#unassuming only to casually drop one day that oh yeah he can’t make it to that class meeting bc he’s gotta go visit his boyfriend in prison

[sprinklersart]

one day when I am 3% less worried about being cringe I will post my half baked justified fic where they stay together through college/prison and become surprising well adjusted despite you know being Who They Are and also maybe or maybe not committing at least 1 homicide together. Or something g to that effect.

[prose-for-hire]

Bad to the bone

Part One

Pairing: Spike x Giles!reader

Request: Not really requested. Inspired and suggested by the 🏜 Anon !! This is a second part to ‘Bad boy, lunchable reader’ 

Warning: Bit of a rocky relationship with Dad!Giles, mention of reader feeling a kind of abandonment by him.

A/N: I’m not sure how similar reader is to the original fic (can a reader be ooc lol). I just wanted to show the softer side of their relationship despite the people around them being more hostile. It was really nice re-visting this one !! 

You ran, waiting on the kerb rather than in the house. You knew your dad wouldn’t follow you out. Not after that argument. You tried to just ignore what had been said, as if it had never happened.

You waited for the sun to set, knowing he would come for you as soon as he physically could. Your vampire. Ever since he had told you he loved you, you had been completely loved up. And everyone around you appeared to be against you both for it.

Despite it all, you couldn’t help your heart soaring when you saw him approaching on the motorbike that had suddenly come into his possession.

He grinned when he saw you, dismounting the bike as you walked towards him. He pulled you into a deep kiss. It knocked the breath from your body, his tongue meeting yours with a fierce passion. He always did this as soon as he saw you, just couldn’t resist it. Could never resist you.

He gestured for you to join him and you happily started to sit behind him but he paused you, brandishing something you hadn’t noticed what with his distracting kiss.

“On. Not bloody moving ‘til it’s on” He warned, coaxing the helmet into your arms and stared, waiting. When you didn’t put it on he spoke again, “Come on, stole it special didn’t I?” He encouraged softly. It made you smile when his tone softened that way. He only did it for you. You had always known his heart was softer than it appeared.

“Hey! You don’t even wear one, you’re treating me like a baby”

“Humans have skin. Soft, squishy parts. And you got the softest of all, pet” He said tenderly, moving his hand to rest against your upper arm ,as if in appreciation of said skin, “Can’t have you in harm’s way”

“Fine, but only if I can drive on the way back” You warned, putting the helmet on your head.

“Love-”

“If we crash you can do the hero thing, y’know, save me all vampire-style and kissing me”

“Yeah while all your bones are crushed beyond recognition”

“You… you wouldn’t kiss me if I was smushed into the floor?” You pouted, which made him tense his jaw. He loved you, God he loved you, but you didn’t half ask some stupid questions sometimes. You were so soft and unassuming though, you really wanted to hear the answer. He was a sucker for you.

“’Course I would”

“You mean it? You’re not just saying it?!” You laughed, looping your arms around him still stood beside the bike and pressing yourself into him. Almost hitting him with the extra padding around your head. You closed your eyes, so relieved that he was here.

“Just… come on, pet” He gestured behind him, trying to peel your arms from him. You just smiled a little giddily because you were in his presence and tried to press more kisses to his face through the visor. He looked around, making sure Giles or the Slayer wasn’t around. You weren’t listening so his tone changed a little harder, “Get on the bike or I’ll drive away into the sunset”

“Yeah, dust in the wind” You muttered with a pout but moved to sit behind him. He caught it but didn’t say anything.

You were clinging to him, his waist. He loved having you this way, driving you through the streets. Allowing everyone to get a good look that you were his. You leaned against his shoulder, the tension releasing from your shoulders the further you drove away.

You arrived at his crypt, a place you loved. It was a solace. You were able to love freely here. Without anyone’s unwanted opinions or fists getting in the way.

Nobody accepted your relationship and your dad was the worst. You had argued with him again. Just before Spike came to pick you up. It was becoming almost every day now. You wished you could share how much you adored Spike. How happy you were. How he took you to the library and sat there the entire time you were studying. How he offered such loving comfort. How he was there for you without question, without agenda. He was yours.

This is how you had ended up exchanging more infuriating words with your father.

“Look at him, Y/n, for pete’s sake! He’s bad to the bones of him!” He seethed as you tried to mention casually that you were staying over at Spike’s. You didn’t ask permission seeing as you had lived alone for most of your life until you had moved back in with him again.

“Dad, please, just believe me – I love-” You began, trying in earnest to get him to understand.

“You don’t know the bloody meaning of the world, child!”

“I’m an adult, Dad, I’m not your kid anymore!”

“No, I suppose you’re just some stranger I allow to live here rent free”

“I can leave”

“Then you should do so, as quickly as you can” He had said it in the heat of the moment and instantly regretted it. He was driving you further into Spike’s arms and he only comprehended this as his last syllable pierced the air towards you. Leaving you wounded, fleeing the scene.

Spike took your hand softly in his, guiding you through the grave stones and into the crypt he called home. Nobody would ever believe you if you told them how soft his heart was. All they saw was the big, bad vampire that had crashed into Sunnydale.

But he was good, no matter his faults. He was so good to you. He could get violent, you had seen the evidence from the fights he got into. But he would never let you see that. Wanted to protect you, make sure you were always safe.

He had been so close to trying to hurt your Dad recently. Giles had threatened him away from you. Shoving him hard into the wall upon realising he couldn’t fight back. Spike stood and took it. No matter how angry he got. He would have risked the headache if it hadn’t been for you. His way of proving he wasn’t backing away. He wasn’t going to lose you.

Spike hadn’t told you though, didn’t want to see you cry again. He hated to see you cry. Didn’t want to be the reason you were upset. He’d hide it from you, not wanting you to fall out with your Dad again. He knew how much his approval mattered to you.

It soon became apparent, however, that you were already slightly down. He didn’t press you to talk to him, just pulled you into his side. You had settled on the sofa in his crypt. He had cleaned up again, always swept around the crypt and tried to make it look habitable when you were coming over.

Wanted the best for you. Always.

You leant into his chest, not able to hide your frown now. What your Dad had said was finally sinking in. You didn’t know whether to ask Spike if you could stay here. Or whether this would only make things worse.

But this worry began to dissipate with every loving second you shared with him. You loved his jewellery. He often wore a single silver chain around his neck. You twisted your finger to look his necklace. Thinking, brow furrowing lightly now as you did.

He kissed you softly on the forehead before casting his eye back to the tv as he spoke, “Your old man again?” he questioned, knowing your moods as if they were his own. You just nodded, hiding your face. Nestling into the side of his neck.

He wrapped his arms around you protectively. As if he sought to save you from the world outside the crypt.

This is the man that was entirely bad to the bone. The vampire. A killer. But one who would never harm you, hated even a word said against you. Who would defend you even past his last breath. Who would whisper such tender love. Such sweet affirmations. His poet’s heart sung for you. You had found him writing feverishly. About you. For you.

You couldn’t describe it properly, but with him you felt safe. Safer than you ever had before. Despite everything you knew. He had told you his past in excruciating detail. But you still confirmed your love after. Because of the way he was with you. The way he cared. You knew something had shifted within.

He put something on the television as he pressed such tender kisses against your skin, trying to get you back to face him. God, he loved your face. He pressed his lips along your jaw, small kisses making a path of his love.

“Let me make you feel better, love?” He posed the question innocently but his eyebrow was telling you different. He loved to kiss the pain away. he was a big believer in healing through this kind of affection. He always wished to make you feel his love so intimately. He was the typical bad boy but you loved the bones of him.

Spike latched onto your neck, soothing kisses. Hands slowly roaming. He cherished every inch of you, sliding you onto his lap as he pressed further kisses against your skin. Your lips.

Wanted you to know that he was with you. But you never doubted this. His love always surrounded you. Like a quilt. An aura.

Suddenly this soft moment was shattered. This peaceful moment you held in reverence lost. Buffy had dropped in. Again.

“Get off them! Now!” She barked, an obvious disgust written all over her face. It made you both so uncomfortable. You loved so deeply and yet nobody could see through the attitude. The past he wasn’t ashamed of sharing with you despite always worrying about your reaction. You knew it all now and loved him more for it.

You didn’t understand how everyone else hated him so.

“Buffy, what the fuck!?” You muttered, she always brought this reaction from you now. You sprung from Spike who just moved his head a fraction to lazily glare at the slayer.

“Get up, Spike” She scowled at him.

“You can’t just come by unannounced and start slaying! It-it’s like Spike just coming to your house and starting to bite people at random!” You complained.

“He has done that…” Buffy said, crossing her arms over her chest, “Twice”

“Oh… right” Your brow furrowed a little, you were still getting used to the vampire thing.

“’S’alright pet, only a nibble. Like when I-” He arched a suggestive eyebrow as a heat ran up your face.

“Do not finish that sentence” Buffy warned before turning to plead to you, “Y/n, you know he’s no good. You know what he is. You don’t have to do this, to disrespect yourself this way”

“Buffy, I love him… he’s my boyfriend”

“Apart from the boy part, oh and the friendly part!” She rolled her eyes, “Come on” she grabbed your wrist and started to pull you away with her.

“Buffy, we’re not friends! You didn’t care to even know me until you found out that I was with Spike. This isn’t about me, it’s about… how you feel”

“No. it’s about you breaking Giles’ heart. Have you seen him lately?” She prodded, her tone turning harsh. She had tried to be understanding, played the concerned friend but she had given up.

She couldn’t understand liking Spike without hating yourself for it. Without treating affection as a transaction. He’s a demon. He had done horrible things and appeared to her to have no redeeming qualities. Apart from, admittedly, the fact that he was kind of attractive. Only in the right lighting, obviously.

“Yeah, I saw him thirty minutes ago when he threw me out of his house” You replied firmly. Your softness gone as she had made your life her business. Again. Buffy was so shocked she dropped your wrist.

Spike instantly got to his feet and moved swiftly to your side. His hand on you, he knew what this meant. He knew this would hurt you so much. You had felt distant with Giles for a long time, he moved away to basically raise some other kid. And left you behind. And now this was happening all over again.

You felt abandoned. Like he had created an entirely new family right here. Not made of blood but with the young people he helped all of the time. It was a secret he had kept from you and they had all been in on it. How could your own father make you feel like you were an outsider in your own home?

Spike’s hand was soothing on the small of your back. His eyes only on you. Sensitive to every minute inflection of emotion on your face. His expression held such understanding. Buffy looked between you, faltering only slightly before righting her face. He really did appear to love you. On the surface at least. His eyes didn’t move from you, his eyes glassy as he felt your emotions almost as strongly as you did.

He couldn’t help that swell of hope that you would move in with him though. No matter how concerned he was for you and your troubles, he was overjoyed that you might want to stay with him. To have you, by his side even in the day. To be close to you. Domesticity that he pretended he didn’t crave when you were around.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…” Buffy offered. It was sincere. Of all the things she knew about Giles, she hadn’t expected him to parent like this. It was harsh, much harsher than he was on her even. She appeared to soften, want to offer a hand of friendship.

But Spike was already ushering her out of the door without her so much as collecting up her thoughts before she left. He hurled some choice insults out of the door with her before slamming the door shut.

He immediately moved to your side. Closing the space between you and allowing you to lean against him. He cradled your head whispering hushed assurances. That he would never leave you. That he would always look out for you even if everyone else turned from you. Which was exactly what it had felt like.

He knew this, knew your own thoughts as if they were his own. He didn’t like to admit it, although it was evident to you in abundance, but he was so soft for you. Especially when you were alone this way and you needed him. He was so comforting the gentle nature he shared with you almost made you cry. He continued to reassure you and held you to him through the night.

He wasn’t able to bite back any comments he had on your Dad, ones he had held inside for a while. He had never really liked that man.

Spike, this man who was so bad to the bone was your only comfort. All he wanted was for you to be happy, no matter what. He was soft with you where nobody else had been. He lifted you up, helped you carry on. He was yours.

You did move in with him after this, spending time together. It only made your relationship stronger.

You would make up with your Dad eventually. At your college graduation. He felt guilty, you had very rarely spoken to him since he told you to leave. He was protective, despite you having spent a large portion of your life looking after yourself.

He would never approve of your relationship with Spike fully, despite his assurance that he would never stop loving you because of it. He apologised though for his behaviour, something you hadn’t recalled him saying to you often. And something else.

“I’m proud of you, Y/n” He said, a hand patted yours. Your gasp audible. He had never said that to you before. It had honestly been all you had wanted to hear from him.

You still returned home to Spike though. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. He wished so badly he could have been there but it was the middle of the day. He showed you just how pleased he was for you either way when you returned. He was so supportive, even if you hadn’t made up with your father, Spike was all that you needed.

It wasn’t a fleeting love, you were his. For life.

[mushroom-cartel--writing]

begrudging (love-)blindness

Summary: You are, to him, unquestionably, terrifyingly lovely.

Relationship(s): Gojo Satoru & Reader, Gojo Satoru/Reader

Note(s):

Here’s the link to read this on AO3! (You know the drill, extra tags, different notes, the format I intended, etc.)

Personally, I think this is hot garbage in terms of structure and pacing (it’s loosely all strung together is what I’m saying, but I just needed to get it off my chest before I wrote anything else. Yet... I guess I had fun? Yeah. I did!

There's spoilers from the manga mixed with headcanon.

I still hate spacing and formatting on Tumblr, it sucks. Please, please, please, this is for your own good, click the AO3 link, this fic is such an eyesore on this platform.

|||

There’s a tug at your chest, sending you hurtling backwards and into something hard. A wall. Tiles. Smooth.

The heavens and the earth view one another through a layer of haze of light at night.

There are thousands of people gathering, their footsteps thundering echoes in your ears. Their chatter is a constant hum in the air. It stinks of sweat.

(“The train will be arriving soon. Please stand behind the yellow line—”)

You sigh.

“Dammit, Satoru! A little warning would be nice,” you hiss to the man. You hear him whisper something back but his voice is swallowed up by the crowds and then he, too, is consumed.

You feel him wander farther away from you; not left with much choice, you follow him. And down, down, down you go.

You pause when there’s an invisible wall blocking your path of his own making. “Hey!!” you shout, starting to scream expletives at him from the top of his lungs and he doesn’t look back.

A few seconds pass. The people, these poor, clueless civilians who just want to go home for the night are like sardines in a can, their bodies pushing and shoving. For space. For air. Requiring neither, you phase through the wall and the remaining levels to catch up to him, the thoughts going through your head solely focused on figuring out why he has let you out. He wouldn’t do something like this without warning you beforehand.

Why now? What now?

You pull out from the shadowed cracks of the feeble curtain set up along the fifth floor underground, suddenly feeling a heaviness you hardly ever experience. You run a cursory swipe over his teeth; the blood in the air is fresh, there are more civilians down here than up above, more sardine-ing (their presence is fading away, the above platforms’ panicked din becomes extinguished, it’s ghastly quiet, a moment frozen in time), but no Satoru. Not physically.

He loves you, you know. (You don’t understand though… Why?)

It’s a burden, draining you of what vigour is left in your soul, barely just clinging on to this plane itself.

His love is a curse in itself, really.

"I don't want you to see me hurt," he had said often, back when you were children, oblivious to the power of those words until you got older.

What they meant.

What they did—to him and you.

Still as the wind, you stand together, hands brushing up against each other's, your fingers infected with poison where his is not; the calloused skin and scars shared between you weaving a tale for the ages that will never be told.

You’re both nineteen at heart but certainly not in spirit.

You lean against him, completely unseen, waiting for him to flick his finger back.

Waiting for him to obliterate the first person he thought he could trust outside.

He doesn’t. You disappear for another time, expectant.

His love is a burden and you're not sure where you would be without it.

If he hadn't looked your way, would you be the same person you are today?

It's frightening, these thoughts of yours, but he usually chases them off when he senses them bubbling to the surface. (You want him to be annoyed.) A casual grin and stance, a flick of his wrist, a rush of wind by your side, then the phantom pressure is gone, yes, gone, however—it's never banished completely. It never can be.

You don't remember the colour of his eyes but there's a memory of you claiming they looked like marbles, buried somewhere (somehow), in the back of your mind. Like the marbles you'd smash glass bottles to obtain, their fizzy contents only drained seconds beforehand; stubby, sticky, small fingers sorting through the shards, squashing ants in the process.

Those very same fingers, now, haven't changed a bit, save for the chipped nails and whatnot duress they’ve sustained throughout his life.

You use them to push the blindfold up to his forehead, taking in the surrounding sights.

Why now? The fact that you can feel them, his fingers and everything else—that’s a bad sign. A very bad sign.

You breathe, inflating the faux lungs.

Finally, you see it. The reason why you’re walking and talking and fully corporeal.

You gulp at the living corpse, its stitches wonky and fresh. Cerebrospinal fluid spills from its face in fat droplets and lands upon the clothes of a dead man. Disgusting.

“So I was right in the end,” you say, more for yourself than anyone else. “You’re not Suguru.”

(Satoru owes you a thousand yen. You told him to burn the body immediately. Or, you know, the usual. But what’d he do instead? He went and passed it off to a third party! Man, why’d that old hag have to kick the bucket so soon… If she was still around she’d probably kick Satoru’s dumb ass for trying to be decent.)

“How are you free?” Not-Suguru asks.

The real Suguru wouldn’t ask about your appearance. He would make a comment about how the temperature has dropped and burrow into his collar. He wouldn’t question things.

The real Suguru never acknowledged you, but he knew there was something in the corner of his eye that took the image of his friend and laughed alongside them when they pulled their antics during missions.

The real Suguru is gone.

Who the hell knows where Shouko is.

Yeah. A little warning would have been nice. Real fucking nice.

There’s a cube with a dozen eyes between the two of you, the crater on the ground betrays its unassuming weight. Satoru’s muted presence, a shrunken pearl of light, emanates from the cube.

Not-Suguru follows your line of sight to it.

Giving him an answer would be a waste of your time.

You can’t, they say.

Young master, please, don’t go there, implores the servants and guards.

The elders, his grandmother especially, tell him not to enter the storehouse tucked away in the garden behind an avenue of camellia trees because that’s something they’ll discuss when he’s older.

He doesn’t listen to them, the curiosity of a three-year-old child cannot be satisfied by mere words. (“Let this be known,” the gardener says in his defense, one cold summer’s day. It is raining outside. His grandmother shoots the only person in the compound that doesn’t treat him like a blind fool with a withering glare. He does not see them again until—)

What’s in the storehouse?

A library of cursed objects? Spiritual remnants, artefacts, texts, poisons, weapons?

Maybe the mummified corpse of an ancestor whom they keep around to ward off evil?

Perhaps a curse, frozen in time forevermore?

Maybe it’s nothing and the adults are all in on some kind of elaborate hoax, he figures. Mm, yeah. Sounds about right. No one else knows about the storehouse.

It’s old and earthen. Wild plants curl the walls to one side and splotches of moss grow on the tiled roof. Where the sun hits least is pristine. Clean. He wonders if that’s where the wards are placed, out of sight, out of mind.

Oh.

Standing in the entrance of the open door with bare feet, at the threshold of the aged structure, fulfilling his desire, he learns why they wanted him to remain ignorant.

It’s a child. (A human…? This whole situation is off.) A kid his age. He can’t tell whether or not they’re older or younger. They might be a bit taller, though.

No, he wants to shout, this can’t be it! He stomps his foot. That’s cliché! Boring, boring, boring! Again, he strikes the ground. Ugh, whatever—

A sigh escapes the emaciated figure sitting in the darkness, hunched over themself against the wall of the bare storehouse.

“Ah, my f̶̥̍r̵̝͐̏i̷̳end,” they start, softly. “M̶̹̦͒y̸͍̮̋̚ f̸͉̓̋r̴͇̦̕ǐ̴̦͇e̵̫͠n̷̢͉̅̓ḍ̸̅, my very dear, old friend. You have returned.

“My e̷̳̭̿y̶��͈e̷͔̭̎͘s̴̭̄̊, have you come to give them back? Ask for several others?

“I have waited for you, as promised. Come. Closer. Please. I do not know how long has passed since I last gazed upon your visage. Do not be afraid.

“I no longer lust for flesh as fervently as before, I will not ask of y̸͖͔̒o̵̳̍u̵͍̘̓ ą̴͕̈́n̵̫̓d̸̛̳͛ y̵̻͑̎o̵̖̥͒͌ų̴͋̐r̵̦̩̓s a sacrifice to please me.”

Their voice is garbled, the resemblance to a broken radio off-pitch jarring his reaction time, a music box opened underwater gurgling, ghosts beat to the rhythm of the blood in his ears and titter buried mysteries.

In the corner of his eyes distant stars burn, galaxies explode to life and die repeatedly, the vast cosmos is shredded apart. Universes are swallowed whole. The plane he stands upon bends to the will of the one whose gifts he uses carelessly to play the role of a deity and dictate the balance of the world.

People have said [they] reflect the very heavens.

His faith wanes.

.

a trio of ragtag orphans,

escapees, survivors and starved,

on the verge of being

no better than beasts,

happen upon a traveller taking respite from the winding roads.

a foreigner no doubt

they guess from the strange hued garb;

rest, everyone around these parts,

they know comes not

easy to scum, scoundrels, sinners and

deceivers alike.

.

.

.

mad ones, rushing to death

—without protection i must add—

oh my darling children, you are!

consume my flesh,

defend those unseeing,

purge the blight

and you shall witness

my return before long, indeed?!

.

They do not move and neither does he.

What he assumes to be their head tilts ever so to the side, gauging him, this fool of a boy trespassing on their domain. This part of the garden, the little boy realises too late, is theirs.

This, the storehouse and now him.

(—the gardener finds him sprawled out on his back come dusk. They help him to his feet and dust him off, the sparkle in his eyes an unusual occurrence; they ask their precious young master what happened and he points them in the direction of the doors sealed shut.

“I took a peek inside,” he lies. Children are supposed to do that, right?

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing.” The gardener knows he’s a bad liar.

“Good. Now come.” They lead him away from the path of the camellias. “Lady Mitsue has been beside herself over you, mister.”

His grandmother hasn’t. She probably knows what he has done and will instruct him to feed the council what they want to hear. My son was too soft, she asserts before and after every meeting with those windbags.

You have to do better.

And his father is dead, so only time will tell who’s right.)

He starts having weird dreams (memories?) several days later.

Trying to ignore them doesn’t work.

Every waking moment is subject to gore.

He has to resist the urge to scratch his own eyes out while he trains.

In the world beneath his eyelids, there are shadowy figures claiming it best he is blinded and locked away and fed what no other soul could hope to consume without issue. And just as they force open his jaw—every night, every time—he wakes up.

Satoru doesn’t know what to make of it. Doesn’t know what to make of you.

One day, he dreams of years of living without sunlight causing you to screw your not-eyes shut and look away upon the opening of a door into your domain. When you recover, you turn to the door, the emotion of curiosity tugging for your attention out of the myriad of beings you’ve eaten.

Standing at the threshold, ethereal, desperate and short of breath, is a young man. In his arms is a woman, his wife, you presume. They’re stark shades of white, binary stars of a celestial system long dead.

You smile, recognising them in an instant. “Ah, my old friends, children of my children’s children a dozen times over, tell me, what is it you wish for?”

“My wife and our child,” says the man, “please, I beg of you, save them!”

Oh? A healing? It’s been quite some time since that was last requested of you.

You skitter to the pair’s side and shut the door gently behind them, ushering them further in.

You click your not-tongue at the woman’s state, wondering why no one thought to come to you earlier. If they did, the price they’d have to pay would be much less than what you’re about to tell the man. Humans are such prideful creatures, Satoru knows this, but he can’t help but feel tense as you instruct the man to lay the woman down and state your cost.

First, he opens his mouth. Then it shuts. Opens. Shuts. The man regards his dear wife with something Satoru has never seen before in the eyes of those around him.

His reply?

“I accept—”

A harsh smack to the head disrupts the memory; he looks up, unsurprised to meet his grandmother’s gaze, wrinkled eyes so very much like his own piercing his soul.

“Being distracted in the middle of a fight is unbecoming of you, boy,” she says. “What seems to be the matter?”

He can’t tell her.

He stays silent.

“Satoru.” She raises her hand, fingers crossed, indicating the void’s opening. “We Gojou pride ourselves on our ability to adapt. That is why, in fact, I say my son was too soft. He could not accept that he would lose my daughter-in-law and the child she carried in her womb to common illness. He could not accept that it was impossible to cheat death. He could not accept the position he was placed in. And for that, he died and of the aforementioned two, only you lived. Do you understand?”

No. He doesn’t want to understand.

What is adaptation if they’ve yet to rid themselves of and bow down to your constant presence? Is that not their most fatal flaw?

You eat them.

One life in exchange for another; you told his father it was the only way.

You were given the corpse of his mother a hundred days after his birth by the elders.

Every Gojou after death, you grind their bones between your teeth and their flesh rots at the bottom of your belly. Their soulful essence fights for dominance against the forces of the innumerable curses the clans feeds you—the hate, the sentiment, the sheer bursts of techniques and mighty powers clashing, click, click, click—you embody and absorb the aftermath of each childish scuffle, playing the bored jailer adjudicator. Corpses, tools, objects, energy and flesh. It’s how you’ve lived for so long without light or human thought to taint you: the jujutsu world’s dirty little secret, waste disposal.

You are, to him, unquestionably, terrifyingly lovely.

He loves you for that one reason.

A means to an end, forever.

(The boy, a few days shy of his fourth birthday and inauguration, does not know what love is. He thinks he does, having read the definition in a dictionary in order to familiarise you with modern speech, but love is not a word to be thrown around lightly the way he does.)

“I do,” he lies again, this time, to himself. “I understand everything.”

His sight is black.

He pushes back against the current, against instinct telling him to relinquish control and reaches forward for the dream that he was ripped from.

Your true form towers over his mother’s prone form, dripping ichor and the fluid of loose entrails all over. His father stays seated even when you lift an arm to draw blood, the man facing you without a trace of fear.

“I accept—but on the condition that my child receives your protection.”

“My p̶̹̽r̴̽ͅo̵̠͐ť̷̬e̶̺̊c̶̻̒t̷̙͑i̵̮̓o̶̱n̷̖͂?” Do they not teach the younger generations what that entails?

“Yes. My ancestors wrote that you were a benevolent being in a past life. That you were a kind-hearted human who accidentally drank poison before being found and buried alive, condemned and reviled, forcing you to become what you are now. Does that still not hold true?” His father’s face is hopeful.

It doesn’t. But who are you to tell him that? That ‘benevolent being’ never existed in the first place. You’ve always been this.

The vivisepulture part was true, but the beginning? Debatable. Your memories of ‘being human’ are foggy; you’re not sure if they’re real or someone else’s. Satoru’s is the clearest thus far because you abide within him. And he’s young, there’s little to garner.

What other nonsense has been made truth in the time you have withdrawn from the world?

He wants to go down that rabbit hole.

You grab the cube and run, warping reality in your wake.

You are many things.

Alive, you are first; secondly a parent, a teacher and a friend; cursed thrice times over; quarter something-something or rather by this point; and last, your hollowness complements the damned hallowed.

You are Gojou Satoru but not.

His skin peels off in delicate scales from the speed you’re going.

The first and last time you puppeteer his body, Satoru invokes his father’s contract with you for the second time in his life.

Like the first occurrence, it happens by accident.

(The first occurrence is a stain on your memory.

Mitsue looked her grandson in the eye and tasked him with a futile quest, one that would decide the future headship of their clan. You personally thought such practices outdated but you held his tongue and grit his teeth, faking laughter for the audience they had.

She reminded you too much of your youngest, both in the way she cobbled herself together and how she suspended time long enough to catch a glimpse of you hunched beside him, flickering in and out of her void domain with the ease of a toddler climbing free of their crib.

Beautiful and deadly.

He nearly died.)

He is unaware of the finer details, but where his consciousness ends at getting a scalpel to head, it rouses again with him standing before the man who has the blood of Satoru’s friends on his hands and left him to bleed out undecapitated.

On a high from escaping Izanami’s clutches, he sprouts math and whatever nonsense off the top of his head and ragdolls up, down, across and through the air.

He feels like a being higher than the gods. Doesn’t mean he is, though.

He’s barely in control.

Violent swashes of red and blue fill the sky. He sees beyond his opponent rising from the earth the heavens condemning his breaching unto their space.

“Hey, stranger, did you know purple was her favourite colour?”

“Whose?”

|

“Satoru.”

“Hm?”

“You are Satoru, right?”

“Yessssss?”

“You… you’ve got a bit of…” Suguru gestures vaguely around the lower half of his face.

“Oh.” You rub the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb and see it come back tinged pink. The drying drool on his sleeves is used to rub the rest of the blood away. “Thanks.”

“Have you found her?”

“Amanai? Her body?” Suguru flinches. Your gaze is drawn to the cultists clapping. “Yeah, I did. Sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?”

“I don’t know,” Satoru says. “I feel like killing these people. Should we?”

“Why?”

“I’m still h̸͓̟͐u̴̦͗n̴͇͈̅͛g̵͔̒̕ŗ̴͕͂͘y̸͚͍͘͘.” Two wasn’t even a snack.

“I’m angry that we failed too. But we can’t do anything now, it’s out of our hands.”

|

Several days later finds him back at the entrance of the storehouse, none the worse for wear.

In the shadow of the building grows a lone weed.

“It’s changed.”

“Of course it has.”

“Will I end up like them?”

“Yes.”

[multifandom-oneshots]

The Game Begins

Summary: You’re dating Light Yagami, a prodigy and amazing boyfriend. What happens when you see a mysterious new journal in his room? This is a part of a story I wanted to write, but it will remain a one shot for now.

Word Count: 1097

Disclaimer! I do not own Death Note or it’s characters but the words and ideas below are mine.

“Light, I’m also supposed to be fairly clever but I just don’t get this! Can we just give up and move on to something… more fun?” I say suggestively.

He laughs and slides away from his desk a bit. We’re in his bedroom now and he’s trying to help me learn whatever this gibberish math stuff is. We’ve been together for three years now. We���re both in the top percentage of our class, though he is my intellectual superior by far. He helps me out when I need it and is a great boyfriend all around, but recently he’s been distant… 

“Yeah, we can stop… but only for a while, this material might be on the entrance exams.” He kisses my forehead and gets up to get more snacks. Out of the corner of my eye I see an unfamiliar little black notebook.

“Hey, what’s this?” I reach out to pick it off the shelf and he yells at me.

“Don’t touch that!” 

I look at him, startled. I’ve never seen him so riled up before, it’s a little scary. “Ok… sorry, I just… haven’t seen it before.”

My usually composed boyfriend sighs and apologizes for losing his cool, then promptly exits to get the snacks he promised. I mosey over to his bed and wait, while I sit the mysterious journal casually flings itself off the shelf. I look around in confusion. Is this a test? Would Light really test me by not letting me touch a notebook? No. However, it would look suspicious if the notebook was on the ground after he asked me not to mess with it…

I nonchalantly go over and pick it up and suddenly a pair of wide set feet appear in front of me. My eyes travel up the figure and I can’t help but scream. The giggling monster towers over me, I back away and tears start streaming. Light busts in the room and sees me backed against the bookshelf, as far from the monster I can get. He seemingly looks at the creature and scowls, can he see it too?

“Light!” I run into his chest and he holds me, I don’t want to look at anything besides his shirt collar until the beast is gone. 

“I told you not to touch it!” He scolds me.

I look up at him incredulously, “it flung itself off the shelf! Is the book what makes me see… that?!” I don’t turn to look, just point in the general direction. I try to keep calm, but I start crying again.

“Well that’s not very nice,” says a high pitched gravelly voice, I assumed to be the monster.

Light lets me bury myself in him and reprimands the evil thing, “Ryuk! Why the hell did you do that? You knew she wasn’t supposed to be apart of this!”

“Apart of what? Is that thing your friend or something?!” 

“More like silent accomplice…” Ryuk remarks.

Light scoffs, “No, you don’t get to talk to her. Not after what you just did!” Is he protecting me? An accomplice?

Ryuk whines in return, “Light! You aren’t much of a talker! I need attention! And more apples!”

“You definitely will not get apples for this!”

Finally I can’t take anymore. No more yelling at monsters, I want answers. I shove Light and he looks at me a little annoyed and confused. “I want to know what the hell is going on Light Yagami! What is ‘Ryuk’? What the hell is happening!?” 

He looks at me for a moment then glances at the notebook, contemplating? “Sit down.” He sees me eye the monster worriedly and says, “He can’t hurt you. You’re safe with me.”

I obey him and plop down on the edge of his bed, he does so as well and puts a hand on my back. I sniffle and listen to what he has to say.

“Ryuk is a shinigami-“ 

“A god of death?! Oh my God, Light I-“

He puts a finger to my lips. “Shh, he dropped his notebook… A Death Note” He pauses for either dramatic effect or to let it sink in, I’d say the latter. “I found it and I used it.”

I try to comprehend the situation, but his phrasing is vague. “U-used it?” I look at him, concerned as to what he might say next.

“I won’t explain all of the rules to you, but to shorten… I write names in it and those people die.”

It seems like we sat there forever as sobs racked my body. My sweet Light, the Light of my life, kills people? I cried more thinking about it. How long had this been going on? Who has he killed? Will he kill me now that I know? He did look at the Death Note for a while after I broke down.

I do my best to stifle my weeping, “Is there anything else?” I know I shouldn’t say it with such spite, as he is rubbing my back and holding me as I cry about him. He takes a deep breath and there is a long pause.

“I am Kira.” 

I can’t handle this, mostly, my stomach can’t handle this. I dash to the bathroom and throw up. Light is right behind me, supporting me and holding my hair back. I love him. How can all of these attributes add up to Light Yagami? He’s so gentle and kind, and a mass murderer, and loving. It has me reeling. I finally get rid of everything I’ve eaten for the past day and lean back. My mind went numb, an unassuming calm washed over me and I looked to my lover and asked simply, “Are you going to kill me?” 

The pause he took urged my heart rate right back up. I started breathing faster and attempted to get away from him, unfortunately I was backed into a corner. 

“No, no…” Light pleads, reaching for me once again. “I’d never hurt you. I know you’ll see things how I do after the shock wears off…” I let him wrap his arms around my shaking form. 

“Yeah,” I reply trying to convince myself more so than him. “I know you, you’d only do all that if you had good reasons…” He kisses my cheek and pulls me closer. My head rests on his shoulder and I see the eerie creature at the doorway grinning with a dead stare. It was then I realized I was going to have to play the game if I was going to make it out of this alive.

[rose-of-gabriel]

Reprieve (2/3)

Okay, so I may have added another chapter. What can you do? 

Ao3 link

Gar’s silent for all of ten seconds after Dick and Kory leave. Rachel is almost impressed. Then he’s bounding into the living room and launching himself onto the couch. The game controller he’d left there – despite Dick’s multiple reminders to put it away – goes flying into the air. Gar catches it with one hand and offers it to Rachel.

“Wanna play?” he says, trying so hard to act casual Rachel almost laughs.

She really doesn’t want to. She wants to crawl back into bed and sulk for the next week, but Gar looks so damn hopeful, and even though they’re not here, Rachel feels like Dick and Kory would want her to try, so she does.

“What are we playing?” she says.

Gar’s whole expression perks up. “Whatever you want.” He starts rummaging through the not-so-modest collection of games he’s accumulated in the cabinet under their T.V. “You strike me as a quest-driven kind of girl.” He holds up some game called Left for Dead 2.

Rachel shrugs. She sits beside him on the couch and barely catches the controller when he tosses it to her. Her fingers feel awkward over the buttons and she has a sinking feeling that this is going to suck.  But Gar is so happy. What kind of jerk would she be if she ruined this for him?

Gar flips through the menu screen and starts the game. One advantage of growing up with a demon alter-ego is that stuff like video game zombies don’t scare her in the slightest. Gar keeps talking over the cut scenes, and Rachel nods along with mild interest.

The gameplay is pretty simple. They’re just running around an abandoned town, killing different kinds of zombies – because that’s apparently a thing. Rachel accidentally shoots Gar twice as much as she shoots an actual zombie. Gar is sweet about it, though, which almost makes it worse.

“Wish this game had a friendly-fire option.” He laughs after she kills him for the third time.

Her cheeks burn with embarrassment. They get to a horde of zombies that Gar nearly decimates on his own, but it’s not enough. They die two tries in a row and Rachel’s actually getting pretty frustrated. Gar notices and pauses the game, shifting on the couch so that he’s facing her.  

“You’re not having fun, are you?”

“Of course I am!” Rachel smiles, but it’s stiff and unconvincing. Gar raises an eyebrow and she sighs. “Sorry, I’m just… I don’t really like video games.”

Gar doesn’t look mad, or even a little bit annoyed. He just shrugs, eyes curious. “What kind of games do you like?”

Rachel thinks for a moment, surprised by the fondness that blossoms in her chest.  “Melissa had all of these old board games: Cluedo, Monopoly, Scrabble.” She giggles a little to herself. “It was missing a lot of vowels and instead of replacing them, we just made up words that had like three k’s and an x.”

Gar grins. “That’s cool. Which one was your favorite?”

Rachel thinks. “Battleship.”

“Really?”

She shrugs. “I could always tell where Melissa put her pieces, so I always won.”

“You cheated!” he gasps, utterly delighted.

“I didn’t even know I had powers at that point.”

“Still.” He teases. He thinks for a moment and his expression sobers. When he speaks, his voice is tentative and small. “My mom taught me a lot of card games.”

Rachel’s heart tightens in empathy. She moves so that her head is resting on his thigh, her legs dangling over the arm of the couch. Gar chuckles a bit.

“Do you have a deck?” She asks. “You could teach me how to play.”

Gar shakes his head. “I had a few decks back at Dr. Caulder’s.”

Rachel frowns. She lifts her head, eyes zeroing in on the stack of money Dick left on the counter. She pulls herself off the couch and holds out her hands. Gar raises an eyebrow.

“Come on.” She says, and he allows her to pull him up.

“What are we doing?”

Rachel grabs her hoodie off the coat rack, then goes into the kitchen and shoves the cash into her pocket. “We’re going out.”

The night air bites at Gar’s cheeks, but he doesn’t mind. His body is humming with excitement as Rachel leads him through the city streets. She won’t tell him where they’re going, which makes it even better. Her hood is pulled tight around her face and she looks more alive than Gar has seen her in days.

He was the one who found her. She was in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink so hard her knuckles were white. Her breathing was loud and ragged, her eyes shut tight like she was scared to open them. He said her name so she’d hear him approach. He put his hand on her shoulder and she’d flinched – not because he hurt her, but because she was afraid of hurting him.

Gar startles and realizes that Rachel has stopped several feet behind him. She raises her eyebrow mockingly. He laughs sheepishly and trots back toward her.

“Sorry, started thinking ‘bout something.”

“Did it hurt?” She teases and he playfully shoves her. “We’re here.”

Gar turns to where she’s looking: an old store front with Ami’s Games and Jokes painted on the door. The display windows show vintage comics, tinker toys, puzzle games, and posters.

“What is this place?” Gar says, spellbound. “And where have I been?”

Rachel laughs. “Come on.”

She takes him by the arm and pulls him into the store. A bell above the door clangs as they enter. If Gar’s eyes had been wide before, they’re gaping, now. Rachel can’t contain her excitement, either. She’s passed this place dozens of times but never ventured inside.

Everything looks like some sort of beautiful safety hazard: shelves overflowing with games and action figures, boxes of books and consoles, everything you could ever think to put in a toy shop. There’s a bucket full of dice siting on a giant Jenga set with a sign that says 4 for $1.

An elderly woman with short peppered hair and huge glasses stops dusting the cash register and smiles brightly at them. “Evening.” Gar and Rachel give awkward little nods. “Domino sets are buy one, get one 50% off.”

“Thanks.” Rachel says, turning to Gar, but he’s already perusing the vintage board games.

“Dude,” he gawks, running his hands along the sides of the boxes, “this is sick.”

Rachel joins him. “I figured your little nerd heart would like this place.”

“Oh, my little nerd heart very much likes this place.” Something catches his eye at the back of the shop. He squawks excitedly and disappears into the maze of shelves.

Rachel looks to make sure he’s out of sight before commencing her search. Her eyes scan the shelves, zeroing in on a box of discount card decks. She starts sifting through it when the old woman – who she assumes is Ami – wanders over to her, dusting as she goes.

“Fan of cards?” she asks, curious.

“Not really,” Rachel says, keeping her voice down. “They’re a gift.”

“For your friend with the funny hair?”

She grins. “Yeah.”

To her surprise, Ami glances quickly to the side, as if to make sure no one is watching – which is easy, since they’re the only ones in here. She gestures for Rachel to follow her to the counter. Rachel obliges hesitantly as Ami roots around for something. After a moment of searching, she pulls out an unassuming box. She pushes it toward Rachel.

Inside are card decks, some in clear plastic containers, others wrapped in leather pouches. The artwork on each deck is detailed and unique. Rachel examines one that is illustrated with classic fairytale characters.

“That one was from my first trip to Saint Petersburg.” Ami says proudly. “A treat to myself after I finished graduate school.”

“It’s beautiful.” Rachel says as she continues browsing. She picks up a blue deck with white flowers and a golden sun emblem.  

“Ah, Buenos Aires. This was one of my first decks. I did an exchange program when I was a teenager.”

Rachel smiles, but it’s stiff. She’s always a little jealous when people talk about their world travels. She picks up one of the leather pouches and gingerly removes the deck. She lets out a gasp, sifting through one card after another. Each is a different animal, the illustrations so detailed they look more like miniature paintings than playing cards.

“Kyoto.” Ami says wistfully. “Such a beautiful city, so much history. Now that art style is very interesting. It’s called Ukiyo-e.”

“Wow.” Rachel says, unable to take her eyes away from the cards.

Ami appraises her for a moment, then says. “Ten dollars.”

Rachel blinks. “What?” The woman repeats herself. Rachel shakes her head. “No, no I can’t buy these from you.”

Ami grunts a laugh. “Fifteen, then.” Rachel’s expression sours. “Oh, come on, this is my game shop, isn’t it?”

“But these are yours. All of your travels.”

Ami’s smile becomes soft. She extends out her hand and Rachel turns over the cards and the leather pouch.

“You take them, dear.” she says, fitting the cards back into the pouch and tying it shut. “It gives me an excuse to go back.”

Rachel smiles, feeling a little humbled, and pulls fifteen dollars out of her pocket. She stashes the cards away just in time before Gar comes bounding back into the front of the store.

“See anything you like?” She asks innocently.

“Um… everything. How about you?”

Rachel shrugs and can feel Ami grin smugly. “Let’s go.” She says quickly.

Gar nods, giving the woman an appreciative nod and they head toward the door.

“Come again soon, little bird.”

Rachel freezes and looks over her shoulder, but Ami has gone back to dusting. She and Gar share a questioning look but silently agree to drop it. They head back the way they came, but Rachel stops when they get to the street corner.

Gar pauses. “What’s up?”

Rachel looks around intently for a second, then says. “I don’t want to go home yet.”

He grins. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”

Rachel pretends to think about it. “I could really go for some french fries, right now.”

Gar knows the place she’s talking about and takes off in a run. She yelps in surprise and takes off after him, their laughter echoing down the street.

[bopeepwritingsheep]

So uhhh, I’ve been sitting on this for literal months and I’ll probably sit on it for More Months but here are scraps from my Big Magnulia Fic. If you keep up with my magnulia stuff on AO3 it’s essentially an au sequel fix-fic to canon BUT all of those fics are the background Magnulia stuff for this fic.

It’s literally just scraps of the scenes I have written most of them are incomplete but I Crave Validation and it’ll probably be LITERAL MONTHS till i post any of this ANYWAY because I actually want to have a longfic DONE before posting for once in my GODDAMN LIFE

So uhhhh, here y’all go?

----

Taako’s pretty damn certain that as the only one of these chucklefucks who practically grew up on caravans, it absolutely makes him the person with the authority to say that road trips fucking suck. There’s never enough room in the wagon for everyone to sit comfortably, no one can ever decide what music to listen to, somebody always wants to play eye spy or some other toddler distraction bullshit.

So the fact that this particular road trip is a murder road trip only makes it marginally better--Because at least when it’s all over he can take all the pent-up annoyance and frustration and just go ham on the dumb fuck who decided it was a good idea to hurt his family.

Governor Kalen is, as it turns out, not as hard to find as Merle and Taako expected but it’s only because he sent Magnus a goddamn cryptic taunt letter. Like some fantasy Bond villain, a letter that probably would have been more effective if Magnus could remember who Kalen even was. It’s good for them, because Magnus just squinted at the thing and asked if maybe whoever sent it had the wrong address, the thinly veiled death threats either sailing over his head or blocked out by weird lich magic.

So of course it meant that Taako and Merle had to snatch the letter away and look at all of the obvious baiting that Magnus should have recognized--So this clearly was gross lich memory juju, if Magnus couldn’t make heads or tales of the clear goading taunts. Taako would wager money that forgetting Kalen must also have meant the inability to figure out who Kalen was, because it would have made a pretty shitty sacrifice if he could just figure it out again later.

So that’s how he and Merle end up in the entirely shitty situation of fighting off villain minions who had been thoroughly prepared for them. Some sort of anti-magic field and a goddamn rope snare that has Merle hanging upside down fifteen feet up calling out every curse in dwarven, common, and a few in celestial he must have picked up from Pan.

It’s not like Taako is completely helpless without magic, he’s a fucking flip wizard extraordinaire but it’s annoying as fuck to find himself suddenly magicless with about ten creepy mercenary dudes coming at him from all directions. He’s lucky he’s dexterous as shit or else dodging away from them would be trickier, he can see the edge of the ward and knows that if he can just wizard flip his way across it these losers wouldn’t know what hit them.

And as one of the mercenaries goes flying past Taako almost too fast for him to dodge, he certainly doesn’t know what hit them.

His head snaps to attention just in time to see a towering half-orc woman launch two more minions into the air. Taako takes the distraction for the opportunity it is and vaults himself forward, ducking under grabs and tripping one fucker as he cartwheels out of the anti-magic ring. He’s halfway through the incantation for Thunderwave when the woman wretches a stray branch from a nearby tree and just wallops three more soldiers in one swing. Taako pivots and goes to pull Merle out of the snare trap the dumbass had gotten caught up in.

Clearly the Competent Mystery Woman’s got this situation covered.

He keeps one eye on her fight as he snaps the rope holding Merle with a magic missile, just in case she decides that Dos Horny Boys need the same ass kicking as minion crew. However, she seems more than happy to just wail on Kalen’s little brute squad only stopping when she has the last conscious member held up by the throat.

The growl she releases is utterly spine chilling, rumbling and guttural like she gargles with hot glass every morning. She holds the man aloft, just inches from her face and demands, “Did Kalen send you?!”

Oh yeah, Taako’s real grateful big lady’s on their side.

As casually as he’s able Taako saunters closer, resting the krebstar against his shoulder, he isn’t flexing or anything but he’s ready. Just in case this whole deal went south and he needs to get moving.

“Uhhhh, hey there Xena warrior princess, thanks for the assist. Totes appreciate it, but who the fuck are you?”

-----

There’s something entirely fucked up about the whole gods awful situation they’re stuck in, one that the fuckwonder lich twins to blame for this entire murder road trip would appreciate. That Magnus has forgotten Kalen but Julia has forgotten Magnus.

Of course he’s the one that figure it out first, because it isn’t hard to figure out but Merle can be so fucking oblivious to this sort of thing. A woman covered in burn scars named Jewel just happens to be on the same trail of trashed towns they are? That’s one hundo percent suspicious as hell but weirder things have happened in their century and some change of existence so Taako takes it in stride. He has to be certain this is the right woman, he can’t get his hopes up just to get them slammed dunked directly into the trash if this really is some crazy happenstance.

So he takes a chance, Taako leaves a duck on her bedroll.

It’s just a hunch, he’s not actually certain that Magnus ever gave Julia a duck but it’s Magnus, he’d give a perfect stranger a beautifully carved duck and be on his way--So the chances he hadn’t ever given Julia a duck seems astronomically small. So Taako sets his trap and waits, tries to be casual about the fact that he’s clearly lingering closer than he needs to by digging a firepit with mage hand. He might as well get dinner started for these chucklefucks anyway, no one else here can cook worth a shit.

He’s watched these shitty telenovela’s where the tragically dead wife appears out of the goddamn ether healthy and hale and sometimes wearing a sweet eyepatch. Jewel doesn't have an eyepatch but she's got burn scars that travel up her entire left side. On her ring finger is a particularly gnarly scar, and he’s damn surprised she didn’t lose it entirely. Granted, it’s not like she seems to be much of a finesse fighter. He’s watched her practically decapitate a man with the blunt edge of her shield, she could lose a finger or two and do just fine.

Her face is--well, he’s pretty sure even if he’d known what Julia had looked like he wouldn’t have recognized her. She’s missing the distinctive tusks of orckind, the way her lips look like they were sewn back together once makes him inclined to think she didn’t lose them willingly. He’s heard of that, half-orcs filing them down but Taako wagers a glance at her when she’s in deep conversation with Merle he sees the gaps.

When he listens to her speak he can hear the smallest lisp that she’s learned to talk around--She’s had them out for a few years then.

----

Jewel isn’t quite sure what exactly hits her, one moment she heaving string of rabbits off her broad shoulders, ready to pull out her skinning knife from her pack when she spots it. Something small and wooden out of the corner of her eye, sat right in the center of her bedroll

Without thinking she drops the rabbits, forgotten behind her as she makes a beeline for the wooden carving--The scent of cherry wood and varnish hits her nose the moment she picks it up and her mind seems to disengage from the world around her. A duck, small and unassuming but artfully carved and the look of it, the feel of the neat grooves beneath her fingers, it snaps something in her heart.

She’s crying--She’s sobbing and she doesn’t know why all she knows is that this little duck, this small insignificant little object means the entire world to her and she just doesn’t know why. Her legs give out beneath her and she stumbles onto her bedroll. She curls onto her side, her entire body curled tight around the duck so nothing can hurt it--Nothing can take it from her ever again.

She had a duck like this once, she can't remember when or where but she can see it in her mind's eye. An echo of the little duck in her hands, passed from smaller hands into her larger ones with the most delicate care. A duck nestled under her arm, a ring on her finger, someone warm hand resting on her hip.

The wood smells like home. Jewel can't breathe.

----

“Woah there, mountain lady--You--Shit--You okay there? You need like--A snack? Fuck--Merle?! Stop flirting with that pine tree and get your ass over here we have a situation!”

Bad plan, well not bad perse because Taako certainly got a reaction out of Jewel but he’d been hoping for a more eureka moment and less fantasy mental breakdown.

----

“Hey Jewel, you feelin’ better?”

“I--Yeah, I’m sorry, I don’t really know what came over me?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, happens to the best of us, ya know?”

“I’m not really sure I do...I’m not really sure I know anything.”

“Well, that’s alright, Taako’s never known anything a day in his life and he’s doing just fine.”

A bark of a laugh made it’s way out of the woman’s throat and Merle felt momentarily satisfied, even as Taako squawked in indignation on the other side of the campfire, “When this is all over, if you’re not completely sick of us yet, I think I’ve gotta friend who might be able to help you out with all that not knowing.”

“Is he another cleric?”

“Oh, hell no, pretty much opposite actually. Real punchy kinda guy, sorta like you actually. A lot like you, he’s from Ravensroost too.”

“Ravensroost...I--I lived there with...my family? I’ve spent as long as I can remember trying to avenge it but--but I can’t even remember why, I just remember the smoke, wreckage, the bodies, and Kalen.”

“Doesn’t seem like a good guy to remember.”

“Understatement of the goddamn century, old man.” Taako snarked as he used mage hand to fiddle with their potatoes roasting in the coals.

“Sometimes I remember things I know how to do, when the innkeeper’s wife took me in when I was healing I helped her make bread, I can’t remember learning it but all the motions are there anyway. One day I was picking up new pans from the blacksmith and I watched him for just a minute and knew he wasn’t quenching his tools right, I think I might have been a blacksmith.”

“Well, then that’s another thing you do know and it’s not anything to do with Kalen!”

“That duck. I remember that duck.”

“Yeah, you sure felt some kind of way about it.”

“It felt like--It felt like home. I didn’t know I remembered home.”

----

Kalen paces across the room, occasionally deigning to glance over at the bound elf. It had been terribly difficult containing him, but Kalen’s been planning this since The Day of Story and Song when he’d learned Magnus was still alive. That had been the moment he’d decided to put an end to the games with His General.

He plans to collect his Lieutenant and they will either play their games again or he will put an end to them once and for all. His chances are so much slimmer, with the revelation as to why his Lieutenant had been so special. An interplanar being, of course, Kalen had been drawn to him--He’s always had such a taste for the exotic.

“Hey, Fuckface. You gonna give me your fantasy Bond speech or do I have to entertain myself?”

Slowly Kalen turns his gaze towards the elf, he’s beautiful enough but so terribly delicate. Like all elves really, all air and no substance--He could place his boot on the thing’s neck and just the lightest weight would snap it. Well, he can’t do that, of course, or else he loses his bait but he puts the thought away for later. After all, he’d obtained quite the interesting polearm from the elf and it will need an accompanying story to tell His General when she’s back to crafting and sharpening his weapons.

“You’re Magnus’ elf. One of them, I suppose.”

“First up, I’m Taako, ya know, from saving the fucking world. Which I know you know because everyone knows. Second, speed up to the monologue," The elf stretches as much as his chains will allow, lounging as if he were a cat in a ray of sun instead of a prisoner in a magic suppressing cell, "I'm getting bored, Governor Fuckboi.”

A slow grin slides onto Kalen’s face as he moves closer and leans against the bars, “Well, what dreadful etiquette to leave a guest without entertainment. Perhaps we can play a game?”

“What about Fantasy Go Fuck Yourself?”

“That’s not very cooperative now is it? I thought you wanted entertainment.”

“Your idea of a game is stalking an amnesiac who you failed to murder. Forgive me if I’m not falling over myself to join you in your fuckboi stalker corner.”

“It should have killed them both.”

“What?”

“I meant to kill them both but they survived. All three of us survived, doesn't that feel like fate?”

“It feels like you’re a goddamn sociopath trying to justify his fucked up murder the hypotenuse plot where he fucking murdered every other member of his delusional love triangle.”

“I’ll admit I jumped the cart a bit, I could have been more patient. If I’d starved the town a little longer or gone after the father they would have handed themselves over. The Burnsides have always been martyrs.”

“With you missing sooner or later Magnus will come, the rest of your little family is a minor inconvenience but with you here as collateral I think that takes care of both fronts nicely.”

“Yeah, lure him here so you can kill Maggie and steal his wife, you’re just a regular fairytale villain.”

“What makes you think I want to kill Magnus? She might be more capable but Waxman is nowhere near so stable without Burnsides to temper her orcish nature.”

“You-You absolute fucking creep! You can't just treat them like a fucking--Some fucking matched set collectible dolls or some bullshit!”

“Of course they're a matched set, The General and Her Lieutenant. I made them what they are, made them heroes, they'd be nothing without me.”

"Magnus has been fifty times the man you'll ever ben for longer than you've been *alive*."

"Perhaps this Magnus isn't the one I knew, but neither is, ah what did you call her? 'Jewel' isn't Julia Waxman, now is she? It's a fresh start, you see sometimes a forest just needs a little *brushfire* to get life growing again. That's what I did for the rebels Raven's Roost, aren't they thriving?"

“I swear to every fucking plane in existence, if I don’t utterly trash your entire fucking face then you can be goddamn guaranteed someone else will do it for me. Your shit has gone on for way too fucking long. Maggie’s got a goddamn army of folks willing to wreck your shit and karma is gonna bite you like a bitch, you despicable troglodyte.”

Kalen licks the blood from his split lip, smearing it against his teeth, and smiles.

"I'll send Magnus your regards when he arrives."

[meteorjamyourdickinme]

Asystole

To: @cndshin From: @meteorjamyourdickinme Rating: T Prompt: Lifeguard AU Message: Thank you so much for this cute request! I had a lot of fun with it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Happy Kagakuro Exchange, and a very, very happy birthday to my favorite redhead <3

Kagami had always been a child of the sea. He’d been raised in the Pacific, knew the blistering sands of California’s beaches like the back of his hand. Spent most of his waking hours playing in the surf. It was an odd pairing, even he had to admit; a fiery spirit and the frigid waves. But there was a camaraderie with the sea, he felt. The restless pull, the violent storms, the unexplored depths. He could sit and stare at the ebb and flow against the shore for hours.

Well, he could. Typically. His ‘sitting and staring at the ocean for hours’ agenda had recently been corrupted by a mop of blue hair and a set of pale shoulders taking up residence in the lifeguard station, however.

The stranger was new. Kagami frequented the beach during the summer, to escape the unbearable humidity of Japan and dwell in the nostalgia of his childhood back home. He was there enough to know that this boy, slathering sunscreen across his nose while poking one finger into his book to keep the breeze from turning the pages, had not been there before this week. He was interesting. Distractingly so.

“Taiga? Hello?” Red eyes blinked, clueless, as the shadow of a waving palm fell over them. “Are you listening to me?”

He glanced over, meeting Tatsuya’s curious gaze.

“…sorry, what?”

Tatsuya sized him up. Looked toward the direction of the lifeguard station, mouth curling in a knowing smirk as he spotted the newbie leaving over the railing to talk to a concerned mother holding the hand of a little girl sporting a purple innertube.  

“Oh, I see. Him again.”

Kagami’s brow instantly knitted in a scowl.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tatsuya rolled his eyes and flopped back along his towel, an arm curled over his forehead, basking in the sun.

“You’ve been staring at him for three days straight.”

Kagami’s cheeks heated in a way that had nothing to do with the July sky.

“I have not!”

“Oh, you’re right,” Tatsuya conceded, snickering under his breath. “I forgot we came down here surfing Tuesday morning. So technically it’s been four days.”

The redhead flicked a handful of sand at his legs.

“Shut up. I’m not staring. I’m just…” The lifeguard was smiling at the mother now. “…looking.”

“…uh-huh.”

Tatsuya didn’t sound convinced. Honestly, Kagami couldn’t blame him. He probably couldn’t have been more obvious if he tried.

But this guy…There was something about him. Maybe because Kagami had never really seen anything like him before.

Slender. Pasty. Unassuming. The last person you would imagine protecting lives out on a crowded beach in the heart of a Japanese summer.

But he had eyes the color of Caribbean water and a smile that was making Kagami’s toes curl into sand and collarbones that he really, really wanted to trace with his tongue. If he wasn’t being too forward.

“…he’s really pretty,” Kagami admitted. Out loud, much to his chagrin.

“You should go say hi. I’m sure he’d find it a lot less creepy than you stalking him all day.”

Instead of erupting into a fitting shade of red, Kagami snorted, leaning back on his elbows in defeat.

“There’s no way in hell I could say hi to him.”

There was a pause. Tatsuya’s arm shifted, one eye squinting in the sunlight at him.

“No way in hell, huh?”

Kagami frowned, knowing that devious tone all too well. The one that meant Tatsuya had an idea, and there was a great chance that said idea was going to make him wish he had never met the boy.

With a lofty noise, Tatsuya stood from his towel, shook the sand from his limbs, and took off in a casual stroll toward the shore.

“Tatsuya!” Kagami hissed, scrambling after him. “What are you doing?!”

The boy ignored him, marching straight into the tide until it washed against his knees. Turned with a flourish. And looked Kagami right in the eye as he flopped into the sea on his back, the water barely covering his chest.

The redhead quirked a dumbfounded brow as Tatsuya shook his hair out and tipped his head back with dramatic flair, and he was just about to ask if he had lost his damn mind when he inhaled sharply.

“Help. Help. I am drowning.”

Oh god, oh god, please for the love of god no.

“Tatsuya!” Kagami waded in after him, dropping to his knees to tug on his shoulders desperately. “Stand up!”

The boy dramatically brought a hand to his forehead instead. Entirely looked the part of a damsel in the greatest of distress.

“Please. Someone. Help me. I am drowning. The water. It’s filling my lungs.”

The monotone shouting was making Kagami blush all the more, and he pulled harder, only succeeding in knocking Tatsuya deeper into the surf. Which made him pretend to sputter and raise his arms toward the sky, embracing his untimely end.

“I see the light. Oh, won’t someone help me? Someone save me. I can’t last much long—“

“Excuse me?”

They both froze. Turned to see the lifeguard standing just beyond them at the shore, waves licking at his ankles. Head tilted curiously, breeze tousling his blue strands. Red swim trunks billowing about. Red really looked good on his hips.

“Um…the water here is shallow,” he continued, gesturing to his own legs for reference. “You could just stand.”

Tatsuya stared. Blinked. Blossomed into a victorious grin that Kagami really wanted to knock off his face.

“This is Taiga,” he announced, pointing up to the redhead, who was frozen in place and looked dangerously close to strangling him.

The lifeguard squinted, and Kagami clasped his hands behind his back and stood innocently, Tatsuya following suit, water sluicing down his chest, a hand clapping Kagami’s shoulder.

“You two get to know each other. I’m gonna go dry off for a bit.”

The pair of them watched in bewilderment as he trudged back onto the beach. And then two icy eyes had him pinned to the horizon. Luckily, they looked more amused than confused.  

“…I’m sorry about him,” Kagami managed, throat tight and words high and fuck, he really looked good up close.

Tempting lips canted in a smile.

“He seems…fun.” Thin fingers twirled around the whistle dangling from his neck. Tugged it absentmindedly. “Taiga-kun, was it?”

His name sounded silvery when he said it. Almost like poetry. Kagami nodded.

“Kagami Taiga.” He swallowed. Grew a bit braver. “Yours?”

“Kuroko Tetsuya.”

“Kuroko Tetsuya,” he repeated. “That fits a lot better than ‘the new lifeguard’.”

Kuroko actually laughed, soft like clouds, and Kagami was certain that his grin had turned into the dopiest thing on the planet.

“You could have just came and asked me my name.”

Maybe the sun had fried his brain. Maybe he’d swallowed too much saltwater. Whatever the case, Kagami was in rare form. He scratched at the back of his neck.

“…I actually do have something to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“Um. W-would you like to go get ice cream with me? L-later, I mean! When your shift’s over! If you want, I mean, you’ve been working all day, you’ll probably be tired and just want to go ho—“

Kuroko’s endeared expression made the words die on his tongue.

“…I like milkshakes.”

Kagami blinked. Slowly melted into that damn goofy smile again.

“Milkshakes work.”

“I get off at seven. Will you still be here?”

“Yeah! Yeah, definitely. I’ll wait as long as I need to. I mean, as long as you want me to.”

Kuroko giggled. Turned and began making his way back to the station.

“I’ll see you at seven then, Taiga-kun.”

Kagami watched, waving his hand after him in dumb acknowledgement until Kuroko was no longer looking. But he was. Looked at blue hair as he left the surf. Looked as he picked his way across hot sand back to their spot. Looked as he flopped down beside Tatsuya.

“You’re staring again.”

Kagami grinned. Folded his arms over the tops of his knees. Noticed that a certain pair of blue eyes would occasionally dart to the side to catch a glimpse of him before being swung out toward the ocean again.

“…I know.”

[kpopfanfictrash]

One Shot (VII)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Chanyeol

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 5,814

Summary:  You’re a deadly assassin, hired to kill bad guys. But what if the bad guy doesn’t seem so … bad?

[Part VI]

That’s when the doorknob turns.

You don’t have time to hide. No time to do anything but freeze when George Lee enters the room. His gaze meets yours, more than a little surprised. Then his eyes narrow, sweeping you from head to toe.

“Hey.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “What are you doing in my office?”

Your mind whirls, struggling to think of something to say. Struggling to think of a way out of this.

Adopting you most innocent expression, you take a step forward. “I’m sorry,” you admit, frowning. “But what are you doing in Chanyeol’s office?”

George Lee raises an eyebrow. “Chanyeol’s office? Sweetheart, you’re in the wrong place.” His gaze moves up your body, landing on your face. “Why are you looking for him, anyways?”

“I’m his housekeeper,” you say, forcing your voice to waver. “He forgot a contract I’m supposed to drop off. Isn’t this his office?” You search through your bag, reading off fake numbers. “11401?”

George laughs. “No. I mean, yes – this is 11401. But 11401 is my office and 11501 is Chanyeol’s.” His smile widens. “While you’re here though, why don’t I show you around?”

The tone of his voice makes your skin crawl. “Oh, that’s okay,” you say, allowing your eyes to drop to the floor. “The wrong room – how embarrassing,” you mutter, taking a quick step past him. “I must have heard the receptionist wrong – or maybe she got mixed up. I’m so sorry, I –"

George’s hand finds your arm, turning you to face him. “Don’t go,” he smiles, cocking his head. “We were just getting to know one another.”

Staring back, something inside you tightens. George has that look about him – that greasy, arrogant look you’ve run from your whole life. You need to leave, need to not raise suspicions any more than you already have, but it’s hard when he looks at you in that way. Not in a suspicious way. No, George Lee would never suspect someone like you capable of fooling him.

He’s looking at you like you’re an object. A woman he wants and thinks he deserves. Your own hands tighten into fists as you force a smile. You want to teach him a lesson but you can’t – George needs to think you’re weak and unassuming. It’s the only way to get past him without raising suspicion.

“That’s very nice,” you say, trying to appear flattered. “But if I don’t get this contract to Mr. Park, I’ll be in a lot of trouble.”

George hesitates and for a horrible moment you think he’s going to say no. For a moment he looks at you before suddenly, he drops your arm. “I understand.” Sighing, George takes a step backwards to run a hand over his hair. It’s not the same effect as Chanyeol. “Perhaps I’ll see you again?”

You allow yourself to nod. “I would like that.”

Before he can respond, you leave. Smiling as you walk away, meandering your way down the hall. You walk casually until you reach the elevator and then you allow your face to fall. You can’t appear unnerved yet, even though every muscle in your body screams at you to run.

Once the doors shut, you exhale. Breathing deeply and leaning on the wall. You have to stay calm until you exit the building. There’s still a chance he could find the recorders – still a chance he could put two and two together. Not that you think he will. At least not, right away.

The way George Lee dismissed you, accepting your excuse with so little questioning just strengthens your suspicion that he’s really the one behind this. George is too naïve, too trusting – too used to getting what he wants. He’s exactly the kind of guy who would fall into the wrong hands and not care who he has to hurt to get out.

When the doors open, you exit. Sweeping a glance over your shoulder at the smiling receptionist. Her initial treatment of you still stings and you grimace as you pass. You really should learn to let the little things go – one day that’s going to bite you in the ass. Outside the sun is shining despite the pit in your stomach, growing ever denser as you walk away.

You only have a week to fix this. Seven days to prove Chanyeol is innocent. Hoisting your bag higher, you walk faster. Now you just have to pray that George Lee is arrogant enough to let something slip because if he doesn’t, you’ll have to rethink your plan.

You’d like to think you’re the only player in this field. You’d like to think that if you refuse to kill Chanyeol, no one else will. This isn’t the case, though and you know that if you say no, someone else will say yes. Your one week extension is a boon but it has its limits. You need to consider the possibility that if you don’t find out what’s going on in seven days… Chanyeol will be fair game to someone else.

The stairs down to the subway are dank and musty, filled with people bustling to their next location. You allow yourself to melt into the crowd, carried away into the subway car. There are no seats, so you stand, careful to angle yourself away from the woman pickpocketing multiple tourists around her.

It’s time to face the reality that this time next week, you may find yourself faced with a difficult question. Well, not really a question. You already know you can’t let Chanyeol die – so then the question is, how do you stop it? The subway doors open with a whoosh, allowing the people inside to pour out.

After quickly replacing the four wallets stolen by that pick-pocketer, you step outside the car. Hurrying the three blocks back to your cold apartment and as you switch on the overhead lamp, you set to work. Unplugging wires and dragging your laptop over to the kitchen table.

Your fingers drum on its surface as it warms up and you know that the audio devices are already transmitting –have been since the time you left George’s office. Those recorders will send information directly to your desktop, creating a transcript and flagging key words in the process. From there you can rewind, slow down – whatever you need.

For now, you just listen. Playing the audio at 1.5x speed to catch up to present time. Mostly George Lee is quiet, typing against the backdrop of a space heater. Occasionally he makes a call – just work colleagues or friends. You listen, grimacing at his tone and words.

“I don’t even care, man,” George laughs. “I won’t go if we’re farther than the fifth row.” There’s the sound of a chair creaking and you assume he’s sat down. “Yeah, well tell her to fuck off. It’d be easier to get two seats than three and I don’t want to be your third wheel.”

Wincing, you adjust the volume on your computer.

“Yeah, well I want to go out. So what if she’s your girlfriend – that doesn’t mean you’re married.”

Charming.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight. See you then.”  There’s a click as George Lee hangs up.

Shoving your headphones down, you stand. Pacing a few steps and turning back to the table, fuming. That little prick. You’re so busy cursing you almost miss the text message lighting up your phone on the table.

Entertain me.

You turn sideways to read the words. Plopping back down to smile, pushing your equipment aside.

How? you type.

Sigh. Must I do everything? :)

Okay, fine. Did you know the word procrustean means enforcing uniformity or conformity without regard to natural variation or individuality?

… from now on, I’m choosing the topic

You said anything…

You’re grinning now, running a hand through your hair. You really should put down your phone – should input all the key words you want to flag for recording. But right now…

Okay, I take that back. Tell me a joke.

Oh Sehun in sweatpants.

Hahaha oh god, why that image?

He’s never worn anything but freshly pressed trousers his entire life, I can guarantee

Came out of the womb like that, I’m pretty sure.

In between texts, you glance at the words flashing on your monitor, reading George Lee’s current business call.

Nah, the deck can’t be right. If you go back to slide 14 the total is 8.4M but the totals on slides 24, 25 and 26 only add up to 7.9M. There’s something missing, tell the analyst to go back and look. Mhmm. And fix the formatting at the bottom – there are double numbers here which…

None of this seems suspect, so you return to your phone. Nearly choking at Chanyeol’s next text.

Bring a change of clothing.

Your fingertips find the keyboard.

Why? Are you planning on spilling food on me?

If that will get you out of your clothing then sure, yes.

… I’ll bring my overnight bag

Okay, my meeting is starting. See you at 6? xx

See you at 6

Grinning stupidly, you set your phone back on the table. And flinch at the words scrolling across the screen.

You have to send me the account number. No – shh. I’m at work, you ass. You can’t call me here anymore.

Breath catching, you bend closer. Hardly daring to believe your eyes.

Call me later tonight at home. I don’t want to take calls here. Bye.

Then he hangs up, his office resuming its previous silence. With your exhale release your worries and tension from the past weeks. What George just said wasn’t enough to implicate him but it’s a start. It’s enough for you to sink back into your seat, feeling simultaneously like laughing and crying.

You were trying not to even think about it, but there was a large part of yourself terrified you were in the wrong here. Scared you were allowing your feelings to cloud your judgment, that you were about to let a criminal walk free. Afraid you were falling in love with one.

The sudden shock of your thought makes you blush. Love?

It’s been a while since you’ve even considered that. It feels… right, though. Not for the first time, you wonder how you got here. Sitting up straighter, you drag your laptop forward and continue to type. Highlighting any word you think could be connected with the investigation.

Debt, account, plan, code, transfer, money, bank, funds, funding.

Anything could be a clue. Then you lean back, staring around your apartment. It’s small, cramped. Messy –at odds with your normal demeanor. It’s an odd path that’s led you to your current life and more often than not, you wonder if this is what you truly want.

You like your job.

That’s a lie.

You feel your job is necessary and you know you’re good at it.

Most of the time you lie and say you’re happy. But actually happiness isn’t an emotion you allow yourself to feel. You can’t, because feeling happy means allowing everything else in. Sadness, guilt, the despair which comes from taking another’s life. Even one as evil and messed up as the lives you normally take. Even lives which have taken the lives of many, many others.

Letting Chanyeol in has made all these emotions come rushing back. You sigh, hair falling forward as you drop your face into your hands. No matter what, this is your last job. It��s been a long time that your anger has kept you going. A burning rage fueling this choice of lifestyle. You needed it at first. You needed the cover of night and steel of metal, needed a purpose to pick yourself back up again.

This job allowed you to heal. Keeping others safe from the same fate you had made you feel like somehow your pain was worth it. If you could protect even one other woman from that harm, you felt mitigated in what had been done to you.

The only problem is, you aren’t angry anymore.

The software you track is designed so if any of the trigger words are said, your phone will receive a text. A beep indicating all highlighted words and conversations. You can pull up the entire transcript as well, so there’s really no reason for you to stay at home. Thus, at 5:30 pm, you head out the door. Walk the familiar streets to Chanyeol’s apartment.

The doorman recognizes you, smiling and waving you in. “Hi, Lou!” you greet him.

Over the past few weeks, the two of you grew accustomed to one another. A knot grows in your stomach as you remember the first time you met. Back then, you were Chanyeol’s housekeeper. Not really, though – you were just posing as his housekeeper.

Inside the elevator you have a silent battle with yourself. One part of you wants to tell Chanyeol. Just come clean and admit why you entered his home in the first place. But then there’s a larger, more cowardly part which says no. If you catch George, why does Chanyeol have to know he was in danger? What’s the point of hurting him?

It’s doubtful he’d believe you, anyways. The idea of you being an assassin is ridiculous. And then, even if he did believe you, what then? You can’t expect Chanyeol to accept that you were hired to kill him. You’re death incarnate. A shadow, on the fringes of society. Chanyeol could never love you if he knew – you’re love’s antithesis, after all.

Which is why you shove your guilt into the pit of your stomach as you enter Chanyeol’s apartment. If in one week’s time you can’t prove Chanyeol is innocent, you’ll have to tell him anyways. Because at that point, you’ll be telling him to run. Your stomach sinks and you jump when the door beside you opens.

“Y/N,” Sehun smiles, holding out his hands. “I can take your coat.” He waits for you to slip from the garment, handing it over to him.

“Thank you.”

Sehun nods at your gratitude, leaving the room.

A familiar head pops around the corner. “I thought I heard you,” Chanyeol calls. He’s still dressed in his work clothes, though his jacket is off. The tie is also gone, leaving him with just a few undone buttons at his collar.

You smile at him. “You said 6:00,” you mock frown, walking towards him. “How dare you arrive before then?”

Chanyeol waits until you’re close before bending to kiss you. “Like I said,” he says, pulling back. “I missed you.”

Just this is enough for your knees to waken. You fold against him, allowing your arms to wrap around his waist. “I did, too,” you admit, His body is warm against yours, comforting. The bubble of guilt inside you grows larger.

“So.” Chanyeol disentangles himself to grab your hand in his. “Come watch me cook.”

Laughing, you follow him into the kitchen. “How demanding.”

“Yes, yes.” Chanyeol frowns. “I’m very intimidating. Today I signed a six million dollar contract and brewed my own tea – all before breakfast.”

You snort, then freeze. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, I’m very good at tea-brewing.”

“No, I meant –” Stopping, you shake your head. “You know what, never mind.”

Chanyeol grins, tying an apron around his waist. The sight is comical, his lanky body and muscles behind a floral-printed cloth and when you laugh Chanyeol makes a face, turning towards the stove. “I hope you’re hungry.” In the midst of stirring, he pauses. “I also hope you have no food allergies, since it just occurred to me I didn’t ask.”

You hop up on his bar stool, leaning over the counter. “Luckily, I’m amendable. Meaning – I’m only allergic to cats and pollen.”

At this, Chanyeol winces. “So then my greenhouse isn’t great for you, huh?”

“I’ll take Benadryl,” you say quietly. “Over my dead body are you getting rid of those flowers.”

Chanyeol glances over his shoulder, smiling softly. “Alright.”

He turns back, stirring on top of the stove once more. You watch him, relaxing for the first time in hours. Not even thinking of George Lee – and so of course, this is the time when your phone decides to chime. Loud and annoying, in the exact pattern you programmed it to respond with. Wincing, you glance at the screen.

Fuck.

Yeah, I’m alone – it’s safe to talk. Look, just tell me the code and be done with it. There’s only one more transfer to make and then I’m in the clear, yeah? Wait, what? You want me to stay? Why? Ugh. Fine. I’ll stay until 10:00 but it better be Larkin himself calling. Bye.

The words code and transfer are highlighted in red. Blinking rapidly in the middle of the conversation. You groan, glancing up from your screen to meet Chanyeol’s curious gaze.

His smile falters at your expression. “What’s wrong?”

“How do you know something’s wrong?”

“I can tell,” he muses, tilting his head to one side. “What’s up?” Chanyeol’s gaze is calm and for a moment you remember that this man is the owner of a multi-billion dollar corporation. Famous for being able to see through people, for understanding them. Then Chanyeol shrugs, and this version of himself disappears. “Sorry,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Sometimes I forget that not everyone is out to bullshit me.” He turns, slipping something into his pan. “Anyways, what’s wrong?”

At his words, the smile disappears from your face. He’s not wrong – you are bullshitting him. But you can’t tell him that while he’s still in danger and you’re so close. Pushing your sleeves up, you sigh. “My aunt just texted,” you lie. “There was kind of a situation and I really have to go.”

Chanyeol’s face falls as he turns back to face you. “Oh.”

Standing, you move around the counter. “Can we do a rain check on tonight?” you ask, staring up at him. “I’m so sorry.”

Chanyeol nods, thought his expression is carefully blank. “Sure.”

The sound of his voice kills you, so small and unsure. “Tomorrow night,” you promise. “I swear.”

Chanyeol smiles. “Okay, okay,” he sighs. “Go on – I’ll be fine. We’ll do this tomorrow night.” Grabbing your hand, he kisses it quickly. “I did see you twice today, after all.”

Your eyes glimmer as you turn, scooping your phone into your bag. “That’s true,” you muse, starting your way down his hall. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll stop by for lunch tomorrow.”

The sound of Chanyeol’s spoon clattering to the counter is the last thing you hear.

The second you step foot outside Chanyeol’s building, you move into a jog. Pulling your earbuds free to listen in on George Lee. He said 10:00 pm is the time of this call with someone named Larkin. You’ve already forwarded the transcript of his conversation to your boss, receiving a quick response from him to stay close. They’re looking into things now, tracking down calls and transfers from George Lee’s accounts. They’ll get back to you as soon as there’s concrete evidence Chanyeol is being framed.

Still though, you’re itching to do something. To go to George’s office, make sure he doesn’t get away with this. He can’t get away with this. Thinking quickly, you pull out your phone to send a message to your boss.

Who’s Larkin?

His response back is succinct, to the point. Just like him.

Larkin is the crime ring Chanyeol is suspected of funding. Or George is, depending on what our findings show.

You swallow. So this Larkin is the real enemy. You walk faster, anger flooding your stomach. You understand why the direction of this mission was to kill Chanyeol. Stopping the money trail stops crime much more effectively than killing any one person. But it still seems wrong, that this Larkin would get to continue on while Chanyeol almost died.

Shaking your head, you duck into the wind. Listening harder to the silence of George Lee’s office. Silence interspersed every now and then with the crinkle of papers, tapping of keys to let you know he’s still there. Waiting for a call from Larkin.

Once you reach your apartment, you sprint up the stairs. Slamming your door to drop into your chair. You stare at the green lines on your laptop, visible recordings from George’s office. You check your phone again. Nothing. Why hasn’t your boss called with more directions?

On the other end of your headphones, George Lee spills. You hear the unmistakable splash, the sounds of his cursing and faltering. Then the phone rings and he groans, torn between cleaning and answering the call. Its 10:00 on the dot though, and you listen to George Lee answer the phone.

“Hello?” He sounds agitated. Then sucks in a breath, surprised. “Larkin?”

His tone makes you wonder if George has ever actually spoken with the head of the crime ring before.

“Right, right – sorry. I won’t use your name. Anyways.” George sounds strained and you wonder what’s going on before remembering the spill and realizing he’s probably cleaning. “We need to talk,” George continues. “I don’t think this framing of Chanyeol is such a good idea. I – holy shit.”

Leaning forward, you adjust your headphones. What just happened? Why did George suddenly stop talking? When George Lee starts to swear, you blink in confusion.

On your laptop screen, one of the five green lines go black.

A chill runs down your spine. One of your recording devices has been stopped.

“FUCK.” George’s voice is high-pitched and frantic. “Larkin,” he hisses, completely forgetting to use a code name. “I just found – oh, fuck. Larkin, I think my office is bugged.”

No one from the other end of the line answers. And then you hear harsh words – yelling, but too vague to make out what’s being said. You hear sounds of George standing, pacing. There’s a crash when he overturns a piece of furniture. You still have four more recorders hidden so you can still hear for now. You don’t doubt George will find those too, though.

Another green line disappears on your screen.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Standing, you strain to hear as you scramble for your bag.

“I just remembered.” George is blabbering now, panicked – rightly so. “Chanyeol’s housemaid was here today.”

You freeze in the middle of throwing equipment into your black bag.

“She came here and I didn’t think anything of it, thought she was lost but what if he knows? What if he’s the one who bugged me? Larkin, what if he knows?”

There’s increased mumbling but you’re not listening anymore. Instead you stand, flinging your bag onto your back and steeling your face.

“Okay,” George says. There’s a creak as he falls into his chair. “Okay, fine. Send someone. Whatever. I don’t care. Do what you have to do. Get rid of Park Chanyeol.”      

“Yeah, I think I got them all.”

The last green line goes dark.

Now there’s just a buzzing of static in your ears. You close your eyes, opening them once again with newfound purpose. Over your dead body will they hurt Park Chanyeol.

Your trip back to his apartment is hastened by fear and rage. You don’t enter the lobby, knowing full well Larkin’s men will be expecting this. Now that they know you’re also involved – you’re a target too.

Instead you head to the back alley. Sliding on special gloves and dropping your bag at your feet. Your harness goes around your waist and you aim a special gun at the top of his building. Pausing and squeezing the trigger as a cord flies out. You feel the rope dig into the side of the building and pull once to test its security.

As you start to climb, you ignore the cold wind at your back. Forget the blood pounding through your veins. You focus on the movement, on small, sure steps to blend into the side of the building. Along the way you let out several explicit epithets at Chanyeol just having to live in the Penthouse. He couldn’t have picked the second floor, could he? No, that would have been too easy.

You’re winded when you reach the top, shakily pulling yourself over the ledge to land on the other side. Chanyeol’s greenhouse is tall, dark and silent beneath the moonlight. You crouch behind it, scanning the balcony for other visitors. Larkin’s people won’t have wasted time and your blood runs cold at the thought of Chanyeol already being dead.

But no. You can’t let yourself consider this as an option. That’s when you spot it – the dark, slim shadow slinking down Chanyeol’s hallway. You’re off before you have a chance to think about it, running before you can formulate a solid plan.

You’re not sure how the other man got inside, but it’s hardly important now. The entirety of Chanyeol’s apartment is dark, so you have to assume he’s gone to bed. Thank god he did, because otherwise they probably would have just sent a sniper. One quick shot and that would be that. Instead Larkin sent a ground agent – someone for you to fight. You can do that.

The patio door is locked but that’s not a problem. One quick elbow breaks your way in and you make a mental note to replace this as soon as this is over. Chanyeol should really have better security than a lock which breaks with applied pressure. You slip inside, pausing in the doorway. His cameras are all on but right now that doesn’t matter – what matters is protecting Chanyeol.

The dark shape is right Chanyeol’s bedroom, easing open his door. You break into a run, straining hard but just one look at the distance tells you he’s too far. You’ll never reach him in time.

The man raises his gun, aims.

“HEY, ASSHOLE!”

He turns, surprised by your entrance, and the bullet whizzes harmlessly into a wall. Now you reach him, barreling forward to tackle him to the ground. Elbowing him over the head and knocking him back as your lower body pins him in place. Quickly, you grab his gun. Dismantling it and dropping the clip into your hand.

Within Chanyeol’s bedroom come the sounds of him stirring, awakened by the gunshot. Beneath you the man bucks in an attempt to knock you off but you grab his head – slamming him hard enough to daze, but not wound him. “No,” you murmur, tilting your head. “You’re not going anywhere. The police are on their way.”

This is true. On your desperate dash over, you called your boss. Explained the situation as you flat-out sprinted, forwarding the last recorded message onwards. In that conversation George admitted to framing Chanyeol. Point-blank agreed to kill him. There should be no more question as to Chanyeol’s innocence and in response, your boss called in back-up. They were too far away, though – which means you need to hold this man off until they arrive.

Beneath you, he stills. Allowing his head to fall back against the floor. The other assassin wears a black ski mask, a strip of white across his eyes all that’s visible. “You can’t save him,” he laughs. “We’re unstoppable, unbeatable. We’re –"

“Y/N?”

Chanyeol. You hear him enter the hall but don’t look, unwilling to be distracted right now. “Chanyeol,” you say, gritting your teeth. “Stay back.”

Your muscles are strained and you’re starting to wish you’d packed a tranquilizer gun. The cold metal against your hip is your only option right now – but you can’t quite bring yourself to use it. You find yourself not wanting another death on your hands tonight.

Chanyeol steps into your vision. “Y/N, what the fuck is going on?” he demands, his voice low. He sounds calm, but you know he’s probably freaking out.

“I’ll explain later,” you grimace, glancing upwards. The other assassin wriggles beneath you, attempting to move his hand. Finding his head with your hands, you knock him again against the floor. “Right now I’m a little busy.”

Chanyeol’s eyes widen at the sight. He grabs his phone, bringing it to his ear. “I’m calling the police,” he announces. Then pauses, raising an eyebrow. “I should call the police, right? This isn’t some dirty cop?”

Nodding, you shift your weight. Trying to keep your arms from shaking. “They’re already on their way,” you confirm.

Beneath you, the guy is continuing to move. You refocus your attention on him, moving to backhand but recoil at the expression on his face. His eyes are wild, vindictive and it’s then that you notice his hand has worked itself free. In his hand he holds a knife. You gasp, pulling back but before you can, he’s plunged it into your side.

Screaming, you collapse on top of him when the pain slices through you. Somehow keeping your wits about you, you roll off to kick the knife from his grasp. Another kick sends him flying sideways into the table. Chanyeol lunges for the knife before the other man can, staring at it wide-eyed. He stumble towards you, but you hold out at hand.

“Bitch,” you hiss, facing the other assassin.

Your hand is clutching your side, shakily trying to hold yourself together. Blood trickles from the spaces between your fingers. The pain is blinding, vision starting to mist into darkness but you press forward. Focusing on the task at hand: protecting Chanyeol.

When you reach him, you stare down. Dropping to one knee, because you find yourself no longer able to stand. “You won’t get to him,” you whisper, pulling your gun free from your holster. Your blood flows openly now as you clench down on the gun, turning its safety off.

And then you stare at the man, wide-eyed beneath you and find your hands suddenly trembling. Slowly, you lower the gun to your side. Lower it, and then club him over the head with it. The man collapses to the ground before you, suddenly unconscious.

That’s when you let go of your side, gasping as the pain surges through your body. Your red-washed hand finds the floor, struggling to support the weight of your body. Sirens wail in the distance. Chanyeol moves towards you and you stare blankly back, reaching out your hand as your vision fades.

The steady beep of a machine wakes you and for a moment, you think you’re in your apartment. You’re in your kitchen, monitoring George Lee and just happened to fall asleep. But no, you’re lying in a bed.

Blearily, you shove open your eyes. You’re in a hospital. This wakes you, scrambling upright as memories of the last time you woke in a similar position wash over you. You shiver as your heart races, remembering the morning with chilling clarity.

Then your eyes find the chair by the window and your pulse slows, realizing this time is not the same as the last. This time, you’re not alone.

Chanyeol sits slumped in the armchair, long limbs sprawled as he snores. His dark hair falls into his eyes, rising and falling with each breath. After a long moment, your eyes move past him to survey the rest of the room.

Everything is fuzzy, the details of the room slipping through your grasp, so you assume you’re currently on painkillers. That would make sense given the IV in your arm and bandage around your waist. You can’t see it through of the flimsy hospital gown, but can feel the wrappings against your body. Gingerly you poke your side, wincing at the sensation. Moving to lift your sheets when –

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

You start, dropping your covers to meet Chanyeol’s eyes. He’s awake, still collapsed on the chair but alert and focused on you. Staring with a blank expression that conceals any hint of what he’s feeling. Suddenly you’re very aware of how you look. No makeup on, sweaty from surgery. Lying in unflattering lighting in an unflattering room.

“What are you doing here?” Your eyes dart to the door when Chanyeol stands, walking closer. “Who let you in? I’m post-op, you shouldn’t even – “

Chanyeol brushes aside your concerns when he kisses you. Tilting your face to press his lips to yours. His movements are slow, soft and you find yourself melting into him. Reaching forward as his fingers brush your hair away. “Sh,” he murmurs, pulling back to rest his forehead against yours. “Don’t touch me. You’re not supposed to raise your arms above your waist.”

You snort, surprised at his second kiss. “But,” you blink when he pulls away. “Why are you here?”

Chanyeol takes a seat beside your bed, frowning. “What,” he asks, expression curious, “you think I’d just leave you after you took a knife for me? I’m insulted at your surprisingly low opinion of my character.”

Shakily, you push yourself upwards.

Chanyeol pushes you back down.

“But…” Your eyes wander. “Did they – do you… know?”

Slowly, he nods. “I know.” On top of your bed, Chanyeol’s hand finds yours. “I know that you saved me.”

Staring back, you shake your head. “Chanyeol, I was told to kill you.”

“But you didn’t.” Chanyeol’s gaze is fierce, determined. “Instead, you convinced everyone I was innocent. Found out who was really at fault.” Sadness creeps across Chanyeol’s face and you remember George Lee was once his friend. “And then when my life was truly in danger, you saved me.”

Your breath hitches. “But still –"

Chanyeol shakes his head. “No,” he frowns. “You can’t help what you were asked to do. You can’t help your circumstances – only your actions.”

This gives you pause. But still. “Chanyeol,” you sigh, gaze dropping to your lap. “I’ve killed people.”

“Yes.” Chanyeol’s voice is thoughtful. “They told me how much sorrow you’ve prevented by doing so. How many lives you’ve saved, overall.”

Glancing back up, you wonder if you’re about to cry. It’s probably just the awful mix of exhaustion and relief, pain and painkillers but you’re finding it hard to stay stoic right now. Finding it hard to be strong. Chanyeol’s hands tighten around yours.

“Y/N,” he whispers, hand rising to your face. “I know. Your boss told me everything and if you think for one minute that I’d not want to be with you, I’d like you to think again. Quite frankly, the fact that you even doubted me is a little –"

This time, you’re the one who kisses him. You’re the one who laughs, ignoring the tears threating to spill over. When you pull away, Chanyeol smiles down at you. “Thank you,” you murmur.

“For what?”

“You keep saying that I saved you,” you say, voice quiet. “I rather think it was the other way around.”

Chanyeol’s eyes lighten, his gaze sweeping his face. “Fuck,” he sighs.

You start, glancing around the room. “What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s just.” He pauses, looking at you. “I really want to kiss you, but the doctors told me I’m supposed to be gentle.”

A glam enters your eyes and you shrug, interlacing your fingers with his. “Hey,” you grin, leaning forward. “Now that you know who I am – I’d like to see them try and stop me.”

[Master List]

Author’s Note: Thank you to everyone who supported this series! This is the end of One Shot - hope you enjoyed the ride 💕