers + Adult Body w/o Adult Responsibilities. It's tragic in a way Billy can never comprehend because of what the wizard did to him.

Feel free to add onto this post!

[itsabouttimex2]

Hi there did they ever just consider putting a backpack leash on y/n in the Demon Child AU JTTW gang? Also did y/n ever kid kidnapped and held for ransom by many demons to try to get the monk by saying we'll let her go in Exchange for him( I also know he had alot of demon um demon suiters that instead of wanting to eat him apparently wanted marriage dam the monk got accidentally rizz)

Taken Aboard: Restraints

It’s not impossible that the gang would decide to to utilize some form of restraint after enough troublemaking by Y/N- in place of a leash, though, I imagine that Tang Sanzang would actually use a length of fabric to swaddle Y/N.

The event that caused him to decide you needed such extreme supervision?

(He was not happy.)

“Little demon,” he calls, looking down at you expectantly. “Hurry along now- you know what is expected of you before we enter a town.”

“…Master, this is embarrassing.”

“Please hurry, little one. We’ve so much to do, and I would like to get on with it right away.”

And after a little bit of huffing and puffing, you do as requested- and use the 72 Transformation to assume the form of a helpless babe, your mass-displaced form falling snug into his arms.

The Great Monk wraps you in a length of silk that he affixes around his torso and shoulders, leaving your now squishy body squashed against his soft chest.

Not only does this (frankly humiliating) transformation allow Sanzang to sneak you about without scaring any villagers, it also prevents you from running off to cause trouble.

Jokes on him, though- every last bachelorette from the village has one response to a very pretty man bundling around a cute baby:

As for getting kidnapped… yeah, the Journeyfam isn’t putting up with that shit. Not when their master gets snatched up every other day and nearly sautéed and stewed. I mean, operating on the thought that Y/N is very explicitly a demon- horns, fangs, tail, etc- the child has at least some means of self-defense.

If they do get snatched, I can’t imagine there’s a situation where Y/N doesn’t at least leave their assailant battered and scarred, which doesn’t help the demon when three angry demons and a furious dragon break down the door. And Tang Sanzang; to his credit, makes a fair effort to soothe his disciples and quell their fury… but it’s going to be much too late for anyone who decided to lay their hands on the honorary little sibling of all these furious souls.

Outside of kidnapping? I’d like to imagine that Y/N, as a child (potentially female, depending on you or your OC’s gender) in Medieval China, might be eyed up by more… unsavory individuals.

“How much?”

Sanzang turns to find the source of a casual voice, looking at a sweat-stained farmer leaning over a fresh chicken corpse. The laborer takes a moment to wipe his bloody hands, then folds his thick arms.

“How much for the kid? Seems strong, and has some muscle. I could use another pair of hands on the farm.”

And Sanzang is so genuinely appalled at the simple manner in which genuine slavery is being spoken of here, as though you are a commodity and not a thinking, breathing thing all your own. He offers no retort or reprimand, instead choosing to take you by the hand and hurry off into the crowd- not that Wukong won’t have a few “words” to share with the would-be purchaser.

But that’s not even the worst possible scenario for the gang to face-

No, the worst is proposed child marriage.

All it takes is one rich man/woman to decide that they want an “exotic” spouse, and that the little demon child with a pair of magical restraints is their “safest” way to get it.

I don’t even think Sanzang would have time to comprehend what his disciples were doing before it was over- he’s too busy reeling over being offered literal bricks of gold in return for an actual child.

And obviously his answer is a hundred firm “nos” and a dozen chants of “go to your nearest monastery and pray!”, each one delivered with increasing fervor…

Or, it would be- if his disciples hadn’t solved the matter themselves before he had regained the use of his tongue.

[kandlewick]

i'll dry the villain's tears

t h e r o s e r e d t y r a n t ' s m o t h e r

you get reincarnated into a role that became the breaking point of the villain's story and you, be it an unwillingness to cause them harm or a desire to survive, must work hard to make sure they grow into a better (or at least safer) person.

You had died.

at least, you think you did.

It was hard to remember much.

Blinding lights, fading screams, it all felt so fuzzy and distant that you could hardly even remember your old face. The new one staring back at you was strange and foreign and perfect; it was almost like you were staring into the eyes of a doll. You pressed a well manicured nail to your cheek, feeling the soft skin give underneath your touch. So this is what she looked like. Bright red hair and piercing silver eyes, Riddle's mother made for an intimidating figure. You could only imagine how wicked she would look when angry despite her pretty looks.

You let out a soft sigh, leaned back against your chair, and attempted a smile at your reflection. The muscles around your cheeks creaked in protest at the attempt and gave you little more then a grimace.

"Not one for smiling, are you Mrs. Rosehearts?"

Well, whatever sickness that had overtaken the former Mrs. Rosehearts seemed to have passed and you no longer needed constant supervision from whoever Riddle had called for. Speaking of, where was Mr. Rosehearts? Surely her husband must've been worried sick once he had heard his wife had collapsed.

After a few moments of pondering, idly rummaging through drawers and inspecting every nook and cranny of what you assumed to be your new bedroom, you quickly discovered there was only a wardrobe for one. How strange. As you continued digging through your new and incredibly modest clothes, your hunt for clues was quickly interrupted by a sharp knock at your door. You dropped everything and let out a quiet shriek, feeling what felt like your heart quickly jumping in to your throat at the surprised new guest. Imwardly, you had to remind yourself that you were in fact, not snooping! This was your stuff now and could look through it all you liked. Quickly patting down your clothes and pinning back your frazzled hair, you attempted to compose yourself and cleared your throat, quietly acknowledging their presence.

"Uhm - yes! You may come in."

Whoever stood out your door seemed almost hesitant, waiting at the door long enough for the silence to slowly grow awkward, before the door let out a small click and they entered.

It was Riddle.

"I finished my lesson for the afternoon." Riddle spoke quietly, eyes never leaving the space behind your head, as if too nervous to even look at you, "If you would allow me, I'd like to take a small break to rest my eyes."

Here it was! Your moment! You had dreamed of this since the beginning and you could finally, finally make a difference and fix the broken relationship between him and his mother!! You eagerly turned towards him, feeling your skirt pick up in your excitement and ducked down, balancing your weight on the balls of your feet and lowering yourself down to his level.

"Actually, Riddle, how would you like it if we took a break together. I made us some tea!" You smiled, eyes crinkling in delight, "And then after that we-"

"No, thank you."

Eh.

What a quick response!!!!

Blinking past the surprise, you were startled to notice that Riddle had taken a few steps back, his eyebrows knitted together in what almost looked like confusion. You could feel the apprehension and barely disguised fear roll off of him in waves as he opened his mouth to continue.

"It's not time for a tea and I'd much rather get back to my studies as soon as possible.."

Yes, you supposed it was rather late in the evening for a tea time but it couldn't be that bad to take a small break to unwind after a tiring afternoon, surely! Bu then again, you realized, Riddle's mother always enforced a strict schedule. There was no time for snack breaks or play time, everything was chosen for him down to the very last millisecond of his day. Breaking this trend would not be an easy task. Mrs. Rosehearts made sure of that.

"Ah, you're right! Silly me..." You took this moment to reach out, intending to push back a stray hair from Riddle's face but he flinched. It was hardly noticeable and honestly, if you weren't down at his level and painfully aware of every twitch and fidget, you wouldn't have noticed but still, you felt your heart break a little more.

"Yes... It must be the fever." You sighed out, lowering your hand before slowly putting it back in your lap, "I must still feel tired after being in bed the past few days. Being stuck in my room must've made me a little mad."

Riddle made no effort to respond, only slowing raising his head. When his silver eyes met yours, you smiled and kept his gaze, "Would you do me a favor then, Riddle? I'm feeling terribly lonely and would like the company... however," You had to give him the option, "if you'd rather end your studying for the day and choose yourself what you'd like to do until your bedtime, you're more then welcome to."

As much as you wanted to quickly mend the relationship between the two of you, you knew you could not rush it. Years of abuse and tyranny do not go away with a single good deed and the more you tried to force it, the more you guessed he would push away.

Riddle paused and searched your eyes, looking for any signs of this being a test. He seemed almost hesitant to even ponder the choices before him as if he had never made his own decision before - with his mother's blessing no less - and wasn't eager to start now.

"I won't be upset, Riddle. You c-"

"I would like to have tea with you, please."

You mentally fist bumped the air, tears of success running down your face. Progress! This was progress, right? Willingly getting him to break his rigid schedule was already a huge undertaking but getting him to choose to spend time with you? You could practically hear the angels singing in your head.

Getting him to slowly and comfortably break his schedule was one thing but his diet? That was a whole other trauma to fight and you didn't know where to start. Unlike Riddle's mother, you weren't a doctor. Your knowledge of what was healthy and what was not and how to balance calories was never something you were taught past the very basics. Smugly, you figured she wasn't any good at it either so really, it could only get better.

It started with little things, replacing what kinds of ingredients you used and portions and the like and you spent many a nights on Magicam, researching food trends and advice from dieticians and other mothers. Anonymously, of course.

If Riddle noticed the change in his diet, he made no attempt to question you about it, probably enjoying whatever you were doing enough not to bring it up. You were his mother after all and although the dinner table was still quiet between the two of you, it was a more comfortable silence as if you were both too worried to break it. Watching him eat was also a treat. You had always thought Riddle was a pretty child, but to see sparks of life flicker behind his trained expression was a victory you always cherished. Sometimes it was small things, like him kicking his feet or the shock of trying a new taste. It was precious, watching him slap his palm to his face as he jumped in his chair, eyes practically tearing up at the taste of pepper of all things.

And then, one day, you decided that perhaps it was time. A strawberry tart.

You paced in your bedroom for days, practically digging holes into the floor as you plotted your next big move. This moment was perhaps the most important of all the other events that had happened in Riddle's life and you knew it was going to be a real big hurdle to cross.

"Riddle?"

He perked up slightly from his desk at the sound of your voice and turned to look at you. His eyes were brighter now and they no longer had the same fear they once had. His gaze could almost be described as affectionate.

"Yes?"

"I'm going to be out for awhile. not for too long mind, but I have something very important I need to do. I'm sure you don't mind if I leave you to yourself for a short while?" You gave him a sheepish smile as you made your way to the front door, your hand already reaching for the handle. As much as you wanted to do this and get it over with, you could still feel the nerves biting at your ankles.

Riddle nodded his head, his red hair practically bouncing with the movement, before returning to his studies while you closed the front door behind you, breath heavy in your throat. Days of planning were all coming together. You could feel the sweat building up and running down your neck as you took a few simple breathes to calm your racing heart.

Some might consider it obsessive but you had carefully studied That particular bakery and it's foot traffic to ensure that nobody else would be in the store to witness what was about to happen for the past two weeks. In disguise, you had watched and written down the hours there was a slow lull in visitors from out in the streets, careful not to attract any sort of attention. It's not like you were planning anything nefarious! It's just that... the thought of anyone witnessing the verbal smack down you were about to receive was almost too much. But you had to do this. For Riddle, for yourself, and because you really, really, really wanted to try one of Clover Bakery's sweets.

It was time.

"Welcome in! Welcome to Clover Bakery! I'll be right with you in a moment!" A feminine voice sounded like it was in the back as the door to the bakery slowly chimed behind you, as if it was the death knell, signaling your demise. You trained your breath, in and out, and wiped your sweaty palms on the back of your skirt, willing yourself to calm down. You had to be strong! Trey and both his parents deserved a proper apology, even if technically you weren't the one who offended them. You had to fix this mess and you couldn't do it half assed!

"Sorry about that! We just finished the new batch of - oh."

Trey's mother was in front of you.

Trey's Mother was in front of you.

"I..." Your heart felt like it was going to give out. "I've come to apologize."

That obviously is not what she was expecting and judging by the widening of her eyes and the tightening of her posture, she didn't seem entirely willing to accept it but she stood there and didn't seem unwilling to hear you out so in your haste, you tripped over your words in eagerness to continue.

"Please," You lowered your head and gaze, nearly buckling under the stress, "at least hear me out. What I did - to you, your husband, your son, to Riddle - It was unacceptable."

You gulped and began the part you had rehearsed in front of your mirror. This part, while not necessarily the truth, would make the most sense.

"When I couldn't find Riddle in the room where I left him and the window opened, I panicked. I had always been very strict with Riddle and perhaps that's where I erred, where he thought that the only choice he had to enjoy an inch of freedom was to sneak out while I was unaware, So, when I couldn't not find him and found him with strangers, people I had never met before and knew very little of, I panicked."

"But what I ended up doing," Something wet fell from your eyes, "I hurt him. I hurt Riddle. I - I think that's what snapped me out of whatever idiotic beliefs I had. He wouldn't talk to me, he couldn't even meet my eyes-"

"I understand,"

Blinking past the tears, you looked up, watching as Trey's mother let out a long and weary sigh, "I may not forgive you for what you did yet, I can see you obviously mean what you're saying."

"You can?"

"Look at you. You're shaking like a leaf, you look nothing like the woman that came screaming in here for her son. Whatever happened between then and now obviously changed things."

You watched as she ducked behind the counter and wrapped something up in a small container and gestured for you to open your hands.

"Here," She closed your hands around it, "It's a strawberry tart. Those were Riddle's favorite right? I'm sure you can help mend whatever happened with something like this. It's on the house. Just... next time Riddle wants to play, let him. My son has been beside himself with worry ever since."

You held the tart close to your chest like she had just handed you the most precious thing you've ever owned and nodded your head, your once formerly primed and proper hair falling down your shoulders in wave from your excitement, "Thank you! Thank you so much... I will do whatever I can now. I won't make the same mistake again."

"Go on," You smiled, "Open it."

As soon as you returned home, you eagerly called for Riddle to join you at the family table, nearly tripping over your heels in your excitement as you carefully placed the boxed strawberry tart down. Riddle watched your expression carefully, eyeing the concealed treat from the corner of his eye. As much as he's enjoyed the past few months, this was a huge step forwards. It was almost as if he was scared that what he thought was going to happen wouldn't. What if this was an elaborate scheme? What if this was a big final test and he failed? What if-

"It's ok, Riddle," You reassured him with a low voice, pushing the small box closer to him as his eyes snapped to meet yours, "It's something really good, I promise." With a nervous look, he nodded.

You could hear his barely contained sniffles as he slowly began untying the ribbon, stopping periodically to wipe at his eyes with his sleeve, before the box opened and in the center was

the most beautiful strawberry tart he has ever seen.

His small sniffles soon erupted into wails, high pitched and heart wrenching as he sat there in his chair, his hands still in the air as his little body was wracked with tears. You couldn't hold back your own crying as you brought Riddle's small frame to your chest and hugged him tightly as he cried and cried and cried in your arm. His little fingernails dug crescents into your skin as he kept tugging you closer and closer, unwilling for there to be an space between you and him.

"My darling, Riddle," You sniffled back a tear as you dug your face into his red hair, feeling him hiccup and sob as you did the same, "I'm sorry you had to wait so long."

[vikkirosko]

Battle of dads!

Can I request Adam from hazbin hotel having a dad Battle (like the song between Alastor and Lucifer) with Alastor, Vox, Lucifer (separately) and a battle of mom between Lute and Vaggie ?

They fight over reader who is a little girl (9 years old) who's mother is more inclined to dark arts and her father to divine and religious powers.

The thing is, reader's parents are quite in a delicate situation each, and asked their contractor (the demon on the mother side and the angels to the father side) to protect and take care of their daughter. The only problem is that both sides have the same mission and will not let this child be with the opposite side.

Thanks!

Platonic headcanons Battle of parents

❌ Vaggie x child fem!Reader x Lute 🗡

Vaggie felt a little awkward when she had to interact with children, and when you were under her care, she realized that she did not fully know what to do. You were a nine-year-old living girl, but because of your mom, you lived in Hell, under the supervision of Vaggie. Your mother was connected to the dark forces and, being in danger, asked her to look after you. You weren't a problem child, but Hell wasn't the right place for kids. Vaggie understood that, but there was someone else who didn't want you to be in Hell

Lute wasn't thrilled that she had to take care of the baby, but she couldn't refuse your father's request to take care of you. She was going to take you to Heaven, but she didn't find you. She quickly found out where you were and was furious when she found out that you were under Vaggie's care. Lute wasn't going to leave it like that, so I decided to go and take you with me

Lute openly stated that she intended to take you away, to which Vaggie reacted aggressively. She knew what Lute was like and didn't want her ex-colleague to influence you and make you look like her. Lute wasn't going to stay with you among the sinners. She was sure she could take better care of you and give you a decent upbringing than anyone from Hell

They both had similar goals. They both wanted what was best for you, but they would never have been able to come to a consensus. There wasn't much you could do to influence them. All you had to do was watch Vaggie and Lute having arguments with each other

📻 Alastor x child fem!Reader x Adam ✨️

Adam was not the one who could be trusted with a child. However, he could not refuse the order that Sera had given him. That's why he went to take you to Heaven. Your father was somehow connected to Heaven, and your mother was connected to Hell. Sera didn't want you to get involved with demonic forces, so she instructed Adam to find you and take care of you. But, as it turned out, Adam was too late. Your mom managed to ask someone in Hell to take care of you. Adam intended to go to Hell to get you. It was a matter of principle

When he found you, he saw a nine-year-old girl who was being looked after by none other than Alastor. Radio demon was looking out for you, because you were his responsibility, and even when Adam showed up, saying that he would take you with him, Alastor wasn't going to let that happen

Adam would have been happy to put up a fight, but he couldn't do it ahead of time, and even more so he couldn't scare you. However, his rude words had already scared you and you were holding Alastor's hand tightly. Adam was aggressive towards Alastor, while Alastor was polite and did everything so that you wouldn't want to leave with Adam. He wasn't going to lose to him

Alastor and Adam openly confronted each other. They both had the goal of taking care of you and protecting you, but they had different methods. And it was all aimed at protecting you

🖥 Vox x child fem!Reader x Adam ✨️

Vox wasn't thrilled when you appeared in his life. You were a nine-year-old girl whose parents were connected to Heaven and Hell. It was your mom who asked Vox to help her and take care of you until she was sure that if you came back you would be safe. He looked out for you as much as he could, trying not to leave you with Valentino or Velvette, knowing that it could end badly. He even began to get used to you, but your peace was disturbed by the appearance of Adam

Your father, who had a connection with Heaven, asked Adam to take care of you. Adam was going to take you to Heaven, but he didn't find you. He found out that you were in Hell and went there to take you with him. He didn't care that Vox was one of the overlords, he just wanted to pick you up and go back to Heaven

If Adam had come earlier, Vox would have given you to him without hesitation, but now he realized that he couldn't do it. He has become attached to you and is already used to taking care of you. Vox was not going to give you to Adam, despite all his outrages and insults directed at the sinner

Both Vox and Adam had the same goal. They should have taken care of you instead of your parents. They understood that they would not be able to find a common language, so they intended to find out who you would stay with and you could not influence them in any way

🍎 Lucifer Morningstar x child fem!Reader x Adam ✨️

Lucifer wasn't sure if he would make a good father. He didn't spend much time with his daughter, and when your mother, connected to Hell, asked him to take care of you, her nine-year-old daughter, he became worried. He couldn't refuse her, so you ended up in his custody. Lucifer tried very hard to take good care of you. He was like a kind uncle to you, who gave you rubber ducklings and told you interesting stories

Your peaceful life was disrupted when Adam appeared to you. He came at the request of your father, who was connected with Heaven. Your father did not know that your mother had asked Lucifer for help, and now Adam intended to take you to Heaven, where, in his opinion, you would be better taken care of than in Hell

From the first seconds that Lucifer and Adam found themselves in the same room, they couldn't stop arguing with each other. Every time Adam said something rude, Lucifer stopped him, reminding him that you were a child and that you heard everything. They were fighting over you. Lucifer, who had become attached to you, did not want to give you to Adam, not believing that Adam would be able to take care of you, and Adam did not want to lose to Lucifer

They had a common goal, but they hadn't gotten along for years. Even you, their ward, couldn't improve their relationship. All you could do was watch Lucifer and Adam argue, trying to decide who would take care of you

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Let me know if you want more. Didn't get too much on Part 1 but I have ideas so...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your third week begins in the same place. Before the iron gate, the code unlocking the green maze within. You’re still just as impressed as your first day there. To you, it’s like a fantasy. Entirely unattainable but it’s right there. You can look, but you can’t touch… not beyond cleaning.

You linger outside, not thinking. You admire the tall tulips and the hedge trimmed to resemble some landmark you can’t quite place. You could see a place like this in an Austenian film or perhaps something Victorian. You don’t have an eye for the difference.

You key in the code for the backdoor and continue on. You put covers on your shoes and grab a fresh set of gloves. You’re getting into a pattern, though each client differs slightly. You put your things away and bring your water bottle with you. You bought a cool strap that keeps it against your hip, a small splurge with your first paycheck. The rest went to bills.

As you start on your usual journey through the many rooms of the airy house, you wonder how its sole resident isn’t lonely. Or perhaps he is. He doesn’t seem the type to admit to it. You turn your thoughts back to your work. You try not to think of him, truly, you don’t know much of him.

You take a candlestick and polish it. You move on the small globe; an ivory orb on a silver axes, the outlines of the continent carved into the surface. As you put it back, you notice something. An item you can’t recall being there before. You reach for it but stop as you realise it’s a camera.

You retract your hand and move on to dust the shelf itself. Does he not trust you or was it there before? Of course, somewhere like this would need security. There was a story just the other day about a break-in, but that was closer to your father’s where those culprits dwell.

The second floor is always easier. It seems even less lived-in than below. All but the study and the main bedroom. You flit in and out, checking points off the list until you’re content. You can only hope he will be too.

As you descend, the epiphany tickles your brain. It’s the first shift he hasn’t appeared. It’s easy to assume he’s busy. You don’t expect him to hang around. As if he would supervise you. Besides, that’s probably what the cameras are for.

You pack up and get your single refill of water. You leave the way you came, as you have twice before. The keypad flashes red to signal the lock is in place. You haul your kit higher on your shoulder and tread slowly along the little path along the side of the house.

You look at the gazebo trimmed in hanging ivy. It’s beautiful. You’d like to venture up and sit on that bench. Just sit and watch and smell and feel. You force the thought away and turn back along the stonework.

You’re going home. Not to pollen but tobacco smoke. Not to lush gardens but wilting strands in soggy mud. Not to immaculate floors and pristine decor but to stained walls and broken springs in your mattress. 

Home, to another man that makes you nervous.

🧹

Your father is as he always is, smoking on the couch. You say hi as you come in with a bag of groceries, the prize for what was left of your check. He grumbles and flicks through the channels. You go to the kitchen to put away the food.

You’re almost at the end of your first month, a third of the way through your probationary period. Hopefully after that, you can pick up more clients. You shut the cupboard and go back to the living room. Your father coughs into a crumpled tissue. He sounds horrible. You can’t say so, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I got some fresh produce,” you announce proudly, “I’ll steam some veggies with the chops.”

“You get fries?” He growls.

“Uh, no,” you admit, “I thought we could eat something healthier–”

“I don’t like steamed veggies,” he drops the remote and grabs his pack of smokes.

“Oh, sorry, I was only thinking–”

“Don’t lie and say you were,” he snorts as he pulls out a cigarette and taps the end of the pack. “Go on, I’m tryna watch this.”

He nods at the television and you follow his gaze to the rerun of All in the Family. He’s seen them all before. You take the dismissal and retreat up to your room. Like you always do.

It’s always been like this. You don’t hate your father but sometimes it feels like he hates you. You put your kit and your water bottle on your dress and change into clean clothes. You lay in bed and close your eyes, trying to let go of the tension in your muscles.

You don’t remember your mom but he does. You assume that’s why he’s like this. It’s not you, it’s what happened. Tragic. A loss he won’t talk about.

You rub your forehead and let your arms fall to bend on either side of your head. You only ever saw one picture of your mother. You don’t think you look like her. She was pretty. And young. You were always too afraid to ask about her but you could tell she was younger than him. No one could’ve expected her to go so soon.

You close your eyes. It’s a strange sort of grief to miss someone who is only a shadow in your mind. Not even a voice, just this ghost you know by name. Mommy…

You blow out a deep breath in an effort to bid away the sadness. That was so long ago. This is now and you have a lot to worry about.

🧹

The Laufeyson house greets you once more with its elaborate brickwork. It’s starting to feel familiar, like a habit to put in the new code and walk along the winding path around to the back door. Six more numbers and you’re inside; shoe covers, gloves, bottle, and the list.

You always check the new email sent by the agency. There’s always something small and new squeezed into the bullet points. This week, you notice the first task is laundry. 

‘Retrieve hamper from hallway. When hamper is left outside door, it means clothes must be washed.’

Easy enough. You go upstairs first and take the tall hamper from beside the door frame. It’s heavy and there’s no wheels to aid in your struggle. The laundry room is downstairs. Your descent is treacherous, one step at a time as you haul the basket down step by step. If Mr. Laufeyson is there, he can’t happy with the noise.

You finally get to the machine and follow the instructions about cycle type and separating colours from whites. However, there is only the bedding to be cleaned. You load the linens in and take a moment to figure out the touchscreen. Your father’s machine has a dial that only works on one setting and gives off a dingy stench.

You leave the basket in front of the washer and retreat to start your usual progression through the urban manse. Mop, sweep, dust, vacuum, polish; hallway, kitchen, dining room, sitting room… Nothing unusual or unexpected.

As you cross the narrow foyer to the den, the sunshine glows a warm orange through the slender windows on either side of the front door. The patterning of the glass reflects prettily on the floor. Despite your best efforts, you can’t help but imagine residing somewhere so brilliant.

You sigh and carry on. You’re sure to open the long drapes to let in the late spring sunshine. It’s not so bad working in the light and you can see where the rare spec of dust is hiding. You go to the tall shelf beside the record player and pull out the albums to wipe beneath them. Music would be jarring in a place always so silent.

You slip the albums back into place, pulling out one to admire the cover; Ane Brun. You’ve never heard of them. You read the track list curiously. You know you shouldn’t be wasting time.

“I don’t believe I’d have anything to your taste on my shelf,” the mocking slither has you pushing the album in line with the rest.

You almost apologise but you remember. You don’t speak. You just clean. So clean.

You glance over at Mr. Laufeyson as he struts in, a book held in one hand as his other is tucked in his pocket. He wears his usual pressed attire; a dark button-up and even darker slacks. You note that he has no tie that day. A single curl dangles by his temple as the rest of his black hair is precisely combed back.

You return to your tasks, gently wiping the cover of the record player and along the stand. You  hear the book drop onto the low table before the sofa before his footsteps continue on; closer. He approaches as you get to the next shelf, a collection of EPs in unmarked sleeves.

You wince as he stops near you, flipping up the cover of the sleek record player before stepping back to peruse his selection. You do your best to keep on as he looms. The air is thick and suffocating. Should you go to the next room and come back?

He slips a record free of its sleeve and places it carefully on the players. He moves the needle over and flips the switch, a crackle before the sound drones from the tall standing speakers. Acoustic guitar with a gritty feel to it. The sudden addition of a woman’s voice jolts you; her tone is peculiar but not unpleasant.

When I woke I took the backdoor to my mind And then I spoke I counted all of the good things you are

He backs away without a word. Not an explanation. You finish cleaning the second shelf and dare to glance over. He reads his book on the couch, unbothered by your existence. That isn’t too unfamiliar.

You finish the space but leave the vacuuming for later. You wouldn’t want to ruin the music. You go into what you can only call a sunroom. The french doors peek out onto the garden and a patio set with a large dining set in white iron and glass.

The music drifts in and keeps you company. It almost makes the work easier. You make quick work and go to check the washer to switch over the load. Once you have the dryer figured out, you begin on the second floor.

It’s only as you come out of one of the guestrooms that you notice the silence is returned. You turn down the hallway and near the next door. You enter the study with your usual reverence. Something about the space is intimidating. 

The large leather chair with its dimpled back and the even bigger desk; slabs of marble set into polished ebony. Shelves of a similar material, decked out with numerous volumes and the occasional ornament. Some appear even to be genuine artifacts. The rug at the centre is patterned in Persian style.

Behind the desk are a set of doors that open onto a balcony. The drapes are drawn shut. You find that is often the case. It’s a sombre and dark space hidden from the bright gardens without. Your tasks here are minimal. You use the hand vacuum and dust the shelves. You aren’t to touch the desk at all.

A shadow startles you as you drag the cloth along the edge of the bookshelf. Your eyes round and you look over as Mr. Laufeyson enters. You blanch but he doesn’t acknowledge you. He sighs and goes to the desk, sitting in the chair and wheeling it closer. You narrow your sights on the shelves; focus.

You feel a tremble but quickly shake it away. This is his home, he must be able to exist within it, but this feels strange, almost deliberate. Is he trying to make some point? To scare you? You remember the mention of those who came before you. Did they quit or did he dismiss them? Regardless, you can’t afford either.

It isn’t that difficult to follow the rules. Don’t speak? You haven’t much to say. You get closer as you advance along the shelves to the back of the office. He lets out another long exhale. His chair creaks, once, twice, and again.

“Hm,” he rolls back and swivels, an action you observe from the corner of your eye. He tuts and wheels back to the desk, resuming tapping on the keys of his slender laptop. The glow limns his silhouette sinisterly.

You rustle the drapes as you pass them and cross to the opposite shelves. As you brush over the spines of the books, you nearly drop the cloth. His low hum frightens you as he mimics the same melody that played from the speakers below. His tone is deep and sonorous, even delightful.

You squeeze the cloth and pause before regaining your composure. This cannot be a coincidence. The camera and now he’s following you. Or so it seems. Does he distrust you? What reason have you given him?

You are mindful to wipe down the bronze statue of what you assume is a viking warrior. You place it back staunchly, making sure your work is entirely visible to him. You are honest and you like to think you do your work well. Or at least, you try to. Perhaps if he sees that effort, he won’t be so suspicious.

As you head for the door, he quits his humming. His chair squeaks again.

“You are rather more thorough than the last,” he muses.

You stop and turn your head. You nod. He’s baiting you to break his number one rule.

“And you take orders well,” he adds blithely, “that is rare these days.” He taps a key again, “as you were.”

You take the dismissal in stride and flit off to your next task. It isn’t much, maybe only a statement of fact, but it’s something. He isn’t unhappy with your work. So far, neither are you.

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

heart-shaped pancakes

pairing: chris redfield x reader

cw: dd/lg, age gap, p in v, oral, alcohol, breeding kink, daddy kink

a/n: i'm sorry i couldn't do sweet sex like i did w leon (chris does something to me). anyway, i imagine this as re8 chris, but also maybe a lil bit of di/vendetta chris.

wc: 4.1k

Chris shouldn’t be as surprised as he is when you broach the subject to him. He’s pushing 50 and you’re barely 21. Daddy issues. Neither of you grew up with present fathers, and maybe that’s what makes you the perfect match. He can be the man his father never was, he can be the man your father never was, Chris can be your daddy. 

You’re tipsy off Ciroc and lemonade - you can order top-shelf liquor since you drink on Chris’dime. Chris tries not to drink too much because he has to supervise you. He practically carries you out of the bar when he decides you’ve had enough. You can pout and cross your arms at him all you want, but he won’t budge. He struggles not to laugh at you because you look silly when you’re being stubborn. Other patrons probably already think he’s your father. 

When you get into the car, he buckles you in while you babble all your complaints. “You’re so strict. I was just having fun.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” he says, hand on the gearshift because he’s taking you home despite your protests. 

“Okay, dad.” You roll your eyes. Chris can hear it, even though his eyes are on the road. “Sorry, I mean, Daddy,” you say, half-laughing because you’re half-joking. Only half. You’re half entirely fucking serious. Chris almost crashes the car on the way out of the parking lot. 

“Think you’re funny, don’t you?” He’s amused, not aroused according to his brain wherein his better judgment lies. His brain’s not the only organ in his body responsible for his decision making. Blame all the bad decisions on his dick. 

“No, I think you like it,” You taunt. He can feel your eyes studying him. You’re oddly perceptive. It almost disturbs him sometimes. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” you say, all sing-songy - thank God it wasn’t karaoke night. “Daddy’s making me go home because I’m his baby girl, and baby girls can’t stay up past bedtime.”

It’s the voice that really gets him. All breathy and light. Sharp inhale, long exhale. Do not play her games. He needs it tattooed on him Memento-style.

“Don’t distract Daddy while he’s driving.” It shuts you up. Neither of you are sure how committed he is to playing the part. His voice is stern - and not quite in the ‘Daddy’s going to spank you’ way. He’s being serious. Either way, you’ve written the word ‘Daddy’ in every corner of his mind in bold Sharpie lettering. He can’t get away from it. 

Chris deposits the car keys on the counter and flops down onto the couch with a sigh. You stand there, waiting, looking lost in your own home. Chris raises his eyebrows at you and pats his lap. “Come here,” he says, looking smug now that he’s gained the upper hand. 

You scurry across the room and sit in his lap awkwardly like you’re taking a picture with Santa Claus and telling him what you want. 

“Do you think we need to have a talk about what you said back there in the car?”

You try to squirm away, but he has a firm grip on your hips. His voice in your ear is still mocking, but his lips are sweet from your cherry-flavored chapstick. From when? Memories blend together when you're lost in the smell of his cologne.

“I was just trying to provoke you.”

“Provoke me to do what?” Yeah, exactly. You’re caught, sweet cheeks. “Did you accidentally reveal a little secret about yourself?” His face is nuzzled into your neck now and he places a kiss to the nape. It’s so unfair, he already has you in his grasp, now all he needs is a confession. 

“And what if I did? Would you be mad at me?” You want so badly to be a tease - you already look the part, wearing a skirt that's dangerously short - but your shyness makes you sound defensive.

“Mad at you? For what?” Your pink cheeks melt his stoic facade so easily.

“I don’t know.” You look down at your hands, you’re fidgeting. “It’s weird, right? I mean, I feel weird that I wanna call you ‘Daddy’.”

“It’s a little weird-”

“See? I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

“-but it’s not weirder than anything else you do.”

“Huh?”

“You've got a bed filled with... those whatever you call ‘em… marshmallows?”

“Squishmallows,” you correct him. 

“Thank you. Your squishmallows hog the bed until you wanna have sex, and then they can’t be there because ‘you don’t want them to see anything inappropriate’.”

“Baby Yoda’s too young to see things like that.”

“Baby Yoda’s not real, honey.”

You frown. 

“I’m sorry. He’s real, you’re right,” he concedes when he hears a sniffle come from you. 

“You can apologize to him, not me.”

“Remind me when we go to bed, okay?”

You turn yourself sideways in his lap, so you can snuggle up to him. “So you wanna be my daddy?” You’re quick to adopt your role. He tries to think of a way to tell you he’s not sure, he’ll think about it, but his cock twitches and the decision is made. “I think I already am your daddy, baby girl.”

“Mm yeah,” you mumble and nod. With your head pressed into him like this, you’re rubbing your cheek against his chest like a cat does with its owner - affectionate and adorable, though you end up leaving glittery eyeshadow on his good shirt. “Can we go to sleep?” 

“Yep. It’s way past your bedtime.” A bedtime which has yet to be set. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, knowing he’s going to pick you up and carry you. 

When you’re drunk, Chris usually has to help you put your pajamas on. This isn’t anything new. It’s new when he has to help you into your clothes the next morning, when you’re sober. Tonight, your tank top and shorts are a soft cotton, covered in pink flowers. You fall asleep only after your face has been scrubbed of makeup - Daddy's orders.

You make a face when the damp towelette touches your skin. 

“I know you don’t like it, but you’re gonna be mad if you get makeup all over your pillowcase,” Chris reminds you. (You suck it up for the sake of the pillowcase.)

Before transporting you to bed, he pinches your freshly-washed cheeks. Your skin is soft and the apples of your cheeks are round when you smile.  “You’re so cute,” he says. The truest words he's ever spoken.

“Love you, Daddy,” you mumble as you fall asleep. It’s so sincere and delicate, it sounds adorable when you say it. He could get used to hearing it.  

It’s a good thing Chris is used to lack of sleep because you toss and turn, moving him around like he’s a ragdoll. You push him onto his back and splay yourself across him like a dead starfish, then you turn onto your side so you can hug one of your squishmallows that’s half the size of your body, and you grab Chris’ arm, pulling him with you, so he can be the big spoon. 

You’re a heavy sleeper until he tries to move. If he flips over, so do you. You’re stuck to him, like a sea urchin. He told you that once and you cried. “No, I didn’t mean it like that, baby. You’d be a cute little sea urchin,” he said. 

You wake up bright and early without a hangover. At Chris’ age, you always wake up feeling kind of hungover - achy body, foggy brain, a vague sense of regret. It’s Saturday, which means that Chris is supposed to be able to sleep in for a couple extra hours. His alarm goes off in the form of your mouth on his dick. 

He sits halfway up, balancing himself on his elbows and sees your head peeking out from under the covers. You lock eyes with him, and he squints like he’s trying to read small print. 

“Good morning, Daddy,” you chime. Oh yeah, guess that whole ‘Daddy’ thing wasn’t a dream. 

“Daddy’s trying to sleep,” he says in between yawns. 

“I wanna play,” you say. Your pink lips are dripping with your own drool which you haven’t bothered to wipe off. Does Daddy have to buy you a bib? 

“Have at it,” he says and pats your cheek, giving you the tiniest smile before lying back down. 

For a little girl, you really know how to suck cock, he thinks. You take him as far as you can down your throat. You almost choke. Chris’ eyes open again to see tears in your waterline. 

“C’mere” he says, hoisting you up, so that you’re lying on his chest. He wipes the tears from your eyes before they can fall. 

“Was it not good enough?” His heart breaks hearing your faltering tone. 

“No, no, you were doing so well, baby, but you’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep doing it like that.”

Daddy knows best. He never wants to impose rules on you, he can’t be strict with you. He doesn’t control your screen time or force you to eat dinner before dessert. Despite your feisty attitude and tendency to be naughty, you’re a good girl. Though, maybe he does need to limit your daily intake of dick since you continue to push the limits of your windpipe. 

“Kisses?” You look like you’re going to cry if he denies you - not that he would ever do such a thing. 

“Always,” he says before giving you a soft kiss on the lips. It doesn’t take long for an innocent kiss to turn into a full-blown make out session. 

The growl of your stomach interrupts the moment. 

“Are you hungry?”

“No,” you lie.

“It’s not nice to lie to Daddy.”

Too bad sucking cock is a reward not a punishment. You get a lot of rewards.

“Get up,” he says, giving you a light slap on the ass.

Your smile dares him to do it again. When he does, it only encourages your bad behavior.

He convinces you to get out of bed with the promise of pancakes. You sit at the kitchen counter, kicking your feet, waiting impatiently. 

“Can you make them into shapes, Daddy?”

“A circle is a shape, honey.”

“I want heart-shaped pancakes.”

He sighs, ignoring your complaints. “Syrup?”

“Yeah,” you say, a little bit disappointed at the fact that your pancakes will not have an extravagant presentation. Your frown is quick to disappear when your pancakes arrive. They’re on a frog-shaped plate. The two pockets at the top (the eyes of the frog) hold syrup and blueberries. 

“Can you cut them up?” You hold out your fork and knife. Oh, he forgot, babies can’t have knives. 

Chris walks over silently and does as you ask. He feels more like a butler than a Daddy. 

“Thank you. I love you, Daddy,” you say as he turns to walk away. 

It takes very little to make him smile - at least, when it comes to you. “Love you, too, cutie,” he says. He gives you a peck on the lips and an extra kiss on the forehead, for good luck.

Chris likes being your Daddy, and you catch on fast. 

Daddy. The word becomes a weapon. 

Chris tries not to let you see how much it affects him when you say it, especially in public. You got an earful for saying it within earshot of the cashier once. He already looks old enough to be your father, and he really doesn’t want anyone thinking that’s the case, especially when you’re so handsy - you’ve gotten in trouble for that too. You cannot grope Daddy in a crowded park in broad daylight. 

You’re in line at the pharmacy, getting the essentials: condoms, nicotine gum, and apparently, a giant bag of starbursts. 

“Mm-mm.” Chris shakes his head. 

You pout and thrust the bag at him. 

“I’ve already put on weight. I’m too old to eat all that candy.” It's not like anyone's forcing him to eat it, but he knows himself by now - he will eat the entire bag.

“But, Daddy, please,” you whine and look up at him with your big dewy eyes.

And that’s it. That’s all you have to say. The last time you said that you were begging to blow him. It’s all he can see now. The blood rushes downwards and he knows arguing with you is pointless. He snatches the bag from you and buys it without another word.

You reach for the plastic shopping bag so you can have a snack on the drive home, but Chris puts them out of your reach.

“Bad girls don’t get candy,” he says. 

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” Bullshit. 

“You’re lucky it’s day time because I’d park the car on the side of the road and tell you to prove to me how sorry you are.”

You perk up at that, it seems like you’d like getting on your knees in public. Better take back that threat. 

He lets you off the hook because you have him wrapped around your finger. He’s ‘Daddy’ in name only, you wear the pants in the relationship. 

The protector role he takes on as Daddy comes naturally. He’s lost almost everyone he’s ever loved. The fact that you like him watching over you and keeping you safe makes his life easier. It makes him less paranoid. Now he only has to worry about all of his other loved ones. He makes Claire text him once a day to let him know she’s alive. The one time she forgot - had a very fun night out with her own man - he almost had a heart attack. Jill negotiated her contract down to once a week minimum. 

You effortlessly play the part of baby girl. You were already cute, the only difference is you pretend to be innocent now - you’re awful at acting, but it makes you even cuter when you try. Your favorite activities are coloring, watching cartoons, and taking dick. You’re allowed to watch one episode of whatever show you want before bed on weeknights. Daddy is only strict about bedtime because Chris is exhausted. He nods off while you’re sitting in his lap unless you’re constantly chatting or trying to get in his pants. 

“Daddy, you’re not paying attention,” you say, tugging at his sleeve. 

“We’ve already seen this episode. I don’t need to pay attention.”

“You fell asleep last time. That’s why we’re watching it again.”

He tries desperately to keep his eyes open. The fact that you constantly “readjust your sitting position” and your ass - which peeks out of your pajama shorts - rubs against his dick. You have to keep him hard to keep him awake. 

But, Daddy needs a cat nap on the couch so he can prepare for what becomes the typical bedtime routine: a story. 

“Tell me a story.”

“About what?”

“You.”

“You already know everything about me.”

“Nuh-uh. What about a long time ago? Before I knew you.”

“When? I’ve been alive a long time.”

“When you were my age. What were you like?”

That was over 20 years ago. You were born 21 years ago. He feels ancient when he thinks about it like that. He sighs. “Do you want to hear about my time in S.T.A.R.S. or the Air Force?”

“Both of those sound kind of boring.”

“You asked for a story about me, not an interesting story.”

“What about any escapades? Tell me a story about a rendezvous from the olden days?” 

Whoa there, Baby Einstein, you’ve got quite the vocabulary for a little lady like yourself. Chris considers pulling up a dictionary on his phone and reading you that since you wanna be a smart girl it seems. Maybe he can recite the preamble to the Constitution, that’ll put you to sleep.

“The olden days?” He’s almost offended at your remark, “I’m not that old.” There’s a pause. “Fine. I’m old and I need a minute to come up with something.” Oh God, his memory might be going. Daddy’s early onset dementia is showing.

You wait patiently.

“When I was around your age,” Jesus Christ. He sounds like a father. “I had more than a few hook ups in the back of a cop car.”

“As a cop or a criminal?”

“A cop, dumbass.”

“Did you fuck criminals?”

“Not that I know of. I wasn’t one of those corrupt cops.”

“Yeah, you were! You were having sex on duty.”

“Yeah? I’ll remind you of that the next time you call me at work, begging me to come home and fuck you.”

“Fuck is a bad word.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“You said it first.”

“What do you want me to call it? Intercourse? Making love? ‘Getting it on’?”

“Practicing making a baby,” you suggest.

“Oh? Is that right? You wanna make a baby?”

Bedtime has been thrown out the window. Chris has you pinned - literally, caged in by his body. He forces you to meet his eyes.He doesn’t give you a chance to run from the implication. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. 

“What if we just pretend? For practice," you say.

“Sure, practice.” He’s all sardonic about it, but he’s dying to put his dick in you. “Swear you’ve been taking those pills?”

“Pinky swear. Girl Scouts honor.”

It’s rare that you’re able to break his composure, but he has to stifle a laugh. You’re quick to make the transition from being shy to impatient, squirming when you don’t get what you want. Chris moves his hands from your wrists to interlock his fingers with yours. 

“Can you be a good girl?” He asks.

“Yes, Daddy” you say, but your coy grin and shifty eyes betray you. Obedience is boring. You’ll push the envelope until you get fucked face down into the mattress. 

Chris scoffs and rolls his eyes - you’re a liar, and he’ll still fulfill every wish of yours. You moan into his mouth when he kisses you and lift your hips, trying to get any friction. Being greedy only gets you further from your goal. 

He takes off your top and leaves your shorts on. When you pout, he mimics your expression and starts sucking on your tits until the pouty lips are parted and your eyes are screwed shut - he teases you until he’s too hard to think straight. 

Maybe you don’t wear the pants in the relationship. At least, not for long. He yanks your shorts down like a warning for how rough he’s willing to be with you. And you love it. Daddy’s little girl can take dick like a champ. You don’t need practice ‘making a baby’. 

You’re wet. No, that’s an understatement - you’re soaked. It’s okay, though, because Chris planned on ruining your panties anyway. He’ll feel less guilty, knowing that you made a mess of them first. He pulls the fabric to the side and pumps two fingers in and out. You moan and he retracts them. 

“You’re so mean,” you whine. 

“You’ve been naughty for the past week, and I’m still rewarding you. I’m not mean.”

You scowl, and he leans in and whispers in your ear, “And, I know you like it.”

You can’t argue with that. 

You’re practically salivating watching him get undressed. The way he pulls his shirt over his head is one thing, but the sound of his belt buckle, the button pop, the zipper pulled down, you could get off on that alone. 

Chris’ underwear comes off and your fingers travel to the hem of yours in response. He gently takes your hands away. “Nope.”

At first, you think he’s going to tease you. Maybe he won’t even fuck you tonight. Maybe it’s a punishment disguised as a reward. No, you realize, he’s going to fuck you with your panties still on. He drags the tip of his dick along your folds and you moan pathetically. It’s cute, really. 

As wet as you are, it takes you a moment to adjust to the size of him. You grab hold of your flannel sheets - (your favorite ones, with snowmen on them despite the fact that winter is long gone) - bracing yourself for the stretch. “Being loose” is definitely a myth because you’re tight every time. Your lip quivers, but your pussy flutters.

You are being good. Until you get greedy. Daddy fucks you slow and deep, the way he likes. You’re needy, still young enough to want a quickie, especially when you’ve got multiple rounds in you. It’s easy when you’re not the one doing most of the work. 

“More, Daddy,” you whine. You get what you want - sort of, it’s always ‘more, more, more’ until it’s ‘too much, Daddy’. 

“Shh… thought you were gonna be a good girl for Daddy. You’re gonna get us in trouble again.”

“I promise I’ll be good.”

“I don’t believe you. Remember how loud you were last time?”

“I won’t do it again.”

“Oh really?”

You nod, pouting. 

He sighs. He can’t even punish you because you get off on that, too. 

“I’ll make a deal with you,” he says, halting his thrusts. You try to force him to keep going with your legs around his hips. “Ah-ah,” he chides you, “pay attention.”

Reluctantly, you do as he says. 

“If you can’t behave, I’ll pull out.” That's the only thing he can threaten you with.

You’ve forced his hand. “No…” you say meekly.

“Yes, and you know what,” he says, moving your legs so that you no longer have a grip on his hips, “I’m gonna give you more, but you’re gonna flip over for me.”

He pulls out and for once you obey, flipping yourself onto your stomach. You point to the pillow you want. He grabs it and slides it under your hips. He lifts your hips and slides his cock inside you. You feel the intense pressure of being stretched out and you whimper into the pillow. 

“Aw, baby can’t take it? Thought you wanted this?” Chris doesn’t slow the pace of his thrusts. 

You shake your head, and he swears he can hear a muffled “I can, I can”, but your voice gets lost in the sounds of skin slapping against skin. Regardless of your sobs, you don’t use your safe word. 

“What is it, baby?” He leans down and whispers into your ear with mock-sympathy, “Crying ‘cause you like when Daddy fucks you like this?”

“Uh-huh,” you moan as you clutch the pillow under your head. You’re getting wetter by the second, your walls clench as you struggle against the pleasure. “Daddy,” you cry, lifting your head a bit to make sure he can hear you. 

“Gonna cum? I know you can. Just let go, I’ve got you.” His tone is gentle, despite the frantic pace of his hips, pounding into yours. You’re holding back on purpose, waiting for a promise. 

“Daddy’s gonna put a baby in you. That’s what you wanna hear? ‘Cause it’s true. Gonna cum inside you, gonna get you pregnant.”

You gush around him. That sent you over the edge. His words were for your pleasure. Or so he thought. 

But you’re coming down from your high and he can’t help but tell you about how he needs to get you knocked up. His thrusts get erratic and his grip on your hips tightens. He cums deep inside of you. A reward for your good behavior. Yeah, sure.

Chris’ real reward comes the next morning when he impresses you with his culinary skills. 

Chris eventually learns how to shape your pancakes into hearts. He swears he can do more with a spatula now than with a gun. He deposits your plate - this one is shaped like a pig - in front of you, and you look at him like he’s performed a miracle. 

“Daddy,” you say, “you did it.”

You hop down and run to the bedroom. “Be right back,” you holler as you fly by him. 

You’re on a mission. You have amassed a large collection of stickers. You insist on decorating everything down to the knobs on the kitchen cabinets with glittery rainbows and Care Bears. When you return, you stick a gold star to Chris’ chest, patting it down to make sure it stays. 

“Good job, Daddy!”

It should feel stupid, maybe patronizing, but you’re strict about your stickers - where they go, who can have one, which ones can and can’t be touched. When he receives your approval in the form of a star-shaped sticker, it makes him melt. It also makes him a little bit hard. Or maybe it’s the way your lips redden as you eat strawberries and the way you wipe off excess juice that falls from your mouth and lick it from your fingertips. 

“What do you wanna do this morning?” He asks, leaning his elbow on the counter casually, pretending not to have an end goal. 

“I wanna play with Daddy,” you say with a smile. 

He's unsure what your angle is - until you wink and run towards the bedroom. It’s his turn for breakfast. Pussy is on the menu. 

[hearts4werka]

NNN day 4 | Snow-day Magic

summary: december has finally arrived, snow has fallen and your daughter has never been more excited for your annual snow day with your husband Matthew matching her energy and enthusiast to which you fit right into, being the mother of both people.

warnings: FLUFF, nothing! Just cutesy fluff with dad!matt and his cute daughter 😋

authors note: day 4 lets gooo, sorry if this was kinda rushed and if a little bad but I was just pretty busy today and had to kinda rush this while I have free time, my friend @/strnilolover also did a snow day for nnn with chris and yall should go check that out too, I hope y’all enjoy this one

no nut november | masterlist | guestlist

My daughter, Lucy hops up and down in excitement while I zip up her pink winter jacket and slip on her mitten's to keep her from catching a cold when playing in the snow, I chuckle at how much energy she has inside of her little body. "When can we go play in the snow, mommy?" She questions impatiently, already wanting to go play in the snow. "In just a minute, dear. We have to wait for daddy to get here." I answer softly, standing up just as Matthew comes around the corner. Immediately walking over to Lucy and spinning her around in the air as she giggles, Matt seeming just as excited as our daughter does. "Soo... who wants to go have a cool awesome snow day?" He asks playfully, tickling Lucy's stomach while she errupts in an immediate "me!" response, speaking each syllable between soft laughter.

The room is filled with laughter and excitement, I glance at Matt holding and playing with Lucy and admire the amount of how adorable the sigh is. Quietly I reach for my phone in my back pocket to take a photo of both of them, “Can you both pose for a second?” I say while raising the phone upwards and getting them in the picture, they both do a silly face and a sweet smile spreads on my lips. After we all put on our cozy shoes, me and Matt grab each one of Lucy’s hands and make sure she doesn’t slip on some of the more slippery parts do the ground.

Creating a snowman

I keep supervision over both of them as I watch from a slight distance as Matt helps Lucy create a snow ball for the base of the snowman, sweet praises fall from his mouth when Lucy does something herself. When they have all of the snow balls they made all on top of each other, Lucy’s small hands push at Matt’s chest and try to get him away from the snowman now. “Don’t need daddy’s help anymore, I want to do it myself!” She exclaims and keeps pushing at his chest, landing his bottom on the cold snow. He gasps dramatically, putting on a fake-offended expression as he gets up from the ground and bends down to Lucy’s height. “Oh I’m severely offended, you don’t need me anymore?” She nods and points to where I am currently standing and gestures for him to go stand next to me.

He laughs and stands next to me as we both now admire our daughter assembles the rest of the snowman, “Damn she’s such an adorable child. She got those eyes from you.” I state, placing my head on his shoulder and supporting myself on his side as one of his arms snake up to my waist. “Yeah, y’know I have a cool idea in my head.” He shared, looking mysteriously into the distance to give it more of an ominous vibe and just him trying to act tough. “And what would that be?” I replied, my curiosity becoming spiked now with growing questions about what the idea could be. “Having another child.” “That’s your mysterious idea?” “Yeah, obviously.”

Making snow angels

My back is immediately met with coldness making me flinch slightly as I lay down with Matt helping Lucy down in the snow to which she also flinches from the sudden hit of coldness to her back. She starts moving her legs and arms back and forth and I follow suite, clearing the snow from under our limbs and leaving only prints of our clothes and a thin layer of snow. Matt helps me and Lucy get up from the ground without destroying the snow angels completely, we stand at the feet of them and Lucy tugs on Matts pants and points excitedly at her snow angel. “Look daddy, me and mommy made snow angels!”

I kneel down next to her and brush off the snow that was left behind and didn’t fall off, Matt does the same and kneels down next to me. “Both of you are my little angels already.” He admired, pulling both of us into a big hug but Lucy takes it a bit too seriously and jumps onto Matt’s chest which ends up with all of us laying on the cold snow, laughing at how serious she got about it. “Woah there, little girl. You’re a little feisty thing, hm?” Matt speaks softly, a soft chuckle bubbling in Lucy’s throat not really knowing exactly what he means as he softly tickles her side. “Looks like you got that from your mother” He chuckles as I jokingly poke the side of his waist, making him slightly jump at the sudden gesture. “What was that for?” “It’s just a joke.” I say innocently before he returns the action to which my body jumps, all while our giggly daughter watches us play fight as it only fuels her sweet laughter.

Guestlist!

| - @sturnioloblues - @sturnsxplr-25 - @luvvs4chriss - @sturniolosweetheart33 - @pussypie456 - @choclatestarfishwithahat - @venusxsturnio - @bagsbyclair0 - @sturnstvs - @dykes4chris - @hoe4matt - @cayleeuhithinknot - @strnilolover - @marrykisskilled - @phone4pills |

[goodlucktai]

17 with rise b-team?

dialogue prompts

17. “How many fingers am I holding up? ... I don't have six fingers.” 

x

“Ohmigosh!” Mikey scrambles down the fire escape with half of his usual grace—which is to say, not much—and lands with a clumsy splash next to Donnie’s boneless sprawl. “Donald, you hit the ground so hard pops probably heard it at home. Are you okay?”

Donnie makes a noise that just sounds like eeuuugrrgghheeuugh. Rainwater is seeping into him from all sides thanks to the puddle he landed in. Normally, he would be making this everyone’s problem by now. The fact that he’s just kind of laying there like he’s given up on life is really worth freaking out about. 

Worried, Mikey tugs frantically at the shoulder of Donnie’s jacket until he opens his eyes, then demands, “How many fingers am I holding up?” 

Squinting at him, Donatello thinks about it for a moment, then announces, “Six.”

“I don’t have six fingers!” Mikey shrieks, the peace sign he’s still holding up an inappropriately cheerful gesture for the current situation. 

His big brother scrambles upright at that, his wooden expression falling away and sheer panic flashing across his face instead. 

“What in Lovelace’s name do you mean you don’t have—”

Mikey lifts his left hand in its bright yellow short arm cast. They both look at it, and then Donnie puts his face in his hand without speaking in a way that manages to speak volumes. 

“You’re the one who told me to pretend like my broken hand wasn’t even there!” Mikey says defensively.

“Yes, because Nardo will hunt me for sport if you make that break any worse while I’m directly responsible for you.”

Drawing himself up to his full height, which isn’t remarkable on a good day and even less-so when he’s kneeling in the rainy mush of a Brooklyn alleyway, Mikey grits out, “I’m not a baby. I don’t need supervision.”

“Counterpoint, you are a baby and you do need supervision,” Donatello says dryly, heaving himself up off the ground. The battle shell absorbed the brunt of the impact, designed to protect his spine in pretty much every conceivable scenario, but he still looks like he feels pretty sore after that dramatic fall. He puts his hand out for Mikey to take, but Mikey sulks at him and ignores it. “Michael, I just watched you do a handspring off the railing of a sixth-story fire escape. 

“Yeah and it was sick.” 

Or it would have been, if not for the rusted joints that gave beneath roughly one hundred and fifty pounds of ninja turtle. Donnie’s last-minute save was sick as hell, though. 

He didn’t think twice before grabbing Mikey and hauling him onto the safety of the solid rooftop, using himself as a counterweight to pull it off. He wasn’t wearing the battleshell that could fly or turn into spiderlegs, because they were doing a junkyard run and he wanted the one with extra storage space instead. He knew he’d fall, he’s too smart not to have run all those calculations in the split-second he had, but he didn’t miss a beat. 

Mikey doesn’t like that Don almost got hurt helping him. It sours his righteous annoyance a little. And it also lessens his argument by a lot. 

“There are four of us, which divides neatly into two halves of two,” Donatello says patiently. “Two of us who are older, and two of us who are younger. You are firmly in the younger half. If it makes you feel any better, our fearless leader is, too. Why do you think Raph refuses to let him out of his sight while his leg is in that brace? You’re both the babies.”

“Bet you wouldn’t say that to his face,” Mikey mutters, but it does make him feel better, so he lets Donnie haul him to his feet. 

And Donnie was right about more than that, because the second they meet up with Raph and Leo, Leonardo demands, “Miguelito, what did you do?”

As one, Donnie and Mikey look down at his cast—which, okay, which has a thin crack down the middle. Presumably from when Mikey landed on the roof after Donnie’s Hail Mary throw. How did Leo even see it from way over there? 

Donnie starts to look hunted even before Leo whirls on him and says, “You had one job, Tello—make sure his razz stayed un-tazzed!” 

“That is easily a three-turtle operation and there is only one of me!”

Since the twins can go on for ages once they really get started, Mikey drifts over to Raph, offering his biggest brother his best smile. Raph smiles back like a knee-jerk reaction, reaching over to rub Mikey’s head affectionately.

“Have fun, big man?”

“Yep!” Mikey says sweetly. “Donnie will probably tell you some crazy story about acrobatics on a rooftop, but you know how he likes to exaggerate when Leo eggs him on. We had a totally lowkey junk run. Can we get Crazyshakes on the way home?”

Raphie’s not stupid, but he has three very significant blind spots, and they’re all little-brother-shaped. He softens completely and lifts Mikey up to sit in place of pride on his shoulders, tall enough to see all of Manhattan. Then he passes up his phone, even though Mikey totally would have ordered the shakes on his!

He’ll never not complain about being one of the babies, but he has to admit—just to himself, in secret—that there are definitely some perks. 

“Make sure you get that shortcake one for Leon,” Raphie says offhandedly. “He’s been on a strawberry kick recently.”

Part of Mikey wants to roll his eyes at this additional bit of proof that Donnie is constantly right about everything. The much larger part of him just feels warm and sweet and cared for.

He wraps his arm around Raph’s head and squeezes, as much of a hug as he can manage with the phone in one hand and the other in a cast, and adds all four of their favorites to the order. The twins’ argument bounces off the alley walls around them, both of them on the verge of laughter by now and trying not to be the one who breaks first.

Mikey normally isn’t very fond of rainy days, but this one he wouldn’t mind living in.