#yes I know that he’s supposed to look like a gargoyle

[applecidersstuff]

Please tell me that Im not the only one who, during the parts where Alina describes beast Nikolai, pictures him like this

With maybe a little less fur and looking more humanish

[wibben]

Occupational Hazards

Friends Nanami and Higuruma go on a duo mission together... and fall victim to some unexpected effects.

↳ pairing: hiromi higuruma x kento nanami

↳ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, bottom!higuruma, top!nanami, sexual tension, sex pollen, forced proximity, friends to enemies to lovers, rough anal sex, fighting, cum is lube, both a bit OOC but we can blame the pollen, generally feral behavior

↳ wc: 13,675

↳ notes: nanami art by @ hikonom on twitter, higuruma art by @ saksak_kazz on twitter. i hope you enjoy <3

“Ah, good, you’re here too!” Higuruma greeted amiably, sauntering into the meeting room with steaming coffee in hand, the kind of shitty, bitter stuff the staff room machine spit out. But at least it woke him up, so maybe that was by design. Sleepy sorcerers were more often than not dead ones. Sinking into the cushioned couch with an early morning groan, arm draped lazily across the backrest, he sighed into the steam.

He tapped, tapped, tapped his paper cup with dancing fingers. “Actually… any idea why we’re here?”

Smack!

Nanami dropped a manila folder onto the table between them with a sharp flick, his expression tight with irritation. “This.” He muttered, the frustration clear in his voice, offering no further explanation.

Higuruma raised a sloping brow and lifted his coffee to his lips, peering pityingly over the warped plastic lid. He is not as bothered by this intrusion to the beginning of his weekend, years spent tethered to work had numbed him to the inconvenience.

Unlike Nanami, who needed it pried away and leaves it with claw marks, spitting smoke like a raging dragon, he is not as jealously possessive of his freetime. Higuruma had long since learned to surrender it with little more than a resigned sigh and a wave in the rearview mirror.

Higuruma bent forward, placing his coffee on the table and knuckled it slowly across to Nanami, the way one might endear oneself to a stray animal. He needed it more, Higuruma thought.

The silence in the room turned meditative, broken by a deep grounding breath from the other man as he watched his plans of baking, and reading, and relaxing and no responsibility turn to dust. Deep breath in… he could bake next weekend and perhaps treat himself to a new book,  luck permitting maybe he would even start it… and breathe out. It gave Nanami a moment to cool, to steady himself before—

Gojo burst into the room, all gale-force energy and unfiltered exuberance, with a complete disregard for any semblance of professionalism and ignorant of the air of resentment stewing from the rigid blonde-turned-gargoyle sitting in the chair across from him.

“Great, you’re both here!” Gojo’s voice was far too chipper for the hour. “Perfect timing. I’ve got a fun little job for you two.”

Nanami looked up, unimpressed, maybe a little murderous. “Are you well aware that it’s a Friday afternoon? Which means that tomorrow is Saturday , which is the weekend and I absolutely will not—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Gojo flapped a dismissive hand as he flopped into the chair opposite them, leaning back with an air of nonchalance that had a vein pulsing in Nanami’s temple. Higuruma watched on with warring amusement and pity, both hidden surreptitiously behind steepled fingers where he kissed his teeth, resisting the overtaking urge to laugh.

“Anyway, there’s this small issue out in the middle of nowhere. Some cursed incidents, blah blah blah, you know the drill. Strange happenings, couples murdering each other nearby— you get the picture, right? Easy peasy. Easy enough to send one of the students really, they could do it in their sleep! I really can’t stress enough how easy it’s gonna be.”

Higuruma raised an eyebrow, finally speaking. “You were supposed to handle this one, weren’t you?”

“Yes, technically,” Gojo grinned, not at all sheepish and wholly unapologetic. “But there’s this festival I’ve been dying to check out. They’ve got all sorts of sweets—mochi, taiyaki, ice cream, you name it! I mean, why waste my time on some low-grade curse when my time is better spent there?”

Nanami’s frown deepened, if that were possible. “This is below our paygrade, then.”

“Exactly! Very astute, Nanamin!” Gojo cheered, completely missing—or more likely ignoring —Nanami’s tone. “Which is why you two are perfect for the job. You can handle it in no time and be back before the weekend’s over. Unless you’d rather join me at the festival? But fair warning, you’ll have to keep up with me while I sample everything. ”

He leaned forward, blinding smile growing wider as if offering the deal of a lifetime complete with spread open palms. But to both Nanami and Higuruma who glanced at each other, reading, it looked much closer to a threat. “So, what do you say? Curse or confections?”

Nanami didn’t even hesitate. “Tell Ijichi to prepare the car.”

Gojo sighed dramatically, as if truly disappointed they weren’t taking him up on his generous offer. “You two are no fun. But alright! You’ll be staying up there, got a place all set up for you. Should be a walk in the park—” he clapped his hands, standing and swaying forward—then back—on mile-long legs.

“Anything else we should know?” Higuruma asked, leaning back in his seat with clinical consideration. Details, details, details —

Gojo shrugged, already halfway out the door with a flippant wave over his shoulder. “Nothing you can’t handle. Just try not to kill each other before the curse does, yeah? Oh, and if you change your mind—”

“We won’t,” Nanami cut him off, already gathering his things.

Higuruma blinked, leaning forward now. Where were the details?

Gojo’s laugh echoed down the hallway as he disappeared, leaving the two men to contemplate the unfortunate turn their day had taken. Higuruma sighed. “He really has a way with words, doesn’t he?”

Nanami simply scowled. “Inconsiderate… incorrigible… no work ethic— ” he muttered, brushing his hands over a wrinkleless suit as he stood. “Let’s get this over with.”

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Sleek black wheels hummed along winding woodland backroads, the thick forest outside morphed into a smudgy, dark green blur. Ijichi was laser-focused on the drive, his hands gripping the wheel with his usual sweaty-palmed intensity.

Higuruma gazed out the window and traced the endless stretch of trees with his eyes until they swam with dizzy shapes. He watched until his head felt uncomfortably light, swooping his attention down to his stationary lap for a reprieve. This place was really out there… strange location for a curse.  

“You know,” Higuruma's voice slipped through the quiet, “it could be worse.” He leaned back, letting the car seat handle him as he let out a slow breath. “At least this should be simple. We like simple.”

Beside him, Nanami was the picture of calm, a book delicately cradled in one long-fingered hand. He’d had enough time to calm down, to temper his frustration with resignation; it couldn’t be helped… and this was somehow still better than the alternative of a day stuck with Gojo.

He gave a small, noncommittal hum, flipping a page. He’d long ago trained himself out of car sickness, these drives now offering a rare slice of interim peace—a chance to slowly make dents in his ever-growing reading list. 

“True,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the lines of text. “And I suppose the company could be worse, hm?”

Higuruma turned his head and the beginning of a smile swept over his mouth. “Oh, so much worse,” he agreed, letting his temple knock against the cool glass of the window. “We’ve been through enough to appreciate these quiet ones. In and out.”

Nanami’s eyes remained trained on his book, but there was the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“In and out,” he repeated.

“Maybe we can unwind after this. Grab a drink, like last time.” Nanami's offer slipped out off-hand as he flipped the page, more a passing thought than a concrete plan. If his weekend was going to be hijacked, he might as well make the most of it. And really, drinking with the person he'd be spending it with anyway didn’t seem like the worst idea. Higuruma was good company, always had been.

Higuruma’s grin was immediate, approval reflected briefly in the window’s glass. “I like the way you think!”

As the forest thickened and the road ahead narrowed, their destination creeping closer, there was no tension, no unease. Nanami was not so foolish to ever feel safe on the job, but with Higuruma, he felt something suspiciously close to it.

It was just a simple in-and-out mission—nothing they hadn’t dealt with before.

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The sun dipped low on the horizon by the time they arrived, splashing the sky with dramatic strokes of orange and pink that belonged more in an ornately framed and hung painting rather than on the front lines of the job.

As Ijichi brought the car to a crunchy halt on the gravel drive, the sound felt louder than it should have—like the world itself held its breath the same as the three men wrapped in the security of their vehicle. Three heads cranked towards windows and their cheeks squished against fogged glass as they took in their lodgings with the sort of veneration of stumbling upon the carcass of a dead god.

This place felt lost.

Old and rotted wood, planks speared from the sides like splintering teeth, green with creeping lichen and constricting vines that curled around every corner and nook and cranny like veins; pumping life into that which is lifeless, keeping alive that which should’ve long been dead.

Nanami was the first out after a brief moment's hesitation, smoothing his hands down his front and looking prepared to walk into a boardroom rather than the mouth of potential doom. It served to swipe away the sudden sweat on his palms.

The cabin that stood before them looked deceptively quaint, even in its disrepair, like something he’d find on a postcard if he ignored the way it crouched amidst the trees like it was prepared to pounce on them. He also ignored the way it made him want to twist his neck in submission, the instinct to drop to his knees in dogeza and scrape his forehead against the gravel before the steps.

Silence blanketed thick, the kind that makes you strain your ears for something—anything—to break it. But there was nothing. No birdsong, no chirping crickets, no croaking frogs or snapping branches of unseen wildlife. Too quiet, even for somewhere this remote. Like this space existed in its own bubble.

His face remained neutral as he swept the area, taking in the unsettling stillness with a mild frown. He couldn’t sense anything—no curse, no cursed energy, none of the obvious residuals Gojo mentioned.

Quirky little cabin, quirky little mission—Nanami would’ve preferred to be at home with a quirky glass of whiskey instead… not here swallowing nerves like a knock-kneed boy.

Higuruma stepped up beside Nanami, tracing the lines of the cabin’s exterior. It was a shithole. He didn’t see the dissonant charm in it that Nanami did, however faint. It was falling apart, the roof looked a good wind away from caving, and somehow it looked designed that way, because surely it would’ve fallen by now if it was ruined by time.

Something about it felt too perfect, too staged, like it was posing for a picture it knew would be taken—just waiting for someone to notice the way the door seemed to yawn like a hungry mouth, welcoming them to step inside its belly.

He allowed himself a moment of frankly healthy mortal terror before he shook it off.

They were professionals, after all. There was no room for jitters before they’d even crossed the threshold. Especially not because of a house.

Ijichi, meanwhile, looked like he might bolt if given half a chance. His hand shook a little as he passed over their overnight carry ons, eyes darting around like he expected the trees to start whispering or something equally unnerving. Not somewhere he wanted to be at night.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to pick you up. Call if you need anything sooner,” he said, trying to sound official, though there was an unmistakable thread of relief that unraveled his voice that he at least gets to leave. He was already halfway back into the car as the last words left his mouth, and Higuruma had to check an eyeroll.

They all felt it, which made him feel marginally better… but that couldn’t be a good sign.

With a final nod, Ijichi took off, the crunch of gravel beneath his tires fading into the distance all too quickly as the sun dipped behind the trees.

Nanami took point after a few seconds more of silent calculation, leading the way up the short, gravelly path toward the door. The wooden door creaked as he nudged it open, a slow, ominous drone that echoed the wrapped hilt of his blade in his closing palm, the sound hung in the air as a sword of damocles—the whole scene balanced on the edge of a razor, expectant and waiting for something to tip it over.

The floors beneath their feet groaned, clearly unimpressed with the sudden intrusion. Nanami was certain the whole place would feel just as unsettling as the outside had, but when they stepped fully into the cabin, they both paused. It was… beautiful.

The room basked in golden light, courtesy of old-fashioned lamps that dotted the space with a gentle, inviting glow. Each piece of furniture advertised rustic charm, worn edges and sturdy frames that practically begged to be sat on. The walls, too, adorned with an array of knickknacks and decorations—each item meticulously arranged.

It was the kind of obviously lived-in space that could lull you into a sense of comfort if you weren’t careful, the kind of place where you could almost forget about the string of suspicious mariticides that had brought them here in the first place.

It was strange, but it was also nice. And in their line of work, nice was a luxury.

Higuruma twisted around Nanami’s back, breathing out a small surprised huh! as he took in the unexpectedly charming interior.

“Not bad,” he remarked, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as he set his bag down on the worn wooden floor. His fingers slowly uncurled from his gavel, knuckles no longer white. “Looks like someone put some thought into the inside, at least.”

“Seems that way,” Nanami agreed, and he was already moving toward the heavy wooden table at the center of the room. He rummaged through his bag—though there wasn’t much to unpack, given the brevity of their planned stay.

Meanwhile, Higuruma allowed himself a moment to wander, not quite settled and seeking to stake out each and every corner of their accommodations, taking in the small details that made the place feel oddly inviting, idly picking up decorations from shelves with an appraising eye—

—and behind them, the door slowly hushed shut, the lock slipping into place with a soft click. Neither man noticed.

Higuruma plucked a ceramic owl from the mantle, his nose wrinkling; not at the decor, which really he found rather charming, but at the streaky, off-yellow trail of dust left in the wake of its removal. He huffed, mentally filing the complaint away.

It wouldn’t do to bring it up to Nanami, not when he was already less than thrilled about being out here at all.

He swiped a finger through the dust, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, eyes narrowing in distaste. Filthy.

His nose twitched, and before he could stop it, a great inhale heralded the inevitable. Higuruma sneezed, the force of it sending up a poof of air that stirred the greater nest of dust bunnies, erupting the mantle into a cloud of yellow powder.

Coughing and cursing, Higuruma hastily set the owl back down and waved a hand in front of his face, stumbling back in a desperate attempt to escape the dusty assault.

Nanami only snorted, amused, offering a polite albeit unconcerned “bless you” over his shoulder. He only looked up when Higuruma continued to cough, bent at the waist and hands planted firmly on cocked knees.

“Are you alright?” He asked, already side-stepping the table to get to him.

“No,” Higuruma spat, straightening with watery eyes and a yellow dusted face. Nanami tried not to laugh at his misfortune.

“Gojo is a filthy, good for nothing liar,” he continued, and at that Nanami could only hum in sympathetic agreement.

“Got a place set up for us my ass, it’s not even clean—what if I had a dust allergy, huh? I could’ve died, right then and there!”

Nanami turned to the sink, wetting a sheet of paper towel and returning to Higuruma with a frown, handing it over. “Well it’s a good thing you don’t, then.”

“But if I did—”

“You don’t.”

Higuruma growled, mulish, but accepted the towel and scrubbed it over his face. Nanami, in an effort to be helpful, patted down Higuruma’s shoulders. But the dust was stubborn, it clung to his hands like childrens chalk, and it was already coating his own suit from how the dust was roused into the air, catching sunbeams as it swirled and resettled.

Beige was a forgiving color, and he found himself grateful for his preference of the shade over Higuruma’s black suits. Too easy to ruin. Impractical, really.

The more he cleaned, the more Higuruma’s initial anger waned, though a faint prickle remained—a persistent itch beneath his skin, in his nose, his hair, and even his mouth. It made him feel twitchy, uncomfortable, but nothing a hot shower couldn’t fix. He sighed, shaking off the lingering disgust with a few quick flaps of his hands.

“What do you think the odds are that we could get takeout delivered all the way out here? I’m starving.”

Nanami paused in his idle, and admittedly futile, attempts to brush the dust from Higuruma’s suit and sighed. “I wouldn’t count on it. No delivery driver would venture this deep into the woods for us. And if they did, by the time the food arrived, it would be cold and hardly worth the effort.”

“Hm.” Higuruma’s responding grunt was vaguely agreeable. Eyes slipped a longing look at the cabin’s surprisingly well-equipped kitchen. “Guess we’re on our own. I can whip up something decent.”

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “... Since when do you cook?”

“Hey,” Higuruma retorted, hands on his hips with offense and leaving yellow smudgy prints in the fabric. “I’m more than capable in the kitchen, thank you.”

Nanami couldn’t suppress a small smile at that. “I enjoy cooking, but if you insist.”

“Oh, I do,” Higuruma declared with exaggerated seriousness, though the competitively playful glint in his eyes betrayed him. “Just sit back and relax. Or sweep up some dust if you really need to be helpful. Now, shoo—out of my kitchen—”

Nanami laughed, allowing himself to be fluttered and pushed out of the room, shuffling along and casting a quietly fond look over his shoulder.

“Please refrain from setting off smoke alarms.”

Higuruma rolled his eyes, already moving back towards the kitchen. “Just watch. You’ll be begging me to cook more often after this.”

Higuruma started by rifling through the fridge, the pantry, and the cabinets above the sink; rattling glass jars and shuffling cardboard boxes. Gojo wasn't lying about this part at least: the kitchen was set up for them. Fully stocked, and Higuruma reckoned he might actually be able to make something of it. He grinned, feeling pretty confident about his odds. “Beef curry?”

“...mmm.”

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The cabin was all warm, sappy hues as the sun sank fully behind the trees, painting shadows that reminded Nanami of hot cocoa and knitted blankets, the kind of coziness that comes with soft lamps and fairy lights strung along high beamed ceilings. Outside, the dark now released from the creeping treeline pressed inky hands against the windows.

Nanami leaned back in his chair, eyeing the remnants of his meal on the plate with a neutral stare.

There was something off about it.

His desire not to discourage Hiromi’s good intentions naively outweighed his logic though, because he still ate it all, and maybe he would regret that decision later. It wasn’t bad , not even close—there was no taste of rot or spoil, but something that made his mouth tingle and heart thud unlike any curry seasoning he’d ever had.

“Not bad,” he said, setting his fork down with a measured nod. “Your choice in spices was a bit odd… but not bad at all.”

Higuruma felt awful.

He’d stomached it well, with pinched temples he quietly nursed the headache that crept up during the meal like a bad aftertaste, but stiffened ramrod straight at Nanami’s comment.

His brain thudded, thudded, thudded , each beat a jagged staccato as the words sank in, scraping like sandpaper against his nerves. “Not bad?” he echoed, biting through the cozy atmosphere with a bare-tooth grimace. “What do you mean not bad? It was delicious.”

Nanami blinked, surprised by the sudden sharpness and delicately ran a napkin over his mouth. He coughed awkwardly. “I was just offering feedback. It really wasn’t bad.”

The room suddenly felt warmer—too warm. Nanami dismissed it as the lingering heat from the stove, or maybe the spices from the curry, now irritatingly intense as he felt sweat gathering under his collar like humid, panting breaths against his nape.

Higuruma dug his fingers into his temples again, trying to rub away the tension that settled there like a thick fog. It made him woozy, he felt off balance. “Well, I didn’t ask for feedback,” he snapped, the words tumbling out with more venom than he’d intended. He wasn’t usually one to snap so quickly, but something about Nanami’s mild criticism was needling him tonight like a splinter under his skin.

Nanami’s frown deepened. “There’s no need to get so worked up; I apologize for my comment—”

“Worked up?” Higuruma’s dark eyes sparked like lit kindling with a sudden flash of anger. He shoved his chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the wooden floor. “You’re the one who started nitpicking. If your standards are so damn high, maybe you should’ve cooked!”

The air between them was heavy with ozone, tension slithered in, curling around the edges of their fraying tempers like blotting vines feasting on their discomfort. The silence that followed was heavy, anticipatory, and those vines grew roots and then fingers, curling into Nanami’s limbs and tightening the muscles on his face into a silent glare.

Nanami gathered up the dishes with a little too much force, the plates clattering together in a way that made the small space shrink smaller, the echoes bouncing off the walls and settling in the corners like something dark and brooding. The darkness that licked at the windows oozed its way inside.

Higuruma crossed his arms, feeling his irritation spike when Nanami turned his shoulder, hot and irrational, a screeching tea kettle in very real danger of boiling over completely. Don’t you dare ignore me.

“ Honestly, if your standards are so high, I’m surprised you tolerated it at all. My apologies for displeasing your precious palate.”

Nanami’s hands tightened around the sink basin, his knuckles paling as the metal dug into his skin. Slowly—deliberately—he turned to face Higuruma, meeting his glare head-on. Their eyes snapped together like flint striking steel, cold, unyielding, sparks flying. “Fine. Next time, I’ll cook. That way, we won’t have to worry about your thin skin getting in the way.”

Higuruma’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t answer. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms as he held his ground, the air between them thickening, charged, shimmering with a tension that hovered like static in the room.

If either of them had been of their right mind, they might have noticed the air almost gleaming—an iridescent shimmer, like the heat rising off the hood of a car on a scorching day, or the sheer coat of yellow that coated nearly every surface, the cutlery, the plates .

Every small movement—an impatient twitch of Nanami’s finger, the brief flare of Higuruma’s nostrils—crackled with a heat that wasn’t entirely their own. Something crept between them, feeding off their frustration, stoking and bolstering the growing fire with every passing second.

Nanami’s glare shifted to the dishes in the sink, smeared plates and bits of rice clinging to the edges. The food had been good—damn good, really—and he hadn’t planned on nitpicking. He’d all but decided not to, but the words grew legs and clawed out of his mouth of their own volition.

Cleaning the dishes was out of the question—his mood was too foul to even consider it.

Higuruma scoffed and turned on his heel, retreating to the living room, his footsteps heavy and banging against the old wooden floorboards. Each footfall landed like the gavel he wields and felt every bit as damning.

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As the night dragged on, the cabin’s cozy charm unraveled at its rotted edges. The soft lights, once warm and inviting, were both too dim to read by and too bright to relax under, casting shadows that twisted nauseatingly on the walls. The couch, which looked so inviting before, might as well have been carved from stone for all the comfort it offered.

And though the house was deceptively spacious, the walls inched closer, closer, closer; tightening the noose around Nanami and Higuruma and forcing them into needless confrontations—over the lights, over which room to claim, over the correct way to handle the fire poker by the chimney.

Higuruma, by this point, had a few creative ideas for its use that had nothing to do with stoking a fire.

Nanami needed distance. A breath. Something to stop the heat crawling up his spine like a fever. He planted himself back at the sink, hands plunging into the soapy water with the kind of force that turned a gentle rinse into an act of war. The clatter of utensils against the porcelain screeched through the small kitchen, each metallic scrape a little too loud, a little too sharp. Water splashed up and soaked into his rolled-up sleeves, each drop that seeped into the fabric felt like a personal insult. He felt positively unmoored.

Every squeak of wet porcelain seemed to mock him, irritation climbing with each stubborn stain he scrubbed that just wouldn’t come out—his sanity hung by gossamer threads.

From the living room, Higuruma’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and loaded with an eye-roll Nanami could picture without even turning. “You don’t have to murder the plates, you know,” Higuruma jeered. “I can hear you all the way in here—that’s how you ruin them.”

Nanami’s grip tightened on the dish, his knuckles blanching white. It was stupid—petty. They never bickered like this, never fell into the brand of mundane sniping reserved for divorcing couples or other miserable types.

He prided himself on keeping calm. Unshakeable. Especially around Higuruma, whose dry wit and effortless ability to slip under his skin kept things lively and interesting. Fun, even.

But tonight? Tonight, everything grated on him. Every word, every sound—the scratch of ceramic, the way Higuruma's voice seemed to curl around the walls and echo back, each bounce sharper than the last. It shredded through the quiet, gnawing at his nerves, leaving them raw and exposed to the stifling air that compressed from every direction like a vacuum.

Nanami thinks he must be sick and Higuruma must be too, because he has just enough clarity to recognize that he doesn’t recognize them at all.

Nanami’s fingers skimmed beneath the sudsy water, brushing against something solid. The unexpected chill of metal met his skin, and his hand stilled as he recognized the shape of the knife buried there. For a moment, it grounded him—quenched the fire licking at his palms, made him feel in control again. He let his fingers curl around the handle, the coolness radiating through his hand and sending a shiver up his spine that felt blessedly soothing.

The blade could make it all stop. Take it. Walk into the living room where Higuruma stands and—

Nanami blinked. The thought dissolved, evaporating as fast as it came back to the void it came from and leaving a sick churn in its wake. He gritted his teeth and dropped the knife back into the sink with a harsh clatter, the sound sharp and final. He wanted to throw it out the window.

Absurd. He was absurd. He’s sick. Surely he must be sick, because he would never think that. Not over something so… nothing.

His thoughts felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else. He wasn’t a beast. He wasn’t a murderer. He’d seen enough bloodshed to know better—he knew better.

The fact that it entered his mind at all almost made him retch.

He wiped his hands on the hanging towel, the rough fabric scraping against his skin and pulling him back from the irrecoverable edge he’d almost stumbled over. Without a word, he turned on his heel, leaving the dishes half-done and the knife abandoned in the sink, as if he could walk away from the sick impulse the kitchen inspired.

The hallway felt longer than it should’ve as he stalked back into the living room, each step heavy, ball-and-chained to his fracturing mind. And there was Higuruma—standing in the small living area, arms crossed, his expression unreadable, half-lit by both lamp and fire and waiting for him.

The shadows carved deep lines into his face, the hooked curve of his nose sharpened by the light, casting him as something almost predatory.

When Nanami stepped into the room, the tension between them snapped taut, a thread wound too tight and ready to break, pulling them closer, reeling them into each other's orbit. It was like standing on the edge of a flame, the heat unbearable and the burn inevitable. They were drawn to each other’s fury, like moths with no choice but to dance in the fire until they turned to ash.

“So rather than be gentler with the dishes, you’re just going to leave them? I suppose you expect me to clean as well as cook?” Higuruma’s voice carved through the room like shattered glass skittering across stone. He didn’t move, didn’t uncross his arms, but his entire stance was a challenge, daring Nanami to step closer, to meet his gaze head-on.

The way his eyes narrowed, locking onto Nanami with stripping intensity sent a fresh wave of anger surging through him, hotter, more vicious.

Nanami froze.

Just keep walking. Ignore him. Keep moving. Bathe and go to bed.

“I’m taking a break,” he said instead, each low word a bullet added to the smoking gun, the calm before a storm that could level mountains. It was a voice that should’ve sent alarms blaring in Higuruma’s mind and made his instincts urge him to back off. It promised reckoning.

If Higuruma weren’t so festered in the pit of his own irrational anger, he might’ve retreated—might’ve backed away from the brewing tempest in Nanami’s eyes.

If he knew that moments ago, Nanami had gripped a knife and entertained thoughts of plunging it deep between his ribs, he might’ve put distance between them.

But if Nanami was sick, Higuruma was sicker. His skin twitched beneath the tight fabric of his dress shirt, shoulders rolling and shuddering in a futile bid to relieve the tension that knotted between them. Sweat slicked his body, glistening in the firelight that painted him in violent hues of orange and red, setting him ablaze from the outside in. He was burning.

His vision dimmed, draining of color until the world was a muted blur—all except for Nanami. Nanami snapped into focus, vivid and pulsing with life, a beacon through the haze of Higuruma’s dilated eyes. He panted, breaths heavy and ragged like a slathering dog, muscles twitching with the need to lunge, to close the distance between them. Restraint frayed at the edges, but all he could think about, all that consumed him, was Nanami. Going to him. Tearing into him.

"Can’t ever—" Higuruma’s voice cracked, struggling to force the words out between teeth clenched so tight he felt a pop in his jaw. "Ask for help, can you?"

A bitter scoff slipped, choked off as his throat seized, the dry walls of his airway sticking together and making his vision swim that much more as he missed another heaving breath. "Always have to be—"

He turned away sharply, a shudder running through him, the effort to keep speaking almost painful; and with it, he hoped to hide his shame at the grossly obvious erection snaking down the seam of his thigh, just as it had been for the past fifteen minutes. "—the lone wolf, thinking you’re so… so independent and fucking cool—"

His breath hissed, a harsh sound that scraped the back of his throat raw down to the bitter copper tang beneath. "So fucking cool—"

Nanami resisted with everything he had, every muscle tensed against the invisible binds that drew him in, demanding he act on impulses that should never see light; should never have been conceived at all.

His fingers twitched at his sides with the urge to act. To do something he’d regret. Wrap them around Higuruma’s throat, maybe, and squeeze until the hate drained out of them both.

He watched as Higuruma began to unravel, each tremor, recognizing the succumbing happening before his eyes as what he felt incubating within himself. It was like staring into a mirror, seeing his own fate playing out in front of him, knowing that it was only a matter of minutes—if he was lucky—before he would break too.

His pulse pounded in his temples, each beat syncing with that silent, relentless pull, dragging him recklessly toward oblivion.

Nanami stalked forward.

Higuruma whirled back around, a sharp animal snap of his neck with teeth bared like a cornered beast. His body jolted upright, spine straightening and meeting Nanami’s advance with a challenge that was all raw instinct—no hesitation, no retreat, only the need to assert dominance.

“What the hell are we really fighting about here? Dishes? Dinner?” Higuruma’s laugh was cold, a bitter thing that didn’t suit him at all. “Or are we dodging the real issue, Nanami? Because I’m begging for an excuse. Give me one, and I swear—” he leaned in as close as he dared, eyelids fluttering at the smell of him even at this distance. “I’ll fight you.”

Nanami didn’t know why they were fighting. Only that they were. And that the scorching compulsion inside him demanded it, devoured him and any dissent whole, certain he would be reduced to ash and hollowed to a bitter husk if he so much as raised a finger against it.

He couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t. The need to push this until something snapped was compulsive. The only end was cremation in this hellfire, one or both, and his desperation for it ripped him apart from the inside out.

“This isn’t about dinner,” Nanami growled, his voice thick with hot coals. His chest felt tight, air scorched by the words he could barely spit out. “Or losing my weekend to be here.” His fists clenched, nails biting so deeply into his palms that blood welled in the half moons, but the sting was nothing compared to the flames ravaging his veins. He’s in hell—he must be.

“This is about you.” Nanami spat the fever in his mouth, callous and cruel. His shoulders quivered and betrayed him, frenetic pulse having him swooping down towards Higuruma’s face a little too fast, a little close, nearly eye to eye now before he could reel himself back upright; drunk on the heat of it all.

“About how you are a burden. A constant, incessant, mind-numbing waste that I’d be better off without.” He wanted this. The confrontation and the catharsis that vitriol promised, even if it meant sinking deeper into the hell he was creating.

The space between them nearly evaporated, the air growing so thick they were both choking on it. Nanami could feel Higuruma’s breath ghosting over his skin, gulping for air, his throat bobbing, warm, uneven, alive—a siren call, seductive and dangerous and ruinous.

Break him. Rip, tear, flay—spill blood into the floorboards, let the cellar drink from him.

The thought scorched through Nanami's mind, twisted and raw, and for a moment, neither dared moved, both possessing an instinctive knowing it might provoke the other to pounce. The only sound was their breath, ragged, and the ratcheting pound of the other's heart, both animalistically attuned and tracing bulging arteries up their throats.

Hurt him. The insidious whispers slithered through Higuruma’s mind like smoke, curling around his thoughts, sick with rabid infection. Hit him. You’ve done it before. He despises you. Use the gavel. End it.

Sweat gleamed on Higuruma’s forehead, mirroring the dampness on Nanami’s neck. The air was suffocating, clinging like napalm, thick and oppressive. It was rage—pure, unadulterated rage—but something else too. Something that begged for pain, for release, for an end.

And then Nanami hit the wall.

The impact was savage, brutal. No time to brace. Higuruma slammed him back, the force sending picture frames clattering to the floor. The walls groaned, the very bones of the cabin trembling under the weight of their collision.

Higuruma didn’t hesitate. He was on Nanami in an instant, hands lashing out, cold fingers like steel vices around Nanami’s throat. The pressure was immediate and crushing—but Nanami didn’t flinch. His eyes gored Higuruma with deadly resolve, steel against steel, waiting for the other to break.

Nanami’s eyes narrowed, excitement seeping through his gaze as heat furnaced low in his belly, his breath coming out ragged. Higuruma’s fingers were still wrapped tight around his neck, but Nanami could feel something else—a thrum, a pulse. His cock strained painfully against his slacks, pre-cum already staining the fabric; the matting feel of his hair both enraged and delighted him.

He wasn’t sure when that happened.

He wasn’t sure he cared,

His hand slid up to Higuruma’s wrist, and with the deliberate force of bending iron, began to pry those vice-like fingers from his throat. Higuruma clawed for him, fist shaking with resistance, and every inch of fight only fueled the arousal that snapped sudden through them both like rubber bands.

A cold, metallic chuckle thundered in Nanami’s red throat, mocking with threat. "... Idiot."

He didn't waste another breath—there was no time. With a sharp twist and a powerful surge of his shoulder, Nanami shoved Higuruma back with enough force to send them both crashing into the floorboards.

They thrashed, clawing and bodying into furniture and light fixtures. Higuruma’s knee shot up, slamming into Nanami’s stomach, sending a shockwave of force that knocked the air from his lungs and his cock twitched, pre-cum seeping in thick rivulets down his thigh. Nanami grunted, but the ache only sharpened the edge of his need. Higuruma, too, felt the burn.

In one fluid, desperate motion, Higuruma rolled them over, breaking free from the hold, chest heaving with exertion, straining and throbbing in his pants with every ragged breath. His eyes blazed with fury, but beneath the rage there was something raw and ruinous. His gaze raked over Nanami, lips curled into a snarl, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to rip him apart—and fuck him into the floor. How much he needed to do one or the other or both.

Yellow clouds shaken from surfaces whirlpooled in the humid air. With each breath, Higuruma felt it more acutely—his clothes clung to his skin, and heat laid siege to his body, unbearable, searing. The pollen, the fucking pollen—he could feel it now, twisting his thoughts, his body, and all he wanted was Nanami beneath him, writhing and begging.

Nanami roared and lunged at Higuruma again, throwing him back into the wall with enough force to crack the old oak paneling. The cabin rumbled, books toppled from shelves, and somewhere in another room something glass shattered.

But all Nanami could see was the way Higuruma’s body shuddered at the impact, the way his pupils dilated, his lips parting in a wet gasp—so fucking pretty.

Higuruma choked, the breath knocked from his lungs, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His vision blurred, but the moment it cleared, he saw Nanami standing over him—panting, chest heaving, cock straining visibly against his pants, fabric stained dark and dripping. The visual sent a shiver through him, his stomach clenching hungrily and own body desperately reciprocating.

Each thrash and bit of fight only compelled the other to fight back harder. A cyclical prey-drive, hammering and hammering in the forge until someone broke into the coals.

In the charged, suffocating space between them, the air thickened, pulsing with a desperate craving that bordered on madness. Nanami’s grip tightened, punishing hands clasped around Higuruma’s shoulder and the fine bones of his neck. His fingers curled with creaking slowness against the soft skin and fabric, teasing the promise of bruises and ripped clothes.

Higuruma scrabbled for purchase against Nanami’s arm, spitting and clawing, nails raking down skin and leaving red lines that did nothing to deter the iron-grip on his neck; like the bite of a flea for all the attention Nanami paid it.

Their faces were inches apart, close enough that Nanami could see the fine particles of dust chalking Higuruma’s flushed skin, could feel the heat radiating off him in molten waves. Everywhere they touched the yellow mist was spread to him too, and where it was spread Nanami burned.

His breath juddered in his throat, billowing against Higuruma’s cheek his nostrils flared bullishly. Cologne, sweat, and dust that smelt oddly floral… pollen. Not dust at all.

It was the pollen. It had to be. But there was no time to think about that, not when every nerve in his body was on fire, every muscle twitching with the need to lay claim and consume, because Nanami is certain, so certain, of only one thing: the hellfire raging in his bones was going to kill him if he doesn’t whet it.

The muscles in Nanami’s back convulsed, rippling beneath his shirt as he bent lower, his breath ghosting over Higuruma’s throat. “You smell so good,” he groaned, voice rough and fractured and barely coherent. Had Higuruma always smelled like this? It was intoxicating and overwhelming and Nanami needed him.

He smelled too good. Too irresistible. Too much.

Nanami groaned and pushed Higuruma harder against the wall, the force of it rattling the entire cabin as if trying to shake loose whatever wild thing had taken hold of them both. But it was lodged too deep, its hooks set and curved too permanently.

His knee shoved between Higuruma’s legs, pressing up—hard—right against the throbbing bulge in Higuruma’s pants. Nanami felt the way it pulsed, wet and leaking, pre-cum staining the crotch of Higuruma’s pants so thickly that he felt it through the layers on his knee. And with the way his hips jerked forward, rutting against Nanami’s leg—he liked it.

Higuruma writhed, his body twisting and turning, but it wasn’t rage anymore. The way Nanami’s breath hitched, the way his muscles tensed and twitched—Higuruma felt it all, and it was driving him insane, breaking him down until all he could think about was the way Nanami had him pinned to the wall, how Nanami’s knee ground into his weeping cock, Nanami, Nanami, Nanami.

The clawing desperation to peel himself away was tossed in favor of frantic tugging, nails catching on rolled sleeves to yank Nanami closer.

Nanami’s world narrowed, everything outside the two of them fading into a tunnel of pulsing, seething hunger. Irreversibly dialed to the slick heat of Higuruma’s body pressed against his, the frantic beat of his pulse beneath Nanami’s hand, the sweat that trickled down Higuruma’s temple. He wanted to taste it, drag his tongue across that feverish skin, feel Higuruma’s pulse in his mouth and swallow it down gluttonously.

He leaned in closer, breath scalding against Higuruma’s ear as he gritted out the words, each one clawing its way from the depths of his chest and leaving the cavity bloody. He was gone—too far gone to reel himself back, yet somehow, impossibly, not quite lost. There was just enough of him left, clinging by a thread, enough to ask—beg, really—and pray that if the answer was no, he could resist just long enough for Higuruma to hit him and knock him blissfully unconscious.

Even if it killed him. Even if he were to self-immolate. It would be better.

“Tell me you feel it too… shit, I—” His voice broke, shivering, “I need you—”

The words barely left his mouth before Higuruma lunged, crashing his mouth against Nanami’s in a collision of lips and teeth. It wasn’t a kiss—it was raw, violent, a clash of urgency and rage. Their teeth clacked, tongues desperate and frantic, and Nanami groaned, low and deep, as he shoved Higuruma harder against the wall, hips grinding forward in a furious effort to fuse them together.

There was no room for dignity or restraint—just the unbearable need to fuck, to tear each other apart until they were satisfied.

Nanami’s breath hitched, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he gripped Higuruma tighter, fingers digging into the muscle beneath his shirt. The fabric tore beneath his grasp, threads snapping, and Nanami relished in the sound of buttons skittering somewhere across the room and lost to corners, the sensation of skin bared to him.

Higuruma’s hands clawed at Nanami’s back, fingers digging into tense and quivering muscles. Every nerve in his body was on fire, skin too sensitive, cock hardened to the point of pain with every desperate twitch of his hips. “Nanami—” The sound that came from his throat was jagged, agonized and barely comprehensible.

“I know—fuck—I know,” Nanami rasped, shushing and pacifying in a way suddenly tender in his understanding, each word dragging as if ground over sandpaper. He leaned closer, lips brushing Higuruma’s ear, his breath billowing and hot.

“You’re going to take it. Every inch, every bit of me until you can’t think straight—” nevermind that they already can’t think at all. Nanami hardly recognized himself. “—can you do that for me?”

Higuruma’s nails raked down Nanami’s back, whining and blinkered by lust to the point of muteness. Nanami could’ve asked him to peel his nails off and he would’ve if he thought it would feel good.

It spurred Nanami on, feeling his heart drop to his diaphragm to instead beat between his thighs. He didn’t waste another second, his hand shooting down between them, fingers trembling as he fumbled with the waistband of Higuruma’s pants. The button snapped free with a sharp pop, and Nanami tore the fabric apart, shoving his hand into Higuruma’s boxers without finesse.

His hand wrapped around the base of Higuruma’s cock, and the slick, hot pulse of it was almost enough to send Nanami over the edge right there. It was drenched, pre-cum spilling in obscene amounts, leaking down his hand, coating his palm in slippery warmth that dripped between his fingers. Fuck, he’s soaked. Higuruma was trembling, hips jerking into Nanami’s grip, chasing the friction with desperate, needy little thrusts.

“Fuck—Nanami, it hurts—” Higuruma gasped, voice cracking and jumping in Nanami’s fist, dripping onto the floor in the beginnings of a milky puddle.

“I know, I know,” Nanami groaned, voice low and wrecked, half-mad. He released Higuruma’s cock only long enough to yank his own pants down, fingers catching on the waistband in his rush to bare himself. He sprang free, and the sight of himself—hard as steel, already oozing to mat the honey blonde curls of hair on his belly—made him groan, muscles twitching with the need to bury himself inside Higuruma now. “I’ve… I’ve got you. Gonna help—”

There was no time for slow, no time for careful. None of the things he would’ve liked to do. No courtship, no gentle touches, no wining and dining, no chance to savor the feeling of peeling Higuruma away from the realm of friendship.

Nanami’s thoughts scattered like fractals, catching briefly on things like sunflowers—would Higuruma like if he bought them?—but the descending fog swallowed them whole.

Nanami groaned, he spun Higuruma around, slamming him chest-first into the wall with a force that rattled the entire cabin. The sharp sound of breath leaving Higuruma’s lungs was like gasoline on an open flame, and Nanami felt his erection twitch painfully, expanding more, oozing in a steady drip from the swollen tip. So much it felt like he might’ve cum already, but the ache in his balls told him otherwise—he hadn’t even begun.

Higuruma braced his hands against the wall, panting, his whole body trembling under Nanami’s weight. “Do it,” Higuruma snarled, thick with desperation and edged with defiance… or maybe just bravery in the face of what he knew was coming; both were equally admirable. “Please fuck me—I need it… it hurts—”

Nanami whimpered low in his throat, his hands gripping Higuruma’s hips, yanking him back roughly, aligning his pelvis with Higuruma’s ass. The head of his cock was so swollen it raged purple, slit weeping a thick coat that dripped down his length, soaking the base of Higuruma’s spine. It wasn’t normal—none of this was normal—but Nanami couldn’t bring himself to care.

He pressed the tip of his cock against Higuruma’s rim, smearing pre-cum over the tight ring of muscle and creating a slick runway as he dragged the head up and down, coating Higuruma in it. A small mercy, all things considered.

Higuruma’s body tensed, muscles bunching up beneath his skin as Nanami pushed against him, testing the resistance and hissed  at the stars that blew across his eyes. The pressure built, intense, unrelenting, until Nanami thrust forward in one hard, savage motion, burying himself to the hilt in a single stroke.

Higuruma howled, fingers gouging into the wall, tearing the lacquer as his body arched violently, breath coming in jagged, broken rasps. It was too much—too intense, too fast—but exactly what he needed and Nanami knew it.

Pain blurred into pleasure, the overwhelming fullness inside him, the brutal stretch—until there was no distinction left between agony and ecstasy. It all melted, streaming him into a state beyond either. He was euphoric, and the way he immediately shoved back into Nanami made it abundantly obvious.

Nanami froze, eyes rolling to their whites in a way that obliterated any semblance of dignity, the scalding heat inside Hiromi nearly buckling his legs. The way Hiromi squeezed, quivered, and trembled around him had Nanami teetering, hand lashing out to the wall for support and crushing over Higuruma’s knuckles instead.

“Fuu-haah—” The curse fizzled and died on his tongue, useless and defunct. And then Nanami moved, a brutal, unrelenting force, each thrust shaking them both to their very foundations. Flesh pounded against sticky flesh, echoing in the space in a way so pornographic that it might’ve made Nanami blush under regular circumstances.

But this wasn’t regular. His fingers slipped between Higuruma’s pinning them both to the wall.

Dinner and sunflowers.

Nanami’s mind flickered with a different fantasy altogether—far sweeter than the damnable pollen on his tongue, the softness he had wanted to offer Hiromi. That calm domesticity, the gentleness Nanami thought he should’ve given. But here they were, drowning and clawing at each other to stay afloat.

Higuruma’s body rocked with every thrust, his own cock dripping against the wall, smearing in gooey, messy trails. He was completely lost, undone by the feeling of Nanami inside him—stretching him, molding him. Every stroke sent a wave of pleasure-pain through his body, chipping moans from his throat, making him claw at the wall, desperate for more, desperate for anything and everything, and he took it greedily.

Nanami’s free hand slid around, wrapping firmly around Higuruma’s length. He squeezed, stroking in time with the thrusts that had Higuruma corseted to the wall. “You’re mine,” Nanami murmured, voice thick and tongue useless in his mouth, far better suited for lapping at Higuruma’s neck than talking, and so he does.

If Higuruma was his, Nanami would spend the rest of his life making it up to him. He’d worship him. Take him out for dinners, make sure he laughed, filled his life with comfort, and this—this would be a secret they’d share. A private thing to laugh about and remember rather than the source of shame Nanami feared. He’d—fuck, he’d get him sunflowers everyday. During the winter he’d grow them himself if he had to—

“Please say it,” he crackled, desperate, impeaching. Suddenly this mattered to him.

Higuruma’s breath caught, quivering with each brutal batter into his body, already cracking like pressured glass. “Yours,” he gasped, his voice staticky with gravel, shredded from the moans that never once stopped dripping helplessly from spit-slick lips.

“Fuck, Nanami, I’m yours—”

That was all Nanami needed.

Higuruma’s submission wasn’t just some indulgence of lust. It was deeper than that, something in his very bones. Nanami saw it clearly now—the dormant part of Higuruma that craved being tethered, the wolf who wanted to be collared, domesticated into a dog. And Nanami was more than willing to bear the leash, to hold it firm and tender in his grip, to guide Higuruma through his surrender.

Nanami possessed Higuruma so beautifully, so thoroughly responsible for him, that it inspired nothing but heart-stopping adoration in the delirious mess of a man beneath him.

The thought shot through Nanami like a bullet, inspiring furious determination to do away with the awful edges where Higuruma ended and he began. His hips snapped forward, thrusting with brutal purpose, hammering into Higuruma with a force that sought to unmake them both, return them to stardust or whatever primordial pool they crawled out of. And Higuruma, with every ragged moan, took it. No, more than that, he welcomed it.

Drool slid unashamedly down Higuruma’s chin, cheek squished to the wall, his throat convulsing with every slam of Nanami’s cock inside him so deep he swears he feels him in his ribs. His voice was nothing but a mess of broken syllables now— “Na-na-mi—!”—barely managing his lover’s name in the mess of spit and pathetic mewling.

“Harder,” Higuruma gasped, voice shredded beyond recognition, hips rutting desperately into Nanami’s hand, chasing that final bit of friction, that last agonizing piece just at the tip of his tongue. “Fu–uu–uu-ck, please—m’gonna—”

Ever his servant Nanami’s fist tightened around Higuruma’s cock, knuckles white with the force of his grip as he stroked him, rougher than he liked it himself, but exactly how he thought Higuruma needed it because he thought he might appreciate a firm hand. So salaciously determined is he to milk every drop of pleasure from him, to exorcize this feralness from their bodies.

That’s all it took. Higuruma’s entire body went rigid before shattering gloriously—

He convulsed, spine arching violently off the wall as his orgasm tore through him, ripping a raw, choked cry from his throat. Hot, thick ropes spilled over Nanami’s fingers, and the rest splattered messily against the wall. His breath hitched, caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp as the overwhelming mix of pain and relief threatened to drown him. His legs buckled, but Nanami held him upright, speared by Nanami’s cock and the firm grip that kept him from crumbling entirely.

Nanami slowed just for a moment, enraptured by the ruin beneath him, feeling the others' orgasm with ferocious synchronicity like a punch to the gut.

Higuruma was still trembling, breath uneven, each gasp shaky and erratic. “Please, just—” Nanami gripped his hips, dragging him back into place, and with a breathless choke, “—please don’t stop me—I can’t… I still need—”

Nanami bent him, his forearms flexing in a restraining pin around his chest and waist; Higuruma curled and arched back, and back, and back into him like some lewd figurehead of a ship.

“Fuck, Nanami… please—more.” Higuruma’s voice was impoverished, hands clawing at the walls until wood splintered beneath the blunt bite of his nails, desperate to hold onto something, anything, as Nanami drove into him, the force of it pushing him further up the wall with each sloppy thrust as his cock continued to sputter against frayed and scratched wood—impossibly unspent.

The tension in Nanami’s gut coiled tighter and tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point before finally—

It snapped with a final, brutal thrust, and he met his first orgasm with an embarrassing cry—raw, desperate, echoing through each fierce contraction that tore through him. His grip on Higuruma’s hand tightened as he whined against the damp skin of his neck, shuddering with every hot, thick pulse that spilled deep inside his lover. He gasped raggedly, gulping for air over flushed, bitten skin as he rode out the last shivers of release, clinging to Higuruma as if the world would fall away without him.

Their bodies slumped together, breaths mingling. Higuruma’s forehead pressed against the wall, and for a moment, everything was still except for the lingering tremors that juddered them both. Nanami’s breath was hot against his neck; his lips dragged over the skin, pressing kisses of apology, gratitude, pleading.

But it wasn’t enough. The insistent burn beneath their skin, the gnawing ache, still simmered. They could both feel it—this madness that refused to release its grip, no matter how hard they tried to bury it.

“Nanami,” Higuruma panted. His hands, now trembling, scraped roughly against the splintered wood. He forced himself to turn, just enough to catch a glimpse of Nanami’s face—flushed, tense, eyes squeezed shut in agony. “Are you… are you okay?”

Nanami’s answer was a slow shake of his head, breath bitten between clenched teeth.

“I… still feel it,” he confessed, voice rough, strained, composure stripped and leaving him shamelessly wanton. He swallowed, trying to regain some control of only his voice, but it was useless. A frustrated groan slipped out, his hips twitching forward unconsciously, still buried deep inside Higuruma, hard as iron and showing no sign of letting up. “It’s not enough… fuck, it’s not enough.”

Higuruma’s heart pounded, the reality of their situation sinking in. He should be sated, exhausted even, but his body was already responding to Nanami’s words, the fire rekindling with a vengeance—the refractory period of some debauched god, not the exhausted thirty six year old man he knows himself to be. He’s never been so hard in his life.

Without another word, Nanami tightened his hold on Higuruma, stumbling back on shaky legs until they sank to the floor. There was a brief, fleeting moment of tenderness as Nanami held Higuruma close, twisting him around so they could face each other.

Higuruma was ruined. Spit wet his chin and cheek, his hair spiked in all directions beyond repair, and eyes dilated so eclipsing of their pupils that Nanami can barely see the whites either.

Supple, pliant, and so beautiful.

“Higuruma��” Nanami’s voice was breathless and heavy, but there was a new softness to it—a plea woven through the desperation like wicker baskets, only hoping they’d hold the weight of emotions he was too addled to carry.

His hands found Higuruma’s, guiding them to his broad shoulders with a gentle insistence. He yearned for him with a presence of mind he lacked before. He’d needed a body, that was all, and that hadn’t changed… but Nanami wanted him.

“Please—”

The word broke from him, cracked and vulnerable, as his fingers tightened around Higuruma’s hip, trembling with the effort to stay anchored. He slid his hand down, cupping the curve of Higuruma’s ass and giving a firm, urging push, his wide, desperate eyes locking onto Higuruma’s, beseeching and pained.

Higuruma cupped Nanami’s face in his hands, the same hands that ruined a wooden wall possessed with something more gentle now, he cradled him like something fragile.

He looked at Nanami like he’d never seen him before, and in a way, he hadn’t. Not like this—not so ruined.

He leaned in, capturing Nanami’s lips in a slow, deliberate kiss, pouring every ounce of weight and nebulous bit of emotion into it. His thighs tightened around Nanami’s hips as he lifted himself up and then dropped back down onto Nanami’s cock. Fire met with the gasoline in his blood, reigniting anew.

He was always meant to be burned by Nanami.

He would give and take until there was nothing left.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

When the sun rose it did so sluggishly.

Like it too was afraid of what it might find inside the unassuming little cottage. Its eye rose hesitant over the trees, golden spears shot through windows and sheer curtains, illuminating the carnage strewn about the floors.

Anything not nailed down was toppled, the knick-knacks so meticulously arranged knocked to the floor or shattered, books indecently fluttered their pages in dead air, and the floors, the walls, and the upholstered leather of the couch were thoroughly destroyed.

Claw marks and stuffing, the odd bite taken out of the arm of a chair and left punctured with teeth—but no blood, no murder, no bodies—except for two, very much alive and tangled in a mess of limbs and sticky flesh on what remained of the couch.

Nanami’s leg dangled off the edge, one arm limp against the floor, while the other curled a cradle around Higuruma’s back where he slumped on his shoulder—drooling, snoring, and finally sated .

The man was peaceful—vulnerable in a way that tugged something deep in Nanami’s chest.

Nanami didn’t sleep.

Not much, at least.

He stayed vigilant, his thoughts churning like a storm at sea. Once they were both… “well” … he’d agonized, he’d thought, he’d theorized. He’d seethed and spat in his head like a rabid animal, every part of him on edge, because he knew this wasn’t right. This wasn’t simply an explosive culmination of little repressed desires—though he did take some time to consider the implications of what this would mean for his relationship with Higuruma tomorrow. No, this was something done to them.

He remembered reading the report about a curse Gojo exorcized once—one that could induce euphoria, passivity, bending the mind to its will through flower fields. If a curse could do that, then why not something more sinister? Something that could twist emotions, heighten them to the point of madness. Rage, hate, lust… such a curse wouldn’t need to act violently itself; it could simply turn its victims into weapons, feeding off the very emotions it created. The implications set a chill in his gut, heavy and unsettling.

Couple murders. One survivor. Confusion. The details were sparse in the file, but Nanami recalled those morbid little highlights, and with a new day dawning he knew he had to settle the theory that stewed in his head all night.

With a careful touch Nanami’s arm tightened around Higuruma’s shoulders, supporting his back as he rolled them over as gently as he could manage.

Higuruma grumbled inarticulately, Nanami inhaled and froze, hovering… the snoring resumed, and so too did Nanami exhale. He arranged Higuruma’s limbs so he’d be more comfortable, making sure long legs and bruised arms were tucked properly onto the fluff-bleeding cushions. His hand lingered a moment longer as he lifted Higuruma’s head to place on a pillow, fingers dipped in inky hair with soft consideration.

His palm brushed once, easing the tufted cowlicks on his head before he withdrew.

Nanami stood, his chiseled jaw clenched, determination hardening his features as he turned away from the couch. Without a backward glance, he marched to the front door, each step measured and purposeful.

Nanami didn’t bother with clothes as his feet pounded the floor, the cool wood unforgiving against his bare skin. He gripped the door knob like it was the throat of an enemy, twisting and flinging it with a force that should’ve sent the door flying—yet it didn’t budge. “ Hah… ” he chuckled, darkly amused. He tried again, muscles flexing, veins bulging with effort— how embarrassing, he mused, only if he hadn’t expected exactly this.

He moved to the kitchen. The window above the sink brightly lit with cheerful morning gold, dripping jewels from dewy grass on the gravel drive. He reached for the small metal latch, hope flickering in his chest like a dying ember—sealed.

“I fucking knew it,” he laughed despite himself, near hysterical at his idiocy. His hand found its way to his hip, the other raking through irreversibly tousled wheat hair.

“Knew what?”

Nanami’s flinched to hear Higuruma speak. He whirled around, finding him propped up on the couch, one arm slung over the torn and fuzzy backrest, his expression groggy but attentive.

“The door won’t open,” Nanami said with a derisive snort.

“—and you wanted to go outside naked because—?”

“The windows too. I can’t open them.”

Higuruma’s brow furrowed, sleep slowly ebbing away as he propped one knee up, hooking an elbow around it while resting his head atop the makeshift pillow. “And…?”

“They’re not real, Higuruma.”

Oh, so he’s lost it, Higuruma thought.

Higuruma blinked, a moment of confusion flashing in his eyes before he smothered it beneath a well-practiced mask of calm. His lips curled into a placating smile, the kind one gives to a person on the verge of breaking. “I see…” he didn’t.

“... are you feeling alright?” His voice was steady, honed by decades of smothering nerves beneath layers of practiced indifference. But he could feel the exhaustion pulling at his edges, the dregs of whatever had been in his system finally clearing. If Nanami wasn’t good, if he had truly lost it, then…

Nanami groaned, shaking his head as he strode back to the couch. “We’re in a domain, Higuruma. We probably have been since we walked through the door.”

That pulled Higuruma out of his spiraling thoughts. He scoffed, disbelieving that that was the conclusion Nanami arrived at. “No—no, we would’ve noticed.”

Nanami grunted in response, his focus on the rubble scattered across the floor. He crouched down, rifling through the mess with a single-minded determination until he found his boxers. He stepped into them with the kind of force that spoke volumes about the rage simmering beneath his skin. “Mess with my fucking head —my fucking body …I don’t fucking think so.”

“Wouldn’t we have noticed?” Higuruma insisted. He scrambled off the couch, the cool air biting at his skin as he tried the door, then the windows—no dice. He blinked owlishly. How hadn’t they noticed?

“Wait, where are you going?”

Higuruma watched, a mix of awe and concern tightening his chest, as Nanami, clad only in his boxers and wielding his signature black-and-white blade, stormed across the living room. The destruction underfoot crunched with each step, like the ground itself was trembling beneath his ire. He moved with the purpose of an angry deity, his eyes narrowed in determination. “I’m going to find it, of course.” The rest of his ensemble seemed irrelevant, the sheer force of his anger making everything else redundant. At the very least, Nanami refused to face his quarry with his dick out.

Higuruma scrambled for his clothes, now little more than torn scraps, but managed to yank on a pair of boxers, matching Nanami’s hurried attire. “Try going up,” he suggested, breathless, hopping in place to work an uncooperative leg through the leg hole.

“Is there an attic?” Nanami’s voice was sharp, all business as they moved in unison down the hallway, weapons gripped with white-knuckled determination, intent on receiving their pound of flesh in return for their dignity.

Higuruma nodded, still catching his breath. “I believe so. The house looked taller from the outside.”

Heat rises. The thought flashed between them, unspoken yet understood. The sweltering flames that burned them from the night before would have naturally ascended, carrying with it the intoxicating miasma that fueled whatever twisted curse that ensnared them, up to the highest point. Simple physics.

Nanami for all of his composure (last night notwithstanding) was always careful on the job. You would not know this by how he kicked down the door at the top of the stairs, blowing it clear of its hinges and obliterating it with a violent explosion of splintered wood.

“Where are you…”

The thing skittered down from the rafters, a grotesque, spider-like abomination with far too many limbs that clicked and chittered as it descended. Its body was an obscene, fleshy mass, swollen and pulsing as if ready to burst, its skin stretched thin over the bloated form beneath. It laughed in that eerie, tinny way curses do, mandibles clicking and many eyes rolling to devour the two men in the doorway.

It was slow, fat and sluggish, engorged on the feast they’d unwittingly provided, dragging itself across the floor with an unnatural, bone-crunching crawl. Its limbs twitched sporadically, like it couldn’t quite control them, its movements erratic and nauseating to watch.

Nanami liked to take his time, usually. Liked to assess his enemy and make sure there were no nasty surprises waiting for him once he engaged. Because Nanami was a careful man, even moreso when he isn’t alone. But not this time. There was no patience left in him.

Nanami’s eyes blazed with the cold, righteous fury of a vengeful god. Ratios lined his vision, spinning and locking into place with terrifying clarity. He swung his blade in a wide, brutal arc.

The strike was perfect.

Wooden boards shattered beneath the force of his blade as it sliced through bloated curse flesh, spewing rotten blood across Nanami’s bare skin. The creature shrieked and twitched violently, its many legs flailing in a grotesque, desperate dance before it seized up and fell still. The curse evaporated into dust… but not the usual gray ash he’d come to expect.

Yellow spores billowed into the air, and Nanami immediately hurled himself backward, instinctively bodying Higuruma aside and away from the cloud. The panic was swift and visceral, propelling him out of harm’s way as he crowded Higuruma into a safer corner.

Higuruma staggered slightly from the force but quickly steadied himself, feeling the air around them clear, becoming lighter, easier to breathe. The light filtering through the dusty old window seemed a little brighter now, cutting through the gloom with a newfound sharpness.

Nanami’s shoulders were tense, muscles flexing as he adjusted his grip on the blade’s fabric-bound handle. Higuruma couldn’t see Nanami’s ratio lines, but he could see the red welts and scratches marring his back, the way the skin stretched taut over them and surely must sting—but Nanami didn’t flinch.

Higuruma is silent for a moment, neither of them speak, letting the feeling of closure dawn well and truly over them before finally Higuruma sighed and relaxed his grip on his own weapon, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. “Well… I suppose that’s taken care of.”

Nanami straightened, his exhale feeling every bit the exorcism he’d just performed. His hand reflexively reached for his throat, adjusting a tie that wasn’t there, on a suit he wasn’t wearing. He grimaced, prickling.

“...It would seem so.”

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Scalding shower water and floral-scented soap that made Nanami’s stomach churn and skin shiver with thoughts of flowers, and petals, and pollen, and Higuruma—they took turns cleaning themselves one after the other. Nanami first, scrubbing his skin with a fervor that bordered on obsession, as if the force of his hands could erase not just the icy streaks of purple curse blood, but the memory of how it got there and every other substance that clung to his weary body.

After him, Higuruma took his place in the steamy room, letting water pound against his bruised and aching back, head bowed under the spray and washing away far more than dust and grime. It was a baptism, a cleansing, until the water that swirled down the drain ran clear and took with it the last bit of curse-induced grit and fucked dumb-ness from his brain.

The house invented its own gravity well, warping all sounds and emotions, all feelings except for what it wanted them to feel. But now that pull was gone. Their feet were no longer nailed down by that otherworldly weight; they were grounded once again by the earth's natural pull, back in the same plane as everyone else, free from the almost-world of the domain.

Nanami had already called Ijichi, arranging their extraction with the kind of professional detachment that belied everything that transpired within these walls. “We’re both fine,” and “it’s been dealt with,” and “yes, at your earliest convenience, thank you.”

Now, with nothing left to do but wait, Higuruma and Nanami moved around each other with dancing steps, choreographed avoidance and refusal to so much as bump into each other—because what if one thing led to another, and what if they weren’t quite right yet and it started again, and what if they said something stupid—

Higuruma ran a hand through his still-damp hair, grimacing at his inability to bridge the gap. There was no precedent for what they’d done, no documentation for him to point at and say “hey, here’s what we do now”.

Things had never been tense with Nanami. Their connection had always been easy, natural—colleagues by circumstance, friends by choice. They shared the same burden, the same grim determination to do what needed to be done and the understanding that someone had to do it. Misery loves company, and theirs had always been more than just a shared duty.

But that was before they’d fucked like their lives depended on it.

Funny how that changes things.

There was a carefulness in the way they moved now, an awareness that hadn’t been there before. Nanami was stiff and brittle, seeming almost afraid to get too close, like he couldn’t quite reconcile what he’d done with who he thought he was.

Higuruma, perceptive as always, kept his distance; not wanting to push too hard and break whatever fragile equilibrium they’d managed to find; because this wretched silence was still preferable to the breakup of their friendship.

It was almost comical, really, how they could teeter so close to the precipice of something meaningful and yet Higuruma found himself holding back. Like a cat eyeing a fishbowl, the temptation there, the desire to reach out and take the leap, but deciding against the jump because he was afraid he wouldn’t stick the landing.

But Higuruma had never been one to shy away from the truth. He’d made a career out of cutting through bullshit, and he wasn’t about to stop now even with potentially catastrophic consequences. So, with a resolve that brooked no argument, he weed-wacked the silence and leveled Nanami’s turned back with a look that would’ve dismantled a lesser man.

“We don’t have to talk about it.” He began abruptly. “But you’re a good friend of mine, Nanami—and if it’s up to me, that won’t change. So if we’re going to forget that this happened, just tell me so I can do the same. We need to be on the same page at the very least.”

Nanami surveyed the world outside the wide open living room window as if it were his kingdom. Quietly and greedily inhaling the fresh air that swept in, and with it went out the sordid smog that clung like film wrap to his brain. He’d been eager to confirm the windows would indeed open now with the curse exorcized—they did. He also wanted an excuse to silently gather himself—the window provided.

Nanami didn’t turn to face him, but the way his head lifted just so made it clear he was listening intently.

His gaze stayed riveted on the horizon outside, where the morning sun bled gold into the sky. Wishing that same light would illuminate the jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings he’d agonized over while Higuruma slept and highlight the way forward.

He thought he could handle it—both the mission and the man with him—but the pollen stripped him raw, naked to the soul. It was ugly and far from what Higuruma deserved; both physically and the cold words traded before it.

If Higuruma was his…

The thought alone made his stomach knot, a quiet yearning twisting inside him like hemlock. Nanami wanted so much more than what they’d been forced into—wanted to take his time, to show Higuruma the care and consideration he was worth. There should have been dinners, quiet conversations over wine, the slow unfolding of something deeper than friendship. It should’ve been a courtship, not a violent collision of hunger and curse-driven madness.

But what was done was done. No amount of wishing could undo it, and now, standing on the other side of the night, Nanami knew he had to make it right. He wanted to with a sincerity that bordered on desperation.

Because if Higuruma was his…

Nanami felt the longing bloom again, a poison that seeps closer and closer to his heart. He would give him everything. Anything he wanted—days filled with small comforts and nights spent wrapped in the quiet intimacy of just being together. He would repair Higuruma’s suit, take him out for the best meals, buy him flowers, and pour his drinks. He would worship him in every way a man could be worshiped, not just in moments of passion but in all the mundane, unspoken ways that truly mattered.

He indulged those thoughts while Higuruma slept, when the yearning of the body surrendered to the yearning of the heart. Nanami allowed his brutally thick arms to hold him just a little tighter, relishing those small hours of peace before he knew everything would change. It was as inevitable as watching the sun slowly rise through the windows, shedding light on the destruction they’d wrought; change would come, and he didn’t know from which direction he should protect himself when the path diverged.

But those hours of clandestine coveting seemed a lifetime ago, more a fantasy than a possibility. Higuruma’s voice was firm, almost clinical, as he tried to set the parameters of their future interactions. We need to be on the same page, he said, and Nanami felt a stab of regret that they weren’t already.

We don’t have to talk about it.

Nanami knew that was true, but it was the very thing that gnawed at him. They could sweep it under the rug, pretend it hadn’t happened, and go back to the way things were—but Nanami wasn’t sure he could. Not when he thought he felt something, saw something, in Higuruma. The path split before him now—safety and risk, retreating back or shouldering forward. Maybe he’d lost his mind a mile or so back.

Nanami finally turned to face him, the morning light catching whiskey eyes and flambéing them with ardent certainty. He didn’t know how to say it. He’d always been good with words but never this kind, but words didn’t know that when they tumbled out anyway.

“I don’t want to forget,” he confessed.

It was a start.

“I will not just brush this aside, Higuruma. You… mean a great deal to me.” What a pisspoor excuse of a confession, he thought bitterly.

He cleared his throat, met Higuruma’s shrewd eyes and fought against every impulse to look away. He forged ahead.

“Last night… wasn’t us. And I know that that is not how I would’ve wanted things to go if ever we were to…” he trailed off, waving his hand vaguely. But Higuruma nodded, understanding the words in the silence and encouraged him on.

“But it felt like—to me, at least, like maybe there was something there. Something worth doing differently, if you feel the same way.”

“I want to make it right. In fact, I insist on making it right, if you’ll let me.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken truths, the kind that couldn’t be easily unpacked in the span of a few seconds or weakly uttered confessions and pleas. Nanami’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat a tolling bell with the hope that maybe, just maybe, Higuruma would understand—that he’d see through the mess of it all to the sincerity underneath.

Because for all his equanimity, Nanami couldn’t shake the truth he’d arrived at while Higuruma slept that seeded itself in his chest: If Higuruma was his, he’d never stop trying to make him happy. He’d never stop wanting this.

“And I’d like to start with that drink… if you’re still amenable to that.”

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

The first tentative days turned to months, and then years.

Work-related dinners with the occasional bar visit to unwind effortlessly transitioned into intimate date nights. A strange bond formed in the crucible of something neither of them could ever explain, tempered with time and the endless patience of two men lucky enough to know what they have. Higuruma and Nanami repaired their relationship with gold, filigree filling the cracks and turning it far more beautiful than it began.

Now, when the two found themselves on the sun-drowned beaches of Malaysia, toes buried in hot sand with matching skin-warmed gold bands clasped in woven hands, they might mention that one time and laugh.

A humorous anecdote from a lifetime ago where Higuruma insists that that one time is the cause of his persisting back pains, and Nanami asserts that the scars that litter his back and arms are not from a curse at all but from that one time.

And when Nanami glanced at Higuruma, face turned toward the sun with a blissful smile on his face, Nanami allowed himself to smile too. He’d made up for it in every way that mattered so long as he could see Higuruma smile like that, and he would keep doing so for the rest of their lives.

[writingforatwistedworld]

Requests are open?? May I request Lilia and Malleus from the self aware au with a player who is an artist and draws them a lot?

Self-aware au

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, obsession, death, murder, hypocrisy, fire, coma, unhealthy relationship, possessive behavior

Malleus Draconia/Lilia Vanrouge-Player is an artist who draws them a lot

Doesn't matter what kind of style and form of art you practice, you have a fan

Classical? Great! Realism? Wonderful! Stick-man-style? He put the picture in a golden frame (All hail the stick-man style!)

But if Malleus were to ever find out that said stick man is supposed to be him, well he would be over the moon

It was a totally normal day, a cat was choking up a hairball and some poor student fell off of his broom in flying class and was now stuck in a tree

But that is of no importance to us

What is of importance though is Malleus strolling down the path down to Ramshackle and seeing you sit on the stairs with paper and other drawing utensils

Completely normal. Peaceful even. Maybe a bit too peaceful

You see, if you hadn't been too absorbed into rubbing colored pigments into dead wood then you would have seen the tall black wall approaching you

A shadow falls over your shoulder and you scream

Is that... him? Why is the Overseer draw-oh

Malleus is metaphorically (more or less. Meh, he is probably this close to doing it also literally) frothing from his mouth after seeing himself in more than just one paper after the small stack stabilizing the paper you drew on slipped from your hands

Forgetting his manners he rips the paper from the ground, staring with eyes wide as plates onto the thinly pressed wood (granny is somewhere shaking her head)

Why would the Overseer, watcher over worlds, almighty ruler of everything, a god, draw him?

Coughing nervously you explained that you just are interested in are and liked to draw him

Later when he is back in Diasomnia Lilia is greeted with the sight of a tail-wagging Malleus (yes Malleus has a tail and I have no idea how he hides it)

“Lilia, the Overseer likes to draw me.”-moments before calamity struck and Malleus accidentally lit the dorm aflame from sheer joy

But... perhaps you shouldn't draw anyone else

Who knows? Maybe that person disappears for a while and just to be found in a deep coma (don't do it)

Whoa whoa whoa darling, let us not jump at him from nowhere with the fact that you like to draw him

After all, he is quite old and we don't know what his poor heart can still take

Now how about you tell him about your interest in art fir- ah... From your expression I take that it is too late for that

Indeed it is

One day you were just sitting there in Ramshackle, T-posing or whatever you do when you are not drawing

Remember that scene when Lilia was introduced to us? Well “How do you do fellow kids” over here just popped out of thin air

Now, that would have been nothing special if it wasn't for the stack of paper with his face on it on the table...

Lilia is staring, you are staring and the gargoyles are facepalming

Poor man has to take a seat all whilst you watch him with cold sweat running down your back

Suddenly Lilia isn't that “always energetic” guy but looks a lot more vulnerable

In Lilias mind however he is planning how to burn that one portrait of himself in the Draconia castle and replace it with your art

Or so he thought until he looked what else you drew

For goodness sake, someone call an ambulance! I think he is about to pass out!

If the situation wasn't already awkward enough for you (and euphoric for him) Lilia suddenly kneels down, saying something about being honored and him swearing to be forever loyal to you

Oh sweet summer child, how easily you told him “Oh thanks...” If only you knew what would follow...

You see, Lilia might have had seen a few too many heads being severed from their bodies but, oh well, all those students were a teeny tiny bit too close to you for his comfort

Suddenly there is an increase in missing students who get found in... uh... “not compatible with life” conditions

See? It's dangerous outside! Let him watch over you!

Says the person responsible for everything

You had shown your appreciation through your art, now it's his turn to show his

And what if a few students need to get hurt? (Yeah, “hurt”)

[sanyu-thewitch05]

Stalker Malleus Headcanons:

Malleus is THE stalker of all stalkers

Now of course, his obsession with you came from the want to be friends with you.

The as he stalked you for longer periods and noticed the cute little things you do, he felt a one sided closeness to you

That platonic want for you then turned into romantic feelings.

That’s when when he starts to steal things from your dorm and take pictures of you in secret

He knows your schedule

He knows where you live

He knows what floor you live on in Ramshackle

He knows your preferences

He knows your friend group

He knows everything that is to be known about you

You only start to notice someone might be stalking you when you see the figure of a young man standing out in Ramshackle’s garden

The next day, things start to get escalate

The roof and gargoyles on Ramshackle are cleaned

There’s footprints on the dust on the floor leading to your room

And that loud green haired first year keeps trying to gain your attention.

Sebek keeps trying to drag you to Diasomnia to meet his master but you could care less.

There’s a weirdo coming in and out of Ramshackle and they know where you sleep.

You go to Sam for an amulet of protection, and hang it up on the front door.

When Malleus comes to Ramshackle, like he does every night, he notices the amulet and takes it. You don’t need this silly thing. He’s here to protect you. No one would mess with the darling of one of the greatest mages in the world. But, you’re obviously telling him you like jewelry, so he’ll grant your desire.

He sees your bedroom window and looks at your sleeping form. You look so cute like that. All snuggly and warm. But now’s not the time for adoration.

Malleus teleports inside and leaves the amulet on your nightstand with a Draconia family insignia stamped letter. He kisses your head, and you stir in your sleep.

He teleports outside your window, and just as he’s floating away, you wake up and see him. That young man isn’t a figure anymore, he’s a person. A person with glowing green eyes and horns(?).

You see the amulet on your nightstand and your eyes widen with fear. You shakily open the letter, not paying attention to the insignia and read the most terrifying sentences in your life.

There’s no need for such mear amulets for protection when you have me around. But since you like jewelry so much, may I inquire what type you like? - M

You grab grim, your backpack, essentials, and book it.

You travel to Heartslabyul where you sneak inside, and knock on Ace and Deuce’s door.

You explain everything to them.

❤️“No way, who could be stalking you?”

♠️“I’ll make sure they get a good beating!”

You ask if they would let you stay the night, and of course they said yes.

Now, one night became seven nights, and Malleus is getting cranky.

Why are you changing schedule? Why are you avoiding Ramshackle? Is someone bothering you?

Malleus takes action into his own hands and asks Sebek to once again get information out of you by being your friend.

Sebek takes his orders seriously and soon enough he’s offering to let his master, the great Malleus, protect you from this creep.

You cry into his arms and thank him.

By next week, you’re heading to Diasomnia to see Malleus, your supposed new protector.

When you arrive at Diasomnia, you’re greeted by Sebek, Malleus, Sebek’s friend Silver, and some short guy named Lilia.

Malleus bends down to kiss your hand, and you’re blushing.

Malleus is sweet and welcoming. He shares your common interests, and even knows how to take care of Grim.

But the protection he gives you is worth even more. You can finally be free of that creep following you.

Just as you’re leaving Diasomnia, you hear Lilia and Silver arguing. You know you shouldn’t, but you couldn’t resist when Lilia said “it’s my fault he’s like this.”

You press your ear against the door and hear the rest of the conversation.

🗡️ “It’s not your fault, father! Malleus is misguided by his emotions and extreme obsession for 🦐.”

🦇 “It is my fault. When I found out Malleus liked the Ramshackle prefect, I said to find out what she likes and what her hobbies are. I should’ve been more clearer, now we’re in this mess. The least we could do is warn the Ramshackle prefect.”

🗡️ “Agreed.”

As they open the door, you’re hiding behind a wall. It all makes sense now. Of course malleus was stalking you. Who else could float to a second story window? Who else would clean the gargoyles on Ramshackle? M is Malleus.

You run down the hall and push open a big black door that you think is the exit. Instead you’ve entered the dragon’s nest.

Pictures of you are hanging on the wall

Old clothes that haven’t been washed are crumbled next to Malleus’s pillow.

There’s a couple of hair strands on some sort of doll in the corner.

But the final straw was a necklace, similar to the amulet, but green on Malleus’s nightstand.

You turn to leave but run into the green dragon devil himself.

You fall to the floor, and Malleus’s tall stature makes him seem like a giant while you’re on the ground.

🐉“So now that you’ve found out I’m your secret admirer, I should probably do something with you.”

You walk out of Diasomnia with the necklace on you and a stalker for a boyfriend.

[storm-and-starlight]

Meteoric

This was originally from a larger fic idea that in retrospect wouldn't have worked, but I really liked this one scene, so it's getting posted on its own!

Damian Wayne is ten years old and trapped in a country he doesn't know with a Batman he was never supposed to be heir to and he is learning how to fall.

"I know how to fall," he snaps, irritated already -- he has already been trained, by people better than Grayson will ever be. It's more than muscle memory at this point -- it's more like running, breathing, the step and flex and roll to come back up already swinging.

"Do you now," Grayson says, trying for amused and interested and ending up with tired instead. "Off of buildings?"

"Yes," because how different can it be, really, except they're up on the pinnacle of Wayne Tower already, so high he can barely make out the shapes of the cars below them, looking out on the wide stretch of the city, darkened smoky stone and warm golden lighting and the great black expanse of the sea beyond it all. He has seen the images of his Father surveying his city, settled on the snarling head of a gargoyle or in the darkness behind neon lights, wrapped in shadow. Grayson is no master of stealth, no darkly watchful presence -- he leans wildly out over the gap, cape bannering out behind him in the wind, and looks up.

"Okay," Grayson says, still sounding tired, and turns to look at him. The cowl does not suit him; his chin is too narrow. "Wayne Tower's a good reference point if you need to get somewhere fast -- it's got good access to most of the major roads, and it's high enough you can grapple pretty much anywhere without slowing down too much."

"Yes," says Damian, "obviously."

"So, we're going to use it as practice," and Grayson fires a grapple at the neighboring skyscraper, checks it with a hard tug, and hands the gun over to Damian. "Like we did in the Bunker--"

"Release at apex, reset, fire again. I am aware." He is trained in all the things his father was trained in, during his time before he became the Bat, but he was not trained in this. This was something he learned in Gotham, on buildings such as this one, and Damian was not born to this city, to the home of Batman -- but he has been named Robin, and he has seen how all the rest of them fly. He sets his feet, braces for the leap -- below him, the city rumbles, never sleeping -- the line is almost invisible in the dark.

Grayson shifts, stepping closer, cape snapping in the wind.

"Going to tell me not to look down?" Damian gives his own tug on the line, which refuses to budge, and looks up, and out, and down, at the impossible plummet under his feet.

"Robin," Grayson says, tired and grieving and still somehow full of that infinite, impossible gentleness, that disgustingly soft core of him that Damian has wanted to plunge a knife into since the day they met, and "I am not afraid," Damian snaps, and leaps.

It's -- terrifying, paralyzing, the rush and plummet, the wind catching in his ears and howling, the thin rubber grip of the grapple gun in his palms all too slick for when his weight catches against the line and pulls him back upward, and yet it's also-- amazing, and he whoops sudden and startled and delighted when the arc runs out and he is flying, hanging weightless at the top of the world with all the lights of the city and the sea around him, black and gold and brilliant.

And then gravity reasserts her grip and hauls him back down to the Earth, backwards. He clings instinctively tighter to the gun, cape twisting, flapping, tangling with his legs as he falls blindly back towards the uncaring streets -- and an arm hooks around his waist and hauls him back up again with the benefit of greater mass and greater momentum, and with a jolt he finally hits the release and lets Grayson sweep him up onto the roof of the next building, landing without a breath of a sound.

Damian shoves his way free and Grayson lets him go, lets him shove the grappling gun back in the holster on his belt and stride off to the middle of the roof, glaring down at the smoke-stained concrete. He has practiced this a hundred times over in the Bunker, the changeover, the weightlessness -- he has done it perfectly on the practice course, again and again, until Grayson finally agreed to take him out into the city without the Batmobile, and he froze--

"You're not the only one, you know," Grayson says, and Damian pauses. He doesn't look back, but he pauses, and Grayson sighs. "Tim did the same thing all the time when he was learning. It takes practice."

"I have had practice."

"Not on the streets."

"What difference should that make?"

Damian can feel Grayson's Look, boring in between his shoulder blades, and he clicks his tongue and turns back to the edge of the roof. This building isn't quite so tall, and flatter on top. Any leap will be reliant more on the winch feature of the grappling guns to haul him up to the next roof in the chain.

"Damian," Grayson says, stepping up next to him.

"Names."

"Fine, then, Robin," and he actually manages to hit amused. "You want to know a secret?"

"Hm."

Grayson leans in, conspiratorial, and Damian refrains from tilting himself away. Grayson's secrets are... varied, in terms of how secret they must be kept, and frequently inane, but occasionally... occasionally they are his father's secrets, and Damian-- holds tight to those. 

They are his birthright, after all.

"Bruce didn't know how to do this either," Grayson whispers, close and quiet in his ear.

"I am aware of that." There was, after all, a time when his father was not Batman, Damian knows, and his lack of training then does not excuse Damian's current inability--

"No, I mean even as Batman," and Damian whips his head up to look at him, but Grayson is looking out over the shining lights of the city, unreadable behind the cowl. "

In the early days, he didn't-- leap like this."

"Explain."

"He didn't have the training. Who would be crazy enough to teach him how to-- throw himself off skyscrapers?"

"Surely there would have been someone--"

"Before all of this? Before the Justice League? Before Superman? Bruce--

"Names."

"--your father knew a lot of things, but he didn't know this." Grayson shrugs, shoulders drooping as though the cape is dragging them down. "Back then -- well, actually, back then we mostly used the Batmobile, but when we did do rooftop patrols it was a different technique. Lower buildings, narrower streets, different line attachments, no midair switches and no big drops like that. I spent a lot of time using a grapple like an elevator as a kid," and he-- laughs, soft and quiet and wistful. "I learned a lot from him, but I didn't learn how to fly."

"But the others--" He has seen the recordings of his-- predecessors, of Drake's careless confidence in the air, Todd's reckless swoops -- even Brown is better at this than Damian, and that cannot stand. His mother told him that Batman would close the gaps in his education (what small ones there were), that he would be the greatest of his students, and yet he cannot do this, and his father is not here to teach him -- and yet his father did not teach Grayson, either--

"They learned from me," Grayson says. "Bruce did too, sort of -- it wasn't exactly like trapeze, I had to figure out a lot of it, heh, on the fly, and I worked out the technique with him -- but the basics? That's all me. Robin flew before Batman ever did."

"...tt," Damian says, because he has no idea what else to do, but he looks out over Gotham's neon-and-gold and wonders, briefly, what it must have been like, all those years ago, to take that first leap. To look up to the sky and see Batman and Robin, aloft.

"Trust me, Robin, you'll pick it up," Grayson says, resettling the cape on his shoulders, and Damian looks up at him again. He's smiling, now, and the cowl still doesn't suit him but it's less about the shape of his face or the tilt of his chin and more that Richard Grayson, perhaps, should not be wearing the cowl at all. "You've already got the hardest step down."

"Which is?"

"Don't be afraid to fall," Grayson says, and gestures out at the city in front of them, alive with light. "All you've gotta do is keep moving forward. I'll be right behind you," and English isn't Damian's first language but Mother found him only the best of the best to be his tutors, and he hears the second meaning underneath the words. I'll be there to catch you.

"Tt," says Damian, and leaps.

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

This, my greatest masterpiece (this, a curse unmatched)

Day 2 of The Long Halloween - event masterlist here

pairing: bruce wayne x reader (gender neutral)

length: 7.2k

genre: horror, fluff, hurt/comfort

warnings: gargoyle bruce, vague religious imagery, pretentious artist but I write it with love, reader falls off of the tallest building in Gotham so I hope you're not afraid of heights

a/n: me ??? write a bruce wayne fic ??? ig finally

"You know they said," you murmur mostly to yourself, smoothing over the block of marble with your palm, "that you're to be my greatest masterpiece. What do you think, hm? Will you live up to it?" Your hand raises, hammer held tightly in your palm as your other hand presses a chisel against the solid stone.

And then you let your arm swing down. The chisel chips away fragments of marble in flying flashes. The project begins. 

It will be a gargoyle, one day, much like all of your other pieces. That is the name that you've carved for yourself in this city - that is the fame that you've sculpted. You're commissioned quite often to build these creatures, to twist them and warp them into something akin to art, having them placed on top of buildings like solitary statues of the night. Monsters twisted out of blocks of stone.

"You know," you continue on as you carve, your breath coming out in a heavy sigh as you sniff and tip your head back, your arms already beginning to feel the weight of the chisel in your hand. "The Mayor, when he asked me for this, I mean - he asked why I choose to do this." 

You readjust your grip, running a thumb over the work that you've done. You'd never carved out of marble before. Other stones, yes - limestone, mainly. It's cheaper and softer - easier to break, easier to bend to your will. But marble? Marble seems to take on a life of its own.

And you will have to break it, you know. You will have to bend nature to your impossible will.

"I told him," you continue, your voice echoing through your studio as you stare at the block of marble, at the creation to be. "But I don't think he listened. They never really do, do they?"

Gargoyles, you'd reminded the Mayor as he'd signed your cheque, are purveyors of evil, creatures that drip malice and violence onto the darkened city below. However, it has also been believed that gargoyles are protectors against evil, that they act as great guardians that watch over cities and towns to keep the evil away. It's been thought that they hold curses at bay.

It's always seemed to be a bit of a mystery, then, that Gotham has so many gargoyles dotted along its rooftops and lining its skyline. Because Gotham is where curses are born. It's where they fester and breed. 

"Sometimes," you continue on, stepping back to stare at one of your sketches and chewing on your lip in thought. "I think that you just… Well, it's that you sort of just catch all of the evil in this world. Someone has to shoulder it. Someone has to swallow it." You glance around, then, at the various sketches and designs and photographs of old pieces that are scattered around the studio. Every gargoyle, every face - they all have their mouths open, snarling and snapping. 

"That's why I make you," you say easily, raising the hammer again. "Someone has to be the villain. Someone has to take the fall."

But it's not quite fair, you think, for Gotham to swallow all of the evil in this world. It's not quite fair, you consider, for you to be the one cursed with creating that evil. It's not quite right, you feel, to create these creatures over and over as they swallow endlessly, a hunger living within them that cannot be satiated.

"You're going to be alone, though, you know," you point out, running your hand along the veins of the marble. "That makes you different, I suppose. City Hall only wants one." But maybe you get it, you think, as you stand back and stare. 

It's to be your greatest masterpiece, they told you. One creature, alone, looming on the rooftop and looking out onto the city.

It's to be your greatest masterpiece, they'd reminded you as you'd taken the cheque, folding it and tucking it into your pocket. It's to be the city's pride and joy. 

"May I ask?" you'd said at the time. "Why me? There are plenty of artists in this place who'd kill for something like this."

"I'm sure you know why," the Mayor had huffed. "And this is important, so don't blow it."

"That's why I'm asking," you'd pressed. "Why me, to create something so holy?" The Mayor rolls his eyes at the question, crossing his arms over his chest and grumbling, but he humours you nonetheless.

"People talk about your work," he explains, like the words are being pulled from him against his better judgement. "They love to say that… well, I'm sure you've heard it. People say that your statues come to life at night."

"It's just a figure of speech," you soothe, but your grin makes him scowl.

"Of course it is," he snaps. "They're not real, they're not alive. But… but…" he begins to search for the words, struggling as you laugh.

"It's the soul, of course," you murmur to the block of marble, brushing away stray debris and dust. "You have to carve a soul into things to make people feel for them. And I… want that. I need that." Your chisel chips away more of the stone and you grip onto it tighter. You need it, you think. You need to make people swear that your creatures stand and stretch their wings and come alive by the light of the moon.

The days begin to feel endless after that, and the work continues on and on and on. There are much smaller carvings, busts and faces and hands - little elements of practice and failure scattered around countless tables that sit in your studio. But the floor has a large spot cleared in the centre, now, for the huge, looming block of marble to sit.  

The work is hard. It makes your arms ache and your muscles burn as you spend neverending days chipping away at the stone. It takes much longer than it had for any of your other carvings for this one to begin to finally become something. It feels like time stretches endlessly before the figure of a man is finally apparent, rough and undetailed and jagged, with two shapes that will soon be huge wings sprouting from his back. 

But that's how you leave him, one night, a white sheet thrown over him. You pause on your way out of the studio, one of your hands rubbing at your shoulder as it aches under the constant work. The calluses on your palms have begun to throb, the skin ripping and bleeding in places. Your head pounds, as well, the tension in your arms and shoulders twisting and clenching your muscles until the pain radiates through you.

He'll be worth it, you tell yourself. He'll be your greatest masterpiece.

You find yourself more than slightly unprepared, however, for your return to your studio in the morning. You find yourself more than a bit taken aback by the sight that awaits you. You're just pushing open the door, rubbing at your forehead and grumbling about your poor night's sleep to yourself when you step on something just inside the doorway of the great room.

When you lift your foot, you realize that it's a small piece of stone, broken and jagged and crumbling.

Something, you think immediately, is wrong. Your skin pricks in alarm as your heartbeat hammers in your ears and you look to your sides, finally seeing the state that your studio is in. 

The entire room has been turned in on itself. Faces and busts have been smashed and the pieces are strewn across the floor. Sketches that you'd made painstakingly in preparation and had pinned up are torn and shredded. A table by the window has been knocked over and crumpled pieces of stone are strewn around. 

And then there's the marble. In the barest shape of a man, he's not in the crouching position that he'd been in when you'd left him. He's not in the shape that you'd designed him to be. He's caught, instead, lunging toward the door of your studio with the white sheet that had been draped over him now tangled around his torso and legs. There's a desperation in his unmoving form, as if he was trying to escape, to flee this place that's brought him into creation. The breath leaves your lungs in one freezing gasp at the sight, and your eyes widen as your hands tremble and your mind begins to spin.

There's a crumpled piece of paper clenched in his closed fist, you realize, as you take the smallest step forward. Your legs are beginning to feel numb, waves of shock rolling over you in painful rhythms as you take in the sight before you. It takes a fair bit of slow stepping and trembling before you finally pry the scrunched-up paper from his stiff marble hand and unravel it, smoothing it out so that you can see what it is.

It's him. It's the finalized sketch that you'd done of the piece. It's the face that you're going to give him, snarling and violent and cruel, fangs bared like a bat while he spreads his wings out behind him. Your thumb smooths over the writing at the bottom of the page and you breathe out a heavy sigh.

You always name them, of course. Every gargoyle that you've carved, you've given a name. You've breathed life into them in that way. In this finalized sketch, you have his name written across the bottom of the design in scrawling, messy writing.

Bruce.

But he shouldn't be alive, you think desperately as you shove the sketch into your pocket and begin to circle the statue, tapping your knuckles against the solid marble. He's not, you think. He's not, he's not, he's not. He's unmoving, unbreathing, unwaking. He's not alive. He's not alive. He's not alive.

But he was, you suppose, breathing deeply as an eerie sort of calm begins to wash over you. Morning's light begins to stream in through the tall, narrow windows of your studio. The rays of the early sun shine down in beams to shimmer against the cold stone and dance across the rough, half-finished surface.

This is to be your greatest creation, they'd told you. This is to be a curse unmatched. 

The Mayor comes to visit eventually, curious to see how it's taking shape - curious to see how the city's money is being spent. Your studio is in disarray, although if it's again or still, you're not quite sure at this point. You'd cleaned and tidied it at first, putting everything back in its rightful place and sweeping up the debris. 

But when you'd come in the next morning, the space had been destroyed again. Bruce, the gargoyle, had been twisted into a new position once more. You'd cleaned up again, admittedly less so than the first time, and then moved along.

The next day, when you flicked the lights on and were greeted by shredded paper and smashed limestone once more, you'd mostly given up on trying to wrangle it into anything other than the mess that it has now become.

The Mayor steps over small piles of rubble, eyeing you and the way that you roll your shoulders and wince. By now, Bruce has moved again, of course. He's turned his back to the door and is reaching endlessly up toward the light streaming in from the windows, the white sheet clutched tightly in his other hand as if he's ripped it off of himself.

It's like he doesn't know, you think, that gargoyles cannot live in the light of day. It's like he's trying desperately to become something that he is not.

"I'm not sure this is quite what we had discussed," the Mayor grumbles, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the figure. You peek your head around the marble torso to look at him, shrugging in an unbothered sort of way.

"It's art, Mr. Mayor," you say slowly, like you're explaining it for the first time. "It takes on a life of its own. That's sort of the whole idea."

"Don't get smug," he snaps back. "If you were only half as talented as this, you wouldn't be getting away with speaking to any of us in this way." You laugh at his words, leaning closer to the gargoyle to work on his face and neck, carving the veins and tendons into his smooth, stone skin. 

One of his massive hands is curled near your waist as you work, his claws brushing against you as you step closer. It's a coincidence, of course, the way that his fingers are nearly wrapped around your waist. It's serendipitous fate, the way that it seems like he's pulling you closer. He's not alive, after all.

"You never know," you say easily, glancing at the Mayor past Bruce's cold, defined bicep. "Maybe it will turn into something completely different again before the end."

"I don't want that," he says shortly. You pout a bit mockingly and put your hand on the gargoyle's chest as you lean up to examine the work that you'd just done on his neck. "I want what I paid for."

"You paid for me," you snap back, a wild sort of grin flashing across your face. "This is exactly that." The Mayor shuffles on his feet, muttering and grumbling as he stares up at the towering figure of marble and the stepladders that you've left scattered around as you've begun to need the height to reach his face.

"What's his name?" he asks eventually.

"Hm?"

"I know you always name them," the Mayor says stiffly. "What's his name?"

"…Bruce," you say eventually, and as you step back one of his claws catches on the fabric of your shirt, momentarily making you stumble as if he's tugged you closer to him.

"Why name him a thing like that?" the Mayor huffs. You roll your eyes and untangle your shirt from the gargoyle's grip, patting his bicep as you step away from him fully to face the Mayor.

"The name Bruce," you explain with a laborious sigh, "is connected to the willow tree."

"So?"

"So," you continue, exasperation seeping into your tone, "the willow tree symbolizes life. New life, rebirth, morphing into something different."

"It's just a statue," the Mayor says dully. "There's no need to act like it's anything more."

"If he's just a statue," you challenge, and when you stand in front of Bruce, his wings spread out behind you like some kind of omen, "then why do you want him so badly?"

There's no response to that, you suppose, as the Mayor just huffs and grumbles and says something about upcoming meetings as he makes a hasty departure. Not that you care much, too preoccupied with staring up at the gargoyle's face and watching him take shape. 

It's to be your greatest masterpiece, right? You may as well make it something grand then, right?

It takes months for the creation to be completed enough for it to be transferred to the rooftop of City Hall. The weather has begun to turn by now, your breath coming out in foggy clouds and your fingers freezing in your pockets as you watch the movers gently adjust the giant sculpture into his new home.

It's here that you're supposed to do the final touches on him, smooth him out and polish him and perfect him. It's here that your art is meant to come to life. As the movers are bickering back and forth about the weight of the thing and how to make sure that it's placed safely, you begin to ignore them and choose to look out toward the city, instead. From here, you can see glimpses of everything - every statue, every carving. You can see every part of Gotham that you've left your mark on, every crack and crevice where you've carved yourself into the lifeblood of the city.

When you look beside you once more, your newest creation stands tall and proud, his marble glimmering under the sun and shining through the everlasting fog of the frantic city. He's to be your greatest masterpiece, you remember as you pull off your gloves and smooth your hand over him. He's to be the protector that bears the weight of the entire city on his shoulders. 

What a burden, you think, as you're handed your kit and you begin to dig around for your tools. What a burden to be built as such a thing.

What a burden, you think, to be the thing that always builds this.

But it is on this day, nonetheless, that he's finished. With a chisel and a hammer, you carve life into marble. You mould and sculpt, like something holy creating something damned. The day wears on until the sun begins to dip below the horizon once more and the two of you are bathed in hues of pink and violet and deep, deep blue. 

It's when the sun finally drops low enough that darkness reigns that you finally drop your chisel, your hands throbbing and your head pounding and your face frozen from the cold. You wonder, as you stare up at the gargoyle's looming form and feel a panic start to fester within you, what on earth you're supposed to do, now that you've fulfilled your only purpose.

That hollowness, you find, sort of sticks with you, clinging to your soul and wrapping around you as you make your way home in the depths of the night. The buildings of Gotham tower around you, your own statues leering down at you from rooftops with vicious snarls, as if they're mocking you for your own hubris… as if they're cackling at the sick karma of it all.

Like Icarus falling from the sun, you wander through the twisting, winding streets and back roads, the darkness blanketing over you and crushing you under the weight of it all, under the curse of this city. 

A shadow flickers overhead and you keep your eyes trained on the ground, almost afraid to look up. It's as if you've become afraid of your own creations, terrified of them outgrowing you and leaving you behind.

You can't even bring yourself to return home, you realize, turning instead to head to your studio and sit in the silence of the now-empty room. There's a large, empty patch of floor in the middle where Bruce had stood for so long, and as you walk through the space, crumbled stone and torn-up paper crunch under your shoes and you feel something hollow eating at you from the inside out.

That was to be your greatest masterpiece, you think. And now he's gone.

When you wake the next morning, it's on the floor of your studio, your jacket rolled up under your head as a makeshift sort of pillow and light streaming in from the windows. The notifications on your phone, though, as you grumble and rub at your sore neck and check the news, have you shooting upright to a stumbling stand. 

News has broken out all over the city of destruction, some kind of vandalism having taken place overnight. Gargoyles all across the city have been destroyed, smashed and battered and knocked from their posts.

You scroll through the news feeds frantically, something akin to dread curling in your gut as you sift through photographs of your creations, crumbled and attacked and lying in pieces across rooftops. 

There are rumours spreading across the news outlets of people having seen a dark, flying shape swooping over the city. Some, mainly a few of the rather less reputable news sources, claim that it was the Mothman.

But you just shake your head and scoff at that. People will believe anything these days, you think.  No one knows who could've done it. No one knows how it really could've happened.

But as you stare at the wall of your studio, finished photographs of Bruce on the night before he was transported out of this space hang on the wall and mock you. You stare at them and something settles deep in your gut, a knowing sort of pain stabbing into you there. 

You know what happened. You're sure of it.

It doesn't take long to weasel your way into getting roof access at City Hall - something about needing to make final touches on the gargoyle and how you're sure the Mayor wouldn't be happy if you weren't allowed to work. You just claim that you need to see the carving again - you need to fix something, need to put your hands on it one more time.

Sure enough, when you get up there you're faced with the evidence of it all. There are chips and gouges in Bruce's fingers, his claws dulled and broken - like he had spent the night clawing and breaking and destroying across the city. 

He looks… like a protector, you suppose, with his scars and his dents and his looming wings spread wide. And you… you are his creator, after all. So you sit in front of him, trying to rub the cold from your fingers before taking his huge, freezing hands in yours so that you can polish and smooth and repair the damage that he's done to himself and you. 

You're trying to rub the feeling back into your fingers, your hands trembling from the cold and the pressure of your work, when the sun finally begins to dip below the horizon. You'd finished your fixing and your polishing hours ago, leaving Bruce to, instead, sit by the edge of the roof and simply wait. You sit with your back to him, staring out toward the endless, cursed city and you wonder if this is what it's like to be one of your creations - if this is what it's like to wait for something holy to happen.

When the sun finally does disappear beyond the skyline, the impossible wall of fog hazing the colours of dusk, you begin to hear him behind you. It's a creaking sort of noise, marble grinding and crunching against itself as he begins to move, as he begins to breathe life into himself.

So it's true, you think weakly, standing ever so slowly and keeping your back to him. He's alive, he's alive, he's alive.

Still, knowing it in theory and seeing it with your waking eyes are two different things, and when you turn to face him it's like all of the air has been punched out of your lungs. Bruce stands in front of you now, huge and powerful and terrifying, with razor-sharp claws that gleam in the darkness and wings that spread so far that they black out the horizon behind him and around you.

You stand frozen and you watch him and you wonder in a dizzying, endless sort of way what sort of a thing you are for creating a creature like him. It's a bit like staring god in the face, you think nauseously, when he stares down at you with his towering, imposing gaze. 

And you can't really help it - it just makes you wonder… are you anything like a god for making him? Or is it all… him? Can you claim responsibility for bringing something like this to life?

You're beginning to spiral, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest that if you had a bit of rational thinking left, perhaps you'd be concerned about it bursting from you. But then Bruce reaches for you, wrapping one giant, clawed hand around your waist and lifting you up as you shriek and he spreads his wings to bring the two of you into the sky.

He soars up and up and up, keeping you in a firm grip with one hand and pressing your back against his chest to keep you steady. Not that that comforts you much as you cling onto his bicep and forearm, digging your nails impossibly into the marble as the tangled, twisting streets of Gotham flash by underneath the two of you. 

He brings you to the clock tower eventually, dropping you ever so gently and letting you steady yourself with gasping breaths and shaking knees. It's the tallest building in the city, and your head spins as you look out and can see the whole of Gotham sprawling out at your feet. 

"Oh my god…" you murmur as you stare out with wide eyes, able to see, from this vantage point, all of the destruction that he'd caused the night before. "Bruce… what have you done?"

"What have you done?" he says in response, his voice rumbling from behind you in a deep bass. "You are what made me, after all."

"No!" you shout as you whirl on him, glaring up at him with panicked eyes. "I didn't make you into this. I didn't make you do this."

"You created a monster," he responds calmly, reaching for you. You let him, your breath held as you tremble. But he's gentle, brushing a stone knuckle across your cheek and wiping away a tear that you hadn't realized had fallen. "You cannot be upset when monstrous things follow."

"You were… you were supposed to protect the city," you respond quietly, your brows furrowing as you look up at him. "That's what you were made for. I… I gave you life, perhaps, yes. But - why use it for this?"

"You are my creator," Bruce responds simply, and his massive hand trails down to wrap around your throat with a delicate, barely-there touch. "I am made of you. My weight is on your shoulders."

"No!" you shout again, pulling away from him and stepping back. "I have made you, yes, but I've… I've released you out into the world. You've taken on a life of your own, have you not? You are made of yourself now, aren't you? You… you brought yourself to life… didn't you?"

"Did I?" he muses, but there's an uncertainty in the stone rumble of his voice. "I'd always thought that it was you. You drew me, after all. Carved me from a block of stone."

"You… I - what?" you ask desperately. "Bruce, I… you remember all of that?"

"Of course," he says simply, and when you clutch your chest and make a panicked sort of noise, he steps toward you. "I was there when you built me. I was there when you carved me out of nothing and turned me into this. And I have to wonder…" He steps further, still, until you have to crane your head back to look up at him, at his stormy eyes and furrowed brows and snarling face. "I wonder… if you made me, why… why turn me into something evil?"

"I didn't," you say weakly, stepping away from him and glancing back as the edge of the roof gets precariously close. "I didn't… who brought you to life, really, Bruce? Are you sure it was me? Are you sure it wasn't you?"

"Are you saying that you didn't?" he questions, stepping toward you for every step that you take back.

"I'm saying that I don't know," you answer desperately, an edge to your voice. "I'm saying that maybe - it's… it doesn't matter, Bruce."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter who built you. Can you not just belong to yourself now? You belong to yourself, don't you?" He frowns at your words, stepping closer still. When you step back this time, your heel catches the edge of the roof and your heart lurches painfully in terror at the drop behind you. 

"You made me," he says, pressing further.

"You belong to yourself," you repeat. "Learn… learn to live for yourself, Bruce. You are not mine anymore. You belong to yourself." He snarls a bit more at that, taking another step forward. This time, though, you have nowhere left to go, and when you step back there's only open air and the crisp fog of night to catch you.

So you fall… from the impossible height of the clock tower and toward the city that writhes with malice, you fall. And you think, as you feel the air rush past your ears, that perhaps this is the only way that it should be - death by your own creation, by your greatest masterpiece, thrown off of the highest point in a city that you helped to build. Perhaps this is how it feels to really, truly take a fall.

But it's not the ground that meets you. It's the feeling of cold, solid marble, instead, that wraps around you and hauls you up and up and up again. It's Bruce, with his arms keeping you pressed against his chest until he has you safely back on the top of the clock tower, this time with him standing between you and the edge of the roof. 

"You… saved me," you say slowly, your words coming out in halting gasps as your teeth chatter from the cold and the shock of it all. 

"How could I not?" he responds easily, and he reaches forward to smooth a large palm over your cheek gently. "How could I not come for you? How could I not follow wherever you go?"

"You don't have to," you say quietly.

"But I will," he responds in that sturdy, solid way of his. You lean against the solid wall of the large clock face and sigh, your knees buckling slightly at the weight of it all as you look up at him with anguish.

"Is that what it was all about?" you whisper. "The… the studio, the… the things you did there?" You think back to it all, to the destruction of your space, to the ripping up of the sketches and the smashing of the practice busts. You think back to him, frozen mid-movement, always clawing at himself, trying to rip himself from your grasp. 

A tear rolls down your cheek and your bottom lip trembles. Bruce just shushes you gently, brushing his clawed thumb against the frozen, bluish tint of your lip and stroking your cheek.

"You created me," he says lowly. "So why did you turn me into something evil?"

"I didn't…" you say, your voice catching and warbling. "I didn't know. I didn't know I could create anything that wasn't that. I didn't know that my hands could shape anything other than malice."

"How foolish," Bruce murmurs gently, cupping your face in both of his hands now so that he can wipe away the tears that have started streaming down your cheeks, "to think such a thing when you made me with this love. How foolish to think… when you made me love you like this." His face is close to yours now, so close that your noses brush together and his eyes bore into yours.

"Can you?" you say quietly. "Can you really love someone like me? Can you fall in love with the thing that made you?"

"That depends," he responds simply, so close to you now that your lips brush against his. "Can you ever really love me back?" The way he kisses you, then, probably proves that you both can. He presses you against the clock face, hard marble leaning against you and keeping you steady as your head spins and you grab onto his biceps. Around you, the city rages on, swirling and moving and tangling in on itself as night blankets the two of you and he wraps his wings around you, shielding you from the outside world.

"Bruce," you say quietly, parting from him just enough to speak. "Why did you destroy all of the others? They aren't - they weren't even alive. Not like you. You're… you're the only one like this. Why did you do it?"

"Because," he offers honestly, trailing his lips across your cheek and down the side of your neck. "I didn't want you to ever love them more than you love me."

"How foolish," you quip back, but its effect is dimmed by the breathless quality of your voice as Bruce presses further against you and tightens his grip on your waist, "to think that I could ever love anything more than I love my greatest masterpiece." Bruce laughs at that, an action so carefree that it feels almost holy as he throws his head back and lets his wings spread wide.

You look past him as he moves, staring back out towards the endless, mangled streets of Gotham and the curses that fester within them. Bruce smoothes a hand over your back and sobers as you look out with furrowed brows, glancing over the rooftops and the crumbled remains of your work. The past spirals endlessly before you and behind you and a need takes hold, a burning drive to move forward, to reach further.

"Have I…" you begin quietly, still looking past him. "Have I been protecting it? Or have I just been… feeding it?" You look up at Bruce again, then, something desperate and imploring in your gaze. "You belong to yourself, now, Bruce. You have to move forward. I - we both do."

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks somberly. "What am I supposed to do with a life that I did not choose?"

"Anything," you answer simply, spreading your arms wide with the city at your back now. "You own the night, Bruce. You own Gotham City. You can do anything."

"But," he begins, frowning. You just shake your head and continue, the freezing night air making your breath fog between the two of you.

"It doesn't matter, Bruce… It doesn't matter how you were created. It doesn't matter what you were made to be. It only matters what you choose." 

"What…" he begins slowly. "What am I to choose?"

"Anything," you stress. "The night belongs to you, Bruce. Choose what you want to do with it." He blinks, then, rolling his shoulders back and he stares past you and out toward the shining city. 

"It's beautiful, you know," he says, his voice a smooth, pleasant rumble.

"What?" you respond, a bit distracted as you try to rub warmth back into your fingers. He looks down at you rather fondly, then, before he gestures to you with one of his massive hands. And that's all that it takes, really, to have you closing the distance between the two of you. He wraps his giant arm around you, tucking you into the safety of his side as he wraps a wing around you, blocking the frigid wind and letting you shiver. 

"Gotham," he clarifies, and you look up at him while he looks out, his eyes shining with something that looks suspiciously close to love as he stares at the city. "It's beautiful."

"You know," you muse, letting one of your hands rest against his chest as the other searches for his own hand so that you can curl your fingers around his, "I'd never really… I don't know. I guess I've just never really looked at it that way."

"How could you not?" he questions, but there's no bite to his voice and when you look up with your nose wrinkled, he laughs once more.

"It's easy, I think," you explain with a shrug. "It's easy to just… get lost in it. All these years I spent being paid to build this city into something more, I… I guess I never really stopped to look at it." Bruce hums in confirmation, rubbing his hand up and down your arm as he continues to shield you from the cold.

"You know," you continue thoughtfully. "Someone really does need to look out for the city."

"What?"

"Gotham… Gotham needs a protector. I'm - I'm not saying you have to. It's… it's your life, Bruce, it's your choice. But I just - I don't know, you…"

"Go on," Bruce says gently, tearing his eyes away from the city to look down at you just as fondly. "Say it."

"I… I made you," you say slowly, a heaviness to your words. "I breathed life into you - I didn't know that I was doing it at the time but - I did. And I can't take that back. You were built to be Gotham's protector, to keep it safe and watch over it through the night. I want you to do that - if you want to. I think… I think you're good at what you're made to be. I think that, maybe, we both are." Bruce sighs at your words, a contented sort of thing as he reaches to smooth a thumb between your furrowed, anxious brows. 

"So I was right," he says easily. "We really are just the things that we were made to be, at the end of it all."

"Maybe it's just… not so bad?" you offer waveringly. He smiles down at you, a monster making peace with the malice that drips from his bared teeth, and something feels like it sort of just… settles into place.

"It doesn't have to be bad at all, I don't think," he offers gently. You sigh and let your forehead thump forward against the cool marble of his chest.

"Where would I be without you?" you murmur. A laugh rumbles through him, jostling you as you lean against him. 

"Victim of the Mayor's wrath, no doubt," he jokes. You lift your head to glare up at him, flicking his solid marble chest. 

"The Mayor loves me," you say haughtily.

"He does not," Bruce responds easily, but when you begin to splutter out protests he's quick to silence you with another kiss, bringing you closer to him with a tight grip.

"What will you do now?" he whispers against your lips. Something in you lurches painfully, a panic stirring.

"Oh," you say hollowly. "Right. I…" But then you look out toward the city, toward the ruin and the failure. Your greatest masterpiece having already outgrown you, you can feel yourself begin to spiral endlessly, your hands itching to bring life to something, to do something that makes you worth it. 

But then your fingers twitch, the calluses on your palms burning from the cold air, and you feel a sort of calmness overtake you as you look out toward the crumbling statues with new light. 

"I think," you say carefully, "that I have some things to rebuild. I think I have a new life to make for myself." Bruce hums in understanding, a hand stroking over the back of your head. "But," you continue, tipping your head back to look up at him with big, round eyes. "I certainly wouldn't mind working more often at night now. What do you say?"

"How could I say anything but yes," he rumbles back, "to my creator?"

"You're an awful distraction," you murmur as you work, chisel in hand as you feel a razor-sharp claw trace delicately up the length of your spine underneath your shirt. You're on the rooftop of the Bank of Gotham, night wrapping around you and Bruce as you work at recarving and smoothing out the mistakes of the past, buffing them out with new stone and new hope. If only there wasn't a slinking, skulking gargoyle who doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself. 

"I'm not sure what you mean," Bruce muses as he curls around you, his wings churning the night air. It's warmer these days, the cold front having passed months ago to make way for hotter, stickier nights. 

"Yes you do," you quip back, but your smile gives away your lack of real annoyance. He's an awful distraction, yes, but it's so worth it to be intertwined with him, you think. The artist and the muse, tangled endlessly just like the city that created them.

"I'm helping," Bruce murmurs stubbornly, burying his head in your shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. 

"You've already helped plenty," you say slyly, but the way that he hums in confirmation and presses closer has heat rising to your cheeks.

"I could always help again -"

"No," you splutter out. "Bruce, the sun is going to come up soon. You need to be back at City Hall before the night is over."

"I'll make it in time," he says distractedly, training his lips over your neck and slipping his massive, clawed hands under your shirt.

"You will," you laugh at him as you squirm away from him, standing and teetering on the edge of the rooftop. Bruce frowns and reaches for you, wrapping a secure arm around your waist to keep you steady. "You will," you repeat calmly, "because you're going to leave now. I'll come up and sit with you in the morning if you'd like. I have some sketches to work on."

"It's not the same," he says, a frown still tugging at his lips.

"I know," you soothe. "But it's only during the day."

"Promise me something, then," he whispers as he draws you in to wrap around you one last time before daybreak.

"Anything," you respond honestly.

"Come back for me," he says lowly, pressing a final kiss to your lips. "Come back to put your hands on me again when night falls. Come back to turn me into something good."

"You've already done most of that for yourself, you know," you murmur back, your lips brushing against his. "But… always. I'll always come back for you." And you mean it, of course, as you reach for him one last time before he has to flee. You'll always stand next to him while he moulds himself into something new, day after day after day. Just as he will always do the same for you.

Morning really has begun by the time you're making your way out of the bank, trying yet again to roll the everlasting tension out of your shoulders as you walk outside. The sun is cresting over the city, making the buildings shimmer as the newer gargoyles shine with flecked limestone on top of the towering rooftops. 

But there's still only one of them that's made of marble, and he stands, now, on top of City Hall. You stop outside of the bank to look up at Bruce, staring at the way that his wings splay out as he snarls. The sun is rising up from behind him and it begins to bathe the gargoyle in a holy, glowing halo of endless golden light that fights through the constant fog of Gotham.

He looks sort of like an angel, you think as you giggle to yourself, the calluses on your palms burning with the memory of carving him. He looks like something holy. 

But really, you know… you know that you did not tell him to stand like that - that you did not carve him in that pose. You know that you did not lift the sun to shine down onto him. He did that for himself. 

As the sun crests even further, shining past him and onto your face, breaking through the murky, polluted air just enough to breathe warmth onto your skin, you know that you've done it for yourself, too.

[seraphimaa]

Doll for a day - Part 2

Soft(ish)!Raphael x fem!Tav x Haarlep

Raphael sets out the terms for his forgiveness. After all, it’s not nice to feel left out.

Or

Raphael makes her fuck his incubus in front of him and then tests her dedication.

Warnings: selfish idiots with feelings

PART 1

She can’t stop her face from cringing. It’s all the confirmation he needs and he falls into silence, processing. He is furious, yes, but he can’t help the faint relief that is flooding him. The board is still in play. Her mouth forms the shapes of letters but nothing seems to come out. She takes a breath, utters only the word, “leaving”, like he’s supposed to find reassurance in it, and turns to flop onto her stomach, beginning to drag herself by her arms towards the edge of the bed.

“No.” She feels his thighs clench to hold her own, the thick ropes of muscle halting her movement. Her face hits the silk and she lets herself simply collapse in defeat under the master of the house. “What the hells is wrong with you? You come into my house, look at my things, touch my things, fuck my things.” He’s spitting with rage the more he rambles and with every word she pushes her head further and further into the covers, half in an attempt to smother herself.

“Then you think you can just what? Scamper off? Tell me, Tav, is your sheer aptitude for being this insufferable nature, or nurture? Did somebody drop you on your head as an infant, or were you simply born this way?”

“Born...” Her words are barely comprehendible through the bedding. He grunts in acknowledgement and takes a break from frowning at the detailing in the wallpaper to look down at the fleshy heap. She looks pathetic and entirely resigned.

“And what, on all of the planes, were you ever hoping to achieve, pray tell?” Her shoulders shrug limply. “Hm.” He hums, unimpressed, and lets her stew in the silence until he hears her again, clearly desperate to move things along .

“No reason.”

“Oh thank goodness,” her ears perk at the happy tone, “I find so much comfort in knowing you would cause all of this chaos for no reason at all.” Never mind.

“And what did you plunder and soil?” He sniffs indignantly, “other than my sheets and incubus.”

He expects another short, mumbled response but instead he feels her begin to shake under him rhythmically. For a brief moment, he thinks she’s laughing like a maniac but then he hears her sobs.

Her head lifts just enough for her cries to ring clearly. “I’m sorry! Okay? I payed that lady to open the portal. I don’t know what I was thinking. I promise. I wasn’t going to touch anything, just look. Then I ended up here and you were here too and you were so nice but it wasn’t you but he looked so good and he felt so good and I didn’t want to stop, I couldn’t, I don’t know what I was thinking-I wasn’t thinking!” It all comes out in a jumble and her head flops down again as she shudders in another wave of sobs. Haarlep’s tail can be heard wagging against the sheets absently, only paying attention the indirect praise aimed his way.

For what feels like the hundredth time in one day, he heaves a massive sigh. It feels like an eternity that the scene drags on. Raphael ponders whether this is all a cruel, fated karma playing out. He considers what sins it were that landed him in the constant circus show that he appeared to ringlead daily. He looks at the three of them, on the bed, and thinks that they would fit perfectly on renaissance style painting. Haarlep is crouched with knees to the side, looking every part the demonic gargoyle of a creature that Raphael considers him to be, tail wagging in the air and looking very pleased with himself. His mouse is splayed dramatically on the bed like a tortured damsel, wailing and he is slumped in his own pose of enduring anguish. He considers giving her a further tongue wagging but she appears to be torturing herself just fine for now. Hells, you’d think she was the victim here.

Her sobs hiccup as she feels Raphael twist and rise from the bed. She cranes, terrified to see what kind of torture he is about to impose on her but her puffy, wet face is met with the curve of his bare spine and hips as he strides to the desk against right wall. She definitely doesn’t look at the jiggle of fat on his ass as he stomps over and throws himself back into the chair. She definitely doesn’t look anywhere in particular as he reclines back, neck craned at a sharp angle over the back of the oak. His eyes snap to hers, and he crosses his legs with a frown, and she averts her gaze to the wall beside his head for no related reason. He tears open a drawer and brings out a dusty bottle of vintage. He busies himself with uncorking the bottle, and pulls out a glass. He fills it without any grace, almost overflowing the rim then knocks it back, taking his time before he swallows it down. She’s tempted to ask him what comes next but the withering look he shoots her way as she intakes air to begin makes the words die on her tongue. She swallows with an awkward nod and settles her face back into the covers. She is good at ruminating and wallowing. This is fine. Even the incubus seems to pick up on the sudden lack of energy in the room and he flops back wriggling around, fluttering his wings and swishing his tail, as he gets into a comfortable position. His leg thumps her own and he whines until she shuffles over, half hanging over the edge. He mimics the brooding duo and lets out a sigh, his own airy and perfectly content.

Raphael is surprisingly the first to break the peace.

“Why did you sleep with it?”

There’s hesitation in his tone, almost like he couldn’t decide if he truly wants the answer. She is completely caught off guard and lifts her head after some thought, enough to respond but not enough to have to face him as as she does.

“It was just a really bad mistake.”

Haarlep seems to take offence to this, his tail whipping her leg as it beats back and fourth in protest but he stays silent, intent on listening to this play out.

“No,” his tone is wary but he speaks like this is something important to him, “you knew the risk. As much as you would like to galavant through life like a court jester, you are smart. What was it exactly that made you decide to take that miscalculated risk?”

“I don’t know! I was, I was just…” She seems to sway between deflection and truth but eventually finds her answer.

“I was just desperate.” He cocks an eyebrow as if deciding on how to perceive her words but when her face emerges pink and swollen from the sheets, intense and ugly, altogether striking, he sees the burning honestly. “Really desperate.”

“Excuse me!” Haarlep cranes to look at her, wings flaring, entirely offended. He is not reading the silent layers of communication happening amongst the rude guests of in his little sanctuary. “And just what, exactly, are you trying to imply? Don’t act like I didn’t have you mewling happy as a kitten, eyes crossed in bliss as you bounced yourself around dumb and drunk on my cock. Don’t act like you didn’t throw yourself at the chance to come undone under me, specifically. You said that you needed him, me, raw and undiluted. No rude lies on my bed, please.” It is the first time, in the short span they’d shared together, that she’d seen the fiend seem truly displeased. They both pointedly ignore his bruised ego and the implications of his words.

“And what was it, exactly, you were so desperate for?” She gives a small shake of her head in protest of what he is trying to drag out of here.

“I just wanted to be touched.”

“Then you would have gone to the brothel. Try again.”

“I wanted to be touched by someone who I knew.”

“Then you would have crawled your way into the tent of one of your willing companions long ago, I’m sure. I’m tired, little mouse.” She builds her courage enough to glance at him through damp lashes and he really is slumped in utter defeat. He’s nursing a new glass, and his face has never looked so tired. It feels violating to witness him like this, even more so than seeing him naked ever had. he takes in her face, full of fear and pain. She looks like saying it might break her, like it’s the last thing she wants to do. She looks at him like he is cruel, and she is begging him to spare her. His face hardens and he drains the last in his glass, not hesitating to empty the bottle in its place.

“I..” he trails off, before shaking his head and standing up, throwing his hand out dismissively.

“Forget I said anything. Go. Get dressed. I’ll organise a portal out.” She openly balks at him. “But what about-“ he doesn’t wait for her to finish.

“Please. You’ve done enough. Spare both our dignities any further blows for one day and just go.” He falls back into his chair, tapping his finger on the desk impatiently, staring into the liquid crimson in his hand. She swings herself up, sitting with her back to him and she is glad for the fact because once again, to her frustration, her eyes blur with tears. She feels like everything is crashing down upon her and the reality of the day is setting in, finally. This is unfixable. She’d taken a running jump over every boundary they constructed and respected until now. It was like a game. The flirting, the teasing, the goading. It was relentless, but they both played by the same unspoken rules. They were both smarter than to fall for the words the other spun. It had felt, in a way, safe. But she isn’t smart. Somewhere along the way she’d come to anticipate their next encounter. She felt a flutter in her stomach when he smiled down at her, so dashing and smug. She played their conversations over and over again when alone, trying to spy a crack in his performance, a subtle sign that he harboured his own strange fondness for her. She’d replaced the face of the imaginary companion with his when he brought herself to completion late at night. If she leaves now, there’s no going back. She decides to speak before she can change her mind. If she walks away then he’d take this as her final answer. It would mean whatever they had would be over.

“No.” She stands from the bed. She ignores the withering look she shoots her and strides around the bed. “I’m not going. You can’t make me.” He is close to reminding her that this is very much not the case but she keeps coming closer, stopping when her legs bump his knees and suddenly her hand is around the glass, brushing his, as she pulls it from his grip and tips it back. The liquid seeps around the seam and drizzles down her chin, falling and painting her nude frame. She finishes it with a gasp and sets it back into the desk, he holds his breath as she leans over him but she keeps her gaze detached from his. She plonks herself onto the bed, facing him.

“I was desperate for you. I just wanted you. I couldn’t have it so I took what I could. Im a greedy, selfish, depraved asshole and I know I really messed everything up but you can’t just send me away. You have to forgive me. I’m not leaving here until you forgive me. I’ll stay right here, as long as it takes, but you have to tell me what it is that I need to do. Please, Raphael, how do I fix it?”

She begins so doubt herself the longer he remains catatonic and brooding but at last he humours her.

“You’ve found a way to rewind time, my sweet little fool?” She shakes her head but isn’t willing to give up now that she had his attention.

“Without hindsight I’d have done it again, to be honest. Something else. Realistic, maybe.” She’s slowly gaining back that deplorable attitude and confidence.

“Watch your mouth, mouse. Remember exactly what has landed you here. If you want my forgiveness then I should know exactly what I am forgiving.” She quirks a brow at this, feeling an uneasy flutter at the way his face morphs to a determined smile, as if setting a challenge he expects her to fail.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well,” he crosses one leg over the other and his posture is creeping back into its usual confidence, “how could I ever forgive you when you went behind my back and now, when asked to simply take responsibility and admit to everything, you wail like a bairn. One would be led to believe that it was your form that had been violated so rudely from across the planes from all this hysteria. It’s madness.” They glare at each other as he lays his condition before her.

“I need to even the playing field, Tav. Any embarrassment you have caused me will be returned tenfold. You see, I’m starting to feel rather left out. Like the only one not in on your little joke. You will show me as everything that happened after you entered this room. Your recreation must be convincing enough to make me believe the words you say and you will show me every detail of how it happened.”

He watches as she rises at once with a yelp.

“I’m sorry, you want me to do what?”

“Haarlep does love to put on a show. Quite the performer. All you need to do is read the lines as they were written. You should be familiar with them as you did write them yourself, did you not?” Haarlep lets out a happy sound behind her. She falls to her knees, reaching for his legs.

“Please. Eternal torture, death, anything but this.”

His foot kicks to smack her beggar hands away.

“Oh feeling embarrassed? Humiliated? Violated? My, my, mouse, quite a turn of a tables, is it not?”

She glares up and tries to feign dignity as she clambers back onto her feet.

“And if I do it then everything will go back to normal? Forgiven and forgotten.” He considers her phrasing.

“Forgiven? Why of course. I am a man of my word after all.” She puffs herself up and turns, making her way to behind the pool partition. She emerges from the far side, walking in an unintentionally exaggerated manner, every single movement screaming discomfort. She gasps loudly in surprise at the incubus on the bed, lounging back in character.

“Gracious, Raphael, your buxom bosom is exposed to the elements.” She raises her hand to her forehead, feigning as if to faint at the sight. It draws a giggle from Haarlep and a groan from Raphael. Can’t please everyone, she supposes.

“That’s strike one. On the third I’ll drop you into the middle of the sea with a snap of my fingers. I swear it.” She gawks at him as he sneers at her, entirely unimpressed. He was definitely not in the mood.

At his instruction, she begins the scene agin, from the top. This time she echos her words, verbatim.

“Ah, Raphael! Why…are you dressed like that?” She was not born for the stage, but it will do. Haarlep is bristling with excitement as he begins his part of the act. Ah, Roleplay! How exciting!

“My, my. Is that a little mouse skittering through my house?” His grin is as devilish as she remembers it. “How very naughty. Come to serve yourself to the cat? What a surprising course of events indeed.” She studies him as she recites his greeting to her just as he had.

“You’re not Raphael. You look different. Younger. Who are you really?” Haarlep smirks.

“I’m impressed. Very perceptive of you, indeed.” He raises onto his knees, legs spread and muscles rippling as he balances his weight. His abdomen is adorned with keratin ridges leading and pointing down to-no. She wasn’t looking there. She had, but she will safeguard the shreds remaining of her dignity where she can. He doesn’t have to know that.

“My name is Haarlep. You’d do well to remember it for you may just find me drawing it from your lips, like prayer. Very soon.” His hands are spread wide, inviting her to bask in his form. He look like he’s carved from scarlet marble. Like an angel. She instantly remembers exactly how she’d fallen to ruin to quickly. He’s so convincing that she almost forgets that she hasn’t really been taken back to that moment. She does not have to fake the way she freezes under charm of the incubus.

“The master must attend to business. I’m afraid he’s currently buried so deep into his work. You should know that he likes to finish very quickly.”

Raphael grunts, storing this for when he next wanted to berate the demon spawn. Haarlep breaks character to throw a glare over his shoulder.

“What? You said to recreate it exactly.”

“Shut up, Harlot.” He sighs, waving his hand. “Continue.”

The incubus’s gaze is instantly locked back onto hers as he resumes his act and again, he drinks her in. it’s like everything else in the room disappears.

“How lucky you are little mouse. He should not be back for quite some time. You’re all alone with me.” She holds her ground, as dangerous as he looks when he falls onto his hands and begins to prowl towards her. “I propose a little game. One I simply insist you must play before you go. If you don’t, well then I’d just have to assume we’re not friends. If were not friends then you’d be intruding and I would simply have to tell.” Haarlep, and reaches to grab her hands, giving them a light squeeze. She’d looked so scared the first time.

“Come on. I promise it’s not a mean game. I won’t make you do anything bad. I promise. Trust me. Play with me.” His smile is so sweet and gentle that she melts all over again.

“O-ok.”

“Oh goodie! Here are the rules. I ask you one question. Just one! You must tell me the truth. I will know if you lie to me. That’s all.” She frowns, not believing that it could be so easy.

“Oh come now. I won’t tell a soul. Nobody will ever know. It’ll be our little secret. I promise.” She nods and the breath leaves her as the incubus surges towards her. She doesn’t flinch this time, as his face brushes hers. Instead of going for the kiss he teases near her open mouth, he presses his lips to her ear, hissing his question.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

As she had before, she turns, locking eyes with the sultry, demonic slits. Their faces touch from proximity. True to her actions, instead of answering aloud, she closes the distance. She’d been so lost in the spell he must have cast on her when they’d met. There was no other explanation for why she’d been so overcome. But then, why was she feeling it all over again?

The incubus sighs against her mouth as their tongues dance and she’s pulled on top of him. He had undressed her as she lapped the venom straight from his mouth but they are both already naked this time. She grinds and squirms on top of him as the venom begins to seep straight to her head and loins. A heat spreads through her abdomen, hot as coals, and she can feel the trial she’s drooling onto his hard abdomen as she grinds against the rough, leathery skin. The room spins and that drunk feeling washes over her all over again.

She almost forgets that they are not alone, so focussed on the forked tip of his tongue playing with hers and the friction his scaled body is offering. He flips them around and it makes her stomach clench as he pins her below himself. She pants as he pulls away from her, desperately trying to catch her breath and ground herself in reality. Her eyes open and her stomach flops again when she sees Raphael, watching her intently, upside down. Their eyes lock and his lips part slightly as he looks down at her. wild and flushed, completely under the effects of the tainted saliva.

Haarlep fills her view again, coming back down to capture her lips. His hands brush her, his fingers curling though her hair as his thumbs dance over her cheeks. He cradles her face, joining them once more. His hands trail down, one travelling her collar bone and down her arm. It captures her hand in his. The other trails from her collar bone, fingers teasing against the fat of her breast as it tickles down and comes to caress the hardened bud. She whines into the kiss as the smouldering heat flickers to burning and another wave of slick dools from her. His fingers pinch and flick as she grinds and thrusts up at him, desperate for more. She needs to be closer. She needs him inside. He growls a laugh as his hips slam back on top of hers, pinning her to the mattress. Gods, now she understands how they ruined the sheets.

“What an enthusiastic answer, little mouse. Have you been waiting for this? To feel me on top of you?” The first time he’d asked she’d been completely taken by the fantasy that he really was Raphael but now, she was absently aware of his presence elsewhere. His hand tails down the curve of her stomach, toying at the mound of her push, not quite close enough to where she needed it. Now he was truly Haarlep in her eyes and she burned for him all the same.

“Say it. Say that you’re desperate for me. Admit now that I was the only one that you wanted when you came here, that you wouldn’t have done this for any other. I won’t touch you again until you take back your cruel words from before.” She lets out a yelp, squirming with fury and glaring daggers into his beautiful face.

“You didn’t say that!” The incubus giggles and raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“Strike two. Last warning.”

“WHAT? That was him!”

“At least he stayed in character.”

The incubus is all shades of smug, tail wagging.

“Ugh. Fine.” A finger dipping just a breath from her clit drags her back into under his spell and he hums in anticipation.

“Yes,” she chokes, “I only wanted you. I only needed you. I just want you to want me too.” The words pull a hiss from the cambion who can’t deny himself the sincerity, for once, he hears in her voice and knows that her words are for no other than himself. Haarlep hums again, pleased. His finger rewards her, brushing over her clit and her hips jump as she gasps. He giggles again, and squeezes down on her hand. His finger circles around before dipping between the soaked, swollen lips. She quakes and sings out so sweetly as the incubus works to undo her. Raphael’s hand wanders like an independent entity over his clenched thigh, until it finally comes to rest on his groin, fingers ghosting at the base of his hardening length. He watches the flashes of her pleasure revealed to him through the flapping cocoon of wings curled over her. His hand, not by his own volition wraps around himself and he hisses again. His mind is plagued by the memory of how tight and wetly she’d wrapped around him and his hand feels like a pitiful substitute. Nevertheless, he finds his it working slowly, squeezing up and down his weeping cock. His sighs are lost in the chorus of the two menaces on his bed, singing so beautifully.

“My, my. Don’t you two play nicely together. I can see that any worries I may have had that this was a one sided encounter were truly misguided. It seems you both posses no higher rational thinking than the drive of your genitals. I can see why you two get along so well now. It makes perfect sense.” He’s talking more to himself than anyone else but his cock throbs at the whimper it pulls from her anyway. She comes back to her senses enough to realise that she has not yet given Haarlep any attention, too completely lost in the endless throes of pleasure he was wracking upon her. Her hand comes down and wraps around his length, pumping it with desperation, eager to make him feel nearly as good as he did her. The incubus keens and grins into the crook of her neck. He feels the spark of ecstasy from his master as his hips jerk from the seat at the ghost of her touch. His master is already worn out tonight. His hand comes to wrap around hers, halting its motion.

“Ah, ah, mouse. I think we might need to improvise. Wouldn’t want the show to finish before scheduled.” She tries to understand the implications of his words as he flips her over, pulling her ass high into the air. Her eyes are closed as she feels the fiend position behind her and she waves her rump through the air, drunkly whining at the lack of attention. Her eyes shoot open, mouth falling slack as for the third time that night, the shape of Raphael’s cock slides without warning inside of her. Her vision is filled with the man in question, teeth clenched as he takes the sight of them in, cock in trembling hand.

The incubus rocks his hips without urgency. She moans, long and low, with every drag his cock as it carves and stretches her walls around it. One hand is driving into her spine, bending her up and onto him while the other wraps around her hair, pulling her head up and exposing her fully to his master. she’s pulled up and back. He bounces her, leaning back to let her land onto his upturned hips with a wet smacks. She squeals his name, shrill and pitchy.

“Fu-fuck! Haarlep!” He groans in satisfaction, wings fluttering at the sound of his name on the lips of another. For all that he screams inside to just ruin her and drive her into the mattress like last time, he’s not prepared to meet Raphael’s fury if he embarrasses him now. He keeps the pace lazy and controlled, watching the other fiend intensely and reading his pleasure for the signs that he was getting too close. It is like wrestling a feral cat, trying to hold her still and stop her from throwing herself back onto his length without abandon.

Raphael seems to recognise his nearing end as he lets go of himself entirely, gripping the arms of his chair until his knuckles pale.

His voice is strained and gritty as he needles her one last time.

“You know I’m entirely unimpressed. You were so adamant that you wanted me but but it seems you’re able and willing to do little more than bounce on my incubus. It looks like maybe are just desperate, after all. Perhaps I was wrong, you will just throw yourself on any willing cock that asks nicely. how disappointing.”

She hates his stupid, condescending sneer and all at once, she has kicked and fought her way free of the now whining and complaining incubus and is clambering toward the edge. She throws herself from the bed, landing on the floor and crawls like a possessed person to his feet. Her face has an intensity to it that makes even him pause as she bares her teeth and howls in rage.

“Fuck you!”

She’s on top of him now, her hands in his hair, and his scalp burns as she yanks his head backwards.

“I wanted you! You never gave me anything!”

She spears him into her, feeling him shudder.

“You’re all I ever wanted! You’re the only person who makes me cum. You’re the only person I trust. I hate you.”

She’s riding him hard, throwing her weight into every thrust that brings her cunt to press on his pelvis.

“I fucked your incubus. You fucked me. Now I’m fucking you. Everyone can just get fucked!” He would usually be disgusted in her uncivilised language but holy shit, he’s never been so turned on. She is terrifying, and hysterical, and she looks like a queen as she rides.

“You’ve tried to humiliate me but guess what? It didn’t work. It didn’t work because I know you feel the same, don’t you? Am I the one that makes you cum too? You’re just as pathetic as me.“ He’s choking on a moan as she bring her face over his, staring down his eyes and breath venting across his neck.

“I did your fucking deal. You forgive me now. You ever want to get fucked like this, until you can’t feel your own cock, again? Then you cum for me right now and prove right now that you’re no better than me.” He wants to be angry, and hateful. To shove her off and smite her into the depths of hell but instead he flops backwards, body quaking and shuddering as he releases inside of her, her own orgasm milking his seed from him as she screams and collapses onto him.

They stare at each other, panting and trying to find their breath. She leans closer and for a terrifying second, he thinks she is going to kiss him. She doesn’t. She pushes herself up and brings herself to stand on shaking legs. The room is silent as she redresses. When she is done, she turns to look at Raphael expectantly. With a snap of his fingers a swirling portal forms before her. She pauses before disappearing through. She looks to the incubus, reclined back on the bed and gives him a small awkward wave.

“It was nice to meet you?” It’s asked like a question. He nods enthusiastically and waves back with a smile.

“Do come back! It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend! Ta ta now, little mouse.”

She looks to the cambion still flopped in the chair. He is back to his absent brooding. She opens her mouth to say goodbye, maybe apologise, maybe ask what the hells all of that means, but a pointed look tells her that she has done enough and now it is time to go. Happy to avoid the confrontation that awaits them at some point on the inevitable future, she simply gives him a nod and disappears from his home. Peace, at last.

“Well,” the incubus rises with a stretch and makes his way to the heated water of the pool, “wasn’t that just a delight. Do you think she’ll come back at some point? I really could use a play mate, you know.” Raphael again, ignores the ramblings of the lesser fiend and rises to leave. He needs his own bath and the sweet embrace of sleep. He most definitely did not have the energy to deal with the little demon right now. Before leaving the boundary of the room, he half turns to address the incubus.

“I was wondering, did you happen to-“

“Yep. I obviously wasn’t going to let her go without a little payment.” The voice of his little mouse echos from the steaming water with a laugh, like chiming bells.

“Good. Good job, Haarlep.”

He hears an excited intake of air at his praise and takes his leave.

“Get Korrilla to deal with the sheets before tomorrow. I don’t wish to be disturbed again tonight.”

He has forgiven his little mouse, as promised. That did not mean he was near ready to forget. There was no way she would keep herself from him now. Not when he was so eager to explore his new toy in the days to come.

Hello! I hope you liked it! It’s the longest thing I’ve posted and I’m terrified that it was a let down after the first part. Please lmk what you think, I welcome discussion and feedback. This was meant to be a softer, lighter take on Raphael, haarlep, and their mouse but I hope I still somewhat made them likeable and recognisable.

Also, poor Korrilla.

[iphoenixrising]

Have I posted this? Alpha!Jon, Alpha!Dami, Omega!Tim 🤨

I told babe I was thinking about this, but I have done this before? Meh, regardless.

**

And really, when all things in Gotham are quiet, you know it’s going to be a good night.

B shouldn’t have worried enough to call Red Robin out of Titan’s Tower, but still, it’s nice to run through the city, skimming rooftops, getting a little more down n’ dirty with street baddies than riding the usual international espionage with his team. A few weeks away and this kind of thing is really just an itch that needs to be scratched.

“I am almost disappointed,” Robin laughs from beside him under the wing of a gargoyle right on the roof of the Wallstone apartments. His veggie wrap is disappearing quickly because Baby Bat has been a bottomless pit of hunger since he started putting on height and heavier muscle five years ago. Sixteen had been good for Dami, and Bruce’s genetics kicked into high gear two years later. At twenty-one, he’s broad through the chest and shoulders, almost a head taller than Red and a few sparse inches from Hood.

It was about the time Terry had approached him in Titans’ Tower, and convinced Red to start coming back to Gotham again, fighting the good fight along with the family, taking a step back into Gotham’s underworld when the world seemed to be momentarily stable. 

At some point, he and Dami started working together, stepping out in the night with masks on and old hurts finally easing. 

“Meh. There’s always another night,” Red takes another bite and sighs through his nose because really, chicken wrap for the win. 

(Alfred is always going to be the man.)

“I suppose. However, I’d hoped this wouldn’t have been an...exciting night for you to make the trip.” 

Red waves him off, looking down at the street, chewing for a second, “all good, Baby Bat. Everyone is out of the Tower for the weekend anyway. This is a nice break.”

Robin laughs low, “only you would consider this a break.”

“Well, you know, my Wednesdays are hectic as fuck.”

“I suppose it is difficult to schedule brunch, yes?”

“You don’t even know.”

And just like that, the two of them are laughing. A little bruised from a few street fights, but nothing extreme, and Dami is getting so much better at vigilante banter that Red Robin can’t help but feel a little proud.

(Really, witty banter is their superpower. Superboy and Kid Flash will totally vouch.)

They finish the wraps and swing side-by-side to the Bowery, talking shit over comms, playing tag around the strip mall down on 44th, and genuinely making themselves pretty obvious for people that actually look up.

It’s easy to jump in the big car at the end of the night, lean back to work on his wrist computer while Dami drives them back to the Manor.

“Hey, hey, you can just drop me a few blocks from the Perch.”

“Tt. Stay at the Manor tonight. You can brief me on R&D’s projects for the board meeting.”

“Pfft, like I need to.”

“Your perspective is always better.”

“Fine, fine. You’re so needy, Dami.”

“And yet, you still put up with me, Tim.”

“Well, you’ve got me there.”

And their smiles are wide in the darkness of the car, Robin and Red Robin riding back to the Cave with coffee waiting and hot showers to wash away the night. 

They meet back at the big computer, sweats and t-shirts, hair damp and bare faces, switching places from the main chair to their workstations, talking through the next week, repairing their gear or working on separate projects from their laptops. 

Alfred smears goop on bruises and gives a final please be certain to persuade Master Tim to actually sleep this time, won’t you Master Damian?, disappearing up the winding stairs, the calming scent of home lingering behind him, his natural Beta scent.

With his scent blockers scrubbed off, the air around Tim is faintly sweet, following him like the smell of a good latte. Dami’s scent is still more shampoo and soap since Nulls don’t really have a discernible scent to the second sex. 

And when they’re finally stretching and yawning, still a few hours to sleep before dawn, something in the air shifts.

One second, he’s got Dami laughing at the story about Bruce busting his bat ass against Mr. Freeze–while still being the Night, mind you– when Baby Bat stops abruptly, hand going down on Tim’s workstation top to catch himself when his knees unexpectedly give way.

Those eyes go wide, a hand going to his chest, fast and shocky enough that Tim sweeps forward to catch his youngest partner by pure instinct.

“Little D?! Dami, talk to me.” He keeps it calm, being Red Robin, staring at the sweat beading on the fourth Robin’s forehead while he gasps in a few fast and furious breaths. 

“T-Tim,” but his eyes flutter closed and his knees wobble, his weight falling further down on Tim’s shoulder.

Shit. Tim manages to maneuver Dami down to his chair, holding him steady, wracking his brain for anything, anything they could have come upon tonight. Fear toxin, Joker gas, Ivy’s array of poisons and venom, an awful rooftop burrito from the questionable cart downtown. Anything, anything he could have a cure for right here in the fucking Cave–

When he starts to move away, to jump in the Bat Med-Bay for a syringe to take a blood sample and start up the quickest analysis he’s ever pulled off before, when he’s tamping down panic to be on point, when he sees the distress happening when those eyes look up at him–

He completely misses the way Damian’s scent abruptly gets muskier.

A hand shoots out, grips his wrist, stops him from moving away.

“Okay, I’m getting worried. C’mon D. Tell me what’s–”

He reaches down, lays two fingers over the throbbing pulse, tries to get some vitals, and something deep and dark rumbles through Baby Bat’s chest, something all about need.

Oh.

Shit.

**

Most people present in their early teens, you know, about the time Robin had been a little dead, or so Tim’s sputtering thoughts try to explain away while the grip on his wrist gets tight, pulls quick enough to reel him in closer. The nose in his neck is a sudden indication since Dami as a Null had never really been able to scent like the rest of them.

The way the youngest vigilante is now inhaling against Tim’s throat like he’s dying, holding the Omega so fucking tight is the first piece of evidence. But when his mouth opens and a noise, a deep purr, rolls out against Tim’s jugular, he has an inevitable moment of oh fuck, panic.

Because he’s down in the Bat Cave with a presenting Alpha Male, and he probably smells like fucking dessert.

“D-Dami,” and he gives himself about a million vigilante points because his hands aren’t shaking when one cups the back of the new Alpha’s neck, fingernails scritching lightly at the fine hair. “Hey Baby Bat, it’s me here. I can help you, but you’ve got to ease up a little, okay?” He makes a small move to pull out of those arms, get Dami to actually look at him.

The whine is low, a noise he’s never heard out of their Robin before tonight, but those arms tighten on instinct, and now they’re pressed together from chest to hip and–and…

Oh.

“You’re going into a RUT?!”

Because of course. His luck is that awful.

“T-Timmm,” is growly and low, deeper than Robin’s usual voice, and Tim can’t suppress the shudder that goes through him.

“You’re presenting, better late than never, right?” He keeps petting even when something wet moves up the side of his throat, making a tremor go through him. “We need to–to call Jon, okay? He can help you.”

“Tim, you…” and there’s another lick to his throat, dragging over his skin like Dami’s savoring him.

“I-I’m not–” but Dami abruptly lets him go and drops down to kneel, shoving his face in the soft t-shirt over Tim’s stomach.

Hands are on his hips now, the tight hold gripping him.

He pulls the comm out of Dami’s ear, the presenting Alpha not flinching away, staying where he kneels, inhaling the scent of Omega.

Tim fumbles the comm in his ear, tapping frantically until the sound of whoosh is in the foreground.

“Hey babe,” Jon’s voice rumbles over the line, “have a good night with Red Robin?”

“Sorry, wrong Robin,” Tim stares down at Dami’s slack features with wide eyes, taking in the closed eyes, “We...that is, Robin needs you in Gotham ASAP.”

“Diverting course now,” is the immediate response, Jon’s voice changing to Superboy’s. “T, is he hurt?”

Unsure of who could be listening on the line, Tim makes a fast decision, tries to take a small step back. The hands tighten down immediately, Dami’s back straightening, eyes snapping open. The growl is something deep, vibrating the chest against his thighs, pulling at his inner Omega.

“He’s not hurt, but he might get out of control if I don’t get someone here quickly.” Tim gently lays a trembly hand on Dami’s shoulder, gets the Alpha to look up at him with those green eyes.

“Baby Bat, this isn’t...you don’t really want to do this, okay? Try to think for me, Dami. This is just because I’m an Omega, so I need you to try and think.”

“Wait, what?” Jon’s voice sounds horrified.

Shit. Forgot to tap the comm off. But, really, his inner Omega is starting to enjoy all the attention of an Alpha male, newly presented or not, so Tim totally gives himself an out here.

“Jon,” he tries to be calm, but Dami is lifting up his shirt and sticking his goddamned nose right in Tim’s belly button. His eep probably isn’t helping anything.

“Hold on, Tim, I’m almost there.”

The snuffles of breath against his stomach, brush of mouth, and Tim’s instinct to get the fuck away hits abruptly–

(Your boyfriend is going to kick my ass if he sees this.)

–and he moves fast, both hands on Dami’s wrist to loosen the hold and spin away from the Alpha male to give himself some space, pulling the current Robin off balance.

He ends up back by the big computer, eyes going wildly to his harness and utility belt discarded at his workstation.

The low growling reverberates through the Cave, making the bats above screech and start to flap around, and Tim’s whole body goes tight with what he’s sure to be an oncoming fight, wondering how that’s going to go with a rut-fevering Alpha, one that’s also his partner, his friend.

(The Omega in him doesn’t give a shit, just knows how good that musk smells, how much the Alpha is in need, how much it craves the attention, how much it wants.)

Dami’s eyes are glittering green, muscles tense as he stalks closer, eyeing the Omega he wants, the one that smells...delicious.

The rumbling purr breaks out of him again, something soft and soothing, meant to entice. 

“Don’t make me fight you,” Tim swallows, eyes all for Baby Bat getting closer to him, body language giving away everything. “Dami, I don’t want to hurt you.”

But it looks like his words are lost to the Rut haze since the Alpha only purrs louder, his musk stronger even in a place as spacious as the Cave. 

All right, then. It’s time to have a plan.

He feins right, darting half a step, then takes off near the bad guy trophies. The massive penny is probably a perfect distraction right about now. 

Dami leaps from his side, cutting him off, the Alpha manifesting in him giving chase. Tim manages to leg sweep him, escaping reaching hands. 

He doesn’t make it to the penny before Dami is pretty much body slamming him into the Cave floor, bigger hands pinning his wrists over his head, knees spreading him, and the growling Alpha is looming over him, the musk calling to his inner Omega.

“No! Dami, Dami!”

But the swipe of wet over his jugular makes his knees tremble, his back arch and not in that I’m trying to escape kind of way.

(But really, it’s been a long time, and he’s an Omega, the scent of a strong, able Alpha is like Fear Toxin or Joker Venom, it gets in his lungs, makes his inner Omega plaint, makes his scent stronger to appeal to the Alpha. Their bodies work against them.)

Dami’s free hand holds his jaw to the side so he can shove his nose in Tim’s scent gland and inhale deeply. He’s laying on top, their chests pressed together when the purring starts, and the rumble against him is obviously affecting him. 

He almost wants to cry when Dami rolls his hips down, and fuck, he’s– he’–

“No,” Tim moans in Dami’s hold, his hips juttering up because he’s starting to get hard, their sweatpants making it easy to tell. “We...we can’t. J-on, Dami, you’ve got to remember Jon–”

But he loses all thought when that mouth latches on to his throat and sucks.

He cries out, bucks up when his body responds with want. 

If he doesn’t do something fast, Jon is going to viciously–

“O-oh, oh wow, I…”

Because Superboy is suddenly right there watching Tim writhe on the floor under Dami, and Jon’s eyes are huge and blue, his face pink.

“It’s not–” Tim tries, “it’s just because I’m an Omega!”

“If you want to believe that,” Jon lands on his feet, moves easily to wrap both arms around his boyfriend to lift him off Tim without any effort. “Then I’m not the one to tell you differently, right Dames?”

The newly-presented Alpha tries to lunge out of the hold, to go back to the Omega scrambling to his feet.

Tim is sure his face is red enough to match Dami’s tunic, and he turns slightly to try hiding the obvious erection in his sweatpants.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tim sputters, arms around himself, “but if he did something to me while he’s very obviously dating you, he’d never forgive himself.”

But Jon seems very undisturbed about finding his boyfriend all over another guy, “sure, if we hadn’t already talked about it before. Him presenting as an Alpha this late wasn’t part of that though, so you might have a point.” Jon suddenly grins over the struggling Robin at Tim’s shocked face.

“Jon, he could barely stand me for years–” and the bitter scent of old pain takes over Tim’s sweetness because fuck, he’d wiped off the scent blockers.

But the change in scent makes Dami stop struggling against Jon’s hold, for both Alphas to suddenly have laser focus right on him. Caught up off his feet by Jon’s arms, Dami stops struggling, those green eyes intensely on Tim, hunched over slightly, holding himself.

“Oh Tim,” Jon sighs softly, and it comes out in a soft purr, “he’s been crazy about you for years. I mean, c’mon, you’re the best Robin detective!”

“But he’s with you. I-I would never do anything to fuck that up,” he’s starting to inch away, closer to the winding staircase, “you have to know that, Jon. I would never–”

“I gave him permission, Tim,” Jon cuts him off, “if you ever gave him the chance. O-or if you ever gave us the chance, we would take care of you."

Tim.exe has stopped.

"Geeze, do you even know how many times we talked about seeing you through your Heat? Even if he was a Null at the time, just talking about having you in bed with us was enough to make him go multiple times. I’m half-Kryptonian and I still had to tap out after round --“

“You would do that?” Tim cuts him off, voice strangely strained, “you would - you and Dami would - would take care of me? During my Heat?”

And Jon pauses in his ramble, only one arm around the presenting Alpha’s chest, still holding him slightly back. But Damian hears something in Tim’s tone that is upsetting. It makes him angry, makes him reach out an open hand in the hopes Tim takes it.

“Yes,” is edged with a growl, his hand open and waiting.

“We absolutely would take care of you, Tim, Heat or not. I swear, we won’t hurt you.” And Jon means it, says it unconsciously with his Superboy voice like Tim is a scared civilian and not a seasoned vigilante. “You would be safe with us.”

“I…” but his eyes dart to Jon who is churning out the most pleasant happy Alpha scent. “I can help make the Rut easier. If - If it- “

“Yes,” both Alphas growl at the same time, but Jon wasn’t holding Damian back anymore. 

It was both of them inching forward, Dani’s hand out, his other clenched in Jon’s cape, brining his Alpha mate with him.

"It's statically easier for Alphas to have an Omega the first time," he rambles breathlessly, watching them come closer, the tension in his shoulders easing at the scents. He seems to sway with bare feet, hand twitching toward what they're offering.

"It'll be easier if Dames has you, not just an Omega," Jon rumbles while Damian slyly snatches Tim's hand, reels him closer. "We've got a Rut room at his place in Wayne Tower."

"Bet mine is more secure in the Perch," Tim mumbles in Dami's neck, eyes rolling up to look at Jon while the presenting Alpha inhales sharply again his throat. The noise coming out of him reverberates through all three of them.

"Decision, decisions," Jon smirks over his mate's shoulder, nose barely skimming the other side of Tim's neck, a ghost of a touch.

It still makes a certain scent spike.

It's Damian that makes the final decision, lifting his head and one hand to pull Jon's mouth to his, growl and lick and bite while Tim watches, the tension in his abdomen getting tighter, warmer, the ust surrounding them as the Alphas fight for dominance.

Right in front of him.

The noise that comes out of Tim's throat is enough to spur someone into actions because--

-- the next second, the cave camera blur and the three disappear from sight, leaving behind discarded suits. Twenty seconds later, the lights click off for the night, leaving the bats to settle back down.

[mit0bee]

hello!! I've read some of your works, and I just want to say that I LOVE THEM SOO MUCHHDBRJFH and, may I request Malleus, Vil, and Rook with Lily of the valley? Thank you!! 💞

AHHHHHHAIOFHAWOIFH TYSM!! I totally didnt get to this like 5 months later i swear

Meloras Bouquet

Stuff you should read: Vil's might be a little OOC oopsies, Established relationship (Vil, Leona) old post!!!

Characters: Malleus Draconia, Vil Schnoenheit

Flowers:

Lily of the Valley - Napping together

MALLEUS DRACONIA

It wasn't supposed to happen but a little midnight stroll with him ended up becoming a “hey wanna come over to ramshackle for a slumber party”

and ofc he said yes he would bend over backwards for you

So cue to the walk to ramshackle (or to the mirror thingies?) and he is so excited. if he had a tail it would be wagging

Once you get there, he's practically beaming with excitement

He wants to be elegant about it though so he's being chill (trying to)

Originally, he was supposed to sleep in his own bed, the slumber party went into the late hours of the night, and you fell asleep.

On his shoulder. while watching like. harry potter or something

He was ranting about the gargoyles and how accurate they were, and you hit the snooze button on accident

He didn't even notice until you were already far too gone on his shoulder

He decided to carry you to your bed from the living room, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead like Lilia did with him when he was young

“Goodnight, Child of Man. Sweet Dreams.”

If you either wake up and pull him into bed, or find him on the couch at midnight and invite him into your bed, he'll accept with obvious, not very hidden excitement.

VIL SCHNOENHEIT

After hanging out with Epel for the majority of the afternoon in the botanical gardens, all you wanted was to visit your dear boyfriend, Vil

But you forgot to acknowledge the dirt staining your face and clothes from your adventures, so when you came into Vil's room, not only were you staining his carpet, but you also looked like a zombie!

Whatever he was doing before, you now had his full attention. He wasn't afraid to get his hands a little dirty.

So now hes helping you wipe your face off, letting you use his shower, putting on a protective face mask to defend against major acne from all the dirt.

He gave you one of his very few well-worn hoodies (he has like. 2 that are well worn.) and a pair of his pyjama pants while he takes your dirty clothes to the washer a few doors down.

Little did he know, when you take your s/o, surround them in you, and then leave them in your room for even a few minutes after a labour-filled day? you get an s/o snoozing on your bed, curled up in your blankets.

He was a little surprised to come back to that, but all in all quite flattered that you felt so comfortable

He checked the time (sleeping too much could cause coarse skin! or something) and once he confirmed it was a proper time to go to bed, he quickly got under the covers with you, his hands finding purchase on your waist.

That was probably one of the quickest times he's fallen asleep

This has been ROTTING in my drafts for months and I probably wont finish it so here you go 😭

---------------------------

m.list

@mit0bee 's work, please do not steal!

[eldritch-spouse]

Okay but now I have a very cursed vision from the last Belo ask. Krulu's not even putting Belo's mouth on his body but on one of the floors of the Clergy. Belo has to find it and manually put it on his face. Unfortunately for Belo, the very last person he wants anywhere near his holes, Santi, finds it and starts using it like a fleshlight.

[This is some Dante's Inferno shit.]

" I see you looking at that thing. " Gallon blinks at the incubus, the kind of look that says 'I will record you if you do something freakish and you know it'.

Unbothered, Santi methodically palms his slit. " What, an orifice appears before me and I'm just supposed to ignore it? "

" Yes. "

Silent seconds of uninterrupted eye contact take place.

Santi bursts into a cackle and starts caressing the luscious lips of the mouth that just appeared on the wall closest to him. He's fairly certain all he needs is a little stool and that'd be a guaranteed good time.

The mouth itself frowns and tries to shut, but the demon successfully wedges two slick-soaked fingers inside. " Huh. Teeth not too sharp, nice and hot, mmm yes. "

" I imagine you've never caught an STD. But really now, a wall mouth? You don't know what's been in there. " The bartender shudders.

" Oh but I know what will be in a second. " The demon pauses, squinting. " It's just a matter of holding it open. "

The slime leans closer on the counter. " You know, that could belong to someone. "

The incubus has already found steady footing and shuffled in front of the mouth, cock in hand no doubt. There's a spitting sound. " I hope they like the taste then. "

Somewhere on the higher floors, Belo swipes decorations and furniture aside, every second that passes without him finding his new, vital body part is another breath he skips.

What is he going to do if he can't find it?! What's going to become of his poor charge if he fails this? He can't fail!

And for once, Belo would just like to know what it's like to taste, to feel your beautiful lips on his. They must be soft, they must be delicate, they must taste so...

Salty?

Salt. He's never tasted salt before but somehow, instinctually, he knows he's feeling salt right now. But... Where? How?

Someone found his mouth.

What are they putting in his MOUTH?!

The angel stills like the stone gargoyles atop The Clergy as new sensations roll around. Something wet and salty is lodging itself into his mouth. For the first time in his life, he understands what choking truly is, but can't cough to relieve himself. It's big and mildly spongy, he feels something warm against his lips periodically as the pace of the repeated intrusion hastens, large tears escaping his holy eyes.

Belo quakes on the floor for a couple of confused, terrified seconds, enduring it.

Until it dawns on him.

It hasn't been an hour since Lord Krulu so graciously heeded Belo's wish, and someone's already fucking his mouth.

[light-yaers]

Take Care: Chapter One

Fic Masterpost | AO3 | Chapter List

Warnings: swearing, eventual smut, emotional themes. 

Word Count: 13k+

Chapter One

“Thank you so much for accepting me,” you said, stepping into Shannon Hart’s office, Head of Applications at Richmond university. “I’ve been so looking forward to finally getting into publishing and writing.”

Shannon gestured for you to sit opposite her. You dropped yourself down into the swivel chair facing her desk, as she cleared her throat and adjusted her sleeves. You stared at her thoughtfully, taking in the slight twitch of her brow and the vein popping out on her forehead.

“Are you okay, Shannon?” You frowned.

She intertwined her fingers and placed them on the desktop before her. “We’ve asked you here today to let you know, with great regret, that your placement at Pluto Press has been… mixed up.”

“Mixed up?”

“Royally.” Shannon stared you down.

“Royally how?” You leaned forward, all decorum going out the window immediately.

“Our paperwork was sorted wrong. It’s an internal admin error, one that’s– frankly– deeply embarrassing–”

“Just tell me what the deal is, okay, Shannon?” you said, trying not to yell at her to just say it.

Shannon cleared her throat again. “You weren’t the name that we sent to the Pluto Press administration. Which means… well, it means–”

You smacked your hand upon her desk, making her flinch. “I mean this in the nicest way, but for the love of God, spit it out.”

“Your placement at Pluto Press was filled by someone else.”

You squinted at her. “Someone else?”

“Yes.”

“But, I can still get a spot, right?” you asked.

“Regrettably not.”

“Not?”

Shannon nodded. “Not.”

You toyed between the urge to scream at the ceiling, or round-house kick the woman sat in front of you. Both seemed appealing, both seemed necessary, but instead you did nothing. You sat like a rock before her, ignoring the upbeat dump-dump of your heart beneath your ribcage. You weren’t an angry person, no, but this was the closest you’d been to booking into a rage room.

“So… you’re saying, I won’t be an intern at Pluto Press starting next week?” you said, trying to comprehend it fully yourself.

“Correct.” Shannon stayed frozen.

“So…” You leant forward, fully, leaning down on your arms and looking Shannon directly in the face. She gulped anxiously, with nerves, and for good reason. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now, Shannon?”

“Ah, well.” Shannon squeaked out. Sweat dotted her brow and as quickly leaned back in her chair. “This is what I wanted to discuss. Your options.”

“My options,” you repeated.

“Of which there are a few. One, you could defer the year and be ensured a space on this masters next year, with your original placement at Pluto Press–”

“Fuck no,” you said immediately. “Listen, Shannon. I’ve put off this masters for four fucking years. I’m not waiting another year. I mean, I’ve already moved to Richmond. I’ve taken out my student loans. So, abso-fucking-lutely not.”

Shannon’s eyebrow twitched intensely. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” she whispered. “So, your second option.”

“How many options are there?”

“...Two.”

“So, this is my final option?”

“If you don’t wish to drop out completely, yes.” Shannon was a stone-cold fox, you could tell. As much as her eyebrow twitched and her brow glistened, she was certainly blunt and to the point. It was something you could admire, despite the want to storm out of her office.

“So, my final option is?”

Shannon leaned forward again, strongly. “There is one other placement available for this course. They’re new, and we were originally going to try them out with a student who wished to be a sports journalist, but…”

“But?”

“He changed his mind about the course and went into the fried chicken industry, instead.” You squinted at her quizzically. Shannon’s face stayed as still as a gargoyle. “It’s a social placement. You do Instagram uploads, copywriting, player profiles and articles, things like that.”

“Player profiles? For what?”

“Football.”

“Football?”

“AFC Richmond, to be exact.”

The day had gone from bad to worse within a matter of seconds. Not only had you been wrongfully pushed out of your publishing placement, but now your only option was to work for a fucking football team. Football had been something that went over your head from the start. If it wasn’t the fact that boys from the school football team, when you were twelve, laughed at you incessantly, then it was the visuals of grown men clutching their knees and whining on a pitch that made you hate it completely. Football was not your thing. Football wouldn’t allow you to publish your first novel.

You widened your eyes. “A fucking football team?”

Shannon winced, and it was like a layer shed off her in an instant. “Can I be utterly transparent with you?”

“Please.”

“I know it’s shit,” she said bluntly. You let out a huff in agreement. “But, you still have the opportunity to network. Big name footballers have connections, as does Rebecca Welton, the club owner. You’ll still have all the access to publishing opportunities that you’d get through Pluto Press, just… in a slightly unorthodox way. Your coursework will be slightly changed, and the term structures will be different to match up with the league, but.” Shannon shrugged. “This is still something worth doing. You can write on the side, too. And who doesn’t want to be around some attractive footballers?”

“Me,” you said plainly.

“Scratch that last part, then,” Shannon replied. For the first time since entering her office, she attempted to smile at you. It was almost frightening to look at.

So, it was fuck all. You had no choice. You’d moved into your flat two days before, a tube ride away from Pluto Press, and coincidentally a walk away from the Dogtrack. There was no way you were backing out now, not when you’d been deferring your application for years. This was a time where you had inspiration, motivation, and wanted to succeed. You had to strike while the iron was hot, even if that meant dealing with footballers, of all fucking people.

As much as you’d batted away Shannon’s comment about them, you had already heard of a few players that Richmond. Jamie Tartt was well-known, and you’d be lying if you hadn’t thought he was fit when you’d seen him on his girlfriends’ socials a while back. They were a different breed, though, so entirely excluded from the world that you existed in; far away from the stoicism of footballers and their swinging dicks that fell into one too many vaginas. You didn’t want to be another working woman in the background, especially in an industry that you knew fuck all about. But– this was the best option. It still got you the same opportunities, still gave you the time to write and work on your own novel.

You inhaled sharply and sighed deeply. Shannon stayed put, eyeing you up as she pursed her lips.

“Fine,” you said. “I’ll do it.”

You had less than a week to prepare. Not in terms of your masters or education, but mentally. You were thrusting yourself into the proverbial belly of the beast, a football club full of men who, most likely, smelled really fucking bad. You made a list in your head– Febreeze was right at the top. It wasn’t just about the uncertainty and horror of it all, it was also something that transcended that. What if they didn’t like you? What if this entire experiment went drastically wrong? You knew fuck all about football, and would be surrounded by those whose literal entire lives revolved around the sport.

You felt like an imposter more than anything. More than the rage of the fuck up. More than the fear of things going wrong with your degree. You were an imposter, entering into a world that wasn’t your own, being handed opportunities that others would die for.

That’s all that went through your head as you stood outside AFC Richmond, just off Nelson Road. It looked like a typical football ground from the outside– a green and vibrant field directly to the right, where someone on an industrial mower was cutting the grass. The car park was full of expensive vehicles; Lambos, Jags, Martins. As you focused your breathing, a hulking pitch black Jeep came careening around the corner. You flinched as the driver parked it in one of the top spots, next to a bright green monstrosity, so low to the ground that your knees felt weak just looking at it.

The driver side door of the Jeep burst open, and a man, dressed exactly like his fucking car, jumped out. His jeans were black, his t-shirt black, his leather jacket– black. Atop his head sat a close cut mop of black hair, and his beard was trimmed to absolute perfection, almost to the point of robotism. It was, you guessed it, black.

You stared at him with a mixture of confusion and utter amazement. Was this the Grim Reaper, come to take you away for your sins and tell you your life was all but over? He looked back at you with an indifferent sort of stare, one that penetrated deep into your chest and made you want to violently throw up, or run away immediately.

As he approached the double doored entrance, his back to you, he stopped suddenly. He turned around slowly and laid his dark eyes upon you. “You a fan?” he asked.

“What?” you stuttered out, taken aback by the deepness of his voice. There was a scratch to it, one that resembled a growl. Was this man actually real? He came across as some kind of mythical creature that represented a bad omen, or someone gruff enough to mend the goalposts with his bare hands.

“Meet and greets only happen after games,” he continued. Your face soured with amusement.

“I’m not here for a bloody meet and greet,” you let out. “Do I look like a football fan?” you added quickly, suddenly afraid that you looked like the kind of person to wait outside football stadiums, just to see players.

He shrugged. “I don’t fucking know.”

You took a step forward. “I’m here to see Rebecca Welton, actually. I just…” You glanced around the car park, trying to find the right words to say that you’d been afraid to go inside. “I just didn’t know whether to wait outside or not.”

He followed your eye movements, looking around at the cars alongside you. “Well, she doesn’t seem to have an office in the car park, does she,” he stated. You let out a small huff, embarrassed.

“No, I guess not.” You looked into his eyes, tracing the outline of his stoic face. He was sort of… soft around the edges. If that was even possible. “Do you know where her office is?”

“Do I look like a fucking tour guide?” he said bluntly, and you flinched backwards. Your expression dropped, replaced with something other than the tinge of softness you had before. This guy was an arsehole. An utter arsehole, wearing leather and too tight jeans. When it rained, you bet droplets trickled off him in grey washes, picking up the black dye off his stupid fucking clothes.

“Well,” you said, regarding him. “No, not a tour guide. Maybe the caretaker?”

He raised his brows. “The fucking caretaker?”

“Yeah.” You squinted at him. “I can picture you mowing some grass, fixing some posts, DIY and all that.”

He shuffled on his spot. “Who the fuck are you?”

You crossed your arms. “Someone who’s trying to find Rebecca Welton’s office. And you are?”

“Not the fucking caretaker,” he said, before he turned on his heels and headed to the door.

“Hey, wait!” you yelled. “Hold on!” You rushed towards the door, flashing him a vaguely apologetic stare, but you didn’t dare say one outloud. He didn’t deserve one.

He peered down at you, letting out a literal growl. You backed up slightly, looking at him in absolute awe. “Did you just growl at me?”

“I growl at everyone,” he said.

“Has anyone ever told you that’s a bit weird?”

“All the time. I don’t fucking care,” he said bluntly.

You shrugged. “Fair enough.”

A moment of awkwardly comfortable silence followed. He continued to peer down at you, flicking his eyes across your own, perhaps in an attempt to intimidate you. It didn’t work, not after you’d got under his skin by mistaking him for the caretaker. You raised your brows at him silently, pleading with him to just fucking tell you where to go. You understood that they probably didn’t have many mid-twenties girls around the club, but the least he could do was help, just this once.

He rolled his eyes quickly. “All the way down the corridor, up the stairs. Her office is right there.”

He pulled open the door, reluctantly standing to the side for you to go first. You smiled. “Thank you!” you exclaimed. You rushed inside, fast-walking down the corridor until you found the set of steps up to Rebecca’s office.

He stayed back, peering at you as you went on your way. Before he turned to head down the stairs, he found himself subtly smiling at the scene that played out priorly. You had guts, that’s what he gauged. You had guts and you weren’t afraid to use them.

Rebecca Welton was the most intimidating, yet beautiful, woman you’d ever laid eyes upon. As you sat opposite her in her office, cup of tea in her grasp and hand moving through the air as she talked, you couldn’t take your eyes off the alarming look on her face. She was glowing, talking smartly and confidently, while you all but cowered before her like another male suitor.

“Did you catch any of that?” she asked abruptly, bringing you back into the room. You’d heard nothing, not when you’d been looking at the almost perfect way her face moved when she spoke.

You widened your eyes. “Yes. All of it. In perfect detail.”

“Great.” She stood up quickly, downing the remaining contents of her teacup. “I’ll introduce you to the team. Come on,” she said, rounding her desk.

You scrambled up from your seat and followed her immediately. Her shoes clicked upon the floor dramatically, as you made your way down the stairs and back through the corridor you came from. She took you down another set of stairs to the lower portion of the stadium. You passed multiple offices, and a gym, before she whisked you past a few back rooms.

“Locker room here.” She pointed to her left as you passed. You stuck your head around the corner quickly, taking in a wave of red and blue. “Manager’s office,” she added from a bit further up. “Beyond that is the kit room, and physio on the right.” Rebecca stopped in the corridor suddenly, making you gasp. She let out a breath, before turning on her heels and heading back down the way you both came.

You followed her without question, clutching onto your tote bag for dear life as she whisked you through the grounds. Her legs were too long to keep up with fully, so you were forced to partially jog behind her every few seconds.

“Um, Rebecca?” you asked.

“Hmm.”

“Do I get an office space?”

She stopped again, next to the gym. “Of course,” she said, peering down at you. “It’s there.” She pointed to the right, further away from the gym. A small room is all you saw, devoid of windows, with nothing more than a desk sat in the partial darkness. “I’m sure you can make it… homely.”

“Yes,” you said, smiling up at her from fear. Now wasn’t the time to be criticising your workplace amenities. Maybe when you’d paid your dues, or done a good job, could you ask for something more.

Besides, Rebecca seemed incredibly eager to be done with this tour. She hadn’t exactly been enthralled at your arrival, nor did she seem keen to talk to you for longer than she had to. You’d heard things about her before– a cheating husband, enough money to buy a skyscraper in Dubai, probably. You did your best to keep up with her, avoiding personal questions and trying to retain everything she told you.

The two of you turned the corner, headed for a long corridor, with daylight streaming in at the end. This was obviously the tunnel where players entered onto the pitch. You’d never stepped foot in a stadium of any kind, let alone been on the under-layers like the players themselves. As the both of you made your way to the doors, you imagined what it would be like for them– anticipation, nerves. You’d be shitting yourself, probably.

“I’ll take you to the team, now,” Rebecca explained. “Do you like football?”

“No,” you said immediately. From the look on her face, she wasn’t mad. Maybe this was as good a time as any to explain that you knew fuck all about all this, and actually didn’t want it.

Rebecca peered back at you. “Not at all?”

You sighed. “I know nothing about football, if I’m being honest. I’m a writer, not a sportswoman. I don’t care for sweaty men, or their reasons for fighting one another on a field. I’ll do my job, that I can assure you Ms. Welton, but I won’t deny that I couldn’t give a shit about this game.”

Rebecca slowed her speed, letting you catch up with her. Her quizzical expression quickly turned into a triumphant smile. “Fantastic,” she said. She was being genuine, and you had no idea why. “Well, come on!” she exclaimed, as the two of you burst through the double doors and onto the pitch.

The players bundled up and down the pitch with speed, kicking about a ball as they were split into two teams. You watched them for a few moments, following their movements as they scrambled up and down, kicking the ball between them, until someone finally went for a shot– he got it, but no one seemed happy about it. That was number nine, Jamie Tartt.

“I was wide open!” number twenty-four exclaimed.

“Well, so was I. So, I went for it. Sue me,” Tartt replied, in his staunch Mancunian accent. He stuck out his tongue like a schoolboy as he walked away, leaving number twenty-four with a sour expression on his face. He was comforted by a few others, telling him to brush it off.

You and Rebecca approached the coaches. “Coach Lasso,” Rebecca began, prompting the men to turn around. “This here is our new placement from Richmond university. The one I told you about last week.”

A man with the largest moustache you’d ever seen regarded you. “Oh, yes! I remember now. Welcome!” he said happily, shaking your hand abruptly. You shuffled your falling tote bag back onto your arm, smiling at him awkwardly as he kept shaking your hand.

“Great to be here,” you muttered.

“Call me Ted. You and I are both newbies, you know. Same as Coach here,” Ted said, gesturing to a man beside him. He wore mirrored glasses and crossed his arms intimidatingly. He said nothing, only sent you a nod in hello. “So, what brought you to us, huh? Got a love for football? Got a burning Tobey Maguire for the beautiful game?”

Tobey Maguire?

You looked to the other coach for help. “Burning desire,” he said bluntly.

“I’m trying out my own version of Cockney rhyming slang. Tobey Maguire, desire. Sylvester Stallone, the phone. So far it’s all actors, but we’re getting somewhere.” Ted peered down at you with a cartoonish smile. He was like no one you’d ever met before, someone so overly happy that you could hardly believe it.

“You’re doing… great,” you let out, from lack of what else to say. “But, well– I don’t know a lot about football, but–”

“You and me both, sister,” Ted interrupted.

You laughed awkwardly. “But, I’m happy to be here, and excited for the next year.” A lie, but one that needed to be said. You weren’t here to fuck up this club, or get overly buddy-buddy with its players. You were going to do your job, get your degree and use it afterwards. That was the goal, but during that, you had no Tobey Maguire to upset the team or the management.

Ted and his second in command, Coach Beard, turned around to the pitch. You stood next to Rebecca, who stood next to them, looking out at the players like they were being judged for the next season of So, you think you can dance?

Ted blew on his whistle shrilly. “Gather around, boys!” he yelled. The men obeyed, halting play as they all gathered before their new coaches, with some of them looking more than exhausted.

You couldn’t imagine the physical damage all of them went through, or how fit they had to actually be. You could hardly reach a level six in your bleep test at school, let alone be able to sprint up and down a pitch for two forty-five minute halves.

“Where’s Roy?” Ted asked, prompting one player to appear through the hubbub. When you met his eye, you almost choked on air. It was the guy, the not caretaker. The one that growled at you not an hour ago. “Ah, there he is. Listen up fellas! This little lady here is the placement from Richmond college–”

“Uni!” one of the players yelled.

Ted shot him a wide-eyed look. “God, you call college something different, too? Anyway, yes. Richmond uni. She’ll be doing a few things around here for us. Not PR, but keeping up with player profiles on the website, small updates, and all that jazz about the season coming up, maybe an article or two.”

As Ted spoke, you forced yourself to look anywhere but at number six– Roy Kent. He was staring you down like you’d done something ungodly, like you’d burned down his house or kicked his dog. His stance was one that you’d never seen either, like he was constantly on high alert and ready to strike a punch if needed.

“This here is Roy Kent, the captain of the team.” Ted gestured to Roy. He growled at you. You frowned at him. “You’ll be working with Roy for the next week on player profiles–”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Roy stepped forward. I’ve told you all before, I don’t get involved in PR or website shit,” Roy spoke up. “Get one of the other lads to do it.”

“It’s just for the time being, Roy. Just until she gets acquainted with the grounds.” Ted tried. “As much as I’m happy not to have you in front of a camera– believe me, that’s up to you– as a captain, and as your coach, I’m asking you to do this for the newest member of the Richmond family. Okay?”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All you wanted was to start and not stop for a year, so time could go faster. All you wanted was twenty pairs of eyes to stop looking you up and down like something shiny and brand-new.

Roy’s fists balled tightly, until his knuckles went white. “Fine.”

You let out a long breath. “Great,” you muttered. Roy’s eyes found your face, and you looked at him with no effort to be nice. You and he both knew that this was going to be long and annoying. It was better to get it out in the first place than to keep it all in for a year.

After meeting the team, you headed to your shoebox of an office. You had the day to set it up and make your own, before things kicked off. Ted and Beard were still running coaching for the rest of the day, so you were effectively on the lower floor by yourself. You set up your office, popped down your laptop and made a new folder in your documents. You went through your upcoming assignments, and started planning for what you could do. Rebecca gave you the various passwords for the social accounts, which you started filing through to get a sense of what they posted.

It was all the type of shit that your mum would like on Facebook. Brilliant.

If this was what you had to do to get to where you wanted, then so be it. It would all be worth it when you had connections and a network around you. That was the goal.

You opened your ongoing novel on your computer and scanned the pages. This was the endgame; to get the baby published. It was fiction, not once mentioning any sport, but it was all you wanted. Years of delay had led you here, so you had to embrace it while you had the chance to. Downtime was something that you’d have an abundance of, which was another perk, you supposed.

By four in the afternoon, the players tickled back inside. They passed your office with subtle curiosity, peering around the corner as you sat at your desk, filing through emails and starting on a subtle plan for your first assignment, due in at the end of the week. As soon as you’d got the courage up to grab Roy for a quick chat, you could get started.

When the players began filing out of the locker room to head home, you packed up your own belongings. You passed a few of them in the corridor, smiling sweetly and saying subtle hellos as you made your way through, until you almost slammed into one of them.

“Oof!” you exclaimed before him; it was number twenty-four, the one you’d seen before on the pitch.

Gently, he held you steady by your shoulders to stop you falling. “My apologies,” he said kindly.

“Don’t worry. I’m still getting used to this place.”

“It can be a lot to begin with, but I’m sure you’ll get used to it very soon,” he reassured you. You smiled up at him, before he stuck out his hand. “I’m Sam Obisanya. It’s nice to meet you properly.”

You took his hand. “You too. I’m excited to get to know you all.”

“Well, if you want, come and join us later this week. It’s Isaac’s birthday, so we’re all going out to celebrate.”

“Oh,” you said bashfully. “I don’t know, I don’t want to intrude.”

“It’s fine, bruv,” another player turned the corner from the locker room. Isaac McAdoo. “Come along. The more the merrier, you get me.”

Player Colin Hughes appeared in the doorway after him. “Definitely. Come and join in on the fun.”

“Especially before the season starts next weekend,” Isaac added. “Gotta get our freak on while we still can.”

McAdoo and Hughes left together, and you got the sense that they were two players who had a long history of friendship. You turned back to Sam and shot him a smile. “Count me in, then,” you said.

“Brilliant. I’ll put it in our group chat,” Sam said sweetly, before he made his leave.

You turned to the locker room, pleasantly surprised at how that had all gone. If all of the guys were like that, then you’d have no issue with them whatsoever. But, then came Roy. You entered the locker room hesitantly, scooting out of the way as other players said their goodbyes for the day. To the right was the manager’s office, where Ted and Beard still sat at their desks. Directly opposite the door, however, was exactly who you wanted.

You approached Roy, as he pulled on a pair of shoes, and cleared your throat. He looked up at you slowly, resting a hand on his thigh as he lazily skittered his eyes across you.

“So, you’re definitely not the caretaker,” you said, in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

“The last lawn I mowed was my grandad’s when I was nine,” he replied bluntly.

“Noted. I can put that in your player profile, if you wanted.” Sarcasm fell from your mouth, but you got the sense that Roy didn’t appreciate it. He growled, going back to doing up his laces. “I just wanted to talk to you about that, actually. About what Ted said.”

“If you think I’m going to gab with you about the team for the next week then you’re a lot dumber than I gave you credit for in the car park,” he said plainly.

You waved at him in dismissal quickly. “No, no, that’s what I meant. I really don’t need you to do that,” you said transparently. Roy looked up at you with interest, waiting for you to continue. You let out a sigh. “I’m not going to pretend that all this is a dream come true for me, the same way that you won’t pretend it’s something you give a fuck about helping me with. I can go around the players on my own, don’t worry.”

Roy finished tying his laces, before he stood. He towered over you, but the intimidation he’d displayed priorly was starting to wear off. You got a sense that he was just like this, all of the time. You’d read a few articles about him earlier, about his start at Sunderland and his triumphant years at Chelsea, before he moved to AFC Richmond. Roy Kent seemed like a player entrenched with respect. He was one of the greats, that’s what every article had said. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you were intrigued to see it all for yourself.

“Fair enough,” he finally agreed.

You let out an innate sigh of relief. “Great. Thank you,” you said, before you turned and headed for the door. Before you left, however, you stopped abruptly. The locker room was empty now, bar the coaches in the other office. It was just the two of you, and you had a nagging feeling within your gut. “You can tell, can’t you?” you asked.

You turned back to Roy. “Tell what?” he replied.

“That I don’t want to be here.”

“You were stood outside the building this morning like you were walking to your fucking death,” he said. “Of course, I could fucking tell.”

“Just double checking,” you muttered, subtly embarrassed.

“Why are you here then? If you don’t want to be,” he asked, grabbing his bag from the bench. He stood to full height again and took a few steps toward you. It was only then that you realised he was assuming for you to both walk out the building together.

You stepped out of the locker room, falling into step next to Roy in the corridor. “The university fucked up. This was the only placement they had left,” you admitted.

“That’s fucking shit.” Roy’s candour was something you were growing to appreciate, almost. “So, you don’t like football?”

“I don’t know a single thing about it, besides it being people kicking a ball on a field.”

Roy let out a long, low whistle. “Fucking hell. No wonder you didn’t want to come inside.”

As the two of you emerged into the car park, you felt lighter than you had all day. Roy headed to his Jeep, and you stayed a few paces back. “It’s not… ideal.”

“That’s an overly nice way to put it,” he said, looking back at you. “And it’s a fucking lie. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

You shrugged. “I want to publish my book. This is a way to make it happen.”

“Fair enough,” Roy said, jumping into his Jeep. He rolled the window down and switched on the engine. “Just don’t fucking include me in it, alright?”

You scoffed. “You think I want to write about you? Don’t flatter yourself, Captain.”

Roy winced. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered, before he put his car in gear and sped out of the car park. He left you without a second glance, turning onto the street and careening down the road as fast as he could, just to get away from you.

You found yourself walking home with a strange sense of peace. Yes, the situation wasn’t in your favour. Yes, you’d already fucked up and called the team captain the caretaker before you’d even stepped foot in the club, but things didn’t feel bad. The boys were nice, the coaches were welcoming, and even Rebecca Welton didn’t give a shit that you knew nothing. Things were slotting into place faster than you expected, but you were happy about it. As you made your way through Richmond, back to your flat, you realised that you didn’t feel awful. You felt almost happy, content, ready to take on the remainder of your first week and bosh out your first piece of coursework.

You spent the evening on Google, looking up the history of the Dogtrack, of AFC Richmond, of their star players. You learned that Jamie Tartt was on loan from Manchester City for a season, which made things all the more interesting when it came to his sportsmanship with the rest of the current team. You watched old game highlights, not understanding a single thing they were doing on screen. You gave up after a few hours of them kicking a ball around, too tired from the prior stress of last week to stay awake any longer.

The next morning, you got to work. You made an announcement to the locker room, while the guys pulled on their shin pads and football boots. “Over the next few days, I kindly ask that you all fill in a small worksheet for me. A bit about your backgrounds, your current positions, your birthdays, even. It’s for the updated player profiles on the website, and I’m on a deadline, so please do this as soon as you can!” you explained.

Sam was the first to hand his in, doing it almost immediately after you made your announcement. He dropped it into the small basket on your desk before he headed out to training, shooting you and a small smile as he left you at your desk. Soon after, McAdoo, Hughes, Bumbercatch and Zoreaux followed suit. You had enough information to start.

By the end of the day, you had almost half of the profiles written. You’d expected the workload to be more, or something intensely focused on football plays, but this was piss. You’d definitely be done by the Sunday deadline, just a few days away.

As the days flew by, you got better at approaching players on their own. You made yourself known and didn’t pester (unless they needed it), just reminded them of the task at hand. Isaac's birthday celebrations loomed ever closer, which meant the guys were in a boisterous and excitable mood for the final half of the week. They would play games in the locker room after training, laugh in the gym during work out hours, and pass by your office, waving at you with chuckles on their lips.

By Thursday, you’d cornered Jamie after training.

“Come on, man. It’s not hard to do. I just need it done by tomorrow, so I can write them all up for Sunday, is all,” you pleaded with him.

He took off his football shirt swiftly, making you roll your eyes. “I don’t have the time this evening. Got a prior arrangement, you get me.”

“I really don’t care about your prior arrangement, Jamie. I need this done. It’ll take you two fucking minutes, literally.”

“Sorry, love,” he said, and the patronising tone in his voice was one that you couldn’t stand. You were older than him by a few years, yet he was acting so inherently high and mighty. “I can’t change what evening I get waxed or the lady gets upset.”

“Waxed?” You grimaced.

Suddenly, a shrill high-pitched voice rounded the corner into the locker room. “Alright, boys!” it yelled, and when you turned around, you almost collapsed to the floor. Keeley fucking Jones stood in the middle of the locker room, beaming at all the boys with a genuine smile, and wearing an outfit that you’d never think would work on paper, but it absolutely worked in practice; on her.

You froze where you were, as she peered around the room and met Jamie’s face. “Ready to go, babe?” she asked, before she caught your eye. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders in greeting. “Who’s this?”

Jamie shrugged on a new shirt, packing some of his belongings. “New social person, or somethin’.”

“Social placement,” you corrected him, looking only at Keeley. “Sorry to stare, it’s just… you’re Keeley Jones, aren’t you?”

“The one and only!” she exclaimed. “You’re a newbie, are you? Welcome to Richmond.” She leant towards you warmly, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder in greeting. “Now, I’ve gotta get this one here to his waxing appointment.”

“Oh, sure,” you muttered, peering back at Jamie and trying not to imagine exactly what needed waxing. It was almost traumatising. “Before you go, take this, though,” you added, before you handed her one of your worksheets to her. “I really need him to fill this out by tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry,” Keeley said, folding it neatly and putting it in her bag. “I’ll make sure he gets it done.” She winked at you, making you blush.

The final lads trickled out of the locker rooms, while you reminded each of them to get the worksheet done. A few picked up a new copy, others nodded at you in agreement, but Roy Kent– he didn’t so much as growl as he passed you for the door.

You followed him immediately, rushing down the hallway to meet him.

“Are you giving me the silent treatment or something?” you asked. He growled in response. You scoffed. “You definitely are.”

“Excuse me if I’m not used to nagging uni students getting on my back,” he replied.

“It’s been years since I stopped being a uni student, Roy. I’m in bed by ten thirty every night, I’ll have you know.”

“A boring, nagging uni student, then.”

“Ouch,” you muttered, feeling a slight sting, but you weren’t going to let him phase you. “Have you done the worksheet yet?” you asked. He let out another growl, to which you peered up at him with a blunt expression. “Please, just get it done by tomorrow.”

“Only if you piss off and leave me alone.”

You stopped in the hallway abruptly. “Done and done,” you said from behind him. He kept walking towards the car park, looking back when he realised you weren’t doing it just for show.

You walked back down the hallway, the way you came, as you went for a different exit. Roy stopped walking without your knowledge, furrowing his brows at you as you turned a corner and disappeared. He readjusted his grip on his gym bag, sighing out of his nose.

“Fucks sake,” he whispered harshly, before he entered the car park, door slamming behind him with an echo.

You woke in the morning feeling anxious. It wasn’t just because today would be the first time you socialised with the lads outside the club, but today was the last, easy day that you had to get the remaining worksheets. Your deadline was in two days, and you wouldn’t see the players after today for the entire weekend. It was crunch time, and as much as you wanted Roy and Jamie to be easy and mouldable, you expected the absolute opposite.

Your anxiety dimmed when you arrived in the morning to a full tray of completed worksheets in your office. All but one had been filled out and left for you– and by no surprise, Roy Kent was the last.

“Fucks sake,” you muttered under your breath. You hoisted yourself from your chair and made your way out the office, headed for the locker room. There was a certain confidence in your walk, reserved only for when you were at the end of your tether.

Roy was a grown man. Was he really incapable of filling out a simple worksheet? It drove you insane that he was one of those people who intentionally didn’t do something, even when he’d been explicitly asked to multiple times. Like a child who did the opposite of what their parents said, or when your mum tells you to do something that you were planning on doing yourself, but now don’t want to because she asked you herself.

As you approached the locker room, you let out a whining “Roy!” loud enough that everyone could hear you. You turned into the room, flickering your eyes across the players.

Roy wasn’t there. “Where the fuck is he?” you asked Isaac.

Isaac shrugged. “Think he’s already out on the pitch.”

You made your way out to the pitch, filling the hallways with the same whine that you’d released previously. If this was what it resorted to, then so be it. If you had to make Roy hate you even more just to do this damn worksheet, then you’d fucking do it.

Ted turned to you as you stormed onto the pitch. “Howdy!” he exclaimed. “Jeesh, did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? I did that once, too, when I first moved here and slept on the opposite side of the bed. It was crazy, like the universe was all mixed up and upside down. I almost threw up.”

“Where the hell is Roy?” you asked, ignoring him as you looked out to the pitch. The boys were milled around, waiting for the others to come out so they could start warming up properly.

“Well, he’s right–” Ted began, pointing out to the field. He shimmied his finger around, like a cat obsessed with a laser pointer, before he dropped his hand in defeat. “He was right there before.”

“He’s avoiding me,” you let out with a scoff. “This is fucking unbelievable. He’s a literal child.”

“Hey now,” Ted said. “When I see him, I’ll send him to your office, okay?”

You nodded, pissed off beyond comprehension. “Okay.”

The day went by too quickly, but you managed to get all the other profiles written. Not once did Roy come to your office, and when the guys came back in at the end of training, he was nowhere to be seen. You approached Colin, who said that he’d been right behind him, last he’d seen. That was the same as Sam, as Isaac, as the rest.

Roy Kent’s back up career should have been a magician’s glamorous fucking assistant with how much he’d been able to disappear without a fucking trace.

“That’s it. I’m going to kill him,” you said, leaned against the locker room frame as the guys got themselves ready for the evening.

Sam turned to you reassuringly. “He might come tonight, who knows?”

“I can give you his number, if you want?” Isaac suggested. “Can track him down and make him pay, and that.”

You smiled. “Please do. I don’t care if I have to call him twelve times, I’ll fucking do it.”

“Why do you need it done so badly anyway?” Jamie chimed in, shaking out his football shirt.

You copied Roy’s number into your phone from Isaac’s, sighing as you looked back to the room. The boys stared at you expectantly. “You guys know how this placement is for my masters degree, right? Which means I have certain assignments and coursework to get done. This is my first one, and I need all the players to participate, or it’ll be a big, fat fail.”

“Oh shit,” Isaac said. “So, you get graded for this?” You nodded sullenly. Isaac puffed out his chest abruptly. “Listen here, boys! Any of you see Roy, you get him to fill out this fucking sheet, kapeesh?”

You smiled, feeling bashful. “Thanks, Isaac.”

“No problem, girl. Now, turn that frown upside down. We’re getting drunk tonight!”

The locker room erupted into cheers. Jamie sprayed far too much Lynx in the air, and Colin almost cracked his head open as he jumped up and down on a bench, but even you couldn’t deny the atmosphere was electric. They were all good in their own ways, just some were a lot harder to let their walls down.

As the guys filed out of the room, you peered over at Roy’s cubby. Gently, you walked over and placed an unfilled sheet on his shelf. You stuck a small post-it to the paper– do this for me and i’ll never come to you for anything else.

You left the locker room in silence, trying not to worry too much about having incomplete work for your deadline. You had Roy’s number now, anyway, so even if it was something small over text you were certain you could get something. A crumb, maybe. You didn’t panic, not yet. Panicking would be for the Saturday scaries, and the remainder of your Sunday. Panicking wasn’t for now, as you followed the boys out to the car park and piled into the front seat of Sam’s car. A convoy of you left for Isaac’s house, before you all hit up the club later in the evening.

By the time the sun had set, your legs were jelloid from dancing, and your abs were coming in from laughing. You’d gabbed with Keeley for hours at the house, and were still gabbing now on the way to the club.

“What is it with Roy? I just don’t get it,” you asked.

“What, you mean his rugged good looks, or the fact he’s emotionally constipated to the max?” Keeley replied, and you let out a scoff.

“Definitely emotional constipation. He’s not that hot,” you let out. Keeley’s mouth dropped open.

“Oh, please. I know you don’t like him, but you have to admit that he’s gorgeous.”

“I won’t admit that, because all he’s been to me is ugly.” You stuck out your chin stubbornly.

Keeley smiled deviously. “Call him.”

“Absolutely not,” you said, shaking your head. “Hard pass.”

“Just call him. As soon as you get him on the phone, he can’t avoid you. And if he does, he’s a real arsehole. This is for your degree, for fucks sake.”

“I don’t think he knows that,” you said timidly.

“Then tell him! Yell it at him! Get him to do it.” She urged you, and you had no choice.

As the guys strolled forward towards the club, you and Keeley found yourself leant against a wall in a quiet corner. You found Roy’s number in your phone and dialled before you could chicken out. You tried not to vomit when it rang, and with each dial sound you were close to calling it a day.

After five or so rings, he actually picked up. “Who the fuck is it?” he asked, his voice gravelly over the line.

“Roy!” you and Keeley let out in sync, both equally surprised that he’d actually answered.

“Yeah. Who the hell is this?”

“Roy.” You took over, letting out a shaking breath. “It’s–”

He sighed, cutting you off. “I know who it is, now. I swear to God, if you’re asking me about that fucking sheet again, I’ll blow my top.”

All of your fear dissipated. It turned into immediate rage. “Oh, you fucking arse, Roy Kent,” you let out harshly. “I asked you to do this one thing, something that’s important, and you chose to avoid me all day instead.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you!” he yelled back. “I was busy, and I didn’t need you breathing down my fucking neck even more!”

“Oh, fuck you!” you screamed. “Just fucking get it done– please!”

“Why do you even fucking need it?” he asked, booming his voice over the line. You sucked in a deep breath, trying to control yourself.

“I need it for my d–”

“Know what, I don’t actually care,” he cut you off. “I don’t fucking get involved in club PR shit.”

“This isn’t just for the club, Roy–” you pleaded angrily, but he wouldn’t listen.

“The other guys do, but I don’t. I don’t want the fucking marketing collaborations, the articles, the profiles, whatever the fuck else your job actually is. I’m too old to fucking deal with this shit.”

“Are you fucking serious?” you exploded. “Do you hear yourself right now? You’re a professional footballer, Roy. This is part of the fucking job!”

“Good-fucking-bye,” he said.

“Hey, wa–!” you yelled, but the line went dead before you could get another word in. You called back, but the line went to voicemail immediately. You assumed he’d blocked your number. “I’m going to– I’m going to fucking–”

“Use your words, babe,” Keeley said, trying to calm you down. Soon, though, your anger turned to tears. Your eyes started watering, and you sniffed back snot. Keeley quickly wrapped her arms around you. “Hey now, hey, come on,” she crooned sweetly. “It’ll be okay.”

“My first assignment and I’ve already fucked up. It’ll be docked at 40% for being incomplete,” you explained. Keeley pulled back, looking at you softly.

“I’m sorry, babe. Can you tell them he was being an arse?”

“I don’t know. They might not believe me.”

“It’s Roy Kent. Everyone knows he’s a prick.” Keeley gently brushed a few strands of hair behind your ears. “Come on. Let’s have some fun and try to forget about this tonight, okay?”

“Okay.” You sniffed, breathing out to try and expel the anxiety from your stomach. “I need a drink,” you said.

Keeley twisted her arm in yours. The two of you walked down the street together, with Keeley cracking jokes to cheer you up. “I think you need more than one drink, to be honest,” she whittled on, and you allowed yourself to relax. Just for the evening, just for then.

When you got home, you sent Roy a drunk text. It was short and to the point, and when you woke up, you didn’t have a reply. You weren’t expecting one, not after that phone call. You read over the text, over and over, imagining what Roy must feel like.

This was for my degree, my first assignment is due on Sunday. It’ll be incomplete without you.

You didn’t even know if he’d read it, but you were past the point of trying. You’d done all you could, and still he’d denied you. This was on him, not you.

Roy spent his Friday evening in anguish. Sat at his dining table with a beer, he got out a crumpled version of your worksheet from his gym bag. He looked over the questions he’d already answered– his birthday, his prior positions through the years, but the one question that made him want to rage was still unanswered: What do you want from your career in the future?

The future for Roy was different to that of McAdoo, and Tartt, and Obisanya. Roy Kent’s future was up and coming, and he knew it wouldn’t involve running around a pitch anymore. Seeing that question hadn’t just made him upset, it had ruined his entire week. So, he’d avoided you like the plague, he’d spent every night doing the same thing; trying to fucking answer it and getting nowhere.

So, he’d decided to say fuck it, and not do it at all. After he’d hung up on you that night, his anger at you quickly turned to guilt. On Monday, he’d apologise and hand it in, just without that question answered. But for now, he wanted to sit in silence, read the latest Dan Brown novel he had, and drink beer until he fell asleep on the sofa.

Roy turned off his phone for the rest of the weekend.

You slept with yours the entire weekend, but still got no reply from Roy. You wanted to scream at him, tell him that he was an entitled arse, but you knew it’d be useless. Roy Kent obviously didn’t give a shit about you, so why would he care about your insults? You spent your Sunday compiling the profiles that you had already, putting them together to make something coherent. On the front page, you had to specify that one player had not completed the task, which would be your downfall. When you submitted your assignment, you slammed your laptop shut and immediately went to bed. You didn’t want to stay up thinking about it, or think about the email that you’d have in your inbox tomorrow, saying how it would be docked at 40% for being incomplete.

You slept like shit, but still you rose on Monday morning. The walk to Nelson Road was particularly bleak, with black clouds bustling over Richmond and rain on the forecast for the next few days. The atmosphere at the stadium was tense, too, what with the first game of the season being that weekend. The boys were all conserving their energy, all working hard. When you arrived at your office, you flicked on the light– a crumpled worksheet lay on your desk.

The name at the top– Roy Kent.

He’d done the majority, but crossed out the final question. You wondered if he’d done that as an apology, or as an attempt to piss you off further. You’d texted him about your deadline, told him that it was on Sunday. Had he not even opened your message? You picked up his sheet and read it through, trying to keep at bay the anger that you felt in your chest. Maybe he hadn’t meant it to be, but this was cruel. He’d given you enough to make a decent profile, but a day late. It came across like he was laughing in your face.

Quickly, before you lost your nerve, you picked up the worksheet and booked it to the locker room. You stormed down the corridor, turning into the room strongly. You didn’t look at anyone else, just eyes forward, and latched upon the number six at the top of Roy’s blue cubby opposite the door. The boys stopped talking, going utterly silent at your arrival.

Roy turned to you, shooting you a quizzical look. He peered down at the worksheet in your hands, then back up at your blunt and glassy-eyed expression.

“What?” he asked plainly.

You responded by thrusting the worksheet into his chest. He grabbed hold of it, not expecting an altercation this early in the morning. You stepped back, exhaling from your nose, looking at him with such disappointment, before you left them to it.

Roy looked at the worksheet in his hands, utterly confused as to why you gave it back after trying so hard to get it in the first place. He glanced around the room, taking in the pursed lip expressions of his teammates.

“What the fuck just happened?” he asked them, booming.

“Her deadline was yesterday, bruv,” Isaac said. Tension descended over the room.

“Deadline for what?” Roy asked.

“Her degree, Roy. This was her first assignment,” Sam added.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that?” Roy said, furrowing his brows.

“She tried to tell you, man,” Colin joined in. “On the phone with Keeley.”

“And in a text.” Jamie pointed to Colin, before looking at Roy. “Keeley told me that she sent you a message that evening, explaining why she needed it.”

“Got docked at 40%, innit,” Isaac added, pulling up his socks.

Roy’s eyes found a spot on the wall and zoned out in realisation. He’d turned his phone off all weekend. “Fuuuuuuuck,” he breathed out.

As much as Roy wanted to be left alone, he wasn’t cruel. If he’d known it was for your degree, he would have grown the fuck up and handed it in sooner. Now, as you sat at your desk and read over the reply from your professor, probably over and over again, he felt awful. It’d only been a week, and he knew you didn’t even want to be doing this specific placement. He felt like an arsehole, a real, fucking arsehole.

At training, he could hardly focus. The thought of you, sat at your desk, pissed off, upset, writing another Instagram caption or article that you couldn’t give a shit about, made him angry at himself. Roy had never gone to uni, or done a masters. From the age of nine, he’d been destined to be a professional footballer. He’d got lucky, alongside working hard for the entirety of his career. He knew you also worked hard, just from the fact you put yourself in a shit position to get what you wanted. That took guts, even Roy could admit that.

When he missed another assist during training, his third miss for the day, he stomped his feet on the pitch and let out a loud, “Fuck this!”

Roy pulled off his bib, throwing it at Nate, the kit man, before he stormed off the pitch. His boots clattered against the concrete floor as he skidded his way through the stadium, all the way to your office. He didn’t knock, but instead bombarded his way inside.

You let out a small gasp at his arrival, but stayed sat down, glued to your spot.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me it was for your degree?” he boomed. “I would have fucking handed it over sooner if you had.”

“Why would that make any difference?” you said, keeping your voice steady.

“Because it’s not just for the club, it’s for something you’re working towards.”

“So, you’re saying, if it was only for the club and not myself too, you wouldn’t have done it at all?”

“Fuck no. I don’t do PR shit,” he said bluntly.

“Even if it was my job to do it? Even though it was something you had a responsibility to contribute towards?” you said, raising your brows at him. “That’s no fucking better, Roy.”

“I just–” he stuttered. “I didn’t mean to fuck this up for you, that’s what I mean.”

“It is what it is.” You shuffled some papers on your desk, rearranging your notebooks just to keep yourself busy.

“Isaac told me you’d get a bad mark,” Roy said.

“Isaac is right,” you confirmed.

“Well, now I feel like an arsehole.” Roy breathed in deeply, and exhaled sharply.

“You were an arsehole, Roy,” you said immediately, strongly. “But, it’s done now. This was the only assignment I had that included the whole team, anyway. So, from now on, I’ll be sure to stay far far away from you.”

Roy short-circuited for a moment. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, he balled his fists, he shuffled on the spot. He looked like a robot that had lemonade poured on his circuit. His jaw clenched, and you watched in awe at the sheer skill he used to tense his body in such a way.

“Roy?” you asked, concerned.

“Fucks sake!” he exploded, before he left your office immediately. You got up from your desk and zoomed to the door, watching him walk away from the field and to the locker room instead, muttering to himself all the same.

You didn’t see him for the remainder of the day. You bumped into Ted on your way out the stadium, to which he shot you a perked brow look. You let out a long sigh, followed by a slightly awkward chuckle.

“Well, what a day,” you said.

“You could say that again,” he agreed. “The first match is on the horizon, and our captain walked out mid practice session.”

You winced. “Sorry about that,” you apologised.

“Oh, please, it’s not your fault,” Ted reassured you. “Gotta say, it’s not the first time a player has abandoned us halfway through the day, but at least it was today instead of on Saturday.”

“Wait” You stopped in the corridor, right before the doors to the car park. “He didn’t come back afterwards?”

Ted squinted at you. “You didn’t know? He flew off into the wind like one of the Wicked Witch of the East’s monkey henchmen. One second he was yelling obscenities on the pitch, and the next he’d driven off in his Jeep.”

You let out a stuttered breath, trying to compute Ted’s words. Roy had vanished after storming into your office, and no one knew where the fuck he’d disappeared to. It didn’t make sense, and you didn’t think this ordeal would mean that much to him in the aftermath. You weren’t trying to beat him up after what he’d done, as much as it had hurt you and pissed you off about your mark. This was odd, though, and incredibly out of character for Richmond’s captain.

“Weird,” you let out.

“Really weird,” Ted repeated. “But, who are we to question a football star?”

You squinted at him. “Isn’t that your job?”

Ted shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

You walked home, stunned into silence, trying to figure out what was actually going through Roy’s skull. You were half-tempted to text him, but you still didn’t know if he’d blocked you or not. You almost wanted to reassure him that it was fine, even though he was the one that fucked up your assignment. It was odd how that worked, wasn’t it? How those who had been done wrong felt the need to check in after the wrongdoer realised their actions. You had no reason to tell Roy it was fine, but you still wanted to. If his outburst had told you anything, it was that he felt bad about it all. That was good, you supposed. That meant he wasn’t as emotionally constipated as you’d thought.

Roy ignored you for the next three days. It was blindingly obvious to everyone at the club, even including Rebecca, who you met with for lunch on Thursday in her office.

“I think he feels bad,” you explained.

“I suspect he does. That’s no reason to be behaving like a child.” She ate a mouthful of salad.

“I suppose not… but other than that, it’s all going very well!”

Her face soured. “Oh?”

“I’ve given the Instagram captions a revamp, and I’m in the process of updating the website, too. I had this idea to do articles about the employees and why they wanted to get involved with AFC Richmond, and their passions outside of work, too–”

“That all sounds very interesting,” Rebecca cut you off. “But, unfortunately, I have a meeting to attend.”

“Oh,” you said, as she stood up. You followed suit, picking up your salad and juggling the rest of your lunch in your arms. “Well, this was really nice!” you said, as she started herding you out of her office. “Maybe we should do this again–?”

“Maybe,” Rebecca said. “Bye bye, now!”

You stood outside her closed door. It almost touched your nose from where she’d slammed it, your arms full of your belongings. You let out a sigh, and headed back down the stairs to your office sullenly. You found that what you missed the most out of everything– not the sunlight, or the decor– was having a woman work friend. You felt almost isolated being one of the only women who worked in the building. It was lonely sometimes.

You shuffled your belongings back into your bag on the walk down. You passed the gym as you approached your office and took a peek through the window. On the treadmill, facing the corridor by your office, was Roy. He read a book as he did an incline walk, reading the words thoughtfully, before he turned the page.

Suddenly, he looked up and caught your eye. You flinched, but stayed frozen in your spot. Roy’s face flattened into an unreadable expression. You gulped away the shock, and instead raised your hand and waved at him awkwardly.

Without warning, Roy fell off the treadmill. You gasped immediately, letting out a “Roy?!” as you dropped your bag to the floor and made your way to the gym.

You careened through the door and peered at the floor. Roy was there, crumpled, book thrown under a weight bench on the other side of the gym. “Are you alright?” you asked quickly, offering him your hand.

The other boys stopped what they were doing to witness the scene. Not one of them helped Roy up themselves, but instead waited for you to rush to his aid. It was beyond odd. Roy couldn’t even meet your eye, let alone take your hand.

You frowned at him, hurt. “Roy,” you tried again. “You know you can look at me, right?”

“I’m fine,” he croaked, and forced himself to look up and meet your gaze. “Just tripped.” Knees clicking, he got himself up off the floor. That’s when he caught your eye properly, frowning sullenly. You’d never seen him don such an expression, let alone this close.

You stepped back a little, confused as hell. You looked around the room at the others, their silence descending upon the entire stadium floor, not just the gym. They were all acting strange, making you feel like you were on the outside of an inside joke that they all knew well.

You scoffed, annoyed, as you reversed towards the door. “Okay,” you let out. “You’re all acting so fucking strange this week.” You reached the door frame, and went to leave, but stopped. You looked back at them all, before your gaze landed on Roy strongly. “I don’t like it.”

You left, walked back to your office, and shut the door with a bang.

Roy turned to the guys in the gym, still catching his breath from before. The guys looked at him like he was wounded, almost, and not just from the abrupt fall. Roy breathed out deeply, taking in their pitying faces.

“Stop fucking looking at me, alright!” he burst.

“Sorry, Roy,” Isaac said first, followed by some mutters from the others.

“I’m not some fucking baby bird that’s fallen out a fucking tree, alright?”

“Then why are you acting like one?” Jamie said suddenly. He sauntered forwards, and the rest of the team held their breath. “What, am I wrong? You haven’t said two words to her in days, not since you went AWOL on us earlier this week.” There were nods of agreement, some shrugs of confusion. “Where did you even go, like? You just took off.”

The yeah’s of agreement are what made Roy lose it. Everyone wanted to know where he’d gone, why he’d left, but he hadn’t been able to get it out since he’d done it on Monday.

“I went to her fucking uni!” he bellowed over their mutterings. “I went to her uni and spoke with her fucking lecturer, and said how much of a fucking arse I was.” The room went utterly silent. Roy looked to the floor. “That’s why I haven’t said a fucking word, because I don’t know if I made it better, or if I fucked it up even more.”

Roy balled his fists. He’d been feeling ashamed since Monday, more than he’d expected to feel. Guilt was his least favourite thing to feel, even though he often faked being unbothered.

Colin took an abrupt step forward, snapping the tension. “That’s fucking badass.”

Roy sent a confused arch of his brow at the Welshman. “Really?”

“Hell yeah, that’s badass. That’s a proper grand gesture, boyo. One that shows how bad you truly feel about it all,” Colin reassured him. The lads nodded in approval, sealing the deal that Roy had done the right thing. “She doesn’t know?”

Roy shook his head. “She hasn’t said anything. I don’t know if anything’s come of it.”

“Tell her tomorrow,” Sam spoke up. “Tell her tomorrow and I assure you, she will be okay about it all. I do not get the sense that she holds a grudge, you know? She is a kind person.” More hums of agreement filtered around the room. “Also, you cannot do it today. Not after that display on the treadmill,” Sam added, wincing.

“True,” Roy agreed reluctantly.

Isaac approached his captain then, placing a huge but reassuring hand on his shoulder. “She’ll forgive you, bruv. I’m sure of it.”

Roy nodded. “Thanks, Isaac.”

You locked yourself in your office for the remainder of the day. It was too odd out there, both on Roy’s and the guys’ part. You had no idea what had them acting so off-puttingly, but you wanted no fucking part of it. You dived into work, completing a plan for a new article on the website, before writing your novel for the rest of the day. Shannon Hart had been right– you had so much spare time to write that you already felt like an author already. You were on the clock while tapping away, getting paid for writing your book already, it seemed.

Near the end of the day, an email was pinged into your inbox from your lecturer. You had the jitters every time you received an email from him now, after reading what he had to say about your incomplete first assignment. You’d come to accept the 40% outcome over the past few days, but it still stung. You didn’t want to be considered a failure in your course, especially when you’d only just started.

You opened it up nervously, skimming the contents quickly until you realised it was nothing bad– in fact, it was something very good. “Shut the fuck up…” you let out, trailing off as you read it properly.

An impromptu visitor graced the halls of the Richmond university faculty building on Monday in the form of Mr. Roy Kent, number six and Captain at AFC Richmond. He had a lot to say about you, and about your recent assignment, most notably that he’d ‘massively fucked up’ and was a ‘gigantic arsehole’.

He explained everything about why you submitted your work incomplete, and assured us you were not to blame. I’ve taken this into consideration, and have remarked your work today on my own time. When before you were capped at 40/100, I have remarked your work at 87/100; a grade A1.

Congratulations. You must be doing something right for those footballers.

“Shut the fuck up!” you screeched, jumping up from your desk at lightspeed.

You could hardly believe it. This was what Roy had done on Monday, after he’d left training for the day? He’d gone and knocked on the door of your fucking lecturer, not leaving until they understood that he’d messed up the assignment for you. This was immense, and not at all what you’d been expecting. That explained Roy’s aversion to you over the past few days, and the abrupt fall in the gym today.

You let out a shocked cackle. It reverberated around the walls of your square office, bouncing back into your ears and only making you laugh more. This was hilarious– a footballer such as Roy Kent taking it upon himself to do something so rash was incredibly comical. But, it also warmed your heart. He’d felt so bad that he’d taken matters into his own hands.

This was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever done for you, if you thought about it too hard. This was a grand gesture, a proper apology, if you’d ever seen one. It made you smile like the fucking sun in the sky.

Roy left the stadium after everyone else, taking extra care after his fall in the gym. He’d scraped his knee up pretty bad, and even gone to the resident first aider for a knee brace to make sure he was fine before the first match of the season that Saturday. He made his way out, entering into the car park. He was expecting his lone Jeep to be there, but was surprised to find you leaning against the hood. Your arms were crossed, bag on your shoulder, as you looked out at the setting sun over the green grass of the Dogtrack. He slowed to a stroll, tightening his grip on the straps of his gym bag. You turned your gaze and met his eye, shooting him a knowing look.

“Working overtime?” you asked. It was a redundant question. You had a look in your eye that Roy could sense from a mile off– you knew.

“Just making up for lost time at the start of the week,” he replied, coming to stand opposite you.

You stood up straight, and peered up at him. “Ah, yes. I heard you disappeared on Monday.”

“Did you now?” he said. “Who said that?”

You shrugged, stalling to get the point. You were enjoying the silent amusement between you. Both of you knew what was up, but you had to admit you liked the subtle tension. “Just Ted.”

“Oh,” Roy said, his tone the slightest bit sunken.

“And my lecturer, actually,” you said finally. “He emailed me an hour ago to tell me that you popped in for a visit the other day.”

“Really?” Roy faked confusion.

“Mhm.” You tried not to laugh. “He remarked my assignment. I got an A.”

Just like that, all the stress and tension in Roy’s chest dissipated. It flew into the sky and was caught by the breeze instantly. You smiled at him knowingly, regarding him thoughtfully. He shuffled on his spot awkwardly, looking out towards the setting sun on the horizon, over the pitch.

“That’s great,” he let out genuinely.

You stepped forward. “You didn’t have to do that, Roy.”

He snapped his stare on you. “Yes, I fucking did. I was an arsehole.”

You shrugged, scuffing the ground with your shoe. “You were an arsehole, yeah. But arsehole’s don’t go to my fucking uni and ask my lecturer to remark an assignment.” You scoffed.

“It was the least I could do,” he said, and there was a softness in his tone that you didn’t think he’d been capable of. Roy Kent left you with more question marks the more you spoke to him, but you liked a mystery.

“Well, thank you,” you said, peering up at him sweetly. There was a section of yourself that was different, softer, sweeter, reserved only for those rare moments where people fully exposed themselves to you. Their true intention, their true selves. This was one of those moments. “Really. Thank you, Roy.”

He nodded at you, not knowing what to add. The sun cast an orange glow over the car park, reflecting off his Jeep vibrantly. It looked like the car itself was bright orange, so different from the black paint that stuck out like a sore thumb, usually. His car was so big and bulking, the same as the man that stood before you. But you knew that wasn’t all he was, not after what he’d done for you.

“Heading home?” he asked, changing the subject.

You nodded. “I’m exhausted.”

He scoffed. “You and me both.”

“How are you feeling about Saturday? The Arsenal game?”

Roy shook his head. “Let’s not even go there today,” he said, and you immediately backed off. You knew it was a lot of the team, having both a new management team, in the form of Ted and Beard, on top of someone new skulking around the building– you.

“It’ll be the first football game I’ve ever gone to, you know?” you added.  

Roy perked his brow at you. “You really know fuck all about football, don’t you?”

You scoffed abruptly. “Fuck all indeed.”

The smallest smile graced Roy’s face, and you found yourself savouring it. You didn’t want to jinx it, but after almost two weeks of headbutting, you wanted to believe it was over. Perhaps, you and Roy would coexist happily now. Without the meanness, or the miscommunication, or all of the inbetween. In terms of the team, you’d done well with the crew and the boys, bar Roy and Rebecca, but things were looking up.

You felt content again, like you could actually do this after all.

“Need a ride?” Roy asked suddenly.

“Oh,” you let out, looking back at his Jeep. The orange was fading from its reflection. “Sure, I could use a lift.”

“Hop in,” Roy said, as he made his way around to the driver’s side.

He shoved his bag into the backseat, as you opened the passenger side door and jumped in. You slammed it behind you, getting comfortable, as Roy jumped into the driver’s seat next to you. There was a comfortable silence that settled over the car, as the two of you buckled yourselves in. Roy turned on the engine, and the radio turned on harshly, blasting you with an 80s song far too loudly.

You both flinched back, wincing, and Roy clicked a button quickly, turning off the sound. “Fucking hell,” he said. “I think Heart are trying to deafen us.”

You let out a chuckle. “I’ll listen to 80s music over the charts any day.”

Roy perked his brows at you, putting the car in reverse. “Good on you.” He reversed out of the car park and turned onto the main road.

You didn’t talk much, just small talk here and there. It felt oddly intimate being driven home by Roy Kent, but you tried not to let it rattle you. Acquaintanceships always started off patchy, with neither wanting to step over a line, until something resembling friendship ended up shining through. You told yourself that, maybe, a few months down the line, it would be normal for you to catch a lift home with Roy in the week.

You directed him to your street, pointing at your door with a smile. Roy pulled up to the curb, cutting off his engine as you unbuckled your seatbelt. You weren’t expecting him to fully kill the engine, but you didn’t pay it any mind. You jumped out of the car onto the road and rushed onto the pavement, peering up into his, now open, window.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said with a smile.

“It’s fine. I live just around the corner, actually.”

“Don’t tell me you live in one of those big fuck off houses down the street,” you said, pointing down the end of your road. To the left beyond was an array of giant houses, all with blossom trees outside and large gates guarding them. They were gorgeous, huge and expensive.

Roy squinted at you. “I’m a professional footballer. Of course, I fucking do.”

You huffed in amusement. You were about to say I can’t wait to see it in person one day, but stopped yourself short. Was that a weird thing to say, even to a colleague? You bit on your tongue instead and stepped back towards the steps that lead to your door. There was something unsaid in the air, mostly from Roy. You got the sense he wanted to say something more, as his fingers tapped anxiously on the steering wheel.

Instead, you sighed. “See you tomorrow,” you settled on.

Roy inhaled deeply, and raised his hand in goodbye. “See you.”

His window ascended and he started the engine again. He sped off down the road, before he took an abrupt left at the end and disappeared from view. You let yourself into your building and stepped into the hallway. You sighed once more, contentedly, before you closed the door on another interesting day at AFC Richmond.

CHAPTER TWO

[shoshiwrites]

I shall join you in the trash can my dear. For Jo & Bucky from the NSFW prompts (because I am unhinged about this):

[ UNZIP ] sender unzips/unbuttons receiver’s dress/shirt - s l o w l y 🫠

Emaaaaa! Thank you so much for this prompt, and for entertaining my Jo/Bucky ramblings at any time of day. It means so much that you're in the trash can with me on board. This was......... supposed to be a smut prompt and we ended up with............3200 words of Scenes I Really Needed To Write For Them Actually, comma mildly spicy 🙈 Bucky Egan x War correspondent OC. Also on Ao3!

leading with my heart again

She’s read the same page three times.

The coffee’s drained, and the cup of tea, and maybe she ought to stop now, now that her hand is shaking a bit holding the pencil, from the caffeine or everything she hardly knows. 

A hotel bar with a hole in it. When she blinks she can still see the smoke. A few stragglers at the end of the night. Even though the nights don’t end here, they haven’t for years. Local drinkers. Society usuals. A handful of correspondents. Al Stern, a friend of Marian’s. She’d broken out a fresh bottle of gin in his honor. Blanche Aurand, narrowly escaped from Marseilles, her photographer friend. Salim? Jo’s met them all. 

You’re scared, she wants to say. Like it’s not her own self sitting here, the ticking of the clock and the tap of her foot, her toes in her shoes. She reaches up to fidget with the tiny gold hoop in her ear.

The bar is gone now, and so are they.

She hasn’t heard much by way of Thorpe Abbotts lately. She’s trying not to let that bother her. 

If Kay were here, she'd tell her to sit up straight and quit looking like a gargoyle. If-

“Thought I’d find you here.”

His voice is a momentary shock, and still familiar, like a sun-drenched room. He leans against the bar, nods at the man polishing glasses to let him know about an order — the bartender who looks too similar to the last. If she closes her eyes, she sees a white jacket covered in brick-dust, or blood. 

She smells the major’s aftershave, through the smoke of the bar and the bitter coffee. 

He dips his head, an explanation to what she imagines is her still-bewildered face. “Rang your office.”

She really does try to sit up straight, now. Suddenly ashamed, or something like it, of herself next to his freshly-cleaned uniform. Her slacks with a broken crease, a blouse with a wrinkle or two. Her hair’s a mess, or feels like it. “Oh.”

She blinks again, sees that he’s holding a metal tin in his hand — barley sweets, nestled in waxed paper — and a small bunch of torn green stems attached to white-petaled flowers. 

“No cherry,” he says. He looks fondly annoyed, almost. “I told them a few packs of smokes oughta change their tune, but I think they were really out.” 

He surveys the space in front of her, the rings of coffee and the scattered pages and the folded newspaper, the front splash of the dead. Her people, his people, their people. Everyone belonging to someone. She hears him clear his throat. Like he already knows the answer to the question, the one he doesn’t ask. Did you know them? Yes. 

The barkeep’s looking at the two of them expectantly. “What can I get for you?”

She replaces the cup on its saucer, places the little spoon next to it and slides the whole operation towards him. “I’m alright, thanks, Louie.”

The major orders a whiskey, doesn’t let her put it on her tab. He’s not too insulted about it though, he knows her. The question’s silent again, when he’s got his glass, the nod of his chin. Who’re we drinking to tonight?

But she knows now, she knows you don’t ask. His eyes are dark here, in the fading light. The mask-marks, the circles under his eyes. The stray curl always out of place.

“So,” he says, gathering himself, setting the glass back on the bar with a dull thud. “How much time do you need?”

“Time?”

“To get all…” he gestures with his hand. “Unless you’d rather we sit around here all night.”

She taps her fingers on the bar, watches her watch and chain catch the light. Looks up at Major Egan standing there, wondering just how much Kay will kill her if she walks back out of this hotel in a plain black dress. “Depends if you like a girl’s hair with only a few knots or none.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “I hope Kay won’t be too sore about me whisking you away.”

A remark about Captain Demarco takes shape on her tongue, but she swallows it. “Make it twenty, but I’ll be quick.” 

Upstairs, she does what she can with her curls, washes her face and tries to shape her brows, reapplies her lipstick. The deep cherry color is hardly forgiving, and she has to concentrate to be careful enough with the lines of her cupid’s bow. For a brief moment she thinks of it smudged, on her teeth, on his mouth.

The dress she’d brought over is indeed black, cocktail-length, collared, with a little piped pocket, a bit of detailing. Maybe it’s a little dated, she’ll acknowledge that, but she’s tried to keep it tailored to the current style, fitted, hemmed shorter. Kay would try to send her out in something bright, rose-colored or teal, never mind that it’s October in London. She admires Kay’s boldness. Loves it, in fact, but it’s not for her. 

The bracelet stays, the watch, her earrings, her mother’s medallion beneath the collar of the dress. Heels with thin ties wrapped ‘round her ankles, and her coat. 

Hastily, she’d put the flowers in an empty bottle of Fernet-Branca, figuring Kay wouldn’t mind. He’d had less of an explanation for them than the tin of sweets, something about passing them on his way, something like a boyish smile.  Just as quickly she plucks one, laces it into the back of her updo. It’s already been cut, anyway. She wonders where he’d got them, wonders if she’ll ask. She remembers the florist down the street from her apartment in Philadelphia, the spring flowers outside Pittsburgh. She can’t see it, but he will, standing above her. 

Back down in the lobby, the tips of her fingers brush his shoulder at the low armchair, the last of his drink still in front of him. 

“Now, aren’t you a sight.” It’s not the same voice as usual — quieter. Like he’s drinking her in, like the whiskey at the bottom of the glass. “Too pretty to be out with me, that’s for damn sure.”  

She smiles, and she doesn’t even have to try, sure that her cheeks are a little pink. “Kay won’t be sore about me leaving, but she might have my head about this dress.”

He looks truly confused. “Why?”

Her hand gestures without thinking at the simple sweep of the skirt; she’s suddenly very aware of her legs. “Too boring.”

He makes a face. “Hell with that.” A small sniff, as he reconsiders. “Sorry.”

For the first time, she laughs. “I won’t tell her you said that.”

“Tell her whatever you want, you still look too good to be true.”

Now she’s really blushing. “A sight for sore eyes, huh?” The pendant rests in the dip of her collarbone, beneath the neckline of her dress. She feels it, feels the clasp at the back of her neck and the chain. 

“You don’t know the half of it.” He stands, taking the glass, polishes the last sip of his drink.

She lets herself put a hand on his jacket. “Let me buy your next one?”

He reaches for her hand, for her wrist under the sleeve of her coat. “Now, I’ll have no more of that talk, Josephine.” 

The streets are dark outside, an excuse to stay close to him. A door materializes, a small place with small tables, glowing candles and bottles of liquor and wine. It’s all very respectable, the twirl they take around the floor, and then the next, his hands at her waist, hers up around his neck. A bead of sweat works its way down the back of her neck, between her shoulderblades. He dips his head to ask if she’d like to sit, his temple damp and tacky before her mouth, in the warm room. They do, after another dance, sit and watch the couples sway from a table on the side, listen to the jukebox. I need no soft lights to enchant me- 

She lets him buy her one drink, and then two, the dark rum color catching the candlelight at the bottom of the glass. She doesn’t feel under watch here like she does at the base. Though, there’d been plenty of moments there that maybe they shouldn’t have been allowed. They. She doesn’t know what that means, here in this war. You dance one night and find an empty space the next. Or someone else. His ankle nestles against hers under the table. She wants to kiss him.

What’s stopping her?

His eyes are so blue, and she knows she’s staring. “Got something for you. If- if you want it.” It snaps her out of it a moment, her brow furrowing as he reaches into his pocket. A small gold pin in his palm, the Air Corps insignia. The kind he wears on his collar. “Since I made off with that scarf of yours.”  

The white one, he means, with flowers and Swiss dots. She’d worn it up. He’d taken it as a joke afterwards, smiling, a crack about it being prettier than the one he’d got, but not as pretty as Major Cleven’s. Buck’s. A joke, or so she’d thought. Her mistake to think a pilot’s lucky charms weren’t the most deadly serious things of all. She knows, now. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to think he meant it. 

She could wear it, here in London. His pin. A person would know she had someone. Someone. She doesn’t know how to explain him, for all her words. Brave, like all of them. Brave and funny and flirting, the fiery death or the pretty girl. A heart she wants to curl up inside of. And he’s here in front of her, fidgeting, waiting for her to say something. Here, hands and shoulders and knees. It hurts to think of anything else. She would know who she had.

“See,” she says softly, meeting his eyes. She feels like a schoolgirl, watching him. “Knew what I was doing, wearing black and gold.” She reaches to touch his palm, about to take it and pin it on. He moves to do it himself, leaning forward. She shivers, the touch of his fingers at her throat, under the collar of her dress.

If you would only grant me the right-To hold you ever so tight-

Maybe it’s the light, or the drinks, or the music, or the fact that staying ten minutes past last call could have put her on the front page of that newspaper too. Every mission, the odds go down.

Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at her, like he’s hoping she’ll ask him for something he can give. 

He’s so close to her now. Maybe-

“Mmph-” He tastes like spice and alcohol, the sweat of his upper lip pressed to hers. He releases the pinch of fabric in his hands, the pin now fastened to her lapel. It hardly takes a second for his hands to find her jaw. His touch loosens the tension of her shoulders, sparks warm and firelit in her belly. She stays, lets the kiss grow sloppier until her tongue is pressing against his teeth.

They only stop because she needs a second to catch her breath, to watch him smile at her like she’s somehow surprised him.

“Why are you smiling?”

He doesn’t stop. “I’ll give you one guess, Josephine.”

She thinks better of a retort, lets her cheeks go red and leans forward again, a noisy kiss against his mouth. 

A voice in the back of her head sounds a warning, something distorted, through the sound of the music and the smoky haze. The singer’s own shines through, the brassy big band music that always makes her think of him. There I go, leading with my heart again- She ought to head back to the hotel now, before the night calls for another bar, another drink or three, a bed. And there I go, acting not-so-smart again-

She stands, smooths her skirt, adjusts the soles of her feet inside her shoes. “One more spin?” 

Something falls out of his eyes; he looks like he wants to argue with her, but he doesn’t. A few seconds before he answers. “Early morning?”

She nods, and it feels like the worst lie. Even though it isn’t, she’s got a briefing with the Ministry of Information tomorrow, and plans to meet another source for coffee. Probably more drinks, she thinks. It would hardly be the first time someone showed up for a meeting hungover.

But though it’s unwise, I can’t disguise my love-

Afterwards, they walk back out into the cold night, the smell of his aftershave still in her nose. He touches the flower at the back of her hair. “You got your last dance, can I get a last kiss?”

It surprises her, the forlorn note in her voice. “Where did I use the word last, Major?”

He sighs, or something like it. “Don’t have to, it’s written all over your face.”

Her fingertips find his lapels, the top of her head nuzzled under his chin. “I would hope I’m less readable than that.”

A laugh escapes him, though it’s hardly full of humor. “You’re really not.”

Like you, right? “A shitty pokerface, remember?” 

“‘Cept this time it’s not about the coffee.”

“What’s it about, then?”

He doesn’t answer, leans down and kisses her and steadies her with his hands, what she imagines is her own lipstick tacky against the sides of her mouth. He doesn’t stop, and neither does she. His hand burrows between her coat and her dress, hugging her waist. She presses against it.

They should be walking, or ducked under an eave, not out here like this after dark. This corner. 

Her back automatically straightens when they hear a bicyclist go past, a little huff from his lips and hers as she breaks away. 

“I can still bring you back-” he says belatedly, “if-”

He’s offering her this. Maybe she can admit it to herself now, wanting it too much to refuse.

She shakes her head. “It’s alright, John.”

There’s something in his eyes at that, no Major, just John. “I’m glad.” His voice is heavy when he answers her. Low. His fingertips press against her waist. “I’ve been thinking about this damn dress all night.”

“The dress?”

He smiles, the scratch of his mustache against her cheek. “Alright, the zipper.” He laughs softly, what he imagines her face must look like in the dark, under the cloud-filled sky. “Just bein’ honest.”

Her mouth hovers at the corner of his jaw. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“What else do you expect?” Her chest feels like it’s full of butterflies, when he asks.

“That…you won’t stop talking.” She kisses the spot under his ear. “Please.”

He snorts. Maybe she’s imagining it, the slightest breathiness to his voice. “Now tell me what you really think of me, Josephine.”

Can I? she thinks. “Well, what do you expect?”

He pauses, considering. “That you’ll keep kissing me. Makin’ me blush.”

“I make you blush?”

“Like a tomato, Josephine. ‘Least it feels like it. One flash of those knees and-” She smacks him lightly across the lapel. “Hey.”

“I guess I told you not to stop talking.”

“Yes, you did. Now where was I-”

“My knees.”

“Right.”

A few more couples make their way outside, swirls of perfume and rum and sweat, almost bumping into them. She knows what she’s asking, now. “Maybe we should, uh-”

“Maybe you’re right.”

His hotel is closer, they’d walked by it on the way. She tries not to duck her head in the lobby. He kisses her on the landing of the stairs and again outside the door, forehead lingering against hers.

It’s a large room, larger than she expected, certainly not the little thing she and Kay share at the Highgate, the wallpaper peeling by the radiator. There’s not much of him here besides a bed that’s half-made, a garment bag by the front leg of the desk.

“It’s a nice room,” she says, trying to banish the wobble in her stomach. 

He makes a noise that sounds almost like a laugh. “They know how to charge officers around here.”

“Still.” She reaches back to fidget with the clasp of her necklace. “I uh-”

“Something wrong?”

No. “It’s been-” She’s suddenly embarrassed, left ignorant as to how this is supposed to go. Not ignorant, just-

“Can I get you a drink? We could get something sent up.”

“No, thank you.” It’s probably too late, anyway. He takes off his jacket, drapes it over the back of the small chair at the desk. She takes a deep breath. “I suppose you should kiss me again.”

He smiles, deep and wolfish. “You suppose, huh?”

“Yes.” He does, lets her thread her fingers in his hair. “Suppose I should let you sit, too,” she says. 

“However you want, sweetheart.”

She wants to slap herself for what comes out next. “Really?” 

He looks at her like she’s a little bit crazy. His eyes are gleaming in the low light, dulled against the closed curtains. “You say jump, I say how high.”

She shakes her head before she can stop herself. Her voice is small, and wanting, and she feels suddenly like she’ll fall apart if he doesn’t keep holding her. “Please, just kiss me.” 

Don’t make me think. Let me forget everything except you. 

“Just say the word,” he says, but he’s already got his mouth on hers. 

She’d stopped caring about her lipstick hours ago, and to hell with everything else now. She’s in his lap, here in a locked room, his hand high up her thigh and her own pressed on top of it.

Soon, her dress is around her hips, and he’s got his hands on the top of the zipper, stopping when it catches. He presses a sloppy kiss to her neck, the dip of her collarbone, exposed. She helps him open the rest of the dress, awkwardly, twisting an elbow. He stops, and looks at her with a hazy stare; two kisses, one above each breast, and one to St. Christopher between them. She undoes his tie, not quite an easy task when he’s lavishing kisses on her shoulders. Keeping his promise. She ought to, too. She presses her mouth to the freckles dotting his chest, and one for his crucifix, another for the medallion. Maybe, she thinks, they should use the rest of the bed.

“I’m glad I stopped by,” he says, quiet and rasping and a little bit breathless, his cheeks a shade of coral in the light. 

“You found me,” she says, and it sounds like thank you.

He seems to consider this, his hands stilled under her dress. She can feel him, underneath her. It sends a rush of sparks through her chest, her stomach, her hips. “I did.”

“You did.”

I trust you, she wants to say. But she doesn’t, doesn’t know what to say next. Only brings a hand to his cheek, and his curls, only kisses him again.

[clockwayswrites]

Specter of Starlight - Part 2

Part 1 Mind the CW at the top. (which together will = chapter 1 ones it goes up up on ao3)

WC: 1068

-

He looked around the roof assessing the scene again, then at the other person.

They were leaning casually on the gargoyle now, unconcerned about the height. The new pose did cause them to throw one leg over on the roof side of the ledge, though, and Tim felt the bundle of nerves inside him unwind just slightly.

“Odd place to be then.”

“Maybe. I find height comforting. I’m Danny,” they said.

Tim was a little startled at being given a name so easily.

Danny gave him a lopsided smile. “Not that it’s not obvious who you are, but usually one guy tells another guy their name, they get a name back. There are social motions to go through here. There are expectations.”

Tim tilted his head at that, fighting back a smile. “Are social motions still in place when we’re sitting on a roof at—” His eyes darted to the hud feed inside his lenses. “—three twenty-two in the morning?”

“Hum,” Danny seemed to be actually thinking about that as he picked absently at the fang of the grinning gargoyle. “I suppose we’re exempt from most. In my defense, I think I lost track of time.”

“While star gazing.”

“Cloud gazing. I think we covered that already.”

“Red Robin, then, if we’re pretending to be normal,” Tim acquiesced.

“’Normal’ says the guy in the bird suit. Wait, I’m sorry, that makes you sound like a furry. Not that furries aren’t delightful people, but don’t really think you are one.”

It took some effort not to laugh, but he finally gave into the smile. “No, just a vigilante.”

“Got to say, that’s probably a pretty big step down from furry, sure you want to admit that?”

He was being teased. He was being teased by a random guy on the edge of a roof at three in the morning. This wasn’t at all what Tim expected but he would take it.

“You’re lucky Batman isn’t around to hear you slander the good vigilante name like that.” Mostly because Bruce was dealing with Justice League business. Really, right then, Tim was the only Bat who would be in this particular area to notice Danny (other than Oracle’s all seeing eye, but this high up didn’t have a lot of cameras).

“Okay, but seriously,” Danny said, spreading his hands, “Batman is way more furry adjacent than you. He’s got the wings—”

“It’s a cape.”

“—and the ears.” Danny brought his hands up, holding a single finger up on either side of his head. He gave them a little wiggle.

Tim wasn’t able to help the snort of laughter that time. “I’ll let you bring that reasoning up to him yourself.”

“No thanks, I don’t really want to have a run in with the Batman.”

“But I’m fine to have a run in with?” Tim wasn’t really offended, he knew he wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Batman. Or Red Hood. Or the latest Robin. Not to mention the girls… Okay, so he wasn’t the scariest Bat by far, alright?

“I’m not minding your company so far. Besides, you’re way cuter than Batman.”

He could feel the heat of the sudden blush on his cheeks. Hopefully the the dark night would hide it.

From Danny’s smirk he guess it didn’t.

Tim cleared his throat and grappled for a topic. “So were you hoping to see any particular stars?”

“I mean,” Danny let his head tilt back over the gargoyle, exposing the long line of his neck as he looked back up at the sky. “That always depends on the time of the year.”

If Tim was a less composed person he would have rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, what on this specific March night would you have been looking for?”

Danny’s gaze jerked back down to blink at Tim, but he couldn’t gather what for. Did Danny really think Tim didn’t know something as basic as the constellations changing with seasons?

No, Danny seemed to take a notice breath (why was it so noticeable suddenly) and relaxed again.

“Well, for March, we’d be seeing Orion,” Danny said, returning his gaze to the sky as if they could see anything. “He’s pretty easy to spot even in cities, because of how bright his starts are and his belt. His belt isn’t the brightest stars in Orion, but since they line up people have been spotting them for ages.

“In ancient Arabic they were Al Nijād, also the belt, but in modern they refer to them as scales, which is what the Chinese maybe called them too. They’re also sometimes called the three sisters or the three kings. There’s three stars on it, all pretty bright. Well, we call them three stars, but two of them are actually star systems— shit, sorry, I’m just ranting at you now.”

“No,” Tim said quickly. He hated the way Danny was curling into himself now. “It’s interesting. What do you mean they’re not three stars?”

Tim felt like he was being judged as Danny’s eyes swept over him. Judged and expected to be found wanting. How many times had people dismissed Danny when he was talking about this?

Tim must have passed because Danny started talking again. Slowly, at first, as if he was waiting for Tim to change his mind. “Well… see, the left most star, Alnitak, is a triple, maybe quadruple star system. We’ve known it was a double start since early eighteen something something— I’m not so great with remembering the dates— but then we found another star with the primary later which is super cool. And the right most star Mintaka is also multiple stars and one of them has a unusual metal abundance which is also really cool.

“Now the middle star, Alnilam, is a massive blue super giant. And I mean like, forty times the size of our sun massive. It’s the, twenty-seventh or twenty-ninth or somewhere there brightest start in the sky but even then, it’s only the forth brightest start in the Orion constellation. Like I said, super noticeable. Most people think Betelgeuse is the brightest because that’s one of the larges stars visible to the naked eye. If you thought Alnilam was big at forty times our sun’s size, Betelgeuse is over twelve hundred times bigger…”

A soft smile gracing his lips, Tim shifted to be more comfortable and hear all about Betelgeuse and Rigel and the other bits of starlight that made up Orion.

____

AN: Well, this decided it really wanted to be written, like now (now being 4am). But to be fair, I did rewrite two scenes of the next chapter of lbfd first. (And seriously, no shade on furries, they really are a wonderful community and the best cons to vend at.) Hopefully not too many mistakes, fresh migraine hell over here.

I hope Danny nerding out about the stars there at the end wasn't too dry? I don't know if I need to trim it down? Fun (?) facts, Orion is my fav constellation and my brother actually helped study the metallic content of starts because he's crazy smart. Anways, I love Danny being able to completely change the mood on Tim just by being his delightful, dumpster fire self. You all stay delightful too, darlings!

bby tag list: @michealawithana | @skulld3mort-1fan | @legowerewolf | @tsukihimeyfan | @bahfev | @lehana37 | @ghostreblogging | @quirky-gardener

[television-overload]

of our own making

(an X-Files fanfic)

Chapter 18/34 - ashes

[Read on AO3]

“I love what you've done with the place,” a voice speaks as soon as the apartment door closes behind her. She looks up at the darkened shadow in the corner, only partially illuminated by the dim light of Mulder's fish tank. His face lights up with an orange flash as he flicks his lighter on, bringing the flame to the tip of his cigarette. It reflects off the hard edges of his face, giving him the monstrous appearance of a gargoyle for the briefest of moments before fading into black once more.

“What do you want?” Scully asks, no patience for beating around the bush with this man. At least he appears to be incapable of harming anyone. The man looks like he already has one foot in the grave, and she'd love to give him that last little push he needs.

“I want you to stop looking,” he answers simply.

“You've wanted that since 1973, when you ordered an end to the search for Mulder's sister,” she says, unmoved. “Your initials are on the document, I've seen it.”

If he’s surprised that she’s figured that much out on her own, he doesn’t show it. “Yes, I signed that order because I knew then what I know now: No one's going to find her.”

“Why not?”

“Because I believe she's dead.” The words deal a crushing blow, as does the cold, unfeeling way he speaks them. “No reason to believe otherwise,” he says offhandedly, gesturing vaguely with his cigarette.

“You're a liar,” Scully says softly, her hatred of the man simmering just below the surface. “If you knew that she was dead, why didn't you say something earlier? Why now?”

“There was so much to protect before,” he says with a shrug. “It's all gone now.” The Syndicate, reduced to ashes. Their leader obviously barely hanging on by a thread.

“So you just let Mulder believe that she was alive for all these years?” she asks, furious, if that’s the case. It makes her sick, the way he toys with Mulder like a puppet. 

“Out of kindness, Agent Scully,” he says. “Allow him his ignorance. It's what gives him hope.”

Scully rears back in disgust. How dare he talk about hope? How could he dangle the false promise of everything Mulder has ever wanted in front of him, and ask her to do the same?

Never.

“That isn't what gives him hope,” she says, glaring at the very embodiment of evil standing in her living room.

He gives a low chuckle, its sound chilling. 

“No, I suppose you're right. He has much better things to hope for now, doesn't he?” The insinuation that he knows what they’re up to terrifies her, but she won’t let it show. “I suppose I ought to thank you for that, Agent Scully,” he continues. “I never could have predicted how sending you to him would turn out, but you're good for him. Despite what you may think, it delights me to see my son so happy. And in the end, I succeeded in my purpose of sending him to you after all.”

“Which was what?” she spits.

“To distract him,” he says calmly. “To get him to quit.”

Well, tough luck, you black-lunged creep. “It didn't work out that way.”

“No, it didn't,” he concedes with a nod. “In fact, he became even more focused with you in the picture. A miscalculation, on my part. But I don't see how that's worth dwelling on now. Everything I built is gone.”

“I want you to leave us alone,” Scully demands. She wants nothing more than to get as far away from this man as possible, but she holds her ground. She won’t give him the satisfaction of spooking her.

“I will, so long as the two of you stay away from my business,” he says, taking another puff of his cigarette. “I trust that won’t be a problem?”

“You don’t know us at all, do you?”

He chuckles again. “Unfortunately, I do.” The shadows on his face shift as he takes a step in her direction. “In any case, I offer my heartfelt congratulations on your future together.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” she says coldly, not even giving him an inch as he moves past her to the doorway.

He drops his cigarette onto the hardwood floor and steps on it to put it out. Its stench burns at her nostrils, and she isn’t sure even her strongest cleaning chemicals will be enough to remove it. “Your snark is noted, Agent Scully,” he says with a sickening half-smile and a nod. 

He opens the door and steps into the hall, then looks back at her one final time.

“Best of luck in your endeavors,” he says.

By the time she goes to shut the door behind him, he’s gone.

-.-.-

Mulder’s ramblings about his sister are nearly incoherent the next time she speaks to him. That, combined with her own experiences since returning to Washington, means she’s booking another ticket back out to California, a move that will certainly have the Bureau accounting people staring her down for the next month or so.

But it proves to be the right decision, because Mulder has found something. The most significant something that’s come his way since all this began.

She doesn’t know what it means.

She’s with him when he finds Samantha’s diary. Drawn there by some otherworldly force, or so he says. She can’t argue with the results, though. Hidden in this house, on an abandoned military base, is the diary of a fourteen year old Samantha Mulder.

Her heart aches for the girl, and for her big brother who drinks in every word scrawled on the page in blue ink.

The diary leads them to a police report. Which leads them to a hospital. Which leads them to the home of a retired nurse.

Which leads to the truth.

Finally.

The nurse tells a tale of a nameless girl, strange injuries, the fear in her eyes. Mysterious men who came looking for her in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and how she vanished from a locked room before they could get to her.

It almost raises more questions than answers, but Scully hopes it’s enough. Enough to satisfy her dearest friend, so that he can truly begin to live.

He disappears off on his own in the short time she’s away, talking to the nurse on her doorstep of her home. But she feels something too, like he had when they first arrived here.

This is where it ends. This is where the rest of their life together truly begins.

-.-.-

He’s not sure what it is exactly that pulls him further into the woods. But, the second he catches sight of the little boy again, translucent in the moonlight, he knows with a sinking feeling what he will find.

It’s overwhelming.

With each step he takes, he becomes more and more certain. Like the puzzle pieces are all sliding into place, forming the picture of their own accord. The lack of effort required by him, after all this time, leaves him feeling hollow and empty.

He's letting go. He has no choice but to do so now, faced with the facts before him. The place inside him where the mystery of his lost sister festered for so long has become a gaping hole, and he feels lost without it already. Uncertain where to go next, now that his guiding force is gone.

His first glimpse of her stills him, and even though deep down, he'd expected to find her, the actuality of it shakes him. It feels both unbelievable and startlingly real at the same time, and he doesn't know what to do. Does he cry? Close his eyes and reject the reality in front of him? Should he leave, satisfied with this conclusion to his life's mission despite it being not what he expected or hoped for?

In the end, he does none of those things. Her name drips from his lips, an answer to a question that has haunted him for decades. Simple, but unimaginably profound.

“Samantha...”

His feet carry him toward her in a trance. Her movement is not so restrained. Her beaming smile practically lights up the forest as she dashes to him, her dark waves bouncing over her shoulders.

She's taller than he's ever seen her, and yet, his own height makes her smaller by comparison. He enfolds her in his arms, not expecting much of anything, but he feels her.

There's no breath in her lungs, but she has a solid form. She's surprisingly warm, not like a living body would be, but—he supposes—like light. Electricity buzzes under the surface when her hand lands on his cheek, and though she's different, at heart she's the same.

He can practically hear her voice in his head as she grins happily up at him, her brother.

“Fox!” her eyes say, his name conveyed in the shine of recognition he sees there.

He swallows back the lump in his throat and crouches to his knees, inspecting the changes on her face with the gentle brush of his fingers.

This is what she'd looked like in the end. While he was off in England, beginning his studies at Oxford, this girl was still here, suffering at the hands of her captors, unable to recall anything more than his face.

He'd never forgotten her. Sometimes he'd hoped he might find her, to see her grown up and happy, freed from whoever it was that had abducted her.

Other times, he'd been certain he would never see her again. He convinced himself it would be a mercy if she'd been dead all this time.

Now, he supposes both were right. She was gone, granted the mercy of a peaceful exit from this life by the mysterious inner workings of the universe. But also…

He gets to see her. For what will be the last time, he knows.

And she is happy, he can tell. At peace. Really, that's all he can ask for.

“There's so much I wish I could tell you,” he says, blinking through tear filled eyes to keep her in his vision. 

He thinks of all that has happened to him since she disappeared. In some ways, he’s the same person he was all those years ago. In other ways, he is completely changed. He wants her to know him as he is. To know who her big brother has become.

“I'm going to be a father.”

The words leave his mouth unrestrained, but she seems to understand his need to say them. She smiles softly, tilting her head in what could either be a teasing or truly genuine response.

“I know,” he says with a chuckle. “You think I'll be any good?”

Her answer comes in the featherlight touch of her hand against his, and it feels sincere. He sees flashes of her memories of them together, playing games, walking together to her piano lessons after school, him setting out a TV dinner for her on the nights neither of their parents were home to feed them… He knows what she's trying to say, and it warms his heart, even if he can't hear her reassurance with his own ears.

Her fingers brush over the back of his hand, and he follows their path with his eyes until she lands on his bare ring finger. When he looks up at her, he finds an inquisitive look on her face that almost makes him laugh.

It's strange, to be with his baby sister as an adult. Marriage was the furthest thing from his mind when he'd last seen her. Back then, his only thought was what could happen on the next episode of Star Trek or whether he could convince his father to let him go to summer camp on the mainland that summer. But now, he's all grown up, and in a way, so is she.

“Yeah,” he says, responding to her unspoken question. Smiling quietly to himself, he pulls out the chain that holds his ring from beneath his shirt and dangles it out in front of her. Her eyes instantly light up, and she brings her forefinger up to his chest to touch the cool metal. Gently, like it might shock her.

“Dana,” he says boldly. He's not sure why, but he feels the need to tell her everything. She’s a ghost, or something very like it. The things of this world should no longer concern her. But she should know the name of her sister-in-law. That, at least, he can tell her. “Her name is Dana.”

Samantha looks happy. Relieved, even, which he thinks is strange. If anything, he's the one who should feel relieved, having found her after so long. But maybe she has cause for it, too. Maybe she's spent these years worried about him, just as he has worried for her.

Her small hand splays on his upper chest in a purposeful motion, near his collar bone on the left. He looks down at her hand and then back at her, trying to discern what question she may be asking now.

The scar there tingles, and for the first time, he feels a little guilty that he hasn't taken a little better care of himself. Standing in front of her now, he knows that's not what she would have wanted.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he says, chuckling softly. “She's the one who shot me. But I’m okay now.”

The corners of Samantha’s lips turn up in a small smile, but she shakes her head. No, that's not what she was wondering.

His brows furrow, and he's about to tell her that he doesn't understand when her fingers start to tap rhythmically against his chest.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.

The question mark at the end of the sentence is written on her face, and he finally makes the connection.

‘Do you love her?’ she's asking.

He grabs her hand, cupping it between his own much larger ones, and stares deep into her eyes. He won't lie, not to her.

“More than anything.”

Samantha gives a satisfied nod, a content smile on her face. He knows they don't have much time left, but there's still so much more he wishes he could say.

“I'm sorry I couldn't protect you,” he speaks, finally releasing the apology he's had stored up for over twenty years. “I'm sorry I couldn't save you.”

‘It's okay. I'm okay, now,’ her peaceful expression says. He feels her forgiveness as if it had been spoken aloud, and it's like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. 

‘You’ll be okay, too?’ she asks him next, the words voiced in the expectant tilt of her head.

He glances heavenward, willing the tears to subside for a few more minutes so he can get through this, but manages to smile and nod in response.

“Yeah. I think I'll be okay.”

-.-.-

She's just about to go looking for him when she sees his figure wandering back toward them. What he'd been doing in the woods, she can't begin to guess, but as he approaches, she levels him with a worried gaze.

His necklace is visible, resting atop his clothes instead of under them for once. It glints in the moonlight, and Scully briefly worries that someone will see, but there is no one here who would care.

“Mulder?” she asks. It takes all that is in her to resist the urge to touch him, to check him for physical injuries or other external signs of damage. He seems fine, but it's what goes on inside his head that really concerns her.

“It's over,” he answers in a calm voice. 

His response doesn't do much to reassure her. Calm on the outside certainly doesn't mean calm on the inside, as she well knows, and she still worries he'll shut her out.

He should know by now that his search for the truth is as much hers as it is his.

“Are you okay?” she asks, prodding deeper in hopes he won't shut down. 

He smiles at that, something about her words amusing him, and that offers her a little relief. The feeling only grows stronger as he pulls her into his arms, resting his head atop hers and swaying slightly on his feet.

“I'm okay,” he assures her, in a quiet voice meant only for her. “I'm free.” 

She feels his arms tighten around her, and his voice drops even further, hardly more than a breath into the still night air when he speaks again, insistent.

“We're free.”

-.-.-

She's laying half asleep on top of the scratchy motel room quilt when his voice penetrates the comfortable silence. Despite what she'd told Skinner, she's not keen on letting him out of her sight. Not after what he'd gone through. He lays beside her, curled up under the covers and facing the wall, only the hum of the clunky air conditioner perched in the window to fill the quiet.

“I told her about you,” he reveals.

She stills. He'd mentioned seeing Samantha in the forest, of course. Talked about ethereal children playing in the clearing, the echoing sounds of their laughter and squeals of delight the only sounds he could hear.

Whether she believes him or not, she's relieved that it brought him closure.

The idea that they'd talked about her, however, has her hoping and praying that it’s true. She wishes she could have been there with him. Could have seen her with her own eyes, this girl who has so completely shaped both Mulder's life and hers.

“What did you say?” she asks calmly, staring fixedly up at the ceiling. Her curiosity in this matter makes her feel vulnerable, and the ensuing silence does nothing to ease her nerves.

With the rustle of sheets, though, he turns over, his knees bumping against her legs under the covers. She fights the compulsion to look at him, knowing that if she did, she’d be faced with the full intensity of the stare she feels prickling the side of her face.

He inches closer, the movements jostling the springy mattress, and he maneuvers his head until it's practically on her pillow. She feels his breath on her neck, the spiky ends of his hair brushing against her cheek, commanding the totality of her attention.

“Someday I'll tell you, Scully,” he whispers, curling deeper into the bed. His forehead nuzzles against her shoulder and her eyes fall shut, lost entirely to the sensation of him beside her. “I promise.”

~~~

Lovely tag list ♡: [if you would like to be added or removed, let me know!]

@today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr @agent-troi @angegova @baronessblixen @calimanc @captainsolocide @clo-thespin @cutemothman @danasculls @deathsbestgirl @edierone @enigmaticxbee @figureofdismay @frogsmulder @gillian-anderson-in-the-tardis @hippocampouts @invidiosa @monaiargancoconutsoy @msrafterdark @numinousmysteries @primrose19 @randomfoggytiger @skelavender @skylarksong @stephy-gold @teenie-xf @the-redhead-in-a-dress @vincentsleftear

[bluesylveon2]

Hello!! May I request 6. I Won't Say I'm in Love from Hercules with Malleus? I'm quite the malleus connoisseur !! ❤️😭 Thank you!!! <333

Hi!!! Idk why but this one was hard for me to write 😅. I tried to keep the song in mind while writing it. It ended up being less of "I Won't Say I'm in Love" and more of "I didn't know I was in love. ft Lilia" I hope that this fits since you are a Malleus connoisseur!

Note: Malleus is oblivious to love. Small Spongebob, Ice Age, and Frozen reference

Word Count: 844

Warnings: not beta read and possible OOC characters

"Lilia-"

"Ahem," Lilia, wearing his long lab coat, cleared his throat from his spot on the couch.

Malleus sighed as he lay on his bed with his hands on his stomach. His mind was jumbled with thoughts about the Prefect. Lately, she has been stuck in his mind, and Malleus had to consult Lilia for his wisdom, but was Lilia rearranging his own room into a doctor's clinic necessary? "Doctor Lilia." 

"Much better. Now what are you here for?" Lilia smiled and returned to writing his shopping list on his clipboard. Malleus did not need to know that.

"It's about the Prefect."

Lilia nodded and jotted more items down. "What conditions are you experiencing right now?"

"That I want to be next to her right now."

Lilia hummed in thought. He waved his hand, and some mist appeared. Inside the mist was a Yuu smiling at Malleus, "How would you feel when you see Yuu?"

Malleus sighed for the nth time that day, "Well, I would feel happy like when I get ice cream, excited because I am spending time with her because I could tell her more gargoyle facts, my chest gets this feeling when I see her, I can trust her with Gao-Gao Drakon-kun…."

Hours had passed, and the sun was beginning to set when Malleus was still rambling and didn't look like he was going to stop. 

Meanwhile, Lilia had already dispersed the mist and focused on other important matters.  

I can scare Sebek and Silver if I draw a ghost on the other side of this shopping list, put it on a fishing rod, and hang it in front of their faces. Khee hee hee, those boys will be in for a treat.

"And she occupies my thoughts day and night! Thinking about her now makes me want to praise her for everything, almost like Rook."

"What would you do if someone? Let's use Leona, had the same feelings you felt for her now?" Malleus frowned. If looks could kill, then the roof would have a big hole going through it. The sound of thunder could be heard nearby. Lilia held up a hand and shook his head. He already knew his answer. "Malleus, I know what you're experiencing, but first, let me give you a hint so you can figure it out."

Malleus sat up and crossed his arms. "Aren't you supposed to be the one to diagnose me?"

"Hush, who is the doctor here? Now, it starts with an L.."

Malleus' eyes widen in shock, "Leprosy!"

Lilia chuckled, "No, no! Not that. It's four letters and ends with an e."

"Starts with an l. It is four letters and ends with an e," Malleus whispered to himself. His chin rested on his fist while his face was deep in thought. There was only one word that came to mind. 

"Lice?"

Lilia could not hold back his laugh. In fact, he could not stop laughing (he even threw his head back and slapped his knee) for a whole ten minutes. 

"Are you done?" Malleus asked with a frown on his face. 

"Ha ha…phew…I have not laughed like that in so long! Yes, Malleus. I am now. What you're experiencing is love."

Malleus' mouth opened up in a small o, "Love…can you explain it, Lilia." 

"Love is both a physical and emotional feeling. It can turn your cheeks red and give you butterflies in your stomach. Not literal ones, of course, but it feels like it. Love is also putting one's needs before your own." 

"I see…" Malleus trailed off, deep in thought. 

Lilia chuckled, "What do you think love is?"

"Whenever I think or see the Child of Man, I feel happy. I felt the butterflies after she gave me a ticket to the VDC. She is also one of the few people who was not scared of me after knowing my identity. She even has similar interests to me. If she asked me to get her a rose from Briar Valley, I would do it. If she wanted me to follow her to the end of the universe for her, then I would; she is the Earth and Heaven to me. Had she gotten injured by Schoenheit’s overblot, I would have been devastated…. " Malleus looked up at Lilia, the realization set in his face, "Love is Yuu. I love Yuu."

Lilia smirked, "Took you long enough to realize it. You always have a lovestruck face when you see her. I'm surprised that you never concealed it." 

Malleus ignored Lilia and shot straight out of his bed with a determined look, "I need to go."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to tell Yuu I love her! Thank you for helping me, Lilia!" Malleus disappeared, leaving a small trail of light where he once stood. 

Lilia stood up and brushed off the imaginary dust off his coat, "Kids these days," he chuckled and grabbed his clipboard, "Now let me do my shopping at Sam's. I hope he has a fishing rod in stock, khee hee hee." 

400 event is still open!!

Disclaimer: I do not own Twisted Wonderland and its characters. Those belong to Aniplex, Walt Disney Japan, and Yana Toboso.

©: This story belongs to bluesylveon2 2020-23. DO NOT modify, republish, or plagiarize my work.

[maneaterwithtail]

Did Elf Senshi Change or Not

Figured post character development, at the least result of red dragon, use his mithril knife. Maybe tear clothes to make cloth shield

I realize the gag is supposed to make him super duper p**** looking While still committing to the same bit of just standing there and being archetypical even to a goofy degree just elegant Alf as opposed to doofy dwarf

The problem is you have to turn off every other aspect of his personality and behavior in order to get the gag to work to the extreme it goes to

And as even more so in the episodic presentation but especially what came before you figure he would be all about committing himself to a pragmatic solution for his current predicament and group utility.

OK sure not carrying his PAN because it's too heavy for him. so why isn't he carrying anything else that can cook or keep food abd provide safety with or make sure he's armed because he definitely knows how dangerous the dungeon is and how critical it is to have some sort of tool in order to affect violence that might be necessary for living

Contrast and compare say how he introduced the golems to how he's handling the gargoils

Now it's understandable, the gargoyles are new and the golems are known and familiar

And it was pointed out he has a tendency to use his weapons in such a way that he runs them down as opposed to keeps them in the best condition. the exception being his cooking implements which he treasures immensely which might be due to his own single focus on cooking or the fact that you know they're ancestral keepsakes from the closest thing he has to family and the only property he's probably had most of his life

Which is strike 2 on the whole him just leaving the PAN behind because he's kept it with him for literally decades at this point so it's too heavy that's why I left it seems an odd decision (empty and all carrying make more sense)

Having his knife on hand makes perfect sense because a knife is incredibly practical tool that you can use in a variety of situations that are likely to come up especially in combat exploration or survival situations

To be fair that is a knife that he seems to reserve almost exclusively for elements of cooking or at least did until the dragon situation. So naturally at this time it should be readily available for him. Especially as he's just recommitted himself utterly and completely to the good of the group.

And the previous incident had him more or less coming clean and being more open.

so if the issue is " I don't know how to fight without my normal strength and tools" you think he would express this at some point to his leader so that that way he's prepared or ask what to do next when it comes up.

The implication is when he's been Blunt before yes he is doing so but it's also with an unspoken level of communication based on instruction and cooperation such as the incident with the shiki Gami

There 3 members of the party effectively coordinated an attack that was able to come together. With the implication that if not exactly planned this, he knew how to act in conjunction with his friends

Again all of this disappears when he becomes an elf. he apparently loses all sense of unity with the party that he's remarkably been able to work alongside and definitely has been developing this rapport about

He doesn't communicate critical information that would be relevant to ongoing practical concerns nor is he prepared for a likely upcoming practical concern

And he betrays his own limited Arbitrary but established stubbornness such as With regards to keep sakes or sticking to a certain lifestyle or collection even if it's Deviant from his race or others expectation

Simply put Senshi has been surviving in the dungeon on practical terms for very good reasons for a very long time.

I can understand why for instance he could walk around with a broken axe until he got to the point where he could replace it either from a corpse or earning enough coin to go into town and buy one

I could understand for instance him leaving his equipment in one place and then coming back to it later if believe it's critical for his own safety or recovery

None of these apply here and more importantly the party knowing it's roles and how to be armed and what to expect is absolutely critical. so much so that this first off not being taken care of in a passport or between scene is already a bit dubious. We see scenes of them dressing and of them basically rearranging to the circumstances as they are

For instance it makes sense to me that Marcel fired a magic shot even though she doesn't have as much in the tank. it's established very early on how much she is all about and prides herself on magic as well as can often overlook practical concerns and practice and also the realities of things that she might know intellectually but is unfamiliar with in practice.

That's in fact her very constant gag! Though they definitely find new ways to explore that. just the previous episode, for instance, in terms of making familiars As well as designing how to maximize their use

So she keeps hold of her staff, because that's her item. the only one experienced in order to use it especially now, and she instinctively uses too much magic because that's her first instinct at almost all times but then due to a recent disability she has not adjusted to she's taken out of the fight as a direct result

The same as when lios tires out in mid fight. he's gotten used to the strength. so he naturally assumes that that's going to come with stamina only to realize, especially in a fight, that's not the case. but he's only recently had this body and recently addressed its physical realities and this is the first major physical confrontation he's had.

but note he still has armor and he still has a weapon

Chilchuk - I think this is missing in the actual episode z but he just comments how weird his senses feel and when he sticks to his normal strategy of run like hell and hide in a corner. it doesn't work explicitly because he's so big and probably draws greater agro now or nit used to running in this body with these senses

It also makes sense he doesn't compensate for it. he's been established as someone who doesn't regularly fight. the one skill in fighting he's started to establish as firing arrows. I don't think he actually had the bow and Arrows available. and he was up against Stone monsters this time. so understandably didn't even bother to try. especially in a situation that was unfamiliar to him. he's been established as - I don't want to say cowardly but definitely does not stick his neck out unless he absolutely has to though he will try to save someone if they are in danger **which is something we actually see him do**

Nstsumi has a tendency to go on a bit of a feral attack given Traits of animal instincts as a result of her own modification. Hers is arguably the biggest change but 1, she is less established so there is more leeway. 2, we are literally given a reason for it right when it happens. new animal, new instincts. so she doesn't know how to control or respond to them. So she has to be worked around on that level. It's a major change but it's also a major change that's the focus on the scene and folks working on it

But Senshi's there's this major change but then he says there isn't one which doesn't hold up. To be fair he did do the " stand there and look hot "during a battle one time. specifically the Fallon chimera. but even that 1 kind of made sense, because there were Multiple other fighters and he did have a strategy at hand.

'Appease the leader who was threatening the group by having the meal prepared.' it was a weird strategy but again it falls within the 2 sort of obsessions that he's known for and sticks to stubbornly.

Also the threat before then was that the mixed party would basically start fighting each other and in fact a fight had nearly broken out before the chimera attack and he was already doing that so he just didn't change course in order to attack what was already being addressed or at the very least stay out of the way so that he didn't ruin the one strategy he did have when the very attack ran the risk of reigniting interparty conflict

It was certainly Blunt and stubborn and arbitrary but it wasn't thoughtless or Without group concern.

So yeah I do think the transformation in terms of practical effect had way more of a change than I think even he is willing to admit. To be Fair reading his diary versus watching him in a narrative you get the sense yeah you get inside on what he's thinking but you also realize the way he's thinking doesn't necessarily reflect all that's true even in regard to just himself

As an example, the entire hypogriff soup entry is remarkably very truncated and doesn't explain a lot of what's going on

In fact they're surprisingly amount of stuff he glosses over in terms of what he thinks of as relevant or worth noting or reminding himself about

Which hits at a much more mired or thick headed psyche than one might think as opposed to project a deeper wiser one.