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When Death Us Did Part
Baldur's Gate, 2013 DR
The house is quiet. At this hour, I'm its sole occupant. Freshly dressed for the day, hair still damp from the shower, I meander down my customary route through the house and inspect every downstairs door and window along the way. The alarm has been silent, but no alarm is ever foolproof. Better safe than sorry.
My morning patrol ends in the kitchen. I have just settled down at the kitchen table with the day's first mug of coffee, when Zach's text arrives.
leaving crimson eta 15
I glance at the time: almost four in the morning. Earlier than usual. Must have been a boring night.
When the sleek black car pulls into the driveway, I'm standing at the foot of the steps, ready and waiting. As I open the backseat door, the thumping beat of some recent club hit spills out into the night. Zacharius, the hulking half-orc behind the wheel, locks his blood-red eyes with mine in the rearview mirror. I notice the faint shine in them, the telltale vacancy. The extent of a Vampire Ascendant's compulsion is remarkable – especially when said Ascendant is off his tits.
I greet Zach with a nod, then attend to the figure sprawled over the backseat.
"Come on, boss," I say. I have called him many things over the years. Boss. Saer. My lord. Master. Whatever suits the day and age. "Don't make me carry you all the way upstairs."
Astarion Ancunín, Vampire Ascendant, lifts his head off the seat and peers at me with bleary, bloodshot eyes. He grins, wicked canines thoughtlessly revealed.
"Maybe I should," he drawls, words slurring into each other. "Whisk me off my feet, my loyal servant!"
His eyes gleam red in the car's crisp indoor light, his skin and silver curls a pale shock against the blacks and midnight purples he's wearing. His lean body takes up most of the back seat, one leg bent and leaning on the backrest, the other hanging off the side. He doesn't make the slightest attempt to move.
With a sigh, I fold myself down and reach into the backseat. Astarion's cologne engulfs me, his signature of herb and citrus soured by the reek of countless cocktails and gods know what else. I offer my hand.
"Come on. The sooner we get you to bed, the sooner I can get on with my day."
"Rude," he sniffs, but drapes his hand in mine like a gift from a magnanimous ruler and lets me peel him off the seat.
When he tries to stand, he sways so precariously that I have to grab his arm and pull it around my shoulders. I bid Zach goodnight and shut the door, then begin the arduous task of taking Astarion to bed.
“I could end you, you know,” he says, stumbling over the words like his feet stumble on the front steps. He raises a swaying hand and, after a couple of false starts, snaps his fingers. "Just like that.”
“I know,” I say, as though he had remarked that it might rain tomorrow.
“But I’d never,” he slurs. ”I would never.”
“Of course not. Who else would haul you up the stairs at such an unholy hour in the morning?”
He laughs. Not the deep, modulated laugh of the Ascendant, but one of those rare high-pitched giggles that only slip out when he’s too drunk to watch himself.
I maneuver us into the house and onward to the stairs. I have an arm wrapped around him now, my hand on his waist as I guide him to his chambers. The heat of his body mingles with mine – a trait we share that sets us apart from your common-or-garden undead. Through the cool smooth silk, I sense the rhythmic shift of skin and muscle beneath my fingertips. This last awkward dance that he saves for me alone.
When Astarion is in full control of his wits, he can't stand being touched. Any who try might lose a finger, or worse. But on nights like this he allows it, because he hates crashing on the couch even more. Undignified, he calls it, to settle for a sofa when he possesses a bed fit for a lord.
Dignity doesn't stop him from hanging off me like a sack of potatoes. The silk keeps gliding under my fingers and at the top of the stairs I have to pause to adjust my grip on him. The arm around the back of my neck tightens and I feel him turn his head toward me. His breath fans hot across my skin as he tries to mumble something by my ear.
"Pardon?" I ask.
He hums softly. Wisps of silvery hair tickle the side of my face as he nuzzles closer. The heat of his breath washes across my flustered face, which grows warmer with every thump of my heart.
"Not much further now," I murmur, or I try. My tongue keeps sticking to the roof of my mouth.
We make it to his bedroom. A four-post monstrosity dominates the space, carved from rosewood, draped in silks, laden with cushions. Fit for a lord, indeed; a lord who was so unbearably fussy over its commission that I shudder to remember it nearly a century later. The duvet is pulled back, ready for his arrival – my doing, not long after his driver texted me that they were leaving the club.
Astarion crumples into bed with a drawn-out groan. I roll him onto his back, then slip off his shoes, one by one. Black
|
When Death Us Did Part
Baldur's Gate, 2013 DR
The house is quiet. At this hour, I'm its sole occupant. Freshly dressed for the day, hair still damp from the shower, I meander down my customary route through the house and inspect every downstairs door and window along the way. The alarm has been silent, but no alarm is ever foolproof. Better safe than sorry.
My morning patrol ends in the kitchen. I have just settled down at the kitchen table with the day's first mug of coffee, when Zach's text arrives.
leaving crimson eta 15
I glance at the time: almost four in the morning. Earlier than usual. Must have been a boring night.
When the sleek black car pulls into the driveway, I'm standing at the foot of the steps, ready and waiting. As I open the backseat door, the thumping beat of some recent club hit spills out into the night. Zacharius, the hulking half-orc behind the wheel, locks his blood-red eyes with mine in the rearview mirror. I notice the faint shine in them, the telltale vacancy. The extent of a Vampire Ascendant's compulsion is remarkable – especially when said Ascendant is off his tits.
I greet Zach with a nod, then attend to the figure sprawled over the backseat.
"Come on, boss," I say. I have called him many things over the years. Boss. Saer. My lord. Master. Whatever suits the day and age. "Don't make me carry you all the way upstairs."
Astarion Ancunín, Vampire Ascendant, lifts his head off the seat and peers at me with bleary, bloodshot eyes. He grins, wicked canines thoughtlessly revealed.
"Maybe I should," he drawls, words slurring into each other. "Whisk me off my feet, my loyal servant!"
His eyes gleam red in the car's crisp indoor light, his skin and silver curls a pale shock against the blacks and midnight purples he's wearing. His lean body takes up most of the back seat, one leg bent and leaning on the backrest, the other hanging off the side. He doesn't make the slightest attempt to move.
With a sigh, I fold myself down and reach into the backseat. Astarion's cologne engulfs me, his signature of herb and citrus soured by the reek of countless cocktails and gods know what else. I offer my hand.
"Come on. The sooner we get you to bed, the sooner I can get on with my day."
"Rude," he sniffs, but drapes his hand in mine like a gift from a magnanimous ruler and lets me peel him off the seat.
When he tries to stand, he sways so precariously that I have to grab his arm and pull it around my shoulders. I bid Zach goodnight and shut the door, then begin the arduous task of taking Astarion to bed.
“I could end you, you know,” he says, stumbling over the words like his feet stumble on the front steps. He raises a swaying hand and, after a couple of false starts, snaps his fingers. "Just like that.”
“I know,” I say, as though he had remarked that it might rain tomorrow.
“But I’d never,” he slurs. ”I would never.”
“Of course not. Who else would haul you up the stairs at such an unholy hour in the morning?”
He laughs. Not the deep, modulated laugh of the Ascendant, but one of those rare high-pitched giggles that only slip out when he’s too drunk to watch himself.
I maneuver us into the house and onward to the stairs. I have an arm wrapped around him now, my hand on his waist as I guide him to his chambers. The heat of his body mingles with mine – a trait we share that sets us apart from your common-or-garden undead. Through the cool smooth silk, I sense the rhythmic shift of skin and muscle beneath my fingertips. This last awkward dance that he saves for me alone.
When Astarion is in full control of his wits, he can't stand being touched. Any who try might lose a finger, or worse. But on nights like this he allows it, because he hates crashing on the couch even more. Undignified, he calls it, to settle for a sofa when he possesses a bed fit for a lord.
Dignity doesn't stop him from hanging off me like a sack of potatoes. The silk keeps gliding under my fingers and at the top of the stairs I have to pause to adjust my grip on him. The arm around the back of my neck tightens and I feel him turn his head toward me. His breath fans hot across my skin as he tries to mumble something by my ear.
"Pardon?" I ask.
He hums softly. Wisps of silvery hair tickle the side of my face as he nuzzles closer. The heat of his breath washes across my flustered face, which grows warmer with every thump of my heart.
"Not much further now," I murmur, or I try. My tongue keeps sticking to the roof of my mouth.
We make it to his bedroom. A four-post monstrosity dominates the space, carved from rosewood, draped in silks, laden with cushions. Fit for a lord, indeed; a lord who was so unbearably fussy over its commission that I shudder to remember it nearly a century later. The duvet is pulled back, ready for his arrival – my doing, not long after his driver texted me that they were leaving the club.
Astarion crumples into bed with a drawn-out groan. I roll him onto his back, then slip off his shoes, one by one. Black enamelled leather, polished to such a shine that I can nearly see my own reflection. Stupidly expensive, of course. Designer brand. Which brand, I couldn't say, nor do I particularly care. He makes the decisions. I just carry the credit cards and the bags.
I remove the cufflinks from the sleeves of his silk shirt, unclasp every golden chain around his neck. I undo his belt, ease it out from under him.
Then, I stop. He hates waking up bare after nights like this.
As I reach for the covers, his eyes flutter open.
“Stay,” he says, like he always does when he’s wasted.
“Why?” I ask, like I always do.
“I want you.”
"What for?"
"By the hells," he groans, and I hide a smile. "Sex, my dear. A night of unfe… Unforghe… Ugh, you know what I mean."
"You can't even stand on your own two legs. What makes you think you can get anything else up?"
"Centuries of practice, m'darling. Tens of thousands… satisfied beyond their wildest dreams."
Others might only see a bleary grin on his face. I see the bared teeth, the way his lips curl a little too far into contempt.
“You get rid of the people you fuck,” I say as I roll the downy-soft duvet over him. “I’d rather stay a while longer.”
Astarion scoffs.
"They're rabble. Pointless. Expendable. But you…"
When the silence stretches on too long, I glance at him. My heart clenches. His eyes are open, locked onto mine. Red like blood, glittering like rubies in the dim light.
After late nights at his clubs, Astarion always staggers home drunk or high. He says all sorts of fanciful things, slurring his words, eyes lolling this way and that like a raft adrift at sea. Makes all sorts of promises.
But in this moment, as he holds my gaze, quiet, waiting, he doesn't look nearly as drunk as he first seemed.
“Sleep it off,” I tell him, like I always do. It's harder when he's looking at me like that. “If you still want me in the morning, ask again.”
Astarion blinks, then blinks again. Sluggish. Unfocused again.
“I will,” he mumbles, eyes drifting closed. “I will.”
He never does.
With a wry smile, I finish tucking him in. He doesn't flinch when my fingers accidentally brush his shoulder, doesn't snap or snarl. I try to tamp down the silly warmth that threatens to bloom inside me. There was a time when he'd cut off an offending hand with nary a warning. He'd make a game from goading people into touching him, just for the excuse to punish them.
But perhaps the touch wasn't as noticeable as I feared. Perhaps he's just that drunk.
I watch him a moment. He lies with his head lolled toward me, face slack, body perfectly still. He doesn't even breathe. That's how I know he's out cold. When he's conscious, he always breathes – partly to keep up appearances, partly the stubborn instinct left behind by the mortal he once was.
Ever so carefully, I place my hand on his cheek. I even let my thumb brush his face in the faintest caress. An indulgence I allow myself when he’s passed out, or close enough to it not to notice.
He moves so quickly when he wants to. Before I know it, his hand is on mine, pinning it in place. I freeze, a startled breath trapped in my throat. With his eyes still shut, he turns his head and presses his lips into my palm. My heart jolts into a race.
He mumbles something into my skin, then lets go. I snatch my hand back.
“Good night,” I manage, praying to every god who might be listening that he’s too drunk and tired to notice how shaky my voice has suddenly become.
Astarion says nothing. Doesn’t move.
I slip out through the bedroom door and close it quietly behind me, then turn around and sag back against it. I clasp the hand he kissed, press it to my chest. My fingers are trembling. My skin burns hot, as though set alight by his lips.
His lips.
He kissed me.
He kissed me.
Or… maybe he didn't. He's falling-down drunk, barely knows where he is. He must have mistaken me for someone else. One of his playthings from the club, or–
Tav.
Most of what he whispered to me after the kiss was too quiet for me to hear, but as I think back on that moment, I hear the echo of that single word. Perhaps it's my imagination, perhaps not; it doesn't matter, for I've already heard it thousands of times. Spat with venom, cursed to the pits of the Nine Hells, murmured ever so softly from lips lost in booze and yearning.
Tav.
I'm no Tav. The truth of it hardens in my chest like a stone. I am… merely useful. Convenient. Harmless, more or less. Among vampires and their prideful lords, that is all I'll ever be.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75700846/chapters/197988811
|
{"authors": ["The_Moss_Stomper"], "language": "English", "title": "When Death Us Did Part"}
|
Don't diminish it
A warmth pulled Jaime from the bottomless sleep of exhaustion he'd fallen into. Not the warmth of fire, or even the warmth of skin--the warmth of the sun.
Somewhere close by, a chorus of frogs were croaking and singing, and the slap of oars punctuated every other breath. The air was humid and heavy, thick with the sound of insects and the rustle of overburdened branches.
He knew immediately that the harrowing flight from the cursed keep had not been a dream--it had been very real.
Jaime felt like he was made of stone, aching and stabbing pains crying from every joint and muscle. He momentarily considered going back to sleep, but then a dull thud rattled the planks.
Jaime cracked his eyes open against the harsh light, looking down. Alene was curled up under the middle bench where Kin was seated, stirring, her boots knocking the sides of the boat as she stretched.
Kin sat on the bench above her, head bowed, breathing quiet but ragged. All at once, Alene sat up, squinting against the light, her hair even more wild than the night before. She fixed her first mate with a glare that bordered on deadly, her voice equally fiery.
“Did you row all night, Comstock?”
He nodded faintly.
"You ought to have woken me up,” she scolded. “You’ll be useless when the strain catches up to you."
Kin just grunted, hardly lifting his head to look at her.
"Keep your fretting to Eddwin, Captain,” he rasped, harsher than he’d intended. His arm throbbed with a distant, unbearable ache, fingers and toes long since gone numb.
The captain scowled, her eyes dark and jaw tightening. “I'll fret all I want, thank you,” she retorted, clipped.
Behind her, Brienne was stirring, the harsh tone of Alene's voice drawing her from her sleep. She shifted in place on the furthest bench, seated fully upright and stiff against the bow.
“Up you get, Comstock. I'm rowing,” demanded the captain. Alene stood, and Jaime braced for the boat to rock--but she planted her feet like a woman who’d been born on the water. She shoved Kin off the middle bench, and he landed with a soft groan and shifted out of the way, drawing his legs in close. He curled into himself in the cradle of the planks, clutching his arm, a deep wrinkle in his brow.
Brienne felt a twinge of something akin to pity in her ribs--the sight was unbecoming of a man who’d risked so much for strangers. She reached down, pressing her hand against the sailor’s forehead.
“He’s feverish,” she announced.
“I’m fine,” Kin croaked, swatting at her.
“And I’m fucking Naerys Targaryen,” Alene snapped.
“We’re nearly there,” Kin grunted in retort, his voice lowering. “You’re welcome.”
“Nearly where?” Jaime asked, wanting to cut it off before either of them had an opportunity to bicker any more.
“King’s Landing,” Alene said, still sharp. She took a breath to calm herself, and then explained, “We’re on the Rush, out to Blackwater Bay.”
Brienne sat forward, glancing at Jaime, then back at Alene. King’s Landing. That’s where the Lannisters were keeping Sansa Stark. “That’s where we were headed before we were captured.”
Alene cocked her head just slightly, then shrugged. “That’s where my ship is harbored.”
Jaime cut in, firm.
“We need to stop.”
Immediately, and to Brienne's shock, Alene agreed. “You're right. Kin's in absolutely no condition to be on the water.”
“I'm fine,” grunted the man in question. “We need to-”
“We need to stop and have a look at your arm,” Jaime insisted.
Alene scoffed. “Save the heroics, Kin. You're barely conscious.”
“But I am still conscious,” he argued, a note of teasing in his hoarse voice.
Alene huffed--not quite amusement, not quite annoyance. “If you close your eyes, I’m kicking you,” she warned, pushing the oars steady. “There should be a town just ahead. Just hang on for a few more minutes.”
Jaime felt a twist in his gut. “Do we have that much time?”
Alene scoffed. “Yeah, Kingslayer, I reckon we do.”
Jaime felt something cold and solid settle in his ribs. Beside him, Brienne looked away--shame sinking her shoulders. Kin rolled onto his back in the bottom of the boat and groaned, staring up at the clear blue sky.
“Wha…?”
They could see the roofs above the trees as they passed, and just a few minutes later, Alene grounded the boat in the shelter of a patch of thick reeds and a leaning willow’s hanging vines.
Kin hardly stirred when they dragged him from the boat. By the time he got his feet beneath him, he was hot to the touch and trembling in the humid air, slipping in and out of awareness like a tide.
“Stay here with him,” Alene told Brienne. “We can’t risk you being seen in town. Everyone will notice a giant naked woman with chains on her wrists.”
As much as he’d have preferred to stay behind, Jaime went with Alene. If he wanted to pull his weight, which he did, this would be a good place to prove that he still could. The pair braved the wild marsh for several minutes before they broke out into the tiny riverside town.
Little more than the widening of the river bank,
|
Don't diminish it
A warmth pulled Jaime from the bottomless sleep of exhaustion he'd fallen into. Not the warmth of fire, or even the warmth of skin--the warmth of the sun.
Somewhere close by, a chorus of frogs were croaking and singing, and the slap of oars punctuated every other breath. The air was humid and heavy, thick with the sound of insects and the rustle of overburdened branches.
He knew immediately that the harrowing flight from the cursed keep had not been a dream--it had been very real.
Jaime felt like he was made of stone, aching and stabbing pains crying from every joint and muscle. He momentarily considered going back to sleep, but then a dull thud rattled the planks.
Jaime cracked his eyes open against the harsh light, looking down. Alene was curled up under the middle bench where Kin was seated, stirring, her boots knocking the sides of the boat as she stretched.
Kin sat on the bench above her, head bowed, breathing quiet but ragged. All at once, Alene sat up, squinting against the light, her hair even more wild than the night before. She fixed her first mate with a glare that bordered on deadly, her voice equally fiery.
“Did you row all night, Comstock?”
He nodded faintly.
"You ought to have woken me up,” she scolded. “You’ll be useless when the strain catches up to you."
Kin just grunted, hardly lifting his head to look at her.
"Keep your fretting to Eddwin, Captain,” he rasped, harsher than he’d intended. His arm throbbed with a distant, unbearable ache, fingers and toes long since gone numb.
The captain scowled, her eyes dark and jaw tightening. “I'll fret all I want, thank you,” she retorted, clipped.
Behind her, Brienne was stirring, the harsh tone of Alene's voice drawing her from her sleep. She shifted in place on the furthest bench, seated fully upright and stiff against the bow.
“Up you get, Comstock. I'm rowing,” demanded the captain. Alene stood, and Jaime braced for the boat to rock--but she planted her feet like a woman who’d been born on the water. She shoved Kin off the middle bench, and he landed with a soft groan and shifted out of the way, drawing his legs in close. He curled into himself in the cradle of the planks, clutching his arm, a deep wrinkle in his brow.
Brienne felt a twinge of something akin to pity in her ribs--the sight was unbecoming of a man who’d risked so much for strangers. She reached down, pressing her hand against the sailor’s forehead.
“He’s feverish,” she announced.
“I’m fine,” Kin croaked, swatting at her.
“And I’m fucking Naerys Targaryen,” Alene snapped.
“We’re nearly there,” Kin grunted in retort, his voice lowering. “You’re welcome.”
“Nearly where?” Jaime asked, wanting to cut it off before either of them had an opportunity to bicker any more.
“King’s Landing,” Alene said, still sharp. She took a breath to calm herself, and then explained, “We’re on the Rush, out to Blackwater Bay.”
Brienne sat forward, glancing at Jaime, then back at Alene. King’s Landing. That’s where the Lannisters were keeping Sansa Stark. “That’s where we were headed before we were captured.”
Alene cocked her head just slightly, then shrugged. “That’s where my ship is harbored.”
Jaime cut in, firm.
“We need to stop.”
Immediately, and to Brienne's shock, Alene agreed. “You're right. Kin's in absolutely no condition to be on the water.”
“I'm fine,” grunted the man in question. “We need to-”
“We need to stop and have a look at your arm,” Jaime insisted.
Alene scoffed. “Save the heroics, Kin. You're barely conscious.”
“But I am still conscious,” he argued, a note of teasing in his hoarse voice.
Alene huffed--not quite amusement, not quite annoyance. “If you close your eyes, I’m kicking you,” she warned, pushing the oars steady. “There should be a town just ahead. Just hang on for a few more minutes.”
Jaime felt a twist in his gut. “Do we have that much time?”
Alene scoffed. “Yeah, Kingslayer, I reckon we do.”
Jaime felt something cold and solid settle in his ribs. Beside him, Brienne looked away--shame sinking her shoulders. Kin rolled onto his back in the bottom of the boat and groaned, staring up at the clear blue sky.
“Wha…?”
They could see the roofs above the trees as they passed, and just a few minutes later, Alene grounded the boat in the shelter of a patch of thick reeds and a leaning willow’s hanging vines.
Kin hardly stirred when they dragged him from the boat. By the time he got his feet beneath him, he was hot to the touch and trembling in the humid air, slipping in and out of awareness like a tide.
“Stay here with him,” Alene told Brienne. “We can’t risk you being seen in town. Everyone will notice a giant naked woman with chains on her wrists.”
As much as he’d have preferred to stay behind, Jaime went with Alene. If he wanted to pull his weight, which he did, this would be a good place to prove that he still could. The pair braved the wild marsh for several minutes before they broke out into the tiny riverside town.
Little more than the widening of the river bank, overshadowed by tall, looming trees, just a few low buildings surrounding a dock and a plaza and a stout, leaning church, Alene strode into the wet-smelling marketplace like she’d lived there all her life.
Jaime followed a half-step after her, counting coins in his head and making sure his arm was tucked securely against his chest, as out-of-sight as it could get.
Alene was whirlwind, moving and speaking quickly. They bartered for bandages, for rations, for a tunic and breeches that would fit Brienne well enough to get her through the gate at King’s Landing without too much trouble.
The merchant captain cast him an approving smirk as he haggled the price of a horsehair poultice, a smile full of teeth and dark eyes studying him like a piece of well-crafted furniture.
“Look at you,” she said, already half-laughing. “All smooth and helpful, carryin’ your lot instead of bein’ carried.”
Jaime paused.
It was absurd, really--a harmless jest, tossed off without thought--but the words slid neatly into an old, familiar groove. He felt the sting of it flare sharp and hot, as if the joke had pressed a thumb directly into a bruise he’d been pretending wasn’t there.
Somewhere not too far away, he imagined Cersei, pacing the halls of the Red Keep, her face just as cold as the marble where her shoes clicked. He heard her voice as clearly as if she were standing at his shoulder, sharp and incredulous and utterly devoid of affection.
I will never understand why anyone let you wield a sword in the first place.
Worthless.
He swallowed hard and slid the coins across the sun-warmed wood, fingers careful, deliberate, claiming the jar of salve as though it were proof of something.
“I never asked him to carry me,” Jaime said mildly, turning away before his face could betray him.
Behind him, Alene fell into step, her presence heavy at his back. He could feel her eyes on him, curious and assessing rather than angry.
They paused at a stall selling boots--thick leather, ugly, but sturdy--and Alene nudged him with her elbow, gentler this time.
“What is it?” she asked, voice lowered, edged with something like concern.
Jaime blinked down at her. “What is what?”
She studied him for a moment, then shook her head and grabbed the pair that looked closest to Brienne’s size, tossing coin to the merchant without haggling. Jaime followed her away. His entire body complained with every step. From toes to shoulders he ached and throbbed, a steady pain that never waned, only intensified the longer he kept moving, like gravity itself was conspiring to drag him down to his knees.
He looked down the slope towards the water, listening as the woman negotiated the price of a jar of pickled carp and a loaf of rye bread.
“That was too soon,” Alene said suddenly.
She was beside him now, close enough that he could smell salt and riverwater on her skin. She didn’t look away.
“What?” Jaime asked, turning despite himself.
“That.” She gestured back toward the apothecary stall. “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“You didn’t,” he replied. Too quickly.
Alene frowned at that, and stopped walking. Jaime stopped too, startled by the suddenness of it.
“You’re definitely a noble,” she said after a moment, thoughtful rather than accusatory. “You’re used to pretending.”
His stomach dropped, dread tightening his throat. He went to respond, but-
She waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve put it on for me. Like you aren’t exhausted and hurting and--” she hesitated. She cast a glance up at his face, eyes narrowing just slightly as if assessing him for fault lines and blemishes. “--homesick.”
Jaime opened his mouth to deny it, to deflect, to turn it into a jest of his own. But Alene had already started walking again, not giving him the chance.
“You know,” she went on, speaking over her shoulder, “Kin and I don’t believe in pity.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jaime demanded, grasping for irritation like a shield. Anger was easier. Anger didn’t tremble.
“It means,” she said, rolling her eyes, “that we find value in broken things.” She glanced back at him, lips curling. “In fact, we prefer them. They’ve usually been tested.”
They reached the edge of the trees, where the market thinned and the ground softened underfoot. Alene stopped and turned to face him fully now. The late sun cast her in copper and gold, her expression steady and unflinching.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “Kin doesn’t believe in gossip, either.”
Jaime frowned. “Gossip?”
She tilted her head. “Stories. The kind of thing that spinsters waste their time on.”
A cold, heavy knot settled low in his gut.
“Kin knows you as you are,” Alene continued, casual again, as if discussing the weather. “Not as whatever it is you think you are.”
Jaime stared at her, pulse thudding in his ears.
“What,” he asked carefully, “do I think I am, then?”
She studied him for a long moment, then shrugged, casual as you please. “Your names. The one people like to whisper, mostly.”
Jaime stared at her, his stomach in his boots. He waited for her to say it the way people always did--like a poison. Or a curse.
“Kingslayer,” she said plainly.
The word hit him harder here than it ever had at court or camp--stripped of ceremony. It sounded strangely naked when spoken without judgment. It stopped him just short of flinching and he waited for the repulsion. The curiosity. The condemnation.
It didn’t come. Alene just looked at him.
“Of course you know,” he said hoarsely.
“I know the story,” Alene corrected. “Or what passes for one.”
“And he doesn’t,” Jaime said. It wasn’t a question.
Alene’s brows knit together. “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think he does. We spend so much time at sea, you know. It’s never come up.”
Jaime stared at her. “Why not?”
Alene frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Why would it? You’re good at cards. And when you drink, you start laughing instead of brawling. We hardly have a reason to talk about you behind your back.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Something inside Jaime twisted, sharp and sickening. Kin’s laughter flashed through his mind, his steady hands, the easy way he spoke, like there was nothing that separated them but air and sunlight. Like sins and blood and fire never mattered.
“I see,” Jaime breathed, though he wasn’t sure that he did.
Alene nodded, and led the way into the marsh.
By the time they returned to the reeds, the sun had sunk low beneath the thick canopy, leaving the camp and the river bathed in shadow. Jaime dumped off the supplies without ceremony and sank down into the grass at the side of the boat, breath coming fast and shallow as the strain caught up to him all at once. The grass was cool beneath him, damp with river spray, and he welcomed the bite of it to keep him aware.
Brienne crouched by his side at once, chains from her wrists clinking softly as she reached for him. Didn’t look away. Didn’t soften. Her hands were steady, her gaze piercing. He hated that her attention made it feel worse. He wished he could be unaffected.
Jaime clenched his jaw against a painful hiss as she unwound the bandages, each careful movement dragging sensation back into a limb he had learned too well how to forget.
The ache was deep and relentless, like something living inside him, gnawing. But it was also tragically familiar. He watched her discard the soiled linen with a pang of something like loss--Kin had cut that fabric loose from the sheets of his room at Harrenhal. Kin had knelt at Jaime’s feet and wound it around his wrist.
Jaime could bear the thought no longer, and yet it remained. He turned and stared out over the water, counting his breaths instead of looking at what remained.
Across the camp, Alene had already tucked Kin into the newly erected tent.
Kin drifted in and out as she worked, awareness like a poorly tied knot, tugged loose by exhaustion and heat and hauled back into focus by sharp flares of pain like matches struck in a dark tomb.
The world came to him in fragments like stained glass, colored vividly and distorted: crickets and cicadas crying out in the dark around the camp, the smell of mud and medicine, Alene’s voice as she stitched him shut.
“Stay awake,” she ordered, not unkindly.
“I’m awake,” he rasped, though his vision swam, fuzzy and doubled. He kept his eyes open by force, fixing them on the seam in the canvas. Beyond the fear of death was the fear of sleeping too deeply--of missing the moment they’d need him again.
Outside, Jaime swallowed against the sting of tears he refused to shed. Brienne’s presence lingered at his side, unwavering, her shadow falling over him as she worked. He hated that she had to see him like this--diminished, half-made. He hated even more that she didn’t look away. Didn’t give him the mercy of pretending it wasn’t pity.
“You needn’t apologize,” she said quietly, as if reading his thoughts.
He huffed a humorless breath, feeling no mood for irony. “I wasn’t going to.”
She tied off the bandage with a firm tug that had him biting the inside of his cheek.
“Good,” was all she said.
The word Kingslayer echoed--unbidden, Alene’s voice stripped of malice replaying in his head. He wondered, distantly, what Brienne thought when she looked at him. If she saw the same thing everyone else did. If she, too, carried that story in the back of her mind like a trunk tucked away in the attic.
Kin’s hand twitched as Alene adjusted the bandages again, pain lancing bright enough to drag a sharp sound from his throat. He bit it back, breathing through his teeth.
“You don’t get points for suffering in silence,” Alene said, brisk.
“I’m not-” He stopped, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”
Alene fell quiet. Very quiet, and very still. She shook her head.
“No, Kin,” she breathed, her voice so soft that he could’ve sworn he imagined it. “I’m sorry.”
Jaime closed his eyes as Brienne’s hands withdrew, suddenly cold without them. The camp, however small and enclosed, felt too wide, too exposed. His gaze flicked toward the tent without his permission, toward the muted shape of Kin inside.
He’ll be okay, Jaime thought. We’ll be in King’s Landing soon. When they treat me, they’ll treat him just the same.
Kin lay still as Alene finished. He watched as she stepped back, the worst of the work done. The fever still throbbed, but the pain had dulled to something manageable, something he might be able to sleep through. He listened to the sounds outside--the river, the soft scrape of boots, the clink of chains--and felt the strange, hollow fear of being unable to rise if they called for him.
What good was a sailor who could not row?
What good was a swordsman with no sword hand?
Night crept in, slow and inevitable. Somewhere beyond the canvas, Jaime pushed himself to his feet, every movement deliberate, controlled. He did not look at the tent again--not yet--but the pull of it was a constant ache, low and insistent, like a tide drawing him home.
They ate in silence, the rations Alene had bartered for.
And then, the merchant captain turned to Jaime, and handed him an ugly wooden mug filled with water and ale and fish and scraps of bread.
“For Kin,” she said. “You should take it to him.”
Kin lay on his side, staring at the canvas ahead, unable to sleep despite the heaviness that had settled over him. The ale and medicine and bandages had helped, but the dull throbbing in his arm had merely weakened, not fully disappeared. Exhaustion threatened to take him, but the tension in his muscles kept him rooted firmly--what if they needed him? He had to be awake, alert. Ready.
His mind drifted, carried by the current of the river whispering just beyond the canvas. Guilt and shame ate at him--he knew he should’ve woken someone to take over the rowing, but the thought of rousing them from rest after what they’d all been through, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Another part of him worried about what Alene had said.
You’ll be useless when the strain catches up to you.
He thought of Harrenhal, of iron bars and stone walls that had closed in on every breath, and marveled that he could hear birdsong--not the groan of stone or the shriek of wind through towers. He should feel triumph. They’d gotten out, hadn’t they? But instead there was only the dull pounding of fever and the sour taste of dread on his tongue.
And then the canvas rustled, and in stepped Jaime, crouching low beside him with a mug. Kin pushed himself up and reached for it, but Jaime held it away until Kin lowered his hands.
“I can-” Kin began, his pride stinging as Jaime brought the mug to his mouth, the smell of rye and salty fish wafting into his nose. He couldn’t help but see a strange glimmer in the Lannister’s eyes, a desperation that he recognized implicitly.
The need to be useful.
Or maybe just the urge to be close.
He silenced his protests and opened his mouth, swallowing and watching Jaime’s eyes--green as the vibrant river reeds--as he allowed Jaime to have this, to have his moment.
And when the Lannister set the mug down beside him, empty now, and leaned in, Kin took his own moment. He reached out to meet him, pulling him down, wrapping the man in his arms, ignoring the way the movement pulled on his stitches. He focused only on the hitch of breath and the heartbeat--life--that pulsed under his lips as he pressed light, urgent kisses against Jaime’s neck.
Jaime, for the first time in as long as he could remember, found himself clinging. Clinging to Kin, his arms wrapping around the sailor’s ribs, tucking his face into Kin’s shoulder. Relief surged through him, almost dizzying in its intensity.
Alive. They were, both of them, alive.
They were together. Safe.
A warm haze swept over him like a breeze through the poppy fields of Essos, soothing the worst of that poisonous helpless feeling that had been festering in his bones.
He hooked his legs with Kin’s, locked them together, pressed tightly against one another from shoulder to ankle, tangled and unraveling.
Alive.
Jaime sought his mouth again, captured it and pushed his fingers into the mess of unkempt hair on the back of the sailor’s head, tightening his grip until he heard Kin’s voice. A low, strained groan as he sucked the man’s lip into his teeth, soothing the bite with his tongue.
Kin pulled back suddenly. The haze broke, and Jaime felt the swell of rejection in his ribs--until Kin rose over him again, braced on his elbows, legs still entangled, and a rush of pleasure ran up his body as the sailor began rocking his hips forward. Mouthwatering friction swelled between the Lannister’s legs, punching a gasp from his lips.
“That’s a good boy,” Kin rasped, eyes locked on the flush of his cheeks, the flutter of his lashes as he cradled Jaime’s head in his arms. Jaime felt the words wash over him like a warm, soft blanket. Kin bowed his head to press his forehead to the Lannister’s mouth.
“So sweet for me,” he praised.
Jaime drew a hissing breath as Kin shifted his knee between his legs, pressing down with more of his weight, rolling his body with more purpose. He dug his fingers into the sailor’s shoulders, feeling the muscle, powerful and whole and unbroken, tensing and relaxing beneath his touch. The tender gnawing of bliss dulled his mind to a narrow tunnel, leaving him to think about only one thing--
Kin. The warmth of his breath, his skin, the sound of him sighing above, the salty tang of his lips as Jaime drew him in for another kiss. The breathtaking sight of his dark form looming overhead, solid and immovable as a mountain.
Kin groaned, a shudder running through him as the knight pushed upwards, meeting him, and he felt Jaime’s erection, hard as a stone, press into his hip. He dragged his hand down Jaime’s side and grabbed his thigh, helping him find the rhythm, grinding rough cloth to rough cloth, heat straining beneath.
It was hunger, it was sustenance.
It was grief, it was relief.
Every roll, every movement met halfway left him in the same fog he saw in Jaime’s eyes--those eyes like the forest, like the morning, like life--glassy, pupils blown wide, darkened by the sort of lust that only emerged in the aftermath of defying certain death.
Kin broke free of the kiss, leaning back. Jaime’s grip on his shoulders tightened, trying to pull him into it again. That familiar rumble rolled through the Lannister’s bones as Kin laughed, low and warm like distant thunder through the solid walls of the Red Keep, sending a fresh surge of repose through his stiff muscles. The sailor’s hands eased under his shirt, dragging rough, cool palms over flushed skin, exposing Jaime’s chest to the air.
Kin’s lips trailed down, and Jaime lifted his head to watch him in the dark. Slow, reverent, open-mouth kisses--along his collarbones, down his chest, over the softened lines of his stomach.
Jaime felt he should have withdrawn when lips pressed to the ridge of an old scar, the soft curve where once hard muscle had been. Instead, he burned with shameful relief, feeling the immense weight of dread and grief slowly lifting. He watched as the sailor pressed his mouth to the hollow above his hips.
Kin lingered there, head bowed, as though in prayer. Eyes shut, just breathing him in. Slowly, he pinched the hem of Jaime’s braies in his teeth, dragging them down while his hands slid up his thighs, finishing the slow, purposeful release of Jaime’s manhood.
“Kin-” Jaime breathed, cursing the way his voice was caught between protest and plea.
“Let me,” Kin whispered back, his voice ghosting over the flushed skin of Jaime’s hard length. The sailor wrapped his hand lovingly around him, brushing fingers over the head, smearing precum down his shaft, earning a hissing breath of obvious pleasure from the Lannister.
“Please. Let me give ye this.”
Jaime couldn’t deny him--not with that gentle, humble look in his eyes. Not with that warm breath rolling over his skin.
“Alright-” Jaime croaked. “Yes, alright. Yes. Please.”
Kin smiled faintly, pride and relief and satisfaction glinting in what little sliver of moonlight carried through the canopy and the canvas. He pressed his tongue into a flat plane and dragged it up the underside of the knight’s length.
The taste was intoxicating.
Despite the dirt, the dust, the faint lingering smell of Harrenhal--of rot and torch smoke--there remained the undeniable flavor of a lion.
The flavor of Jaime. He took the head into his mouth, savoring as the taste flooded his senses.
Jaime panted, hips jerking, his remaining hand tangled into the sailor’s curls, his other arm stretching above, thrown over his eyes. Kin soaked in the sight of the Lannister there above him--locked in rapture with muscles twitching his shirt pushed up to expose a chest heaving with breath, smoothed scars dotting his sweat-shined skin.
Kin slid his hand up to Jaime’s stomach, covering as much of the man’s skin as he could manage--desperate to hold him in his hands completely, to feel him coming undone. To watch him breathe, to see him live, to feel him finally find relief.
He soaked greedily in the soft, breathless moans and curses, the way Jaime bit down on his knuckles to avoid making too much noise. At last, he reached for the sailor again.
“Kin…” He panted. “Please.”
Kin stopped, lifting his head, and let the length slip free of his mouth.
“What do you need?” Kin asked, unwilling to hide the need in his voice.
Tell me what to do to make it better.
“Need you,” Jaime insisted, taking a handful of Kin’s shirt and dragging him up to kiss him again. “Let me feel you.”
Kin just nodded, untying the laces of his trousers and letting them fall down around his hips. He pulled his erection free and let it rest against the curve of Jaime’s hip as he reached for the oily salve, dipping his fingers into the jar. He worked quickly, spurred on by the desperately needy look in Jaime’s eyes as he clamped his hand over his own mouth, eyes screwed shut against the stretch as Kin’s fingers worked him open.
“Breathe,” Kin reminded him, to which Jaime sucked in a short, hollow breath, lashes fluttering open to look up at him.
It wasn’t the first time Kin saw tears in those perfect green eyes. That didn’t mean it ever got easier--that didn’t mean it didn’t shatter him.
“Is it too much? Do I need to slow down?” He murmured, but just as he went to remove his fingers, Jaime reached down and grasped his wrist.
“It feels fine,” he gritted through his teeth, looking away into the dark. “I just… I’m not myself tonight.”
Kin blinked at the admission, finding it faintly absurd. If Jaime wasn’t Jaime, then who would he be?
“Do you want me to stop?” He asked. The patience in his voice only made Jaime’s blood run hotter. Jaime shook his head, releasing Kin’s wrist. Jaime rested his hand over his mouth again.
Kin nodded slowly, leaning down to kiss the back of his hand. “I think you’re ready,” he whispered, warm and soothing. He slipped his fingers out and rolled onto his side, hooking the Lannister’s leg around his hip as he lined himself up.
Jaime laid his head on Kin’s good arm, guiding the other around his waist as he shifted his hips closer. Kin cradled the back of his head and drew him in close, tucking Jaime’s head against his shoulder.
“Deep breath,” he said, barely a puff of air, and pushed inside. Jaime bit down on his lip to stop from crying out--pain and pleasure mixed beautifully in his lower belly, but soon the pleasure eclipsed all else. Kin had done good work--for once, there was no burning pain, no worry of being sore when morning came. They were, after all, already sore and broken.
But that didn’t mean Kin took the opportunity to be careless. He pulled Jaime’s hips in closer and rocked in and out with slow, deliberate motion, finding a rhythm that they both could get lost in.
Jaime’s vision swam with it--the pleasure, the fullness, the warmth that spread through him in waves. He melted into Kin’s chest, feeling safe at home for the first time in months. And Kin held him, legs tangled, moving like interlocked gears.
It could have been seconds. It could have been hours. The pain in his arm melted away and Kin focused only on the heat of Jaime’s breath as he panted, the sound of Jaime’s voice, muffled against his chest, the feeling of the knight’s hands clutching him so tightly, so desperate to get closer until the lines between them could finally blur, and, perhaps, for just one, single, beautiful, perfect moment--disappear entirely.
If Jaime was a mess, Kin was hardly composed, himself--biting back feral growls and groans, resisting the intense urge to chase the pleasure without restraint. But he kept close in his mind how much more intense it would be if he took his time. If he let patience prevail.
Jaime’s hips met his with every motion, opening himself up wider as he lay on his side. He felt the spring in his belly coiling tighter, agonizingly, perfectly slowly. Kin’s hips were still so strong, almost impossibly so.
And then he felt--Kin’s hand, slipped into the tiny space between their bodies, and wrapped around his length, still slick with saliva. Kin stroked him slowly, off-beat of the movement of his hips, flooding every moment with stimulation. With that added sensation, Jaime knew--it wouldn’t be long.
Never before had the thought of an orgasm been so deeply disappointing.
Kin pushed on, holding him tightly with his injured arm. Every flex carried the proof that Kin was not broken--he was not useless. He still had the strength to hold him, to carry him. And Jaime dug his heel into Kin’s back, pulling him deeper and holding him there. For a moment, he took over--fast and messy. His strokes lacked the same length, but it didn’t matter.
He pulled Kin down for a deep, sweeping kiss as he felt himself tipping over the edge at last. One last tug of Kin’s hand pulled him over and he spilled into the space between their bodies. Kin took over again and followed only a moment later, pulling out to let his seed drip over Jaime’s thighs, thick and warm and somehow cleansing.
They didn’t speak for a long while. The night deepened, and the insects sang a chorus that felt almost holy as it underscored the warm afterglow.
“Thank you,” Kin said, at last.
Jaime blinked back the darkness of sleep. “For what?”
Kin shook his head. “For everything.”
Jaime almost laughed. Kin was chock-full of absurd and incomprehensible notions.
“I should be thanking you.”
Kin did laugh. “Because I fucked you?”
Jaime frowned, tightening his arms around Kin’s ribs. “Don’t diminish it,” he said, hating how petulant he sounded. Kin stiffened faintly at the tone of his voice, and looked down at him, threading his fingers through the mop of blonde hair atop his head.
“Okay,” he agreed. “You’re welcome, then.”
Jaime opened his mouth to reply, but no words would come. His lungs felt suddenly too full for his chest, and he resigned himself to simply settling down, using Kin’s arm as a pillow, and perhaps… falling asleep, just like this.
Kin’s manhood was heavy and warm, soft now, resting between his thighs. The sailor made no move to hide it away, and Jaime was pleased with it.
He would have given his other hand to stay that way for just one night.
And then Alene’s voice hissed from beyond the tent flap--
“Torches in the trees, lads. Get up and get in the damn boat!”
Kin let out a broken roar as he forced himself to his knees despite the ache, swaying hard from one side to another. Jaime remained on his side for a moment, too stunned to move or speak. And then Kin’s fingers were laced with his and the sailor’s other hand was pulling up his pants, pulling them both together, and Jaime snapped into action alongside him.
Moments later, they were stumbling out from beneath the canvas and climbing into the boat. The camp--only a tent and a log, really, with no firepit--remained, left untouched in their haste to flee. And sure enough, just as they drifted into the center of the river--when Kin turned back to look, there they were.
Bolton men with torches raised high overhead, stomping through the reeds into their abandoned camp.
“It’s fine,” Alene said, her voice tight as she took up the oars. “We’ll be in King’s Landing in a few hours.”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75698251
|
{"authors": ["biscuitsbar"], "language": "English", "title": "Don't diminish it"}
|
Potential Spin Off Ideas and Vote
1. The Reagan Name
Mainly about the 4th generation (Joe, Lizzy, Alaina, Jack, Nikki, Michael, Connor, Sean, Harper), should take place about 4 years after Bloodlines. Follows the young adults as they figure out their place in law enforcement and more while carrying the Reagan name. The rest of the family will make appearances, especially Jamie as the commissioner.
2. Legacy
This is a prequel following Frank and Mary's kids (Joe, Danny, Liana, Matt, Jamie) as they grow up. Will most likely go from the triplet's toddler years to Joe's death. Will include Betty, Angela and Joe's wedding, Alaina and Connor's births, and Frank becoming PC.
3. Lifeline
Led by Sylvie and Liana as they navigate the future of paramedicine, facing issues such as AI, staffing shortages, layoffs, and more
4. Crossfire
A major drug cartel from Honduras infiltrates Chicago, putting every cop, prosecutor, and first responder on high alert. Will lead to undercover assignments, murders, and an explosive finale.
|
Potential Spin Off Ideas and Vote
1. The Reagan Name
Mainly about the 4th generation (Joe, Lizzy, Alaina, Jack, Nikki, Michael, Connor, Sean, Harper), should take place about 4 years after Bloodlines. Follows the young adults as they figure out their place in law enforcement and more while carrying the Reagan name. The rest of the family will make appearances, especially Jamie as the commissioner.
2. Legacy
This is a prequel following Frank and Mary's kids (Joe, Danny, Liana, Matt, Jamie) as they grow up. Will most likely go from the triplet's toddler years to Joe's death. Will include Betty, Angela and Joe's wedding, Alaina and Connor's births, and Frank becoming PC.
3. Lifeline
Led by Sylvie and Liana as they navigate the future of paramedicine, facing issues such as AI, staffing shortages, layoffs, and more
4. Crossfire
A major drug cartel from Honduras infiltrates Chicago, putting every cop, prosecutor, and first responder on high alert. Will lead to undercover assignments, murders, and an explosive finale.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75698256
|
{"authors": ["iwatchwayyytoomuchbluebloods"], "language": "English", "title": "Potential Spin Off Ideas and Vote"}
|
You know how he gets sometimes
Things were better lately. That's what Alex told Josh, his social worker. Dad was back; he wasn't living with them for some reason, but Alex was happy with that. No fights waking him up at night, no one breaking his toys, and mom could get him to school most days. Sometimes even on time.
Only, now he had homework to do. Ten words that he had to learn to spell, some writing practice, and a reading book. Alex hated all these things, his teacher always nagged at him because he didn't like holding the pen like all the other kids, it wasn't comfortable, and he couldn't spell words to save his life. D's looked like B's. B's looked like D's. Parts of words and letters would just disappear completely. Just looking at them made Alex feel sick.
Mom said she'd help. She'd read the book to him later at bedtime, even though he should be reading it to her. Sometimes, when he really didn't get the worksheet, she'd do it for him. Alex secretly hoped she'd do that again.
"No, little man, I can't do it for you," she cooed over his shoulder, and his heart sank. "You're a big boy now, you have to try! C'mon, can you copy this word out for me, while I put dinner on?"
He was trying. He was trying as hard as he could, with everything he had. It wasn't his fault he missed so much school because mom and dad were fighting, or because dad hurt mom again, or whatever. Alex remembered when he loved school, wanted to actually go to school. Now, with everyone paired off, or with their friend groups, every day felt like the first day of a new year. He hated it.
As he looked down at the worksheet in front of him, Alex heard a familiar click come from the hallway. Oh no.
He didn't need to look up at the man who lurched into the kitchen, his hands all over mom, pulling her away from the stove top. As usual, he came with flowers, he always came with flowers at first. They made mom happy.
"Joe, you shouldn't be here!" he heard mom whisper, nervously giggling. "You know what they'll say."
"Don't give a fuck, they ain't keepin' me away from you. We're a family, you need to tell that social worker next time you see him, you want me back living here. I can't be without you, baby."
Alex stared down at the worksheet. Not that he could concentrate on the words anymore, they weren't the only thing making him feel sick. Dad seemed to be in a good mood, him and mom were smooching by the sink, although he had already cursed, which was a bad sign. As they giggled and whispered to each other, Alex felt his shoulders shrink. Maybe if dad didn't notice he was there, he wouldn't start on him.
Only he had noticed, and was leaning over him. The scent of cigarette smoke overpowering everything.
"What, no hug for your daddy, little man?"
Alex turned and obediently put his arms around his neck. Anything to get him to leave him in peace. Over dad's shoulder, he caught his mom smiling at him. At least it made her happy.
Dad left him alone for the rest of the evening. There was no name-calling, no grabbing him and giving him a 'playful' noogie which Alex hated as it hurt his head. He didn't yell at mom either, which was something.
Then it came to bed time. "Mom," Alex said tentatively, watching her nuzzle into dad's chest on the sofa. "My reading homework?"
She peeled herself away from him, started to push herself off the sofa, when dad grabbed her back possessively. "The boy's eight. You coddle him too much. Go read to yourself, your mom needs a break."
That just made Alex feel guilty. Okay, he'd try by himself, he decided as he left the big and only light on in his room, pulling himself into bed to try and read this book.
Only, they were arguing again. More shouting from downstairs. Dad, still ranting about Alex needing help at his age. Dad telling mom how he didn't like Josh, didn't like that another man was coming to the house. Mom trying, trying so hard to stand her ground. Dad steamrolling her with his words, his belligerence.
He only got up to turn the light off, to open the curtains a little to let the light from the streetlamp outside shine through. Alex hadn't been allowed a nightlight, dad said he wasn't a baby anymore, so the streetlamp worked in its place.
"Get back to bed, you little shit!"
Oh no. Please, don't come in, please, don't come in. Please-
He'd come in. Looming over Alex, his form shadowy in the half light. Alex could smell the cigarettes, the beer, could see the teeth that leered at him.
Say nothing. It'll be over soon if you just say nothing. Don't tell him why you're at the window, just say nothing.
Alex had frozen, like that poor, terrified rabbit dad had hit with his car on the freeway when coming back from his grandparents' house that one time. It was as though his legs had stopped working, he couldn't move! Inside his chest, his heart thumped rapidly, which again reminded him of the rabbit.
Dad's rough, calloused hand crushed his wrist, pulling him away from the window, throwing him
|
You know how he gets sometimes
Things were better lately. That's what Alex told Josh, his social worker. Dad was back; he wasn't living with them for some reason, but Alex was happy with that. No fights waking him up at night, no one breaking his toys, and mom could get him to school most days. Sometimes even on time.
Only, now he had homework to do. Ten words that he had to learn to spell, some writing practice, and a reading book. Alex hated all these things, his teacher always nagged at him because he didn't like holding the pen like all the other kids, it wasn't comfortable, and he couldn't spell words to save his life. D's looked like B's. B's looked like D's. Parts of words and letters would just disappear completely. Just looking at them made Alex feel sick.
Mom said she'd help. She'd read the book to him later at bedtime, even though he should be reading it to her. Sometimes, when he really didn't get the worksheet, she'd do it for him. Alex secretly hoped she'd do that again.
"No, little man, I can't do it for you," she cooed over his shoulder, and his heart sank. "You're a big boy now, you have to try! C'mon, can you copy this word out for me, while I put dinner on?"
He was trying. He was trying as hard as he could, with everything he had. It wasn't his fault he missed so much school because mom and dad were fighting, or because dad hurt mom again, or whatever. Alex remembered when he loved school, wanted to actually go to school. Now, with everyone paired off, or with their friend groups, every day felt like the first day of a new year. He hated it.
As he looked down at the worksheet in front of him, Alex heard a familiar click come from the hallway. Oh no.
He didn't need to look up at the man who lurched into the kitchen, his hands all over mom, pulling her away from the stove top. As usual, he came with flowers, he always came with flowers at first. They made mom happy.
"Joe, you shouldn't be here!" he heard mom whisper, nervously giggling. "You know what they'll say."
"Don't give a fuck, they ain't keepin' me away from you. We're a family, you need to tell that social worker next time you see him, you want me back living here. I can't be without you, baby."
Alex stared down at the worksheet. Not that he could concentrate on the words anymore, they weren't the only thing making him feel sick. Dad seemed to be in a good mood, him and mom were smooching by the sink, although he had already cursed, which was a bad sign. As they giggled and whispered to each other, Alex felt his shoulders shrink. Maybe if dad didn't notice he was there, he wouldn't start on him.
Only he had noticed, and was leaning over him. The scent of cigarette smoke overpowering everything.
"What, no hug for your daddy, little man?"
Alex turned and obediently put his arms around his neck. Anything to get him to leave him in peace. Over dad's shoulder, he caught his mom smiling at him. At least it made her happy.
Dad left him alone for the rest of the evening. There was no name-calling, no grabbing him and giving him a 'playful' noogie which Alex hated as it hurt his head. He didn't yell at mom either, which was something.
Then it came to bed time. "Mom," Alex said tentatively, watching her nuzzle into dad's chest on the sofa. "My reading homework?"
She peeled herself away from him, started to push herself off the sofa, when dad grabbed her back possessively. "The boy's eight. You coddle him too much. Go read to yourself, your mom needs a break."
That just made Alex feel guilty. Okay, he'd try by himself, he decided as he left the big and only light on in his room, pulling himself into bed to try and read this book.
Only, they were arguing again. More shouting from downstairs. Dad, still ranting about Alex needing help at his age. Dad telling mom how he didn't like Josh, didn't like that another man was coming to the house. Mom trying, trying so hard to stand her ground. Dad steamrolling her with his words, his belligerence.
He only got up to turn the light off, to open the curtains a little to let the light from the streetlamp outside shine through. Alex hadn't been allowed a nightlight, dad said he wasn't a baby anymore, so the streetlamp worked in its place.
"Get back to bed, you little shit!"
Oh no. Please, don't come in, please, don't come in. Please-
He'd come in. Looming over Alex, his form shadowy in the half light. Alex could smell the cigarettes, the beer, could see the teeth that leered at him.
Say nothing. It'll be over soon if you just say nothing. Don't tell him why you're at the window, just say nothing.
Alex had frozen, like that poor, terrified rabbit dad had hit with his car on the freeway when coming back from his grandparents' house that one time. It was as though his legs had stopped working, he couldn't move! Inside his chest, his heart thumped rapidly, which again reminded him of the rabbit.
Dad's rough, calloused hand crushed his wrist, pulling him away from the window, throwing him forwards. "I said, get back to bed!"
Don't make a sound, don't let him know it hurts! It'll make it worse, please-
"Joe, leave him-"
"Stay out of it!" He heard his dad bark above him. Alex wished mom had stayed out of it; now she'd get it, too. "So fucking insolent, just staring at me like that, not saying a damn word." Now he was muttering, pulling Alex's pants down roughly, and he braced himself. "Not even back a night and I have to remind you who's in charge round here. Little shit."
Every slap stung. It stung so much his eyes watered. Alex bit his lip, knowing it'd be worse tomorrow. The bruises across his butt cheeks, the stinging whenever he sat down. A reminder of what his dad could do to him. Don't let him know it hurts, it'll only make it worse.
Words punctuated with each slap. "Do. As. You're. Fucking! Told. You. Stupid. Little. Bastard!" Words that might as well have been branded on Alex's brain at this point. He was a stupid little bastard. Why hadn't he just gone to bed, like a good boy?
In the background, he could hear his mother crying. Alex couldn't look at her, his cheeks burned with shame. This wouldn't have happened if he'd been careful, if he hadn't been bad again. If he'd been a proper boy that wasn't scared of the dark and could read a book by himself.
"Look at him, Clara. Doesn't even say anything! Dumb as rocks, I'm not even sure he's mine. Fucking pathetic."
They were coming to the final act. Alex kept his eyes down, focusing on the pattern of the worn carpet beneath his feet. Don't cry! He'll get angry again. Don't you dare cry. Dad was dragging him towards the bed, Alex braced himself to be launched into it, when he stopped suddenly.
"And this can fucking go!"
There was a scream and a thump on the wall. The reading book, he'd thrown it at mom, who was still weeping. It hit the wall, just close enough to her face to make her jump. I'm sorry, mom. I'm sorry I made him mad again. I'll be good tomorrow I promise, then you can enjoy your flowers and kisses and he might be happy. It was all his fault, wasn't it.
The bedroom door slammed. He'd gone. Mom's arms were round him, a silent, conspiratorial apology, then she ushered him to bed. "You know how he is, he just gets jealous sometimes." A kiss on the forehead, "I best go to him," and she was gone too.
There would be no school tomorrow. Mom would tell him not to tell anyone what happened or they'd take him away. Alex didn't want that, so he'd keep his mouth shut. He didn't want to make it worse.
And he hadn't done his homework. Again. Not that it mattered, he guessed. It never mattered. It was just a stupid book anyway. Stupid spellings that he couldn't learn. Stupid handwriting he couldn't do. Dad was right, he was too dumb for school, and it didn't matter.
Alex pushed down the screaming whisper inside himself that, just for once, he wanted it to matter.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75698276
|
{"authors": ["gridballgirl"], "language": "English", "title": "You know how he gets sometimes"}
|
Winter Wonderklok 2025
Click, click, click went the pen in his hand. He knew he should be using a proper counter, but Charles refused to accept his sharp senses were dulling. Plus his staff was working so quickly that he had no time to place an order for one. Click, click, click in both kitchens, in klokateer quarters, in Mordhaus open spaces, Charles saw it all unfolding. It was unacceptable. It was outrageous. It was…worthy of a meeting.
“Thank you, thank you all for being here,” he announced to a crowd of tired klokateers. 7am was, in Charles’s opinion, the best time to have a meeting. The day’s activities had yet to begin and everyone had a neutral mindset, nothing to sour anyone’s mood before consuming important information. He chose to ignore the choir of yawns from the floor.
“There is something going on around the grounds that must cease immediately.” Murmurs rippled through the gears, trying to guess what Charles could be talking about. As if anyone other than him knew what went on in his head. “I speak, of course…of the premature decorating for Christmas. I have gone through Mordhaus and counted each one of you participating in decking the halls.”
“But it’s time!” protested a person in the back. “It’s November 3rd,” Charles corrected, “it is not even close to December 25th. Therefore, no one should be putting up any trees, wreathes, tinsel, garland, baubles, ornaments, lights, or any seasonal items of similar sentiment. So before you all go to your duty stations, you must all take down what has been put up this past week. You have till noon today.”
Their voices amplified at the thought of a deadline. Charles stood strong over his staff, confident in his orders. No early holiday cheer under his jurisdiction. But then he started to hear what they were saying. ‘This is bullshit!’ and ‘what a waste of time’ rang out clearest. Yet, it was the same voice from the back that caught his attention.
“You can’t stop Christmas from coming, Grinch!” they screamed and the rest of the gears hollered their agreement. Charles was quickly losing the crowd.
“Now, I’m not saying we can’t decorate for Christmas at all. We all must simply wait till…”
“Grinch! Grinch! Grinch!” they chanted over and over. He did not flinch, he did not falter, but in his mind, Charles knew he was outnumbered. The part of him that demanded victory raged inside, but it was no match to thousands of klokateers who all collectively made up their mind.
“Alright,” he droned. The crowd did not hear him and continued. “I said, ‘alright!’ Keep them up or finish what you were all working on.” He walked off the podium and headed straight to his office, praying Pickles did not get into his secret stash of bourbon again. Would have been the worst way to start the holiday season.
|
Winter Wonderklok 2025
Click, click, click went the pen in his hand. He knew he should be using a proper counter, but Charles refused to accept his sharp senses were dulling. Plus his staff was working so quickly that he had no time to place an order for one. Click, click, click in both kitchens, in klokateer quarters, in Mordhaus open spaces, Charles saw it all unfolding. It was unacceptable. It was outrageous. It was…worthy of a meeting.
“Thank you, thank you all for being here,” he announced to a crowd of tired klokateers. 7am was, in Charles’s opinion, the best time to have a meeting. The day’s activities had yet to begin and everyone had a neutral mindset, nothing to sour anyone’s mood before consuming important information. He chose to ignore the choir of yawns from the floor.
“There is something going on around the grounds that must cease immediately.” Murmurs rippled through the gears, trying to guess what Charles could be talking about. As if anyone other than him knew what went on in his head. “I speak, of course…of the premature decorating for Christmas. I have gone through Mordhaus and counted each one of you participating in decking the halls.”
“But it’s time!” protested a person in the back. “It’s November 3rd,” Charles corrected, “it is not even close to December 25th. Therefore, no one should be putting up any trees, wreathes, tinsel, garland, baubles, ornaments, lights, or any seasonal items of similar sentiment. So before you all go to your duty stations, you must all take down what has been put up this past week. You have till noon today.”
Their voices amplified at the thought of a deadline. Charles stood strong over his staff, confident in his orders. No early holiday cheer under his jurisdiction. But then he started to hear what they were saying. ‘This is bullshit!’ and ‘what a waste of time’ rang out clearest. Yet, it was the same voice from the back that caught his attention.
“You can’t stop Christmas from coming, Grinch!” they screamed and the rest of the gears hollered their agreement. Charles was quickly losing the crowd.
“Now, I’m not saying we can’t decorate for Christmas at all. We all must simply wait till…”
“Grinch! Grinch! Grinch!” they chanted over and over. He did not flinch, he did not falter, but in his mind, Charles knew he was outnumbered. The part of him that demanded victory raged inside, but it was no match to thousands of klokateers who all collectively made up their mind.
“Alright,” he droned. The crowd did not hear him and continued. “I said, ‘alright!’ Keep them up or finish what you were all working on.” He walked off the podium and headed straight to his office, praying Pickles did not get into his secret stash of bourbon again. Would have been the worst way to start the holiday season.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75700901/chapters/197988951
|
{"authors": ["Pan_Flute_Skeleton"], "language": "English", "title": "Winter Wonderklok 2025"}
|
Behind the scenes
"Ena, turn on the metronome in your earphone. You're swimming at the tempo, we slow down a lot by the end of the song," Kanade remarked.
"I don't like it so much," the drummer took out one earphone, "what's the tempo there?"
"110," the keyboard player replied.
"Great. And who wrote such a song with such a tempo?" Shinonome grumbled.
"Enanan, don't get mad!! Just an average guy," Mizuki teased.
"You're no better at all! You're in a hurry, you're in a hurry," Ena scolded, "okay, you're not listening to Mafuyu, but you need to!!"
"I'm tired. Can we stop warming up before going out?" the bass player asked.
"Okay, I think it's fine. Ena, you're going to come out with an earpiece," Yoisaki said.
"Whatever you say," the drummer resigned herself, "now you just need to pack up in order to be on time."
"The drums will be there, so you just have to wait for us all," Kanade said.
"What a pleasure," Shinonome breathed out with relief and picked up her chopsticks.
The girl herself did not like to fold her instrument: it was heavy enough for her, and keyboard players are not often found now. She carefully folded the synthesizer into its case and was about to pick it up when it was quickly intercepted.
"Huh? Mafuyu?" Yoisaki was surprised.
"I know it's hard for you to carry him," the bass player said, "but you're riding with me in the front seat today."
"I'm assuming I don't have a choice?" Kanade smiled, quickly examining the neckline on her chest, "you've already taken my synthesizer."
"Yes. Go sit down, I'll have a smoke for now. If you didn't take anything for motion sickness, then the gum is in your backpack," Asahina grinned.
"Thanks, I'll know."
After reaching the open car, Kanade got into the front seat. Mafuyu allowed her to take the music into her own hands, which Ena or Mizuki did not allow.
"Uh-oh, I thought I'd take this place," Akiyama said.
"We're bartering: she'll take my case if I sit with her," the girl said.
"It's immediately clear who they love more," the guitarist calmly responded, "even Ena."
"What am I?" the named one got into the back seat.
"You like Kanade," Mizuki said.
"She's an angel in our sinners team! How can you not love her here?" the drummer asked, "as a friend."
"Yes, yes. We know," the guitarist sat down next to him.
"Is everyone ready?" Mafuyu asked through the trunk.
"Yes, we're waiting for you," Ena replied.
"You can take a nap, we have to go out of town for a couple of hours," the bass player got into the driver's seat.
Yoisaki turned on her playlist as soon as the car started moving. The backside spores quickly stopped and were replaced by snuffling.
"Don't you want to come to me after all this?" Asahina suggested.
"I come to your apartment more than I do at home," the girl said.
"I don't mind if you stay with me. Well, if you don't want to, then fine," standing on red, she turned away a little.
"I didn't say no," Kanade replied, "some of my things are already there, so everything is fine in this part."
"Are you staying the night?" the bass player clarified, accelerating on the green.
"Apparently, yes," she smiled.
"Great," Mafuyu replied with satisfaction.
Yoisaki noticed that her friend sometimes behaved a little strangely. And now, she takes her hand off the steering wheel to shift gears, but she doesn't put it on the gearbox, but on her hip. And if she had pulled it away almost immediately before, this time she just left it, squeezing the fabric of the fishnet tights.
"They won't break through?" The bass player asked with a grin.
"Oh, yeah... "she feels that it's getting too wet, " No. Although they are easy to tear."
"Okay," the driver removed her hand, "Expensive, probably. I won't tear it up."
"Yes... Expensive ones," Kanade was embarrassed, turning her head to the window.
They went through a lot: a hidden collaboration when the pianist's idol career was coming to an end, and a quarrel during which the group "expelled" her before their first live concert, and reconciliation when she suffered a serious broken leg at a large and large-scale ceremony, and Mafuyu, as the first to learn about the tragedy, came to That same evening, almost at the very end of visiting time, I brought some things.
Since then, they've seen the ups and downs of their music band career, but they've stayed together. And Yoisaki fell in love with a hot bass player in the hospital.
"When do you think they will finally kiss?" Mafuyu asked.
"Hm.. I don't know. But they behave as if they already live together," the pianist said.
"It seems to me that they will do it today. They say it's a large—scale program for festival participants," Asahina suggested.
"Well, as an option."
The girl dozed off while driving: quiet music on the background, comfortable seat position, comfortable temperature. She was forced to wake up by sudden braking and an angry guitarist who opened the window and started shouting at the culprit.
"Wipe your eyes and sober up before you get behind the
|
Behind the scenes
"Ena, turn on the metronome in your earphone. You're swimming at the tempo, we slow down a lot by the end of the song," Kanade remarked.
"I don't like it so much," the drummer took out one earphone, "what's the tempo there?"
"110," the keyboard player replied.
"Great. And who wrote such a song with such a tempo?" Shinonome grumbled.
"Enanan, don't get mad!! Just an average guy," Mizuki teased.
"You're no better at all! You're in a hurry, you're in a hurry," Ena scolded, "okay, you're not listening to Mafuyu, but you need to!!"
"I'm tired. Can we stop warming up before going out?" the bass player asked.
"Okay, I think it's fine. Ena, you're going to come out with an earpiece," Yoisaki said.
"Whatever you say," the drummer resigned herself, "now you just need to pack up in order to be on time."
"The drums will be there, so you just have to wait for us all," Kanade said.
"What a pleasure," Shinonome breathed out with relief and picked up her chopsticks.
The girl herself did not like to fold her instrument: it was heavy enough for her, and keyboard players are not often found now. She carefully folded the synthesizer into its case and was about to pick it up when it was quickly intercepted.
"Huh? Mafuyu?" Yoisaki was surprised.
"I know it's hard for you to carry him," the bass player said, "but you're riding with me in the front seat today."
"I'm assuming I don't have a choice?" Kanade smiled, quickly examining the neckline on her chest, "you've already taken my synthesizer."
"Yes. Go sit down, I'll have a smoke for now. If you didn't take anything for motion sickness, then the gum is in your backpack," Asahina grinned.
"Thanks, I'll know."
After reaching the open car, Kanade got into the front seat. Mafuyu allowed her to take the music into her own hands, which Ena or Mizuki did not allow.
"Uh-oh, I thought I'd take this place," Akiyama said.
"We're bartering: she'll take my case if I sit with her," the girl said.
"It's immediately clear who they love more," the guitarist calmly responded, "even Ena."
"What am I?" the named one got into the back seat.
"You like Kanade," Mizuki said.
"She's an angel in our sinners team! How can you not love her here?" the drummer asked, "as a friend."
"Yes, yes. We know," the guitarist sat down next to him.
"Is everyone ready?" Mafuyu asked through the trunk.
"Yes, we're waiting for you," Ena replied.
"You can take a nap, we have to go out of town for a couple of hours," the bass player got into the driver's seat.
Yoisaki turned on her playlist as soon as the car started moving. The backside spores quickly stopped and were replaced by snuffling.
"Don't you want to come to me after all this?" Asahina suggested.
"I come to your apartment more than I do at home," the girl said.
"I don't mind if you stay with me. Well, if you don't want to, then fine," standing on red, she turned away a little.
"I didn't say no," Kanade replied, "some of my things are already there, so everything is fine in this part."
"Are you staying the night?" the bass player clarified, accelerating on the green.
"Apparently, yes," she smiled.
"Great," Mafuyu replied with satisfaction.
Yoisaki noticed that her friend sometimes behaved a little strangely. And now, she takes her hand off the steering wheel to shift gears, but she doesn't put it on the gearbox, but on her hip. And if she had pulled it away almost immediately before, this time she just left it, squeezing the fabric of the fishnet tights.
"They won't break through?" The bass player asked with a grin.
"Oh, yeah... "she feels that it's getting too wet, " No. Although they are easy to tear."
"Okay," the driver removed her hand, "Expensive, probably. I won't tear it up."
"Yes... Expensive ones," Kanade was embarrassed, turning her head to the window.
They went through a lot: a hidden collaboration when the pianist's idol career was coming to an end, and a quarrel during which the group "expelled" her before their first live concert, and reconciliation when she suffered a serious broken leg at a large and large-scale ceremony, and Mafuyu, as the first to learn about the tragedy, came to That same evening, almost at the very end of visiting time, I brought some things.
Since then, they've seen the ups and downs of their music band career, but they've stayed together. And Yoisaki fell in love with a hot bass player in the hospital.
"When do you think they will finally kiss?" Mafuyu asked.
"Hm.. I don't know. But they behave as if they already live together," the pianist said.
"It seems to me that they will do it today. They say it's a large—scale program for festival participants," Asahina suggested.
"Well, as an option."
The girl dozed off while driving: quiet music on the background, comfortable seat position, comfortable temperature. She was forced to wake up by sudden braking and an angry guitarist who opened the window and started shouting at the culprit.
"Wipe your eyes and sober up before you get behind the wheel, you bastard!" she swore, " stupid and oligophrenic!"
"You're even mad," the pianist yawned.
"He drove into our lane at full speed without turn signals," she told the whole situation, "I didn't want to wake you up."
"Come on. We've already arrived anyway," she looked at her phone and turned off the music.
"It's getting chilly outside. You can take my hoodie," Asahina said as she parked.
"You're as cold as I am," she said.
"Yes, but you're only wearing a top and a miniskirt, and I'm in a shirt and pants," she argued and put the car on the handbrake. Unbuckling herself, the girl took off her hoodie and held it out.
"Well, Mafuyu..." Yoisaki said plaintively, but she took the thing and put it on under careful supervision.
They still have time. They both got out of the car and the bass player zipped the hoodie on the pianist and took a cigarette from the pack. Due to the wind, Asahina couldn't light it properly, and Kanade decided to help by covering the fire from the wind.
"Thank you," she said, "but I won't offer."
"I didn't want to," she stayed standing next to her, "we need to wake up this sweet couple."
"I'm just going to finish my smoke," Mafuyu replied, "I'm shielding you from the wind, otherwise you'll freeze quickly."
"That's right. I should have dressed warmly."
After finishing her cigarette, the bass guitarist threw the butt in the trash and opened the trunk to take out the instruments. Yoisaki opened the door of the back seat and a strong gust of wind woke the sleepers almost immediately.
"What?.. Have we arrived yet?" the drummer opened her eyes.
"Yes. It's time to pack up. Our checkout is coming soon," she said.
"Uh-oh.... Ena, you're warm... I don't want to get up and carry my guitar..." complained Mizuki.
"Well, stay, " she went out through the other car door, "Mafuyu, close it."
"Uh-uh?.. No, I'm getting out," he went out, stretching, "it's a long way to go. Won't you get tired of carrying your synthesizer?"
"I'll carry it," Asahina closed the car, "just take my bag."
"Why can't you be like her?" Akiyama asked Shinonome.
"Maybe because you helped me deliver my installation only once?" She slung her backpack over her shoulder.
Well, Kanade had to take both her own and Mafuyu's bag to be partly honest. After passing through the control, the group headed to their mini-dressing room to unpack. And while the pianist was instructing the drummer, both guitarists rushed in on a cart. Mafuyu was standing on top of the cart when Mizuki was pushing it.
"My God, is your IQ sharply divided into two and divided into zero?" Ena gasped.
And Yoisaki was just playing peek-a-boo with Asahina. The way the collar of her shirt turned up, revealing a black sports bra at a certain angle, confused her. Now he felt ashamed that he was staring, and Mafuyu's grin was killing him even more.
"We're going out soon, and you're fooling around here," the drummer swore.
"Do you want me to take you for a ride?" Akiyama suggested as Asahina stuck out her forked tongue. Damn, she also has this!
"I felt hot," she unbuttoned her hoodie and began to pull it off her shoulders until the bass player came up and forcibly left the thing.
"The wind is blowing there, you'll freeze," she lowered herself slightly.
"It's okay, I'm really not cold," the pianist tried to persuade.
"Where's Ena?" Suspiciously, she sank even lower.
"Where? With Mizuki, probably..-!!'
Kanade felt an unexpected kiss on the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. The forked tongue gently stroked the skin while the lips sucked in air. Pulling away, Mafuyu adjusted her hoodie and leaned right over her ear.
"Now there's a better reason to keep my hoodie on yourself," and with a pleased face, she recoiled a little, satisfied with the result: a bright hickey was slightly visible. A minute later, Mizuki and Ena arrived, right when it was their turn to practice and they decided not to ask about Kanade's embarrassment.
Fortunately, everything went well enough and they finished their program without really swimming at the pace.
"We'll stay in our dressing room," Shinonome said, "don't worry about things."
"Let me just take the cigarettes and we'll leave you lovebirds here rustling," Asahina left, rummaging in her bag.
"Come on, hurry up," the drummer urged.
In the program of the festival, their number was near the end of the sheet, so they had a lot of time. The guitarist calmly took Yoisaki by the hand and led him through the people.
"Are you hungry? Is there a stall over there?" she asked.
"I don't have any money with me, it's in my bag," Kanade scratched her head as she zipped up.
"I'll pay, don't worry," she quickened her pace to the stall. As soon as they got in line, Mafuyu started looking at the menu, "What do you want?"
"I don't really want to," she was still trying to refuse to eat.
"I see." As usual, she continued to hold her hand in mine. When the queue reached them, she began to announce the order: two chizurmas, one spicy, the second without tomatoes, and another one and a half liters of water without gas.
"Well, Mafuyu... I really don't want to eat much," the guitarist was surprised by the order.
"You want to. I know you and your appetites, so it's okay," she paid for the order.
"I don't have a choice, do I?" The two of them went to the seats and sat down.
"Yes. Just enjoy it."
Kanade decided that today couldn't help but surprise, especially Mafuyu. She usually did something outside of her usual image, but only a little, so, according to the pianist's calculations, everything should return to its former course. Although what has already happened today is severely traumatizing her brain. And now he calmly accepts how Asahina is sitting very close, holding her hand on her waist while they eat together.
"I assure you, these two didn't just shut down and kicked us out," the bass player assured on the way back.
"I do not know how far they can go," Yoisaki replied, unbuttoning her hoodie halfway.
"Well, they'll have to stop, because I'm tired of being everywhere but warm," she complained. When she reached the place, she knocked loudly, "Open up, we've come."
Two minutes later, the door to the dressing room was open. You need to be ready already — the festival has started, which means that their performance will be coming soon.
Asahina smirked at the other couple who were watching a video on their phone. Mizuki was somewhat embarrassed by the intense attention, but almost immediately moved on to watching the video.
"Mafuyu, help me," the pianist held out her phone, "I do not know how to solve it, but there is only one life left."
Nonograms. Kanade periodically solved them on her phone and sometimes she needs help in delivering a single unit in a row and a row on a fifteen-by-fifteen field. However, the guitarist couldn't help today — the last acceptable error was used and the reboot screen appeared. Once again, they were sitting close, with Mafuyu's hand on her waist. She can't take it in properly and she's embarrassed.
When there were already several numbers before their release, the band was standing backstage with instruments at full readiness. It happened by chance that one group made a cover of a popular song from Yoisaki's idol career. It was all too obvious that she would either start dancing or singing along to the words of a rock version of one of her songs.
"You move great, girl," came a "compliment" from the men standing nearby, "are you as active at night?"
"She's behind me," Mafuyu said, blocking him.
"Don't be ridiculous. Such a beauty should moan while moving on a dick, not be... one of these," the man said.
"Didn't you hear? She's with me. And don't just judge a person outwardly," Asahina was angry.
"A brat like you can't do anything to me..."
Taking off her guitar while the nasty man was ranting, she swung and hit him in the jaw. He does not study in the gym for nothing.
"You still don't understand?" The girl asked.
"They're finished," he said, and ran away.
"Mafuyu, how are you?" Kanade came over to find out.
"You're okay. The rest is not so important," she smiled slightly, "we need to be ready already. The group in front of us finishes."
"Ah.. exactly."
It wasn't my first concert, and it definitely won't be my last. Kanade generally feels completely calm about the scene because of his past, but there was something exciting. That she doesn't know how Mafuyu will behave? After all, she always reacts sharply to fans who "according to the classical scheme" bring her and Ena together as a drummer and bass player.
While the groups were changing on stage, Mizuki, as the ringleader, began to prepare the audience for their performance. Asahina-san walked over to Yoisaki and helped her secure the keyboard on the rack. This gesture did not go unnoticed by the devoted fans.
Shinonome was doing something on the phone and it became clear that it was a metronome. After the guitarist's opening speech, the drummer started setting the tempo with her chopsticks. Completely devoted to music, the band began to perform their repertoire.
There were some frills. Mizuki got too carried away with his solo that they had to play an extra square to calmly align the melody. Mafuyu just got close to Kanade and sang with her into her microphone. Ena had one broken stick fly right into Akiyama in the middle of the song, and the other into the bass player, who returned to her place at the very end under the persuasion of the pianist.
But most importantly, they all hanged themselves on their performance.
"I finally killed those sticks," Shinonome smiled contentedly.
"You didn't have to throw them," Mafuyu replied.
The group has already packed their bags and brought them to the car. It remained to load up and it was possible to leave.
"Get in the car, you'll freeze," Asahina opened the car, addressing Kanade, "we'll finish our smoke and get in too."
"Yes, it's very cold," the girl was shaking, heading for the seat.
"Mizuki, get a blanket out of the trunk and give it to Kanade," the bass player asked.
"Now," he went to the car, "i just wanted to drink a nice coke from Ena."
"If you take even a sip, then you're going home today, not staying with me," the drummer threatened with displeasure.
"Oh, come on," he gave the blanket to the pianist, "we've been talking about this for a long time."
"Get in the car and turn on your anime," Ena said, "without my coke."
"I got it, I got it. As you command."
When everyone had already done their business, the group went back home. The road was exactly the same, so there were no changes. Upon arrival, Shinome and Akiyama quickly unloaded their tools and released the other couple.
Entering the dark apartment, Kanade felt at home. While Mafuyu was making dinner for them, she decided to quickly take a shower and change into her clothes. But unfortunately, I had to take some kind of guitar player's T-shirt, which, in principle, can be called my own, because of washing all other clothes.
"Mm-hmm.. noodles."
"Yes, as you like," she set the table, "tea or coffee?"
"Give me some tea. Only black," the girl asked.
"Good. As you wish," she took a separate mug for Yoisaki and began to make tea, "you know, you forgot to fix my hoodie at the moment and a lot of people noticed the hickey," Asahina said smugly.
"Oh... yeah?" She looked at her shoulder.
"Yes. Choose what we're going to watch," the bass player said.
"It's your choice of movie," she recalled.
"Mgm. Exactly."
Having decided on a movie for the evening, the girls had dinner, after which they moved to the sofa. They both didn't like the movie, so they didn't watch it and decided to find another one. Until Kanade felt a breath on her neck, and then she was pushed onto her back.
"Mafuyu?" She was embarrassed.
"Yes?" Grinning, Asahina sat on her stomach and started bending over. The phone rang. When she saw her mother's contact, she turned off the sound and continued to bend over until another call interrupted it all.
"Answer me. I'm not going anywhere anyway," Yoisaki said, anticipating what would happen.
And not that I mind. Mafuyu is the most ideal girl: a refined figure, showing a little muscles, hypnotic eyes, beautiful natural curls, big breasts compared to her own, and soft lashes. But she doesn't have anything to offer herself, so it's embarrassing.
"We'll talk about it later. I'm busy," Asahina dropped the call and threw the phone away, "now I'm completely yours," she caught the pianist's neat hands and lifted them over her head, lowering them over her ear, "you know, the moment I saw what you were going to perform in, I got jealous. I wanted to take you at the same moment, because you looked very sexy and exciting."
"You too... The same," she lowered her gaze and immediately fell into the trap when she saw Mafuyu's open chest.
"Oh, ho, ho, you know, then we need to be more determined," she kissed him on the ear.
She decided to turn off the TV and at that moment the pianist put her hands on her chest, without receiving a negative reaction.
"I see you like it," the bass player remarked with a satisfied grin.
"I've always wanted to do this," she answered honestly, "they're so soft and big."
"You know," Asahina lowered herself into her arms, "before going any further, I would like to clarify our relationship. Are we dating?"
"I guess so now?" Yoisaki said uncertainly.
"Kanade, I need a precise answer," the guitarist straightened up, " yes or no."
"Yes," the pianist got up after her.
"That's great."
The next moment, the former idol forcefully pushed her new partner onto her back, literally swapping places with her. Mafuyu's hands immediately found their place on the girl's waist, slightly going under his own T-shirt. They both knew what was going to happen next, because they were tired of playing cat and mouse with each other.
***
"Mm-hmm... Hello?"
A couple was lying in a dark room after a stormy night. Yoisaki was still sleeping soundly, but Asahina was woken up by a very persistent call.
"Where's Kanade? Nothing is known from her, although she is already awake at this time," Shinonome said.
"Did you really need to call me so early to ask where Kanade is?" She clarified with displeasure.
"It's already 10 AM. We're all usually in rehearsal at this time. Wait, is she with you? And you forgot about the rehearsal? " Ena was surprised.
"Give it here," the pianist muttered sleepily, "the rehearsal is canceled, especially since we had a concert yesterday. That's it, hang up," she dropped the call and put the phone somewhere.
"I don't want to sleep anymore," Mafuyu complained.
"Then hug me again so that I fall asleep," the girl asked.
Asahina saw everything in the dark that hadn't happened last night. Hugging her mate, she just closed her eyes. But she just fell asleep.
"That's it, go back to sleep, hyperactive bunny," Kanade whispered before falling asleep herself.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75694196
|
{"authors": ["Crevet0chka"], "language": "English", "title": "Behind the scenes"}
|
Watch Me Unfold
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Keith has never had his heart broken before.
Not like this, anyway.
His Pops died in a house fire that burnt down his home, he had no Mom for a long time, Shiro vanished (and theoretically died a few times; he came back, so we don't really talk about that).
It was finite in the way those heartbreaks occurred, life changing like the curtains dropping on the saddest theatre performance. You feel the emotions, you grow from it, you move on. It was out of his control, no matter how much he wanted to rewrite the pages of fate.
He's used to loss. He’s used to sadness. He’s used to things not going his way. You could say he was an expert at this point.
But this felt different.
Something molecular, deeper, punishing and painful. Shards of his broken heart sting his eyes and rip his chest. He feels it all over his skin, like small papercuts on the thickest layer of muscle. Home is a little broken now.
It fucking sucks.
Does he regret the self care night? No, of course not. Does he regret kissing Lance? No, he couldn’t if he wanted to.
Does he regret how their place in each other’s lives is a little fractured now; a little flimsy, and now it's significantly tense and awkward in their shared apartment?
Absolutely. He never wanted that.
Does he still want to be there for Lance? In a heartbeat.
He’s confident they could've handled a kiss not working out—it is what it is—and they could’ve moved on with their day, week, whatever as the roommates slash best friends… slash, ex love interests, he supposes. Call it caught up in the moment, they can laugh about it at social gatherings, you know, just a little moment in time that got away from them.
"Mhm," he concurs, a hair's breadth away from his juicy lips. His brows pinch, almost frustrated by the intermission. "Please… kiss me."
…Actually, he’s not sure he could’ve handled it, now that he thinks about it.
"Keith, you okay? You've been staring at the food rather than handing it out."
Shit.
He needs to get it together.
"Sorry," Keith says solemnly. He crosses his arms, sighs, and decides to take a time out for himself. "…Could you give me five minutes, Acxa?"
Acxa nods at him with an inspective, calculative look; never one to pry, but curious nonetheless in her own ways. "Sure, I'll cover."
"Thanks," he nods, already two steps ahead in walking away, approaching the furthest crate to sit on to contemplate all of his life choices.
He needs to get a grip.
Lance stares at him in wondrous astonishment.Keith waits, and waits, and waits.
It was just a kiss.
"Lance?" Keith rasps, low in volume—a song shared for two."Yeah?" Lance responds, a little too breathless in quality.
It meant nothing.
Lance throws every doubt out the window with a shy, sweet kiss.
It was…
"You can," Lance shudders, out of breath. "Please?"
Fuck, did he taste like heaven.
But, he supposes he was never made for heaven's light.
It sucks.
It honestly sucks.
…Fuck, he said he wouldn't cry.
Man, he wishes Kosmo was here to lean into.
He's soft, blue, illuminating, the perfect cuddle buddy.
Keith tries hard not to think about how that resembles Lance, too.
"Mr. Keef?"
His eyes snap open, lifting his tired cheek from his palm.
In front of him is a small alien child with a knitted hat with ear flaps, a pout that's too cute for the state of the galaxy, pink galra-like marks strung across both cheeks that resemble Keith's scar across his right, cerulean eyebrows, rosey along the chub of their cheeks, and the most effervescent, purple eyes. They have a pink puffer jacket on, black pants with holes ripped across, and little boots fit for the chilly weather on this planet. They're holding a tiny teddy bear in their arms; one of the new toys they handed out today to the children of Lovinia.
In short, they're adorable. He wonders if they're a mixture of galra too.
Today, for them and them only, he gifts a smile.
"Yes, princess?" He asks kindly.
They smile, small and shy, and it's the purest thing he's seen on this planet. "I gots this furry toy from Ack, Acsh—"
"Acxa?"
"Yes!" They say excitedly, their eyes lighting up with childish wonder. "Rommana."
Keith blinks.
The child blinks back.
"Rom… mana?"
They blink again, before they sway their body left to right, eyes glimmer with shy understanding: "Oh! On our planet, it means 'thank you,' Mr. Keef."
"Oh."
"Yah."
"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asks with piqued interest.
They open their mouth and the noise that glides out sounds like a glitched pocket monster noise he's heard online on a video—entirely incomprehensible, "but you can call me—" and the noise is louder, even longer in tune, and sounds like garbled technology noise. They finish by brushing their hands on their puffer jacket with a blank face, like it was a job well done.
He doesn't know what to say, quite frankly.
"How about I call you princess?" he asks instead.
They nod, still swaying side to side like it's a fun game, "How about Prinny?"
Ah, a negotiator too. Keith decides
|
Watch Me Unfold
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Keith has never had his heart broken before.
Not like this, anyway.
His Pops died in a house fire that burnt down his home, he had no Mom for a long time, Shiro vanished (and theoretically died a few times; he came back, so we don't really talk about that).
It was finite in the way those heartbreaks occurred, life changing like the curtains dropping on the saddest theatre performance. You feel the emotions, you grow from it, you move on. It was out of his control, no matter how much he wanted to rewrite the pages of fate.
He's used to loss. He’s used to sadness. He’s used to things not going his way. You could say he was an expert at this point.
But this felt different.
Something molecular, deeper, punishing and painful. Shards of his broken heart sting his eyes and rip his chest. He feels it all over his skin, like small papercuts on the thickest layer of muscle. Home is a little broken now.
It fucking sucks.
Does he regret the self care night? No, of course not. Does he regret kissing Lance? No, he couldn’t if he wanted to.
Does he regret how their place in each other’s lives is a little fractured now; a little flimsy, and now it's significantly tense and awkward in their shared apartment?
Absolutely. He never wanted that.
Does he still want to be there for Lance? In a heartbeat.
He’s confident they could've handled a kiss not working out—it is what it is—and they could’ve moved on with their day, week, whatever as the roommates slash best friends… slash, ex love interests, he supposes. Call it caught up in the moment, they can laugh about it at social gatherings, you know, just a little moment in time that got away from them.
"Mhm," he concurs, a hair's breadth away from his juicy lips. His brows pinch, almost frustrated by the intermission. "Please… kiss me."
…Actually, he’s not sure he could’ve handled it, now that he thinks about it.
"Keith, you okay? You've been staring at the food rather than handing it out."
Shit.
He needs to get it together.
"Sorry," Keith says solemnly. He crosses his arms, sighs, and decides to take a time out for himself. "…Could you give me five minutes, Acxa?"
Acxa nods at him with an inspective, calculative look; never one to pry, but curious nonetheless in her own ways. "Sure, I'll cover."
"Thanks," he nods, already two steps ahead in walking away, approaching the furthest crate to sit on to contemplate all of his life choices.
He needs to get a grip.
Lance stares at him in wondrous astonishment.Keith waits, and waits, and waits.
It was just a kiss.
"Lance?" Keith rasps, low in volume—a song shared for two."Yeah?" Lance responds, a little too breathless in quality.
It meant nothing.
Lance throws every doubt out the window with a shy, sweet kiss.
It was…
"You can," Lance shudders, out of breath. "Please?"
Fuck, did he taste like heaven.
But, he supposes he was never made for heaven's light.
It sucks.
It honestly sucks.
…Fuck, he said he wouldn't cry.
Man, he wishes Kosmo was here to lean into.
He's soft, blue, illuminating, the perfect cuddle buddy.
Keith tries hard not to think about how that resembles Lance, too.
"Mr. Keef?"
His eyes snap open, lifting his tired cheek from his palm.
In front of him is a small alien child with a knitted hat with ear flaps, a pout that's too cute for the state of the galaxy, pink galra-like marks strung across both cheeks that resemble Keith's scar across his right, cerulean eyebrows, rosey along the chub of their cheeks, and the most effervescent, purple eyes. They have a pink puffer jacket on, black pants with holes ripped across, and little boots fit for the chilly weather on this planet. They're holding a tiny teddy bear in their arms; one of the new toys they handed out today to the children of Lovinia.
In short, they're adorable. He wonders if they're a mixture of galra too.
Today, for them and them only, he gifts a smile.
"Yes, princess?" He asks kindly.
They smile, small and shy, and it's the purest thing he's seen on this planet. "I gots this furry toy from Ack, Acsh—"
"Acxa?"
"Yes!" They say excitedly, their eyes lighting up with childish wonder. "Rommana."
Keith blinks.
The child blinks back.
"Rom… mana?"
They blink again, before they sway their body left to right, eyes glimmer with shy understanding: "Oh! On our planet, it means 'thank you,' Mr. Keef."
"Oh."
"Yah."
"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asks with piqued interest.
They open their mouth and the noise that glides out sounds like a glitched pocket monster noise he's heard online on a video—entirely incomprehensible, "but you can call me—" and the noise is louder, even longer in tune, and sounds like garbled technology noise. They finish by brushing their hands on their puffer jacket with a blank face, like it was a job well done.
He doesn't know what to say, quite frankly.
"How about I call you princess?" he asks instead.
They nod, still swaying side to side like it's a fun game, "How about Prinny?"
Ah, a negotiator too. Keith decides right there and then that he likes them a lot.
"Sure."
"Prinny, winny, sinny~" they murmur to themselves like a child does learning a new word; as if it was a song, before popping their free hand on the edge of the crate. They struggle to get up, so Keith grabs their little body (and their teddy) and pulls them up to sit next to him. With their height, it was mission impossible anyway. He gives back the teddy with a tender smile and fonder eyes.
"So, Prinny. What's your story?"
They blink at him, entirely unaware. "Story?"
Keith persists with a smile, elbow over the knee, body language open towards her as she kicks her legs over the edge of the crate: "Everyone has a story. What's yours?"
Prinny thinks about this. Very hard. Hums. Hm, hm, hmmm.
It reminds him of when Nadia is thinking long and hard about what they should have for dinner when she stays over at the apartment.
"I like my dollies. And I was born here."
Okay, there's a start.
"And," they pick at the fur on the teddy bear, a little lost in thought. "My family died in front of me. The Galra came and killed them after my Papa hid me in a box and told me to stay quiet."
Ah.
There it is.
When you go through an intergalactic war, become a humanitarian relief leader, and become the symbols of hope as ex-paladins spreading Allura's message across the universe in a forever healing and an ever-repairing universe, unfortunately these stories become all too common.
Especially with children.
It doesn't make them any less hard to hear.
Keith nods in appreciation, "Thank you for telling me. That must've been really hard."
"S'ok," Prinny says, kicking the air. Keith notices they clutch their teddy a little tighter. "My teacher told me Mama and Papa are in the stars, guiding me home every day."
Prinny stares hard at the ground.
"But, I don't have a home now. So." Prinny frowns, a little withered. "I don't know what that means…"
Keith can't take it.
"Come here, sweetheart." He straightens up his posture from the slouch it was in, patting his legs. Prinny stares at him strangely, gaze flickering up from his lap to his eyes. They stand, sit down on his legs and swing them again; Keith thinks it might be an anxiety thing, but he can't tell.
"Alright, let's look at the stars. Can you point out which ones are Mama and Papa are?"
Prinny looks up, searching for the stars they look towards every night. Upon recognition, they point with their left hand and a smile. "Those ones."
Keith's gaze follows her direction, and in the sky, are two dazzling stars—one red, and one blue.
He smiles.
"I miss them."
A comfortable silence lingers in the air between them.
"You know, when I was a kid," Keith whispers, light and frail. "I used to watch the stars with my Pops every single night, looking for my Mom. Then, my Pops became a star too."
Prinny nods, eyes not moving from the stars above the chilly sky.
"You couldn't tell my Pops nothing. When he had his mind made up, he did what he had to do. Even if it cost him his life… He saved mine too."
"Like Papa?"
"Yeah," he says solemnly. "Just like your Papa."
His vision gets a little hazy.
He tries to ignore it.
"Because of that, I realised a few things in my lifetime." Keith voice cracks at the end. He attempts to swallow it down when he looks in their direction, lifting a finger in the air. "One, that love comes in all shapes and sizes, big or small," and another, like a peace sign, "And two, that you might think a home is a place, but it's the people around you who make it a home."
Prinny looks towards him with curiosity.
"When you lost your home," They begin, "How did you find it again, Mr. Keef?"
Keith thinks of his Pops, smiling away his own pain selflessly whenever he asked for Mom.
Keith thinks of Shiro, how he took him in with Adam to raise him to be the man he is today.
Keith thinks of Allura, who brought all of them together in weird and unfortunate circumstances.
Keith thinks of Krolia, who reshaped the way he knows how to love, time and time again.
Keith thinks of Coran, who lost Allura and still lights the room up with joy (and the space mice).
Keith thinks of Hunk, who always manages to make him smile, even when the world's falling apart.
Keith thinks of Pidge, who nudges him in the right direction with logic, clarity, and a big hug from time to time.
Keith thinks of Kosmo, who became his trusty stead when he was stuck on that space whale.
And finally.
He thinks of Lance.
His laughter, his light, his gentle heart and tender nature.
The way he encompasses all of those things and more, the compass to his heart, his right hand man, his support system from day one, his stability, his hope.
The way his face brightened up when they decided to become roommates. The way he navigates every situation with the utmost grace and a peculiar smile.
The way his light touches, his hugs, his 'planatonic' cuddles (Lance never gets that word right).
The way they watch television shows together, or make food together, or end up in horror movie scenarios together, or go through some seriously wacky, embarrassing scenarios like it's just part of the storybook they're writing together.
Each new chapter is a glimmer of hope, an abundance of laughter, and a symbol of love for endless days to come. It makes him smile every time he opens the book in his mind.
He frowns upon the thought, quickly dismissing it and lifting his smile back as to not alert them of his own sadness.
"I think…" Keith begins to think carefully on how to capture his own thoughts into words they can understand. "Home is an evolution of people that seem to walk, run, or jump into your life. Home is love. And for some people," he chuckles, basking in nostalgia as his eyes crinkle with mystery. "Sometimes they recognise you from the back of your hair and decide to stick around forever."
Prinny blinks.
They hum, lost in thought. Hum, hum, hummm.
Finally, Prinny nods in understanding, clutching their teddy a little tighter. "On our planet, our home is made of love."
"Ours too," Keith agrees.
"So this makes sense." Prinny nods with a smile, and looks back up at Keith's openly tender eyes with a deep sense of understanding. "Do you love someone, Mr. Keef?"
He thinks of blue, blue eyes that stopped him in his tracks, yelling about how he'd save Shiro.
He thinks of a shrill voice screaming at the top of his lungs as he nose dived over a cliff with their friends.
He thinks of the scent of the vast ocean, clean and pristine from when he exits the shower.
He thinks of the way they touched that night, the way their hearts were beating out of their chests.
He thinks of the taste of his lips, slow and unsure, guiding him along to heaven's gates.
And well, it doesn't hurt to be honest.
"I do." Keith confirms, fulfilled with all of his heart. "Very much."
Prinny smiles preciously, "Are they your home, Mr. Keef?"
His eyes crinkle at the edges, with a smile so tender and true. "As long as he'll have me."
"Wow," Prinny whispers in awe.
Prinny decides to mimic his words, "Thank you for telling me. That must've been reawwy hard."
Keith chuckles lightly. They're too cute.
"Rommana, Prinny."
"Hehe," Prinny giggles at his accent, "You say it weeeeird."
Keith laughs out loud, not in the slightest bit offended by their words. They laugh together in a melodic harmony, then end up reminiscing for a little while longer about Prinny's life: how they live in an orphanage, how the orphanage has some type of dog hybrid, how they don't have a family but it's okay, they'll find their home someday, and how they look forward to finding a home someday with someone.
And if that's the only sense of comfort Keith can provide them, he's okay with that.
"Was your Mama or Papa Galra, Prinny?"
"Yes! My Papa was. He was soooooo cool," Prinny emphasises this by spreading out their arms, one hand clutching their teddy with child-like, whimsical care, "He was a ninja, a-and I have his blade I keep under my pillow…"
Keith, ever the direct one, asks curiously.
"What was his name, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Papa? It was Hadrix."
…Oh.
He knew a Hadrix.
Kolivan was very fond of him.
When they talked about the war; how the bloodshed might end soon, while most of the blades would say 'Victory or Death' and call it a night, Hadrix would talk about how much they loved their family, how excited they were to go back home when it was all over.
Kolivan made him go home closer towards the end of the war. Commander's orders.
As far as Keith's aware, Kolivan didn't tell him why. He told Keith he had intel that his planet was going to be under attack soon. Swore him to secrecy. The blades were too far away from this galaxy to proactively do anything. Voltron needed to focus their efforts on Honerva.
Kolivan trusted that Hadrix and his family would be okay in the end. He was one of their strongest blade members.
He wonders if Kolivan knows.
Maybe he already does.
"That's a cool name."
"Not as cool as Prinny, Mr. Keef."
Keith chuckles, "Maybe you're right."
"Yah," Prinny is swinging their legs again, light and happy.
That's… the other side of the war he doesn't like to think about.
War makes you keep secrets. Whether you like it or not.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Lance is a preeeetty positive guy.
But he's not going to pretend right now. He's sitting at his desk, birds chirping outside of his open window — on the verge of a silent, nervous breakdown.
Not really. Maybe. Hopefully not.
It's been a few days, but he can't stop thinking about what happened.
Lance breathes against his lips like he's inhaling fresh air, a breathable rush of bliss settling in between his ribs and his heart, and Keith growls slightly against his mouth.
His hand covers his mouth, pulling down at his moisturised skin; expression furrowed with grief. What the hell is wrong with him?
Lance's breath hitches at the growl, mouth parting submissively for Keith.
He feels hot. Too hot.
He pulls at his uniform collar, bites his lip, flips the pen in between his fingers.
It's obscene. So fucking obscene.
His mind needs to cease and desist immediately before he gets his lawyer to send out some freaking paperwork.
"Lance?" Keith rasps, low in volume—a song shared for two."Yeah?" Lance responds, a little too breathless in quality.
His arms cross on the desk, lowering his head onto the table with a giant groan.
So, he ended up skipping the Blade mission over the weekend, claiming he was too tired, pains were flaring, yada yada. Keith totally knew he was lying, but he respected his choice. Not his call.
But, he really tried to ignore the kicked puppy look he received from Keith that morning.
"Uh, right. I'll see you Sunday night then. Take care, okay?""Okay. I'll see you Sunday.""Message me if you need anything?""Of course."
The guilt ate him alive, so, of course, he did not do that.
When he did come home the next night, Lance hid in his bedroom. He pretended to be asleep. Lights out. Head on the pillow. Keith walked in silently and saw him 'sleeping,' and what did this broodish, grizzled man freaking do? He turned the humidifier on like the damn angel he is, stood at the door for a little, then closed the door behind him gently.
Lance cried himself to sleep that night. He felt like a coward.
Now? He still feels like a coward, but even worse… a coward who can't get his shit together.
Maybe Pidge was right about therapy.
Maybe it would be beneficial.
He turns his head and stares at the potted Juniberry flower on his desk, vibrantly beautiful. He notes the prongs on the flower looks like a fork, a trident, a spork, even. He pokes at it a little, hand gentle around the petals, and it's much softer than it looks. He sits up straight and ponders, gaze curious.
You know, he thought he moved on from Allura. Her sacrifice? He respects it.
Her life saved the entire universe and he couldn't be more grateful to have a second chance. He understood her decision. And look, it doesn't take away the hurt, the pain, the lump in his throat when he thinks about it. He genuinely hasn't thought about it in a long time.
He only really thinks about it at their reunion dinners, if he's honest. The day they celebrate her and her incredible, nurturing, kind and cosmic self.
He wonders what advice Allura would give him right now.
Maybe she'd tell him to speak to someone.
Maybe she'd tell him to speak to Shiro.
Maybe she'd call him an idiot.
"Don't be so silly, Lonce!"
He sure feels like one.
"Why did you say Allura?"
…God.
He's such a fucking idiot.
"P-Please, don't go, I just—I, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, I just," he's sobbing, shaking, unable to breathe, "I just…" full of remorse, wrecked with guilt, weak with a whimper, "I can't be alone right now…"
That panic attack was so, so terrifying. He wishes he could understand what triggered it so badly. Why did his body betray him like that?
He was all-in, the adrenaline making him feel more hot and bothered than he should be allowed to be from a kissing frenzy.
Lance flushes, scratches his neck.
If he's being honest, he's, uh, never made out with anyone before. Dated, sure, but making out? That's the first time he's ever done that with someone that wasn't officially their partner. But I mean, Keith's not like that either, at least he thinks so.
He only held hands with Jenny, a few pecks here and there with Allura and nothing more, but as a first kiss? With Keith? That was something else.
He feels tingles under his skin when he thinks about it, has his heart racing when it flickers like film tape in his mind. Heck, it's racing right now and it's scares him.
He likes Keith so, so much, it makes the anxiety sow under his skin.
He shouldn't push him away.
He shouldn't.
"S'ok?" Keith whispers between pants of breath, dark eyes fluttering half-lidded as they capture all of Lance’s attention."Mhm. Please…kiss me."
He shudders at his desk.
The heat, the tension, the desperation and adrenaline pumping through his body like a house on fire, the trembles, that, that was… fuck.
Figures that he's ruined his chances with Keith. The one person who means the most to him. Something was bound to fuck up with them anyway; whenever it gets good, that's why he left for the blade, that's why he's not with Keith right now. That's why, he…
He's such an idiot.
Ruined it all.
He hastily snatches a tissue from the box on his desk and woefully tries not to cry.
But, the first tear unleashes the dam. Before he knows it, his tears turn almost mouse-like in the timid silence as he quietly sobs at his desk like a stupid love interest in a shitty romcom.
Why is he so bad at this? Why can't it ever be easy? Why, why, why—
Two soft knocks tap at the door.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
He throws out the tissue, adjusts his posture, shakes his head, fakes a smile.
He needs to get a grip.
"Open sesame."
Pidge enters the room, doesn't even look his way or bat an eye at him as they enter back-first into the room, laptop in hand and mouth running marathons of words.
"Hey! I think I've got the schematics working for our concept," Pidge turns to him, smile wide and beautiful, shutting the door with their cutie ba-booty. "The one that was approved the other…" Their smile drops upon meeting Lance's tired eyes, pout prominent with empathy. "Everything okay?"
Lance opens his mouth, embraces the proud lie he made up on the spot that's about to leave his tongue.
But instead, a choked out sob escapes his throat, his tears free falling again.
Pidge puts down their laptop on his desk and rushes to the other side to give him a big bear hug sitting in his lap. Prior to the contrary and outside of popular belief: Pidge might be a little touch adverse, but they do love to hug their loved ones. Lance is no exception — especially when he's in dire need of one; it is of utmost critical importance.
"Let it out," Pidge begs in a mumble under his ear, sniffling too. "You've been in so much pain."
He tries to make it stop, to dam the tears, to pull himself together. He can’t do this to Pidge, not now. The project is too large, too heavy, bigger than the two of them combined. He needs to rein it in, get back to work. He needs to stop himself before Pidge is pulled under with him.
"Pidge—"
"Stop." Pidge interrupts, voice gentle but firm. They cup the back of his shoulders from under his arms, and it's the warmest hug he's received from them yet. "Please."
He takes a deep breath.
It doesn't work.
He finally yields, shattering like glass under unbearable pressure.
He weeps, the echoes muted and cherished in the soundboard of Pidge's delicate arms.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Keith arrived home on Sunday night; 2200 hours.
It is now Monday; 1200 hours.
He has a remote call in an hour from home today to discuss strategies, remaining paperwork due from over the weekend, and team changes within the BOM.
Currently, he is in his BOM uniform, munching on carrot sticks and hummus at his desk in his bedroom, looking at emails, and waiting for this call to happen so he can go back to bed.
Was he able to have a nice sleep in? Theoretically. Because he got a ton of sleep last night. Yep. Lots of it. A very, very healthy amount. One could say he had the best sleep of his life. Alone in his bed. Keith, the sleep sensei of the dojo that is his bed. Keith, slumbering deeply. Dreaming blissfully in the confines of his comfortable bed.
Yeah, okay, so he got twenty minutes at most.
He tried, okay? Lay off.
Lance didn't message him all weekend. When he came home, Lance was lights out in his bed. He's beginning to get really worried. This morning, he didn't even acknowledge Keith; walked right out the door curled into himself, looking like the dictionary definition of guilt and shame.
Keith didn't think such a sweep-off-your-feet type of romance in bed would've lead to this. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe, he—
Ring, ring, ring…
Who in their right mind is video calling him right now?
Click.
"Keith."
Surprisingly, it's Acxa. He's not meant to have favourites, but Acxa is good company; a sharpshooter in their own right—intentional, cautious, and always one step ahead of the endless curves of possibilities. He smiles, albeit a little tired, a little worn from over the weekend. He has all the time in the world for Acxa.
"Present."
"…? I don't have a gift."
A chuckle undeniably flies out of him, shoulders abruptly shaking. Never change, Acxa. It's no wonder they were Lotor's right hand woman.
"It means I am here in this moment," Keith assures, wiping a tear from his eyes and straight to the point. "I'm not demanding a present."
"Oh," Acxa blushes with astute embarrassment; they're still getting used to Earth slang and terminologies. It's cute. He can see why Veronica finds it charming. "Apologies."
"It's fine. What did you need?"
"I wanted to see how you were doing. You seemed…" She contemplates her next word carefully, "Distracted."
Oh. Right.
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over and head low with a deep internal sigh. If anyone can tell Keith off for being distracted, Acxa has the most rights to do so. Next to Lance, of course. His focus was elsewhere, but that shouldn't have been a factor in not being able to hand out food to the people of Lovinian.
"Apologies," Keith says. "I shouldn't have been distracted."
Acxa, straight to the point, cuts in with haste, "I am not here to reprimand you. I'm here to check in with you; see if you're okay before our meeting."
Keith smiles authentically, "Veronica's rubbing off on you, I see." He picks up and chews on a carrot stick.
"Unfortunately, we're not in that stage of our relationship yet," Acxa sadly sighs.
Keith chokes, punching his chest and drinking a glass of water so animatedly that Acxa stares with wide eyes. When he finally escapes purgatory, he stares at her with a shocked, long-winded look. "Acxa, that is NOT WHAT THAT MEANS!"
"Is it not?" Acxa piques curiously, "The Galra move quickly in our mating rituals, but Veronica explained this concept to me about 'going steady.' Educated me about human courting methods. The concept is… rather strange, but, I have to respect our cultural differences."
Huh. Is it a McClain thing? Keith wonders.
"Perhaps it is," Acxa answers. "Do you share similar concerns with Lance?"
Shit, he has GOT to stop saying shit out loud.
"I…"
He thinks of Lance, pliant and desperate under him, bathrobe unravelling like the bow of a gift. Kissing him was like… his lungs were filling with the freshest of air; a holiday on the coastline; a tan well baked into his lighter skin; the first sip of an ice, cold drink out of a coconut.
It felt good, wonderful. Thrilling even, as if he finally found the hidden treasure he'd been searching for after digging into the ground for so long. It was everything, everywhere, all at once.
"Please?"
And he so desperately wants to do it again.
"We're working on it."
"Ah," Acxa nods with a sincere 'McClain' sort of understanding. "I see."
They end up talking for a while longer about anything and everything that comes to mind: Future relief support, Earth life, Food…
"Finally invited to the McClains for dinner?" Keith asks with a grin, "Sounds like it's getting serious."
"Actually, yes. Veronica invited me." Acxa smiles with delicate warmth. It's a look Keith hasn't seen on her as of yet. "They're a lively family. Her mother has a big heart, similar to the belly of a Weblum. I like the younglings too."
Keith laughs out loud, "God, that's one way of putting it."
"You disagree?" Acxa analyses critically, albeit with a small smile of her own.
"No, I completely agree." Keith smiles too, warm like sunlight. "Maria is incredible. Great food too. She's a natural at getting you to open up about anything and everything in your life… I can see where Lance and Veronica get their talents from."
Acxa softens in expression, hums in acknowledgement.
They lose track of time after that.
It's really nice — exactly what Keith needs right now. A wholehearted conversation with someone that simply understands him; like a sister. He thinks of Lance and Veronica's sibling relationship, and thinks that perhaps Acxa might be something similar to him. There's a unique fondness for what Acxa means to him that he can't quite place.
Love in a unique yet completely different format to what he has with Lance.
"The meeting's starting soon," Acxa reminds, a little ruefully.
"Right." Keith nods gratefully. "Thanks for checking in, Acxa."
"Of course. I hope it all works out for you soon, Keith."
He nods with tremendous gratitude towards Acxa. They both hang up the call and Keith leans back in his chair, looks up to the ceiling, stress lines under his eyes, and once again, contemplates all of his choices in life.
He needs to talk to Lance.
Eventually.
Is he being a coward if he waits it out?
Usually Lance will seek him out; he was never one to avoid the bigger discussions. But lately, he's been heavily guarded, off the radar, and much more difficult to approach some days. It's getting to a point, so it's probably best to wait for him to talk to him.
…Yeah, no, he's confident Lance will talk to him. He just needs to wait it out. Glancing at the time, he notes it's now 12:57pm, and a waffling sigh leaves his mouth.
Mentally, he preps himself to be a dignified leader for the call who has his shit together.
Physically, he wants to take the fattest nap in existence.
Personally? He's in dire need of a vacation.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
When the tears finally stopped, Pidge did what any incredible friend would do for their emotionally devastated friend in dire need of support: steal two banana chocolate pudding cups from the Garrison’s teacher lounge.
He assumes it’s divine karma for whoever stole his lunch the other week; statistically, it was probably theirs, if he knows Pidge. And he does.e
Justice, in the form of tiny wrath.
God bless Pidge.
"Did you know there's a beach in Hawaii where you can swim with turtles?" Pidge offers kindly, digging at their pudding cup. They pull out a brochure from their lab coat and hand it over. "I don't think Hawaii was too affected by the Galra takeover, so maybe it's something to look forward to after our project is over? Paladin trip?"
Lance takes a bite of his pudding. The thought is nice, so he hums it over regardless.
Chasing Hunk with a water gun on the beach. Watching baby turtles walk into the ocean with Pidge. Diving in the ocean and watching Lūʻaus with Shiro. Sharing a steamy make out session, tongue and all, with Keith in their honeymoon suite as the sunset dims the horizon and reflects golden light their naked bodies in their hotel ro—COUGH.
"You okay?"
"FINE." He's flushing, oh my god, stop blushing. Looks to the side, unable to meet their inquisitive gaze like a lovesick loser. "Fine. Never better, uh, I'll think about it. It sounds really nice, heh."
Pidge deadpans him with a look. "God, that's so like you."
"So like what?"
"Your crush on Keith," they say casually, taking another bite with a neutral hum.
Pidge swallows, clears their throat, and suddenly, roses appear around them as they speak with a growl and sparkly eyes: "Run away with me, Lance! We're just roommates," They splat the back of their hand over their forehead, "best friends," Pidge clasps their own hands together, "LOVERS… in secret." They kiss the air, much to Lance's displeasure.
He crosses his arms over his chest like a disappointed brother and leans back in his seat.
"Pidge."
"Hop on my BOM ship and we will travel across the universe together with deniable plausibility as to what we are!"
"You are so mature."
"And you," They point at him with a spoon. Rude. "Are whipped."
"Fine. FINE." His spoon goes flying across the desk, much to his dismay. "Maybe I AM. HAPPY, BATMAN? Let me fantasize about him in PEACE."
There's a deafening silence.
"…I, erm, actually, didn't know you were fantasi—"
Lance interrupts with the roar of a lion in the form of a mighty groan. His cheeks feel hot. He's hot. He's flippin' hot. He grabs his portable fan from the drawer and turns it on, palm on cheek and cycling it over his face with the other hand, welcoming the cool air in all of it's dramatic glory.
Pidge finishes their banana chocolate pudding cup and throws it in the baby blue bin next to the desk. They shoots, they scores, they cheer from their chair. "Swish!"
"Wow," Lance says, impressed. "Nice shot."
"Thanks," Pidge nods with a toothy grin, quickly becoming their tenacious, inquisitive self. "Okay, so, why have you both not made a move yet?"
He halts. Simmers. Turns into the flames of a thousand burning suns at the memories of the other night.
"HAH, well, we, uh, hah—"
Pidge connects it live in real time, eyes widening in shock.
"No."
"..."
"NO." Pidge asserts, on the edge of their seat.
Lance turns a violent shade of red, looks down at the floor. His voice is low, almost muted in volume.
"…Um, it happened the other—"
"OH MY GOSH," They stand in ferocious shock, slamming their hands on the desk like a disastrous earthquake. "YOU MEAN TO TELL ME—"
"PIDGE."
"HOW FAR?!"
"…? How far what?"
"HOW NOW, BROWN COW."
Lance gasps like the doomed love interest of a telenovela, one hand flying to his chest.
"How very dare you."
"Kaltenecker would agree," Pidge says blandly.
"I am at LEAST a highland cow. McClain is of Scottish descent, as per my Papi's side of the family, thank you very much." Lance grimaces, high and mighty. He closes his eyes and quirks his brow like a challenged know-it-all. "Besides, they're gorgeous with luscious hair, like me." He sweeps a hand through his hair, a sparkle besides his closed eyes, and with a smile. He then frowns, sweeping a glare in their direction. "Get the livestock analogies RIGHT, Pidge."
"That's not the point of this conversation and you know it."
"I AM A BEAUTIFUL COW."
"TELL ME ABOUT YOU BOTH DOING THE HANKY PANKY."
Lance chokes, once again blushing up a storm of roses all over his face, neck, and even down to his fingertips. "We… We did not do the hanky panky."
Pidge's brows knit together with concern, "Wait, really?"
"Why do you look concerned by that information?" Lance stares suspiciously, raising an eyebrow. "We just kissed. That's all that happened."
Pidge dissects each word like a calculation, searching for any sorts of anomalies. They don't seem to find any. They sigh, slinking back into their seat. "And then what happened?"
"W-What do you mean?" Lance stammers in a small voice.
"You sobbed in my arms before. Clearly something happened." Pidge gently grabs a pen from the desk and balances it on their head. Science. "Do I have to punish Keith for his sins?"
"Pidge."
"Did he pressure you? I can jump on his back like a squirrel monkey… Pull on his hair."
"Pidge, he did not pressure me." Lance exhales the driest sigh in existence, clearly embarrassed by having to explain what's happening in his love life to someone he sees as a little sister. "I'll… I'll tell you what happened."
So they talk for a while, using his words to explain each and every detail without explaining too much detail (there are some things Pidge does not need to know about that night). He tries to make it sound less homoerotic, more profound and romantic. Brushes up the details to make it sounds sweeter, warm, tender—like a delicious, freshly baked apple pie with ice cream on top.
He thought he did a pretty good job.
"That's… awful. And fruity."
Nevermind.
Lance suddenly feels very defensive, "Well, we HAD a good time, it was nice, and cosy, AnD—" his voice cracks, "—er, romantic."
"Buuuuuut?" Pidge stresses with their pointed tone.
"I…" he crumples in his seat, really over this conversation that's on the cusp of something profound that he might not be ready for. "I… I don't know what triggered the panic attack, frankly. I was enjoying it."
But Pidge knows their stuff.
People might be the strangest of complexities to Pidge, but they are also very good at foresight and observation. They don't want to entertain the possibility, but, they catch Lance gazing at the Juniberry flower on his desk for a second too long and makes the connection quite quickly.
"It was Allura, wasn't it."
The room becomes still, rooted in a truth that's been wrapped in bubble wrap under boxes of tape in his mind for a very, very long time.
He grabs a tissue just in case the burn behind his eyes evolves into the drowned sorrows of fallen tears (again). He slinks down in his chair, evidently exhausted by everything—including the daunting thought of it all.
"Well… Not exactly, but kind of? If that, makes, uh, any sort of… sense."
Pidge thinks on it, considers their next words when the pen falls off of their head and onto the floor behind them. They decisively don't whirl around to pick it up, still lost in trying to decipher it all. Pidge thinks, and thinks, and thinks.
Like putting the puzzle pieces together, a lightbulb pops over their head.
"Well, your relationship ended quite… abruptly, so to speak."
Lance huffs, light with humour as he puts the tissue down: "I guess that's one way of putting it."
"And it wasn't very good," Pidge deduces.
"Thanks Pidge."
"You guys fought a lot because of the Altean Colony thing—"
"Okay, Pidge."
"—And Keith was getting real jealous; broody? super heated over your confidence diminishing over time, and he would talk to me about it…"
"Okay, that's—" Lance stills. "Wait, what?"
"He was so angry after the fight with Honerva and Lotor's mech on Oriande that when he got out of the black lion, he stormed off and broke a boxing bag in the gym. Vented to me about it later over breakfast and then mid-way through, the MFE pilots asked to film their documentary… thing? Surprised it didn't affect our ability to form Voltron, though."
Lance puts his hands on his face and takes a deep breath. "Can you… like, I don't know, rewind for a minute?!"
"Anyway," Pidge ignores him. They hesitate, just a little. Like a fiend, they decide that they won't elaborate on the last few discussion points (that were definitely not a discussion; more of a pedantic tangent in their eyes).
"Are you afraid the same thing will happen to Keith?"
So here's his dilemma.
If he thinks about this hard enough, he can probably have a clearer headspace surrounding this. He doesn't really think what happened with Allura will happen with Keith. No, of course not. You know, your girlfriend sacrificing themselves to save the broader universe after everyone they knew in their past life had perished up until that point is probably a once in a lifetime thing. It's not everyday your cosmic girlfriend turns into… the cosmos…
And to be honest, they probably would've broken up anyway. It wasn't fair, there was a lot going on, time wasn't on their side for anything, and after she absorbed the dark entity, everything sort of went to shit real fast.
Again, freaky deaky once in a lifetime sort of thing.
So no, even the potential arguing, the frazzled emotions that may come with a relationship? He's not afraid of it. He'd welcome it if it came to that.
Which it sort of is.
But they're not in a relationship.
Not… technically? He's just his best friend slash roommate slash professional handyman slash masseur slash romantic love interest to a degree, quarter parts nuisance.
But.
Keith always comes to the McClain family dinners. Always. He's an honorary guest—together or not.
And ALL the women in the family tease Lance to filth when he comes over; with or without Keith. Ahem.
"WhEn Is hE GonNa Be YoUR BoYFriEnd?! ShOuLd I DaTe HiM? CaN YoU IntrOduCe mE?"
NO. NADA. ALL THAT GUY LIKES IS KNIVES AND SPACE WOLVES.
Well. At least he thought so. Colour him shocked, he was very wrong about that. And he's now seen his beloved purple stick of truth.
Twice.
He wonders if Keith fantasizes about Lance just as much as he does him. Even in the night hours. In the shower. In his bed. While they're 'planatonically' cuddling. The kissing was… something else. The heat of romance that took over the two of them in the moment.
It was nice.
Ahem.
Is his face hot?
Point is, this 'will-they-won't-they' thing they keep doing is, sort of their thing. It's always been written in the stars. Hell, they shared a lion. That's gotta mean something, right? Nothing's truly stopping them from exploring something new here.
A natural evolution, if you will.
So, why did that all of that happen? Why is it so hard to untangle and decipher why it bothers him so much? Why did he need to go and fuck it up like that? Is it the project? Is it the BOM work on the side? Is it something else?
Why can't he just, I don't know… be happy about it?
"I think," Lance articulates, "I need to really think about it… Talk about it with a therapist?"
Pidge looks at him with happy surprise, "Wow, you're really going for it?"
He deadpans them with a ferocious look, "Wowwww, thanks Pidge, really means a lot to have your faith here."
"Not like that! I mean," Pidge looks to the side with subdued mental gymnastics, before finally, they clear their throat. "I-I think it would be wise to see what's repressed in there."
"…"
"That's all. We don't have to talk about it anymore."
Lance sighs with relief, "Thanks, Pidge."
"Of course. Slight change of topic, but, kind of not, I guess? Since Keith went and massaged you the other day—"
"Wow, real subtle of you, Pidgey."
"Did you ever get that weird temperature regulation issue checked out by Coran?"
Lance, thankful for the switch, nods, annoyance etched with boredom all over his face, "I did a while ago. He said it was just space adventures catching up to me. Compared it to a few chronic space conditions that could fit the bill." He does his best impression of Coran, hands in the air like he's spelling out 'the more you know' meme, "It's a constellation of issues, my boy!" he leans back, picks at his nails. "I have to manage my own health, unfortunately."
Pidge's doubt doesn't escape him, their brows close together with a worried pout. "Was that really all he said?"
"Yeah, go figure. Maybe I'll look into it a little deeper. I don't know."
"Huh." For once, Pidge looks as if they're about to open Pandora's Box, but they close it just as quick. After a moment, they open it again amidst the tension: "Maybe, I can help yo—"
A ringing echoes between them, startling to the two. Pidge looks at their datapad, and a wide smirk grows on their face.
Lance looks at them with piqued curiosity. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing! It's just that… Well, Hunk's coming back to Earth in a few days," they announce with a melody in their tone and very, very real (cough) innocence.
Lance smiles too with a raised grin, quirked brow, and a sinister smile. "Oh…?"
Pidge matches his look, "Y'know, it HAS been stressful lately…"
"Uh huh."
"…Perhaps," Pidge giggles, evil to the bone. "A Garrison Trio night out on the town on Wednesday could be veeeeery beneficial?"
Lance slaps the desk with a grin, "I'm in."
Pidge shoots out from the chair and cheers, "WOOHOO!" while Lance laughs, brighter and vibrant than it's been in the past few days.
Maybe he does deserve a nice break—a fun night out on the town.
Might be good before he has to try to unpack all of these ugly feelings with a therapist.
Maybe. Probably.
Hopefully.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75691626?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["CookieTails"], "language": "English", "title": "Watch Me Unfold"}
|
Ride or Die
A harsh gust lashed at her cheeks, and yet, they continued flying straight for the rainstorm. Large drops pelted every inch of skin, leather, and scale. Violet could have sworn this wind had teeth, a chill cut right through her leathers, and into her skin. Struggling to hold to the pommel, she cursed at the ache in her fingers. Good. Feeling something—anything else—was good. Her joints fought against her as she tensed her thighs to stay seated between Tairn’s monstrous wings. Bits of the day’s meetings darted across her mind, determinedly replaying the unending politicking that was now her entire life.
“Damnit Xaden, this was supposed to be you.”
Jaw set, and quickly approaching bone-cold, Violet failed to suppress a shiver as it pushed through her tension. Her goggles were impossible to see through in this torrent. Using lesser magic, she dried them, pulling a stray bit of hair out of the way, having come loose on the ride up.
‘Don’t come looking for me’—the actual audacity of that man, she thought to herself. Raging power pulsed through her stiff fingers, and the ring felt heavy on her hand when she thought of it. But after all the fighting they’d always done, she didn’t want to stay angry at him. Giving in to impulse, Violet’s mind wandered, escaping to flashes of a beachy bedroom and Xaden’s face buried between her legs.
A glorious, heady feeling overtook her, followed quickly by a stinging yearning. Violet thirsted for more of what she had tasted just over a week ago in that dream. It was enough to even draw her focus away from the active thunderstorm she was flying straight into. She remained in the memory as long as possible, relishing how she’d watched Xaden touch himself, and then she’d seized control of him—how she’d taken full control of his dream. Especially with everything else so out of control, the aftershock memories of that night nearly caused her to lose her grip on Tairn.
Tairn chuckled, steadying her with his magic, tutting. “Your mind is slipping so frequently into that dream I’m worried about the use of the signet.”
Andarna’s voice chimed in, “You can’t tell her not to think of him, old man. There’s no escaping him now, but I am worried, Violet — you seem to be obsessing because it’s easier than the stress of running the province.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you both need to get off my case. I don’t need more pressure to perform, I’m barely sleeping as it is.” Admitting this, she felt ashamed. Blood was rushing in her ears. “I am so pathetic,” she said to herself, overwhelmed with a sensation that felt like drowning.
“We’re very aware, Silver One. You’ve got to let some of the dreams pass you by. No matter how much they call to you.”
Thinking about choosing where to roam in her dream walks seemed like a distant objective—impossible, even.
But that last dream had been different, she’d been present in Xaden’s dream, but she wasn’t in his head, inside of his body, she was in her own body. The connection felt stronger, she had been more present. Even more than her “attendance” in his previous nightmares, and Violet had felt even more in control than when they’d confronted Berwyn together in his dreamscape.
Violet furrowed her brow, wondering about their ability to utilise their bond in dreams. After a minute she realised she was pushing her feelings towards the bond, subconsciously, and the solid wall of ice she felt only added to the cold of rain. A pain began to build where her shoulder blades pinched together, so Violet let a little bit of energy flood her system, and it hummed, just below her skin, warming her.
Lightning flashed a couple of miles away. A warm rush of pride radiated in Violet’s chest, and Andarna let out a roar that was to Violet, perhaps, how a dragon sounded when they were gleeful. It awoke Violet from her pondering, and Violet remembered exactly why she’d chosen to come up here with them. Banking left sharply, she felt a surge of adrenaline and smiled. She could let loose a little with her dragons up here in the sky, up where Tairn’s power could rip through her, and her frustration and inadequacy didn’t matter.
“So, when do Venin sleep?” Andarna teased.
“Shh. You menace,” Violet rolled her eyes, smiling.
Sloshing her way into the entry of Riorson House, Violet was glad for the storm. She clung to the momentary release she felt. Sleep always came more easily when she was drunk with exhaustion. But as she returned to their room, the physical strain of the night’s ride almost overcame her, and she could barely strip out of her soaked flight leathers. Tossing them in the chair unceremoniously, Violet cradled a large pillow in the bed, stark naked.
Her head hit the pillow, and then, blissfully, nothing.
————
A tall beautiful woman swam in and out of focus, and Violet wanted to reach up to get her attention. Violet frowned as the woman had barely glanced in this direction the entire party. Dad’s uniform and medals shone in the glittering mage lights.
|
Ride or Die
A harsh gust lashed at her cheeks, and yet, they continued flying straight for the rainstorm. Large drops pelted every inch of skin, leather, and scale. Violet could have sworn this wind had teeth, a chill cut right through her leathers, and into her skin. Struggling to hold to the pommel, she cursed at the ache in her fingers. Good. Feeling something—anything else—was good. Her joints fought against her as she tensed her thighs to stay seated between Tairn’s monstrous wings. Bits of the day’s meetings darted across her mind, determinedly replaying the unending politicking that was now her entire life.
“Damnit Xaden, this was supposed to be you.”
Jaw set, and quickly approaching bone-cold, Violet failed to suppress a shiver as it pushed through her tension. Her goggles were impossible to see through in this torrent. Using lesser magic, she dried them, pulling a stray bit of hair out of the way, having come loose on the ride up.
‘Don’t come looking for me’—the actual audacity of that man, she thought to herself. Raging power pulsed through her stiff fingers, and the ring felt heavy on her hand when she thought of it. But after all the fighting they’d always done, she didn’t want to stay angry at him. Giving in to impulse, Violet’s mind wandered, escaping to flashes of a beachy bedroom and Xaden’s face buried between her legs.
A glorious, heady feeling overtook her, followed quickly by a stinging yearning. Violet thirsted for more of what she had tasted just over a week ago in that dream. It was enough to even draw her focus away from the active thunderstorm she was flying straight into. She remained in the memory as long as possible, relishing how she’d watched Xaden touch himself, and then she’d seized control of him—how she’d taken full control of his dream. Especially with everything else so out of control, the aftershock memories of that night nearly caused her to lose her grip on Tairn.
Tairn chuckled, steadying her with his magic, tutting. “Your mind is slipping so frequently into that dream I’m worried about the use of the signet.”
Andarna’s voice chimed in, “You can’t tell her not to think of him, old man. There’s no escaping him now, but I am worried, Violet — you seem to be obsessing because it’s easier than the stress of running the province.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you both need to get off my case. I don’t need more pressure to perform, I’m barely sleeping as it is.” Admitting this, she felt ashamed. Blood was rushing in her ears. “I am so pathetic,” she said to herself, overwhelmed with a sensation that felt like drowning.
“We’re very aware, Silver One. You’ve got to let some of the dreams pass you by. No matter how much they call to you.”
Thinking about choosing where to roam in her dream walks seemed like a distant objective—impossible, even.
But that last dream had been different, she’d been present in Xaden’s dream, but she wasn’t in his head, inside of his body, she was in her own body. The connection felt stronger, she had been more present. Even more than her “attendance” in his previous nightmares, and Violet had felt even more in control than when they’d confronted Berwyn together in his dreamscape.
Violet furrowed her brow, wondering about their ability to utilise their bond in dreams. After a minute she realised she was pushing her feelings towards the bond, subconsciously, and the solid wall of ice she felt only added to the cold of rain. A pain began to build where her shoulder blades pinched together, so Violet let a little bit of energy flood her system, and it hummed, just below her skin, warming her.
Lightning flashed a couple of miles away. A warm rush of pride radiated in Violet’s chest, and Andarna let out a roar that was to Violet, perhaps, how a dragon sounded when they were gleeful. It awoke Violet from her pondering, and Violet remembered exactly why she’d chosen to come up here with them. Banking left sharply, she felt a surge of adrenaline and smiled. She could let loose a little with her dragons up here in the sky, up where Tairn’s power could rip through her, and her frustration and inadequacy didn’t matter.
“So, when do Venin sleep?” Andarna teased.
“Shh. You menace,” Violet rolled her eyes, smiling.
Sloshing her way into the entry of Riorson House, Violet was glad for the storm. She clung to the momentary release she felt. Sleep always came more easily when she was drunk with exhaustion. But as she returned to their room, the physical strain of the night’s ride almost overcame her, and she could barely strip out of her soaked flight leathers. Tossing them in the chair unceremoniously, Violet cradled a large pillow in the bed, stark naked.
Her head hit the pillow, and then, blissfully, nothing.
————
A tall beautiful woman swam in and out of focus, and Violet wanted to reach up to get her attention. Violet frowned as the woman had barely glanced in this direction the entire party. Dad’s uniform and medals shone in the glittering mage lights. It was loud, and there were a lot of legs. And hiding under the tables could be fun. Climbing underneath, there wasn’t a lot of room, and what if someone wondered… Violet looked down and noticed small hands and knees, suddenly sensing an awkward discomfort inside her own skin. But—she realised—she was actually outside her own body. She wrapped her arms round her knees, rocking back and forth. It’s okay, it’s just a dream, she reassured herself. But whose dream? Peeking out from under the tablecloth, she finally recognised Talia, Xaden’s mother. The beautiful pale skin of her slender legs stretched upward, peeking from the slit in her embroidered blue gown. She was arm-in-arm with a handsome officer, who looked incredibly like Xaden. His father had skin a shade darker and his lips were a bit fuller, but his smile was undeniably Riorson, and in this moment he looked…happy.
A second later, Talia glanced down at Violet and the look she gave her was so startlingly icy that Violet shuddered. She wasn’t little Xaden anymore, she’d become herself, and she didn’t belong. Everything was fading from view—Fen, Talia, the world around her and she was left alone, very aware of her body. Floating down from the dark and cold, she could see herself. Naked, in her bed, and she knew somewhere deep down, that she’d left Xaden. She’d left him alone.
“Wait!” Violet yelled out, on the edge of the dream’s conscious plane, pleading, “I know that was your dream!” her voice echoed in the dark room, painful reverberations bouncing about in her head. And all that remained was empty silence. She’d gone from his dream to hers, and wherever the in-between was, this was the void that now separated them.
Xaden was icing her out. He didn’t want her to find him, not even in his dreams.
And so, she decided, I’ll just have to follow the cold and find you.
Because when had Violet ever followed a single rule Xaden had asked her to follow?
—————
The next time she tried, Violet couldn’t see him, she could only feel him at first. She didn’t understand why, and Violet wasn’t going to stand for that. Why had he been so warm and happy to meet her in dreams, only to now ice her out?
“I’m just going to walk until I find you,” she challenged, “You might as well let me in.”
Xaden laughed callously. “I meant what I said, love. I told you not to come.” He didn’t look in her direction, and Violet ached for his gaze. Shadows filled the edges of the dreamscape, and curved toward the edges of her vision.
“Xaden, if you expect me to get over this, then…” Violet didn’t even know what she wanted to bargain for—she continued quieter, desperate, “—then…I’m going to need more nights like these.”
Xaden finally came into focus. Violet slowly approached him, and grabbed his hand. It was cold. Up close, she could see his body was eerily still. Violet wanted to feel him, but she couldn’t sense his discomfort—their bond was stonewalled. But then Xaden began drawing ragged, stilted breaths.
She walked around him slowly, trying to see past his profile. Xaden’s teeth were bared as he sucked in air, working his jaw—every part of his body on edge.
Violet didn’t want to touch him, but of course, she did. She wanted to reach to him with her mind, with her body—Violet wanted to love every part of the darkness inside of him. She wanted his heat, his fear, his love, his anger, his chilly ice. She wanted all of him.
As if he knew all of this already, a pained look flashed across his face, and Violet wondered if he’d let her.
Xaden’s throat bobbed.
She woke up.
————
The next night she walked to find Xaden, she couldn’t help her excitement. Almost as soon as she had fallen into sleep, she sat bolt upright, only she didn’t know where she was. The wind smelled foreign coming through an open window, and the dry air made it harder to breathe.
A knock on the door made her startle, but she heard it close before she could turn to look to see who was at the door. Walking over, she unlatched it and peeked out into the hall. She could hear voices, but the words were too far away to make out what they were saying.
The corridor stretching to the left was totally new to her, and her urge to explore the building was laced with a feeling that she was...intruding. An ornately designed rug ran the length of the light colored stone floors, and the walls and ceiling seemed to be built of wood and mud plaster. She felt a part of her brain light up, searching her mental archives for where this type of construction was used. An ornately carved wood chair sat halfway down the hall and she took a mental note of its design, because she was struggling to get her mind to retrieve information.
Annoyed at her grogginess, she slipped through the door and began moving silently toward the voices at the end of the hallway. The rug felt soft and well-used beneath her feet, and she paused once she was in range of the voices, recognizing Xaden's among them. But the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, because the voice she heard was chilling.
“The forces at Aretia are only as strong as Tauri’s allegiance,” she heard him say. Violet was so far away, she almost didn’t register the words. She almost missed the lie.
Snapping back to the subject of her dream walk, Violet comprehended, and smiled. She knew what he was doing. Xaden was seeding a false story, painting Tyrrish forces weaker than they were, casting doubt on their ability to act independently from the Navarrian throne. Xaden may have turned Venin, sure. He might have left her. He may have left his entire family, and all his friends behind, but he’d not stopped protecting them, nor had he stopped protecting Tyrrendor. He was still playing both sides. Her heart nearly burst behind her ribs. Violet turned back down the hall, quietly, afraid that either of the venin might sense her presence. Then she pinched herself—hard—and woke up, panting, in her own bed. Gingerly cradling the kernel of hope she felt, Violet slid out of bed. She had work to do.
And, it’s getting easier to find him, she thought, smiling.
————————
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75698241/chapters/197980631
|
{"authors": ["MoonlightMeg"], "language": "English", "title": "Ride or Die"}
|
Afterglow
*after sex
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp. Sheets were tangled; a trace of perspiration clung to the air.
Krueger lay on his back, one arm behind his head, a cigarette resting loosely between his fingers.
He propped himself on an elbow, his every motion measured as he followed Nikto’s movements — a flick of a hand, a lifted shoulder, and the slow rise of his torso with each inhale. Nikto reclined on his side, head resting on one arm. His gaze was impassive as he fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
“That hit the spot, didn’t it?” Krueger asked, eyes keen with teasing. A small curve tugged at his lips. Nikto didn’t answer, only shifting his arm across the bed.
“You know… you’re even colder after all that,” Krueger murmured, each word a half-smile and half-tease. He let out a light chuckle and leaned closer, shoulder brushing Nikto’s side.
“You’re way too still. Makes me want to push a little more.”
Nikto’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Try me,” he muttered, calm and unwavering.
The cigarette was dangling from Krueger’s fingers as smoke curled lazily around him. His gesture was deliberate and teasing — his elbow brushing the sheet as he adjusted. Nikto rolled onto his back, arm tucked behind his head. The mattress dipped with a muted creak, the sound cutting briefly through the heavy silence.
Krueger drew a slow pull of air, smoke curling into the dim as he watched Nikto intently. The lamp’s glow carved harsh planes across his face, drawing sharp lines and a faint gleam in his eyes. Friction hung all around— every unspoken word a spark along an invisible wire.
Nikto finally turned his head, gaze locked with Krueger. “You done staring?” he asked, voice steady, almost daring. "Just making sure you didn’t pass out on me,” Krueger replied, mockery threaded through every syllable. Nikto huffed, a near-laugh that never reached Krueger.
“Bullshit.”
Krueger’s lips twisted into a sly smile. His hand drifted over Nikto’s chest, tracing invisible lines across taut muscles.
Nikto’s muscles tightened just enough for Krueger to notice, a subtle vein pulsing in his neck beneath the pillow.
The cigarette was forgotten on the nightstand.
“You’re quiet,” Krueger coaxed, his lips gliding along the line of Nikto’s shoulder.
“And you never know when to shut up,” Nikto grunted as he adjusted, his arm sliding against Krueger’s. A low, amused snicker slipped from Krueger. He reached to sweep hair from Nikto’s forehead, lingering just long enough to tease.
The air was thick with the faint scent of tobacco, sweat, and residual heat. Each movement brought whispered rustles. A suspenseful pause settled, just long enough to make the next move inevitable.
“Well.. you want me quiet?” Krueger tilted his head, a crooked grin playing on his mouth. “Then make me.” Nikto’s gaze flicked toward him. “Cocky bastard,” he huffed. Krueger let the words hang for a moment. The mischievous leer played on his lips as he followed the subtle twitch of Nikto’s jaw.
The atmosphere throbbed with unspoken dare, each inhale drawn tight through their bodies. Nikto leaned forward, teeth grazing Krueger’s lips. Their mouths collided, tongues mingling in a rough, immediate rhythm. Krueger responded just as fiercely, his smirk intact.
The lamp threw both of their silhouettes across the ceiling, stretching them into jagged shapes. Shadows danced nervously across the walls, rising and falling with every slight movement. Each contact sent a jolt of sensation across their skin.
Nikto growled low, nipping at Krueger’s lower lip as he pulled away. They lingered there for a heartbeat, the strain hanging between them, before finally pulling apart, chests rising and falling in unison.
Silence folded over, thicker this time — settling like a delicate veil draping over them. Krueger exhaled, a hint of laughter in the sound. “Guess that’s one way to shut me up,” he muttered. Nikto didn’t answer immediately, his breath ragged.
“Well… should we?” Krueger’s voice faltered. He moved in, letting a finger trace idle patterns along Nikto’s arm.
Nikto’s eyes narrowed, a low snarl slipping from his parted lips as Krueger’s smirk widened. He answered in his gravelly tone. "..you're under me this time."
“Under you, huh?” Krueger murmured, his words sinking into a hushed undertone. “Didn’t know you were in that kind of mood.” Nikto pushed himself up on an elbow, jaw tight, eyes sharp and dark. He wasn’t smiling—he never really did—but something restless flickered through him, a heat he didn’t bother hiding.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he growled, voice rougher, edged with impatience. His hand closed around Krueger’s shoulder—firm, unyielding. Krueger let himself be guided, a low chuckle escaping out of him.
“Easy, easy… you’re wound up,” he teased. “Not that I mind, tho.” Nikto clicked his tongue, a sound halfway between annoyance and hunger. He shifted his weight, pushing Krueger back into the pillows with a decisive, brisk motion. The sheets
|
Afterglow
*after sex
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp. Sheets were tangled; a trace of perspiration clung to the air.
Krueger lay on his back, one arm behind his head, a cigarette resting loosely between his fingers.
He propped himself on an elbow, his every motion measured as he followed Nikto’s movements — a flick of a hand, a lifted shoulder, and the slow rise of his torso with each inhale. Nikto reclined on his side, head resting on one arm. His gaze was impassive as he fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
“That hit the spot, didn’t it?” Krueger asked, eyes keen with teasing. A small curve tugged at his lips. Nikto didn’t answer, only shifting his arm across the bed.
“You know… you’re even colder after all that,” Krueger murmured, each word a half-smile and half-tease. He let out a light chuckle and leaned closer, shoulder brushing Nikto’s side.
“You’re way too still. Makes me want to push a little more.”
Nikto’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Try me,” he muttered, calm and unwavering.
The cigarette was dangling from Krueger’s fingers as smoke curled lazily around him. His gesture was deliberate and teasing — his elbow brushing the sheet as he adjusted. Nikto rolled onto his back, arm tucked behind his head. The mattress dipped with a muted creak, the sound cutting briefly through the heavy silence.
Krueger drew a slow pull of air, smoke curling into the dim as he watched Nikto intently. The lamp’s glow carved harsh planes across his face, drawing sharp lines and a faint gleam in his eyes. Friction hung all around— every unspoken word a spark along an invisible wire.
Nikto finally turned his head, gaze locked with Krueger. “You done staring?” he asked, voice steady, almost daring. "Just making sure you didn’t pass out on me,” Krueger replied, mockery threaded through every syllable. Nikto huffed, a near-laugh that never reached Krueger.
“Bullshit.”
Krueger’s lips twisted into a sly smile. His hand drifted over Nikto’s chest, tracing invisible lines across taut muscles.
Nikto’s muscles tightened just enough for Krueger to notice, a subtle vein pulsing in his neck beneath the pillow.
The cigarette was forgotten on the nightstand.
“You’re quiet,” Krueger coaxed, his lips gliding along the line of Nikto’s shoulder.
“And you never know when to shut up,” Nikto grunted as he adjusted, his arm sliding against Krueger’s. A low, amused snicker slipped from Krueger. He reached to sweep hair from Nikto’s forehead, lingering just long enough to tease.
The air was thick with the faint scent of tobacco, sweat, and residual heat. Each movement brought whispered rustles. A suspenseful pause settled, just long enough to make the next move inevitable.
“Well.. you want me quiet?” Krueger tilted his head, a crooked grin playing on his mouth. “Then make me.” Nikto’s gaze flicked toward him. “Cocky bastard,” he huffed. Krueger let the words hang for a moment. The mischievous leer played on his lips as he followed the subtle twitch of Nikto’s jaw.
The atmosphere throbbed with unspoken dare, each inhale drawn tight through their bodies. Nikto leaned forward, teeth grazing Krueger’s lips. Their mouths collided, tongues mingling in a rough, immediate rhythm. Krueger responded just as fiercely, his smirk intact.
The lamp threw both of their silhouettes across the ceiling, stretching them into jagged shapes. Shadows danced nervously across the walls, rising and falling with every slight movement. Each contact sent a jolt of sensation across their skin.
Nikto growled low, nipping at Krueger’s lower lip as he pulled away. They lingered there for a heartbeat, the strain hanging between them, before finally pulling apart, chests rising and falling in unison.
Silence folded over, thicker this time — settling like a delicate veil draping over them. Krueger exhaled, a hint of laughter in the sound. “Guess that’s one way to shut me up,” he muttered. Nikto didn’t answer immediately, his breath ragged.
“Well… should we?” Krueger’s voice faltered. He moved in, letting a finger trace idle patterns along Nikto’s arm.
Nikto’s eyes narrowed, a low snarl slipping from his parted lips as Krueger’s smirk widened. He answered in his gravelly tone. "..you're under me this time."
“Under you, huh?” Krueger murmured, his words sinking into a hushed undertone. “Didn’t know you were in that kind of mood.” Nikto pushed himself up on an elbow, jaw tight, eyes sharp and dark. He wasn’t smiling—he never really did—but something restless flickered through him, a heat he didn’t bother hiding.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he growled, voice rougher, edged with impatience. His hand closed around Krueger’s shoulder—firm, unyielding. Krueger let himself be guided, a low chuckle escaping out of him.
“Easy, easy… you’re wound up,” he teased. “Not that I mind, tho.” Nikto clicked his tongue, a sound halfway between annoyance and hunger. He shifted his weight, pushing Krueger back into the pillows with a decisive, brisk motion. The sheets rustled, the mattress dipping beneath the placement of his knee as he leaned over him.
Krueger looked up at Nikto. His eyes were alight, his breath catching for a moment. “Well,” he said, his cadence dropping into a silken taunt, “come get what you want, then.”
Nikto didn’t answer with words. He hovered over Krueger, his attention snapped solely to him. His fingers wrapped around Krueger’s wrist, holding it near the pillow beside his head. The hold wasn’t harsh, but it was unmistakably firm—enough to make Krueger’s smirk twitch wider.
“…You’re really not letting me move, huh?” Krueger whispered. Nikto leaned in, lips brushing Krueger’s ear. “Not until I’m done with you.”
Nikto didn’t move at first. He stayed there, hovering above Krueger with that heavy, unreadable stare like he was deciding just how far he wanted to push things. Krueger’s breathing was uneven—not from fear, but from the shift he felt in Nikto.
Impulsive. Dangerous. Focused entirely on him.
It dragged a slow, simmering temptation up from somewhere deep in his chest. “Getting possessive, hmm?” Krueger tried to move his wrist, only for Nikto’s grip to tighten by the smallest fraction—just enough to warn, not enough to hurt. Not yet.
“Didn’t give you permission to talk,” Nikto muttered. “Oh? We’re doing rules now? Cute.” Krueger shot back, though the brief pause before he spoke betrayed a spark of anticipation he couldn’t quite hide.
Nikto didn’t bite. Instead, He slid his knee between Krueger’s legs, settling his weight there as he nudged him open further, shifting the mattress beneath them. His free hand caught Krueger’s jaw, tilting it up. “Shut up.." he rumbled, the sound rumbling low in his chest.
Nikto’s thumb followed the line of his pulse with deliberate pressure. A low sound escaped Krueger as his body seized for a beat, the tension beneath his shoulders intensifying the edge of Nikto’s touch.
"That's all you’ve got?” Krueger taunted, his voice thinning under the tight coil of pressure running through him. Nikto’s gaze turned to slits.
Without a word, he dipped his head and dragged his teeth along the curve of Krueger’s neck — a deep, forceful bite that made Krueger’s fingers curl against the sheets.
Krueger’s laugh came out, shaky. “There it is…” Nikto’s grip shifted, sliding from Krueger’s wrist to the side of his neck, thumb resting just under the jaw.
“You talk like you want to be punished,” Nikto spat the word out with a low growl. “Maybe I do,” Krueger breathed. Nikto’s mouth brushed the spot he’d bitten, low against Krueger’s skin.
“Brat.” His teeth sank in again — this time harder, claiming. Krueger's composure wavered, his smirk faltering into something rawer.
Nikto lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re not going anywhere,” He muttered, his words steady. Yet, the momentary tremor in his grip betrayed the feeling he refused to name. And Krueger, chest rising fast beneath him, answered with a grin sharpened into pure challenge.
“Good. I wasn’t planning to."
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75691656
|
{"authors": ["Knklv"], "language": "English", "title": "Afterglow"}
|
Echoes of Anemo
The palace ballroom had never been this loud.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light like molten gold. Foreign delegates—diplomats, merchants, nobles in extravagant fabrics—swirled around in elegant formations, ribbons of color twisting in the air. Music drifted like perfume, faint and refined.
For Calian, it was boring.
For Plantz, it was tolerable at best.
At the start of the evening, he’d stood beside Calian, sharing brief words—if two syllables counted as “words”—before the attendants pulled them apart for formal greetings. Calian, for all his scheming cleverness, was still a prince, and princes could not avoid duties.
Still, his brother had looked well earlier. Cool and composed, in his subdued, sharp way. No warmth in his expression but no coldness either. Just the calm neutrality that made people exhale in relief and Calian breathe easier.
So when Calian later caught sight of Plantz across the ballroom—shoulders stiff, steps uneven—something in his chest tightened.
The second prince didn’t stagger.
He didn’t sway.
He didn’t miss a step unless something was very, very wrong.
So Calian excused himself from the all too eager nobles mid-conversation—earning confused looks—and crossed the ballroom in quick, silent steps. He reached his brother just as Plantz’s hand slipped from the stem of a wineglass, the liquid sloshing dangerously.
“Older brother?” Calian called quietly, masking alarm with the facade of princely smile. “You’re pale.”
Blue eyes lifted slowly. Too slowly. They were unfocused, pupils dilated as if he’d been running or—
No. Calian’s breath hitched.
Plantz didn’t get flustered. Not like this.
“Little… brother,” he murmured. His voice was rougher than usual, low and strangely warm.
The third prince froze.
Something was wrong.
Then Plantz blinked, swayed again—this time violently.
Calian moved instantly.
His arm wrapped around Plantz’s waist, pulling him close before the older prince could collapse. He could feel it now—the heat radiating from the other’s body like a fever.
Too hot.
Much too hot.
“Older brother,” Calian whispered sharply, “look at me.”
Plantz’s gaze lifted sluggishly, unfocused but clinging to him.
“Brother…” The word left his lips in a breath that was both relieved and strained, almost needy.
Calian felt his spine lock rigid.
Not good.
Not good at all.
“Come with me,” the younger said, switching to a tone he used only when danger was immediate but hidden. “Don’t draw attention.”
Plantz didn’t answer. He merely leaned into Calian, head brushing his shoulder, breath warm against his neck.
Calian swallowed hard.
He guided Plantz out of the ballroom, ignoring the curious looks. The nearest side room was a resting chamber for guests—dim, quiet, mostly empty at this hour. Calian shut the door behind them and turned—
Just in time for Plantz to pitch forward.
“Brother!” Calian caught him again, both of them stumbling onto a long couch. Plantz's body pressed fully against him, heavy with heat.
That was when Calian felt it—the quickening breath, the tremor in his hands gripping Calian’s collar, the faint flush painting his usually cool cheeks.
No fever.
No illness.
No poison.
Red eyes narrowed, expression sharp. “…What did you drink?”
Plantz blinked slowly, breathing uneven. “…Red…glass. The server…handed it.”
Calian’s jaw tightened.
“Do you feel dizzy?”
“Warm,” Plantz admitted, voice strained.
“How warm?”
“…Too warm.”
A head of blue hair dropped forward, forehead pressing against Calian’s shoulder. The older prince exhaled shakily, fingers fisting in the black shirt as if trying to anchor himself.
Then Calian smelled it.
A faint, sweet, cloying scent clinging around them.
Philter.
A strong one.
One that should’ve been useless against someone with Syspanian’s blessing—except this wasn’t useless. This was potent enough to slip through the divine resistance like water through cracks.
Calian felt something cold and murderous coil low in his gut.
Someone dared to do to this tohis brother?
“We’ll deal with the culprit later,” he muttered darkly, pulling Plantz closer so he wouldn’t fall. “Focus on breathing. Older brother, can you hear me?”
The second didn’t answer with words.
He tightened his grip instead—hands sliding from Calian’s collar to his shoulders, then down his arms with a slow, deliberate pressure that sent shivers through the younger prince.
“Brother—wait—Plantz,” Calian breathed, heartbeat spiking. “Don’t—don’t do anything rash. Just hold on.”
Plantz lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
Calian saw the moment the philter fog pulsed through him—a tremor ran down Plantz's spine, his lips parting with a quiet gasp he immediately tried to swallow.
He was resisting.
Hard.
Muscles taut with restraint, breath uneven, eyes burning with something Calian wasn’t used to seeing—raw, unshielded want.
“…Calian,” Plantz breathed, voice low, hoarse.
“Yes?” Calian replied, barely above a whisper.
“Too tight.”
“You’re holding onto me.”
“…Let go.”
Calian blinked—and realized he was
|
Echoes of Anemo
The palace ballroom had never been this loud.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light like molten gold. Foreign delegates—diplomats, merchants, nobles in extravagant fabrics—swirled around in elegant formations, ribbons of color twisting in the air. Music drifted like perfume, faint and refined.
For Calian, it was boring.
For Plantz, it was tolerable at best.
At the start of the evening, he’d stood beside Calian, sharing brief words—if two syllables counted as “words”—before the attendants pulled them apart for formal greetings. Calian, for all his scheming cleverness, was still a prince, and princes could not avoid duties.
Still, his brother had looked well earlier. Cool and composed, in his subdued, sharp way. No warmth in his expression but no coldness either. Just the calm neutrality that made people exhale in relief and Calian breathe easier.
So when Calian later caught sight of Plantz across the ballroom—shoulders stiff, steps uneven—something in his chest tightened.
The second prince didn’t stagger.
He didn’t sway.
He didn’t miss a step unless something was very, very wrong.
So Calian excused himself from the all too eager nobles mid-conversation—earning confused looks—and crossed the ballroom in quick, silent steps. He reached his brother just as Plantz’s hand slipped from the stem of a wineglass, the liquid sloshing dangerously.
“Older brother?” Calian called quietly, masking alarm with the facade of princely smile. “You’re pale.”
Blue eyes lifted slowly. Too slowly. They were unfocused, pupils dilated as if he’d been running or—
No. Calian’s breath hitched.
Plantz didn’t get flustered. Not like this.
“Little… brother,” he murmured. His voice was rougher than usual, low and strangely warm.
The third prince froze.
Something was wrong.
Then Plantz blinked, swayed again—this time violently.
Calian moved instantly.
His arm wrapped around Plantz’s waist, pulling him close before the older prince could collapse. He could feel it now—the heat radiating from the other’s body like a fever.
Too hot.
Much too hot.
“Older brother,” Calian whispered sharply, “look at me.”
Plantz’s gaze lifted sluggishly, unfocused but clinging to him.
“Brother…” The word left his lips in a breath that was both relieved and strained, almost needy.
Calian felt his spine lock rigid.
Not good.
Not good at all.
“Come with me,” the younger said, switching to a tone he used only when danger was immediate but hidden. “Don’t draw attention.”
Plantz didn’t answer. He merely leaned into Calian, head brushing his shoulder, breath warm against his neck.
Calian swallowed hard.
He guided Plantz out of the ballroom, ignoring the curious looks. The nearest side room was a resting chamber for guests—dim, quiet, mostly empty at this hour. Calian shut the door behind them and turned—
Just in time for Plantz to pitch forward.
“Brother!” Calian caught him again, both of them stumbling onto a long couch. Plantz's body pressed fully against him, heavy with heat.
That was when Calian felt it—the quickening breath, the tremor in his hands gripping Calian’s collar, the faint flush painting his usually cool cheeks.
No fever.
No illness.
No poison.
Red eyes narrowed, expression sharp. “…What did you drink?”
Plantz blinked slowly, breathing uneven. “…Red…glass. The server…handed it.”
Calian’s jaw tightened.
“Do you feel dizzy?”
“Warm,” Plantz admitted, voice strained.
“How warm?”
“…Too warm.”
A head of blue hair dropped forward, forehead pressing against Calian’s shoulder. The older prince exhaled shakily, fingers fisting in the black shirt as if trying to anchor himself.
Then Calian smelled it.
A faint, sweet, cloying scent clinging around them.
Philter.
A strong one.
One that should’ve been useless against someone with Syspanian’s blessing—except this wasn’t useless. This was potent enough to slip through the divine resistance like water through cracks.
Calian felt something cold and murderous coil low in his gut.
Someone dared to do to this tohis brother?
“We’ll deal with the culprit later,” he muttered darkly, pulling Plantz closer so he wouldn’t fall. “Focus on breathing. Older brother, can you hear me?”
The second didn’t answer with words.
He tightened his grip instead—hands sliding from Calian’s collar to his shoulders, then down his arms with a slow, deliberate pressure that sent shivers through the younger prince.
“Brother—wait—Plantz,” Calian breathed, heartbeat spiking. “Don’t—don’t do anything rash. Just hold on.”
Plantz lifted his head.
Their eyes met.
Calian saw the moment the philter fog pulsed through him—a tremor ran down Plantz's spine, his lips parting with a quiet gasp he immediately tried to swallow.
He was resisting.
Hard.
Muscles taut with restraint, breath uneven, eyes burning with something Calian wasn’t used to seeing—raw, unshielded want.
“…Calian,” Plantz breathed, voice low, hoarse.
“Yes?” Calian replied, barely above a whisper.
“Too tight.”
“You’re holding onto me.”
“…Let go.”
Calian blinked—and realized he was gripping Plantz's waist fiercely, anchoring him.
He loosened his hold—
only for Plantz to immediately surge forward.
Their bodies collided, pushing Calian back onto the couch. Pale hands braced on either side of his head, breath trembling as he hovered above him, fighting… something.
“No—no, older brother, wait—” Calian stammered, breathless. “You’re not thinking straight—”
Plantz dipped down abruptly, his nose brushing his cheek, breath touching his lips.
“Little brother,” came a whisper, almost like a plea. “Stay.”
Calian’s resolve cracked in half.
He should’ve pushed him away. He should’ve created distance. He should’ve done anything except—
Plantz’s lips touched his.
Not fully. Just a brush. A trembling, starving question.
Calian froze.
Plantz pulled back half an inch, breathing uneven. “…Don’t.”
It wasn’t clear whether he meant don’t stop me or don’t let me lose control.
Calian didn’t know.
He only knew one thing.
He wanted this.
He’d wanted his brother for far longer than he ever admitted.
And with Plantz trembling above him, struggling to breathe, to think, to control himself—
Calian broke.
He reached up, fingers slipping behind Plantz's neck, pulling him down.
Their mouths met in a kiss that was nothing like romance.
It was urgent. Messy. Starved.
Plantz made a sound—a soft, broken exhale that melted into Calian’s mouth as he kissed back with staggering intensity. His hands slid down black-clad shoulders, gripping him with enough strength to bruise. Every breath he took was hot, shaky, desperate.
Calian responded without thinking.
He kissed back fiercely.
He pulled the other closer letting Plantz’s weight press him down until they were chest to chest, breaths tangling, lips parting only to meet again with more urgency.
“Brother—” Calian gasped between kisses, dizzy. “You—you have to stop—”
“No,” Plantz’s whispered against his lips, voice shaking. “Can’t.”
He kissed him again—harder, deeper—and Calian let out a breath that sounded too close to a moan.
His thoughts blurred.
The world narrowed to the heat of Plantz’s body, the way the older prince trembled yet held him firmly, the way he tasted faintly sweet from the spiked drink, the way he whispered Calian’s name like he’d wanted this for years.
It was too much.
Too good.
Too dangerous.
“Brother…Plantz—!” Calian gasped, hands sliding to his brother’s waist, anchoring him just as hard. “If—if we don’t stop now—I won’t—”
Plantz’s lips trailed down his jaw, breath hot and uneven. “Then don’t.”
Something in Calian snapped.
Desire.
Fear.
Want.
All tangled.
He flipped them.
Plantz hit the couch with a startled exhale as Calian pinned him down, both panting, faces flushed.
Calian stared at him—at his trembling lips, parted helplessly; at the flush creeping down his neck; at the desperate, hazy eyes fixed on him like he was the only thing in the world.
“Older brother,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You’ll regret this when you’re sober.”
Plantz swallowed, chest rising and falling rapidly. “…Maybe.”
Calian’s breath hitched.
“But,” Plantz murmured, lifting a hand—touching the younger’s cheek with fingers that still trembled, “not… now.”
Calian’s entire body went hot.
That was exactly why he had to stop.
“Sorry, older brother,” he whispered—and before the other could react, Calian pressed a spell to his brother’s pulse point.
Plantz gasped softly—eyes widening—then slowly closed, body relaxing as the magic pulled him into unconsciousness. His hand slipped from Calian’s cheek.
The third prince sat there, breathing hard, staring at the lips he’d just devoured.
He brushed a thumb over them—once.
“…I want to do that again,” he admitted quietly. “But not like this.”
He leaned down and pressed his forehead against Plantz's shoulder, exhaling shakily.
“Another time,” he whispered into the soft blue hair, voice rough with longing and frustration. “When you’re sober. When you can choose.”
He caressed the still flushing cheek, feeling the fading warmth.
“I want to know what you’ll do then.”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75691676
|
{"authors": ["IncompleteSelves"], "language": "English", "title": "Echoes of Anemo"}
|
The Kages’ Slave
“Ex-excuse me… what did you just say?”
“You heard me. Uchiha Sasuke is dead,” Tsunade repeated, her words heavy, echoing through the room.
Naruto thought he must have misheard again. Unsure, or more like in denial, he asked once more, “Excuse—”
“I know you heard me, brat!” Tsunade snapped, her gaze fierce. “Uchiha Sasuke. Is. Dead.”
No… this can’t be real. Sasuke’s not dead. He forced a shaky smile. “Baa-chan, stop joking! This isn’t funny, dattebayo!”
Tsunade slammed her palms on the desk. “Do you really think I’d joke about something like this?!”
Naruto leaned back, arms behind his head, a grin plastered on his face. “I get it. You want me to give up on Sasuke. Nice try! Almost fell for it,” he laughed, masking the dread twisting in his chest.
“Naruto…” A shaky voice broke through beside him.
He turned to see Sakura, her pink hair framing a face contorted with pain, tears threatening to spill.
Naruto offered her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Sakura-chan. You know… Sasuke’d never be taken down that easily. They’re just trying to make us give up on him.”
Sakura wanted so badly to cling to his words, but Tsunade’s eyes said it all. Panic welled up inside her as she hugged herself tighter, her tears gathering faster.
She glanced at Kakashi and Sai, who stood silently beside her, their expressions unreadable. Lost and uncertain, she couldn’t gauge their emotions.Her attention snapped back to Naruto, who was still vehemently denying Tsunade’s earlier words.
‘Naruto… please stop’, Sakura pleaded silently, trying to catch his attention, signaling for him to back down. But he seemed completely oblivious.
“You know, Baa-chan, you must’ve been dreaming, since you just came out of a long slumber…” Naruto babbled, pacing a little and waving his hands nervously, attempting to lighten the oppressive atmosphere filling the room.
“I wasn’t in a slumber, Naruto! I was in a COMA!” Tsunade snapped, slamming her palm on the desk as irritation flashed across her face.
“Yeah… whatever. All I’m saying is you must’ve just dreamed that Sasuke was dead. Sometimes I have nightmares about that teme dying at the hands of crazy fangirls,” he rambled on, shrugging, completely missing the tension thickening around him.
Kakashi stepped forward, placing himself firmly in front of the desk. “Where did you get this information?” he asked, his tone grave enough to startle both Naruto and Sakura.
“Kakashi-sensei, don’t tell me you actually believe what Baa-chan is saying?” Naruto scoffed, still clinging to denial.
Ignoring him, Kakashi turned to Tsunade, urging her to continue. She nodded solemnly, picked up the letter lying on her desk, and handed it to him. Kakashi took it and read it carefully, his eyes widening.
“The letter’s from the Raikage. It says Uchiha Sasuke was killed during an assault on the Five Kages’ Summit. He didn’t stand a chance—and he died along with his team,” she explained, pausing when she noticed Kakashi’s hand trembled. Though he kept his usual calm facade, Tsunade could see the turmoil beneath the mask; it was painfully clear just how deeply he cared for his former student.
Tsunade took a deep breath, her heart heavy. “I couldn’t say or do anything. Sasuke was, in fact, labeled as a rogue ninja by the Five Nations and officialy marked for death, even though he used to be one of Konoha’s own.”
“He STILL belongs to Konoha!” Naruto shouted, his voice rising with anger. He looked sharply at Tsunade, then at Kakashi. “Kakashi-sensei, you can’t actually believe this, right?” His disbelief was palpable.
Kakashi just looked at him, saying nothing, his hand still trembling as he gripped the letter. Naruto’s eyes softened, his usual defiance faltering as he took in the heavy expression on Kakashi’s face.
Sakura, unable to hold back any longer, sank to her knees, tears streaming down her face. She wrapped her arms around her legs, shivering as grief consumed her.
“Sasuke-kun!” she cried, her voice cracking. Her body shook with sobs, and she buried her face against her knees, overwhelmed by sorrow.
Naruto looked down at her—at her tear-streaked cheeks—and he felt frozen, unable to comfort her. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, battling the whirlwind of emotions raging inside him. His body trembled as he struggled to accept the reality. No… it can’t be. No way… I need to see him…
Turning to Tsunade, anger and desperation bubbled over. “If he’s really dead, I need to see his body! I can’t accept it unless I see him!” he barked, the urgency in his voice thick with anguish. In his mind, the words echoed, He can’t be gone… Not like this…
Tsunade’s gaze was heavy with sorrow. “You can’t, Naruto. His body… and those of his team… were completely disintegrated by the Tsuchikage’s jutsu during the battle.”
“No!” Naruto shook his head violently, stepping back as tears spilled down his cheeks. He refused to believe it. He couldn’t believe he would never see Sasuke again. After years of relentless
|
The Kages’ Slave
“Ex-excuse me… what did you just say?”
“You heard me. Uchiha Sasuke is dead,” Tsunade repeated, her words heavy, echoing through the room.
Naruto thought he must have misheard again. Unsure, or more like in denial, he asked once more, “Excuse—”
“I know you heard me, brat!” Tsunade snapped, her gaze fierce. “Uchiha Sasuke. Is. Dead.”
No… this can’t be real. Sasuke’s not dead. He forced a shaky smile. “Baa-chan, stop joking! This isn’t funny, dattebayo!”
Tsunade slammed her palms on the desk. “Do you really think I’d joke about something like this?!”
Naruto leaned back, arms behind his head, a grin plastered on his face. “I get it. You want me to give up on Sasuke. Nice try! Almost fell for it,” he laughed, masking the dread twisting in his chest.
“Naruto…” A shaky voice broke through beside him.
He turned to see Sakura, her pink hair framing a face contorted with pain, tears threatening to spill.
Naruto offered her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Sakura-chan. You know… Sasuke’d never be taken down that easily. They’re just trying to make us give up on him.”
Sakura wanted so badly to cling to his words, but Tsunade’s eyes said it all. Panic welled up inside her as she hugged herself tighter, her tears gathering faster.
She glanced at Kakashi and Sai, who stood silently beside her, their expressions unreadable. Lost and uncertain, she couldn’t gauge their emotions.Her attention snapped back to Naruto, who was still vehemently denying Tsunade’s earlier words.
‘Naruto… please stop’, Sakura pleaded silently, trying to catch his attention, signaling for him to back down. But he seemed completely oblivious.
“You know, Baa-chan, you must’ve been dreaming, since you just came out of a long slumber…” Naruto babbled, pacing a little and waving his hands nervously, attempting to lighten the oppressive atmosphere filling the room.
“I wasn’t in a slumber, Naruto! I was in a COMA!” Tsunade snapped, slamming her palm on the desk as irritation flashed across her face.
“Yeah… whatever. All I’m saying is you must’ve just dreamed that Sasuke was dead. Sometimes I have nightmares about that teme dying at the hands of crazy fangirls,” he rambled on, shrugging, completely missing the tension thickening around him.
Kakashi stepped forward, placing himself firmly in front of the desk. “Where did you get this information?” he asked, his tone grave enough to startle both Naruto and Sakura.
“Kakashi-sensei, don’t tell me you actually believe what Baa-chan is saying?” Naruto scoffed, still clinging to denial.
Ignoring him, Kakashi turned to Tsunade, urging her to continue. She nodded solemnly, picked up the letter lying on her desk, and handed it to him. Kakashi took it and read it carefully, his eyes widening.
“The letter’s from the Raikage. It says Uchiha Sasuke was killed during an assault on the Five Kages’ Summit. He didn’t stand a chance—and he died along with his team,” she explained, pausing when she noticed Kakashi’s hand trembled. Though he kept his usual calm facade, Tsunade could see the turmoil beneath the mask; it was painfully clear just how deeply he cared for his former student.
Tsunade took a deep breath, her heart heavy. “I couldn’t say or do anything. Sasuke was, in fact, labeled as a rogue ninja by the Five Nations and officialy marked for death, even though he used to be one of Konoha’s own.”
“He STILL belongs to Konoha!” Naruto shouted, his voice rising with anger. He looked sharply at Tsunade, then at Kakashi. “Kakashi-sensei, you can’t actually believe this, right?” His disbelief was palpable.
Kakashi just looked at him, saying nothing, his hand still trembling as he gripped the letter. Naruto’s eyes softened, his usual defiance faltering as he took in the heavy expression on Kakashi’s face.
Sakura, unable to hold back any longer, sank to her knees, tears streaming down her face. She wrapped her arms around her legs, shivering as grief consumed her.
“Sasuke-kun!” she cried, her voice cracking. Her body shook with sobs, and she buried her face against her knees, overwhelmed by sorrow.
Naruto looked down at her—at her tear-streaked cheeks—and he felt frozen, unable to comfort her. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, battling the whirlwind of emotions raging inside him. His body trembled as he struggled to accept the reality. No… it can’t be. No way… I need to see him…
Turning to Tsunade, anger and desperation bubbled over. “If he’s really dead, I need to see his body! I can’t accept it unless I see him!” he barked, the urgency in his voice thick with anguish. In his mind, the words echoed, He can’t be gone… Not like this…
Tsunade’s gaze was heavy with sorrow. “You can’t, Naruto. His body… and those of his team… were completely disintegrated by the Tsuchikage’s jutsu during the battle.”
“No!” Naruto shook his head violently, stepping back as tears spilled down his cheeks. He refused to believe it. He couldn’t believe he would never see Sasuke again. After years of relentless training, after sacrificing everything to bring him home—was this really how it ended?
“No… this can’t be happening. You must be lying!” Panic gripped him. He staggered backward, his chest tightening painfully, stealing the air from his lungs.
Kakashi stepped forward, his voice sharp but gentle. “Oi, Naruto… breathe.”
Naruto gasped, desperately trying to inhale as the panic overtook him. His vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges as he fought against the crushing weight of despair. The last thing he registered was Kakashi reaching for him, concern etched across his face—before everything faded to black.
Sasuke…
Two years later…
What Naruto and the others failed to realize was that Uchiha Sasuke was still alive—hidden away in a secret location by the Five Kages. They had announced to all the villages that Team Taka had been defeated and executed, but intentionally left out the most crucial detail where they were keeping their leader as a prize possession.
Nearly two years had passed since the incident at the Kage Summit. Sasuke was imprisoned in a remote site strategically placed between the five great villages, a location purposely chosen to ensure that no one could ever find him. The Kages had his chakra permanently suppressed, leaving him utterly helpless, and the area was fortified with elite ANBU from each nation, making escape impossible. This site also served as a venue for high-stakes meetings among the Kages of the great shinobi nations.
Whenever the Kages held their meetings, they would visit Sasuke and force him to serve them however they saw fit—whether as a slave or a sex toy. Although Sasuke was officially the property of all the village leaders—Danzo Shimura, Mei Terumi, Onoki, the Raikage A, and Gaara—the Raikage claimed him most aggressively, proudly boasting that he had been the one to defeat the Uchiha. Yet, this did nothing to stop the other Kages from laying their hands on him. The only Kage who never touched Sasuke was Gaara, who chose to disregard the Uchiha's existence entirely.
Tonight was destined to be pure hell for Sasuke, as another meeting was being held. The maids had dressed him in a provocative red satin kimono—specifically designed as kimono-style lingerie that was so short it exposed his smooth pale legs and inner thighs. His chest was intentionally left bare, and the kimono, tied too tightly around his body, made his round pecs bulge in a way reminiscent of a woman's curves. The thin satin clung to him, making his perky nipples jut out against the fabric. To add to his humiliation, the maids insisted he wear pink silk panties, the purpose of which baffled him since they were likely to be torn off shortly. His naturally pale complexion was obscured under heavy makeup, and his hair was styled with care, resembling a beautiful geisha.
After the maids finished preparing the young Uchiha, they were about to leave him alone to wait for the ANBU to escort him to the Kages. However, before they departed, the maids paused at the door for one last, lingering glance at the raven-haired boy.
Sasuke could feel their eyes lingering on his exposed backside, accentuated by his scant attire. He let out a deep sigh, fully aware of why his rear attracted such attention. His rear was prominent, protruding like a pair of perfectly rounded, fleshy globes that held an irresistible allure.
Turning sharply, Sasuke shot a furious glare at the leering maids, trying to intimidate them into leaving him be. To his relief, they quickly scurried away, their giggles echoing down the hallway. Once they vanished, he strode over to the full-length mirror, gazing at his own reflection with disgust.
Sasuke loathed what he saw in the mirror. The kimono was far too small and tight, the fabric clinging to his ample behind and accentuating its roundness. The hem of the kimono stopped just above the fullest curve of his butt, exposing the tight panties that rode up between his cheeks, giving him an embarrassing wedgie. The panties left little coverage for his bulge in front. From his reflection, he viewed a figure that resembled a common courtesan, flaunting an alluring body that many men would desire—or worse, seek to sexually humiliate.
Clad in the revealing kimono, with his pecs prominently displayed, Sasuke felt a wave of humiliation wash over him, haunted by the reality that the five Kages could use him as they pleased. He had been too weak to avenge his brother's death, and now he felt stripped of his identity as a mighty Uchiha, reduced to nothing more than a mere plaything.
Suddenly, a sharp knock shattered his spiraling thoughts. A voice called from beyond the door, informing him that the Kages were waiting in the conference room and demanding his immediate presence.
Sasuke closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady his nerves, trying to quell the growing anxiety that clutched at his chest before leaving his room. With a resigned posture, he stepped out and was flanked by two ANBU.
As they proceeded toward the conference room, the ANBU commanded him to walk in front. Sasuke could feel their eyes locked on his big butt with every step, and he winced as the tight kimono shifted against him. Each movement forced the back of his panties deeper between his cheeks, causing him to gasp involuntarily each time the fabric brushed painfully against his private part. The ANBU chuckled at his discomfort, giving him a playful spank to urge him to hurry along.
Despite their attempts to rush him, Sasuke noticed that the ANBU were deliberately leading him on a longer route to the conference room. He recognized that they had walked the same hallway several times.
Knowing better than to question them, Sasuke simply followed their orders, bracing himself for yet another spank on his right buttcheek as one ANBU barked at him to turn right, guiding him once more down the same corridor.
Throughout the walk, the ANBU continued to mock him. “Those cheeks look good in those pink panties… Too bad Raikage-sama will have that big butt as red as a baboon’s soon enough,” one of them taunted, laughter spilling from their lips as if Sasuke were invisible.
Another added, “I guess Yuto will have another hard time emptying his gut again. I bet he’ll be filled up in no time, needing a mountain of enemas to flush him out!”
Hearing their cruel jests, Sasuke gritted his teeth. He couldn’t allow himself to feel anger; he knew that what they said was the dark fate awaiting him.
After a full five minutes, the ANBU finally brought Sasuke to the entrance of the conference room, where the five Kages eagerly awaited their precious pet’s arrival. Standing nervously before the imposing double doors, Sasuke took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead.
As the two ANBU swung the doors open, he was immediately confronted by the sight of the five Kages lounging comfortably at the long, polished table. The Raikage sat at the center, a predatory smirk spreading across his face as his gaze landed on the Uchiha.
“It’s about time you arrived,” he drawled, impatience lacing his voice. “We wrapped up the meeting ages ago and have been counting the minutes for you to join us.”
The Raikage's smirk widened as he observed Sasuke's futile attempts to cover his ample backside with the hem of his skimpy kimono. The Raikage had tailored the garment specifically to highlight his curves. No matter how hard he tugged the kimono down, it wouldn’t conceal his stunning, luscious silhouette from view.
One of the ANBU then leaned close to Sasuke, his voice deceptively respectful. “Forgive us for the wait, Raikage-sama. Despite our efforts to hurry him along, it appears he took his sweet time getting ready.” The words hung in the air, carrying an unspoken accusation—that Sasuke was somehow deliberately delaying his own audience with the Kages.
Sasuke lowered his gaze, gritting his teeth in fury. Inwardly, he seethed at their shameless accusations, knowing full well it was the ANBU who had delayed him.
“So, this is how it is, huh?” The Raikage’s brow furrowed in displeasure, clearly taking the ANBU’s words at face value. Sasuke met his gaze, his eyes silently protesting the false claim, but he remained quiet, fully aware that speaking without permission could bring worse consequences.
“You need to be punished for your tardiness,” Raikage declared, a cruel sneer forming on his lips, causing the Uchiha to flinch unconsciously. “Now, get up on the table and crawl to the centre. It’s time for your punishment, bitch!” he commanded.
Sasuke blushed deeply in embarrassment but immediately obeyed the order. He pulled his legs up onto the table, positioning himself on his hands and knees on the smooth surface. As he did so, the skirt of his kimono was automatically pulled up, presenting the Kages with a nice view of his two fleshy globes, which shook and jiggled deliciously as he crawled slowly toward the center. He heard their snickers as he moved.
When he arrived at the center, he stayed still on his hands and knees, waiting for his punishment. Without delay, he felt several hands spanking his big butt.
“Ahh! Ahh! Ouch! Ahh! Ahah!” he gasped and yelped with each strike.
While he could endure the pain, he knew he had to vocalize it. In the past, he had bitten his lip to stay silent and protect his pride, but the Raikage had punished him by gagging him, declaring that if he refused to make a sound, he should keep it all inside. Since that lesson, Sasuke never held back his cries whenever he was punished or assaulted.
"Look at how full and meaty his flesh is," Mizukage Mei said, her voice dripping with mockery as she delivered another sharp slap to the boy's ample backside. A wicked grin spread across her face as she watched the ripples of his flesh quiver. "No matter how hard I spank him, it only turns a lovely shade of pink."
She exchanged a glance with Onoki, who chuckled in agreement. Only she and Onoki were administering the strikes, while Raikage leaned back in his chair, a triumphant smirk on his face as he savored the humiliating display before him. Meanwhile, Danzo and Gaara feigned indifference, their expressions unreadable.
Onoki's smirk widened. "Oh, I have the perfect things for this." he said with a wicked glint in his eye. With a sudden flourish, his right hand expanded dramatically, growing massive. He brought it down hard on Sasuke’s backside, the impact sending a ripple through the boy’s flesh.
Sasuke's eyes widened in shock from the intense, burning pain. “Ahhh! Ahhh!” The cries escaped his lips involuntarily.
With a mischievous grin, Onoki sneered, “You know, this big hand is the perfect match for that big ass of yours, wouldn’t you agree?” He punctuated his words with another sharp smack to the jiggling backside, relishing the sight as it bounced. “ANSWER ME!” he roared, delivering a harder strike.
Sasuke nodded his head vigorously, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Y-yes! Oh yes! Aah!” he exclaimed, breathless with urgency. His desperate affirmation elicited a satisfied laugh from the Kages gathered around him.
With just a few more strikes, Sasuke's rear had turned the same fiery crimson shade as the kimono he wore, each spank echoing ominously in the tense atmosphere of the room.
Raikage's smirk widened as he watched the boy tilt his head back, his eyes wide and blankly staring at the ceiling. Sasuke’s face flushed with deep humiliation, his mouth slightly ajar and his tongue peeking out as he thrust his rear backward, inviting the other Kages to spank him.
Raikage couldn't help but notice the boy's growing arousal, evidenced by the wetness that began to seep around the bulge of his panties, signaling his involuntary response to the humiliation. Over the years, he had meticulously trained Sasuke’s body to react in such ways, ensuring that even a light spanking could drive him to the edge of climax.
Feeling satisfied with the enticing view, Raikage leaned forward and smirked, saying, “Now say it.”
With a mixture of shame and feigned eagerness, Sasuke began, “Thank you for spanking my huge, big butt! Please... please, spank harder!” The words barely left his lips when both Onoki and Mei exchanged excited glances, delivering additional swift spanks in response. “Yes! Yes! More! Ah! Make my big cheeks red like a baboon’s! I'm a naughty baboon who needs to be spanked! Ah!” He tried to sound eager, hoping to appease his abusers.
Then, Onoki, a mischievous glint in his eye, commanded, "Now screech like a baboon!" He delivered another sharp spank, and Sasuke instinctively let out a series of high-pitched screeches: "Eee-eee! Ahh! Ooh!"
Onoki's next spank was even harder, and he barked, "LOUDER!"
Sasuke's response was immediate. "EEE! AhH! EEE!" He rolled his eyes back, tongue lolling out of his mouth, and exaggerated his O-face expression to the extreme, contorting his features into a comically humiliated grimace. Knowing that his abusers enjoyed watching him make that grotesque face.
With each subsequent spank, Sasuke's screeches intensified. "EEE! EEE! AHH! EEE! Ooh! EEE!" The sounds echoed throughout the room as he fully surrendered to the role he'd been forced into.
Mei’s eyes gleamed with wicked delight as she gazed at Sasuke’s contorted face. "You’re a perfect little baboon, aren’t you?!" she cooed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. With that, she delivered a hard spank that sent Sasuke lurching forward, crashing against the table's surface. His upper body slammed down, arms instinctively reaching out to brace himself, while his rear remained lifted, grotesquely exposed to the room.
Sasuke’s eyes flicked to Gaara, who quickly looked away, a clear expression of disgust crossing his face. In that moment, Sasuke felt a crushing sense of shame as he thought about how far he had fallen from his former status as the Uchiha prodigy. His pride, once a defining characteristic, was now stripped away, leaving him a mere slave, solely purposed to please his masters.
After several more punishing spanks, Raikage finally raised his hand, signaling for them to stop. The room fell silent, all eyes fixed on Sasuke's trembling body, tears beginning to pool in his eyes.
Raikage's commanding voice echoed through the room. "Come toward me, now."
Sasuke trembled with every nerve on fire as he struggled to crawl forward, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through his battered buttock.
As he inched closer, the hem of his panties was suddenly grabbed and yanked upward, delivering a sharp wedgie that made Sasuke gasp, his eyes widening in discomfort. Since Raikage hadn't ordered him to stop, he continued crawling, the fabric sliding lower from his backside and thighs, held in place by the hand grasping the garment.
Behind him, Sasuke heard a sniffing sound and glanced back to see Mizukage's face twisted into a sly, menacing grin.
"Mmmmm… his scent is intoxicating," Mei teased, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she inhaled deeply, taking in the aroma of the fabric. The garment clung tightly, wedged deep against the boy's anus, allowing her to catch a whiff of the Uchiha's anal scent. A sly smile crept across her face. "I'll keep these panties as a souvenir. They'll make a lovely memento of our little gathering." She tucked the panties into her pocket, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Raikage's expression turned satisfied as his slave finally reached him, having endured the spankings and humiliation. He rose to his full height and let his gaze roam over Sasuke's trembling form, studying the boy still on his hands and knees on the table, eagerly awaiting his next command.
Raikage's gaze lingered on Sasuke's full, round cheeks, prominently marked with red fingerprints from the other Kages. A wicked smile spread across his face. "You can climb down now, boy," he ordered, his voice dripping with dominance.
With hesitant movements, Sasuke carefully climbed down. As soon as he reached the floor, Raikage pulled him onto his lap, wrapping his arms firmly around Uchiha's waist. He buried his face in Sasuke's neck, taking a long, slow sniff. "Hmm, you smell especially potent today," he whispered, his breath warm against Sasuke's skin, sending shivers racing down his spine.
Raikage continued to sniff along Sasuke's neck, his nose tracing the curve of the boy's jaw. Sasuke tilted his head to the side, giving Raikage more room to explore. Suddenly, the boy was pushed forward, forcing Sasuke to groan and bend over the table. The Uchiha's kimono was lifted, exposing his bare, large bottom to the cool air. A chill ran down his spine as he felt the breeze caress his skin, causing him to shiver involuntarily.
Raikage's dark chuckle echoed through the room as his large hands glided over the smooth contours of Sasuke's bubble butt. He savored the sensation, his fingers tracing the curves of Sasuke's skin, before raising his hand and delivering a sharp slap, eliciting a gasp from the Uchiha.
"Bitch, your ass is incredibly smooth," Raikage said, his voice low and husky, his eyes gleaming with approval. “Did you actually follow my orders and apply oil?" He paused, his hand hovering over Sasuke's skin, as he awaited a response.
His hand came down again, striking Sasuke's pale skin multiple times, the sound of the slaps echoing through the room. He paused, relishing the sight of Sasuke's backside turning an even deeper shade of red.
Sasuke winced, his eyes watering from the pain, but managed to respond, his voice trembling, "Yes, Raikage-sama. I applied it every night, just like you told me. I wanted you to feel the smoothness." He panted, his chest heaving with exertion.
Raikage's eyes sparkled with delight, and he leaned in closer, relishing Sasuke's humiliation. "Good boy," he said, delivering another sharp slap. "This is what I like to see. You’re learning to please me."
He then turned to one of the servants with an imperious command. "Fetch me a measuring tape and some lubricant. I want to see just how much his big ass has filled out since our last meeting." The servant quickly scurried off, returning with the requested items.
Sasuke lowered his head, overwhelmed with shame as the other Kages watched him with amused expressions. He stole a nervous glance at the servant, who quickly handed Raikage the measuring tape.
Raikage measured Sasuke's bubble butt, chuckling as he announced, "Well, well! It seems you've gained another inch since my last visit." He raised the tape for the other Kages to see, his smirk widening as their laughter erupted, deepening Sasuke's embarrassment.
The Raikage's excitement grew, and he gave his slave a hard slap on his large bottom. "I don’t know, boy," the Raikage said, "but" SLAP! "your bottom seems to get bigger…" SLAP! "and juicier every time I visit you." SLAP! "It’s not like I really mind, because the bigger and juicier your butt" SLAP! "the sexier you've become, bitch." SLAP!
Raikage stopped, satisfied, and watched as his slave's enormous, bouncing bottom looked like two red balls side by side.
Danzo watched the scene with mild interest, relishing the sight of the Uchiha's suffering. He took a sip from his glass, his gaze never leaving Sasuke's humiliated form. "That brat should be grateful for that big backside of his," Danzo mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Without it, he would have been killed long ago"
As Danzo spoke, Sasuke's eyes glazed over, memories flooding back to the time when he and his team were defeated two years ago. He remembered lying on the ground, bleeding, waiting for them to end his life, just like they had done to Suigetsu, Juugo, and Karin. Raikage loomed above him, eyes filled with merciless disdain, while the other Kages observed from a distance.
Raikage's face twisted into a cruel smile. "What’s wrong, boy? Giving up already? Heh, pathetic…" His voice rose in mockery, dripping with disdain.
With a swift and powerful kick, Raikage sent Sasuke flying high into the air, and he landed hard on the ground. The impact was so forceful it caused him to roll several times, his body bouncing across the floor before finally crashing flat on his stomach. This violent action ripped off his purple belt and blue gown.
Sasuke closed his eyes, sensing Raikage approaching him, and expected a fatal blow. However, instead of a strike, he felt Raikage's boot press against his buttock, prying it open with a rough motion.
"Well, well, well... look at that ass," Raikage said, his voice filled with predatory excitement. "That's the fattest butt I've ever seen. I never knew you had such a treasure hidden under that blue gown."
As Raikage spoke, Sasuke felt a cool breeze brushing against his bare bottom. The kick had not only ripped his gown but also the seam of his pants, exposing his butt crack. However, Sasuke was going to ignore the embarrassment since he thought he was going to die anyway.
But Raikage's next words made him reconsider. "You know, I think I'll spare your life... for now. You're going to serve me, Sasuke. As my personal slave. And I must say, I'm particularly excited about using that fat ass of yours."
Sasuke turned his head to glare at the smirking Raikage, who was now kneeling beside him, his finger tracing the rim of Sasuke's hole with a deliberate, taunting slowness.
Sasuke couldn't move his broken arms, so he could only squirm in place, trying to shift his body. "Go fuck yourself!" he barked defiantly, spitting a wad of saliva at Raikage's face.
Raikage wiped the spit from his face with an unfazed expression, hardly flinching. With a mocking grin, he licked the saliva off his hand, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement, which made Sasuke recoil in disgust. Raikage’s smirk widened as he leaned in closer, his breath on Sasuke’s face.
"Hehe… why should I fuck myself when there's a big, sexy ass available in front of me?" he sneered, forcefully pushing Sasuke's head into the ground with a sadistic laugh. Suddenly, he thrust two thick fingers, slick with his saliva and Sasuke's, into Sasuke's exposed rear, causing Sasuke to gasp in shock, his eyes widening in pain. The tightness was overwhelming, but Raikage was uncaring as he pushed his fingers against the resistance.
"Ahh! Get... get away from me!" Sasuke shouted, trying to escape, but his broken arms and battered body left him immobilized. He thrashed his hips, shaking his ass from side to side in a frantic attempt to dislodge the rough fingers that moved roughly inside him, scraping the interior painfully.
Raikage licked his lips, his eyes fixed intently on Sasuke's jiggling buttocks. "Damn, your hole is incredibly tight, squeezing and sucking my fingers," he purred, his voice low and husky. "I'm not sure I have the patience to loosen it."
Impatient, he pulled out his fingers with a wet, slapping "POP", the sound making Sasuke's face contort in agony. He grabbed both of Sasuke's round cheeks and roughly kneaded his buttocks, separating and closing them before spreading them wider, his fingers digging into Sasuke's skin.
As Raikage was about to push his penis against the tight hole, a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder, stopping him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Raikage?” Danzo demanded, his voice low and menacing, while the other Kages stood beside him, observing Raikage with growing displeasure.
Raikage shook off Danzo’s grip, his eyes flashing with defiance. “Can’t you see I’m about to claim my prize?” he sneered, his voice still dripping with malice, as he smacked Sasuke’s buttocks, eliciting a pained gasp. “Isn’t that right, you little bitch?” he taunted, his large hands grasping Sasuke’s slender waist and pulling him against his pelvis, the tip of his penis probing Sasuke’s anus.
Sasuke's eyes widened in terror as Raikage's penis began to insert into him, his body trembling with fear. “I’m going to kill…” he stammered, but before he could finish, a searing pain shot through his anus as Raikage's penis tore him open. "Ahh!"
Mei's eyes widened in fascination as she watched Sasuke's buttocks jiggle lewdly against Raikage's pelvis. Beside her, Onoki's eyes grew glassy, his mouth hanging open, drooling, as he watched the young Uchiha's bare butt exposed for all to see. However, Danzo and Gaara seemed unaffected by the lewd view, their faces expressionless.
“This is madness, Raikage,” Danzo said, his voice firm and authoritative. “You can’t just take him like this. He’s a wanted criminal, and he needs to be executed.”
“Executed?” Raikage repeated, his voice rising in indignation. “No, Danzo. I'm going to make him my prize and take him back with me. Someone like him should stay in Cloud Village and atone for his sins, especially for Killer Bee. I'll make him my personal living 'fleshlight.' That's suitable punishment for a criminal with a BIG ass like his.”
With that, he pushed his entire member inside, seemingly forcing even the testicles into Sasuke’s rear, causing Sasuke to scream loudly. Raikage’s eyes rolled up in pleasure; he wouldn’t deny that this was the best hole he had ever tasted. The Uchiha’s anus was so tight that his penis was gripped firmly. As he was about to thrust, his body was thrown back by force and slammed into the wall.
Danzo's voice boomed, "I said ENOUGH!" He glared at Raikage, his eyes blazing with intensity.
Raikage stood up, brushed off his clothes and shot back a defiant glance. Danzo's hand rested on the hilt of his cane, his fingers tightening around it as he continued, "If you're not going to kill him, I will. We cannot allow a criminal like him to remain alive."
Raikage snorted, his expression unrepentant, as he began to walk back toward the boy lying on the ground. He knelt beside Sasuke, his movements fluid and deliberate, and looked at the other Kages, trying to persuade them to agree with him. His voice took on a persuasive tone.
“We’re the Kages. Rules bend for us. Besides, killing him would be too kind—that would be an easy way out for him. There must be punishments worse than death.”
Sasuke, who had been quietly enduring the humiliation, suddenly shouted, "Just fucking kill me already!" But before he could object again, Raikage shoved a ball of ripped clothes into Sasuke's mouth, silencing his protest.
Raikage barked, "Shut up, you little bitch! Can't you see that we're in the middle of an important discussion?!" He raised his hand, and with a swift motion, slapped Sasuke's buttocks, making the boy cry out in pain. The sound of the slap echoed through the room, and Sasuke's body jerked in response.
"Mmmph!" Sasuke's muffled scream was audible, his eyes flashing with anger, his mouth wide open, and his cheeks bulging from the gag.
Raikage shook his head in disapproval, and turned to his colleagues, a sly grin spreading across his face. He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with excitement, and asked, "So, what do you say, guys? Should we make an exception and let me have my fun with this little bitch?"
Danzo's glare intensified, his eyes flashing with anger. This was the moment he had been waiting for, to eradicate every last Uchiha from the world. He wasn't about to let Raikage sabotage his master plan. Yet, when he attempted to express his firm objection, the looks from the other Kages forced him to bite his tongue.
Danzo was taken aback, even disgusted, as he noticed Mei and Onoki gazing at the young Uchiha with lust-filled eyes, while Gaara stared blankly into space, his expression as impassive as ever.
The room fell silent, punctuated only by Sasuke's muffled cries and the Kage’s breathing hanging in the air like palpable tension.
Watching the scene unfold, Danzo thought, ‘So the others want a piece of the Uchiha boy too, huh? Seems my plan to eliminate the entire clan has been compromised.’ He sighed inwardly, but his expression quickly darkened.
Danzo approached the young Uchiha, and Raikage stepped aside, giving him space. Danzo studied the boy squirming on the ground, his lips curling in disgust at the sight of the boy's buttocks jiggling with every little movement he made.
"Alright," Danzo said, "I'll agree with you, Raikage, to spare this filthy Uchiha's life—but he must be kept in a restricted location, shared among the five village leaders."
As he spoke, he noticed the satisfied expressions of Mei and Onoki, while the Raikage pouted, clearly disappointed that he couldn’t take the boy back to the Cloud Village. Still, he reluctantly agreed.
Then Danzo revealed his true intention: "But on one condition—the four of you must agree to appoint me as the official Sixth Hokage of Konoha."
Gaara’s brow narrowed, his eyes flashing with skepticism. "Pardon me, but I don’t think that’s a decision for us to make. That’s Konoha’s business, not ours. Besides, whether we choose to spare the Uchiha’s life has nothing to do with appointing you as Hokage."
Danzo’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with cunning as he leaned forward, his voice smooth and persuasive. "As high-ranking Kages, you can easily influence the Konoha. And since the Uchiha once served as a Konoha ninja, every decision regarding him falls under my authority. If you truly want to keep him alive, do you think the others would agree if he were to become a sex slave?"
Mei's voice was barely audible as she asked, "What do you mean?" Her eyes never left Sasuke's form, her gaze drinking in the sight of his helpless body. She seemed to be entranced, her fascination with Sasuke growing by the second.
Gaara’s eyes widened as realization dawned on him, his expression darkening. "Naruto…"
The other Kages immediately understood what the Kazekage had said, their faces reflecting their concern. Keeping Uchiha Sasuke as a slave would likely provoke a rebellion from Uzumaki Naruto and widespread protests from Konoha's citizens. Therefore, the only viable option was to keep Sasuke's existence a secret, known only to them, which meant they needed everyone's cooperation, including Danzo's.
"I’ll say nothing if I’m made Hokage," Danzo said confidently, a triumphant smile spreading across his face as he straightened, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
The other Kages nodded in reluctant agreement, and Danzo laughed evilly, feeling victorious. He strode over, positioning himself beside Sasuke’s vulnerable body, his cane poised and ready, its wooden tip glinting ominously in the light.
With a sudden, deliberate movement, Danzo jabbed the end of his cane between Sasuke's exposed buttocks, his eyes glinting with malice. "You all are so pathetic," he sneered, his voice oozing disdain. "Swayed so easily by just the sight of this filthy boy."
With a swift motion, Danzo thrust the long wooden cane deeper between Sasuke's full ass cheeks, his face twisted in a cruel smile.
"Mmmmph!" Sasuke screamed, the sound of his own voice muffled by the gag in his mouth, his eyes widening in agony. Tears of pain streamed down his cheeks as Danzo forced the round tip of his cane into Sasuke's anus, the wooden tip scraping against his sensitive tissues.
He arched his back, his fists clenched tightly, nails digging into his palms as the unbearable pressure intensified. Yet, Danzo's grip on the cane was too strong, and Sasuke was forced to lift his hips high enough to align with the handle of the cane in Danzo's grip.
As Sasuke's body adjusted to the invasion, Danzo's smile widened, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He began to thrust the cane in and out of Sasuke, the sound of muffled screams mingling with the grotesque squelching that filled the air.
"Mmmmph!" Sasuke screamed, his body trembling with pain as he arched his back in an attempt to escape the invasive object, but his movements only seemed to accentuate his vulnerability, as if he were deliberately presenting his ass for further assault.
Danzo watched with a sense of triumph as the other Kages—except for Gaara—stood transfixed, their expressions reflecting a mix of desire and morbid curiosity, eyes glued to the cane moving rhythmically between Sasuke's buttcheeks. He thought to himself that these Kages were fools, easily controllable, and that he had them right where he wanted them.
With a sudden burst of speed and force, Danzo thrust the cane harder, causing Sasuke's eyes to widen in agonizing disbelief. “MMMPH!!!!”
"Now, listen," Danzo said, earning all the Kages' attention as they turned to face him. "We'll confine this whore in a hidden location, off-limits to everyone. I have knowledge of the location, and I'll dispatch my trusted ANBU to guard the place."
The Kages nodded in reluctant agreement, their expressions steely with determination. Danzo couldn't suppress a satisfied smile, relishing the unfolding of his devious plan. "From this moment on, Uchiha Sasuke is dead, and no one but us will know his whereabouts," he said, fixing a sharp glare on Gaara, who watched him intently. "Including you, Kazekage. We will all use a sealing jutsu on our tongues to keep this secret hidden for as long as the boy lives."
Gaara nodded, his expression unchanging, but a hint of reluctance in his eyes. The other Kages followed suit, and Danzo smiled, satisfied with their cooperation. He then turned to his ANBU and gave them a curt order, "Prepare the transport. We leave immediately."
After that, they began to tie Sasuke up tightly, leaving him helpless as the Kages blocked his chakra. Sasuke still remembered the first time he lost his virginity to the Raikage, which had occurred mere minutes after takeoff in the carriage. The Kages, consumed by simmering lust, could hardly contain their impatience as they began to assault him during the journey.
Just 30 minutes into the journey, Sasuke found himself stripped of his clothes, sitting on the Raikage’s lap with his back against the Raikage’s chest and his knees folded behind him. His arms were tightly bound behind his back, and his hips were firmly gripped as the Raikage rhythmically bounced Sasuke's ass on his large member, using him as a living fleshlight.
The Mizukage sat beside the Raikage, her fingers brutally shoving into Sasuke's mouth, already stretched wide by the metal prop. She clamped down on his tongue, moving in and out rhythmically, mimicking sexual act. Saliva dripped from his lips as tears welled up in his eyes.
Onoki was positioned on the carriage floor, kneeling in front of Sasuke as he grasped Sasuke's penis with one hand, milking it with quick, forceful strokes. His other hand tightly squeezed the boy's testicles, causing the boy to shiver uncontrollably in pain. If the boy ejaculated, Onoki would collect the semen in a delicate glass vial, adding it to the wine provided in the carriage for their special beverage during the journey.
Meanwhile, Gaara and Danzo sat across from them, Gaara's gaze fixed on the window with a distant expression, while Danzo's eyes were locked onto Sasuke's. Sasuke's eyes blazed with fury; even in this compromising position, he seethed with hatred for the man he had vowed to kill, who was now using him as a plaything, along with the other Kages.
Danzo enjoyed watching the boy's glaring eyes and occasionally pressed the button connected to the wires clipped to each of Sasuke's nipples, causing his eyes to widen in pain as electric shocks coursed through his body. This caused his anus to tighten further, exciting the Raikage, who then bounced him more quickly, treating him like a real fleshlight.
Upon arriving at the location, the Kages continued their assault on Sasuke until he finally lost consciousness. He was then imprisoned, his existence kept secret, known only to them. From time to time, the Kages would visit, subjecting him to humiliation and abuse. Sasuke initially resisted, attempting to escape and defy his captors, but every effort ended in failure and was met with severe punishment.
Desperation had driven him to attempt to end his own life, but the Kages had revived him, ensuring he would not die until they had extracted every last ounce of pleasure from him.
A year of torment had taken its toll, and Sasuke had finally surrendered, accepting his role as their submissive slave. Humiliation was now his daily existence, a constant reminder of his fate, and the Kages reveled in his degradation.
Sasuke gasped as he felt a sharp slap on his buttocks from behind, instantly bringing his mind back to his current humiliating situation.
He heard the Raikage instruct the servant to lubricate his anus, but Sasuke couldn't feel anything entering his hole. Turning his head, he saw the servant staring at his two bulging, overstuffed buttocks in confusion. The Raikage's expression turned stern, his eyes narrowing. "What are you waiting for? Lubricate his hole already!"
The servant hesitated, his voice trembling. "With all due respect, Raikage-sama, I'm having some difficulty locating the opening due to the... substantial size of his buttocks." The conference erupted into laughter at the servant's comment, and Sasuke's face turned bright red with humiliation.
The Raikage chuckled heartily, secretly pleased with the servant's comment as he began to slap Sasuke's already flushed buttocks, eliciting another embarrassed gasp.
Sasuke cried out in pain, "Argh!"
The Raikage barked, "You heard that, boy! You should be ashamed that your huge buttocks are causing us difficulty in finding your shitty hole!" He gave Sasuke one last swat.
Sasuke tried to apologize, "I'm sorry, Raikage-sama, that my huge buttocks..." but was cut off by another slap to his buttocks, leaving him gasping in pain.
"It is not just huge but sexy, round, and luscious, with a bottom that grew bigger and bigger every day! Say that, bitch!" Raikage barked, slapping Sasuke's buttocks with a resounding smack.
Sasuke gulped. The Raikage was clearly taking pleasure in his embarrassment, reveling in Sasuke's discomfort as he forced him to describe his own body in explicit detail, right in front of the other Kages.
"I'm sorry, Raikage-sama, that my not just huge but sexy, round, and luscious bottom, which became bigger and bigger every day, troubled you to find my shitty hole," Sasuke said, tears falling down his face, which he didn't realize were coming after saying such humiliating words.
Raikage smirked with satisfaction, watching as the boy's makeup smudged from the tears.
"Okay, spread your bubble ass for the servant and guide him to your hole so he can prepare you," Raikage ordered in a smug voice.
Sasuke closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and complied, placing his left hand on his left glute and his right hand on his right glute, spreading them as wide as possible. This exposed his anus, situated between his buttocks, while he remained bent over the table, his face burning with shame.
Raikage's eyes gleamed with anticipation as he gazed at the red, flower-shaped seal mark encircling the boy's anus - a mark that ensured Sasuke remained tight. This way, no matter how many times they penetrated him, his anus wouldn't become loose.
The deliberate choice of a flower shape was a calculated move to humiliate the boy further. It symbolized that the petals of his dignity had been plucked away every time they penetrated him. Additionally, it enhanced the appearance of the boy's anus, giving it a more aesthetically pleasing and delicate look that would satisfy their twisted desires.
He remembered the day they first decided to put the mark around the boy's anus. It was during a time when the boy still had a rebellious side, and his hole was extremely loose after being taken many times - even the largest dildo would slip out with ease. They had grown increasingly frustrated with the boy's loose hole. So, they decided to put a seal on the boy's anus, a permanent fixture that would ensure he would become the perfect, tight toy forever, good as new.
He recalled how they had explained the design of the flower to Sasuke while he was tied up, spread wide like an X, gagged, and being tattooed. They had specially hired a skilled tattoo artist to work on the design before turning it into a seal. As the artist meticulously crafted the intricate flower design around Sasuke's anus, tears had streamed down his face, and his body had trembled with pain as the needle pierced his sensitive skin, filling the air with the smell of ink and sweat.
The artist's hands had moved deftly, adding detail to each petal and curve around the rim of his anus, while Sasuke's eyes had widened in agony with each touch. To add to his humiliation, they had deliberately placed two large mirrors in front of and behind him, allowing him to see his own pitiful, tear-stained face, distorted by the gag, as he watched in horror as his own anus was being transformed into a work of art.
During that time, they were obsessed with the new tattoo and constantly admired their handiwork, repeatedly making him spread his buttocks. Since the boy was still in his rebellious phase, his hands were always restrained to prevent resistance. As a result, they forced him to wear a butt spreader harness, exposing his hole to their gaze and allowing them to see the beautiful, red flower that twitched nonstop.
The hole was not the only area marked on the boy's body to make him the perfect toy; his testicles and penis were also meticulously branded with intricate designs, ensuring the cum he produced was always deliciously, sweet, thick and potent. The servants were ordered to collect his semen, meticulously recording the date and quantity, and store it in a tall cabinet filled with specially crafted wine bottles, each one filled to the brim with his precious liquid.
After two years of continuous milking, the cabinet was overflowing with bottles. Raikage even brought some of the wine back to his Cloud Village, where he would drink it to reminisce about the boy's taste, whenever he felt a strong craving for the boy.
The Raikage watched as the servant lubricated his fingers and prepared to insert them into the younger male's butt. Sasuke gasped as the fingers brushed against his sensitive spot deep inside. He tried to stifle the sounds, restraining the moans that threatened to escape his lips as the Kages watched him with intense, hungry expressions.
The Raikage observed with amusement as Sasuke's tight hole twitched with each deep penetration. With the boy's cheeks spread wide, the Raikage could smell the boy's musky aroma wafting up, exciting him even more. He finally signaled the servant to stop.
As he stood up and positioned himself behind the thick ass, preparing to insert his large member, Danzo suddenly intervened, his voice firm and authoritative. "Wait, Raikage, do you seriously want to do it now? I thought we were going to discuss the plan to elect me as the next Hokage after the meeting," Danzo said, his eyes narrowing.
The Raikage turned to Danzo, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Can't we discuss it after this?" he asked, as he inserted the tip of his member inside the boy, earning a gasp from the boy. His member was too big, and even the tip was too thick for the boy's tight hole, causing him to wince in discomfort.
Danzo's expression remained stern, his arms crossed over his chest. "I couldn't wait any longer to bring it up. It's been delayed many times already," he said, his voice laced with impatience.
The Raikage let out a sigh, then sat down and pulled the boy onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around the boy's waist, securing him in place as he shifted to a more comfortable position. "Fine, let's discuss it now," he said, his voice resigned.
As he settled the boy onto his lap, he made sure the boy's hole would swallow his whole member, including his testicles, before they began the discussion. The discussion was lengthy, and they needed to brainstorm strategies to make Danzo more appealing to the villagers, in order to secure his election through their recommendation. Since Danzo was not well-liked, they required a more effective approach.
The Raikage found the discussion boring, so he began to play with Sasuke's member, gently stroking it with his hand. He then inserted his three thick fingers into the boy's mouth, toward his throat, causing Sasuke to gag slightly.
Sasuke, with no alternative, started to suck them, his eyes welling up with tears. Not only that, he had to use his gluteal muscles to massage the Raikage's large penis inside him by contracting and releasing his inner passage. This was a task he was accustomed to performing whenever he was placed on the Raikage's lap, serving as the Raikage's personal, living sex toy.
Mei, who was sniffing the boy's panties again, gazed at the boy sitting on the Raikage's lap with lustful eyes. The boy's eyes were brimming with tears, and his mouth was gagged by the fingers stuffed inside, filled with drool, causing him to emit a soft whimper. Although the lower part of the boy's body was concealed by the table, Mei knew that the boy was currently milking the Raikage's member with his glutes, as expected.
She chuckled to herself, finding the view comical, especially given that they were in the middle of important business. Not to mention, the boy had his palms positioned under his round pecs, raising them as high as he could and making them bulge. This was the standard position he was required to maintain whenever he sat on a Raikage's lap, unless his hands were restrained or he received alternative instructions.
Each of them had their own pose arranged for the boy, tailored to their individual fetishes. In her case, the boy had to raise his arms, exposing his armpit. She also made sure the servant did not bathe him beforehand, allowing her to smell his sweat and natural scent. At their last meeting, she had experienced immense pleasure from having the boy sit on her lap and inhaling his intoxicating pheromones. He was ball-gagged, and a dildo was inserted inside him, turned on full blast.
As he sat on her lap, his large buttocks resting on her thighs, she could feel the vibrations of the dildo inside him. She recalled that during her turn, the boy would ejaculate repeatedly on her lap during the long hours meeting, with all his cum entering his gagged mouth through the hose inserted in his urethra. The boy's face contorted in distress whenever he sat on her lap, as she continuously played with his breasts. She enjoyed watching the other Kage glance in her direction as she grasped the big, round pecs with her small hands, kneading and pulling them like dough.
The Mizukage's body shivered with anticipation as she recalled the memory. She was eager to have the boy sit on her lap again, reliving the sensations she had previously enjoyed. Next time, she would impose more conditions to enhance the experience. Perhaps she would make him endure an enema, with a servant holding a water bag beside them, a hose attached to his anal plug. Every five minutes, the servant would release the valve, allowing a slow, steady stream of water to fill him, gradually distending his bowels until, by the end of the meeting, his stomach would be bulging like a pregnant woman's. The sensation of the boy's weight on her lap, combined with the water pressing against her thighs, would feel amazing. She couldn't wait to try it next time.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, the boy began to rapidly juggle his pecs with his hands, his body jerking slightly on the Raikage's lap. The sound of his pecs hitting his hands echoed through the room. Although his body seemed excited, his eyes revealed a different story, and tears started to well up. It was clear to everyone in the room that the Raikage had likely ejaculated inside him, triggering this reaction. The boy's persistent juggling and jumping indicated that the Raikage had released a substantial amount of cum inside him, and he was still continuing, only allowed to stop once the Raikage finally ceased ejaculating.
Mei was impressed by the boy's ability to recall and perform the various poses and actions they had instructed him to do. At the beginning, the boy had struggled to remember and ended up making numerous mistakes, which had earned him severe punishment. However, the fear of punishment had driven him to learn quickly, and he had rapidly improved. Now, he seemed to be performing the actions like a well-trained pet, his body responding obediently to their commands.
Danzo's face contorted in disgust as he watched Sasuke juggle his pecs and jump on the Raikage's lap, emitting muffled yelps like a distressed animal.
He stood up, his eyes blazing with anger, and slammed his hand on the table. "This is absolutely outrageous!" he exclaimed. “This kind of behavior is a distraction and a disruption”
Instead of calming down, the boy's eyes widened, and he juggled his pecs with increased vigor, his movements becoming more frantic and erratic.
The Raikage smirked, savoring the intense sensation as the boy's ass expertly milked him. Satisfied, he glanced at Danzo, his expression a mask of feigned concern, and said, "Apologies, Danzo. I seem to have lost control. The boy's tight hole was squeezing me relentlessly, and I couldn't help but release inside him." His words were met with an immediate glare from Danzo.
Mei added in, her voice laced with amusement, "I don't find this distracting at all. In fact, I find it rather... enlightening."
Danzo's expression turned accusatory as he glared at each of them. "Are you all truly committed to helping me become Hokage?" he asked, his voice dripping with venom and skepticism.
Turning to the Raikage, he continued, "And you!" He glared at the Raikage. "Instead of contributing to this discussion, you're behaving like a beast, indulging in your perversion with this...this..." He gestured to Sasuke, his voice heavy with disdain.
As if to prove his point, Sasuke let out a muffled noise at just the right moments, "Mmph! Mmph!" He gasped as he felt the Raikage harden inside him again, causing him to instinctively milk the Raikage's member as expected.
Danzo's expression twisted into disgust as he observed the boy's pitiful state. His tone then dropped to a menacing whisper. "If you don't make me Hokage soon, I'll expose this place and damage your reputation. And you'll have no choice but to let go of your precious toy," he warned, his gaze locked onto Sasuke, who had his head tilted back against the Raikage's shoulder. His pecs jutted out from the kimono, and the hidden nipples became finally visible, each pierced with rings adorned with red diamonds.
The Raikage's expression darkened as he yanked his finger out of Sasuke's mouth in a swift, forceful motion. Instantly, Sasuke gasped for air, his pecs heaving with ragged breaths and his eyes welling with tears.
Issuing a crisp, commanding order to the two ANBU who had brought Sasuke in, the Raikage stated firmly, "Take him to my chamber." His voice was authoritative, allowing no room for disobedience.
As the ANBU moved closer, the Raikage seized Sasuke's hair, yanking his head back with force. Leaning in, he let his hot breath caress Sasuke's ear, whispering menacingly, “Wait for me on the bed, bitch. Put on the dildo I brought you last time, and be ready for me. The first thing I want to see when I enter the room is your plump ass jiggling and wiggling, hungry for me to take you."
Sasuke's eyes widened in terror as the Raikage's scorching breath sent shivers down his spine, prompting him to nod hastily. The two ANBU hoisted Sasuke from the Raikage's lap, and he instinctively clenched his anal muscles, desperately trying to keep the cum inside him from spilling over.
As they walked, the Raikage's gaze lingered on Sasuke's back, burning with intense desire. He could hardly contain himself, eager to see Sasuke on the bed, prepared to fulfill his twisted cravings.
The two ANBU escorted him to the door, and once they were out of the Raikage's sight, each took hold of one of Sasuke's rounded buttocks. Without warning, they spread them apart, unveiling the flower-shaped mark around his anus.
Sasuke gasped in shock at the sudden spread of his buttocks, but one of the ANBU quickly shoved a ball of cloth into his mouth, gagging him with a rough, forceful motion. “Mmmphh!”
Sasuke felt the cloth was wet and sticky, and suddenly, his body heated up, his member standing tall and erect, throbbing with anticipation.
The ANBU he recognized as Kazuo smirked, amusement glinting in his eyes as he leaned close to Sasuke’s tear-streaked face.
“Time to get you ready for the Raikage-sama, little one,” he said, his voice edged with malice.
“As usual, we’ve prepared a special drink for you,” Kazuo continued, a sly grin spreading across his face. “But this time, we took the liberty of soaking the gag in it instead.”
He leaned in closer, his breath hot against Sasuke's face. "You'll need to squeeze the liquid with your teeth to get the most out of it." He chuckled as he watched Sasuke instantly comply, struggling to chew the oversized gag that forced his mouth open to its limit. Sasuke's eyes remained wide with shock, his face contorted in distress as he looked back at him.
With Sasuke's buttocks still spread wide, it was difficult for him to squeeze his hole shut, and a trail of cum began to trickle out, forming a sticky puddle on the floor.
The other ANBU, known as Genji, sneered, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Oh, right, I almost forgot—you were using my idea from earlier when I said your ass would look as red as a baboon after they were done with you. The Kages seemed to like it too. You even screech like one!" he taunted, reveling in Sasuke’s flushed face and the tears welling in his eyes.
Then he leaned in closer to Sasuke's face, mirroring his friend, and gave his buttock a hard, painful squeeze. "You better compensate us for giving you the idea," he said, his voice low and menacing. "How about this: once the Kages are finished with you, you'll shake those ass cheeks for me, won't you?"
As he squeezed Sasuke’s left butt cheek, Sasuke nodded vigorously, forcing a smile around the oversized gag, which triggered a laugh from them. Then they delivered a loud, stinging spank to urge him to start moving, and Sasuke yelped in pain, his body jerking forward.
Once again, they took a long and circuitous route to the Kage chamber, aware that the meeting would likely last several hours. Along the way, with Sasuke's cheeks still held wide apart, they paused deliberately to chat with other guards and servants stationed along the hallway, exchanging pleasantries and gossip. They even dropped by the kitchen to take a break and enjoy a drink, lingering over their cups of tea and conversation.
Sasuke stood quietly, his hands at his sides, in a submissive pose with his butt cheeks spread open, his face a mask of calm resignation. The others seemed entirely unbothered by his exposed state, treating it as a normal and unremarkable occurrence, as if he were a mere object rather than a person.
Eventually, they arrived at the Raikage's chamber, where he stayed for a week during each visit. Each night, the Kage took turns sleeping with Sasuke, using him to satisfy their desires. Tonight, the Raikage would be the first to enjoy him.
The ANBU opened the door and led Sasuke inside, their eyes cautiously scanning the room. The room still reeked of the scent left behind from the Raikage’s previous visit, the air thick with lingering odor. The ANBU deliberately made loud sniffing sounds, and Genji smirked. "This room smells like an open butt, alright." They laughed as they released Sasuke's butt cheeks with a dismissive gesture.
Kazuo yanked the gag from Sasuke's mouth, noticing the lingering liquid inside. "Still wet,” he said with a smirk as he unfolded the cloth.
Suddenly, Genji seized Sasuke's hair, yanking it back. "Open your mouth wide," he commanded, his breath hot against Sasuke's skin.
Sasuke's lips trembled, but he complied, opening them as wide as he could, tears brimming in his eyes. Kazuo then positioned the cloth above Sasuke's mouth and squeezed, letting the liquid pour in, some dripping down his chin.
As they confirmed that the cloth was dry, they prepared to leave Sasuke alone. Genji leaned in closer, whispering in his ear, "Remember, you owe me a dance," his breath warm and taunting against Sasuke's skin. Sasuke cast his eyes downward, a flush creeping over his cheeks as he nodded.
With mischievous smiles, they delivered a final, stinging spank to his butt cheeks, reveling in the sight as they watched them jiggle before striding away, their footsteps echoing down the hallway.
As the ANBU finally left, Sasuke gritted his teeth and began to remove his kimono and hair accessories, the fabric rustling as he pulled it off. He walked to the bathroom and scrubbed his face clean of makeup, washing away the layers of powder and paint to reveal his natural features. The Raikage preferred him in his natural state and naked whenever he was in this chamber, and Sasuke knew he had to be prepared.
He reached for the dildo that the Raikage had given him during his last visit and grabbed the nearby lube, the bottle clicking open as he unscrewed the cap. He began to coat the dildo with the cool liquid, watching it slide smoothly over the surface. With a sigh, he pushed it deep inside himself.
Next, he climbed onto the bed, positioning himself on all fours with his face pressed down and his backside raised high, facing the door. As he arched his back, he elevated his buttocks even further, the muscles in his cheeks clenching and unclenching as he awaited the Raikage's arrival like an obedient pet.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75691686
|
{"authors": ["MysticPhantom"], "language": "English", "title": "The Kages’ Slave"}
|
𝑳𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒔
The first time Taehyung realized he had a crush on Jeon Jungkook, the guy had blood on his knuckles and grass in his hair.
Jungkook jogged off the field, helmet in one hand, grinning like an idiot. Stadium lights made the sweat on his neck shine. Half the school screamed his name. He threw his arms up, yelled something at his teammates, then slapped one of them on the helmet.
Taehyung sat in the third row of the bleachers, pretending to care about his physics homework.
“Are you seriously doing problems during the game?” Mia leaned over and tried to yank the notebook out of his hands.
“I’m multitasking,” he said. “Very poorly, but still.”
“You’re not even pretending anymore,” she said. “You’re here for him.”
Taehyung didn’t look up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh.” She dug her elbow into his side. “You only come to games Jungkook plays. You literally check the schedule.”
“I like… school spirit,” he said.
Mia snorted. “You like his arms.”
He absolutely did. And his stupid bright smile. And his laugh. And the way he somehow managed to be nice to everyone without being fake. And the way his jaw went tight when he tried to focus in math, like numbers were personally offending him.
But out loud he said, “Jungkook is just a guy who throws an inflated piece of leather. Calm down.”
On the field, Jungkook glanced up at the stands. For half a second it looked like he was staring right at them. Taehyung’s heart did a weird double thump, like it tripped.
Mia noticed. Of course she did. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “You’re blushing.”
“That’s the cold,” Taehyung muttered.
It wasn’t cold. It was late September and he was sweating in his hoodie.
The cheerleaders finished a routine. The band started another song they’d played a thousand times. The scoreboard showed they were up by two touchdowns. Someone behind them kept blowing one of those plastic horns that sounded like a dying duck.
Jungkook jogged back to the huddle, clapping his hands, saying something Taehyung couldn’t hear. He looked completely at ease out there, like this was exactly where he belonged.
Taehyung shut his notebook. There was no point pretending he could focus.
Mia leaned in again. “You know he talks about you, right?”
Taehyung stiffened. “What? No he doesn’t.”
“Uh, yeah, he does. In English. I sit behind him.”
“What does he say?” Panic hit instantly. “Wait, is it bad? Is it about that time I dropped my lunch tray? Because that was gravity, not—”
“Relax, Einstein. He asked if you could help him with calculus.”
That felt… disappointing, somehow. “Oh.”
She smiled. “He called you ‘that computer guy’, though. I think he thinks your name is ‘Taehyung from coding club.’”
“Brand recognition,” Taehyung said weakly.
On the field, Jungkook launched the ball in a perfect spiral. The crowd roared. Taehyung watched the ball arc under the lights and thought, with a horrible sinking feeling: oh no.
Because he knew exactly what this was.
And he also knew he was going to make absolutely sure Jungkook never found out.
On Monday, Mr. Thomas tapped the whiteboard with his marker.
“Pair work,” he announced. “My class, my dictatorship. I’m assigning partners. Before you complain, it’s for your own good.”
Groans went around the room.
Mia twisted around in her seat and silently mouthed at Taehyung, “Manifest Jungkook.”
He rolled his eyes and ignored her.
Names started pairing off. “Tyler with Priya. Jenna with Marcus. Danielle with—”
Taehyung zoned out, doodling a tiny integral sign in his notebook margin. Sunlight came through the blinds in stripes. A pen clicked somewhere. Someone whispered about the game.
“Jeon with Kim.”
The pen stopped clicking. Taehyung’s brain lagged.
Jungkook turned in his seat, looking back at him with an easy, instant smile. “Guess you’re stuck with me,” he said.
Taehyung felt every neuron short-circuit. “Cool,” he managed. “Yeah. No problem.”
Mia kicked his chair from the side. Hard.
Chairs scraped. People dragged desks together. Jungkook grabbed his notebook and dropped into the seat beside Taehyung like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey, Taehyung, right?” he said.
He knew his name. Taehyung tried very hard not to care about that.
“Yeah,” Taehyung said. “Jungkook.”
“I’ve seen you around.” He said it like it was a good thing.
Taehyung shrugged. “I exist in the general vicinity of this school. Statistically, it was bound to happen.”
Jungkook laughed. “Mr. T says you’re a genius. No pressure, though.”
Taehyung nearly choked. “He says that?”
“Pretty much. Said if anyone can get me to pass calc, it’s you.”
Great. Cool. Just the academic future of the school’s golden boy resting on his fragile social skills.
Jungkook flipped his notebook open. It was chaos: scribbles, doodles, half-finished problems, tiny football plays drawn in the margins. A little stick figure with Xs for eyes had “me during tests” written under it.
“You’re not that bad,” Taehyung said automatically, skimming his last homework.
|
𝑳𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒔
The first time Taehyung realized he had a crush on Jeon Jungkook, the guy had blood on his knuckles and grass in his hair.
Jungkook jogged off the field, helmet in one hand, grinning like an idiot. Stadium lights made the sweat on his neck shine. Half the school screamed his name. He threw his arms up, yelled something at his teammates, then slapped one of them on the helmet.
Taehyung sat in the third row of the bleachers, pretending to care about his physics homework.
“Are you seriously doing problems during the game?” Mia leaned over and tried to yank the notebook out of his hands.
“I’m multitasking,” he said. “Very poorly, but still.”
“You’re not even pretending anymore,” she said. “You’re here for him.”
Taehyung didn’t look up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh.” She dug her elbow into his side. “You only come to games Jungkook plays. You literally check the schedule.”
“I like… school spirit,” he said.
Mia snorted. “You like his arms.”
He absolutely did. And his stupid bright smile. And his laugh. And the way he somehow managed to be nice to everyone without being fake. And the way his jaw went tight when he tried to focus in math, like numbers were personally offending him.
But out loud he said, “Jungkook is just a guy who throws an inflated piece of leather. Calm down.”
On the field, Jungkook glanced up at the stands. For half a second it looked like he was staring right at them. Taehyung’s heart did a weird double thump, like it tripped.
Mia noticed. Of course she did. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “You’re blushing.”
“That’s the cold,” Taehyung muttered.
It wasn’t cold. It was late September and he was sweating in his hoodie.
The cheerleaders finished a routine. The band started another song they’d played a thousand times. The scoreboard showed they were up by two touchdowns. Someone behind them kept blowing one of those plastic horns that sounded like a dying duck.
Jungkook jogged back to the huddle, clapping his hands, saying something Taehyung couldn’t hear. He looked completely at ease out there, like this was exactly where he belonged.
Taehyung shut his notebook. There was no point pretending he could focus.
Mia leaned in again. “You know he talks about you, right?”
Taehyung stiffened. “What? No he doesn’t.”
“Uh, yeah, he does. In English. I sit behind him.”
“What does he say?” Panic hit instantly. “Wait, is it bad? Is it about that time I dropped my lunch tray? Because that was gravity, not—”
“Relax, Einstein. He asked if you could help him with calculus.”
That felt… disappointing, somehow. “Oh.”
She smiled. “He called you ‘that computer guy’, though. I think he thinks your name is ‘Taehyung from coding club.’”
“Brand recognition,” Taehyung said weakly.
On the field, Jungkook launched the ball in a perfect spiral. The crowd roared. Taehyung watched the ball arc under the lights and thought, with a horrible sinking feeling: oh no.
Because he knew exactly what this was.
And he also knew he was going to make absolutely sure Jungkook never found out.
On Monday, Mr. Thomas tapped the whiteboard with his marker.
“Pair work,” he announced. “My class, my dictatorship. I’m assigning partners. Before you complain, it’s for your own good.”
Groans went around the room.
Mia twisted around in her seat and silently mouthed at Taehyung, “Manifest Jungkook.”
He rolled his eyes and ignored her.
Names started pairing off. “Tyler with Priya. Jenna with Marcus. Danielle with—”
Taehyung zoned out, doodling a tiny integral sign in his notebook margin. Sunlight came through the blinds in stripes. A pen clicked somewhere. Someone whispered about the game.
“Jeon with Kim.”
The pen stopped clicking. Taehyung’s brain lagged.
Jungkook turned in his seat, looking back at him with an easy, instant smile. “Guess you’re stuck with me,” he said.
Taehyung felt every neuron short-circuit. “Cool,” he managed. “Yeah. No problem.”
Mia kicked his chair from the side. Hard.
Chairs scraped. People dragged desks together. Jungkook grabbed his notebook and dropped into the seat beside Taehyung like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey, Taehyung, right?” he said.
He knew his name. Taehyung tried very hard not to care about that.
“Yeah,” Taehyung said. “Jungkook.”
“I’ve seen you around.” He said it like it was a good thing.
Taehyung shrugged. “I exist in the general vicinity of this school. Statistically, it was bound to happen.”
Jungkook laughed. “Mr. T says you’re a genius. No pressure, though.”
Taehyung nearly choked. “He says that?”
“Pretty much. Said if anyone can get me to pass calc, it’s you.”
Great. Cool. Just the academic future of the school’s golden boy resting on his fragile social skills.
Jungkook flipped his notebook open. It was chaos: scribbles, doodles, half-finished problems, tiny football plays drawn in the margins. A little stick figure with Xs for eyes had “me during tests” written under it.
“You’re not that bad,” Taehyung said automatically, skimming his last homework. “You just do everything like you’re in a hurry.”
“That’s because I am always in a hurry,” Jungkook said, leaning back. “Practice, games, my little brother, homework. I basically live in my car.”
“Your car is a 2008 Honda,” Taehyung blurted, then realized that was weird.
Jungkook raised his eyebrows. “You know my car?”
“It’s hard to miss,” Taehyung said quickly. “Because of the dent. And the sticker. Go Lions.”
Jungkook’s grin widened. “You notice a lot, huh?”
Taehyung’s face burned. “I’m observant. It’s a curse.”
“Well,” Jungkook said, “maybe some of that curse can rub off on me. How do we start?”
“Limits,” Taehyung said, sliding his notebook between them. “Your sworn enemy, apparently.”
Jungkook groaned. “Ugh.”
They bent over the notebook together. Their shoulders brushed occasionally. Every time it happened, Taehyung’s heart kicked up like he’d had three coffees.
He tried to focus on the math. Explain clearly. Not sound like a know-it-all. Not smell Jungkook’s stupid nice shampoo.
“You’re actually good at this,” Jungkook said after a while.
“At math?” Taehyung said.
“At explaining,” Jungkook said. “I don’t feel stupid when you do it.”
Something melted in Taehyung’s chest. “You’re not stupid. You’re just trained to throw things instead of solve for x.”
“Wow,” Jungkook said. “Offensive but fair.”
The period flew by. When the bell rang, Jungkook stretched, arms over his head. His shirt rode up a little. Taehyung looked away so hard his neck hurt.
“This was kinda fun,” Jungkook said.
“Fun and calculus cannot legally be in the same sentence,” Taehyung said.
“For real,” Jungkook said. “You wanna maybe meet after school sometime? Go over this before the next quiz?” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly almost shy.
“Sure,” Taehyung said, too fast. “Library?”
“Library,” Jungkook repeated. “Cool. I’ll text you?”
Taehyung froze. “Do you… have my number?”
“Gimme,” Jungkook said, holding out his phone.
Taehyung typed his number in and, on a burst of reckless energy, saved it as “Taehyung (Calc Savior).”
Jungkook snorted. “Bold.”
“Confidence is key,” Taehyung said, pretending his heart wasn’t doing gymnastics.
“Thanks, Taehyung,” Jungkook said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He gave him one more smile and vanished into the hallway, instantly swept up into a current of high-fives and greetings.
Mia leaned on his desk. “So,” she said. “How’s your day going, lover boy?”
“I hate you,” Taehyung said.
She just grinned. “He looked at you like you invented math.”
The first text came that afternoon.
Jungkook: Yo, it’s Jungkook. Taehyung from calc right? 😂
Taehyung stared at it way too long before answering.
Tae: No this is his evil twin. 😈 But I also know limits.
Jungkook: LMAOJungkook: U at the library?
Taehyung was. He’d arrived eight minutes early and pretended not to be.
Tae: Yep. Back table by the windows.
Thirty seconds later Jungkook walked in, still in his practice gear, hair damp. He spotted Taehyung and his whole face lit up like that was exactly who he’d been hoping to see.
Taehyung’s heart had no chill.
“Sorry if I smell,” Jungkook said, dropping into the chair. “Practice ran long.”
“You smell like… generic athleticism,” Taehyung said. “It’s fine.”
“That sounds like a cologne,” Jungkook said.
“‘Generic Athleticism: For Men Who Have No Time to Study,’” Taehyung replied.
Jungkook laughed, shaking his head. “Help me, oh Calc Savior.”
They worked through derivatives. Jungkook got frustrated easily but he kept trying. Kept asking questions. Kept leaning in when Taehyung explained things, lips pursed, brow furrowed, like he actually cared.
Jungkook’s phone buzzed at one point. He grimaced. “Coach. We got a team meeting Friday night. And then the party at Tyler’s.”
“Loud,” Taehyung said.
“You don’t like parties?” Jungkook asked.
“I like quiet parties,” Taehyung said. “Three people, a board game, no music.”
“So not a party,” Jungkook said.
“In my heart it’s a party,” Taehyung said.
“You should come,” Jungkook said.
Taehyung’s brain blue-screened. “Come… where?”
“To Tyler’s. Friday night. After we destroy Westfield,” Jungkook said.
“Confident,” Taehyung said.
“Gotta be,” Jungkook said. “Seriously. You should come.”
“I don’t really do football parties,” Taehyung said. The idea alone made his throat feel tight.
“Why not?”
Because I’ll spend the whole night pretending not to stare at you, he thought.
“Not my scene,” he said. “Too many people. Too much noise. Too many cups of mysterious liquid.”
“I’ll stick with you,” Jungkook said simply. “If that helps.”
Taehyung stared at him. “You don’t have to play babysitter.”
“I won’t,” Jungkook said. “I’ll just hang with my friend.”
The word landed heavier than it should have.
“We barely know each other,” Taehyung muttered.
“We’re learning limits together,” Jungkook said. “That’s bonding.”
“That’s the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said,” Taehyung said.
“Then you’re rubbing off on me,” Jungkook said, grinning.
Taehyung looked down so Jungkook wouldn’t see him smile. “I’ll… think about it.”
“Think hard,” Jungkook said.
He did. For three days.
On Wednesday, he swore he wasn’t going. On Thursday Mia cornered him at lunch.
“You’re going,” she said.
“I never said I was.”
“He invited you,” she said. “Personally. That’s, like, VIP.”
“It’s a war zone,” Taehyung said. “I’ll die.”
“If you die of social anxiety, I’ll say a few kind words at your funeral,” she said. “Also I’m coming too.”
“You weren’t invited,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “You think that stops me?”
Friday came whether Taehyung was ready or not.
The game was brutal, but Jungkook was on fire. He called plays like he had a game script in his head. He dodged tackles, yelled encouragements, threw passes that made the crowd roar.
By the fourth quarter they were up by ten.
“Your boyfriend is killing it,” Mia yelled.
“He’s not my—” Taehyung started, but the crowd cut him off as Jungkook launched another perfect pass into the end zone.
Final score: 31–14.
As everyone flooded out of the stands, someone shoved a flyer into Taehyung’s hand for “THE PARTY OF THE YEAR!!!”
His phone buzzed.
Jungkook: U coming tonight?
Taehyung stared at the screen. At the sea of people. At the back of Jungkook’s head disappearing into the locker room.
Tae: Maybe.
Jungkook: That’s not an answer 😂Jungkook: Come on. We won. U gotta celebrate w us.
Taehyung’s fingers shook.
Tae: I’ll come. But if I die of social anxiety I’m haunting you.
Jungkook replied with skull emojis and a trophy.
Mia read over his shoulder and screamed. “We’re going,” she said. “I’ll come over at nine. Wear something that isn’t that hoodie.”
Taehyung looked down at his hoodie, slightly offended.
By 9:06 his bedroom looked like a clothing bomb had gone off.
He finally landed on a black T-shirt and jeans. Mia arrived with a denim jacket and two tiny ciders.
“This is pregaming,” she announced.
“I am mildly wind-powered,” Taehyung said after half a can, already feeling fuzzy.
Tyler’s street was lined with cars. Music pounded from the house. People spilled onto the lawn, red cups in hand.
Taehyung froze on the sidewalk. “This was a mistake.”
Mia looped her arm through his. “It’ll be fine. If you panic, we’ll hide by the chips and talk trash about people’s dancing.”
Inside, the air was thick with heat, sweat, and cheap alcohol. Someone shouted over a beer pong table. A couple made out at the bottom of the stairs.
“Text him,” Mia yelled in his ear.
Taehyung did.
Tae: I’m here. I think. It’s loud.
Jungkook: Where u at?
Tae: Hallway by the stairs. Next to a dying plant.
Jungkook: 😂 stay there
Thirty seconds later, Jungkook pushed through the crowd, eyes searching. When he saw Taehyung, his face lit up, annoyingly bright.
“You made it,” he said. “Appreciate the effort this took.”
“Deep suffering,” Taehyung said.
“You want something to drink?” Jungkook asked. “Water, soda, something not terrifying?”
Mia shouted, “I’ll go find Jenna!” and vanished, abandoning him on purpose.
Traitor.
Jungkook kept hold of Taehyung with his eyes. “You hate it already,” he said.
“A little,” Taehyung admitted. “The music’s too loud for conversation, which is the only plus.”
“Come on,” Jungkook said. “I know a safe zone.”
He led Taehyung through the chaos, past the kitchen, out a back door onto the porch. The door shut, muffling the music. String lights crisscrossed the yard. A few people lounged on lawn chairs.
Taehyung inhaled like he’d just come up for air. “This is better.”
“You really don’t do this often, huh?” Jungkook said.
“Shockingly, no,” Taehyung said. “I usually celebrate by beating my high score and going to bed before midnight.”
“Honestly?” Jungkook said, leaning on the railing. “That sounds kinda nice.”
“You can do that too, you know,” Taehyung said. “You’re not legally required to attend every party.”
“Feels like I am,” Jungkook said. “Captain stuff. If I don’t show, people think something’s wrong.”
“I don’t think you could be lame if you tried,” Taehyung said before he could stop himself.
Jungkook’s mouth curved. “You think I’m cool, Taehyung?”
“Statistically, the captain of the football team is considered cool,” Taehyung said. “It’s math.”
Jungkook smirked. “Statistically.”
He disappeared briefly into the house and came back with a bottle of water and a weak, pale drink in a cup.
“Here,” he said, handing Taehyung the water. “And here. It’s mostly juice. It might help you loosen up.”
“Are you saying I’m tense?” Taehyung asked.
“You look like you’re about to take the SAT,” Jungkook said.
“That’s just my face.”
“Just try it,” Jungkook said.
Taehyung took a careful sip. It was orange juice with a hint of beer and regret. Not horrible.
They settled on the steps, side by side. The music boomed through the walls. Someone laughed loudly on the lawn.
“Still buzzing from the game,” Jungkook said. “I thought I was gonna screw up that last throw.”
“You didn’t,” Taehyung said. “It was… kind of perfect.”
“You watched?” Jungkook asked.
“Why do you sound surprised?” Taehyung said.
“Figured you were doing physics in the stands,” Jungkook said.
“I did. For like ten minutes,” Taehyung said. “Then some idiot kept demanding my attention.”
Jungkook laughed. “Sorry to interrupt your studies.”
They fell quiet. The night air was cool against Taehyung’s neck. His drink slowly turned into flavoured ice.
“You ever think about leaving?” Jungkook asked suddenly, eyes on the sky. “This town. This school. All of it.”
“All the time,” Taehyung said. “Like a browser tab always open.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook said. “Same.”
“You? Mr. School Spirit?” Taehyung asked.
“That’s the problem,” Jungkook said. “Everyone thinks I live for this. Football. Pep rallies. Friday nights. ‘Jungkook’s so happy,’ right?”
“Aren’t you?” Taehyung asked.
“I like football,” Jungkook said. “I love the game. But sometimes it feels like that’s all anyone sees. Like I’m this character they made up. ‘The Captain.’ Half the time I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Same,” Taehyung said softly.
“You always seem like you have it together,” Jungkook said.
“That is the biggest lie I’ve ever heard about me,” Taehyung said. “I’m good at pretending. Inside it’s just static and existential dread.”
Jungkook smiled. “Relatable.”
They sat there, two boys on a wooden porch with plastic cups and too many expectations.
After a while, Jungkook said, “Hey, Taehyung. Why do you always act like you don’t like me?”
Taehyung nearly inhaled his drink. “What?”
“In class,” Jungkook said. “When I joke around, you roll your eyes. You pretend I’m annoying.”
“I don’t… not like you,” Taehyung stammered.
“Then why do you act like that?” Jungkook asked quietly.
Because if I don’t, it’ll be obvious, Taehyung thought.
“It’s just my personality,” he said. “Resting judgment face.”
“You’re not judging,” Jungkook said. “You’re hiding.”
Taehyung flinched. The word lodged somewhere in his chest.
“What would I be hiding?” he tried.
Jungkook shrugged, looking at his cup. “I dunno. Maybe you actually think I’m funny, but your brand won’t allow it.”
“That’s an attack,” Taehyung muttered. He could feel the wall he’d carefully built around this whole thing starting to crack.
The night hummed around them. The music changed inside to something slower. Someone yelled “TURN IT UP.”
Jungkook nudged his shoulder. “I’m not trying to mess with you,” he said. “I just… like you. I like hanging out with you. I like that you don’t treat me like some… whatever. Football guy.”
“That’s because you’re insufferable,” Taehyung said automatically.
“That,” Jungkook said, smiling. “Exactly.”
Silence stretched between them, full and sharp at the same time.
Taehyung could feel the confession pressing against his teeth. It hurt to hold it in. His usual fear tried to smother it, but this time it didn’t quite win.
“I never said I don’t like you,” he heard himself say, quietly.
Jungkook turned his head. “So you… do?”
Taehyung’s heart pounded. The world slowed down.
He could joke. He could change the subject. He could keep being safe.
“I do,” he said.
Jungkook’s expression changed. He didn’t look disgusted. Just very, very focused.
“How much?” he asked. It came out half teasing, half serious.
“Why do you care?” Taehyung asked, voice shaking.
“Because I think you’re really cool,” Jungkook said. “And my favourite person to talk to lately. And I wanna know what you mean when you say that.”
“Don’t make me spell it out,” Taehyung said, almost a whisper.
“Taehyung,” Jungkook said. “I’m not gonna freak out. Just talk to me.”
So Taehyung did. Before he could stop himself.
“I like you,” he said. “Not just as a friend. Not just as the guy who needs help with derivatives. I’ve liked you for a while, okay? And I know it’s stupid and one-sided and you’re— you’re you. And I’m me. And you’re straight. So it doesn’t matter. I know that. That’s why I act like I don’t care, because it’s easier. But I do. I care a lot. Too much. And I’m sorry if this makes things weird or ruins everything or whatever, I just… I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this.”
The words hung there between them. Taehyung’s throat burned. He stared at the porch boards, focusing on the cracks so he wouldn’t cry.
Silence dropped over them like a blanket.
“Okay,” Taehyung blurted, jumping to his feet. “This was— I should go.”
Jungkook’s hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist.
“Wait,” he said. “Taehyung. Look at me.”
Taehyung forced himself to.
Jungkook’s eyes were wide, not angry or grossed out. Just stunned. “You’re not messing with me, right?”
Taehyung laughed weakly. “Does this seem like something I’d invent for fun?”
“No,” Jungkook said. “I just… wanted to be sure. Because that’s… a lot. And I don’t want to misread.”
“You weren’t supposed to read anything,” Taehyung said. “There wasn’t supposed to be anything to read.”
Jungkook stood too, still holding his wrist like he thought Taehyung might bolt.
“I’m glad you told me,” Jungkook said.
Taehyung blinked. “What?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say stuff too,” Jungkook said. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I kept telling myself it was just because you’re different. That I like hanging out with you because you’re not like everyone else. But it’s not just that.”
Taehyung stared, scared to breathe.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Jungkook said. “A lot. Way more than friend-level thinking. And I didn’t know what to do with that because I’ve always just liked girls. That’s what I thought, anyway. And everyone thinks that. And then you’re just… in my head all the time and I’m like, ‘cool, new crisis.’”
“This feels like a hallucination,” Taehyung muttered.
“Pretty sure we’re real,” Jungkook said, a tiny, nervous smile flickering.
“You’re straight,” Taehyung said, because his brain was clinging to that like a fact line in a textbook.
“I… don’t know,” Jungkook admitted. “I thought I was. But then you. And it’s like… I don’t want to slap a label on and be wrong. Or have people shove me in some box.”
“People?” Taehyung asked quietly. “Or you?”
“Both,” Jungkook said.
He looked tired and scared in a way Taehyung had never seen.
“My dad… has this whole dream. Football. College. Maybe more. He says stuff about ‘real men’ and ‘not being soft’ and I don’t know how he’d react if I… changed the script.”
Taehyung’s anger never quite found fuel. It was hard to get mad at someone who looked like they might shake apart.
“I’m not asking you to blow up your life,” Taehyung said softly.
Jungkook huffed. “Kind of too late. My life feels pretty exploded right now.”
Taehyung swallowed. “So… what does that mean? For us?”
Jungkook held Tae’s gaze for a beat. Then his eyes flicked down to his mouth, just for a second, before coming back up. The motion sent a rush of heat through Taehyung.
“Can I… try something?” Jungkook asked. His voice was barely above the muffled music.
Taehyung’s brain short-circuited. “What?”
Jungkook licked his lips, nervous. “If you hate it, tell me to stop and I will. I swear. But I’ve been thinking about it since, like, the first time we stayed late in the library, and you explained that one stupid problem I couldn’t get if my life depended on it and you looked so happy about math and I thought, ‘wow, his mouth is—’”
“Okay,” Tae blurted, because if Jungkook kept talking he was going to melt into the floor. “Just… less preamble.”
Jungkook huffed a breathy laugh. “Right. Sorry.”
He stepped closer. The music faded to a muffled thump. The string lights buzzed quietly. The world came down to the few inches between them.
“Last chance to tell me this is a terrible idea,” Jungkook whispered.
“It is,” Taehyung said. “Do it anyway.”
Jungkook’s mouth twitched up. Then he kissed him.
It was soft and shaky and awkward. Their noses bumped. Jungkook’s fingers trembled where they cupped Taehyung’s jaw. Taehyung kissed him back, careful, afraid to break whatever spell they’d fallen under.
When they pulled apart, Jungkook whispered, “Okay,” like he’d just confirmed a theory. “Yeah. Very okay. Terrifying, but okay.”
“You’re not freaking out?” Taehyung asked.
“Oh, I’m freaking out,” Jungkook said. “But also… something feels quieter. Like something in my brain stopped yelling at me.”
“That makes absolutely no sense,” Taehyung said.
“I know,” Jungkook said, smiling helplessly. “Just… trust me. It felt right.”
The porch door banged open, making them jump apart. Tyler stumbled outside, shouting into his phone. He didn’t even glance at them, wandering toward the yard.
The moment shrank back into something that could fit between passing people and half-finished drinks.
“We should go back in,” Jungkook said eventually. “If I disappear too long, people are gonna start rumours that I drowned in the punch bowl.”
“Do you want to?” Taehyung asked.
“Not really,” Jungkook said. “But if I don’t, Coach will grill me and I’ll have to lie. And I’m a terrible liar.”
Taehyung nodded. He knew what that felt like, that pull back toward whatever version of you people expected.
“You can go,” Taehyung said. “I’ll hide for a bit and then escape.”
“You’re coming too,” Jungkook said. “I’m not leaving you out here to brood like some indie movie protagonist.”
“I’m very good at brooding,” Taehyung said.
“No doubt,” Jungkook said. “Come on. We’ll just exist in the same room. Like friends. Who maybe kissed on a porch.”
“That’s a weird friend category,” Taehyung said.
“We’re limited edition,” Jungkook said.
Taehyung snorted but followed him back into the noise.
The rest of the night was a blur. They didn’t talk much more about it. They moved through the party like planets caught in the same orbit, occasionally brushing past each other, eyes meeting for half a second too long.
At some point, Mia reappeared.
“You look different,” she said, squinting.
“I put on chapstick,” Taehyung said.
“You look like something significant happened,” she pressed, eyes flicking between him and Jungkook across the room.
“Nothing happened,” Taehyung said. “Just… calculus.”
She gave him a look that said she absolutely did not believe that, but before she could interrogate him, someone dragged her into a singalong.
Around midnight, Taehyung’s social battery flatlined.
He found Jungkook by the sink. “I’m gonna head out,” he said.
“You good?” Jungkook asked.
“Yeah,” Taehyung said. “Just need… fewer humans.”
“Text me when you get home?” Jungkook said. “Please.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Jungkook said firmly.
“Okay,” Taehyung said.
He stepped back out into the cool night and felt his lungs finally fill properly.
He’d told him.
He’d kissed him.
And Jungkook hadn’t freaked out. Not exactly.
On the walk home, his brain spun out every possible disaster scenario. Jungkook waking up and regretting everything. Jungkook ghosting him. Jungkook telling someone. Jungkook pretending it never happened.
His phone buzzed.
Jungkook: U home? 🤔
Taehyung smiled despite himself.
Tae: Almost.
Jungkook: Tell me when u get there 🧐
Taehyung’s heart flipped.
Tae: Yes, mom.
Jungkook: 😂 shut upJungkook: Seriously. Tell me.
By the time Taehyung reached his front door, he wasn’t sure if his chest hurt from the walk or from everything else.
Tae: Im home.Jungkook: Okay, night Taehyung.
Tae: Night.
Taehyung lay in bed staring at the ceiling, half convinced he’d dreamt the whole thing.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75687961?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["taekookliciousx"], "language": "English", "title": "𝑳𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏𝒔"}
|
memorized the "new" you
The once quiet solace in William and Est’s apartment is gone, now replaced with an uncomfortable silence that neither of them knew how to face. The half-eaten strawberry shortcake which William bought as an apology for being late three days ago sat on the wooden table as if it was frozen in time.
Est was already sitting in the kitchen, shaky hands gripping William’s mail as if it would slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough, when the door creaked open.
“You said you didn’t get the engineering job,” he said, facing William, eyes bloodshot.
“Babe, wait, I can—”
“I don’t know how this is supposed to work anymore,” Est said with a voice that sounds too fake to be steady. “You have broken my trust so many times now—but this one was the one that hurt the most.”
William turned his back on him, now facing the living room.
“I’m sorry,” William said, repeating the words written on the sticky note pasted on the cake’s container, as if saying it out loud would make a difference.
Est let out a hollow laugh. “You keep saying that as if it’s a fix.” He finally looked up, eyes rimmed red but dry. “Do you know what hurts the most? It’s not the possibility of you choosing your dream over me, but because you chose me.”
William spun around, fists clenching at his sides. “Oh, so now it’s my fault for choosing you? For once putting us first instead of some stupid job?”
Est flinched at the edge in his voice.
“Yeah, I chose you!” William barked, stepping closer. “Do you know how many times I’ve held myself back, kept quiet, swallowed my own damn dreams just to make you happy? And now that I finally make a choice that matters, you’re mad at me?”
“That’s the problem,” Est snapped, standing now, closing the distance between them. “I never asked you to choose. I never wanted to be the reason you shrink yourself.”
“Shrink myself?” William’s voice cracked, anger and hurt mingling. “You think I feel small? That I regret choosing us? Don’t you dare make this about me shrinking when all I did was pick the person I love!”
Est opened his mouth, but no words came. The apartment seemed to shrink around them, every object suddenly conspiring to amplify the tension—the ticking of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator, the sticky sweetness of the shortcake. William’s chest heaved, fury blazing in his eyes, every heartbeat echoing in the room.
“You’re mad because I chose you. Not because I lied. Not because I failed. But because I didn’t choose some dream over you. How is that wrong? How the hell is that wrong?”
“Wrong?” Est scoffed, trembling with rage. “You think it’s wrong? William, it’s wrong because you didn’t choose yourself. You didn’t chase your dreams. You didn’t even consider what you wanted. You threw everything away for me, and I can’t take that!”
William huffed while trying his best not to let his hot tears stream down his cheeks.
“Can you—” his voice cracked before he could even continue the sentence. “Can you not say these things as if you’re not worth it? I chose to build this life with you—us. And I would choose our relationship over any job offer if it meant keeping my side of the bed warm.”
Est looked at him with an expression neither of them could name—a mix of pity and dread.
“William,” he said, “Aren’t you tired, hm?”
William laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Tired?” He wiped at his face angrily, as if offended by the tears. “That’s what this is about now? You think I’m tired of choosing you over anything else?”
“You’re going to get tired of me—hell, exhausted even,” Est said, feeling the tears creep up his eyes.
“Don’t you fucking psychoanalyze me like you know what’s going in my head,” William shot back.
“You will get tired of me, you just don’t know it yet.”
“Est, you’re not me, you don’t know that.”
“I know,” Est shouted, voice rising so high it cracked. “I know because it has happened before! And I… I can’t watch you do this to yourself, William. I won’t. I can’t—”
“I’m not Thame.”
It wasn’t loud, not really. William didn’t raise his voice when he said it. He didn’t spit it out or throw it like a weapon. He simply let it exist between them, casual and unguarded, as if it didn’t carry the weight of a past Est had spent years trying to cauterize shut. And that was what hurt the most.
It sliced through Est anyway—clean, precise, merciless. The sound of it echoed in his chest, sharp enough to draw blood, sharp enough to make him feel fourteen different versions of himself at once. The one who loved too hard. The one who begged someone to stay. The one who watched a person choose themselves and leave him standing in the rubbles of the aftermath.
Est stood there, frozen, as if the air itself had turned to ice around him. His fingers curled uselessly at his sides, nails biting into his palms, grounding him to the present only by pain. William remained in front of him, still standing, but separated by more than distance—by time, by memory, by a name that should have stayed buried.
And Est couldn’t
|
memorized the "new" you
The once quiet solace in William and Est’s apartment is gone, now replaced with an uncomfortable silence that neither of them knew how to face. The half-eaten strawberry shortcake which William bought as an apology for being late three days ago sat on the wooden table as if it was frozen in time.
Est was already sitting in the kitchen, shaky hands gripping William’s mail as if it would slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough, when the door creaked open.
“You said you didn’t get the engineering job,” he said, facing William, eyes bloodshot.
“Babe, wait, I can—”
“I don’t know how this is supposed to work anymore,” Est said with a voice that sounds too fake to be steady. “You have broken my trust so many times now—but this one was the one that hurt the most.”
William turned his back on him, now facing the living room.
“I’m sorry,” William said, repeating the words written on the sticky note pasted on the cake’s container, as if saying it out loud would make a difference.
Est let out a hollow laugh. “You keep saying that as if it’s a fix.” He finally looked up, eyes rimmed red but dry. “Do you know what hurts the most? It’s not the possibility of you choosing your dream over me, but because you chose me.”
William spun around, fists clenching at his sides. “Oh, so now it’s my fault for choosing you? For once putting us first instead of some stupid job?”
Est flinched at the edge in his voice.
“Yeah, I chose you!” William barked, stepping closer. “Do you know how many times I’ve held myself back, kept quiet, swallowed my own damn dreams just to make you happy? And now that I finally make a choice that matters, you’re mad at me?”
“That’s the problem,” Est snapped, standing now, closing the distance between them. “I never asked you to choose. I never wanted to be the reason you shrink yourself.”
“Shrink myself?” William’s voice cracked, anger and hurt mingling. “You think I feel small? That I regret choosing us? Don’t you dare make this about me shrinking when all I did was pick the person I love!”
Est opened his mouth, but no words came. The apartment seemed to shrink around them, every object suddenly conspiring to amplify the tension—the ticking of the clock, the hum of the refrigerator, the sticky sweetness of the shortcake. William’s chest heaved, fury blazing in his eyes, every heartbeat echoing in the room.
“You’re mad because I chose you. Not because I lied. Not because I failed. But because I didn’t choose some dream over you. How is that wrong? How the hell is that wrong?”
“Wrong?” Est scoffed, trembling with rage. “You think it’s wrong? William, it’s wrong because you didn’t choose yourself. You didn’t chase your dreams. You didn’t even consider what you wanted. You threw everything away for me, and I can’t take that!”
William huffed while trying his best not to let his hot tears stream down his cheeks.
“Can you—” his voice cracked before he could even continue the sentence. “Can you not say these things as if you’re not worth it? I chose to build this life with you—us. And I would choose our relationship over any job offer if it meant keeping my side of the bed warm.”
Est looked at him with an expression neither of them could name—a mix of pity and dread.
“William,” he said, “Aren’t you tired, hm?”
William laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Tired?” He wiped at his face angrily, as if offended by the tears. “That’s what this is about now? You think I’m tired of choosing you over anything else?”
“You’re going to get tired of me—hell, exhausted even,” Est said, feeling the tears creep up his eyes.
“Don’t you fucking psychoanalyze me like you know what’s going in my head,” William shot back.
“You will get tired of me, you just don’t know it yet.”
“Est, you’re not me, you don’t know that.”
“I know,” Est shouted, voice rising so high it cracked. “I know because it has happened before! And I… I can’t watch you do this to yourself, William. I won’t. I can’t—”
“I’m not Thame.”
It wasn’t loud, not really. William didn’t raise his voice when he said it. He didn’t spit it out or throw it like a weapon. He simply let it exist between them, casual and unguarded, as if it didn’t carry the weight of a past Est had spent years trying to cauterize shut. And that was what hurt the most.
It sliced through Est anyway—clean, precise, merciless. The sound of it echoed in his chest, sharp enough to draw blood, sharp enough to make him feel fourteen different versions of himself at once. The one who loved too hard. The one who begged someone to stay. The one who watched a person choose themselves and leave him standing in the rubbles of the aftermath.
Est stood there, frozen, as if the air itself had turned to ice around him. His fingers curled uselessly at his sides, nails biting into his palms, grounding him to the present only by pain. William remained in front of him, still standing, but separated by more than distance—by time, by memory, by a name that should have stayed buried.
And Est couldn’t accept how easily William had said it.
Thame’s name wasn’t supposed to be spoken like that. It wasn’t supposed to be dropped into the conversation so lightly, so thoughtlessly, like an item on a grocery list—milk, bread, eggs, broccoli—recited absentmindedly before leaving for the supermarket. It wasn’t a word. It was a wound, ironically stitched by William three years ago, a jagged scar hidden beneath the surface of their lives, and yet today, William had pried it open again, as if twisting the knife for sport.
His name still lingered in the kitchen air, methodically mixed with the smell of strawberries to the point that Est will never be able to eat or think about strawberries without thinking about this exact moment. His chest heaved, his hands trembling as if he might collapse right there in the kitchen. He couldn’t do this anymore—not tonight, not with the weight of every unspoken word and every reckless choice pressing down on him.
Without another word, Est turned and fled, boots pounding against the wooden floor, slamming the apartment door behind him. The echo of the door closing was a gunshot in William’s chest, and for a heartbeat, he just stood there, stunned, his hands still hovering in the air.
“Est! Wait!” William shouted, voice cracking with desperation and fear, but Est didn’t look back.
William bolted after him, fumbling with the lock, finally throwing open the door into the cold night air. The city smelled of rain and asphalt, wet streets reflecting the neon glow of streetlights. He saw Est ahead, running, shoulders hunched, tears streaking his pale face, hair plastered to his forehead. Every step was frantic, a rhythm of anger, heartbreak, and hopelessness.
But Est didn’t slow. The world blurred around him—honking cars, neon reflections, rain dripping from street signs—but he didn’t notice. His only focus was escape, freedom from the storm in his chest, from the storm in William’s eyes, from the storm of their lives.
William was just a few steps behind, stretching out, desperate to reach him, to pull him back, to fix the irreparable when all of a sudden—
A crash.
The world seemed to have gone quiet—flatline—when William heard the thud of Est’s body hitting the wet asphalt that bled neon with the city’s lights accompanied with the sound of screeching tires. Est was thrown backward, the streetlights spinning above him, and William’s world tilted, everything crashing down in a blur of horror, blood, and disbelief.
“No! No! Stay with me! Stay with me!” William yelled even though he couldn’t really hear his own voice now, dropping to his knees beside him, shaking him, hands trembling, heart breaking in ways he didn’t know were possible. “Don’t leave me! You have to stay, please, cause I fucking did.”
William scrambled backward, fumbling for his phone, fingers slick with rain and blood, trembling so violently he could barely unlock it. “Someone—please! Help! Please, hurry!” His voice cracked, carried away by the cold night air, swallowed by the distant hum of traffic and the neon glare that made everything surreal.
He pressed the phone to his ear, barely able to hold it steady. “Please… please, an ambulance… hurry! My—my boyfriend—he’s hit—he’s—he’s not moving!” Each word was ragged, desperate, echoing in his chest like a drumbeat of panic.
All the while, he didn’t let go of Est, hands shaking as he pressed against the wound he couldn’t see, willing him to breathe, to move, to stay. “Come on, come on, please—stay with me, Est. Stay. I can’t… please, don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice breaking under the weight of terror. He pressed his forehead to Est’s shoulder, smelling the rain, the asphalt, the faint sweetness of the shortcake still lingering in memory, wishing he could will the world to reverse.
Tears streamed freely now, mixing with rain and blood on his cheeks. He stroked Est’s hair, whispered promises no one could hear. “I can’t—God, I can’t lose you… not like this… I wasn’t ready, I can’t—I need you, please, just hold on… just… stay here with me, please…”
Every heartbeat was a plea, every breath a prayer. “I’ll fix this, I swear… I’ll fix us, I’ll fix everything, just… stay. Don’t you dare leave me. I can’t… I can’t breathe without you…” His lips pressed to Est’s temple, the tears soaking into his hair, murmuring words only the two of them could understand, fragments of love and regret tumbling together in the rain-soaked night.
The distant sirens grew louder, a fragile promise of help, but William could only stay hunched over him, whispering, begging, praying. “You have to fight, okay? You hear me? You have to fight for me. I promise this time I will choose myself. Please. Anything to…”
And still, through the terror and the ache, through the cold and the wet and the impossibility of it all, William refused to let go. His hands, trembling, pressed against Est, memorizing every curve, every pulse, every sign of life, praying that the universe would somehow rearrange constellations, just so that fate would favor them even if it’s just for a flicker and a heartbeat.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75691646/chapters/197960846
|
{"authors": ["hirunmelo"], "language": "English", "title": "memorized the \"new\" you"}
|
Trip Back to home
“No. You’re not a piece of shit. You’re a human being. Flesh and blood.”
The trip back to Germany was pure hell. One layover, almost the whole day in the air. Bored out of his goddamn mind. And it’s way too easy to numb your ass in those seats.
Maybe that was why Michael chose to sit locked in the bathroom instead of next to Ness—for about ten minutes straight by now. People had knocked: flight attendants, irritated passengers who actually needed to piss for obvious reasons and not because they wanted some alone time, Ness.
Speaking of Ness—he was fucking exhausting.
With a heavy breath, Kaiser slid his hands up to his neck in a familiar, calming motion, tugging down the collar of his tight turtleneck. Even without squeezing, he could feel himself loosen up; when he did clasp his hands, he let his hatred run free.
Wearing the turtleneck was the right call, anyway. Bruises wouldn’t show.
When someone knocked hard, borderline aggressive, Kaiser pulled his hands away, flushed the toilet for show, washed his palms at the sink, and stepped out—earning a string of pissed-off swearing from some old guy who immediately darted into the now-empty stall, and a wary look from a flight attendant.
“Are you okay, sir? Do you need any assistance?” she asked—polite, a little stiff, and interestingly enough, in English.
“No, thank you.” Michael smiled. She raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for a real answer to the first question.
“Sorry I took so long. Must’ve eaten something expired.”
“Do you need medical attention?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
“All right. Please let us know if you start feeling worse.”
Michael nodded with fake gratitude, and the second he turned away from her, the smile slid right off his face. A little farther down the cabin sat Alexis, staring at him with that impossibly worried look that made Kaiser genuinely feel like he was about to puke. Maybe he actually would need medical attention after all.
Kaiser forced himself to look away and headed back to Ness like he was walking up to a stranger. Which, honestly, wasn’t entirely untrue. He had no idea who the guy he sat down next to even was anymore.
“Kaiser? Are you okay?” Alexis asked.
“Oh sure, why don’t you also ask me what the fuck I was doing sitting on the toilet for ten minutes.”
“Kaiser.” Alexis lowered his voice, more serious now, shifting closer until their shoulders touched.
“What do you want.”
“You haven’t eaten anything for two days. Nothing at all. I’m not buying the expired food bullshit.”
Well, from one angle, it was Kaiser’s own fault for choosing Ness as his test subject. Kaiser was at fault for pretty much everything in general. And Alexis was way too perceptive for his own good when it came to Michael.
“Shut the fuck up, Ness. It’s none of your business.”
“At least fix your collar. I can see new bruises.”
Michael visibly flinched, scowling as he tucked his neck deeper into the turtleneck and turned his gaze away from his… companion.
Either Kaiser had let himself go so badly over the past few days that he couldn’t even keep track of shit like this—and even Ness could crack him open like a nut—or Ness understood a hell of a lot more than he let on, and in the end, Kaiser was the one being fooled. He was almost impressed.
He really wanted to throw Alexis out of the fucking plane.
“Kaiser.”
“What now,” he snapped.
“Do I need to walk you around like a child, holding your hand everywhere? I can’t even let you go to the bathroom alone?”
“The fuck?!—” Kaiser raised his voice, then forced himself to stop when some woman in the seat ahead shushed them. Way too confident for someone with a throat that could be cut.
“Jesus Christ, fuck off. I didn’t ask you to trail after me everywhere.”
“That’s my personal choice. You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.” Ness shrugged, unimpressed.
“And if you’re really that incapable of controlling yourself, then yeah—I don’t have much of a choice.”
“Whatever I do is none of your damn business.”
“Oh, what, you embarrassed to take a shit in the same stall with me?”
“Ness!”
“Will you shut up already? A child is sleeping!” the same woman snapped—and immediately after that, the kid started crying. Perfect. Just what everyone needed.
“We’re sorry,” Alexis said quickly, apologizing for both of them. Then, almost in a whisper, to Kaiser:
“We’ll talk about this after we land, if you want. Though I’ve already decided everything. For you, too. Sorry.”
That was it. Kaiser finally snapped and slammed his fist into Ness’s knee. Ness winced in pain but didn’t say a word, and Michael had no choice but to shut up for the rest of the flight.
***
Berlin was chilly; he actually had to dig a jacket out of his suitcase. Bastard Munchen were bunched up at the airport exit, talking over one another, loud as hell. The only ones not saying a word were Ness and Kaiser, standing a little off to the side.
“The bus will be here in about three minutes. Driver says he got stuck in traffic,” Noa said flatly.
Getting to
|
Trip Back to home
“No. You’re not a piece of shit. You’re a human being. Flesh and blood.”
The trip back to Germany was pure hell. One layover, almost the whole day in the air. Bored out of his goddamn mind. And it’s way too easy to numb your ass in those seats.
Maybe that was why Michael chose to sit locked in the bathroom instead of next to Ness—for about ten minutes straight by now. People had knocked: flight attendants, irritated passengers who actually needed to piss for obvious reasons and not because they wanted some alone time, Ness.
Speaking of Ness—he was fucking exhausting.
With a heavy breath, Kaiser slid his hands up to his neck in a familiar, calming motion, tugging down the collar of his tight turtleneck. Even without squeezing, he could feel himself loosen up; when he did clasp his hands, he let his hatred run free.
Wearing the turtleneck was the right call, anyway. Bruises wouldn’t show.
When someone knocked hard, borderline aggressive, Kaiser pulled his hands away, flushed the toilet for show, washed his palms at the sink, and stepped out—earning a string of pissed-off swearing from some old guy who immediately darted into the now-empty stall, and a wary look from a flight attendant.
“Are you okay, sir? Do you need any assistance?” she asked—polite, a little stiff, and interestingly enough, in English.
“No, thank you.” Michael smiled. She raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for a real answer to the first question.
“Sorry I took so long. Must’ve eaten something expired.”
“Do you need medical attention?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
“All right. Please let us know if you start feeling worse.”
Michael nodded with fake gratitude, and the second he turned away from her, the smile slid right off his face. A little farther down the cabin sat Alexis, staring at him with that impossibly worried look that made Kaiser genuinely feel like he was about to puke. Maybe he actually would need medical attention after all.
Kaiser forced himself to look away and headed back to Ness like he was walking up to a stranger. Which, honestly, wasn’t entirely untrue. He had no idea who the guy he sat down next to even was anymore.
“Kaiser? Are you okay?” Alexis asked.
“Oh sure, why don’t you also ask me what the fuck I was doing sitting on the toilet for ten minutes.”
“Kaiser.” Alexis lowered his voice, more serious now, shifting closer until their shoulders touched.
“What do you want.”
“You haven’t eaten anything for two days. Nothing at all. I’m not buying the expired food bullshit.”
Well, from one angle, it was Kaiser’s own fault for choosing Ness as his test subject. Kaiser was at fault for pretty much everything in general. And Alexis was way too perceptive for his own good when it came to Michael.
“Shut the fuck up, Ness. It’s none of your business.”
“At least fix your collar. I can see new bruises.”
Michael visibly flinched, scowling as he tucked his neck deeper into the turtleneck and turned his gaze away from his… companion.
Either Kaiser had let himself go so badly over the past few days that he couldn’t even keep track of shit like this—and even Ness could crack him open like a nut—or Ness understood a hell of a lot more than he let on, and in the end, Kaiser was the one being fooled. He was almost impressed.
He really wanted to throw Alexis out of the fucking plane.
“Kaiser.”
“What now,” he snapped.
“Do I need to walk you around like a child, holding your hand everywhere? I can’t even let you go to the bathroom alone?”
“The fuck?!—” Kaiser raised his voice, then forced himself to stop when some woman in the seat ahead shushed them. Way too confident for someone with a throat that could be cut.
“Jesus Christ, fuck off. I didn’t ask you to trail after me everywhere.”
“That’s my personal choice. You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.” Ness shrugged, unimpressed.
“And if you’re really that incapable of controlling yourself, then yeah—I don’t have much of a choice.”
“Whatever I do is none of your damn business.”
“Oh, what, you embarrassed to take a shit in the same stall with me?”
“Ness!”
“Will you shut up already? A child is sleeping!” the same woman snapped—and immediately after that, the kid started crying. Perfect. Just what everyone needed.
“We’re sorry,” Alexis said quickly, apologizing for both of them. Then, almost in a whisper, to Kaiser:
“We’ll talk about this after we land, if you want. Though I’ve already decided everything. For you, too. Sorry.”
That was it. Kaiser finally snapped and slammed his fist into Ness’s knee. Ness winced in pain but didn’t say a word, and Michael had no choice but to shut up for the rest of the flight.
***
Berlin was chilly; he actually had to dig a jacket out of his suitcase. Bastard Munchen were bunched up at the airport exit, talking over one another, loud as hell. The only ones not saying a word were Ness and Kaiser, standing a little off to the side.
“The bus will be here in about three minutes. Driver says he got stuck in traffic,” Noa said flatly.
Getting to Munich meant at least six hours of hauling ass by bus, on a good day. On the upside, it was a private, comfortable one. Kaiser chose not to mention that his ass was already going numb from all the sitting. He didn’t feel like talking at all.
“We’ll make a stop in Leipzig,” Noel went on. “After a trip that long, you need to eat.”
Fantastic. Too bad his appetite was completely dead.
“You’ll eat at least one leaf of lettuce,” Alexis suddenly whispered in his ear. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“What, you gonna wipe my ass too?” Kaiser rolled his eyes.
“With pleasure.”
“Fuck off.”
“You haven’t eaten in two days. You want starvation hallucinations?” Ness continued calmly.
“Not the firs—” Michael tripped over the word.
“Fuck it, drop it already.”
Surprisingly, Ness didn’t comment on that slip. He went quiet altogether, and a moment later the bus pulled around the corner. The whole team started loading their bags.
Inside the bus, Kaiser nearly took poor Grim out at the knees as he headed straight for the very back. He dropped into a window seat, shoved his backpack at his feet—and immediately found himself trapped: Ness sat down right next to him. Close.
At the same time, Michael couldn’t help noticing how the guy beside him tensed up. Not completely off the leash yet. Still scared of his owner.
Idiot.
“We’ll be in Leipzig in about two and a half hours, Kaiser,” Alexis said, checking the navigation.
“Awesome.” Kaiser stared out the window. The bus pulled away, swaying pleasantly, especially back here in the rear seats. Still, the fact that Ness was so close and yet not touching him was irritating. Irritating because right now Alexis felt way too warm, too inviting.
Michael wanted that warmth.
He shifted closer and rested his head on Ness’s shoulder, eyes closing. The guy beside him clearly stiffened at first, caught off guard—but then relaxed. And fuck, Michael would bet his entire yearly salary that the mutt was smiling right now. Disgusting.
And yet, he doesn’t pull away.
Ness really is warm. And the steady rocking of the bus made Michael drowsy. The lack of food in his system caught up with him, too, and little by little, Kaiser drifted off to sleep.
***
When he woke up, the boy carefully scanned his surroundings first thing.
No danger.
He’s not here.
He got up and quietly made his way toward the other rooms.
Not in the living room. Not in the bathroom either.
In the kitchen.
A massive body lay sprawled across the floor, soaked in its own vomit and reeking of cheap alcohol. The boy barely managed to keep from gagging. He covered his nose with his hand and, moving slowly on tiptoe, approached the body.
Out cold.
Knowing that if this thing woke up covered in those disgusting fluids, it would start screaming and beating him, the boy decided to clean up whatever he could. He opened a window so the stench wouldn’t be so unbearable, filled a bucket with water, and started scrubbing, his face twisting with disgust.
In his sleep, the body let out a filthy snore, loud enough to make the boy flinch, his face going pale. But it showed no other signs of waking and kept breathing heavily. After calming his pounding heart and steadying his shaking hands, the boy finished cleaning.
If this piece of shit died right now… would it make things better?
His gaze fell on a knife lying on the countertop. Dirty and dull, the handle slick, like it was coated in grease. Then he looked back at his father. Asleep. The boy even dared to slap his cheek once.
Still asleep. Deeply. Probably.
With trembling knees, he shuffled to the counter and picked up the knife.
What are you supposed to cut?
The neck.
He approached the body and knelt beside it. He wasn’t sure he could cut through a layer of fat that thick. He was scared.
But he was twice as scared of the thought that this thing might survive.
Panic surged fast, his blood feeling like it was boiling in his veins.
He didn’t notice the pair of enraged eyes opening and locking onto him.
“What the fuck are you doing here, you little bastard— a knife?!”
Despite his massive weight, the body lurched up and towered over the boy, ripping the knife from his hand. The boy screamed.
“You trying to kill me, huh?! I’ll fucking bury you first! Get ready, you little shit!”
Fingers crushing the boy’s throat, the man raised the knife, aiming for his stomach. Fueled by adrenaline, the boy kicked him between the ribs, buying himself a couple of seconds, and bolted for the bathroom. The man charged after him.
“Holy shit, you’re dead for sure now!”
Run run run run
The boy’s body moved faster than his mind. He managed to slam the door shut and, with effort, shove the washing machine against it. His father pounded on the door, screaming curses.
The boy collapsed onto the floor and, shaking with terror, burst into tears.
***
Kaiser jolted awake, the nightmare throwing him into a cold sweat. He opened his eyes and looked around in panic. Only then did he realize Ness was shaking him by the shoulder.
“Oh. You’re awake. We’re in Leipzig, Kaiser. Come on—everyone’s waiting on you.”
Alexis’s gentle voice was grounding. Kaiser was glad that in the dim light of the bus, his terrified expression probably wasn’t visible—and neither were his hands, still trembling slightly. Breathing in someone else’s scent, Michael couldn’t help but notice how quickly his heart calmed down.
Ness made him feel safe.
That disgusted Kaiser.
Michael stood up and swayed, suddenly aware of how weak his body felt. Two hours of sleep and zero food really weren’t doing him any favors. Mentally, either. Weird.
They stepped off the bus, and Kaiser took a deep breath of fresh air, feeling some relief. His thoughts settled.
Fucking nightmare.
And fucking Yoichi, for digging those memories back up. Hope he gets hit by a train.
After four years of working on those memories—trying to bury them, forget them, smother them with fame and money—Kaiser lost all that control in a split second. He hadn’t seen his father in his dreams in a long time. A long time. Honestly, he hadn’t missed him.
“So, sleep well?” Ness asked, just to be annoying, as they entered the restaurant with the rest of the group.
“Fine,” Michael shrugged.
“You’re lying.”
“I am.”
And that was the end of the conversation. Noa checked in at the counter, and a waiter led them to their two reserved tables.
Kaiser, unsurprisingly, sat a little off to the side. Ness sat down next to him. Michael flipped through the menu without much interest—mostly for show. He’d have to order and eat something anyway; his teammates had a habit of sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.
After two days without food, heavy stuff was definitely a bad idea. So he ordered a vegetable salad, claiming he’d eaten on the plane. Everyone passed on alcohol too, to Michael’s quiet relief.
To kill time while waiting, Kaiser stared at his phone, playing a dumb match-three game, doing his best not to think about the nightmare.
It wasn’t working.
Images kept surfacing, over and over, and a raw, animal fear crawled up under his collar, making his limbs shake.
So that’s how it was. No matter how hard he lied to himself, he hadn’t let go of his father after all. He hadn’t handled it.
And showing fear was even worse. Digging up all four years of practiced pretending, Michael tried to sit there looking unfazed—but honestly, in his own opinion, he was failing miserably. Ness seemed to notice.
“You cold?” he asked stupidly.
Yeah, fuck yeah I’m cold—in a turtleneck and a light jacket.
“I’m fine, Ness. Shut the fuck up and mind your own business.”
Luckily, Alexis listened. Soon the appetizers arrived, including the salad Kaiser had ordered. Nausea hit him immediately, but he forced himself to pick up his fork and eat.
Three small bites in, and he felt like he was going to throw up.
He shot up from his seat, clapping a hand over his mouth, and followed the signs toward the restroom. He didn’t notice Ness rushing after him.
He noticed only when he was already diving into a stall—and without time to kick him the fuck out, he bent over the toilet and let himself puke. His hair was carefully pulled away from his face, and through the spasms, Kaiser realized Alexis was gently holding his head.
Involuntarily, Michael was genuinely grateful in that moment. He really didn’t want to ruin his hair.
When the spasms finally stopped, he straightened up and flushed, swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth. Disgusting.
He stepped out of the stall and turned on the faucet. Leaning over the sink, he splashed his face and rinsed his mouth. Thankfully, the restroom was empty—just him and Ness.
“Maybe just get a smoothie,” Alexis said at last. “You’ve got to get something down.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Kaiser cut him off sharply. “Leave my card with Noa. He can pay with it.”
Michael left the restroom at a brisk pace and headed straight outside. Once on the street, he took another deep breath of fresh air. Cool. Nice.
Ness came out a couple minutes later, stopping beside him.
“Hey… there’s a department store across the street,” he said carefully. “Maybe… we could at least get you some juice or something?”
“Fuck off—” Kaiser stumbled over the words, realizing that for once, he didn’t actually hate Alexis for being pushy.
“…Fine. Let’s go.”
Ness lit up instantly. Kaiser looked away.
Whatever. Let him enjoy it while he can.
At least his company didn’t feel quite as unbearable.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75686126
|
{"authors": ["deigan"], "language": "English", "title": "Trip Back to home"}
|
aunt alice's magical love equipment, sponsored by bad dragon™
Wanderer was terrible at receiving requests.
But when it came to Durin, he was as equally terrible at denying them. Only because it was Durin, of course.
The dragon boy had suddenly approached him in the middle of the day. Wanderer knew the look on his face — those wide expectant eyes, his lips that curled into a slight pout — he was going to ask him for something. Without taking his eyes off of the dull selection he was forced to read for a lecture, he addressed Durin before the boy could even open his mouth.
"Need something?" he began.
"Hat Guy, can I peg you?"
All color instantly drained from Wanderer's face. It took him a good minute of staring blankly at the book in front of him before he could even think of an answer to that request. Durin? Pegging him? Where in the seven nations of Teyvat did he learn that from? It wasn't like he was keeping Durin innocent; that would be the biggest hypocrisy of his life. It's just that he hadn't expected the boy to know of such a concept.
Wanderer was quick to shoot him a petulant look. He used the book as a shield for his lower face, hiding his growing blush from view. Durin always knew how to pull a reaction out of him. Not because he actually did know how to, though (and really, part of it was also Wanderer’s fault for being so susceptible to it).
"Peg me?" Wanderer echoed, his voice strained with disbelief. "I don't think you know what you're talking about, Durin."
"Aunt Alice told me about it when I asked her a question about why I had different parts than you," Durin explained his side so casually as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "She suggested that I tried 'pegging' you so you could feel just as good as you make me!"
His sentiments were just as stupid as it was endearing. Wanderer didn't know if he wanted to facepalm first or give Alice a good talking down to — but the red witch was an elusive figure, only appearing in his life to cause mayhem that only benefitted her. Or in this case, whisper filthy suggestions into Durin's ear, knowing that the dragonboy would instantly heed them as soon as she utters the words.
"I thought I told you not to talk to that witch ever again."
Wanderer gave a stern look.
"But Aunt Alice is really smart!"
"Doesn't matter! All she feeds you are lies. Don't listen to her."
"But when I listened to her last time, we both had a good time, right?"
Oh no, Durin was pulling that look again.
"You said so, didn't you? Don't you love me anymore?"
"Oh, give me a break…" Wanderer muttered under his breath, but he didn't leave Durin to his own devices.
Chances are, the boy will definitely believe that Wanderer didn't love him anymore if he didn't heed his every whim. The more he tried justifying Durin's absurd request in his mind, the more his brows furrowed into themselves. There was simply no way in hell he was letting a small little boy fuck him in the ass with a plastic dick. He would take being erased from history again, he’d eat a hundred helpings of the stickiest, sweetest Dango ever – anything over the sheer humiliation of being pegged.
However, as Durin's pout deepened, he eventually sighed. A sign of his defeat.
"Fine, let's get this over with."
Durin never perked up faster than he did just now.
. . .
Turns out, despite his enthusiasm, Durin had barely gotten the basics down. Alice only gave him a rudimentary explanation, before leaving the kid to his own devices. Typical behavior of a mother who lets her child bomb Mondstadt just for the sake of it.
“Huh? I have to prepare you before I peg you?”
The question was so stupid that the only thing saving Durin from getting whacked was how much Wanderer loved him. Err, tolerated him. That’s it. Otherwise, Durin would’ve been sporting a red mark on his cheek for a day.
“Obviously,” Wanderer huffed. “Don’t I always prepare you before we have sex?”Durin appeared to think for a second, the cogs in his head turning at the question posed to him.
“But you’re taller than me,” he replied. “Will it still hurt without preparation?”
“That’s…” Wanderer sighed.
He was so close to giving up on this whole ordeal, but Durin made – forced – him to promise that he’d go through the entire thing.
“This is not the time for anatomy lessons,” he stated. “Just know that it’ll be uncomfortable for the both of us without preparation, regardless of who’s going inside of who. Do you want to be uncomfortable?”
Durin immediately shook his head.
“No… I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured in a small voice. “What do I need to do first?”
“Take off my pants first,” Wanderer instructed. “Then grab the lube. It should be inside the nightstand.”
Durin was quick to oblige, scooting closer to the puppet laid upon the soft mattress. It wasn’t the first time he was told to take off Wanderer’s pants, but his fingers still trembled ever so slightly as he undid the intricate knots of his obi. He remembered the first few times he fumbled with it,
|
aunt alice's magical love equipment, sponsored by bad dragon™
Wanderer was terrible at receiving requests.
But when it came to Durin, he was as equally terrible at denying them. Only because it was Durin, of course.
The dragon boy had suddenly approached him in the middle of the day. Wanderer knew the look on his face — those wide expectant eyes, his lips that curled into a slight pout — he was going to ask him for something. Without taking his eyes off of the dull selection he was forced to read for a lecture, he addressed Durin before the boy could even open his mouth.
"Need something?" he began.
"Hat Guy, can I peg you?"
All color instantly drained from Wanderer's face. It took him a good minute of staring blankly at the book in front of him before he could even think of an answer to that request. Durin? Pegging him? Where in the seven nations of Teyvat did he learn that from? It wasn't like he was keeping Durin innocent; that would be the biggest hypocrisy of his life. It's just that he hadn't expected the boy to know of such a concept.
Wanderer was quick to shoot him a petulant look. He used the book as a shield for his lower face, hiding his growing blush from view. Durin always knew how to pull a reaction out of him. Not because he actually did know how to, though (and really, part of it was also Wanderer’s fault for being so susceptible to it).
"Peg me?" Wanderer echoed, his voice strained with disbelief. "I don't think you know what you're talking about, Durin."
"Aunt Alice told me about it when I asked her a question about why I had different parts than you," Durin explained his side so casually as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "She suggested that I tried 'pegging' you so you could feel just as good as you make me!"
His sentiments were just as stupid as it was endearing. Wanderer didn't know if he wanted to facepalm first or give Alice a good talking down to — but the red witch was an elusive figure, only appearing in his life to cause mayhem that only benefitted her. Or in this case, whisper filthy suggestions into Durin's ear, knowing that the dragonboy would instantly heed them as soon as she utters the words.
"I thought I told you not to talk to that witch ever again."
Wanderer gave a stern look.
"But Aunt Alice is really smart!"
"Doesn't matter! All she feeds you are lies. Don't listen to her."
"But when I listened to her last time, we both had a good time, right?"
Oh no, Durin was pulling that look again.
"You said so, didn't you? Don't you love me anymore?"
"Oh, give me a break…" Wanderer muttered under his breath, but he didn't leave Durin to his own devices.
Chances are, the boy will definitely believe that Wanderer didn't love him anymore if he didn't heed his every whim. The more he tried justifying Durin's absurd request in his mind, the more his brows furrowed into themselves. There was simply no way in hell he was letting a small little boy fuck him in the ass with a plastic dick. He would take being erased from history again, he’d eat a hundred helpings of the stickiest, sweetest Dango ever – anything over the sheer humiliation of being pegged.
However, as Durin's pout deepened, he eventually sighed. A sign of his defeat.
"Fine, let's get this over with."
Durin never perked up faster than he did just now.
. . .
Turns out, despite his enthusiasm, Durin had barely gotten the basics down. Alice only gave him a rudimentary explanation, before leaving the kid to his own devices. Typical behavior of a mother who lets her child bomb Mondstadt just for the sake of it.
“Huh? I have to prepare you before I peg you?”
The question was so stupid that the only thing saving Durin from getting whacked was how much Wanderer loved him. Err, tolerated him. That’s it. Otherwise, Durin would’ve been sporting a red mark on his cheek for a day.
“Obviously,” Wanderer huffed. “Don’t I always prepare you before we have sex?”Durin appeared to think for a second, the cogs in his head turning at the question posed to him.
“But you’re taller than me,” he replied. “Will it still hurt without preparation?”
“That’s…” Wanderer sighed.
He was so close to giving up on this whole ordeal, but Durin made – forced – him to promise that he’d go through the entire thing.
“This is not the time for anatomy lessons,” he stated. “Just know that it’ll be uncomfortable for the both of us without preparation, regardless of who’s going inside of who. Do you want to be uncomfortable?”
Durin immediately shook his head.
“No… I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured in a small voice. “What do I need to do first?”
“Take off my pants first,” Wanderer instructed. “Then grab the lube. It should be inside the nightstand.”
Durin was quick to oblige, scooting closer to the puppet laid upon the soft mattress. It wasn’t the first time he was told to take off Wanderer’s pants, but his fingers still trembled ever so slightly as he undid the intricate knots of his obi. He remembered the first few times he fumbled with it, eventually leading to the latter removing it for him, but now, he was able to remove it himself without any struggle.
The dragon boy hooked a finger beneath the hem, slowly tugging it down. The smooth plane of Wanderer’s hips came into view, eventually revealing a sliver of his thighs, before his flaccid cock came into view. Slowly, it began to harden under Durin’s scrutiny.
Actually, scrutiny wouldn’t be the correct term. The boy was staring so intently at it to the point it was embarrassing. If he kept up at this, he’d probably be drooling in minutes.
“Eyes up here,” Wanderer grunted. “That’s not what you’ll be focusing on today.”
As if to emphasize his point, he rolled onto his stomach. His soft ass came into view, capturing the boy’s attention in mere seconds. Come to think of it, when was the last time Durin had a good look at his behind? Wanderer was always the one on top of him — sometimes beneath him, if he permitted it — so opportunities became far and few in between. Maybe while they were showering together or getting ready for the day, sure, but probably not in a much more intimate way.
Durin grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand, which was already half empty from their previous sessions. Then, he returned to his place between Wanderer’s legs, getting as comfortable as he could.
“S-So, I just need to lube up your butt before anything?” he asked.
“That’s what I just said,” Wanderer sighed once more.
The puppet adjusted his position, hiking the lower half of his body higher. He reached behind him, grasping his buttocks with both hands before spreading them wide. Sure enough, between the valley of his soft ass cheeks, his tight entrance was right there, fluttering ever so slightly under Durin’s intense gaze.
“Wow, it looks so… pretty,” the dragon boy murmured in awe.
“Are you done staring?” Wanderer grumbled.
“Sorry,” Durin replied immediately, before pausing for a second. “…On second thought, I think I have a better idea than using lube.”
“What are you— hey!”
The boy lunged straight for Wanderer’s ass, slotting his face between his cheeks. Before the puppet could even react, Durin had already began easing his tongue into the older man’s tightness. A shudder ran through Wanderer’s body once the dragon boy breached his anus, which completely swallowed the slippery appendage.
Durin’s unique constitution gave him plenty of benefits — but one of them, aside from his tight holes, was his draconic tongue. It was rather long, and slightly thicker than regular tongues. Wanderer hadn’t even began entertaining the idea of the little dragon using his tongue anywhere aside from his cock. If he knew it’d feel this heavenly early on… he still wouldn’t. Or at least, not as often. He didn’t enjoy humiliating himself, especially for the sake of others, but Durin was a special case as always.
“This is what you do for me sometimes, right?” the boy mumbled.
“Haven’t I… hah… already told you not to talk with your mouth full…?” Wanderer strained.
He had to brace himself on the bed, steeling his limbs against the mattress to keep himself from collapsing. Durin’s tongue wriggled inside of his hole, plunging deep inside of his tight cavern. The slippery appendage pressed all of the right spots that sent him reeling. His breathing grew labored as the child continued to taste his anus, making lewd slurping sounds in its wake.
As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the boy was right — this was far better than regular lube.
Seeing the older man’s reactions was enough to give Durin a boost of confidence. He used one of his hands to spread Wanderer’s ass cheek, before diving back in with his tongue. His free hand reached between the puppet’s trembling legs, feeling around for a moment, before finally grasping his cock. The shaft was as hard as rock, and it practically jumped in the boy’s small hand, betraying the extent of his enjoyment.
“Hey!” Wanderer let out. “I didn’t— ngh, give you permission to—!”
He cut himself off with a groan once Durin began stroking his dick, running his palm against the length. With a cheeky giggle, the dragon boy resumed his dual attack — massaging Wanderer’s asshole with his tongue, while simultaneously stimulating his hard cock. The way his tail wagged betrayed his obvious enjoyment. The puppet’s composure was fraying little by little, surrendering to the child’s eager ministrations, much to his chagrin.
His trembling turned into a full-body shake as his climax began approaching. Eventually, Durin’s exploration of his anus led the boy to discovering another weakness: his prostate. Pressing his tongue upwards toward the rubbery gland, which elicited a wanton moan from Wanderer’s throat, one that he was unable to hold back. He attempted to bite his lip to control the rest of his noises, but Durin wasn’t stopping anytime soon, abusing the sweet spot he just found.
“Brat…” Wanderer strained. “We haven’t even reached the main part yet… Slow down…”
Fortunately, Durin seemed to get the hint. Finally, he separated himself from the puppet’s ass, breathing heavily as he did. Wanderer’s wet hole clenched in time with his own panting, but with how much the dragon boy was slobbering all over it, it was sufficiently lubricated.
“Oh, by the way, Aunt Alice gave me this.”
Out of nowhere, Durin suddenly brandished a phallus with a pink-to-violet ombre and black harness straps, presenting it to Wanderer. It looked just like any other sex toy, despite its noticeable size. The tip was almost tapered, and it seemed to thicken considerably at the base, forming an animalistic knot. It didn’t need a rocket scientist to figure out that it wasn’t trying to emulate a human penis.
“She said that it was meant to mimic a real dragon, and that she made it ‘self-ejaculating’ using her magic,” Durin explained. “I don’t know what that means, but her magic is really fun, so it must be a good thing, right?”
Wanderer could only gawk at the sex toy in pure disbelief.
“Just… get it over with,” he sighed, an admission of his defeat.
It’s not like a strap-on will kill him, even if it was admittedly bigger than what he’s used to. He watched the boy remove his lower garments, leaving him bare from the waist below. His moist pussy came into view, visibly aroused due to deriving pleasure from Wanderer’s own. It took a bit of fumbling, but the child was able to secure the harness around his waist.
Durin approached him from behind, placing a hand on the puppet’s hips to steady himself. He used the free one to press the tip against Wanderer’s hole, securely nudging the head inside, before pushing his hips forward.
Wanderer knew it was big, but the size was enough to knock the artificial breath out of him. What he didn’t expect, however, was the dragon boy to let out a loud moan of his own.
“A-Am I supposed to feel like this…?” Durin murmured, his voice straining with each inch he gave. “I can feel you through the toy… You’re so warm…”
“Looks like the witch put another kind of magic,” Wanderer replied through heavy breathing.
Eventually, Durin buried the strap-on as far as it could go, with the knotted base pressing right outside. A shudder left his mouth, before he gave an experimental grind of his hips. As expected, he could feel every single thing through the toy, making him whimper out in ecstasy. If that wasn’t enough, his pussy began reacting to the foreign pleasure, juices dripping from his neglected hole.
The sensations threatened to overwhelm him, but he wanted to carry on. Durin withdrew his hips from Wanderer’s asshole, before going all out in a single thrust, moaning loudly as he did. The older man let out a shuddering groan, clamping down on the thick toy. He’s never felt this stuffed before, and it just had to be from that witch’s magic strap-on.
It took some time for Durin to find a rhythm, clearly not used to doing any of the thrusting. The power in his hips was undeniable, however, with every push leaving Wanderer gasping for air he didn’t even need. As soon as the dragon boy settled on a good pace, the puppet could only bury his face in the mattress, fists curling into a ball against the sheets.
“Is this… How you feel like whenever you’re… Ah… Inside of me?” Durin asked in between moans. “It’s like you’re… Mmh… Sucking me in…”
“O-Of course,” Wanderer responded. “This is— ah, precisely why I can’t… Pull myself out of you sometimes…”
Durin could only reply with an adorable whimper, leaning forward to press his chest against the puppet’s back. His thrusts grew faster, like a desperate mutt chasing his release. He nuzzled his face into Wanderer’s shoulder, moaning directly into his ear. His face morphed into an expression of pure ecstasy, half-lidded eyes and an open mouth, only able to let out high-pitched whines and lewd moans. His pussy clenched around nothing, aching for something to soothe the ache down there too.
“I’m… I’m close…” he murmured. “I’m sorry, I can’t hold back anymore— It’s coming out—!”
He thrust as hard as he could, and with enough effort, he eased the flared base into Wanderer’s hole. A gasp left the puppet’s throat at the sudden intrusion, which was instantly followed by a scream from the dragon boy behind him. Wanderer felt a thick liquid filling his stretched asshole, which seemed to be the ‘self-ejaculating’ feature that Alice mentioned to the child. He already felt stuffed from the toy alone, but with the knotted base preventing any cum from seeping out, his stomach began to distend from the sheer volume.
This is the first time he had his stomach bulge because of semen. Probably his penance for doing the same to Durin many times before, though it took them multiple rounds to achieve a similar effect.
Despite the cum flooding his ass, as well as the pleasure he received, his cock continued to ache. Somehow, he still hasn’t reached his own orgasm yet. Durin collapsed on top of him, obviously fucked out after only one round, but the puppet had endless stamina and an orgasm to chase.
“Well? Did it live up to your expectations?” he asked.
“Uh-huh…” Durin mumbled. “It felt really good, but moving my hips was so tiring… How do you manage to do it for so long?”
“Unlike you, stamina isn’t an issue for me.”
Suddenly, as if to prove his point, Wanderer made a swift maneuver. He moved as quickly as the wind, leaving Durin dizzy with each movement he made. He lodged the strap-on out of his asshole, making the warm cum seep out like a waterfall. Without missing a beat, he pushed the dragon boy onto his back, caging the child beneath him with no room for escape.
“You’ve had your fun, little dragon.” Wanderer sent him a smug grin. “Now it’s my turn.”
His hands moved downwards, undoing the black harness on Durin’s waist. He removed the strap-on itself and took it for closer inspection, which was coated in a sheen of cum and saliva. His devious smile never left his face as he placed the dildo on top of Durin’s tummy, emulating how deep it’d go if the puppet used it on him. In turn, the dragon boy’s eyes widened at the sight, already imagining what it’d look like.
His lustful eyes grew darker. That’s exactly what he intended to do.
“How about a taste of your own medicine, hm?” Wanderer began.
He lifted one of Durin’s legs, spreading it wider to expose his soaked pussy in between. His tiny hole had been neglected for too long, even looking at it was enough to send his cunt twitching. Wanderer pressed the tapered tip against the child’s dripping slit. The sheer size of the cockhead alone would be a massive stretch, and if he lodged the whole thing inside, the boy’s stomach would easily bulge out.
“Tell me immediately if you start hurting,” Wanderer said, displaying a brief moment of softness in his voice.
Durin was tougher than he looked, and judging from the arousal burning in his eyes, he wanted it more than he let on. With a push of his hand, Wanderer began easing the toy inside of Durin’s small hole. It was a tighter fit than the puppet’s ass, but despite the stretch, Durin’s face immediately twisted into a wide-eyed expression. It almost seemed like it hurt, until his mouth flew open, letting out a high-pitched squeal of wanton pleasure.
Fueled by the boy’s reactions, Wanderer continued to ease the toy into his pussy, stopping just before the knot. Even if the strap-on wasn’t fully inside yet, Durin’s soft tummy had began to protrude upwards from the girth. A look of pure ecstasy had washed over the little boy’s face — eyes rolled back, with his mouth hanging open in a silent scream, cheeks dusted in a deep shade of red. His legs were already shaking from the initial penetration.
The knot was the final push. The moment Wanderer pushed it inside, Durin’s body convulsed on the bed. His stretched out pussy twitched around the thick toy, as well as a loud strangled moan from his mouth.
“Hah, did you just cum from having it inside?” Wanderer let out an amused laugh. “You’re always full of surprises, Durin.”
He kept the toy lodged deep in the boy’s cunt, moving onto his next agenda. He only remembered just how badly his cock was aching to be buried in one of the boy’s holes. With his pussy occupied, the next best option was the tiny asshole just beneath.
Wanderer lowered himself onto the bed, coming face-to-face with Durin’s ass. He lifted the dragon boy’s legs, pressing his knees to his chest, before placing his mouth on the entrance of his ass. His tongue may not be as long as Durin’s, but what he lacked in size was always made up for with experience, as well as his vast knowledge on what made the boy twitch.
The little dragon lacked a prostate due to his genitals, but the sensation of Wanderer’s warm tongue thrusting in-and-out was more than enough for him. Another series of moans left Durin’s throat, still overstimulated from his previous orgasm. He wanted to say something, anything — about how good it felt, how much he loved Wanderer, something like that — but all he could muster were lewd noises, too fucked out to think about words.
Eventually, Wanderer’s relentless tonguing would cease, hastily withdrawing from the little boy’s anus. Adjusting his position, he straddled Durin’s ass, pressing his rock hard cock against the opening. He used his hands to spread his cheeks open, forcing it to gape a little to prepare for the intrusion. Without another word, he slowly breached the dragon’s tight opening, not stopping until he was deep into his anus. Of course, Durin instantly reacted to the initial entrance, letting out a pitchy whine. His pussy visibly clenched around the large toy, gushing around it and coating it in another layer of his slick.
“This is how I felt when you were inside of me,” Wanderer grunted. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Having both holes filled?”
Without waiting for a response, he began moving his hips, wasting no time on a slow rhythm. Durin’s legs trembled in his own grip, keeping them pressed against his chest, presenting both of his filled holes to the lustful man above him. Wanderer’s words only served to fuel his arousal, only able to answer in uncontrollable moans and unintelligible sentences. Something that sounded like yes, I love you, please keep going, don’t stop — the meaning was all lost amidst the brain-melting pleasure, but his noises said everything he couldn’t.
And as if that wasn’t enough, Wanderer reached behind Durin, grasping the base of his tail.
“W-Wait—”
Durin was too slow to react, the puppet was already caressing his sensitive tail, knowing it was the little dragon’s ‘danger’ zones.
“This—” Wanderer tugged on his tail, making him scream in pleasure. “—is what you get for exploiting my weakness.”
The overwhelming sensations were everywhere. Durin didn’t even know where to begin — the toy’s fullness in his cunt, the ruthless thrusting in his ass, or the gentle strokes and harsh tugs on his tail. His brain had turned into mush, turning him into nothing but a babbling mess. It wouldn’t be long until he was reeling once more, approaching another orgasm.
Wanderer was close behind, about to reach his peak as well. He pounded the boy’s ass with such vigor, it felt like he was about to split the poor little dragon into two. He braced a hand on the headboard, observing Durin’s lewd expression with a half-lidded gaze. His mouth hung open as he panted heavily, his moans increasing in frequency with each speedy thrust. He drilled his cock into Durin’s tight asshole with no remorse, fucking him into the mattress mercilessly.
A loud grunt left his open mouth, the only warning he gave as his orgasm finally washed over him. Having his ass filled with hot cum was enough to push Durin over the edge once more, letting out a guttural scream as he came all over the thick toy once more. The boy’s tongue stuck out as he did, making an overly erotic expression. His holes were all thoroughly abused, dripping with a mix of slick and semen.
Wanderer dislodged the strap-on from the dragon boy’s cunt, watching his overstimulated body convulse as he did. The toy was drenched in his juices, making it glisten under the light. Durin’s heavy panting slowed down eventually, before Wanderer realized that the boy had passed out entirely.
And as always, he was in charge of clean-up. Great.
He took another look at the strap-on in his hand.
Maybe he wouldn’t mind commissioning the red mage for similar products once their paths cross again.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75686146
|
{"authors": ["scaradurin"], "language": "English", "title": "aunt alice's magical love equipment, sponsored by bad dragon™"}
|
Forget About Your Troubles...!
WPNZ walks in the door one evening, his blood-splattered jacket draping over his arm. He plops it onto a chair, rolling his neck to relieve tension. Another day, another successful mission. His body is sore and he is ready to unwind with-
Puzzles. …where is he?
WPNZ strolls through the cramped studio, but he can’t find him. He could have sworn Puzzles was staying home today.
“Hello?” he shouts, “Puzzles?”
He walks in front of the bed, and his foot knocks the side of something metal. Quickly glancing down, his expression softens.
There he is.
He lifts the dense TV from off the ground, inspecting it. The screen flickers, “Puzzlevision: PLEASE STAND BY” displayed boldly on the screen.
He exhales sharply, eyes locked on the screen while it hums in his hands.
The last time he saw Puzzles like this was a long while ago. A time when he wanted him dead, hell, more than dead. He wanted his stupid robotic guts strewn on the ground. Things have definitely changed since then, but a flicker of anger still came to him as the memory passed through his head.
…Maybe he’s still a little mad about the ordeal, but who wouldn’t be?
A small clicking noise sounds from the TV, snapping him out of his thoughts. Legs and arms extend from the sides of the TV. Frozen by the uncanny sight, WPNZ grips it tighter, watching Puzzles’ body unfurl from the box.
But, the resistance blocks Puzzles from standing fully. So he hastily grips WPNZ’s forearms to steady himself. WPNZ continues to hold his head as the screen displays a surprised expression.
As for WPNZ, he says, “...I always forget you can do that.”
Irked by his hold on his head, Puzzles stands up straight, wrenching himself from his grasp. He responds, “Yes, well, next time keep your hands off me.” as he readjusts his head on his shoulders.
WPNZ shrugs and rests his hands on his hips, teasing. “Sensitive.” He continues on before Puzzles can respond. “What do you even do in there, huh?”
“Ah, right… The last time you had seen it-”
WPNZ’s face flashes with a hint of discomfort before he cuts Puzzles off.
“Let’s not dwell on it.”
He lovingly hits Puzzles’ back, though it still ends up a bit forceful.
“...That’s understandable,” he recovers from the hit and tells WPNZ about his headspace, “What I do in there,” he knocks his hand on the side of his head, “is perfect my art, create beautiful sets, and run scenes,” he gushes over his obsession, but it fades into disappointment after a moment. “Of course, I haven’t had any actors in… a very long time, it seems. I made mistakes. My shows… they just had to be perfect…”
Puzzles spots WPNZ’s eyes light up with an unusual sheen of interest. Being as rare as it is, he's willing to entertain his curiosity, whatever it could be.
“Definitely sounds like something you’d do-”
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Could you do that to me?”
A jolt of surprise and dread shoots through him at WPNZ’s question. Control him? It’s tempting, but a bit nerve-wracking given his history.
WPNZ wants this. He’s been controlled by Puzzles before, but that was before they made up. All he remembers is his own breathing and falling to the ground. Otherwise, his memory is blank. But, that just makes him more curious. …and more willing to compromise.
“I’ll let you do anything you want~”
Puzzles pauses, considering the offer. On one hand, he’s nervous that he might like having control too much and become impulsive. But on the other… Having permission to do anything he wants? It might be a risk, but one he may take.
He finally answers, “I suppose I could… But you know I would have complete control over you, right?”
WPNZ just smirks and says, “I’m willing to give it a shot.”
So after a moment, they both go into his headspace.
Puzzles has him sit down in a chair he materializes and looks him in the eyes.
“...Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Just do it. What’s the worst that could happen? Besides, I want to see what you’ll do.”
“...Ok, I’m going to ask you to relax then. It makes it a lot easier.” He continues, his hand resting on WPNZ’s shoulder, “Don’t be too startled, okay?”
A jolt of electricity runs through his shoulder to his head, making him let out a short huff of pain before he abruptly goes still.
Noise floods his mind, muffling his thoughts; he guesses TV static. The sound of his breathing reverberates in his head, his heartbeat echoing over and over and over again. Puzzles steps back from his body, but it all seems surreal. He wants to look around or say something, but the impulse stays contained.
He has a feeling he should have expected this to be disorienting, but he didn’t expect it to be this bad.
WPNZ’s body remains slack and neutral, not moving at all.
Oh fuck… this isn’t… this doesn’t feel right at all…
“Ok, WPNZ. Stand for me please.”
Suddenly, the static is replaced with a low buzzing and his legs rush to do as they’re told, moving smoothly on their own. The noise may be gone, but the buzzing drags on and on and on
|
Forget About Your Troubles...!
WPNZ walks in the door one evening, his blood-splattered jacket draping over his arm. He plops it onto a chair, rolling his neck to relieve tension. Another day, another successful mission. His body is sore and he is ready to unwind with-
Puzzles. …where is he?
WPNZ strolls through the cramped studio, but he can’t find him. He could have sworn Puzzles was staying home today.
“Hello?” he shouts, “Puzzles?”
He walks in front of the bed, and his foot knocks the side of something metal. Quickly glancing down, his expression softens.
There he is.
He lifts the dense TV from off the ground, inspecting it. The screen flickers, “Puzzlevision: PLEASE STAND BY” displayed boldly on the screen.
He exhales sharply, eyes locked on the screen while it hums in his hands.
The last time he saw Puzzles like this was a long while ago. A time when he wanted him dead, hell, more than dead. He wanted his stupid robotic guts strewn on the ground. Things have definitely changed since then, but a flicker of anger still came to him as the memory passed through his head.
…Maybe he’s still a little mad about the ordeal, but who wouldn’t be?
A small clicking noise sounds from the TV, snapping him out of his thoughts. Legs and arms extend from the sides of the TV. Frozen by the uncanny sight, WPNZ grips it tighter, watching Puzzles’ body unfurl from the box.
But, the resistance blocks Puzzles from standing fully. So he hastily grips WPNZ’s forearms to steady himself. WPNZ continues to hold his head as the screen displays a surprised expression.
As for WPNZ, he says, “...I always forget you can do that.”
Irked by his hold on his head, Puzzles stands up straight, wrenching himself from his grasp. He responds, “Yes, well, next time keep your hands off me.” as he readjusts his head on his shoulders.
WPNZ shrugs and rests his hands on his hips, teasing. “Sensitive.” He continues on before Puzzles can respond. “What do you even do in there, huh?”
“Ah, right… The last time you had seen it-”
WPNZ’s face flashes with a hint of discomfort before he cuts Puzzles off.
“Let’s not dwell on it.”
He lovingly hits Puzzles’ back, though it still ends up a bit forceful.
“...That’s understandable,” he recovers from the hit and tells WPNZ about his headspace, “What I do in there,” he knocks his hand on the side of his head, “is perfect my art, create beautiful sets, and run scenes,” he gushes over his obsession, but it fades into disappointment after a moment. “Of course, I haven’t had any actors in… a very long time, it seems. I made mistakes. My shows… they just had to be perfect…”
Puzzles spots WPNZ’s eyes light up with an unusual sheen of interest. Being as rare as it is, he's willing to entertain his curiosity, whatever it could be.
“Definitely sounds like something you’d do-”
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Could you do that to me?”
A jolt of surprise and dread shoots through him at WPNZ’s question. Control him? It’s tempting, but a bit nerve-wracking given his history.
WPNZ wants this. He’s been controlled by Puzzles before, but that was before they made up. All he remembers is his own breathing and falling to the ground. Otherwise, his memory is blank. But, that just makes him more curious. …and more willing to compromise.
“I’ll let you do anything you want~”
Puzzles pauses, considering the offer. On one hand, he’s nervous that he might like having control too much and become impulsive. But on the other… Having permission to do anything he wants? It might be a risk, but one he may take.
He finally answers, “I suppose I could… But you know I would have complete control over you, right?”
WPNZ just smirks and says, “I’m willing to give it a shot.”
So after a moment, they both go into his headspace.
Puzzles has him sit down in a chair he materializes and looks him in the eyes.
“...Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Just do it. What’s the worst that could happen? Besides, I want to see what you’ll do.”
“...Ok, I’m going to ask you to relax then. It makes it a lot easier.” He continues, his hand resting on WPNZ’s shoulder, “Don’t be too startled, okay?”
A jolt of electricity runs through his shoulder to his head, making him let out a short huff of pain before he abruptly goes still.
Noise floods his mind, muffling his thoughts; he guesses TV static. The sound of his breathing reverberates in his head, his heartbeat echoing over and over and over again. Puzzles steps back from his body, but it all seems surreal. He wants to look around or say something, but the impulse stays contained.
He has a feeling he should have expected this to be disorienting, but he didn’t expect it to be this bad.
WPNZ’s body remains slack and neutral, not moving at all.
Oh fuck… this isn’t… this doesn’t feel right at all…
“Ok, WPNZ. Stand for me please.”
Suddenly, the static is replaced with a low buzzing and his legs rush to do as they’re told, moving smoothly on their own. The noise may be gone, but the buzzing drags on and on and on and on and on... It’s almost hypnotic.
Puzzles. Puzzles? I’ve had enough…
Even while his thoughts are calm, his heart pounds faster, breathing quick and shallow. The environment looks blurry, as if everything is submerged in water. His eyes won’t focus.
“There we are.”
The words pierce through his skull. They’re the only thing he hears outside of himself.
When Puzzles inspects him thinking of what to command him to do, he’s overcome with apprehension. He could make him do anything and everything. The last time he had this chance he took full advantage of it, making perfect actors of his victims. …Now with the chance with someone he’s close to… He’s not sure what he should do.
“Now, now. Look at me.” The words flow from his mouth, appreciative of his partner.
Puzzles gestures to his screen and that’s exactly where WPNZ’s eyes travel.
But as Puzzles looks closer, he notices the slightest shift of his chest from the force of his heartbeat against his sternum. Puzzles’ amusement instantly fades.
He hadn’t meant to frighten him. At least there’s a quick fix for that.
“It’s ok… Relax and breathe with me.” He directs, inhaling deeply and slowly.
WPNZ follows, matching Puzzles’ breathing exactly. Without knowing it, he feels more limp, his muscles relaxing thoroughly.
Oh god… What…?
He can’t be bothered to think very much right now, but he continues fighting, even if he only wants to look at Puzzles.
So weird…
“Tell me. Are you feeling better?”
“Mmhmm.” WPNZ’s throat answers, his voice low and distant.
“Good.” Puzzles thinks for a moment before asking, “Smile for me, won’t you?”
WPNZ follows his order, feeling the strain on his face. Otherwise, he can’t feel much of anything else.
“Perfect…!”
He wants to be angry, can feel the fury gnawing at the back of his mind, but it stays there, never surfacing. Numbness fills in the rest of the gaps, causing a bittersweet, disorienting sensation; like everything inside and out became unintentionally slack. Though blunted, the edge remains far from gone.
“You know, this isn’t how I typically control others,” Puzzles speaks carefully, each word measured as he leans against WPNZ’s shoulder. “I make them do what I want, not tell them do what I want.”
He just can’t help but become bold with WPNZ. After all, when does he ever get a chance to do something like this? If he can stay reasonable with his actions then he should be fine. That’s not hard to do…
Leaning closer, he hooks his arms around WPNZ’s neck and mutters, “I suppose you’re the exception, hm?”
WPNZ’s breath hitches subtly, swallowing.
…Hot-
He’s not sure why, but this feels alright. Quiet, but alright. Maybe it’s just the way Puzzles speaks to him.
“...Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Of course he would say that-
His mouth opens before he can think.
“I think you should keep talking.”
Puzzles pauses for a moment, eyes flickering wide open.
Is that really what he thinks?
He then has an idea, though he really shouldn’t be thinking about it. Since WPNZ seems to be enjoying this somewhat, then maybe he could use him as an actor. …Just for a little while.
So, he sets everything up.
Empty nightclub setting, clones as extra actors, a camera… And of course a dress for his special actor.
A dark, sleek dress clings to his metallic body as he walks out of the dressing room. Puzzles finds himself lingering on the deep chest cutout lined with white, jagged, tooth-like trim. The halter of it accentuates his broad shoulders appealingly and his eyes flicker to the thick, durable panes of steel peeking out of the cut. He quickly averts his gaze, but it lands on the leather belt low on his waist beneath a large back cutout.
WPNZ would definitely kill him if he was able to right now.
But, given complete control, he stares at his legs peeking out from two high slits in the fabric. His eyes glide down the yellow and blue accents running around and up the hem of the long dress, admiring how the shape complements WPNZ’s sturdy thighs.
Tempered under Puzzles control, he partially accepts this. After all, he does look good. But beneath it all he’s pissed. Humiliated. Emasculated even.
Why would he do this? Out of all the things?!
Puzzles doesn’t recognize that though, inspecting him with glee.
“How beautiful! Aren’t I just a great stylist?” he boasts, forcing himself to turn away and focus on the scene.
“Ok, stand over here and sit.”
WPNZ does as he’s told, walking over to a luxurious lounge chair and plopping down in it.
Puzzles knows he really should have a clone play the part, but when does he ever get a chance to indulge with WPNZ like this? Not as often as he’d like.
“In this scene you’re a cold, ruthless mafia leader and I haven’t paid a hefty sum of money. You aren’t happy.”
Adapting to the roll, he leans back and crosses his legs at the knee.
“Yes, that’s more like it…!” Puzzles praises enthusiastically.
He gets into position right in front of WPNZ on his knees.
“Now remember, I want this to be genuine.”
Snapping his fingers, the camera starts rolling and he starts off the scene.
“Please, I- I can get the money, just give me more time…!” he pleads dramatically, hands shaking.
WPNZ stays silent for a beat, turning a gun in his hand. He ignores Puzzles for a bit before staring directly at him.
“Yeah? And why should I, hm?” He speaks calmly.
It’s unlike his normal timbre. Smoother, less dynamic.
Puzzles didn’t expect it to make his heart race.
“Because-” he swallows nervously “-you won’t get the money at all if I’m gone…”
WPNZ abruptly stands and languidly steps forward.
“Even with you alive I haven’t received anything…”
He leans in close, too close. Maybe an inch away.
“If you die, I don’t think anything will change.” He holds the gun to Puzzles’ head. “You’ll prove me wrong. Isn’t that right?”
Puzzles works hard to keep his composure in check, continuing the scene.
“Y-yes… That’s right…”
“Mhm.” WPNZ stands up straight, appraising his agreement.
But Puzzles abruptly pauses the scene and stands up, purely flustered. He strides out of frame and rests his hands on his knees, wheezing lightly.
Never has he felt so… roused.
But the show must go on, so he pushes the feeling down.
They spend a long while retaking the scene until he gets it completely perfect. Even though this is for personal enjoyment, the perfectionist side of him demands a high-quality performance.
Eventually, he gets it how he wants it; perfect.
“Done.” He proclaims as he stores the camera away for later.
He turns back to WPNZ, looking him over. He’s just so pretty like this.
But, he’s aware he’s kept him for too long.
So, he pushes his feelings aside and allows him control again with jolt.
He leaves WPNZ alone, letting him orient himself.
But when he finally snaps out of it, he lunges, tackling Puzzles to the ground. Palms on the junction of his shoulder and chest, he pushes him into the ground. Puzzles forcefully grabs his arm, shielding his screen.
“Bastard! Don’t ever do that again!” He seethes, body heaving with each breath. The smirk on his face continues to resurface even while he tries to replace it with a sneer.
“You asked me to…!” Puzzles asserted defensively before catching WPNZ’s expression falter. Instantly, he dons a mischievous smile of his own, even as the man above him continues yelling.
“You think I asked to be put in a damn dress…?!” He shouts, gritting his teeth into an aggressive half-smile.
“Aw, you aren’t really angry, are you?”
WPNZ shakes him, progressively pressing his palms harder on his chest, the thin alloy panels creaking from the force. Puzzles welcomes it, even if his breath catches. Besides-
“Your dress is riding up.” he remarks with full confidence.
His hand wanders up WPNZ’s thigh and yanks the fabric down over a pair of lacy underwear.
WPNZ stills, looking at him with wide eyes.
He glances down and blushes bright, rich cerulean, the color spreading down the steel panels of his neck. In a flash, he grabs Puzzles’ shirt collar and hoists him up, keeping his hold.
“That’s ‘nough. Bed. Now.”
Puzzles chuckles, “If you insist.~”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75691691/chapters/197960961
|
{"authors": ["Imaginary404"], "language": "English", "title": "Forget About Your Troubles...!"}
|
MK VS. The Witches: A Lego Monkie Kid/ Roald Dahl's The Witches Crossover
MK was nine years old when his big brother Wukong first told him about witches. Tucking him into the bed he set up for MK in his little apartment.
It had been a few weeks now since the terrible night MK’s mother died. The pair had been visiting Wukong for the holidays, just like they had every year. The road had just been too icy that day and the car's wheels just veered off the road.
MK didn’t want to think anymore about that terrible afternoon, it still gave him the shivers when he thought about it.
In the end he was bundled up by the local police and brought to Wukong's house where he buried his head sobbing in his older brothers arms. They spent the whole night like that, the pair worried that the other would slip away from them forever.
"What are we going to do now”? MK finally sniffled out.
"You will stay here with me," Wukong said firmly as he rubbed his back "and I’ll look after you…and after…we’ll figure it out”
The following days felt like a blur, MK just going through the motions as he watched Wukong take on all the necessary responsibilities. MK felt like there was a big pit inside his heart, like he would never be happy or smile ever again.
Maybe that's why his brother decided to tell him stories.
Wukong always was a wonderful story-teller and MK found himself enthralled by everything his brother told him.
But MK didn’t become really excited (and frightened) until Wukong got on to the subject of witches.
“When I was a boy like you, living with our mother in our big house back in Megalopolis, she told me all about witches so I would always be aware” said Wukong as he sat at the edge of MK bed “And now I think your old enough to be aware too”
MK clutched at the edge of his blankets tightly.
Wukong continued “Now the most important thing you should know about real witches is this” he said leaning closer “Real witches dress in ordinary clothes and look very much like ordinary women and female demons, they even live in ordinary houses, and work in ordinary jobs”
His brother raised a hand to gesture around the room
“Every country in the world has witches…and there’s a leader” Wukong golden eyes turning sharp “A High Witch for each country, but one rules over them all” he wiggled his paws in a creeping motion “She the most evil woman in creation, the Grand High Witch, the Lady Bone Demon”!
MK drew back a bit as his brother went on “Witches spend all their time plotting to kill children, stalking the poor kid like a tiger stalks a monkey in the forest”
“Did they hunt you”? MK couldn’t help but ask.
Wukong blinked before laughing “Guess I was a bit on the nose there” he said before parting his hair. MK crawled out of his covers to look and winced at what he saw. Just above Wukong's hair line was a terrible deep gash that long since healed but the brown discolored grooves of skin running all the way to the top of his brother's skull.
MK touched it curiously touch “I thought that was from an accident”
“Yes, a very cruel,” he brother said, patting his hair back into place “,and a very unpleasant accident”.
Wukong pushed MK back down on the mattress and readjusted his blankets “You know, when I was a younger I traveled the world in search of the Lady Bone Demon….me and a partner…. but I never got close enough” he said “Honestly I don’t think anyone’s ever found her, or if those who had lived to tell the tale”
“But Wukong, if no one has ever seen the Lady Bone Demon” said MK “How do we know she exists”?
Wukong patted his head “Hey, we’ve never seen the Netherworld but we know it exists” the monkey demon made it a point to turn his head to the window, the curtains shifting just a bit to reveal the lights from the street and houses outside.
“For all we know a witch might be living next door to us, and we’d never know” Wukong face grew somber “When I was little I used to live besides a boy named Ao Li…and who was taken by a witch”
MK could see bits of old sorrow cross over his brother's eyes.
“Ao Li came from a very rich and prestigious family, he had very strict parents, and a protective brother and sister, but even that didn’t save poor Ao Li” said Wukong “Because when a witch chooses a victim there’s only one hope of escape, knowing everything about them! And making sure you know just how to spot them”!
“How”? MK whispered out.
“The biggest problem and why they’re so dangerous is the fact they don’t look dangerous” explained Wukong “You could never be sure if it’s a witch your looking at or just a kind lady, that's why you need to look out for all the clues” he said “Now listen, real witches are pretty much bald”
“Bald”? Said MK.
Wukong nodded “They nerd to wear wigs for it, realistic ones to boot” he said “Problem for them is that wearing such a thing for so long tends to make them itchy, and that itch can cause them scalp rash” Wukong scratched his own head in a frenzy “All that itching under the wig just goes and drives them crazy”!
|
MK VS. The Witches: A Lego Monkie Kid/ Roald Dahl's The Witches Crossover
MK was nine years old when his big brother Wukong first told him about witches. Tucking him into the bed he set up for MK in his little apartment.
It had been a few weeks now since the terrible night MK’s mother died. The pair had been visiting Wukong for the holidays, just like they had every year. The road had just been too icy that day and the car's wheels just veered off the road.
MK didn’t want to think anymore about that terrible afternoon, it still gave him the shivers when he thought about it.
In the end he was bundled up by the local police and brought to Wukong's house where he buried his head sobbing in his older brothers arms. They spent the whole night like that, the pair worried that the other would slip away from them forever.
"What are we going to do now”? MK finally sniffled out.
"You will stay here with me," Wukong said firmly as he rubbed his back "and I’ll look after you…and after…we’ll figure it out”
The following days felt like a blur, MK just going through the motions as he watched Wukong take on all the necessary responsibilities. MK felt like there was a big pit inside his heart, like he would never be happy or smile ever again.
Maybe that's why his brother decided to tell him stories.
Wukong always was a wonderful story-teller and MK found himself enthralled by everything his brother told him.
But MK didn’t become really excited (and frightened) until Wukong got on to the subject of witches.
“When I was a boy like you, living with our mother in our big house back in Megalopolis, she told me all about witches so I would always be aware” said Wukong as he sat at the edge of MK bed “And now I think your old enough to be aware too”
MK clutched at the edge of his blankets tightly.
Wukong continued “Now the most important thing you should know about real witches is this” he said leaning closer “Real witches dress in ordinary clothes and look very much like ordinary women and female demons, they even live in ordinary houses, and work in ordinary jobs”
His brother raised a hand to gesture around the room
“Every country in the world has witches…and there’s a leader” Wukong golden eyes turning sharp “A High Witch for each country, but one rules over them all” he wiggled his paws in a creeping motion “She the most evil woman in creation, the Grand High Witch, the Lady Bone Demon”!
MK drew back a bit as his brother went on “Witches spend all their time plotting to kill children, stalking the poor kid like a tiger stalks a monkey in the forest”
“Did they hunt you”? MK couldn’t help but ask.
Wukong blinked before laughing “Guess I was a bit on the nose there” he said before parting his hair. MK crawled out of his covers to look and winced at what he saw. Just above Wukong's hair line was a terrible deep gash that long since healed but the brown discolored grooves of skin running all the way to the top of his brother's skull.
MK touched it curiously touch “I thought that was from an accident”
“Yes, a very cruel,” he brother said, patting his hair back into place “,and a very unpleasant accident”.
Wukong pushed MK back down on the mattress and readjusted his blankets “You know, when I was a younger I traveled the world in search of the Lady Bone Demon….me and a partner…. but I never got close enough” he said “Honestly I don’t think anyone’s ever found her, or if those who had lived to tell the tale”
“But Wukong, if no one has ever seen the Lady Bone Demon” said MK “How do we know she exists”?
Wukong patted his head “Hey, we’ve never seen the Netherworld but we know it exists” the monkey demon made it a point to turn his head to the window, the curtains shifting just a bit to reveal the lights from the street and houses outside.
“For all we know a witch might be living next door to us, and we’d never know” Wukong face grew somber “When I was little I used to live besides a boy named Ao Li…and who was taken by a witch”
MK could see bits of old sorrow cross over his brother's eyes.
“Ao Li came from a very rich and prestigious family, he had very strict parents, and a protective brother and sister, but even that didn’t save poor Ao Li” said Wukong “Because when a witch chooses a victim there’s only one hope of escape, knowing everything about them! And making sure you know just how to spot them”!
“How”? MK whispered out.
“The biggest problem and why they’re so dangerous is the fact they don’t look dangerous” explained Wukong “You could never be sure if it’s a witch your looking at or just a kind lady, that's why you need to look out for all the clues” he said “Now listen, real witches are pretty much bald”
“Bald”? Said MK.
Wukong nodded “They nerd to wear wigs for it, realistic ones to boot” he said “Problem for them is that wearing such a thing for so long tends to make them itchy, and that itch can cause them scalp rash” Wukong scratched his own head in a frenzy “All that itching under the wig just goes and drives them crazy”!
MK let out a chuckle at his brother's actions.
“There pretty ugly, even by demon standards, under the masks they wear” said Wukong “And can only be distinguished from ordinary women if you are sharp enough to spot the color of their eyes, a purple tinge just that glows just faintly from their pupils”
“But Wukong”! Complained MK “Loads of people have purple eyes, especially demons”!
“Hey, I’m giving some important advice here”! Wukong said rubbing his temple “Now look, on top of all that, real witches have no toes”
“No toes”! gagged MK “Then what do they have”
“Just square stumps, no toes, no nothing” chuckled Wukong at his siblings reaction “Now normally that wouldn’t be too much of an issue for them as they can walk pretty fine without all those toes, but for a witch trying to blend in with society, whose feet are very wide and square at the ends, she’s going to have the most awful job squeezing her feet into those neat little pointed shoes"
"Couldn’t she just wear wide comfy shoes?" MK asked.
"She dare not," said Wukong "Just as she hides her baldness with an itchy wig, she must also hide her ugly witch's feet by squeezing them into pretty shoes” his brother snicked at the end as he added “Cause if she doesn't, that make her all the more easier to catch”
MK thoughts wandered to his mother and the pointed high heels she sometimes wear, he couldn’t imagine wearing those. Especially with no toes and only a bare stump to push his feet through.
MK thoughts wandered to his mother and the pointed high heels she sometimes wear, he couldn’t imagine wearing those. Especially with no toes and only a bare stump to push his feet through.
"That doesn't sound comfortable" said MK
“It’s extremely uncomfortable” said Wukong "But she has to put up with it."
MK was silent for a bit "If she's wearing ordinary shoes, it won't help me to recognize her, will it, Wukong"
"I'm afraid it won't,” Wukong reluctantly agreed. "You might only possibly see her limping very slightly, but only if you were watching closely”
MK pulled his legs close under the covers.
Wukong sighed “Look bud, I admit none of what I’ve said is very helpful on its own” he said “You can still never be absolutely sure whether a woman or demon you meet is a witch or not just by looking at her” Wukong leaned close again “But if you take everything I told you and put it together, then you stand a better chance at knowing if the person in front of you is a witch or not and saving yourself” he was quiet before he said “And maybe if Ao Li knew that, maybe he could avoid….”
MK peaked bravely in morbid curiosity “What happened”?
Wukong shrugged “He disappeared, he had just gone out to pick up some snacks from the corner shop, but no one ever saw him again” Wukong looked sorrowfully at his hands “They looked for him, searched miles around, but the thing about witches is that they don’t disappear kids like a typical person would” his eyes narrowed “Thats for those who want to get caught, and witches never get caught by police or guards”
The monkey demon closed his eyes as he recounted more.
“I was there in Ao Li house a week later” Wukong said “We were best friends, the house was in a state of wreck, the whole family gathered in the living room wracked with worry, but Ao Li mother still offered me some tea” he continued “But just then while Ao Li mother poured the drinks, his father came in before stopping in the hallway, he stood so still and so quiet his family got worried before he lifted a finger and pointed to the wall”
MK shivered as he listened.
“It was as if he’d seen a ghost, mind you this Ao Li father was a pretty stern guy, but at that moment his face was all twisted up as he pointed to a large picture hanging in the hallway” said Wukong “It was an antic, been in the family for generations, the whole thing was of a dragon flying across a mountain range, but there as if had always been there was Ao Li”!
“What”?! Yelled MK
Wukong nodded “Ao Li, his image riding on the back of that dragon, locked into the painting”
“I don’t believe it” said MK
“That's not even the weirdest part” Wukong said “What was strange was despite just being brush strokes on a painting, Ao Li image kept on changing her position in the painting, so one day he be clinging to the dragons mane and the next sitting on the dragons head”
“Did you see him moving in the picture”?
Wukong shook his head “Nobody did, and on top of that as the years went by Ao Li grew older too. And before long, his image growing and twisting till one day he was a dragon himself! A green dragon that flew side by side the original”
“Did he really turn into a dragon then”? Asked MK
“Who knows”? Said Wukong with a shrug “Mysterious things go on in the world of witches, maybe someday I'll show you Ao Li's painting”
The monkey demon then rose from his seat on the bed and fixed up his brothers blankets as he tucked him in again “Okay, I think it’s time to call it a night, bud”
As frightened as MK was he looked up at Wukong with begging eyes “Come one Wukong, just one more thing”!
His brother sighed “Fine, one more, but I’m keeping it short”!
MK cheered at that.
“Something I forgot to mention about witches is that they got a pretty highly developed sense of smell” said Wukong “One that lets them smell a child from a block away”
“Well they couldn’t smell me” MK said proudly “I just had a bath”
“Oh, yes they could” Wukong rebutted with a smile “The cleaner you are the better she can smell you”
MK frowned “That dosen’t make sense”
“Makes perfect sense” said Wukong “You see for a dirty child its the dirt she smells, but a clean child it’s the kid she can smell”
MK gulped “I’m never taking a bath again”
“Eh, once a week is safe enough” said Wukong, ruffling MK hair “You can choose to take more once your older”
“So a witch could smell me right now”? Asked MK
“Let me but it to you this way buddy” said Wukong before burying his face in MK hair and pulling back saying “You see to me you smell like peaches, nice soap, with just a hint of potatoes chips, but to a witch you smell absolutely rank right now”
“Like what”? MK asked
“Dog-doodoo” said Wukong calmly
MK crossed his arms offended “Yeah, now I know your lying”
“The fresh kind too” his brother added.
“Not true”!
“Hm, no point in arguing, it’s just a fact of life, ” said Wukong “So if you see someone holding her nose as she passes you, she’s probably a witch” he then got up and dimmed the lights.
“Now it's really time for bedtime kiddo”
MK whined some more but didn’t fight it, his eyes were beginning to droop. He let Wukong give him one last hug before closing the door.
For once his dreams weren’t nightmares of screeching metal and screams, but of his brother and him traveling the world and hunting witches.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75688081/chapters/197950016
|
{"authors": ["CF8WRK4U"], "language": "English", "title": "MK VS. The Witches: A Lego Monkie Kid/ Roald Dahl's The Witches Crossover"}
|
Painless for the Brainless
Fiyero was born with an undeniable amount of privilege. A crown prince born to loving parents. A pleasing smile that let him get away with so much mischievousness as a child. An ability to charm people with a wink. The ability to get away with scandal as an adult. So he chose to ignore troubling thoughts and realizations.
When he felt pressure from his parents about settling down, he just twirled the prettiest girl and moved on not long after. When he felt stressed from having to learn so much to become Chieftain, he would drink and get kicked out of school. When he heard rumors, with seemingly no foundation, about Animals losing their jobs, he went for a ride with Feldspur. After all, Feldspur is a Horse and was fine, so every Animal was, right?
And he never complained, how could he, his life was perfect. So he just didn’t think anything through. Life hurts a lot less that way. Instead of being plagued with realizations about the state of Oz he was only plagued by his own hangovers.
It wasn’t until the cage he considered doing anything else.
“The one benefit of caging an Animal this young is that he’ll never learn to speak.”
What benefit could there ever be to that? So much of the best advice he’s gotten over the years has been Feldspur’s.
“Can you imagine a world where Animals are kept in cages and they never learn to speak?”
No, not in a thousand years. The only being he’s even been close to having an honest conversation with was that Horse. But,
“Sorry, we?”
What could he do? If he was a smart and responsible prince he would have to defer to his father before even thinking of something, who had to defer to the wizard. As a failure of a prince there was even less he could do. No one would take him seriously as the scandalocious Winkie prince.
Then the class was put to sleep. So, just maybe he could actually do something. Without thinking twice he grabbed the Cub and Elphaba. Set the little guy free, gave him an opportunity to be something greater than a caged beast. Ventured alone into the woods with his girlfriend’s best friend and roommate. Incredibly perceptive and intelligent roommate.
“No matter how shallow and self-absorbed you pretend to be-!”
“I happen to be genuinely self-absorbed and deeply shallow.”
He didn’t need her to look into it further. No one should be able to see through this facade and mask he has been very carefully building for too many years.
“Otherwise you wouldn’t be so unhappy.”
Except what was there for him to be unhappy about. His parents? Who loves him despite his many flaws? The riches that come with the sword above his head? The perfect, beautiful blonde that only sees him for status, looks and money? Fiyero had everything and he is well aware of that. So what does he have to complain or be unhappy about? Especially when faced with the gorgeous green commotion in front of him who had to work so hard for her place at school when he bought his way in.
So he turns his back on her, because clearly she doesn’t need or want his help.
Except that she does. She holds him back, with just a few words and a single touch. The short period of time spent in the clearing is enough to make him rethink everything he thinks about himself. So he runs from that clearing after he sets the Cub down somewhere safe. Finds Galinda after. But he doesn’t see her quite the same.
She’s still objectively beautiful and seemingly perfect of course. But… There is beauty in imperfections. And maybe after looking so long at diamonds there is relief in seeing emeralds.
He spends the next week dreaming, thinking, imagining and hoping for a world where he didn’t care so much about what people thought. Or could at least pretend that he doesn’t. Dreams of a world where he closed the distance between him and Elphaba. Thinking about her grabbing his hand and asking him to help. Imagining that she felt the same spark and tension that he did. Hoping that she might give him a chance if he ever has the courage to follow his heart.
And then it all gets so much worse than being in the process of falling head first into feelings for his girlfriend’s best friend. It becomes hearing that she’s a traitor and not being able to find her no matter how far Feldspur and him search. It becomes consoling Glinda as she cries over losing her. It becomes hating her for losing Elphaba. It becomes hating himself for not being there. It becomes hating himself for not finding her. It becomes hearing about the plans to kill her.
So he joins the Gale Force. Hates himself as he becomes tasked with finding Elphaba, turning her over to Morrible. But how can he give up this chance to find her before anyone else. Hates himself as he continues to play the part of dutiful boyfriend. But how can he break his one last connection to the girl he so loves. And even after five years he does. Because he has spent the last five years replaying the few memories he has with her. Being made to study, going to the poppy field, and
|
Painless for the Brainless
Fiyero was born with an undeniable amount of privilege. A crown prince born to loving parents. A pleasing smile that let him get away with so much mischievousness as a child. An ability to charm people with a wink. The ability to get away with scandal as an adult. So he chose to ignore troubling thoughts and realizations.
When he felt pressure from his parents about settling down, he just twirled the prettiest girl and moved on not long after. When he felt stressed from having to learn so much to become Chieftain, he would drink and get kicked out of school. When he heard rumors, with seemingly no foundation, about Animals losing their jobs, he went for a ride with Feldspur. After all, Feldspur is a Horse and was fine, so every Animal was, right?
And he never complained, how could he, his life was perfect. So he just didn’t think anything through. Life hurts a lot less that way. Instead of being plagued with realizations about the state of Oz he was only plagued by his own hangovers.
It wasn’t until the cage he considered doing anything else.
“The one benefit of caging an Animal this young is that he’ll never learn to speak.”
What benefit could there ever be to that? So much of the best advice he’s gotten over the years has been Feldspur’s.
“Can you imagine a world where Animals are kept in cages and they never learn to speak?”
No, not in a thousand years. The only being he’s even been close to having an honest conversation with was that Horse. But,
“Sorry, we?”
What could he do? If he was a smart and responsible prince he would have to defer to his father before even thinking of something, who had to defer to the wizard. As a failure of a prince there was even less he could do. No one would take him seriously as the scandalocious Winkie prince.
Then the class was put to sleep. So, just maybe he could actually do something. Without thinking twice he grabbed the Cub and Elphaba. Set the little guy free, gave him an opportunity to be something greater than a caged beast. Ventured alone into the woods with his girlfriend’s best friend and roommate. Incredibly perceptive and intelligent roommate.
“No matter how shallow and self-absorbed you pretend to be-!”
“I happen to be genuinely self-absorbed and deeply shallow.”
He didn’t need her to look into it further. No one should be able to see through this facade and mask he has been very carefully building for too many years.
“Otherwise you wouldn’t be so unhappy.”
Except what was there for him to be unhappy about. His parents? Who loves him despite his many flaws? The riches that come with the sword above his head? The perfect, beautiful blonde that only sees him for status, looks and money? Fiyero had everything and he is well aware of that. So what does he have to complain or be unhappy about? Especially when faced with the gorgeous green commotion in front of him who had to work so hard for her place at school when he bought his way in.
So he turns his back on her, because clearly she doesn’t need or want his help.
Except that she does. She holds him back, with just a few words and a single touch. The short period of time spent in the clearing is enough to make him rethink everything he thinks about himself. So he runs from that clearing after he sets the Cub down somewhere safe. Finds Galinda after. But he doesn’t see her quite the same.
She’s still objectively beautiful and seemingly perfect of course. But… There is beauty in imperfections. And maybe after looking so long at diamonds there is relief in seeing emeralds.
He spends the next week dreaming, thinking, imagining and hoping for a world where he didn’t care so much about what people thought. Or could at least pretend that he doesn’t. Dreams of a world where he closed the distance between him and Elphaba. Thinking about her grabbing his hand and asking him to help. Imagining that she felt the same spark and tension that he did. Hoping that she might give him a chance if he ever has the courage to follow his heart.
And then it all gets so much worse than being in the process of falling head first into feelings for his girlfriend’s best friend. It becomes hearing that she’s a traitor and not being able to find her no matter how far Feldspur and him search. It becomes consoling Glinda as she cries over losing her. It becomes hating her for losing Elphaba. It becomes hating himself for not being there. It becomes hating himself for not finding her. It becomes hearing about the plans to kill her.
So he joins the Gale Force. Hates himself as he becomes tasked with finding Elphaba, turning her over to Morrible. But how can he give up this chance to find her before anyone else. Hates himself as he continues to play the part of dutiful boyfriend. But how can he break his one last connection to the girl he so loves. And even after five years he does. Because he has spent the last five years replaying the few memories he has with her. Being made to study, going to the poppy field, and most of all the clearing with the Lion Cub. When he is in Glinda’s private pink room, he can close his eyes and almost imagine that Elphaba is reading not far from him. He can imagine her scent not far from him.
So he stays. And he knows, he knows, that he should have ended it years ago. Fiyero knows that he is leading her on. He knows that Glinda might have real feelings for him. Or he adds to her narrative so well. Or that could be because he is her last connection to Elphaba as well. He can’t be sure. Not when she was only ever interested in him for title, wealth and looks. The only person who he thinks could have genuinely cared for him with no thought about status or wealth to themselves has gone into hiding. The only person who could ever tell that he was unhappy was deemed Wicked. But he stays. Because of mutual hurt and loss. Because he moves through the ranks more quickly. Might be more capable of finding Elphaba as captain.
Despite not wanting the engagement or Glinda he agrees to a wedding. Agrees to marry someone he doesn’t love that way without thinking.
Then without thinking he goes with Elphaba. She’s real and in front of him. She wasn’t some glorious dream he came up with. She’s right there. And he doesn’t think. He can't be in her presence and think. Or maybe it is only in her presence that he can truly think.
“I thought you changed.”
“I have changed.”
He’ll follow her anywhere. Do whatever she wants. Fiyero owes her his life. Elphaba gave him something to hope for in the last five years. Hopes to see her again. Hopes to join her, be with her.
He follows Elphaba to her hideout in the trees. See how she’s been living for who knows how long. Looks at momentos from Shiz, the pamphlet about the Emerald City from before she and Glinda left. Finds the papers labeling her as Wicked Witch of the West. Newspaper clippings about the yellow brick road being built. Looking for proof that the Wizard is a fraud.
And then she sits down.
“You’re beautiful.”
Because she is. Inside and out. He knows how the rest of Oz sees her, hideodius, freakish, some sort of monster. But those are the same brainless fools that think water is capable of melting a woman.
So when sees her he doesn’t look through the eyes of his mask, scandalous prince, or an Ozian who’s never even spoken with her. He’s looking through the eyes of Fiyero Tiggular. A man lucky enough to have known her. A man who got to see her in the forest clearing. A man with just enough brains to know that she never needed to change how she looked to be beautiful.
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
Except he had never been more honest than that moment.
“It’s looking at things in a different way.”
In a world where up is up and down is down and he’s really as shallow as he tried to portray, maybe it would be a lie. But in this world a woman can defy gravity and he is falling upwards into love. In this world where she is the one person who knows that he isn’t deeply shallow or genuinely self-absorbed, he doesn’t look at her through the eyes of Oz. He is looking at her with his.
Even just for a moment it was perfect. Because it was them. Because she was his. Because he was hers. Even if they have no future as a pair it is perfect.
Even as she rode off into safety it was perfect, because she was okay. Even as his own men brought him to his knees it was perfect, because she was free. Even as he hated himself for breaking Glinda’s heart it was okay, because she understood that he truly did love Elphaba. Even as he was beaten to near death it was okay, because Elphaba loved him.
Fiyero never wanted to die in the last five years. But, as the Gale Force beat him bloody he found he didn’t care what the result was. And then the pain was no longer this external source of violence. It was this burning from the inside out. His mind was already addled from the pain and shortness of breath. And then it seemed like there was even less in his brain than normal. Looking to his right and seeing a scarecrow’s arm was jarring. Breathing but not feeling his chest expand was frightening. Feeling the nail holding him up but not being in pain.
So far an unknown amount of time he was stuck in the cornfield. Stuck where he was meant to be killed. Was killed? He didn’t know how to define being turned into a scarecrow. Because he felt alive, at least more alive than he had in the last several years. Including his time before Shiz.
He saw a few people taking the stupid road. Heard them talking about the Wicked Witch of the West. Heard them talking about wanting to melt her. It was ridiculous. So the woman hadn’t been fond of swimming that didn’t mean water would kill her.
He was musing on the stupidity of people when the small dog and girl had reached the crossroads ahead of him. Questioning which way to go. Even though all roads lead to the Emerald city now. Lead to that fraud and conman. But with all the turmoil and unrest in Oz lately it’s hardly safe for a young foreigner to be travelling on her own. So he cracks a joke about being brainless. Joins her on this trek. And maybe along the way he’ll be able to find Elphaba. Fiyero only hopes that she can still love him while he looks like this.
He cracks jokes with her along the way. Tries to lighten the situation for this obviously scared young girl. Senses a familiar presence not far from them. Feels a tug towards a specific direction. He’s not sure but he can almost guarantee that it is Elphaba not far from him. But he needs to protect and help this young girl so he figures out a way to get apples from the attacking trees.
Then they meet the Tin Man.
“What happened to you?” Dorothy asked after they oiled his joints.
“I became heartless,” the Tin Man said coldly. Dorothy seemed to contemplate briefly what this meant. And like his comment about being brainless, she took it quite literally.
“You know we were just wondering why you couldn’t come with us to the Emerald City and ask the Wizard for a heart?” she asked. Because Fiyero certainly had no comments to add about this other strange individual joining them to visit the fraud. He only felt bad because he knew of the fraud that awaited them.
“I suppose if there was anyone who could undo the witch’s curse it would be the Wizard.”
“Which witch?” Fiyero asked. The only witch who could be so cruel to any living thing was Morrible and she really only did weather magic.
“The Wicked Witch of the West!” he shouted. His tone and volume are a stark juxtaposition from a moment ago. But that isn’t the only thing to catch his ear. It was the idea that Elphaba was capable of something so malicious.
Which on a very technical level makes sense. Elphaba is the most powerful witch Oz has seen in a long time. But it makes absolutely no sense. The woman who so fiercely wanted Animals and people to be equal. The woman who knew so well what it would be like to be so drastically different. That woman, capable of doing this?
But he held his tongue. Or scrap of burlap in the place where his mouth technically is. As far as both these people were concerned he was brainless and knew nothing of Elphaba. Shouldn’t even know her real name. So he listened as the Tin man ranted about how evil she was. Cursing her name. If he only had the strength he would tell him about her loyalty and love. He was almost ready to do just that when there was a thud on a farmhouse.
It was her. The tin man seemed shocked into silence. Dorothy seemed terrified. But still Fiyero was a fool in her presence.
And even threatening to burn him she was beautiful. But something was wrong. She was threatening a defenseless young girl. Threatening to turn him into a mattress. This wasn’t the woman he loved. This was more like a wicked witch.
More like a woman who no longer had anything to lose. Her best friend had betrayed her with the presence of the Gale Force in Munchkinland. Her sister died. And the only love she had known was taken to a cornfield to be beaten and strung up. She had no idea that he was alive.
She didn’t recognize him. There is no way that she would try to burn him if she knew the truth. He has no proof other than he is standing here now but Fiyero knows that she is the one who saved him. But if she tried to burn him then she has no way of knowing that he is alive. Elphaba thinks that he is dead.
Somehow he needs to let her know that he is alive in the form of the scarecrow traveling with Dorothy.
Fiyero is thinking about the matter when they come across the Lion. Objectively he is so glad to know that the day from that day is alive. Glad to know that he actually seemed to have done something good. Except this Lion hates Elphaba. Hates the woman who freed him, the woman who made sure he still had the ability to speak. It is shocking and disheartening.
Truly he seems to be alone in the idea that she is not a wicked woman.
“Bring me the broom of the Wicked Witch!” the man behind the curtain boomed. He wished he could expose the wizard right now. But it would do them no good. If nothing else he was the only one that could convince Morrible to send Dorothy back using a cyclone once again. He hated having to follow the orders of this cowardice fraud of a man. But he did. Because he still had to get to Elphaba before the Tin Man could. Or any of the other witch hunters.
“What is your grievance with the witch Scarecrow?” Dorothy asks him.
“How do you mean, Dorothy?” he asks.
“Well, she cursed the Tin Woodsman and abandoned the Lion after cub-napping him. They both seem to have reasons to want her gone. I was just curious if you had any.”
If he had been asked about his grievance with Elphaba in the early days of knowing each other it would have been her nagging him to study and do work. After that day in the clearing, it would have been how she continued to plague his thoughts when she shouldn’t. If it was any point in the last five years it would have been that she asked Glinda to join her. If it was after his disastrous wedding attempt it would have been her thinking he could leave her behind again. But none of these grievances made him want to kill her. Made him think she could be melted with something as simple as water.
“I’m just here to protect you Dorothy,” he answered. Fiyero couldn’t tell her the whole truth. But she did help him think of a plan.
In the brief period he had between being torn apart and Chistery flying off he called out.
“Chistery wait!”
Which thankfully gave the Monkey pause. He didn’t answer, likely couldn’t still, but he seemed to understand.
“It’s Fiyero, I told you to go with Elphaba when she was surrounded. I told you to protect her, do you remember me?” Chistery looked over the new shape and form he had gained since that last interaction between them. “I know it’s quite different. But can you give me a moment to write something to her. Explain the situation.”
Thankfully, the Monkey seemed to agree. And waited while he searched his pockets for a pen. Thank Oz he still had one in his uniform. But no paper, so he used a scrap of his jacket.
From there it had all been simple. Travel the rest of the way with this strange group of beings. Keep quiet about his true intentions in confronting the witch. Be forced to watch as she committed a truly deceiving bit of magic as she ‘melted.’ Listen to the Tin Man sing his own praises about his hand in killing the witch.
“I’m a very good man, just a very bad wizard.”
Fiyero almost scoffed at the statement. A good man who happened to have a basement full of Animals who had spoken out against. Caged and left un able to speak. A good man who tricked an entire country into believing he was someone good. Someone who gave this false hope to an innocent young girl.
“Why, anyone can have a brain! They’re a mediocre commodity,” The Wizard started to move towards a small black bag. Fiyero looked over at him, clearly not everyone. He didn’t hear much of the rest of the stupid drivel of this man. It was hardly worth it. He only tuned back in when he was handed a diploma. He was a doctor of thinkology, and to think he thought school was a waste.
After that the other two were given useless trinkets to replace what they’d already had. Dorothy was able to go back home. And he made his way back to Kiamo Ko once again. This time with the intent to never leave Elphaba’s side again.
Except he was nervous. He had so rarely been nervous because of a girl before. But he supposed, he had never been in love like this before either. Fiyero was perfectly aware that she had never cared for his status and money. And it was unlikely that she cared about his looks. But… What if?
He hadn’t exactly been 100% honest in his brief note. Hadn’t exactly told her he had been the scarecrow. What if she rejected his appearance? What if she no longer loved him now that he no longer looked as he once had?
It was that fear on his face when he opened the passage door.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered to him.
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
“It’s not lying. It’s looking at things another way.”
And maybe he didn’t believe her entirely when she said that. But she didn’t believe him when he said it. But they had a future together now that they were both dead to Oz, so maybe if they both said it enough, one day they’ll both see in themselves what the other sees.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75686151
|
{"authors": ["Grayorchid"], "language": "English", "title": "Painless for the Brainless"}
|
The First Time I Saw Him
Before I ever met Saparata Theria, I learned his name the way one learns of storms, through warnings, reverence, and careful tones meant to disguise fear.
It was spoken in council chambers heavy with incense and ambition, passed between nobles like a measured secret. It drifted through my childhood like a refrain I did not yet understand.
The Theria heir and the boy who will stand beside the Crown Prince.
I was six the first time I overheard it properly. I remember because I was not meant to be listening.
The western antechamber was supposed to be empty that afternoon, its tall windows throwing pale gold across the marble floor. I had slipped away from my tutor under the pretense of a headache, an excuse he accepted too readily, eager to escape my questions about governance and succession.
I hid behind a curtain instead, quiet as a thought.
Voices filtered in shortly after. Familiar ones, specifically important ones.
“—the Theria duchy has confirmed,” a minister said, his voice smooth with diplomacy. “Their heir has awakened his magic.”
A pause followed. The kind that meant something had shifted.
“What kind?” another asked.
There was a hesitation. Then—
“Balance.”
The word landed strangely in the air. Not heavy. Not light. Simply… steady.
Even at six, I felt it. My fingers curled where I crouched, nails pressing into my palm. I didn’t know why my pulse quickened, only that something in me had gone very still.
“That makes him Arcane-adjacent,” someone muttered. “Or worse.”
“Or better,” another countered. “If the Crown Prince is to survive adulthood.”
Survive.
I leaned closer.
“The Theria bloodline has always been… compatible. Compatible with anything,” the first minister continued carefully. “Their magic stabilizes. Grounds. They are not conquerors. They are anchors.”
Anchors.
Huh. I tasted the word like it was a foreign flavor on my tongue.
“And the boy?” a softer voice asked. One I recognized, my mother’s lady-in-waiting. “What is he like?”
There it was again. That pause.
“Gentle,” the minister said at last. “Observant. Unassuming.”
“Dangerous, then,” someone scoffed.
“No,” the minister replied. “Loyal.”
The room hummed with agreement.
“Good,” another voice said. “The Crown Prince will need someone like that.”
I frowned.
Need was not a word I liked when applied to me.
I straightened where I hid, irritation bubbling under my skin. I was the heir to the Luminara Empire. I did not need an anchor. I did not need balance. I had power that was raw, brilliant, unquestionable.
At least, that was what everyone told me.
... And yet.
“…Saparata Theria,” the minister concluded. “That is the boy’s name.”
Something in my chest shifted—neither pain, nor joy, but recognition.
I did not know him. I had never seen him. And yet the name settled into me as if it had always been there, waiting to be spoken aloud.
Saparata.
I tested it silently, rolling it around my mind.
It felt… warm.
That unsettled me more than anything else.
From then on, I noticed the name everywhere.
It appeared in documents my tutors thought too dull for my attention. In whispered discussions about future appointments. In letters sealed with the sigil of the Theria duchy, their wax always a shade paler than ours.
Sometimes I asked questions.
“Why do people talk about Theria so much?” I asked my tutor one morning, swinging my legs beneath the desk.
He stiffened. Just slightly.
“They are an old house,” he said. “Older than many realize. They serve by ensuring others do not fall apart.”
“That sounds boring,” I declared.
My tutor smiled thinly. “It is not.”
I frowned at the ink drying on my lesson sheet. “Am I supposed to meet him?”
“Eventually.”
“When?”
“When it is appropriate.”
I hated that answer.Why later when we could meet now?
At night, I dreamed more often than before.
Nothing vivid and coherent. Just impressions.
A presence beside me where no one stood. A calm that pressed against my thoughts, smoothing sharp edges I hadn’t known were there. A sensation like standing in the center of a room while the walls aligned themselves without being touched.
Once, half-asleep, I thought I heard a voice, not speaking to me but near me.
It did not say my name.
That, somehow, felt deliberate.
I woke with my heart racing and no memory of what had been said.
The first time I almost met him, I was seven.
The Theria family had arrived at court for a seasonal assembly. I knew this because the palace buzzed with a restrained energy it usually reserved for foreign dignitaries and people who could not be offended.
I was escorted through the halls in ceremonial attire, black trimmed with gold, the canary colored gold polished until it reflected my face back at me in sharp angles.
“Stand straight,” my attendant murmured. “The Theria heir is present.”
I turned my head too quickly, “Where?”
“Not yet,” she said, gently steering me forward. “You’ll see him soon enough.”
Soon.
Always soon.
In the grand hall, nobles lined the sides, bowing as I passed. I
|
The First Time I Saw Him
Before I ever met Saparata Theria, I learned his name the way one learns of storms, through warnings, reverence, and careful tones meant to disguise fear.
It was spoken in council chambers heavy with incense and ambition, passed between nobles like a measured secret. It drifted through my childhood like a refrain I did not yet understand.
The Theria heir and the boy who will stand beside the Crown Prince.
I was six the first time I overheard it properly. I remember because I was not meant to be listening.
The western antechamber was supposed to be empty that afternoon, its tall windows throwing pale gold across the marble floor. I had slipped away from my tutor under the pretense of a headache, an excuse he accepted too readily, eager to escape my questions about governance and succession.
I hid behind a curtain instead, quiet as a thought.
Voices filtered in shortly after. Familiar ones, specifically important ones.
“—the Theria duchy has confirmed,” a minister said, his voice smooth with diplomacy. “Their heir has awakened his magic.”
A pause followed. The kind that meant something had shifted.
“What kind?” another asked.
There was a hesitation. Then—
“Balance.”
The word landed strangely in the air. Not heavy. Not light. Simply… steady.
Even at six, I felt it. My fingers curled where I crouched, nails pressing into my palm. I didn’t know why my pulse quickened, only that something in me had gone very still.
“That makes him Arcane-adjacent,” someone muttered. “Or worse.”
“Or better,” another countered. “If the Crown Prince is to survive adulthood.”
Survive.
I leaned closer.
“The Theria bloodline has always been… compatible. Compatible with anything,” the first minister continued carefully. “Their magic stabilizes. Grounds. They are not conquerors. They are anchors.”
Anchors.
Huh. I tasted the word like it was a foreign flavor on my tongue.
“And the boy?” a softer voice asked. One I recognized, my mother’s lady-in-waiting. “What is he like?”
There it was again. That pause.
“Gentle,” the minister said at last. “Observant. Unassuming.”
“Dangerous, then,” someone scoffed.
“No,” the minister replied. “Loyal.”
The room hummed with agreement.
“Good,” another voice said. “The Crown Prince will need someone like that.”
I frowned.
Need was not a word I liked when applied to me.
I straightened where I hid, irritation bubbling under my skin. I was the heir to the Luminara Empire. I did not need an anchor. I did not need balance. I had power that was raw, brilliant, unquestionable.
At least, that was what everyone told me.
... And yet.
“…Saparata Theria,” the minister concluded. “That is the boy’s name.”
Something in my chest shifted—neither pain, nor joy, but recognition.
I did not know him. I had never seen him. And yet the name settled into me as if it had always been there, waiting to be spoken aloud.
Saparata.
I tested it silently, rolling it around my mind.
It felt… warm.
That unsettled me more than anything else.
From then on, I noticed the name everywhere.
It appeared in documents my tutors thought too dull for my attention. In whispered discussions about future appointments. In letters sealed with the sigil of the Theria duchy, their wax always a shade paler than ours.
Sometimes I asked questions.
“Why do people talk about Theria so much?” I asked my tutor one morning, swinging my legs beneath the desk.
He stiffened. Just slightly.
“They are an old house,” he said. “Older than many realize. They serve by ensuring others do not fall apart.”
“That sounds boring,” I declared.
My tutor smiled thinly. “It is not.”
I frowned at the ink drying on my lesson sheet. “Am I supposed to meet him?”
“Eventually.”
“When?”
“When it is appropriate.”
I hated that answer.Why later when we could meet now?
At night, I dreamed more often than before.
Nothing vivid and coherent. Just impressions.
A presence beside me where no one stood. A calm that pressed against my thoughts, smoothing sharp edges I hadn’t known were there. A sensation like standing in the center of a room while the walls aligned themselves without being touched.
Once, half-asleep, I thought I heard a voice, not speaking to me but near me.
It did not say my name.
That, somehow, felt deliberate.
I woke with my heart racing and no memory of what had been said.
The first time I almost met him, I was seven.
The Theria family had arrived at court for a seasonal assembly. I knew this because the palace buzzed with a restrained energy it usually reserved for foreign dignitaries and people who could not be offended.
I was escorted through the halls in ceremonial attire, black trimmed with gold, the canary colored gold polished until it reflected my face back at me in sharp angles.
“Stand straight,” my attendant murmured. “The Theria heir is present.”
I turned my head too quickly, “Where?”
“Not yet,” she said, gently steering me forward. “You’ll see him soon enough.”
Soon.
Always soon.
In the grand hall, nobles lined the sides, bowing as I passed. I scanned the crowd despite myself, searching for… something.
White hair, perhaps. That was what rumor said. That he was ethereal yet a bit unusual.
I did not see it.
Disappointment prickled at me, sharp and irrational. What has gotten into me today?
I.. have never felt so antsy before.
“Your Highness,” a duke greeted. “You grow taller by the day.”
I nodded absently.
Then—
I saw movement.
At the far end of the hall, a group shifted. For a heartbeat, the crowd parted, and I glimpsed a flash of pale fabric, soft gold catching the light.
My breath caught.
But it was gone just as quickly, swallowed by courtiers and ceremony.
I stared long after the space had filled again.
“Who was that?” I asked.
My attendant hesitated. Then smiled.
“Theria,” she said. “They keep their heir close.”
Of course they did.
I clenched my jaw, something like irritation blooming in my chest.
Or maybe impatience.
I did not properly meet Saparata Theria that year.
Nor the next.
We existed like parallel lines—two points on a path drawn long before either of us understood it, heading to the same future. But we haven't crossed once up until now. Not yet.
I was told he trained diligently. That his magic manifested subtly, never flashy. That instructors found him difficult to evaluate because he did not overpower or submit—he adjusted.
I was told he listened more than he spoke.
That he watched people like puzzles he did not intend to solve loudly. That he was… kind.
I scoffed whenever I heard that.
Kindness was not a trait one survived on near the throne.
Even so...
Late at night, when my mind magic spiraled and thoughts came too fast, too sharp, I found myself wondering—
What would balance feel like, if it stood beside me?
And me only?
The night before our official introduction was announced, I could not sleep.
I lay awake staring at the canopy above my bed, fingers twitching as energy hummed beneath my skin.
Tomorrow, they said.
Tomorrow, the Crown Prince and the Theria heir would finally be presented to one another—not as children passing in halls, but as future sovereign and future aide.
As inevitabilities.
I should have felt nothing.
Instead, my chest felt tight, full of an emotion I couldn't exactly settle on. Something that wasn't fear, but something that made me look forward to it. Anticipation.
For reasons I could not name, I had the distinct, unreasonable sense that something important was about to be returned to me.
Returning to who it truly belongs to.
As if I had misplaced it without ever knowing I’d held it.
I turned onto my side, eyes closing at last.
And in the quiet before sleep claimed me, one thought surfaced, unbidden and strange:
Don’t be late.
I had no idea why.
I expected formality.
That was the first mistake.
The palace prepared for our meeting as it did for everything else—measured steps, rehearsed greetings, layers of protocol designed to dull the edges of anything that might cut too deeply. Servants whispered instructions. Advisors reminded me which words to use, which titles to emphasize, where to stand, when to extend my hand.
They spoke as if this were a negotiation.
As if Saparata Theria were a concept, not a person.
I listened, nodded, and followed none of it.
Because the moment I stepped into the receiving hall, something inside me went terribly, irreversibly off-script.
The room was bright with afternoon light, tall windows casting pale gold across polished floors. Nobles stood in neat clusters along the walls, their attention fixed forward, waiting. I took my place at the center, posture perfect, expression composed in the way I had learned to wear like armor.
Then the doors opened.
The sound was unremarkable—wood against stone, hinges murmuring softly—but the air changed all the same.
I felt it before I saw him.
A pressure—not heavy, not suffocating—just present. Like the room had finally remembered how it was meant to breathe.
The Theria delegation entered in orderly formation, their colors muted, dignified. And there, near the center, half a step behind the duchess—
White.
Not the stark, blinding kind. Softer. Like moonlight caught in silk.
My gaze locked onto him without conscious permission.
Saparata Theria was smaller than I expected.
Not frail—never that—but slight in a way that suggested restraint rather than weakness. His posture was straight, composed, hands folded neatly before him. Golden eyes lifted briefly as he crossed the threshold, scanning the room with quiet attentiveness.
Then they met mine.
The world narrowed.
I had thought, foolishly, that recognition was something loud. That destiny announced itself with trumpets or visions or a sudden, overwhelming certainty.
Instead, it felt like warmth spreading through my chest.
Like something clicking gently into place.
For a heartbeat too long, we simply looked at one another.
His gaze did not waver. There was no awe there, no fear. Only calm curiosity, as if he were observing a phenomenon he had already accounted for.
I forgot to breathe.
That’s him, something inside me whispered—not urgently, not insistently, just… truthfully.
Not the Theria heir.
Not my future aide.
Him.
The duchess bowed deeply. I responded automatically, my body remembering the motions even as my attention remained elsewhere.
“Your Highness,” she said. “May I present my son, Saparata Theria.”
He stepped forward.
The sound of his shoes against marble was quiet, measured. When he bowed, it was neither shallow nor exaggerated—just right, balanced in a way that felt intentional.
“I am honored to stand before you,” he said.
His voice was clear. Gentle. Steady.
Not rehearsed.
Something in my chest fluttered.
I had spoken to dignitaries twice his age who sounded less sure of themselves.
“You may rise,” I said, and was faintly surprised by how even my own voice sounded.
He did.
Up close, the details sharpened. The faint dusting of gold in his lashes. The way his expression held warmth without indulgence. The subtle sense—hard to describe—that the space around him was slightly… quieter.
Not empty. Just still.
I felt absurdly light-headed.
As if the moment had weight and I was floating through it.
“I have heard much of you,” I said, because that was what one said.
“Yes, Your Highness,” he replied, and for the first time, something like amusement flickered in his eyes. “I imagine I’ve heard just as much of you.”
A pause.
Then—unexpectedly—I laughed.
It slipped out before I could stop it, a soft sound that startled more than a few onlookers. I barely noticed them.
“That hardly seems fair,” I said. “Given that we’ve yet to speak.”
“Then we should remedy that,” he answered calmly.
I stared at him.
He wasn’t presumptuous. Wasn’t bold.
He was simply… present. As if conversation were a shared space rather than a performance.
Something warm bloomed in my chest again, brighter this time. Giddy, almost. The strangest sensation—as though the stars themselves had leaned closer to watch.
Destiny was a foolish concept.
And yet.
“Walk with me,” I said, before anyone could object.
The advisors stiffened. The duchess hesitated.
Saparata did not.
He inclined his head and fell into step beside me as if he’d done so a hundred times before.
The hall murmured as we moved away, voices low, speculative. I ignored them all.
Up close, the effect was stronger.
My thoughts—usually sharp, racing, overlapping—felt… organized. Not dulled. Not suppressed.
Balanced.
I glanced sideways at him. He was looking ahead, attentive to the path, but I had the distinct impression he was aware of me in the same quiet way one is aware of gravity.
“You’re calmer than I expected,” I observed.
He tilted his head slightly. “Is that a criticism?”
“No,” I said quickly, then paused. “It’s… refreshing.”
He smiled then—not wide, not dazzling, just a small curve of the lips that felt like a private thing.
“I could say the same,” he replied. “You’re kinder than the stories suggest.”
That startled me.
“Stories,” I echoed.
“Yes,” he said evenly. “They tend to sharpen people into something easier to fear.”
I stopped walking.
He stopped with me, immediately, turning to face me fully.
There it was again—that sense of alignment. Of someone matching my pace without effort.
I studied him openly now. “And what do you think of me?”
Saparata considered the question seriously. Too seriously for a child his age, perhaps.
“I think,” he said at last, “that you’re carrying more than you should have to. And that you haven’t decided yet whether you’re allowed to set any of it down.”
The words struck deeper than any insult ever could have.
I felt exposed.
Seen.
For a moment, the hall faded entirely. There was only the space between us, charged and quiet.
Then, inexplicably, I smiled.
A real one.
“Perhaps,” I said, “you’ll help me decide.”
His golden eyes softened.
“If that is your wish,” he answered, without hesitation.
Something settled then.
Not ownership. Not obligation.
Certainty.
We resumed walking, and this time, it felt natural.
As if we were already used to being side by side.
As if this meeting had merely confirmed something written long before either of us learned to read.
That night, I dreamed again.
The setting was wrong before it even formed.
There was no palace, no courtyard, no familiar geometry of marble and gold. Instead, the world opened into a vast, colorless sky, the air thin and cold, the horizon swallowed by mist. Wind tore past me, sharp and relentless, carrying the scent of iron and rain.
I stood on stone. No, a cliff.
And at its edge stood Saparata.
Not the boy from earlier that day. Not the child from memory. This Saparata was older, grown into his height, his shoulders broader beneath pale robes that fluttered violently in the wind. His white hair whipped around him like torn banners, catching the light in stark, blinding strands.
His back faced me.
The sight of it sent a jolt of panic through my chest.
“Saparata,” I called, already stepping forward. The name felt heavier in my mouth here.
The man at the edge did not turn. Instead, he took a step closer to the precipice.
“Flux.”
The nickname landed like a blade between the ribs.
I broke into a run. “Don’t—”
“I’m sorry,” Saparata said quietly.
Another step forward.
“For betraying you.”
The wind roared louder, screaming around them as if the world itself were protesting. My heart slammed against my chest, my boots skidding on stone as I pushed myself faster.
“You didn’t,” I snapped. “You never—”
“I won’t be able to stay by your side anymore.”
Saparata’s voice did not waver. There was no hysteria in it, no fear... only resignation.
He turned his head just enough that I could see the edge of his profile—golden eye catching the light, expression painfully calm.
“I’m not worthy of it.”
The words froze Fluixon where he stood. Fluixon attempted to reach out for him, but the dream did not allow it.
“No,” he said, breath ragged. “That’s not for you to decide.”
Saparata smiled.
It was small. Gentle. The same kind of smile Fluixon had seen countless times—one meant to reassure others at the expense of oneself.
“Expiabo peccata mea.”
I will atone for my sins.
“Saparata—!”
He reached out.
He was too slow.
Saparata stepped forward.
For one terrible second, he hovered there—white against the storm-dark sky, hair lifting like wings that would never carry him.
Then gravity claimed him.
Fluixon lunged, fingers scraping stone, the sound of his own scream ripped apart by the wind. He hit the edge of the cliff hard enough to bruise, arm outstretched, grasping—
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Nothing.
The void swallowed Saparata whole. There was no impact. No body to bury. Only endless falling.
Fluixon woke with a violent gasp, heart pounding so hard it hurt, his hand clenched tightly in the sheets as if still trying to catch something slipping through his fingers.
The words lingered long after the dream faded.
I won’t be able to stay by your side anymore.
For the first time in a long while, Fluixon von Luminara lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and felt something dangerously close to fear.
Not of losing power.
Not of betrayal.
But of a future where Saparata Theria chose to leave—
And he was never fast enough to stop it.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75683406
|
{"authors": ["saprixon"], "language": "English", "title": "The First Time I Saw Him"}
|
December 14 - Oven/Taste
Gleecember 2025
December 14 – Oven/Taste
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
“Britt? I'm back!” Santana closed the door against the frigid December wind.
“Kitchen!”
Santana shed her jacket and dropped her keys into the bowl, moving through the living room and into the kitchen.
“I think I got everything,” Santana moved the baby monitor off to the side and deposited the bag on the island, “smells good in here. What are you making?”
“Here, taste,” she held a spoon up to Santana's lips.
“Mmm, that's really good, Britt.” Santana grinned. “You're getting better.”
“Thanks,” Brittany blushed as she opened the oven and brushed the glaze onto the pork chops she was cooking. “I figure we're going to have to cook a little more often when the boys get older instead of eating out all the time,” she shrugged, sliding the pan back into the oven and closing the door, “better to learn now and just poison us instead of them.”
Santana laughed and wrapped her arms around Brittany's neck. “I love you,” she leaned up and kissed Britt softly.
Brittany smiled into the kiss. “Love you, too.”
|
December 14 - Oven/Taste
Gleecember 2025
December 14 – Oven/Taste
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
“Britt? I'm back!” Santana closed the door against the frigid December wind.
“Kitchen!”
Santana shed her jacket and dropped her keys into the bowl, moving through the living room and into the kitchen.
“I think I got everything,” Santana moved the baby monitor off to the side and deposited the bag on the island, “smells good in here. What are you making?”
“Here, taste,” she held a spoon up to Santana's lips.
“Mmm, that's really good, Britt.” Santana grinned. “You're getting better.”
“Thanks,” Brittany blushed as she opened the oven and brushed the glaze onto the pork chops she was cooking. “I figure we're going to have to cook a little more often when the boys get older instead of eating out all the time,” she shrugged, sliding the pan back into the oven and closing the door, “better to learn now and just poison us instead of them.”
Santana laughed and wrapped her arms around Brittany's neck. “I love you,” she leaned up and kissed Britt softly.
Brittany smiled into the kiss. “Love you, too.”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-14T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75683396
|
{"authors": ["WillowsPromise"], "language": "English", "title": "December 14 - Oven/Taste"}
|
Finding each other
timeline info
-after mafia arc, after wmmbu finishes his training and dealing with the mafia, a while after mane leaves.(i will try to follow the actual timeline but there will be changes)
character info
Main characters
Nyx (original character)-19 years old-good at pvp, slightly weaker than wemmbu-lives in an isolated area of the overworld-taken care by minute, clownpierce and mane-does not fight but likes building even though shes shit at it- does know she has siblings but does not know who they are except for mane
Wemmbu-21 years old-great at mace pvp-lives at mane's tree with egg-does not remember anything before the age of 15-does not know about having siblings
Flamefrags-22 years old-great at pvp-lives in the mafia base-does not remember anything before the age of 15-does not know about having siblings
ManePear-24 years old-great at pvp-lived at his tree, now lives with nyx-knows about all of his siblings-loves all of his siblings.
general info
-their parents died in an accident after nyx was born-they were then sent to an orphanage and became friends with minute and clown.-they escaped the orphanage when mane was 15 cuz it was abusive.- minute, mane, and clown are the same age
|
Finding each other
timeline info
-after mafia arc, after wmmbu finishes his training and dealing with the mafia, a while after mane leaves.(i will try to follow the actual timeline but there will be changes)
character info
Main characters
Nyx (original character)-19 years old-good at pvp, slightly weaker than wemmbu-lives in an isolated area of the overworld-taken care by minute, clownpierce and mane-does not fight but likes building even though shes shit at it- does know she has siblings but does not know who they are except for mane
Wemmbu-21 years old-great at mace pvp-lives at mane's tree with egg-does not remember anything before the age of 15-does not know about having siblings
Flamefrags-22 years old-great at pvp-lives in the mafia base-does not remember anything before the age of 15-does not know about having siblings
ManePear-24 years old-great at pvp-lived at his tree, now lives with nyx-knows about all of his siblings-loves all of his siblings.
general info
-their parents died in an accident after nyx was born-they were then sent to an orphanage and became friends with minute and clown.-they escaped the orphanage when mane was 15 cuz it was abusive.- minute, mane, and clown are the same age
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75683411?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["Nyx_ladyofthenight"], "language": "English", "title": "Finding each other"}
|
Snowman Competition
“And why did you drag us all the way out here?” Chikara asked, not for the first time as their girlfriend towed them through the snowy streets towards the park that was near their apartment. It was very flat, and the recent snowfall had been heavy, so it was bound to be very snow covered.
What exactly she wanted them to be doing with all that snow cover had not been made clear yet. It could be a snowball fight. It could be snow angels. It could also be something entirely random and unconnected to the snow, but somehow Keiji doubted that. She’d made sure they were all wearing gloves, so it was almost certainly something with the snow.
Maybe it had to do with that picture Chikara showed him earlier in the day, with Tanaka, Futakuchi, and Aone standing next to their absolutely massive snowmen. Mai could get competitive. Mostly with Futakuchi, but Tanaka had been getting dragged into it more often as time went on, and had thus been developing his own little rivalry with her.
It was endlessly amusing to Chikara, who usually was content to just watch and laugh at them with Keiji.
Except when they too got dragged into it, like now.
“We’re making snowmen!” Mai announced once they’d reached the park, confirming his suspicion about it having to do with the pictures from earlier. “They need to be taller than Futakuchi’s.”
Keiji shared an amused glance with Chikara. Perhaps they should have expected this.
“I guess I’ll work on the body,” Keiji said, crouching down to begin packing snow between his hands. Good thing the snow here was pretty deep. It looked like no one had really been here since the snow last night, which made sense, it was still fairly early in the day, and the local schools wouldn’t be letting out for another couple hours.
“I’ll get the middle if you get the head,” Chikara said, also crouching down to start collecting snow.
“Well, I’m going to be done first, since mine is smallest, but I’ll come help when I’m done!” Mai said, darting off to start hers in another location, evidently not noticing the sections of the snowman had slightly been assigned by their individual sizes. Keiji had done it on purpose, taking the largest section, knowing Chikara would go for the next largest.
“Do you ever wonder how we get roped into things like this?” Keiji asked conversationally as they worked on rolling up their snowballs together.
“On occasion, but I know the answer is because we love her, so the wondering doesn’t usually take very long.”
Keiji huffed, smiling slightly. “Sounds about right. You think Tanaka ever wonders how he gets roped into things?”
“He would never. Because he always gets involved with perhaps too much enthusiasm, and not enough regret.”
That sounded like him. And, frankly, like a lot of other people Keiji knew. Maybe it was a sports thing.
Probably at least slightly a sports thing.
He’d brought that upon himself though, given he’d done sports for quite a while.
“Did you make snowmen as a kid?” Keiji asked curiously after they’d been working for a little while and Chikara’s ball was notably larger than his.
“Huh? Oh yeah, made them with my brother all the time. Sometimes we’d compete to see who could build one the fastest, or build the tallest one or something. It was pretty fun. Maybe we should switch who’s doing the body and the middle section, since I’m going faster.”
Keiji looked at his pretty lopsided and definitely smaller ball, then at Chikara’s nice, even, and much larger snowball, and agreed. “Yeah, seems wise. How is yours so round?”
“A lot of practice,” Chikara said, laughing. “It gets easier as you go along. You might be applying too much pressure, maybe try not pushing so hard as you roll around? Snow wants to stick to itself, or at least it does here. Sometimes snow is really powdery, and that stuff is awful for snowmen.”
“Good to know.” He wasn’t sure what he’d do with that information, but he saved it anyway. Perhaps it’d come in handy. And even if it didn’t, he liked to remember things his partners had told him. It could come up in conversation later, and they appreciated it when he remembered things they’d mentioned, even if they were of no consequence in the moment.
“Here, you want to work on mine for a while? I’ll get yours rounder.”
“Please,” Keiji said, nudging his ball over to Chikara. Could it even be called a ball when it was not very round?
It’d have to be a ball, since Keiji wasn’t sure what else to call it.
“Guys! Guys! Got mine!” Mai shouted, running over, a fairly large snowball in her arms. Honestly Keiji wasn’t sure how she was carrying it, wasn’t packed snow really heavy?
Well, the other option was let it get larger as she rolled it over, so maybe it was better she was carrying it.
Oh there were shadows wrapped around her arms and the snowball, that explained how she was carrying it so easily.
“Nice job. We're not quite done, especially if you want yours taller than Futakuchi's.” If Keiji was remembering the photo right, the snowman had
|
Snowman Competition
“And why did you drag us all the way out here?” Chikara asked, not for the first time as their girlfriend towed them through the snowy streets towards the park that was near their apartment. It was very flat, and the recent snowfall had been heavy, so it was bound to be very snow covered.
What exactly she wanted them to be doing with all that snow cover had not been made clear yet. It could be a snowball fight. It could be snow angels. It could also be something entirely random and unconnected to the snow, but somehow Keiji doubted that. She’d made sure they were all wearing gloves, so it was almost certainly something with the snow.
Maybe it had to do with that picture Chikara showed him earlier in the day, with Tanaka, Futakuchi, and Aone standing next to their absolutely massive snowmen. Mai could get competitive. Mostly with Futakuchi, but Tanaka had been getting dragged into it more often as time went on, and had thus been developing his own little rivalry with her.
It was endlessly amusing to Chikara, who usually was content to just watch and laugh at them with Keiji.
Except when they too got dragged into it, like now.
“We’re making snowmen!” Mai announced once they’d reached the park, confirming his suspicion about it having to do with the pictures from earlier. “They need to be taller than Futakuchi’s.”
Keiji shared an amused glance with Chikara. Perhaps they should have expected this.
“I guess I’ll work on the body,” Keiji said, crouching down to begin packing snow between his hands. Good thing the snow here was pretty deep. It looked like no one had really been here since the snow last night, which made sense, it was still fairly early in the day, and the local schools wouldn’t be letting out for another couple hours.
“I’ll get the middle if you get the head,” Chikara said, also crouching down to start collecting snow.
“Well, I’m going to be done first, since mine is smallest, but I’ll come help when I’m done!” Mai said, darting off to start hers in another location, evidently not noticing the sections of the snowman had slightly been assigned by their individual sizes. Keiji had done it on purpose, taking the largest section, knowing Chikara would go for the next largest.
“Do you ever wonder how we get roped into things like this?” Keiji asked conversationally as they worked on rolling up their snowballs together.
“On occasion, but I know the answer is because we love her, so the wondering doesn’t usually take very long.”
Keiji huffed, smiling slightly. “Sounds about right. You think Tanaka ever wonders how he gets roped into things?”
“He would never. Because he always gets involved with perhaps too much enthusiasm, and not enough regret.”
That sounded like him. And, frankly, like a lot of other people Keiji knew. Maybe it was a sports thing.
Probably at least slightly a sports thing.
He’d brought that upon himself though, given he’d done sports for quite a while.
“Did you make snowmen as a kid?” Keiji asked curiously after they’d been working for a little while and Chikara’s ball was notably larger than his.
“Huh? Oh yeah, made them with my brother all the time. Sometimes we’d compete to see who could build one the fastest, or build the tallest one or something. It was pretty fun. Maybe we should switch who’s doing the body and the middle section, since I’m going faster.”
Keiji looked at his pretty lopsided and definitely smaller ball, then at Chikara’s nice, even, and much larger snowball, and agreed. “Yeah, seems wise. How is yours so round?”
“A lot of practice,” Chikara said, laughing. “It gets easier as you go along. You might be applying too much pressure, maybe try not pushing so hard as you roll around? Snow wants to stick to itself, or at least it does here. Sometimes snow is really powdery, and that stuff is awful for snowmen.”
“Good to know.” He wasn’t sure what he’d do with that information, but he saved it anyway. Perhaps it’d come in handy. And even if it didn’t, he liked to remember things his partners had told him. It could come up in conversation later, and they appreciated it when he remembered things they’d mentioned, even if they were of no consequence in the moment.
“Here, you want to work on mine for a while? I’ll get yours rounder.”
“Please,” Keiji said, nudging his ball over to Chikara. Could it even be called a ball when it was not very round?
It’d have to be a ball, since Keiji wasn’t sure what else to call it.
“Guys! Guys! Got mine!” Mai shouted, running over, a fairly large snowball in her arms. Honestly Keiji wasn’t sure how she was carrying it, wasn’t packed snow really heavy?
Well, the other option was let it get larger as she rolled it over, so maybe it was better she was carrying it.
Oh there were shadows wrapped around her arms and the snowball, that explained how she was carrying it so easily.
“Nice job. We're not quite done, especially if you want yours taller than Futakuchi's.” If Keiji was remembering the photo right, the snowman had almost been as tall as Aone, so it should end up notably taller than Keiji.
Honestly he was just hoping they could get the head on, although the combined effort of Mai and Chikara and their shadow control would probably help.
They did manage to get the head on, if barely. The completed snowman certainly towered over Keiji, so it was probably tall enough.
Mai insisted upon getting a picture of him standing next to it specifically to prove it was taller than Futakuchi’s, which, based on her snickering, prompted a great deal of outrage from the man.
Keiji couldn’t decide if he was or was not looking forward to probably being dragged out here again to once more try and one up Futakuchi’s snowmen. Maybe they’d get Bokuto in on it next time, get some height and professional volleyball player height on their side.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75683421
|
{"authors": ["Flux_Uchiha"], "language": "English", "title": "Snowman Competition"}
|
A flame in Winter (And The Endless Burn)
The air tasted of snow—sharp, sweet, and the kind of cold that made your lungs wake up before your brain did. Most would have found it comforting. Hinata, at the moment, did not.
Bitter cold pressed into his chest like iron. His boots slipped on ice. Breaths came in quick little clouds that vanished before he could even blink. The high walls of the palace loomed far behind him, white and polished, jutting up from the smooth hill it sat on. Had he made any sound when slipping out of his window? Were the guards already on his tail? Or perhaps they went to alert his Father, and if that were the case, may the cold take him first.
Snow cloaked the quiet village, smothering rooftops and gardens. The time for dinner had long past, but the smells of roasted meat and fermented vegetables lingered thickly in the night air. For a moment—reckless, foolish—Hinata let himself imagine he was just a boy wandering under the moon, not a prince or not a pawn. Then the forest swallowed that fantasy whole. The trees arched above, dusted with snow, their skinny limbs creaking under the weight like old bones. The thin, pale cloak did nothing to stop the cold. He tugged it tighter around his body all the same.
Then came the growl.
Hinata skidded to a stop, a gasp escaping him as he forgot how to breathe for half a second. Oh how some small, pitiful part of him wished for a guard right now. Or at least a sword. Dear Gods, he should have really brought a sword. A heartbeat passed, and perhaps remaining still as he was allowed him to go unnoticed in the dark. Then yellow eyes glimmered from the dark, then more, then more. Teeth glinted.
“Oh no—no, no, no—” He stumbled backward as a wolf lunged, snow spraying. Ice scraped under his boots as he scrambled to his feet. He ran hard, cursing himself for all his foolish choices that led to this moment. Days in the palace had felt like a slow death. But being torn apart by wolves hardly seemed any better. Muttering curses, he grabbed onto a tree trunk and banked left. The closest wolf vaulted straight ahead with a yelp. A few precious seconds. The rest of the pack soon gained on him. Now Hinata cursed at the Gods.
But then—a light appeared in the darkness. Through the trees, a roof glimmered in the moonlight like a saviour. It was….some sort of Dojo? Hinata didn’t think and bolted for it. Shoulder slammed into wood, the door swung open, and he tumbled inside, the last of his strength slamming it shut just as claws scraped against the other side. Hinata held firm for what felt like hours. Might as well have been. But then, blessedly so, there was silence. Warmth pressed against his chilled bones. He slumped down and relaxed. The air smelled faintly of pine, of ink, and of something darker— it itched at his skin in a familiar way that made Hinata purse his lips. A scent that annoyingly made heat bloom in his cheeks. An Alpha. He straightened, brushing snow from his clothes.
The Dojo was simple but precise; beams polished smooth, lanterns trimmed and hung, scrolls stacked with care on shelves. Every inch spoke of someone who lived here in solitude, with a quiet dignity that made him feel like a messy, snow-covered disaster in comparison. “Hello?” Hinata whispered, fingers dragging along the wall as he walked down the corridor. It was dark, and many doors were pulled shut. Joy bloomed at the thought of this place being empty. He clasped his hands together and sent a quick prayer of apology to the gods above. Now he could keep his limbs intact for the night, and when daylight broke come morning he would find his way out of this forest and—
Then he saw him, and Hinata took back his prayer of thanks.
A broad-shouldered man knelt at a low table, his back towards Hinata, brush poised over parchment. Dark hair fell like silk and every line of him seemed sculpted, as if winter itself had grown a body and decided to take root here. He didn’t move—not at first, just breathed, measured. No, like he was restraining himself. Then his head lifted. He turned to look over his shoulder. It hit Hinata like a wave. Quiet, undeniable, something that pressed down on him and made him aware of every inch of his own body. His chest tightened in ways he hadn’t realized were possible.
“My apologies for bursting in,” he blurted. He bowed awkwardly, shocked at how all graceful motion was lost to panic. “I did not mean to intrude in your home. There were wolves outiside— and they were chasing me and it’s late and I—well—I—” His words tangled uselessly. He slowly lifted his head to get a read on the man’s expression. Because surely he would not feed him to the wolves—quite literally—right? But then again, the lesson of tonight was that fortune did not favor Hinata. Infuriatingly, the man did not speak. He just watched. Blue eyes dark, sharp, and seeing everything. It felt as if he were stripped bare under it in a way that no palace or throne room or fatherly expectation had ever
|
A flame in Winter (And The Endless Burn)
The air tasted of snow—sharp, sweet, and the kind of cold that made your lungs wake up before your brain did. Most would have found it comforting. Hinata, at the moment, did not.
Bitter cold pressed into his chest like iron. His boots slipped on ice. Breaths came in quick little clouds that vanished before he could even blink. The high walls of the palace loomed far behind him, white and polished, jutting up from the smooth hill it sat on. Had he made any sound when slipping out of his window? Were the guards already on his tail? Or perhaps they went to alert his Father, and if that were the case, may the cold take him first.
Snow cloaked the quiet village, smothering rooftops and gardens. The time for dinner had long past, but the smells of roasted meat and fermented vegetables lingered thickly in the night air. For a moment—reckless, foolish—Hinata let himself imagine he was just a boy wandering under the moon, not a prince or not a pawn. Then the forest swallowed that fantasy whole. The trees arched above, dusted with snow, their skinny limbs creaking under the weight like old bones. The thin, pale cloak did nothing to stop the cold. He tugged it tighter around his body all the same.
Then came the growl.
Hinata skidded to a stop, a gasp escaping him as he forgot how to breathe for half a second. Oh how some small, pitiful part of him wished for a guard right now. Or at least a sword. Dear Gods, he should have really brought a sword. A heartbeat passed, and perhaps remaining still as he was allowed him to go unnoticed in the dark. Then yellow eyes glimmered from the dark, then more, then more. Teeth glinted.
“Oh no—no, no, no—” He stumbled backward as a wolf lunged, snow spraying. Ice scraped under his boots as he scrambled to his feet. He ran hard, cursing himself for all his foolish choices that led to this moment. Days in the palace had felt like a slow death. But being torn apart by wolves hardly seemed any better. Muttering curses, he grabbed onto a tree trunk and banked left. The closest wolf vaulted straight ahead with a yelp. A few precious seconds. The rest of the pack soon gained on him. Now Hinata cursed at the Gods.
But then—a light appeared in the darkness. Through the trees, a roof glimmered in the moonlight like a saviour. It was….some sort of Dojo? Hinata didn’t think and bolted for it. Shoulder slammed into wood, the door swung open, and he tumbled inside, the last of his strength slamming it shut just as claws scraped against the other side. Hinata held firm for what felt like hours. Might as well have been. But then, blessedly so, there was silence. Warmth pressed against his chilled bones. He slumped down and relaxed. The air smelled faintly of pine, of ink, and of something darker— it itched at his skin in a familiar way that made Hinata purse his lips. A scent that annoyingly made heat bloom in his cheeks. An Alpha. He straightened, brushing snow from his clothes.
The Dojo was simple but precise; beams polished smooth, lanterns trimmed and hung, scrolls stacked with care on shelves. Every inch spoke of someone who lived here in solitude, with a quiet dignity that made him feel like a messy, snow-covered disaster in comparison. “Hello?” Hinata whispered, fingers dragging along the wall as he walked down the corridor. It was dark, and many doors were pulled shut. Joy bloomed at the thought of this place being empty. He clasped his hands together and sent a quick prayer of apology to the gods above. Now he could keep his limbs intact for the night, and when daylight broke come morning he would find his way out of this forest and—
Then he saw him, and Hinata took back his prayer of thanks.
A broad-shouldered man knelt at a low table, his back towards Hinata, brush poised over parchment. Dark hair fell like silk and every line of him seemed sculpted, as if winter itself had grown a body and decided to take root here. He didn’t move—not at first, just breathed, measured. No, like he was restraining himself. Then his head lifted. He turned to look over his shoulder. It hit Hinata like a wave. Quiet, undeniable, something that pressed down on him and made him aware of every inch of his own body. His chest tightened in ways he hadn’t realized were possible.
“My apologies for bursting in,” he blurted. He bowed awkwardly, shocked at how all graceful motion was lost to panic. “I did not mean to intrude in your home. There were wolves outiside— and they were chasing me and it’s late and I—well—I—” His words tangled uselessly. He slowly lifted his head to get a read on the man’s expression. Because surely he would not feed him to the wolves—quite literally—right? But then again, the lesson of tonight was that fortune did not favor Hinata. Infuriatingly, the man did not speak. He just watched. Blue eyes dark, sharp, and seeing everything. It felt as if he were stripped bare under it in a way that no palace or throne room or fatherly expectation had ever managed. Not just his snow-dusted cloak, not his trembling hands, not even the bruises from his fall. Just him. The boy who had never belonged in a palace—or anywhere at all.
Then finally: “Everyone knows monsters lurk in this forest,” the man said, stepping closer. His jet black yukata hung loose on his frame, and his long hair gently lifted on the winter breeze from the window. His voice was low and calm, but the edge of warning curled around it like smoke. Hinata relented a step, the faint glint of canines catching the moonlight as the man added, “Who’s to say I am not one of them?”
Hinata swallowed thickly, and he fidgeted with the sleeve of his cloak, trying to appear unphased. Because if there was one lesson burned into him from living in the palace, it was this: your fear only strengthens the enemy. “Well… you’ve yet to eat me,” he said, voice a little too bright, “so I would wager that you’re safer than the woods.” The wolf’s eyes narrowed—just slightly—but it was enough to make the air feel heavier, like gravity had decided to thicken here. A Woodsy scent was baked into the walls, but him….no, his pheromones had a different smell. Ah, it was a little frustrating how he couldn’t quite name it. He furrowed his brows and sniffed the air. It was all grass and lake water and sunshine and rain all in one. How strange. Hinata shook his head and focused. “I… um… I don’t suppose you could allow me stay here for the night? I should be able to find my way back once the sun rises.”
The man didn’t answer right away. Although an exasperated huff did leave him. Hinata frowned. It wasn’t like he wanted to be chased by mutts and end up trapped here. He nearly said as much til common sense silenced him. Finally, the words came, flat and hardly kind: “…If you’re brave—or foolish—enough to stay in the same place as a stranger, be my guest.” Hinata’s shoulders lifted with a small, unintentional grin. That was… more than he expected. He inhaled, letting his chest puff with satisfaction. A small win was a win no less.
“Thank you, good sir.” He studied the long lines of the man’s body, the way he moved with deliberate control towards him, a quiet gravity that seemed to follow him. Terrifying, yes, but gorgeous enough to make Hinata’s stomach twist.
But then the man said, “Do not thank me. If the wolves were to eat you, they may be conditioned to think more food would be supplied here. And that would be a nuisance.”
This man was not handsome at all, Hinata quickly decided with a scoff. In fact, his features were far too beastly and rugged. He huffed, sticking his nose in the air as he muttered, “some gentleman you are.”
“Pardon me?” Mr. Rude said, bending over to gather papers from the table. Hinata’s eyes followed every motion—the roll of parchment, the smooth slide of dark robes over powerful limbs.
“Nothing at all.”
Finally, the man straightened and moved toward the hallway. Dusting off his robes, he didn’t glance back, but the tilt of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, all said where Hinata should go. “…Follow,” he still said, as if Hinata needed it spelled out for him. He bit back the snarky retort on his lips and reminded himself— painfully so— that this man could throw him out to the wolves. And the wolves were far less pleasant. Hinata hurried after him, padding silently across pale, polished floors. The air smelled faintly of incense and polished wood here, a familiar scent to the palace—simple, refined, elegant. They arrived at a room too tidy for someone who lived alone. The man nudged him inside, his expression now bored. “Stay here.” His dark eyes lingered just a beat too long, and Hinata felt the same pull as before. Then he turned and left, footsteps fading down the hall.
The fox wandered inside, his eyes wide. It was rather plain with a futon in the center of the floor, plain beige walls, and a fireplace filled with soot and ash. The open window let in a chilly breeze, and he rubbed his shoulders while doing a quick circle of the room. No monster would keep a place this tidy. And he can read and write by the looks of it…how peculiar, indeed.
Mr. Rude reappeared at the doorframe then. Hinata froze. The man looked pensive, then raised a brow. “You… you are a nobleman, are you not?”
Ah, crap.
Hinata coughed. “I guess you could say so,” he replied, averting his gaze—he hadn’t expected to be found out so quickly! The clothes he wore were swiped from his tutor, surely they did not seem that fancy. He narrowed his eyes at the perceptive man, deciding that two could play at that game. “What about yourself? You’re either one of the rare street folk who learned to read, or you are nobleman as well.” Hinata felt proud at the slight stiffening of the man’s shoulders. He even let himself smile a little.
Mr. Rude stepped back, dusting his robes, speaking without looking at him. “You must leave by dawn. I want no search parties and no assumptions of kidnapping troubling me. Do not steal. And do not bother me unless necessary. That is all.” Then he was gone, with the dramatic flourish of his robes, leaving Hinata to roll his eyes.
And finally silence— not fear silence, but peaceful silence, sunk into the room. With a sigh, Hinata shuffled to the window and stood on his toes to look out at the forest that had just tried to kill him. And yet… it didn’t seem so scary, not anymore at least. Perhaps because what now buzzed along his skin was something he had not felt in a long time. Something he had deeply longed for. Excitement. How relieving to know that his heart still ticked in that way, and had not been as thoroughly damaged as he thought. Surprisingly, a breathless laugh escaped him as his heart continued to pound. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Ah yes, it was this longing for such a rush of excitement that had sent him scaling out his bedroom window. He leaned his elblows on the windowsill and greeted the old feeling with an aching smile. Hello, hello, hello, oh how I’ve missed you.
~~~~
Hinata awoke to the faint sounds of growling, and scolded his dreams for disturbing such a nice sleep.
His eyes cracked open slowly, an ache in his back causing him to hiss. He blinked, and realized he had slept curled up against the wall, just under the window. Then he noticed something even stranger: There were bandages on his arms. Wrapped neat, precise, and somehow warm. He squinted to make sure he was seeing things right, because he certainly wasn’t known to sleep bandagehimself. His chest tightened a little, and he let himself linger on the thought that Mr. Rude had— at some point while he slept— tended to his scrapes and bruises. He did not know what exactly to make of that…
That’s when another growl filled his ears, and he wondered for a moment if he was still dreaming. Crunching of snow followed, and he knew his dreams were never quite that vivid. Hinata quickly rose to his feet and squinted out the window against the soft morning light. Outside, a pack of wolves prowled across the front yard of the Dojo, snarls low and threatening. Surely they hadn’t waited all night for him, had they? What cruel, cruel things, could they not find some rabbit to feast on? This kind of determination was almost maddening. He didn’t even have much meat on his bones to warrant such a hunt! For a terrible moment he questioned if he was faster than Mr. Rude, because really, all you had to do was be faster than the next person and—
The man stepped into the yard, calm and impossible, and Hinata’s heart skidded past a few beats. His arms were folded across his chest, a his jaw nearly unhinging in a loud yawn. He was utterly insane, a mad man! But the wolves were not charging. They gnashed and growled but…. did not move. The largest one— an Alpha, Hinata presumed, held its ground and stared Mr. Rude down. But he did not falter, either. A low rumble sounded in the back of his throat, and Hinata felt the wave of dominant pheromones crash into him then. Heavy, thick and blanketing all his thoughts down to some baser instinct. He had been wrong. The wolf wasn’t a real Alpha. That man was.
As if coming to the same conclusions as him, the wolves whined and cowered their heads, quickly retreating to the snowy woods. Hinata blinked. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. His chest ached a little—not from fear, exactly, but from recognition. The sheer presence of this man. Full-blooded and dominant. Terrifying. And somehow… fascinating. He cursed himself quietly. I really shouldn’t be thinking about this. Definitely shouldn’t be thinking about this. And yet. And yet, here he was, watching. Heart thudding in a way that made him want to pluck it out and toss it away. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Gathering himself, Hinata left the bedroom and retraced his steps to find the front door, storming outside before he could talk himself out of it. “Hey!” His voice shook slightly, because nerves and excitement don’t always play nice together.
The man froze. His head cocked to the side, then he turned and locked eyes on Hinata with a weight that made the little fox’s stomach flip. “…So you’ve awoken,” he said. There was a hesitation in his tone that Hinata didn’t miss. Just a hint, but still there. That’s when Hinata felt particulary cold, and looked down to see his robe had slipped from one shoulder to expose his collar bone and chest. His cheeks flamed. Great. Just great.
Quickly drawing it up tight, he coughed. The man’s eyes flicked down, darkening briefly. He looked away just as fast, and Hinata bit back a groan, because seriously, this was not what he had come out here for, perv! “You’re not normal. A dominant alpha, I presume,” Hinata said, moving a little closer. He kept his tone light, teasing even, because if he sounded too earnest, he’d probably melt right where he stood. “And yet, I’ve not heard of one with the ability to subjugate wild animals. Curious.”
“…How did you—?” The man’s head jerked to glance up at the window, jaw tight. His words trailed off, muttered, frustrated. “…Damn it.”
Hinata smirked. Victory, even quiet, felt good. Tiny, ridiculous victory. He circled slowly, careful not to look too bold, drinking in the way Mr. Rude moved, the way he occupied the space like it was his own. Even in the cold morning light, the man radiated authority. And yet… there was restraint. Something subtle, hidden under all that dominance. He settled across from the man, just far enough to breathe easily, just close enough to feel it.
“Thank you. For the bandages,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “And for saving my life. My name is Hinata.”
The man exhaled slowly, almost as if he were relieved that Hinata had stopped his questioning there. “Your blood would have got on my floors” he muttered, voice clipped, but not unkind. “Would have been troublesome to clean.”
Despite himself, a laugh escaped Hinata, a little warmth spreading through him. This man before him was all sharp edges and harsh lines, but here in this morning light, Hinata could almost see his ears tinting a faint pink. Oh, it was most likely from the cold air nipping away, of course, but it was amusing to imagine him being embarrassed. “Well then. I am certain you would like me gone as soon as possible, but I neglected to tell you something last night.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have absolutely no idea where I am. I’m completely, hopelessly lost.”
Mr. Rude started, irritation flooding his features. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and apparently decided on that exasperated sigh of his. “Of course,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. I will lead the way.”
And so, Hinata followed, trudging through the snow that crunched beneath his boots. The forest stretched pale and silent around them, and Hinata couldn’t stop noticing how large the man felt next to him. He moved like he belonged to the forest itself, strides long and confident, effortlessly pushing through the dense trees. Hinata tried to keep up, but his legs were shorter, his movements clumsy, and he stumbled more than once. When his foot slipped on a patch of ice, he grabbed the man’s arm to steady himself. Cheeks aflame, he muttered a small, embarrassed apology. Thankfully, he didn’t comment. He slowed just enough for Hinata to catch up, the faintest hint of patience in his movements.
“…Do not be so foolish to wear such clothing in winter again,” The man finally said, exhaling in a way that made snow drift from a nearby branch. “Your body will soon be an icicle.” Hinata wanted to argue, wanted to snort and say, oh, so now you admit that you care, but instead he bit back a laugh. There was more beneath the sternness, subtle but unmistakable.
As they walked, Hinata studied the forest, tracing twists and turns, memorizing trees with odd angles and stones with strange shapes. Quietly, he left tiny marks—scratches, notches, subtle signs only he would recognize—to guide him back. If he ever came back, he wanted to know he could find this strange, rude yet funny man again. Maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing him.
Eventually, the man came to a stop, and Hinata blinked up to see the village peeking through the forest’s edge. He knew the way back from here. “Return to your den, little fox,” the man gruffly said.
Hinata huffed and rolled his eyes, "That is certainly a new one." He stepped forward onto the dirt path and headed on, though not before stopping at the end of it. Upon turning around, he found the man still standing there, watching him. Hinata smiled. “Ah. Won’t you tell me your name?”
The man clicked his tongue and turned on his heels, pointedly ignoring Hinata as he returned to the forest. Hinata frowned and began heading for the village, wondering if he had ever seen such vivid blue eyes on a person before. Did he own such a shade of blue in his paint collection? It would surely be a challenge to recreate the vibrancy, perhaps by mixing a few together. Ah, it had been so long, but for some reason, he felt like painting today—
“It is Kageyama.”
Hinata stopped and whirled on his heels, catching sight of the man’s—Kageyama’s— back still walking away. A plume of white air puffed from his lips. A bird chirped overhead. His chest tightened, half with amusement, half with a strange, unsettled thrill. What expression did Kageyama wear now? Was it irritation, or something he couldn’t yet name? He hadn’t had time to decide before the realization struck—his own cheeks were stretched wide with a grin he couldn’t suppress.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, Hinata drew in a deep breath and shouted, “nice name, although I think I shall call you Mr. Wolf!”
The words visibly found their mark as Kageyama flinched and turned to face him with an incredulous look. “You little—!” He caught himself, perhaps noticing Hinata’s triumphant smirk, and pointedly sighed. “Next time, I shall let the wolves have their fill.” Grumbling, he did that dramatic little turn of his and trudged deeper into the forest, quickly disappearing from sight. Hinata, the fool that he was, giggled and continued on the path towards the village.
Dawn had only just passed, so most would still be inside and leave him the chance to sneak back to the palace. Each step that drew him closer sent fear dragging its claws down his back. He held his hand along the stone fences while walking, breathing in all the life that brimmed here. His father had taken many things from him, and he was certain that whatever waited at the palace was ready to take what was left. But not this, he decided. This small moment of excitement, fear, amusement, thrill—freedom, would not be taken. “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye,” he whispered to himself, blinking away the smile from his face.
I shall see you soon.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75686136/chapters/197944246
|
{"authors": ["SixWin"], "language": "English", "title": "A flame in Winter (And The Endless Burn)"}
|
Not a good start
Her body felt like one big muscle knot. She just wanted to sleep. She massaged the sore spots on her neck and rolled her head around a bit.
There was a knock at the door. Charlotte looked up, and Engfa opened the leaning door. She had changed into a comfortable top and sweatpants right after entering the apartment.
“Can I come in?” she asked cautiously.
Charlotte just nodded and continued massaging her neck. The tension grew again. She clenched her teeth and tried not to think about the evening of filming.
/FLASHBACK/ Slight goosebumps formed on her body. The water was cold, but she hardly felt it thanks to the warm body leaning against the edge of the pool. A hand stroked her hair over her shoulder, moved to the nape of her neck, then slid further down and untied the knot of her bikini top. She bit her lip lightly and suppressed a sigh. She forced herself to remain sitting quietly in the warm lap. An arm was firmly around her waist. Hot breath brushed along her lips. She closed her eyes. Only a few millimeters separated them. Her pelvis twitched briefly. Her heart was pounding in her throat. The hand on her hip now pulled her closer to this indescribably attractive body. The coldness of the water was forgotten. She closed her eyes and felt only the heat rising. Her hips twitched again. She felt the muscular thighs beneath her and the thin fabric that separated them. Flashes of lightning shot through her body. She grew hotter. Her abdomen contracted.
“CUT,” a voice called out. “Great. That's it for today.”
Suddenly, it became brighter around Charlotte. She hastily opened her eyes and saw Engfa leaning back slightly and smiling at her.
“Everything okay, Nuu?” she whispered.
Charlotte just nodded. She felt the hand on her neck holding the strings of her top. The arm around her waist still embraced her. Engfa looked at her, looked deep into her soul. Charlotte swallowed. She had to get some distance. Hurriedly, she grabbed the strings herself, tied her top back together, and stood up. The assistants were already waiting at the edge of the pool with warm bathrobes, towels, and hot water bottles. She slipped into one and walked quickly to the director. What was that? Oh God..., flashed through her mind. The heat subsided only slowly. She tried to shake off her thoughts and concentrate on discussing the scene they had just shot.
/FLASHBACK END/
A sigh escaped her throat. Charlotte immediately bit her lip. But it was too late. Engfa looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Is it that bad?” asked the older woman. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
Before Charlotte knew it, Engfa came over to her and sat down behind her on the bed. Warm hands stroked her hair away from her neck and then applied steady pressure to the painful areas between her shoulder blades. Charlotte closed her eyes and enjoyed the soothing massage. Hands that found every tense muscle in her back. A murmur escaped her lips, and she felt everything inside her slowly begin to relax.
“Better?” Engfa whispered in her ear. Charlotte just nodded and leaned back a little further. Her hands rested on Engfa's legs, which dangled relaxed at the edge of the bed to the left and right of her own.
When Engfa reached a particularly sore spot, she dug her fingers into the muscular thighs with a pained groan. “Aaaaah,” came from both of them. Charlotte's eyes widened as she realized what had just happened and jumped up in shock.
“Oh God, I'm so, so sorry.”
She turned to Engfa and scratched her neck awkwardly. Engfa smiled at her.
“Oh, it's okay,” she waved it away soothingly. “You're just a wildcat.”
She made a “meow” gesture and had to laugh at herself. Charlotte smiled. Although Engfa was the older of the two, she often fooled around more.
“Thanks for... the massage.” She pointed to her neck. “It's much better now.”
Engfa nodded. She got up and walked over to Charlotte. She brushed her hair out of her face and gently placed her hand on her cheek.
“For you... Always!” She smiled. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”
Charlotte swallowed. Tomorrow was supposed to be the big “love scene” between Meena and Cherine from her first series, “Show Me Love.” Today's pool scene was just the prelude. Charlotte gulped again. What should she say? Engfa looked at her.
“Hey. It's me, Nuu.” She now placed her other hand on Charlotte's cheek. “We did a great job. The scenes look amazing. You looked amazing.”
Charlotte smiled. Engfa knew exactly how to win someone over with her charm. Just one glance, one flirtatious smile, and everyone was at her mercy.
“Rest up.” She felt the caress of Engfa's thumb on her cheek as she lost herself in Engfa's dark eyes.
Charlotte nodded. Yes, rest was exactly what she needed now. She removed her hands from her face and made her way to the bed. She had just pulled back the covers and was about to lie down when two arms wrapped around her from behind. She froze when she felt Engfa's body pressed close to hers. The older woman's warm breath danced
|
Not a good start
Her body felt like one big muscle knot. She just wanted to sleep. She massaged the sore spots on her neck and rolled her head around a bit.
There was a knock at the door. Charlotte looked up, and Engfa opened the leaning door. She had changed into a comfortable top and sweatpants right after entering the apartment.
“Can I come in?” she asked cautiously.
Charlotte just nodded and continued massaging her neck. The tension grew again. She clenched her teeth and tried not to think about the evening of filming.
/FLASHBACK/ Slight goosebumps formed on her body. The water was cold, but she hardly felt it thanks to the warm body leaning against the edge of the pool. A hand stroked her hair over her shoulder, moved to the nape of her neck, then slid further down and untied the knot of her bikini top. She bit her lip lightly and suppressed a sigh. She forced herself to remain sitting quietly in the warm lap. An arm was firmly around her waist. Hot breath brushed along her lips. She closed her eyes. Only a few millimeters separated them. Her pelvis twitched briefly. Her heart was pounding in her throat. The hand on her hip now pulled her closer to this indescribably attractive body. The coldness of the water was forgotten. She closed her eyes and felt only the heat rising. Her hips twitched again. She felt the muscular thighs beneath her and the thin fabric that separated them. Flashes of lightning shot through her body. She grew hotter. Her abdomen contracted.
“CUT,” a voice called out. “Great. That's it for today.”
Suddenly, it became brighter around Charlotte. She hastily opened her eyes and saw Engfa leaning back slightly and smiling at her.
“Everything okay, Nuu?” she whispered.
Charlotte just nodded. She felt the hand on her neck holding the strings of her top. The arm around her waist still embraced her. Engfa looked at her, looked deep into her soul. Charlotte swallowed. She had to get some distance. Hurriedly, she grabbed the strings herself, tied her top back together, and stood up. The assistants were already waiting at the edge of the pool with warm bathrobes, towels, and hot water bottles. She slipped into one and walked quickly to the director. What was that? Oh God..., flashed through her mind. The heat subsided only slowly. She tried to shake off her thoughts and concentrate on discussing the scene they had just shot.
/FLASHBACK END/
A sigh escaped her throat. Charlotte immediately bit her lip. But it was too late. Engfa looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Is it that bad?” asked the older woman. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
Before Charlotte knew it, Engfa came over to her and sat down behind her on the bed. Warm hands stroked her hair away from her neck and then applied steady pressure to the painful areas between her shoulder blades. Charlotte closed her eyes and enjoyed the soothing massage. Hands that found every tense muscle in her back. A murmur escaped her lips, and she felt everything inside her slowly begin to relax.
“Better?” Engfa whispered in her ear. Charlotte just nodded and leaned back a little further. Her hands rested on Engfa's legs, which dangled relaxed at the edge of the bed to the left and right of her own.
When Engfa reached a particularly sore spot, she dug her fingers into the muscular thighs with a pained groan. “Aaaaah,” came from both of them. Charlotte's eyes widened as she realized what had just happened and jumped up in shock.
“Oh God, I'm so, so sorry.”
She turned to Engfa and scratched her neck awkwardly. Engfa smiled at her.
“Oh, it's okay,” she waved it away soothingly. “You're just a wildcat.”
She made a “meow” gesture and had to laugh at herself. Charlotte smiled. Although Engfa was the older of the two, she often fooled around more.
“Thanks for... the massage.” She pointed to her neck. “It's much better now.”
Engfa nodded. She got up and walked over to Charlotte. She brushed her hair out of her face and gently placed her hand on her cheek.
“For you... Always!” She smiled. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”
Charlotte swallowed. Tomorrow was supposed to be the big “love scene” between Meena and Cherine from her first series, “Show Me Love.” Today's pool scene was just the prelude. Charlotte gulped again. What should she say? Engfa looked at her.
“Hey. It's me, Nuu.” She now placed her other hand on Charlotte's cheek. “We did a great job. The scenes look amazing. You looked amazing.”
Charlotte smiled. Engfa knew exactly how to win someone over with her charm. Just one glance, one flirtatious smile, and everyone was at her mercy.
“Rest up.” She felt the caress of Engfa's thumb on her cheek as she lost herself in Engfa's dark eyes.
Charlotte nodded. Yes, rest was exactly what she needed now. She removed her hands from her face and made her way to the bed. She had just pulled back the covers and was about to lie down when two arms wrapped around her from behind. She froze when she felt Engfa's body pressed close to hers. The older woman's warm breath danced around Charlotte's ear as Engfa asked, “Last question: Can I stay with you again?”
Every muscle in Charlotte's body was tense. She felt the heat rising that she had felt in the pool earlier that day. She immediately pushed it away. The night was already over for her if she let Engfa sleep next to her. But she couldn't say no. They had shared a bed so many times, especially before important events for both of them. But since the first kiss scene in “Show Me Love,” these sleepovers had taken on a different meaning for Charlotte. At first, it was just a fluttering in her heart, followed by a tugging in her stomach when Engfa snuggled up to her back at night. It became a swarm of hundreds of sensations with every night that Engfa pulled her close and sighed contentedly in her sleep.
“Pleeeeeeease...” Engfa whispered, bringing Charlotte back to reality. She nodded slowly, cleared her throat, and then carefully wriggled out of Engfa's embrace.
“Yes!” cheered Engfa triumphantly and ran round the bed. She jumped onto the mattress and immediately snuggled under the covers.
“Haven't you forgotten something?” asked Charlotte, pointing to the older girl's covered legs. Engfa looked down at herself. She thought about it for a moment, then lifted the blanket and said: “Oh, it's fine for sleeping.”
Charlotte laughed. Engfa was incorrigible. Everyone put on pyjamas to sleep in. But Engfa didn't care. She wore anything that was reasonably comfortable.
After fluffing her pillow again, Charlotte lay down as well. As soon as she was lying comfortably on her side, Engfa snuggled up to her. Her arm rested loosely on her hip, caressing the strip of skin that peeked out between her top and shorts. Charlotte sighed. This night, as always, was going to be a short one.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75683441?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["StillVio"], "language": "English", "title": "Not a good start"}
|
you are here, and so am i.
“What’s the last song you listened to?” Will asked suddenly, turning his head to look at the boy sitting next to him. The two had been hanging out, enjoying each other’s company as Will pretended to be productive on his art project and Mike pretended to read the book he held in his lap.“The last song I listened to?” Mike repeated, turning his head as well to look at Will, who was staring at him expectantly. Will began turning his body on the couch to fully face Mike, legs haphazardly crossing over each other as he settled against the arm of the couch. He gave no response to Mike’s question, only continuing to look at him. Mike tilted his head to the side a little, one eye closing as he strained to think of what the last song he listened to actually was. “Does the radio count, or did I have to seek out the song myself?” He said after a long pause. He had, of course, heard the stereo distantly on his drive with Will back to his house. “Because if it is including the radio, then it’s-”
Will interrupted him with a laugh. “Sorry, Mike. Radio doesn’t count. If it did that would totally ruin the real meaning behind the question. You have to have been like ‘I am going to listen to this song right now, I have to listen to this song right now!’ or it just doesn’t count.” He said, quite matter-of-factly.Mike couldn’t help himself when he felt the corners of his mouth begin to tug upwards. He let the words wash over him, closing his eyes to think of the last song he truly listened to and had sought out the company of. He thought of it almost immediately now, his smile turning from humorous to fond. He felt his cheeks warm a bit, thinking of the song and why he had been so desperate to listen to it at that moment.“Okay, I thought of it. But, you have to promise me- promise me- you won’t make fun of me.” Mike said, heart fluttering a bit when Will sat up a bit straighter, a serious look on his face as he nodded, whispering a promise not to make fun of Mike.
It was now Mike’s turn to turn on the couch to fully face the other boy. He attempted to cross his legs and glared at Will as he heard him start to chuckle a bit at his long legs bumping into Will’s repeatedly with the effort. Despite his glare, he began to laugh with Will. It was hard not to, honestly. Will was the easiest person in the world to talk to, and Mike could barely even manage to pretend to be annoyed with him.Shaking his head a bit, Mike finally looked up from their legs and met Will’s eyes.
“I Only Have Eyes For You.” He said, smiling once more. Did he ever stop smiling around Will? He wasn’t sure if he smiled at Will multiple times, or if it was just one, long, continuous smile since the moment they met.
Will looked a bit taken aback by Mike’s answer, face flushing a shade of pink that Mike was pretty sure had yet to be discovered by science. “I’m sorry- what?” Will finally said after a long pause.
“I Only Have Eyes For You? The Flamingos?” Mike said, head tilting as he watched understanding and, perhaps even disappointment, greet Will’s features. The two boys stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter.
“You thought I was just-” Mike began, voice straining to come out clearly through his laughter.
“I forgot that was a song! For, like, a second!” Will said, laughing and leaning forward to bury his face in his hands, seemingly out of embarrassment.
Their giggles took a few minutes to calm down, both boys just shaking their heads before deciding to quietly turn back to their previous activities. The air was light, brimming with the remaining sounds of their laughter from moments before. Mike still wore his signature small smile, biting his lip a bit as he flipped through the pages of his book. The song was now stuck in his head, so he began humming it to himself. It was, after all, a very good song.
Will’s head suddenly popped up like he just realized he forgot to turn the oven off in his house. “Why… Why were you listening to that song, Mike? I’ve never taken you to like that kind of stuff before.” He hummed a bit, and Mike felt a suspicion that this was Will’s way of politely prying.
“I, ah-” Mike began to speak, but his voice betrayed him a bit with a crack. Luckily for him, Will didn’t acknowledge it and waited for him to continue speaking. Unfortunately for him, Will didn’t acknowledge it, so Mike couldn’t use it as a way to change the topic.
Honestly? Mike really was not into that kind of stuff, Will was right. He wasn’t crazy about love songs, at least not the kind that he imagined old people dancing to in their living rooms. Or retirement homes. Whatever, he wasn’t the biggest fan. The only reason he had been listening to it was because of Will. Yeah, whatever, Mike has a crush on his best friend and listened to love songs and thought about aforementioned best friend while doing so. It’s gross, it’s cliche, it made Mike want to roll around his bed and kick his feet and giggle like he heard Nancy do a
|
you are here, and so am i.
“What’s the last song you listened to?” Will asked suddenly, turning his head to look at the boy sitting next to him. The two had been hanging out, enjoying each other’s company as Will pretended to be productive on his art project and Mike pretended to read the book he held in his lap.“The last song I listened to?” Mike repeated, turning his head as well to look at Will, who was staring at him expectantly. Will began turning his body on the couch to fully face Mike, legs haphazardly crossing over each other as he settled against the arm of the couch. He gave no response to Mike’s question, only continuing to look at him. Mike tilted his head to the side a little, one eye closing as he strained to think of what the last song he listened to actually was. “Does the radio count, or did I have to seek out the song myself?” He said after a long pause. He had, of course, heard the stereo distantly on his drive with Will back to his house. “Because if it is including the radio, then it’s-”
Will interrupted him with a laugh. “Sorry, Mike. Radio doesn’t count. If it did that would totally ruin the real meaning behind the question. You have to have been like ‘I am going to listen to this song right now, I have to listen to this song right now!’ or it just doesn’t count.” He said, quite matter-of-factly.Mike couldn’t help himself when he felt the corners of his mouth begin to tug upwards. He let the words wash over him, closing his eyes to think of the last song he truly listened to and had sought out the company of. He thought of it almost immediately now, his smile turning from humorous to fond. He felt his cheeks warm a bit, thinking of the song and why he had been so desperate to listen to it at that moment.“Okay, I thought of it. But, you have to promise me- promise me- you won’t make fun of me.” Mike said, heart fluttering a bit when Will sat up a bit straighter, a serious look on his face as he nodded, whispering a promise not to make fun of Mike.
It was now Mike’s turn to turn on the couch to fully face the other boy. He attempted to cross his legs and glared at Will as he heard him start to chuckle a bit at his long legs bumping into Will’s repeatedly with the effort. Despite his glare, he began to laugh with Will. It was hard not to, honestly. Will was the easiest person in the world to talk to, and Mike could barely even manage to pretend to be annoyed with him.Shaking his head a bit, Mike finally looked up from their legs and met Will’s eyes.
“I Only Have Eyes For You.” He said, smiling once more. Did he ever stop smiling around Will? He wasn’t sure if he smiled at Will multiple times, or if it was just one, long, continuous smile since the moment they met.
Will looked a bit taken aback by Mike’s answer, face flushing a shade of pink that Mike was pretty sure had yet to be discovered by science. “I’m sorry- what?” Will finally said after a long pause.
“I Only Have Eyes For You? The Flamingos?” Mike said, head tilting as he watched understanding and, perhaps even disappointment, greet Will’s features. The two boys stared at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter.
“You thought I was just-” Mike began, voice straining to come out clearly through his laughter.
“I forgot that was a song! For, like, a second!” Will said, laughing and leaning forward to bury his face in his hands, seemingly out of embarrassment.
Their giggles took a few minutes to calm down, both boys just shaking their heads before deciding to quietly turn back to their previous activities. The air was light, brimming with the remaining sounds of their laughter from moments before. Mike still wore his signature small smile, biting his lip a bit as he flipped through the pages of his book. The song was now stuck in his head, so he began humming it to himself. It was, after all, a very good song.
Will’s head suddenly popped up like he just realized he forgot to turn the oven off in his house. “Why… Why were you listening to that song, Mike? I’ve never taken you to like that kind of stuff before.” He hummed a bit, and Mike felt a suspicion that this was Will’s way of politely prying.
“I, ah-” Mike began to speak, but his voice betrayed him a bit with a crack. Luckily for him, Will didn’t acknowledge it and waited for him to continue speaking. Unfortunately for him, Will didn’t acknowledge it, so Mike couldn’t use it as a way to change the topic.
Honestly? Mike really was not into that kind of stuff, Will was right. He wasn’t crazy about love songs, at least not the kind that he imagined old people dancing to in their living rooms. Or retirement homes. Whatever, he wasn’t the biggest fan. The only reason he had been listening to it was because of Will. Yeah, whatever, Mike has a crush on his best friend and listened to love songs and thought about aforementioned best friend while doing so. It’s gross, it’s cliche, it made Mike want to roll around his bed and kick his feet and giggle like he heard Nancy do a million times. It was freeing to let himself indulge in his crush, listening to the love songs and thinking about all the times Will let his hand linger too long, leaned in too close, looked at him like that. Which he was doing… right now. While Mike stared at him dumbly. Which. Well. Mike was dumb, so he guesses it’s fair.
Will leaned in, staring at Mike with those big eyes that he liked so much. Mike felt the air get knocked out of his lungs, staring down at Will.
“You.” Mike heard himself whisper, like someone else was speaking for him.
“Me?” Will whispered in return, eyes flicking between Mike’s eyes and his lips.
Wait. What?“Yeah. You.” Mike said with a bravery he did not feel. “I was thinking about you.”Will’s smile made Mike wonder when he was going to wake up. It was so warm, reaching all the way up to his eyes and crinkling the bridge of his nose. “You were… thinking about me?” He repeated, sounding as breathless as Mike felt.Mike, for some reason, didn’t have it in him to be scared. He felt safe. A part of him had always known, really, that it was always Will. It would always be Will.
“Will.. I’m- I’m always thinking about you, you know that, right?” He murmured, raising a hand to gently hold Will’s cheek, “I don’t think I’ve ever really stopped. Not since we met.”
Mike let himself brace for rejection, just in case it came.
It didn’t.
What did come, however, was Will nervously brushing his lips against Mike’s. It was nothing crazy, and if Mike hadn’t been aware of everything Will ever does, he wouldn’t have believed it happened. He felt his face heat up, and felt Will’s cheek warm under his palm.
With newfound bravery, Mike surged forward, letting the hand on Will’s cheek move to the back of his neck, his book long since discarded. Will made a small noise of surprise, like Mike wasn’t the one who just admitted he listened to love songs and thought of him, hands reaching up to cradle Mike’s face.
It was a short kiss, though both boys pulled away a bit breathless. They had matching smiles, eyes darting all over the other’s face for any signs of regret or discomfort. Mike let himself surge forward once more, though he just crushed Will into a hug, pinning him to the side in what had to be an uncomfortable position, as Will was entirely trapped under Mike and their tanglement of long limbs.
Mike pressed a kiss to Will’s nose, as it was something he thought about doing constantly. The two laid there for what could’ve been an hour or twenty years, silently breathing the air that had settled around them. They could discuss this later, whatever it was. They have their entire lives to swap stories about all the times they remembered how much they loved each other, their favorite memories of one another, whatever they wanted to talk about it.
“Wait-’” Mike sat up suddenly, pulling Will up with him. Will looked incredibly anxious, panic swelling in his chest.
“I never asked you!” He gasped a bit, reaching up to cup Will’s face once again. “What was the last song you listened to?”
Will stared at him for a full minute. Mike could hear his thoughts. None of them were very nice.
He gave Will a sheepish grin, suddenly realizing how much he had likely scared him with his seriousness the moment prior. It must’ve worked, because Will’s face broke out into a smile as he shook his head.
“It was Something Stupid. By Frank Sinatra.” Will said finally, shifting to lay his head on Mike’s shoulder.
Mike hummed in acknowledgement before speaking. “What about that song made you think ‘I am going to listen to this song right now, I have to listen to this song right now!’?” Mike smiled, leaning his head against Will’s while simultaneously intertwining their fingers.
“You, Mike. It’s always been you for me, too.”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75681671
|
{"authors": ["leewritesstuff"], "language": "English", "title": "you are here, and so am i."}
|
Surely Things Will Change Now
Dinobot has always been quite headstrong. Unwavering in his own ideals, insistent, and aggressive. He’s always toted his honor above all else, an unwavering ideal he has held himself to since he was a young, hopeless dreamer. But as of late, he’s repeatedly fallen short to himself and his rules. Maybe that’s why he’s been spiraling, focused only on the flaws and mistakes that he repeatedly makes, each time he’s wavered, changed allegiance, betrayed a comrade, hurt a friend. It haunts him ceaselessly, leading him to this ultimate choice.
He sits alone, the quiet ambience of the ship full of people who would succeed without him with far better ease filling the warm space. It feels like he’s out of place. A washed up, brunt out, hollow Predacon, an injured predator among a flock of prey. He lets himself glance out the wide windows of the Axalon, observing the sunset one last time, saying goodbye to his truest companion on this planet, the world itself. He takes a shaky breathe, pulling ice cold air through his metal body as he reaches for the hilt of his sword. He gives it an idle spin to admire the freshly polished and sharpened surface. He adjusts his hold, wrapping both of his long, sharp hands tighter as he turns it, pointing the sharp end towards his own chest, feeling the way he instinctively flinches at his own weapon as he’s learned from countless battles against others.
He draws it away, shutting his eyes and allowing the cold air of his habsuite to run over his body, let it fill him with all the memories, the good, the bad, his whole story among this ship, among this crew. He raises it as far as his arms can pull, beginning to prepare his arms to snap back down, when the door to his habsuite opens, whirring loud among the silent arena he’d put together for his final battle.
“Oi, Choppuhface,” The vermin’s voice crashes through his concentration like a verbal stab, “I need you to take my rounds today—- What in primus are you up to?”
Dinobot gasps out, letting out the held air in his lungs, dropping his sword with a noisy clatter. He can feel his usual boiling rage build in his chest at just the sound of his voice, a familiar, almost comforting feeling in times like this. More powerful than his anger however, is his shame. To be caught in the act of forfeiting his inner war is humiliating, especially when the rat will surely mock him, as he always does.
“Knock.” He manages to hiss out, pushing his sword away despite already knowing Rattrap has already seen it. “I am busy. Leave me. Immediately, pest.”
Rattrap looks at him like he’s grown four heads, stunned, his eyes flit from the glint of his sword back up to him, then back down. For once he can’t find anything in him snarky to say. Did he really see what he thought he saw? He was trying to… kill himself? Dinobot? The ever stubborn saurian he butts heads with everyday? His personal tormentor? He almost considers leaving, turning a blind eye just in case he’s making assumptions. But something about picturing Dinobot impaled on his own sword, bleeding out endlessly until someone else came to check in on him. It’s not really a good idea to leave him alone, is it? He can’t believe he’s gotten himself suckered in enough to really care what happens to Dinobutt. After all their fights, they’ve still fought side by side, became allies, almost friends, though he’s never dared to make that claim to his face, or admit it to anyone else.
“Uh… Nah. I think I’ll stay for a while.”
He walks himself to the center of the room where Dinobot sits, his focused, glowing red eyes staring him down as he enters, almost detesting his existence entirely. Dinobot watches him as he sits across from him, spreading out his thin rodent legs and sneakily using his tail to bat the sword further away from Dinobot's person. It’s probably not necessary, he doubts Dinobot would stab himself right in front of him, but it eases his own mind a little, so it’s worth the effort.
Dinobot scoffs, looking down at his sword before looking back up at him, his face showing irritation. He can tell he understands what he was about to do, but just how well can he? Will he tell the rest of the ship? Everyone else will know about his shame…
“I don’t want your……’comfort’, rodent.”
“I ain’t comforting you, stankbreath, I’m just sittin’ here. Ain’t that allowed?”
“.....I don’t want you here.”
“I know.”
And so they sat together. Silent for a long while, Rattrap watches the former Predacon while Dinobot ponders his failings, getting more and more into his own head about all of this. He can’t even get something as simple as this done? He truly is a dishonorable scum! He’s a blasted fool! Why didn’t he check that the door is locked—-?!
His overpowering thoughts are quickly interrupted by his company’s talking. “Dinobot,” For once, rattrap uses his actual name rather than a mocking one, only somehow bringing more shame to settle into Dinobot’s chest. “Y’know, you got people for you
|
Surely Things Will Change Now
Dinobot has always been quite headstrong. Unwavering in his own ideals, insistent, and aggressive. He’s always toted his honor above all else, an unwavering ideal he has held himself to since he was a young, hopeless dreamer. But as of late, he’s repeatedly fallen short to himself and his rules. Maybe that’s why he’s been spiraling, focused only on the flaws and mistakes that he repeatedly makes, each time he’s wavered, changed allegiance, betrayed a comrade, hurt a friend. It haunts him ceaselessly, leading him to this ultimate choice.
He sits alone, the quiet ambience of the ship full of people who would succeed without him with far better ease filling the warm space. It feels like he’s out of place. A washed up, brunt out, hollow Predacon, an injured predator among a flock of prey. He lets himself glance out the wide windows of the Axalon, observing the sunset one last time, saying goodbye to his truest companion on this planet, the world itself. He takes a shaky breathe, pulling ice cold air through his metal body as he reaches for the hilt of his sword. He gives it an idle spin to admire the freshly polished and sharpened surface. He adjusts his hold, wrapping both of his long, sharp hands tighter as he turns it, pointing the sharp end towards his own chest, feeling the way he instinctively flinches at his own weapon as he’s learned from countless battles against others.
He draws it away, shutting his eyes and allowing the cold air of his habsuite to run over his body, let it fill him with all the memories, the good, the bad, his whole story among this ship, among this crew. He raises it as far as his arms can pull, beginning to prepare his arms to snap back down, when the door to his habsuite opens, whirring loud among the silent arena he’d put together for his final battle.
“Oi, Choppuhface,” The vermin’s voice crashes through his concentration like a verbal stab, “I need you to take my rounds today—- What in primus are you up to?”
Dinobot gasps out, letting out the held air in his lungs, dropping his sword with a noisy clatter. He can feel his usual boiling rage build in his chest at just the sound of his voice, a familiar, almost comforting feeling in times like this. More powerful than his anger however, is his shame. To be caught in the act of forfeiting his inner war is humiliating, especially when the rat will surely mock him, as he always does.
“Knock.” He manages to hiss out, pushing his sword away despite already knowing Rattrap has already seen it. “I am busy. Leave me. Immediately, pest.”
Rattrap looks at him like he’s grown four heads, stunned, his eyes flit from the glint of his sword back up to him, then back down. For once he can’t find anything in him snarky to say. Did he really see what he thought he saw? He was trying to… kill himself? Dinobot? The ever stubborn saurian he butts heads with everyday? His personal tormentor? He almost considers leaving, turning a blind eye just in case he’s making assumptions. But something about picturing Dinobot impaled on his own sword, bleeding out endlessly until someone else came to check in on him. It’s not really a good idea to leave him alone, is it? He can’t believe he’s gotten himself suckered in enough to really care what happens to Dinobutt. After all their fights, they’ve still fought side by side, became allies, almost friends, though he’s never dared to make that claim to his face, or admit it to anyone else.
“Uh… Nah. I think I’ll stay for a while.”
He walks himself to the center of the room where Dinobot sits, his focused, glowing red eyes staring him down as he enters, almost detesting his existence entirely. Dinobot watches him as he sits across from him, spreading out his thin rodent legs and sneakily using his tail to bat the sword further away from Dinobot's person. It’s probably not necessary, he doubts Dinobot would stab himself right in front of him, but it eases his own mind a little, so it’s worth the effort.
Dinobot scoffs, looking down at his sword before looking back up at him, his face showing irritation. He can tell he understands what he was about to do, but just how well can he? Will he tell the rest of the ship? Everyone else will know about his shame…
“I don’t want your……’comfort’, rodent.”
“I ain’t comforting you, stankbreath, I’m just sittin’ here. Ain’t that allowed?”
“.....I don’t want you here.”
“I know.”
And so they sat together. Silent for a long while, Rattrap watches the former Predacon while Dinobot ponders his failings, getting more and more into his own head about all of this. He can’t even get something as simple as this done? He truly is a dishonorable scum! He’s a blasted fool! Why didn’t he check that the door is locked—-?!
His overpowering thoughts are quickly interrupted by his company’s talking. “Dinobot,” For once, rattrap uses his actual name rather than a mocking one, only somehow bringing more shame to settle into Dinobot’s chest. “Y’know, you got people for you here…and like, stuff…”
“I am no Maximal, I have no need for anything here.”
“You… augh,” It pains him to comfort his enemy. “...are a Maximal. After all you’ve done.. For us… you earned that. I know I’m a smartaft but I really do… care about you, Dinobutt. You’re…… augh.. a friend now.”
“Really, now?”
“...Yeah. I mean all that.”
“Hm.”
Dinobot can hardly believe this kind of confession out of Rattrap, knowing his distaste for him has been strong from the start. He can’t really imagine a world in which he would be a friend of his. But he supposes if even the one who hates him the most has decided to claim him as a maximal, maybe…. maybe they all do. Maybe… he really has become a Maximal, maybe he’s earned that. He sighs, reaching for his sword, seeing Rattrap instantly tense and lean forward like he has to knock it away, he quickly stores it behind his back.
“I’ll… think about it. Talking to someone.” The words taste bad on his tongue, but it’s worth the discomfort to see Rattrap instantly soften and relax.
“Okay, good. That’s good, Chopperface, but ya ain’t getting rid of me yet.”
“Great,” He snarls. “I’ll find you a cushion.”
“That’s right, that’s a good raptor to accept your fate.”
He growls in response, getting a good chuckle out of Rattrap. He can see that he’s not truly angry, his body language is far too relaxed for that. Maybe he’s accepted Rattrap’s forcible care, or maybe he’s just too tired to fight back. Either way, Rattrap’s more comfortable with him like this. No longer a danger to himself, just the exhausted, stubborn old bot he’s always been. Maybe Rattrap won’t mind staying in his habsuite awhile if it means he stays safe. He needs his nemesis to banter with if he wants to stay sane in this war. It’d be too hard to bear losing a friend, even if that friend used to be a Predacon, and is a buttface. He’s still a friend.
Dinobot has truly become his friend, maybe a friend to all of them by now.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679076
|
{"authors": ["lichenhaunt"], "language": "English", "title": "Surely Things Will Change Now"}
|
37.5 celcius
A knock with no answer.
Seoyeon sighed before twisting the knob, opening the door carefully as she was scared of startling the person inside.
“Yooyeon unnie?” She calls out softly. She heard sheets shuffling before she peeks her head through the crack of the open door. A big lump was laid down under white fluffy comforters. It moved around a bit as Seoyeon slowly entered the room.
The younger girl was met with a messy room. Various papers littered the floor—some crumpled and some just lying around. The big monitor of her computer desktop was turned off as its keyboard and mouse were pushed to the side. A couple of books were stacked on the study table and, of course, papers with a bunch of drawings also adorned the wooden surface. The leather desktop chair had a small pile of clothes on top of it.
A bunch of long sleeved shirts and hoodies, Seoyeon noted.
The room was dark even if it was already ten in the morning. The curtains were closed shut and the lights were off—the lamp at the set up drafting table was also turned off which Seyeon found odd. The said wooden drafting table also had a bunch of stuff on top of its surface—papers, drafting tools and a couple of pens and pencils.
Seoyeon has never entered her roommate’s room. This was probably the first time she did. And she’s quite surprised that the room was a big bundle of mess. Yooyeon looked like the type of person to keep her stuff organized and neat. Then again, the two of them never crossed the boundaries of ‘roommates that are just acquainted with one another.’
“Yeonnie?” Yooyeon barely croaked out, her voice hoarse and her throat evidently rough. If it was in other circumstances, Seoyeon would’ve asked in a questioning voice; “‘Yeonnie’?” but the unusually deep and rough voice of her roommate alarmed her, making her forget about the little nickname.
The younger girl immediately entered the space, closing the door behind her quietly as she walked over the girl buried in her white comforters. She sat down by the edge of the bed before placing her left hand above the comforter. Yooyeon felt the slight dip on the puffy fabric. It made her shift around again before lethargically sitting up.
Seoyeon stared at her with worried eyes. Yooyeon only smiled tiredly, her eyes blinking slowly as she felt like her world was spinning. A splitting headache shooting through her head with her body feeling like something heavy was weighing it down. She felt sore and the roughness she’s feeling in her throat wasn’t helping.
“Sohyun unnie contacted me saying you didn’t attend your morning classes. She also said it was hard contacting you,” Seoyeon whispered to her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Yooyeon hummed out. Her voice was still deep and hoarse. Seoyeon took notice of the fact that Yooyeon sniffed after her sentence. Taking note that the older girl also had a runny nose. “I’ll attend my afternoon classes. I overslept and I think I forgot to charge my phone last night.”
“You’re not attending any classes today, unnie,” Seoyeon firmly said as her hand shot up to check the older girl’s temperature. The back of her hand lightly touched Yooyeon’s forehead, making her quietly gasp at how hot the skin under hers was.
“I’ll be fine—”
“You’re sick! What do you mean you’ll be fine?” Seoyeon exclaimed. She shook her head in disapproval before slightly pushing Yooyeon’s shoulder down. “You’re staying in bed to rest. I’ll go make some chicken soup and cough drops.”
Seoyeon fully pushed her body down on the bed. Yooyeon couldn’t protest as the younger girl was already on her feet, walking away to the door quickly as she could stare at her back in awe.
She’s probably gonna nag me later, Yooyeon only smiled at the thought.
With no other choice left, Yooyeon closed her eyes again to succumb back to sleep.
Seoyeon returned after half an hour.
She didn’t just come back with food and meds, but also two wet rags and a glass of something that Yooyeon doesn’t know. She immediately went to work once the older girl sat back up to eat. The soup honestly tasted bland—she thinks she lost her sense of taste because of her runny nose.
Seoyeon also made her drink her meds and the glass with a yellowish liquid.
“It’s calamansi juice, it’ll help you with your cough,” was Seoyeon’s reply to her questioning gaze. Yooyeon winced when she drank it, Seoyeon giggled at her reaction.
Now, Yooyeon was back to lying down in her bed with a new change of clothes. Yes, Seoyeon also made her change after she started lightly dabbing her face with one of the damp cloths. The younger girl placed the other one on her forehead after she tucked her in her white comforters.
“Thank you, Seoyeonie.” Yooyeon trailed off with a small grin. Seoyeon only ran her fingers through the older girl’s soft black hair, trying her best to avoid eye contact as she’s sure she’ll get flustered under Yooyeon’s gaze. “I’m also sorry for being a bother… I know you skipped your classes to take care of me.” The older girl’s
|
37.5 celcius
A knock with no answer.
Seoyeon sighed before twisting the knob, opening the door carefully as she was scared of startling the person inside.
“Yooyeon unnie?” She calls out softly. She heard sheets shuffling before she peeks her head through the crack of the open door. A big lump was laid down under white fluffy comforters. It moved around a bit as Seoyeon slowly entered the room.
The younger girl was met with a messy room. Various papers littered the floor—some crumpled and some just lying around. The big monitor of her computer desktop was turned off as its keyboard and mouse were pushed to the side. A couple of books were stacked on the study table and, of course, papers with a bunch of drawings also adorned the wooden surface. The leather desktop chair had a small pile of clothes on top of it.
A bunch of long sleeved shirts and hoodies, Seoyeon noted.
The room was dark even if it was already ten in the morning. The curtains were closed shut and the lights were off—the lamp at the set up drafting table was also turned off which Seyeon found odd. The said wooden drafting table also had a bunch of stuff on top of its surface—papers, drafting tools and a couple of pens and pencils.
Seoyeon has never entered her roommate’s room. This was probably the first time she did. And she’s quite surprised that the room was a big bundle of mess. Yooyeon looked like the type of person to keep her stuff organized and neat. Then again, the two of them never crossed the boundaries of ‘roommates that are just acquainted with one another.’
“Yeonnie?” Yooyeon barely croaked out, her voice hoarse and her throat evidently rough. If it was in other circumstances, Seoyeon would’ve asked in a questioning voice; “‘Yeonnie’?” but the unusually deep and rough voice of her roommate alarmed her, making her forget about the little nickname.
The younger girl immediately entered the space, closing the door behind her quietly as she walked over the girl buried in her white comforters. She sat down by the edge of the bed before placing her left hand above the comforter. Yooyeon felt the slight dip on the puffy fabric. It made her shift around again before lethargically sitting up.
Seoyeon stared at her with worried eyes. Yooyeon only smiled tiredly, her eyes blinking slowly as she felt like her world was spinning. A splitting headache shooting through her head with her body feeling like something heavy was weighing it down. She felt sore and the roughness she’s feeling in her throat wasn’t helping.
“Sohyun unnie contacted me saying you didn’t attend your morning classes. She also said it was hard contacting you,” Seoyeon whispered to her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Yooyeon hummed out. Her voice was still deep and hoarse. Seoyeon took notice of the fact that Yooyeon sniffed after her sentence. Taking note that the older girl also had a runny nose. “I’ll attend my afternoon classes. I overslept and I think I forgot to charge my phone last night.”
“You’re not attending any classes today, unnie,” Seoyeon firmly said as her hand shot up to check the older girl’s temperature. The back of her hand lightly touched Yooyeon’s forehead, making her quietly gasp at how hot the skin under hers was.
“I’ll be fine—”
“You’re sick! What do you mean you’ll be fine?” Seoyeon exclaimed. She shook her head in disapproval before slightly pushing Yooyeon’s shoulder down. “You’re staying in bed to rest. I’ll go make some chicken soup and cough drops.”
Seoyeon fully pushed her body down on the bed. Yooyeon couldn’t protest as the younger girl was already on her feet, walking away to the door quickly as she could stare at her back in awe.
She’s probably gonna nag me later, Yooyeon only smiled at the thought.
With no other choice left, Yooyeon closed her eyes again to succumb back to sleep.
Seoyeon returned after half an hour.
She didn’t just come back with food and meds, but also two wet rags and a glass of something that Yooyeon doesn’t know. She immediately went to work once the older girl sat back up to eat. The soup honestly tasted bland—she thinks she lost her sense of taste because of her runny nose.
Seoyeon also made her drink her meds and the glass with a yellowish liquid.
“It’s calamansi juice, it’ll help you with your cough,” was Seoyeon’s reply to her questioning gaze. Yooyeon winced when she drank it, Seoyeon giggled at her reaction.
Now, Yooyeon was back to lying down in her bed with a new change of clothes. Yes, Seoyeon also made her change after she started lightly dabbing her face with one of the damp cloths. The younger girl placed the other one on her forehead after she tucked her in her white comforters.
“Thank you, Seoyeonie.” Yooyeon trailed off with a small grin. Seoyeon only ran her fingers through the older girl’s soft black hair, trying her best to avoid eye contact as she’s sure she’ll get flustered under Yooyeon’s gaze. “I’m also sorry for being a bother… I know you skipped your classes to take care of me.” The older girl’s smile became smaller. Her eyes transitioning from a grateful glint to a soft, apologetic one.
“You’re not a bother, unnie.” Seoyeon shook her head at the older girl’s statement. She reciprocated her grin with a gentle tug of her lips. “I don’t mind skipping my classes to take care of you.”
Seoyeon finally looked down to stare at her bright eyes. The lighter brown orbs had a calm glint to them, but the younger girl could see that Yooyeon was starting to become sleepy. Her eyes were droopy, her blinks slow.
“You’re my roommate. I’d be damned if I knew I let your sick self push yourself to go to your own classes,” Seoyeon spoke to her softly. She patted her head one last time before standing up to leave the room.
“Goodnight.” The younger girl faintly heard Yooyeon’s low voice. It made her chuckle as she made her way out of the room.
“Sleep well, Yooyeon unnie.”
Seoyeon turned off the lights.
It’s been a couple weeks now since Yooyeon got sick and Seoyeon took care of her.
Yooyeon was all good and cured now with a new promise hanging around her shoulder. Seoyeon made her swear that she’ll take better care of herself. The root of her high fever that time was because of her lack of sleep and her rarely eating made it worse. She was also overworked because of college—hence, her room was a mess. Seoyeon even took the liberty to tidy up her room and do the older girl’s laundry that week. She really made sure that Yooyeon would never leave her bed and did everything around the apartment ‘till she was in full recovery.
The older girl felt extremely thankful for her. She even took her out for free lunch for a whole week when she felt better. Seoyeon declined at first but Yooyeon insisted. The younger girl learned that she apparently found it hard to say no to the older—the first time she thought about it made her flustered.
The events that followed Yooyeon’s sudden sickness surprisingly brought them closer. Their bond strengthened as Seoyeon was sure Yooyeon already considers her as her friend. Seoyeon considers her as hers too, anyway.
Currently, Yooyeon’s workload has finally lessened. Her schedule has been freed up, that's why she’s been asking for Seoyeon to come hang out with her. The younger girl might have found it hard to decline Yooyeon’s offers, but her schedule was still packed unlike the older’s. Yooyeon was fortunately understanding that she just patiently waits for the younger girl.
Although right now, Yooyeon found it hard to let her be tonight.
Seoyeon was drowning in work and the older girl is starting to worry for her wellbeing.
The girl might love to nag her for not taking care of herself, but she also struggled to do the same with herself. Yooyeon observed that lately, Seoyeon has been staying up late to pass her photography projects on time. Yooyeon also knows that Seoyeon has her nose stuck in between books lately because she didn’t want to fail the amount of quizzes she has to take for the following week. The younger girl has been cooped up in her room for days now that Yooyeon wasn’t sure if she’s still eating right.
That’s why she’s determined to make the girl take a break and have some dinner before going to sleep.
Knocking on her door, she held onto the transparent plastic bag in her hands. Cups of Chinese takeouts occupied the bag as Yooyeon waited for the younger girl to let her enter her room.
“Come in!” Seoyeon’s voice slightly shouted from the inside, a little bit muffled.
“Hey,” Yooyeon greeted when she peeked her head inside her room. Seoyeon sat on her desktop chair by her study table as she looked up from the book she was reading. A pair of black, circle-rimmed glasses was perched up on the bridge of her nose. Her eyes immediately softened at the sight of her roommate.
“Need anything, unnie?” A smile formed on her lips.
“Not much.” The older girl fully entered the room as she closed the door behind her quietly. “But I do need you to eat. I bought takeouts from your favorite Chinese restaurant down the street.”
Seoyeon’s eyes went down to look at the plastic bag presented in front of her. A giggle escaping her lips before nodding her head. She pushed her books and laptop aside to spread the boxes out on the wooden surface. Yooyeon went and took the chair stool beside the younger girl’s desk and moved it to sit beside her.
“Thank you, unnie.” Seoyeon beamed at her as she excitedly opened the boxes. She handed Yooyeon a pair of chopsticks after the older girl popped her can of soda open.
“Anytime, Seoyeonie.” Yooyeon took a small sip from her can before digging in the food that she bought. “Bought you your favorite dumplings, also.”
“I can clearly see that,” Seoyeon said with a big smile. She picked one dumpling up with her chopsticks before casually moving it towards Yooyeon. The older girl immediately opened her mouth to eat it. Seoyeon’s smile widened when Yooyeon nodded her head in affirmation, liking the taste of the food in mouth.
They ate in a comfortable silence.
They are never really one to be fond of talking. Only a couple of questions and brief answers here and there—it was oddly enough for them. Seoyeon could only guess that the comfortable silence was the foundation of their friendship. She always felt at ease when Yooyeon was around and she never felt the need to always keep a conversation going with her. The older girl felt exactly the same way.
“Is there a special occasion why you suddenly popped in with Chinese food?” Seoyeon asked after they had cleared the desk. Seoyeon went to sit on the edge of her bed as she watched Yooyeon move around to also clean up the strewn paper on her table.
“I haven’t seen you eat anything proper for the past couple of days.” Yooyeon hummed as she plopped down on Seoyeon’s desktop chair. “You love to nag me for not taking care of myself, but you never do the same for you, too.” Yooyeon shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Sorry,” Seoyeon apologized, a soft grin forming on her lips. “I should really start listening to myself.”
“Please do.” Yooyeon looked up at her with narrowed eyes. She suddenly stood up from the chair and abruptly pushed Seoyeon down her bed. “I’m also forcing you to sleep early. In exchange, I’ll help you with your essays tomorrow.”
Seoyeon pouted as she wanted to protest—to say no as she still had a lot of things to do. But Yooyeon’s hard glare on her made her crawl under the sheets of her bed. Once the older girl made sure she wouldn't leave her bed again to work and had already tucked her in, she quickly ran her fingers through her long brown strands.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Yeonnie. Goodnight,” Yooyeon whispered. She moved to stand up and leave when she felt a hand grip onto her wrist.
“Can you stay with me for the night, unnie?” Seoyeon asked in a small voice. The tiredness the younger girl felt suddenly felt more evident in her vulnerable statement. Yooyeon looked back to observe her features.
Dark circles, droopy eyes, darkened orbs.
Yooyeon couldn’t say no.
“Okay,” the older girl muttered. She quickly walked over to the light switch near the door, turning off the lights before turning back to join Seoyeon on her bed.
She didn’t expect Seoyeon to immediately engulf her in a cuddle when she was finally under the bedsheets. Her arms wrapping around her waist as she placed her head on the crook of her neck. She snuggled closer into her as her embrace tightened around Yooyeon’s body. The older girl could only chuckle as she also wrapped her arms around her shoulder.
Seoyeon sighed in content. Her hot breath hitting the skin of Yooyeon’s neck. The older girl’s hand moved to stroke her soft hair, making sleep come to her faster at the soothing action.
Seoyeon’s eyes lethargically blinked. Slowly closing as the scent of roses and mint lull her to sleep. She faintly felt a soft pressure being placed on her forehead, Yooyeon’s lips kissing the skin gently before bidding her goodnight.
Seoyeon finally felt her body relax after a stressful week.
(“Thank you so much for helping me out, unnie.” Seoyeon took a sip of her coffee. Sitting on the chair in front of the older girl as they drown out the noise in the busy cafe near their campus.
“No problem.” Yooyeon just shrugged her shoulders as she tried to sound nonchalant again.
“Do you want me to do something for you? I kinda want to repay you.”
“I don’t know…” Yooyeon trailed off as she shifted her body around her chair.
“You really don’t have anything in mind?” Seoyeon insisted.
“Well, there is one…” a thoughtful look washed over the older girl’s delicate features as she seemingly tried to avoid her eyes. Seoyeon’s brows raised curiously.
“What is it?”
A pause.
“Take me out on a date.” Seoyeon nearly choked on her drink at the statement.
“Not a friendly one?” She asked with careful eyes. Observing the girl’s demeanor before chuckling at the shy smile Yooyeon sends her.
“Not a friendly one.” Yooyeon confirmed. Seoyeon’s smile widened.
“Sounds like a plan then.”)
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679081
|
{"authors": ["riyoozee"], "language": "English", "title": "37.5 celcius"}
|
Our Troubles Will Be Miles Away
Alphys was not made for the cold weather. A fact she was faced with any time she had made the trouble of visiting the quaint town of Snowdin or it's outskirts. Every time the temperature dropped, her energy went with it. Her joints would grow too stiff to carry out the delicate work she often needed to do, and her eyes would have trouble staying apart.
So why, one may ask, was she standing out in the snow under the dim glow of a streetlamp? She was asking herself that now, as she watched the flakes drift down to the floor. These weren't the artificial flakes of the Underground, produced by the Core.
No, these little marvels were made completely of the Earth's force. Real snow. If only she could appreciate it more, rather than watch with a soft disconnect. Her jaw ached against a yawn as the snowflakes danced their way down to whatever surface was available, and small shivers wracked her frame.
It could be worse. At least she was dressed for the season, with pink and white winter clothes decorated with tiny cat paws. She hadn't been out too long yet, and likely wouldn't be here longer as she waited for Undyne.
The cold still managed to burrow beneath the cloth and into her body, but it wasn't what made her tremble.
Today was Gyftmas. Normally, this Holiday meant very little to Alphys. She'd spend it holed up in her Lab, watching reruns of anime she'd seen a hundred times before. She'd try not to think about the people she'd lost, and the ones she'd never gained.
Normal wasn't a thing anymore. They'd broken free from their prison with the help of Frisk, and all of their lives had changed. Alphys had spent that first Gyftmas with her fellow monsters, in a huge celebration put together by the King and former Queen. The human too, of course. Undyne and Alphys hadn't yet been dating, but there was still some promise of dedication that lingered between them.
Now, she was going to meet Undyne's family.
The couple had seen it last year, on a few human holiday movies that they'd fallen in love with. Undyne became attached to the idea this year, and Alphys never could say no to her girlfriends passionate ideas. Get nervous and try to hide? Yes, but Undyne always knew what to say to give her a temporary boost of confidence.
Then she ended up in situations like this.
Undyne hadn't mentioned the family in question, but Alphys had a good guess at the two possibilities. Both made her kind of want curl in a circle and hide, for two very different reasons.
She glanced down at her attire and wondered if it was acceptable to meet the King like this. He'd dressed down frequently, even before the surface took his title, and always seemed kind when they'd interacted. There was no real reason to fear, but it still felt wrong. She didn't know if it was because he was her former boss, the King, or if it was because of the role he played in Undyne's life.
But what if it wasn't the King? Had she of picked something formal, she'd be overdressed and uncomfortable for no reason! She didn't have that kind of confidence right now. What if it was the other father-figure in Undyne's life, Gerson? She'd never even met the turtle, despite how small the Underground was, but had heard plenty about the monster. Mostly through Undyne's inspired retold stories.
The war stories were certainly impressive, but they weren't what had her nervous to impress. No, it was what Undyne had told her in the privacy of her apartment. He'd been there for her since Undyne was a little girl, providing guidance and food. Undyne held a deep rooted respect for the man. Alphys wanted to measure up to whatever the monster might expect, because he was important to Undyne. At least with Asgore, she wasn't going in totally blind.
Warm light cast over the snow covered road, breaking her thoughts. Squinting up revealed a pickup truck that'd just turned onto the street, a vibrant red against the white world. A small smile grew across her face despite her worries.
Undyne had worked hard for her license, some form of competition against Papyrus. She'd been pretty certain that she'd never use it, as she had legs. Then she discovered the wonders of AC in the summer and the heater in the winter.
Now the truck saw plenty of use, as the surface weather was near unpredictable. Well, maybe not entirely so, but it was a tough adjustment after leaving in the carefully controlled conditions back Underground. She didn't miss being trapped or anything, but sometimes she caught herself yearning for the reliable heat of Hotland.
The truck slowed just in front of her, loud music blaring from within. It was cut off as the window lowered, Undyne leaning over with her boot braced against the her door. Her bright smile met Alphys, fins flared and face flushed. No doubt, she'd been singing with all of her soul moments before showing up.
This made it all worth it. Alphys would've stood until her hand fell off if it meant that Undyne would look at her like that again
|
Our Troubles Will Be Miles Away
Alphys was not made for the cold weather. A fact she was faced with any time she had made the trouble of visiting the quaint town of Snowdin or it's outskirts. Every time the temperature dropped, her energy went with it. Her joints would grow too stiff to carry out the delicate work she often needed to do, and her eyes would have trouble staying apart.
So why, one may ask, was she standing out in the snow under the dim glow of a streetlamp? She was asking herself that now, as she watched the flakes drift down to the floor. These weren't the artificial flakes of the Underground, produced by the Core.
No, these little marvels were made completely of the Earth's force. Real snow. If only she could appreciate it more, rather than watch with a soft disconnect. Her jaw ached against a yawn as the snowflakes danced their way down to whatever surface was available, and small shivers wracked her frame.
It could be worse. At least she was dressed for the season, with pink and white winter clothes decorated with tiny cat paws. She hadn't been out too long yet, and likely wouldn't be here longer as she waited for Undyne.
The cold still managed to burrow beneath the cloth and into her body, but it wasn't what made her tremble.
Today was Gyftmas. Normally, this Holiday meant very little to Alphys. She'd spend it holed up in her Lab, watching reruns of anime she'd seen a hundred times before. She'd try not to think about the people she'd lost, and the ones she'd never gained.
Normal wasn't a thing anymore. They'd broken free from their prison with the help of Frisk, and all of their lives had changed. Alphys had spent that first Gyftmas with her fellow monsters, in a huge celebration put together by the King and former Queen. The human too, of course. Undyne and Alphys hadn't yet been dating, but there was still some promise of dedication that lingered between them.
Now, she was going to meet Undyne's family.
The couple had seen it last year, on a few human holiday movies that they'd fallen in love with. Undyne became attached to the idea this year, and Alphys never could say no to her girlfriends passionate ideas. Get nervous and try to hide? Yes, but Undyne always knew what to say to give her a temporary boost of confidence.
Then she ended up in situations like this.
Undyne hadn't mentioned the family in question, but Alphys had a good guess at the two possibilities. Both made her kind of want curl in a circle and hide, for two very different reasons.
She glanced down at her attire and wondered if it was acceptable to meet the King like this. He'd dressed down frequently, even before the surface took his title, and always seemed kind when they'd interacted. There was no real reason to fear, but it still felt wrong. She didn't know if it was because he was her former boss, the King, or if it was because of the role he played in Undyne's life.
But what if it wasn't the King? Had she of picked something formal, she'd be overdressed and uncomfortable for no reason! She didn't have that kind of confidence right now. What if it was the other father-figure in Undyne's life, Gerson? She'd never even met the turtle, despite how small the Underground was, but had heard plenty about the monster. Mostly through Undyne's inspired retold stories.
The war stories were certainly impressive, but they weren't what had her nervous to impress. No, it was what Undyne had told her in the privacy of her apartment. He'd been there for her since Undyne was a little girl, providing guidance and food. Undyne held a deep rooted respect for the man. Alphys wanted to measure up to whatever the monster might expect, because he was important to Undyne. At least with Asgore, she wasn't going in totally blind.
Warm light cast over the snow covered road, breaking her thoughts. Squinting up revealed a pickup truck that'd just turned onto the street, a vibrant red against the white world. A small smile grew across her face despite her worries.
Undyne had worked hard for her license, some form of competition against Papyrus. She'd been pretty certain that she'd never use it, as she had legs. Then she discovered the wonders of AC in the summer and the heater in the winter.
Now the truck saw plenty of use, as the surface weather was near unpredictable. Well, maybe not entirely so, but it was a tough adjustment after leaving in the carefully controlled conditions back Underground. She didn't miss being trapped or anything, but sometimes she caught herself yearning for the reliable heat of Hotland.
The truck slowed just in front of her, loud music blaring from within. It was cut off as the window lowered, Undyne leaning over with her boot braced against the her door. Her bright smile met Alphys, fins flared and face flushed. No doubt, she'd been singing with all of her soul moments before showing up.
This made it all worth it. Alphys would've stood until her hand fell off if it meant that Undyne would look at her like that again and again. As it was, she'd been staring for too long. She may have also missed the greeting Undyne had given, but it seemed to of been alright. The other woman took it upon herself to fling the door open, her laugh mixing with Alphys's giddy giggle.
"Come on Alphie, we're already running behind! He hates it when I'm late!" Undyne called.
Oh, hello nerves. She's almost forgotten about them. Now that she was already failing a good first impression, they burst to life once more.
She scrambled forward, warm air blasting across her exposed scales. The blissful feeling gave her some energy, even as she awkwardly shimmied up into the truck made with much taller people in mind. Undyne's hand grasped her arm, helping her up, and Alphys face warmed for an entirely new reason.
Undyne looked amazing, just like she always did. A black leather jacket and camouflage pants, with her reliable red boots. Said boots had spread water all across the car's floor and even door, where Undyne had likely kicked off of earlier.
"S-sorry. I- uh-" she stuttered all over her words.
Undyne smiled, a softer look meant only for her. She reached out to hold on of Alphys's cheeks, and leaned over to peck the other. The cold was no longer a concern, as Alphys's own hands flew up to hold her burning face. She ended up covering Undyne's hand, but the woman only laughed and grabbed on to hold.
"You look adorable Alph!" she exclaimed.
Alphys must've looked silly with the dopey smile that spread across her face, but she couldn't of cared less. Yet, at least, Likely, the memory would creep up in the dead of night to keep her from feeling too ambitious about sleep.
"You do too!" she replied.
The fire it came with diminished, dimmed down to a stable warmth as she looked down.
She said, "You always do."
When no words were spoken, and the truck didn't start moving, Alphys looked back up and met Undyne's wide eye. A pretty flush spread across the entirety of her face, her fins flared back up like before. Alphys's own eyes widened in turn as she realized what she'd said.
The two girls pulled back and turned to face the snowy road. Their hands remained locked together, and it steadied the race of her heart. Her resolve grew in the serene quiet, only able to build up thanks to the woman at her side.
"I m-mean it," she reaffirmed, "You always l-look so b-beautiful, no m-matter what you wear or do."
Her hands clutched the tights she wore beneath her skirt, eyes hardened on the snowy road without truly seeing. Maybe Undyne would find it strange, or too enthused, but Alphys had to tell her. She'd spent long enough hiding Underground.
She was squished into Undyne's arms, who laughed loud and boisterous into her ear.
"Damn it Alphys! How do I top that?" Undyne asked.
Alphys giggled, hands holding onto her arms.
"M-maybe you don't," she replied.
As Undyne released her to start the drive, Alphys tried not to let the anxiety take control. It wasn't easy. She'd brought a neutral gift, stuffed into her phone's inventory, but was now worried it wasn't enough. It certainly wasn't personal, but she didn't know who'd be receiving it in the first place.
"Hey, it's going to be okay. They both already love you, I know it! Even if you've only maybe met one of them," Undyne tried to reassure.
Both? Both?! Alphys didn't bring gifts for two! And she certainly didn't prepare herself enough to meet with the King and Gerson! How was she even meant to dress around the two? It probably wasn't cat sweaters and leggings! How was she supposed to act? Why hadn't she even thought of the possibility that both would be there? What if-
"Babe, I can hear you overthinking from here!" Undyne said.
Alphys glanced out the window and hunched in on herself. A hand rested on her thigh, and she clung to it.
"S-sorry. I guess I just- I w-want to make a good imp-p-pression," she confessed.
Undyne gripped tighter. Not enough to hurt, but enough to keep her grounded.
She said, "You don't need to worry about any of that. Neither of them are the judgemental type!"
She faltered in her words, really instilling confidence.
"Well, okay. One of them is kind of judgey, but he always means well and is super nice! Trust me, he's gonna love you!" she declared.
Alphys was doomed.
The truck rolled to a stop too soon. She hadn't even planned her escape routes, or conversation starters, or-
She knew this house. Small and unassuming, with old festive lights strung about and a pirate flag waving in the wind. A skeleton shaped snowman, and a lump with red lettering. Two mailboxes, one stuffed full and the other neatly closed.
"U-Um, Undyne? Why are we here?" she asked.
Undyne twisted the key, the engine dying and taking the heater with it. The lights lingered, allowing Alphys to watch as Undyne looked up with equal confusion.
Had Alphys forgotten something? Did they have to make a pit stop, or were they going to be meeting the family here? Was this a larger gathering? That would be amazing, and awful! She wouldn't have to worry about always talking to the father figures this way, but there would be more people. Maybe Sans would take pity on her and help with talking? He'd probably even hide out with her somewhere, like his bedroom!
"We're here for Gyftmas? To meet my family, like in the movies?" Undyne reminded, confused herself.
So she must've misunderstood the amount of monsters gathering! Something like relief washed over her, but she worried.
"We didn't bring food or g-gifts!" she said.
Undyne hopped out of the car, running around to open the door for her girlfriend. Alphys, for her part, rushed to fix her clothing. The cold air blasted her right side, but Undyne's hand was already helping to combat it.
"Don't worry about it. We're cooking here, and neither of those boneheads care much about receiving presents. Papyrus would lose his mind if Sans got more garbage to leave around the house!" Undyne said.
Alphys hopped into the snow, Undyne keeping her steady before turning. Alphys grabbed her arm to keep Undyne from charging forward, and looked up to meet her eyes.
"W-wait. Are we- are you t-taking me to meet Sans and Papyrus?" she asked.
Undyne's eye slid off her face and out towards the snow-covered house. Her fins deflated as she shifted with unused energy.
"Well, yeah. I spent most of my Gyftmases with them back Underground, and they always let me crash at their place. We're… We're family, you know?" she explained.
It was Sans and Papyrus this whole time. Sans, who she used to be good friends with before the lab incidents made him flee, and his goofy brother Papyrus who had helped with her confidence. The relief had her sagging against Undyne's legs, who helped keep her up in an instant.
"Oh m-my god." Alphys wheezed, "I was worried ab-bout nothing."
She was lifted into the air and spun around, held tight. Undyne laughed, her breath fanning across Alphys's warming cheeks.
"See, I told you! They're nothing to be scared of Alph!" Undyne reassured.
She was carefully set back on her feet, but both hands stayed atop her shoulders.
Alphys said, "I th-thought it might be your um… Dads?"
"Oh," Undyne said.
They stared for a beat, before Undyne shook the thought away and started towards the door adorned with an old wreath. It was charming, with little tiny bones sticking at random angles.
"Nah, Asgore's spending it with his uh… ex-wife, and their kid this year," she explained, "And that old turtle hates the Holiday! Claims he has too much junk already. I usually spend time with him before and after, but well… The bros are the ones who really introduced me to Gyftmas."
That was adorable. And a huge relief, again. No King, no Gerson, no pressure.
The doorbell rang a jaunty xylophone rendition of a vaguely familiar 'Christmas' tune. Footsteps raced from inside.
A muffled voice called, "Sans! I told you to stop messing with our doorbell! How will the guests ever come to know the stability our home will offer if it's always changing?!"
Despite the muffle, his words were perfectly clear. Unlike the reply, but Papyrus's strangled cry told her enough. Sans had always had a knack for being the most frustrating and weirdly charming person in a room. The door swung open, a familiar face greeting the couple.
"Hello Undyne, Alphys! You are late!" Papyrus proclaimed.
Undyne didn't hesitate to launch forward, wrapping her arm around the skeleton and using her knuckles to rub circles on his calvaria. They crashed into a table, tumbling in a pile of limbs and shouts. Alphys closed the door to help trap the warm air. When she turned back, Sans was leaning on the wall next to her.
"Heya Alph, hope the weather treated ya okay. Sure looks like the Alph-ines out there," he greeted.
Alp- Really?
She must've given him a flat look, because he tossed his hands up with a chuckle. His version of tossed, which was more of a slow raise and a shrug.
"Yeesh, tough crowd tonight. Hopefully not as tough as the turkey turned out," he said.
It was strange, talking like they were two new hires that split ramen and watched washed up sci-fi in the break room again. It was strange every time they'd done so over the years, but she supposed she'd have to get used to it now. This was Undyne's family, after all.
"I told you to beat the bird into submission!" Undyne shouted.
"I tried!" Papyrus defended, "But that blasted dog-"
Undyne roared, "No excuses!"
She tackled him with renewed vigor, Sans and Alphys watching them tumble into the next room. A crash sounded, something definitely broken. Sans didn't seem worried as he shuffled towards the open living room with a lazy wave.
"Let 'em get it outta their systems before we get to the gifts. Maybe then we'll only end up with one broken window," he said.
"Oh m-my God?" she said, utterly bewildered.
"Come on, there's a movie about some human kid making contraptions playing. It's weirder than that time we uh… got a little ambitious after a late night snack and woke up to no furniture. Burglars are the best part, though," he said.
Well, how could she pass that up? After the nerve wracking day she'd had, relaxing on a couch with the laziest guy she'd ever known sounded like an amazing wind down. Until Papyrus and Undyne decided it was time to pump everyone up again, of course.
"O-Okay, but I'm p-picking the next one," she said.
She followed him to the ugly green couch, burdened by a little white dog she'd definitely seen stealing some of her tools and food back Underground. Her eyes narrowed, but Sans only collapsed on top of it. With three yips, it took off for the other room.
Papyrus cried out, followed by more crashing. Alphys sat down and adjusted around the poking spring, letting the cozy warm environment wash over her. It felt like a nostalgic blend of the past, the good part, and a hopeful future.
She would've had a good time, regardless of who Undyne had taken her to see. She knew that, because Undyne would've been there by her side. Yet she was grateful it was only Sans and his brother Papyrus. Both had seen her in far worse states. Both had cheered her and Undyne's relationship on from the sidelines, metaphorically. Well, a little of literal cheering from Papyrus, but still.
This was a slice of home she could get used to, with a family that had already accepted her.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679086
|
{"authors": ["WrittenNovelty"], "language": "English", "title": "Our Troubles Will Be Miles Away"}
|
His Hands Against History
The smell of blood, smoke, and death littered the air as they ran through the corridors of the castle. In the background, voices screamed out in pain; everywhere you looked, there was someone dead. A former classmate, a child, or a comrade in arms. They had always believed that they had been prepared for battle, for the love of Merli, and they had been preparing for the second war since the first one had ended, but standing on the battlefield, nothing could have foretold the disasters that would strike that night. The lives that would be lost in hopes of saving a world that was crumbling from within.
Crashing down the hall, Percy looked at his younger brothers. He couldn't believe that he had chosen to side with the ministry and lose his family. Yes, it was true his mother never seemed to care much for him and his old ways, and with the dark secret he held, he knew she wouldn't love him if she knew, but his brothers, oh, there was nothing he wouldn't do to keep them safe. Which is why he should have seen what was coming…
|
His Hands Against History
The smell of blood, smoke, and death littered the air as they ran through the corridors of the castle. In the background, voices screamed out in pain; everywhere you looked, there was someone dead. A former classmate, a child, or a comrade in arms. They had always believed that they had been prepared for battle, for the love of Merli, and they had been preparing for the second war since the first one had ended, but standing on the battlefield, nothing could have foretold the disasters that would strike that night. The lives that would be lost in hopes of saving a world that was crumbling from within.
Crashing down the hall, Percy looked at his younger brothers. He couldn't believe that he had chosen to side with the ministry and lose his family. Yes, it was true his mother never seemed to care much for him and his old ways, and with the dark secret he held, he knew she wouldn't love him if she knew, but his brothers, oh, there was nothing he wouldn't do to keep them safe. Which is why he should have seen what was coming…
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75683426/chapters/197936856
|
{"authors": ["Little_Apple_Pie"], "language": "English", "title": "His Hands Against History"}
|
The Invisible Guests
The barn was packed, the doors wide open, and the smell of sweets and cooking food filled the air as Jared Mullray drifted among the teenagers, watching them snack and enjoy themselves. A video was being set up, and more people kept arriving. He sighed as someone barreled right through him.
Jared Mullray was a ghost, bound to the house and barn. The land had once been larger when his family owned it, but as parcels were sold to developers, so too had his playground shrunk. Still, it was entertaining to watch the families who moved to and from his old property. A few lingered as ghosts for a time before finally ascending.
"I'm going to miss seeing you, Dawn Schafer," Jared muttered to himself as yet another teenager passed through him, doubling him over in pain. He hated being run through, and he straightened up, wincing.
“So this is a party now, huh?” came a voice from behind. Oh great—Old Hickory, that cranky old ghost, was here too. “At least for the young ones, I assume.”
“It’s their thing,” Jared said, waving toward the members of the Baby-sitters Club. “One of them is leaving for good—the one with the long blond hair. I heard the mom mention that she'll come back for visits. Who knows for how long though."
Old Hickory studied the girls, amused as they laughed and talked with friends. Kristy, who seemed to have taken charge, was laughing loudly at something.
“Aren’t those the girls who pulled a prank at my grave during Halloween?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t know, but that doesn’t surprise me,” Jared replied. Even though he appeared younger than Old Hickory, he was actually the elder of the two. “I’m going to miss her. She’s the only one who ever really believed I was here.”
Old Hickory barked out a laugh.
Two hundred years as a ghost and the impending departure of a thirteen-year-old from Stoneybrook was getting to him. He sighed, catching the scent of cookies and what looked like rabbit food behind him. How he wished he could eat. The desserts looked delicious as he eyed Claudia going back for what looked like the sixth time.
“You should hear what Old Ben Brewer’s descendant is up to,” Old Hickory said, eyeing the food. “She believes in him alright—and she’s terrified, too."
“You’re lucky your ghost power is to roam around town,” Jared grumbled, watching Dawn hug a friend he had never seen before. She had friends outside her club? He shook his head, maybe this was something he missed being bound to the house.
“Yours is interesting, though—you can make the lights flicker,” Old Hickory said with a grin. “By the way, Sophie says hello. The kids in the house behind her are a real mess.”
Jared had heard of the Pike family; the oldest girl must be somewhere here as he scanned the guests. He sighed and almost resigned himself to just watching, his attention drifting toward the video playing with little interest. Old Hickory kept rambling about how the town had changed. Jared really needed someone new to talk to. He wondered if the ghosts at Stoneybrook Manor were really that boring.
“I’m going to get away from the food table before I get walked through again,” Jared muttered. Old Hickory nodded in agreement.
Jared floated toward the loft, perching on its edge, and sighed as he watched Dawn with her babysitting friends. These girls gathered on his property far too often for his liking—but they were fun to watch when they had events here. He had never been this entertained by the new owners of his house. He wouldn’t have nearly as much fun trying to scare Mary Anne. Her parents didn’t even seem to notice anything unusual. He barely remembered the boy—Jed?—enough to care.
Maybe tonight he could flicker some lights from the passage, a small message to Dawn, letting her know he’d miss her.
++++++
Dawn Schafer was sitting up in bed with a book of scary stories in her lap. She just read about banshees, evil mermaids, and La Llorna. It was a new book that Emily Bernstein had given her as a good bye present. A shiver ran down her spine as she grabbed blanket closer. Dawn will have to write to Emily and tell her how much she was enjoying it.
She adjusted in bed and peered over at her door.
"Good night Dawn," said her mother as she gave her a small smile.
"Night mom, I'll see you in the morning," said Dawn as Sharon kissed her head.
She put the book down and went to turn out the light. Then her hand froze as the light flickered once. Then twice. Then a third time before staying on as she felt her heart race a little. Something told her that wasn't completely normal as she switched it off.
|
The Invisible Guests
The barn was packed, the doors wide open, and the smell of sweets and cooking food filled the air as Jared Mullray drifted among the teenagers, watching them snack and enjoy themselves. A video was being set up, and more people kept arriving. He sighed as someone barreled right through him.
Jared Mullray was a ghost, bound to the house and barn. The land had once been larger when his family owned it, but as parcels were sold to developers, so too had his playground shrunk. Still, it was entertaining to watch the families who moved to and from his old property. A few lingered as ghosts for a time before finally ascending.
"I'm going to miss seeing you, Dawn Schafer," Jared muttered to himself as yet another teenager passed through him, doubling him over in pain. He hated being run through, and he straightened up, wincing.
“So this is a party now, huh?” came a voice from behind. Oh great—Old Hickory, that cranky old ghost, was here too. “At least for the young ones, I assume.”
“It’s their thing,” Jared said, waving toward the members of the Baby-sitters Club. “One of them is leaving for good—the one with the long blond hair. I heard the mom mention that she'll come back for visits. Who knows for how long though."
Old Hickory studied the girls, amused as they laughed and talked with friends. Kristy, who seemed to have taken charge, was laughing loudly at something.
“Aren’t those the girls who pulled a prank at my grave during Halloween?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t know, but that doesn’t surprise me,” Jared replied. Even though he appeared younger than Old Hickory, he was actually the elder of the two. “I’m going to miss her. She’s the only one who ever really believed I was here.”
Old Hickory barked out a laugh.
Two hundred years as a ghost and the impending departure of a thirteen-year-old from Stoneybrook was getting to him. He sighed, catching the scent of cookies and what looked like rabbit food behind him. How he wished he could eat. The desserts looked delicious as he eyed Claudia going back for what looked like the sixth time.
“You should hear what Old Ben Brewer’s descendant is up to,” Old Hickory said, eyeing the food. “She believes in him alright—and she’s terrified, too."
“You’re lucky your ghost power is to roam around town,” Jared grumbled, watching Dawn hug a friend he had never seen before. She had friends outside her club? He shook his head, maybe this was something he missed being bound to the house.
“Yours is interesting, though—you can make the lights flicker,” Old Hickory said with a grin. “By the way, Sophie says hello. The kids in the house behind her are a real mess.”
Jared had heard of the Pike family; the oldest girl must be somewhere here as he scanned the guests. He sighed and almost resigned himself to just watching, his attention drifting toward the video playing with little interest. Old Hickory kept rambling about how the town had changed. Jared really needed someone new to talk to. He wondered if the ghosts at Stoneybrook Manor were really that boring.
“I’m going to get away from the food table before I get walked through again,” Jared muttered. Old Hickory nodded in agreement.
Jared floated toward the loft, perching on its edge, and sighed as he watched Dawn with her babysitting friends. These girls gathered on his property far too often for his liking—but they were fun to watch when they had events here. He had never been this entertained by the new owners of his house. He wouldn’t have nearly as much fun trying to scare Mary Anne. Her parents didn’t even seem to notice anything unusual. He barely remembered the boy—Jed?—enough to care.
Maybe tonight he could flicker some lights from the passage, a small message to Dawn, letting her know he’d miss her.
++++++
Dawn Schafer was sitting up in bed with a book of scary stories in her lap. She just read about banshees, evil mermaids, and La Llorna. It was a new book that Emily Bernstein had given her as a good bye present. A shiver ran down her spine as she grabbed blanket closer. Dawn will have to write to Emily and tell her how much she was enjoying it.
She adjusted in bed and peered over at her door.
"Good night Dawn," said her mother as she gave her a small smile.
"Night mom, I'll see you in the morning," said Dawn as Sharon kissed her head.
She put the book down and went to turn out the light. Then her hand froze as the light flickered once. Then twice. Then a third time before staying on as she felt her heart race a little. Something told her that wasn't completely normal as she switched it off.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679091
|
{"authors": ["Storyteller362"], "language": "English", "title": "The Invisible Guests"}
|
Pawbert’s Oasis
Due to an accident of losing an important letter while working in the mail room, Pawbert Lynxley had severely angered his father Milton Lynxley. Cattrick had tattled before he could get anything sorted out and Milton never waited to show his temper.
In a wave of fury, his own father brutally scratched his paws and cheek, leaving deep bloody gashes. He told him to look at it as a reminder to not mess up next time every time he looked down or in the mirror.Yet he still couldn’t hate his father as much as he tried. He took great pride in being his son, and hoped someday he would see him as something other than a weak runt. The anger just wasn’t there, only pain, and the mental outweighed the physical somehow.
Pawbert rode his cherry red moped down the streets of Tundratown. He was close to finally getting his motorcycle license but not yet. As he parked in front of Clark Halibits restaurant he would see fathers holding hands with their kids, giggling and having the time of their lives. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, but for him it was luxury. What would he give for that, even just to hear his father tell him he’s proud.
To add insult to injury, he saw an arctic wolf father lean down to tenderly hug his son. He couldn’t remember when his father ever initiated a hug, Milton saw them as a sign of weakness but he had fond memories of them from his mother.
Before he entered the restaurant, he raised his hood to distract from his fresh cheek wound. There were still bloody scratches on his paws but it would hopefully go unnoticed in the dim light.
The bustle of the restaurant overstimulated him. It was a game night, which tended to draw huge crowds. He could barely process his thoughts due to so many people talking at once. It felt like the room was spinning.As he dizzily made his way up to the counter, suddenly he ran into something. Or rather someone.
A small red female bobcat. “WHOAH!” he cried out. Her beverage had spilled all over his hoodie.“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Here, let me help” she rushed over to get a napkin for him to clean himself up. “Sorry I’m such a klutz!”
Once again, the lynx wanted to be mad but he couldn’t help but empathize. He was usually the same way, one of the many reasons his family chose to outcast him.
“Hey, it’s fine. I totally get it. I’m clumsy too. The name’s Paw…Pawbert” Pawbert dabbed at his hoodie as he spoke.
“Nice to meet you, Paw Pawbert! I’m Shel! Once again…I’m sorry”“Oh, it’s just Pawbert. But you can call me both…if you want. There’s really no need to apologize. Accidents happ-“
Before he could finish, Shel let out a gasp, her eyes darting over to Pawbert’s cheek. “Wait, are you okay? That’s a pretty bad scratch”
Pawbert instinctively held his paw against his wounded cheek. “Oh nah, it’s really nothing! I’ve had way worse” he fibbed, the sting of his cut still lingering as it brushed against his paw. “Ow” he said under his breath with a light whimper.
”If it’s okay….what happened? If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine but I’m willing to listen”He had never discussed the physical abuse given to him by father before. Only the neglect. It was hard for him to talk about, but who else did he have? He always struggled with making friends due to being socially awkward, and his siblings would only make the situation worse by teasing him in front of them whenever they realized he was beginning to feel any sort of confidence.“Between you and me….my dad scratched me up. I was working in the mail room and lost track of a business letter he needed. So when I had to tell him, it wasn’t pretty” his voice was low and shaky, almost as if he was scared his family was secretly recording him.
“Oh my gosh.” her blue eyes brimmed with tears. “Let me help you. I’ll patch it up for you”Pawbert’s ears folded back, caught off guard yet touched by her offer. “Oh, uh, t-thank you. Like now? Not sure if a packed restaurant is the best place to play nurse.” Pawbert interjected with a chuckle.
He couldn’t help but feel a warm sensation bubble up in his chest, he didn’t even know how to react. No one had done anything like that for him since his mother passed.
“We can go to my place.” Shel offered.
“Or actually, I have a better idea…n-no offense I’m sure your place is great. But I think you’re gonna like this one”
Pawbert led her outside to his moped, “You ever ridden a moped before? It’s pretty sweet. Not to brag but I’m a pretty smooth driver! I’m trying for a motorcycle soon” he absolutely wasn’t a great driver but he wasn’t going to let her know.“
”I haven’t, is it…safe?”
“I mean, as long as you hold on it is! Want to try?”
She thought about it a minute, almost like she was about to back out, but ultimately couldn’t turn down his offer. It meant a lot he was willing to let her ride with him, and the thrill might be fun.“….Yes. Let’s go!”
With that, Pawbert grabbed his helmet and hopped on. “Hold on tight!”
|
Pawbert’s Oasis
Due to an accident of losing an important letter while working in the mail room, Pawbert Lynxley had severely angered his father Milton Lynxley. Cattrick had tattled before he could get anything sorted out and Milton never waited to show his temper.
In a wave of fury, his own father brutally scratched his paws and cheek, leaving deep bloody gashes. He told him to look at it as a reminder to not mess up next time every time he looked down or in the mirror.Yet he still couldn’t hate his father as much as he tried. He took great pride in being his son, and hoped someday he would see him as something other than a weak runt. The anger just wasn’t there, only pain, and the mental outweighed the physical somehow.
Pawbert rode his cherry red moped down the streets of Tundratown. He was close to finally getting his motorcycle license but not yet. As he parked in front of Clark Halibits restaurant he would see fathers holding hands with their kids, giggling and having the time of their lives. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, but for him it was luxury. What would he give for that, even just to hear his father tell him he’s proud.
To add insult to injury, he saw an arctic wolf father lean down to tenderly hug his son. He couldn’t remember when his father ever initiated a hug, Milton saw them as a sign of weakness but he had fond memories of them from his mother.
Before he entered the restaurant, he raised his hood to distract from his fresh cheek wound. There were still bloody scratches on his paws but it would hopefully go unnoticed in the dim light.
The bustle of the restaurant overstimulated him. It was a game night, which tended to draw huge crowds. He could barely process his thoughts due to so many people talking at once. It felt like the room was spinning.As he dizzily made his way up to the counter, suddenly he ran into something. Or rather someone.
A small red female bobcat. “WHOAH!” he cried out. Her beverage had spilled all over his hoodie.“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. Here, let me help” she rushed over to get a napkin for him to clean himself up. “Sorry I’m such a klutz!”
Once again, the lynx wanted to be mad but he couldn’t help but empathize. He was usually the same way, one of the many reasons his family chose to outcast him.
“Hey, it’s fine. I totally get it. I’m clumsy too. The name’s Paw…Pawbert” Pawbert dabbed at his hoodie as he spoke.
“Nice to meet you, Paw Pawbert! I’m Shel! Once again…I’m sorry”“Oh, it’s just Pawbert. But you can call me both…if you want. There’s really no need to apologize. Accidents happ-“
Before he could finish, Shel let out a gasp, her eyes darting over to Pawbert’s cheek. “Wait, are you okay? That’s a pretty bad scratch”
Pawbert instinctively held his paw against his wounded cheek. “Oh nah, it’s really nothing! I’ve had way worse” he fibbed, the sting of his cut still lingering as it brushed against his paw. “Ow” he said under his breath with a light whimper.
”If it’s okay….what happened? If you don’t want to talk about it, it’s fine but I’m willing to listen”He had never discussed the physical abuse given to him by father before. Only the neglect. It was hard for him to talk about, but who else did he have? He always struggled with making friends due to being socially awkward, and his siblings would only make the situation worse by teasing him in front of them whenever they realized he was beginning to feel any sort of confidence.“Between you and me….my dad scratched me up. I was working in the mail room and lost track of a business letter he needed. So when I had to tell him, it wasn’t pretty” his voice was low and shaky, almost as if he was scared his family was secretly recording him.
“Oh my gosh.” her blue eyes brimmed with tears. “Let me help you. I’ll patch it up for you”Pawbert’s ears folded back, caught off guard yet touched by her offer. “Oh, uh, t-thank you. Like now? Not sure if a packed restaurant is the best place to play nurse.” Pawbert interjected with a chuckle.
He couldn’t help but feel a warm sensation bubble up in his chest, he didn’t even know how to react. No one had done anything like that for him since his mother passed.
“We can go to my place.” Shel offered.
“Or actually, I have a better idea…n-no offense I’m sure your place is great. But I think you’re gonna like this one”
Pawbert led her outside to his moped, “You ever ridden a moped before? It’s pretty sweet. Not to brag but I’m a pretty smooth driver! I’m trying for a motorcycle soon” he absolutely wasn’t a great driver but he wasn’t going to let her know.“
”I haven’t, is it…safe?”
“I mean, as long as you hold on it is! Want to try?”
She thought about it a minute, almost like she was about to back out, but ultimately couldn’t turn down his offer. It meant a lot he was willing to let her ride with him, and the thrill might be fun.“….Yes. Let’s go!”
With that, Pawbert grabbed his helmet and hopped on. “Hold on tight!”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679116?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["yokaisally"], "language": "English", "title": "Pawbert’s Oasis"}
|
You're Still My Weapon of Choosing
When they meet, they’re not more than boys. Thrain remembers the day well, though he doubts Kaeya remembers it with similar clarity. It had likely been one of a thousand banquets the prince had attended in his life, one of dozens that social season, accompanied by an attendant, or more infrequently by the watchful eye of his father. For him, though, for a scruffy knight’s squire of middling birth and a rigorous training schedule, it was a rare occasion. It had been his first introduction to the social scene, at barely more than 13. Thrain had been terrified and trying to stand tall at the side of his master, despite the fact that he didn’t even reach his shoulder in those days. He’d been chosen for an important role, he’d known. An honor, one that should, that *would*, define his life. He was to be the prince’s shadow. His guard, his companion, his constant. And they were to meet that day.
He’d been nearly vibrating, tense and solemn despite his master’s nudging him into joining the revelry. He wasn’t one for indulgence anyways, serious even then, and the knowledge that he’d have to meet the prince had him wound even more tightly. The food was richer than anything he ever ate, and the wine he was handed was so dark and strong, richer than the watered down fare he was allowed on usual days. All of the luxury tasted like nothing to him, in his nervousness. He ate and drank mechanically, because he should, but looking back he would scarcely remember a single thing about the meal.
All Thrain had wanted in those too-long hours was meet his charge. He’d never seen the prince before, knew precious little about him as the boy was too young to have any feats to his name. He only had a name to hold on to, and a title, and the fact that this prince he’d never met would soon become his whole reason to live. He’d wanted to be seen, to be judged adequate, to truly hold in his hands that honor he’d been given. When they finally met it had been overwhelming. The eyes of the court on him, his name said out loud to a crowd of strange eyes. There was only one pair of eyes Thrain really wanted to meet.
He’d knelt, in front of the room full of nobility, in front of the prince. Kaeya, his name was, but back then Thrain had scarcely dared to say that name even within his own mind. For how momentous everything felt to Thrain, when he lifted his gaze to meet the prince’s starlight eyes, the boy’s responding gaze was distant, vacant. Kaeya made the appropriately pleased face, he said his lines properly, but he barely seemed to see Thrain at all. Kaeya had been small, Thrain had noticed that even through his nerves, narrow and a full head shorter than him. More than that, though, he was immediately and completely aware of the fact that those starlight eyes were looking straight through him. Kaeya said the words of acknowledgement. He even offered Thrain a smile, angelic and doll-like, perfectly composed as a prince should be and… it was like nobody was there. Like Thrain was meeting nothing more than a beautiful marionette.
They had that one moment together, and then Thrain was whisked away. Their respective chaperones had plans for them, and though Thrain craned his neck, he didn’t catch a glance of Kaeya again that night.
He doesn’t get the chance to see the chinks in Kaeya’s shell until a fortnight later. He’s told, the prince has begun swordsmanship training. He’s told that he is considered a safe and suitable training partner for the boy, and bid to attend to a private courtyard at a certain time. He follows his instructions as he always has, as a matter of course, and suddenly, shockingly, there the prince is, standing on the training fields in perfect, brand new training clothes and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else.
At first, it had been just the same. Kaeya would glance at him, and then redirect his gaze away. He’d say the picture perfect words a prince should, and nothing more, and Thrain finds himself increasingly frustrated with the wary eye Kaeya keeps on their chaperone. He’s thirteen, and the prince is only eleven, and a beginner besides, so of course he is the stronger combatant, and at first he treats the prince gently, only tapping or verbally announcing a flaw, but the thing is. The thing is, the prince is a quick study. He takes instructions, and he moves fast, quick and athletic despite lack of training in this particular art, and it’s easy to get caught up. Easy to treat it like a sparring match with any other apprentice, and so, several bouts in, he ends up sending Kaeya tumbling into the dirt. As soon as he does it, he tenses up, dashes forward in horror, already stammering out apologies and reaching for the other boy. He’s ready for a lashing, verbal or physical or both, but instead, he’s rewarded with the first glimpse of Kaeya, the actual person inside of that perfect doll-like prince exterior.
“I’m fine- I’m fine,” he’d coughed out, smearing dirt
|
You're Still My Weapon of Choosing
When they meet, they’re not more than boys. Thrain remembers the day well, though he doubts Kaeya remembers it with similar clarity. It had likely been one of a thousand banquets the prince had attended in his life, one of dozens that social season, accompanied by an attendant, or more infrequently by the watchful eye of his father. For him, though, for a scruffy knight’s squire of middling birth and a rigorous training schedule, it was a rare occasion. It had been his first introduction to the social scene, at barely more than 13. Thrain had been terrified and trying to stand tall at the side of his master, despite the fact that he didn’t even reach his shoulder in those days. He’d been chosen for an important role, he’d known. An honor, one that should, that *would*, define his life. He was to be the prince’s shadow. His guard, his companion, his constant. And they were to meet that day.
He’d been nearly vibrating, tense and solemn despite his master’s nudging him into joining the revelry. He wasn’t one for indulgence anyways, serious even then, and the knowledge that he’d have to meet the prince had him wound even more tightly. The food was richer than anything he ever ate, and the wine he was handed was so dark and strong, richer than the watered down fare he was allowed on usual days. All of the luxury tasted like nothing to him, in his nervousness. He ate and drank mechanically, because he should, but looking back he would scarcely remember a single thing about the meal.
All Thrain had wanted in those too-long hours was meet his charge. He’d never seen the prince before, knew precious little about him as the boy was too young to have any feats to his name. He only had a name to hold on to, and a title, and the fact that this prince he’d never met would soon become his whole reason to live. He’d wanted to be seen, to be judged adequate, to truly hold in his hands that honor he’d been given. When they finally met it had been overwhelming. The eyes of the court on him, his name said out loud to a crowd of strange eyes. There was only one pair of eyes Thrain really wanted to meet.
He’d knelt, in front of the room full of nobility, in front of the prince. Kaeya, his name was, but back then Thrain had scarcely dared to say that name even within his own mind. For how momentous everything felt to Thrain, when he lifted his gaze to meet the prince’s starlight eyes, the boy’s responding gaze was distant, vacant. Kaeya made the appropriately pleased face, he said his lines properly, but he barely seemed to see Thrain at all. Kaeya had been small, Thrain had noticed that even through his nerves, narrow and a full head shorter than him. More than that, though, he was immediately and completely aware of the fact that those starlight eyes were looking straight through him. Kaeya said the words of acknowledgement. He even offered Thrain a smile, angelic and doll-like, perfectly composed as a prince should be and… it was like nobody was there. Like Thrain was meeting nothing more than a beautiful marionette.
They had that one moment together, and then Thrain was whisked away. Their respective chaperones had plans for them, and though Thrain craned his neck, he didn’t catch a glance of Kaeya again that night.
He doesn’t get the chance to see the chinks in Kaeya’s shell until a fortnight later. He’s told, the prince has begun swordsmanship training. He’s told that he is considered a safe and suitable training partner for the boy, and bid to attend to a private courtyard at a certain time. He follows his instructions as he always has, as a matter of course, and suddenly, shockingly, there the prince is, standing on the training fields in perfect, brand new training clothes and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else.
At first, it had been just the same. Kaeya would glance at him, and then redirect his gaze away. He’d say the picture perfect words a prince should, and nothing more, and Thrain finds himself increasingly frustrated with the wary eye Kaeya keeps on their chaperone. He’s thirteen, and the prince is only eleven, and a beginner besides, so of course he is the stronger combatant, and at first he treats the prince gently, only tapping or verbally announcing a flaw, but the thing is. The thing is, the prince is a quick study. He takes instructions, and he moves fast, quick and athletic despite lack of training in this particular art, and it’s easy to get caught up. Easy to treat it like a sparring match with any other apprentice, and so, several bouts in, he ends up sending Kaeya tumbling into the dirt. As soon as he does it, he tenses up, dashes forward in horror, already stammering out apologies and reaching for the other boy. He’s ready for a lashing, verbal or physical or both, but instead, he’s rewarded with the first glimpse of Kaeya, the actual person inside of that perfect doll-like prince exterior.
“I’m fine- I’m fine,” he’d coughed out, smearing dirt from his face, and Thrain had frowned, freezing where he’d gripped a hand under his arm to haul him up, before realizing Kaeya’s gesturing not at him, but at the attendant, who’d taken two large steps towards them. He hesitates a moment longer, but continues at what he’d been doing, putting Kaeya back on his feet. It’s a little bit like he’d shattered an eggshell, because Kaeya huffs a sigh, bends down to brush off his pants, and glances up at him with something like nervousness.
“Would you, um.” Thrain pauses when Kaeya pipes up hesitantly, wondering if he really did go too far after all, “Would you show me how you did that?” Is the question Kaeya ends up asking, and it loosens the knot in Thrain’s chest. The glass between them had finally, blessedly cracked and all of a sudden they truly were just two boys scuffling together. Thrain shows him the trick he’d used. And then their next bout Kaeya ends up sprawled again, and asks again to know how Thrain did it.
They only stop when their attendant calls an end to the bout, citing a need for the prince to attend other lessons, but by the end Kaeya is at least letting Thrain see expressions. Panting and talking and giving him smiles or grunts of frustration or huffs of irritation.
Maybe Thrain was just a boy weak to a pretty face, in those days, but after that afternoon, it became something of a personal mission, to see more of the prince. He began to collect those rare moments of honesty, the flashes of laughter or pain or embarrassment. He clung jealously to every chink in that perfect armor. He began to want to claim ownership of what the boy didn’t seem to offer to anyone, at least not willingly.
After that, he takes lessons with Kaeya frequently. It’s simply another one of his duties, and then it’s simply an inescapable part of his day. Their time together becomes a precious jewel, which he guards closely, hoarding every bit of time that he can. He finds the prince serious, and shy. Nervous to do things he isn’t supposed to, wary of inciting any sort of ire. The prince doesn’t trust him, he realizes somewhere in the course of their acquaintanceship, and he wonders how he can win such a prize. Wonders what it will take to claim his trust. He didn’t have many tools in his collection in those days. All he could do was take what chances he was given, attend each and every lesson and strive to do what he can. One day, the lessons are going nowhere, Kaeya short tempered and impatient and icy, and he suggests a ride instead.
He learns that day that Kaeya loves horses, and has a natural affinity for riding. He learns that the king has moved to a countryside castle, and is refusing audience to anyone, including his own son. And he learns that Kaeya’s actually competitive, especially at the things he loves to do, that he can outmaneuver Thrain on horseback despite their difference in years. He learns what Kaeya looks like when he laughs in true accomplishment at a victory.
Perhaps it’s a natural consequence of their constant companionship over the course of years, but Kaeya hates it whenever Thrain’s master takes him away from the palace. He needs to do it, to attend hunts and expeditions, in order to become a well-rounded and accomplished knight. He also knows that Thrain rides out proudly, wearing Kaeya’s colors, the royal family crest displayed in pride of place, and that he’ll come back bearing stories. He’s done so many times, always bearing an excited retelling of this or that feat, often bearing a new scrape or scar, and sometimes bearing some trinket or another, which he presses bashfully into Kaeya’s hands. (Kaeya keeps those gifts secreted in a box, in a drawer, closely guarded.) This time is different, though. This time, Thrain is leaving on a long campaign, to root out a persistent band of bandits in the south, and Kaeya is also leaving. The day after Thrain departs, he too will depart the palace, to continue his education in diplomacy and other such trades, in the household of a noble, wealthy and influential Mondstadt family. Evidently they have a boy close to his own age. Evidently, he must gain experience outside the household, if he is to rule. The order comes directly from his father, allegedly. Not that he’d know, really. His father has refused to see him for the past three years.
“What are you doing traveling so far from your charge? Some guard you are hm?” he asks Thrain, when their final training session concludes. “You’ll have to bring me a souvenir, from the south.” He tries to say it playfully, to look as if he isn’t mourning what will likely be months if not years of separation. Thrain will know anyways. Despite all of Kaeya’s attempts at hiding, the other boy has some sort of preternatural sense for sniffing out his true feelings, and Kaeya has long given up on questioning it.
“My, what a spoiled young master you’ve become, your Highness. What can a lowly knight possibly offer to a prince?” Thrain asks warmly. He always ends up humoring Kaeya. They are both dirty and sweaty, training swords discarded and the smooth grounds disturbed with the marks of practiced footwork. Kaeya likes these moments, when they’re almost like equals. He likes being able to perch on the low fence of the training fields and tease Thrain, likes that outside of the trappings of their roles, sometimes Thrain will tease back.
“Obviously this young master wants gold and riches and all things fine. The entire bandit’s hoard,” he says outrageously, before laughing at himself. He kicks his legs against the wood, looks down, then up again at Thrain, in the pause while he considers how much he wants to say.
“Nothing so grand. There’s no need to spend your wages. I want nothing but your safe return,” he says, and it comes out much more gently and truly than he intends. Thrain’s entire demeanor softens, Kaeya can see the way his shoulders drop, the way his eyes soften and hands loosen. They’re nice hands. Calloused, strong. Long-fingered and surprisingly graceful. Kaeya wishes, not for the first time, for something he can’t have. Something he shouldn’t want.
“I cannot promise that. Nothing in life is certain,” Thrain says, fastidious as ever. He’s infuriatingly practical, even when he’s being gentle. “But I can promise, that you are my charge and my purpose. If it is possible for me to return, I will.”
Ah. What is Kaeya supposed to do with him. What is he supposed to do with this knight, who looks like a statue carved in marble and talks like a storybook, and treats him with gentleness and kindness, all because he is bid to do so. All because it is his role and purpose.
The back of his eyes burn, suddenly and unexpectedly, and his throat narrows around emotions he knows he shouldn’t have. Kaeya laughs again then, and prays it doesn’t sound strangled. He hops down off his perch, offers Thrain a grin, and tells himself to stop being so pathetic at this. It doesn’t work, but he’s become quite good at self-delusion these days.
“Well, if you’re going to spout such grand lines, we’d better let you go get cleaned off. I won’t be sending my knight off to battle looking so scuffed up,” he says, performatively imperious once again. Thrain, blessedly perceptive as he is, takes the dismissal for what it is. He inclines his head, half-turns, pauses, and then turns back to Kaeya. Kaeya perks back to attention at the fierce gaze he is subjected to.
“Your Highness, please know,” Thrain says, taking half a step forward, and then he does something unexpected. He reaches out, and Kaeya’s mind doesn’t catch for a long second, what he is doing. Not until his hands are clasped in Thrain’s own broad palms, the touch burning, capturing all of Kaeya’s attention. Thrain seems to hesitate for a moment, pauses, parts his lips again. “Please know, that I do this all in your name. In your honor.”
Kaeya’s lips part, and he doesn’t know what to say, how to express the entirety of what he thinks or feels. He doesn’t know what he’s allowed, what he can have, what he can ask for.
“I have no doubt,” Kaeya says through a tight throat, because he can’t say what he wants to. “Now go. I’ll be expecting you to return victorious.”
The moment ends. They part ways, Kaeya bathes and attends his lessons and eats and sleeps, but his hands seem to burn with that touch for the rest of the day and night.
Thrain has been on expeditions before. He’s traveled long distances, lived rough and off of road rations, but he’s never been gone for such a period of time as this. He’d wondered, at the start, if Kaeya would forget. If he’d be replaced or dismissed. He’d wondered if he’d have to win his prince back, if his position of confidant and companion would be forgotten in the intervening time. Not long after they arrive at the outpost, though, a letter arrives from Mondstadt. Kaeya had written to him, and from the way it’s dated, Thrain can tell it had been penned within the first few days that he’d arrived at the home of the nobles who would be hosting him.
He’d been worried about their friendship eroding, but he needn’t have. Their letter correspondence is immediate, and strong, and consistent. It’s curious, how communication changes when you can’t look each other in the face. Thrain had spent so long learning the intricacies of reading Kaeya’s mercurial emotions in the small shifts of his face, his eyes, the fidget of his hands and the shift of his feet. Thrain has none of that, any more, but he’s found he doesn’t actually need it so much, when they speak through prose. Kaeya seems to treat their letters like a sort of diary. He’s more honest in text, than he ever had been when they spent time face to face, and Thrain treasures it. He’s not as gifted with words, can’t match Kaeya’s eloquence or calliagraphy, but he tries as best he can to share his own life. The other knights joke that he writes like he has a wife left at home. And then when he doesn’t seem amused, they mutter amongst themselves, concerned.
“You know, that prince of yours can’t actually give you what you want,” Guthred, their company’s mouthy doctor, says one evening, taking a heavy seat next to him. He’d received a letter earlier, and not even the sharp words can truly puncture his good mood.
“What is it you think I want?” he asks mildly, just to see if the other man will say it. Here, among soldiers and knights, everyone speaks far more crudely than the guard stationed at the palace ever seemed to dare to.
“I think you want a pretty little royal on your arm, or on your prick, and I also think you’re going to get your heart broken over it,” Guthred says, unconcerned at the sharp glance Thrain directs at him. The words are harsh, but not cruel, he can admit. They are also not untrue.
“I’m not going to get my heart broken,” he says, after a long stretch of silence.
“Oh really? Because falling in love with royalty seems like a pretty good way to get your heart broken.” Guthred gestures as he speaks, and it’s a good thing the flask in his hand seems to be empty.
“I don’t expect anything,” Thrain says. “He’s my charge. It’s my job to care for him.” Guthred gives him an odd look, but scoffs and takes another long drag from the flask. And then he changes the topic of conversation, and that seems to be that.
The topic is left alone, for the most part, and their assignment drags on, longer and longer. He remains at the lonely outpost, and Kaeya remains in Mondstadt. He misses Kaeya like a severed limb, lonely even crammed in among a troop of other knights, and he treasures every letter like a lifeline, but… but. Kaeya seems happy. Mond seems to suit him. His host family is dear and kind to him, the weather is temperate and gentle and warm, the people are welcoming and open. At some point, Kaeya adds, like a footnote, that himself and the Ragivindr heir have chosen to swear an oath as sworn brothers, and Thrain doesn’t know what to do with the pit that opens up in his stomach.
He turns eighteen, and Kaeya times a letter such that it arrives on the date of his birthday. It’s been years, and by now they know well just how much time it takes for a letter to reach the other. The other men in his company insist on taking him out into the nearest town that has a half-decent tavern, and buy him drinks until the wee hours of the morning.
One of them, he doesn’t know who, buys him the night with a beautiful boy with long legs and a foxlike smile. It’s not quite right. He thinks of someone else, different hands, different lips, a body lean with training instead of soft and pliable. It’s good anyways, and he bloodies his lip biting back the name he actually wants to say.
“That boy you’re thinking of, he’s a lucky one,” the boy says, slow and sated when they’re done. When Thrain frowns at him, the boy laughs, and he thinks unbidden of Kaeya’s rehearsed charms, when he wants someone to like him.
“You don’t have to look so guilty, you’re with a whore. Everyone who fucks me thinks of someone else. Your boy back at home, I think you should tell him whatever it is you’re thinking of.” The boy seems truly unbothered by Thrain’s silence, languid and comfortable in his body, even as Thrain laces his leathers back on. Thrain tips him well, and makes it back to camp without too much excess embarrassment.
He thinks about that boy sometimes and wonders if he’s right.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75681676/chapters/197931796
|
{"authors": ["deardemons"], "language": "English", "title": "You're Still My Weapon of Choosing"}
|
strangers
we’re not lovers
we’re just strangers
with the same damn hunger
to be loved, to be touched
to feel anything at all
So go home. Let yourselves cry. You’ll feel better. It’s just… grief… leaving the body.
Mel turns Dr. Robby’s words over in her mind. Remembers the emotion written so clearly on his face during hand off—his and so many others. An appropriate time to shed tears. Not like her; she fought to bury her feelings all day. Tried and failed.
What’s wrong with her now?
On occasion I have an emotional response to death.
The death of one man is a tragedy; the death of millions a statistic. Whittaker’s patient and the memories that surfaced—her discomfort and the effort it took to stop herself from fleeing into the single stall bathroom. One hundred and twelve mass casualty victims. One hundred and six lives saved. A loss of 5.36%.
Is the threshold there—somewhere between one and five? Is that why she feels so numb?
No one wants to see their doctor cry.
This is the crying time. Dr. Robby gave them permission. To feel better. To feel, period. To dispel the barriers between doctor and self, the very barriers that Mel struggles to maintain every day. Her toughness in the face of her profession’s emotional toll is no stronger than a cardboard shelter in a downpour. Today was a monsoon, and yet here she is, peeking out between the battered flaps, still standing.
As she waits at the crosswalk to the parking garage, Mel shuts her eyes tightly. She wills herself to cry as if all it will take is a little force, but nothing comes. Her brows knit as she concentrates harder. There’s something there; her hands tremble with it. Something that tightens around her lungs, sinks leaden into her belly. A heaviness, touched by weariness, that threatens to consume her completely. It’s somehow worse than the overstimulation that comes from hypersensitivity, the too-muchness that makes her want to retch to get it out.
Mel wants to get it out.
The crosswalk alerts her that it’s safe to cross, the rapid, high-pitched beeping making her wince. She does so with weak knees and rubbery ankles. They’re the reason she forgoes the stairs and hits the button to call the elevator.
Inside, Mel selects her floor. As the doors close, she calculates how long she has to shed this weight inside her—a two minute walk to her car, another four to exit the parking garage, seventeen minutes to reach the Center, and five until Becca descends the stairs to the foyer.
Twenty-eight minutes total to break down and put herself back together again. Twenty-eight minutes to grieve the loss of six lives—because she will grieve them; they’ve earned that from her—and bear witness to the trauma of a hundred and six. (More if she includes the ED staff, but she doesn’t yet have precise information on staffing to account for it properly.) Mel can’t allow this to touch Becca, so twenty-eight minutes will have to be enough.
Mel amends the schedule in her brain: 9:43 p.m. to 10:11 p.m. Acknowledge, accept, let go of your trauma.
She stares at her shoes as she exits the elevator, mentally unpacking all the usual boxes where she stores her grief: absent father, growing up too quickly, dead mother, longterm boyfriend who bailed four months into her becoming Becca’s caregiver. Just a little nudge is all she needs. Something to crack this dam stopping her emotions.
By the time she makes it four steps into the garage, Mel notices an old paint splatter that wasn’t there this morning. The walls read Level 5, and shoot, she parked on six. Rather than wait for the elevator again or take the stairs, Mel decides to walk up the ramp. Better for her wobbly legs.
When she turns the corner, Mel sees him, bathed in the sickly yellow garage lights.
“Dr. Langdon?”
He steps back from his SUV as she approaches. “Mel. Hey.”
She’s relieved to see him. To get the chance to say goodbye to him properly for the night, at least. To thank him for sticking with her today when no one else did. For checking in and encouraging her. Maybe for the first time in eight years, Mel felt like she didn’t have to have all the answers. Even in the chaos of the ED—of an MCI—she could rest her weary mind for a moment. When Dr. Langdon was there next to her, everything went blissfully quiet.
“I just… I wanted to say I-I’m really grateful,” she explains, her voice unsteady. “You made today easier.”
Dr. Langdon moves closer, stepping past the boundary of her personal space. Mel doesn’t shift or feel the urge to manipulate her fingers until she’s regulated. But she hadn’t all day, had she? No, she welcomed his proximity. His kindness. It’s as if he intuitively understands how to be gentle to her without knowing anything about her. No one has ever… not like… Mel has never felt so completely seen by someone, and it…
“You okay, Mel?” he asks, his heavy hands settling on her biceps. “You’re crying.”
“Oh, I…”
Mel touches her cheek with her fingertips, the warm wetness smudging her skin. Her eyes quickly seek out
|
strangers
we’re not lovers
we’re just strangers
with the same damn hunger
to be loved, to be touched
to feel anything at all
So go home. Let yourselves cry. You’ll feel better. It’s just… grief… leaving the body.
Mel turns Dr. Robby’s words over in her mind. Remembers the emotion written so clearly on his face during hand off—his and so many others. An appropriate time to shed tears. Not like her; she fought to bury her feelings all day. Tried and failed.
What’s wrong with her now?
On occasion I have an emotional response to death.
The death of one man is a tragedy; the death of millions a statistic. Whittaker’s patient and the memories that surfaced—her discomfort and the effort it took to stop herself from fleeing into the single stall bathroom. One hundred and twelve mass casualty victims. One hundred and six lives saved. A loss of 5.36%.
Is the threshold there—somewhere between one and five? Is that why she feels so numb?
No one wants to see their doctor cry.
This is the crying time. Dr. Robby gave them permission. To feel better. To feel, period. To dispel the barriers between doctor and self, the very barriers that Mel struggles to maintain every day. Her toughness in the face of her profession’s emotional toll is no stronger than a cardboard shelter in a downpour. Today was a monsoon, and yet here she is, peeking out between the battered flaps, still standing.
As she waits at the crosswalk to the parking garage, Mel shuts her eyes tightly. She wills herself to cry as if all it will take is a little force, but nothing comes. Her brows knit as she concentrates harder. There’s something there; her hands tremble with it. Something that tightens around her lungs, sinks leaden into her belly. A heaviness, touched by weariness, that threatens to consume her completely. It’s somehow worse than the overstimulation that comes from hypersensitivity, the too-muchness that makes her want to retch to get it out.
Mel wants to get it out.
The crosswalk alerts her that it’s safe to cross, the rapid, high-pitched beeping making her wince. She does so with weak knees and rubbery ankles. They’re the reason she forgoes the stairs and hits the button to call the elevator.
Inside, Mel selects her floor. As the doors close, she calculates how long she has to shed this weight inside her—a two minute walk to her car, another four to exit the parking garage, seventeen minutes to reach the Center, and five until Becca descends the stairs to the foyer.
Twenty-eight minutes total to break down and put herself back together again. Twenty-eight minutes to grieve the loss of six lives—because she will grieve them; they’ve earned that from her—and bear witness to the trauma of a hundred and six. (More if she includes the ED staff, but she doesn’t yet have precise information on staffing to account for it properly.) Mel can’t allow this to touch Becca, so twenty-eight minutes will have to be enough.
Mel amends the schedule in her brain: 9:43 p.m. to 10:11 p.m. Acknowledge, accept, let go of your trauma.
She stares at her shoes as she exits the elevator, mentally unpacking all the usual boxes where she stores her grief: absent father, growing up too quickly, dead mother, longterm boyfriend who bailed four months into her becoming Becca’s caregiver. Just a little nudge is all she needs. Something to crack this dam stopping her emotions.
By the time she makes it four steps into the garage, Mel notices an old paint splatter that wasn’t there this morning. The walls read Level 5, and shoot, she parked on six. Rather than wait for the elevator again or take the stairs, Mel decides to walk up the ramp. Better for her wobbly legs.
When she turns the corner, Mel sees him, bathed in the sickly yellow garage lights.
“Dr. Langdon?”
He steps back from his SUV as she approaches. “Mel. Hey.”
She’s relieved to see him. To get the chance to say goodbye to him properly for the night, at least. To thank him for sticking with her today when no one else did. For checking in and encouraging her. Maybe for the first time in eight years, Mel felt like she didn’t have to have all the answers. Even in the chaos of the ED—of an MCI—she could rest her weary mind for a moment. When Dr. Langdon was there next to her, everything went blissfully quiet.
“I just… I wanted to say I-I’m really grateful,” she explains, her voice unsteady. “You made today easier.”
Dr. Langdon moves closer, stepping past the boundary of her personal space. Mel doesn’t shift or feel the urge to manipulate her fingers until she’s regulated. But she hadn’t all day, had she? No, she welcomed his proximity. His kindness. It’s as if he intuitively understands how to be gentle to her without knowing anything about her. No one has ever… not like… Mel has never felt so completely seen by someone, and it…
“You okay, Mel?” he asks, his heavy hands settling on her biceps. “You’re crying.”
“Oh, I…”
Mel touches her cheek with her fingertips, the warm wetness smudging her skin. Her eyes quickly seek out his—blue eyes a little glazed over, eyelids heavy—as if he might be able to explain what’s happening to her—when it started and why. While she ought to know herself, her brain refuses to supply the answers, ones lost in the sudden fog of her mind. Where was the dam break? How can she release these tears and still feel so numb? Her lips tingle like she’s applied peppermint chapstick.
“I have to be done crying by 10:11,” Mel says nonsensically, sniffling.
She needs to get Becca. And it’s Friday night, which means Becca will expect them to go out to eat and watch a movie. Even though Mel isn’t certain she can muster up the energy to do that, she has to. Not doing so means throwing off her sister’s schedule. When that happens, nothing goes smoothly for forty-eight hours. The math is simple—she’s calculated it for eight years now—expend the energy now to preserve it over the weekend. Nevermind that she can hardly think clearly. Becca needs stability, and Mel is the only one who can provide that.
“No, you don’t.”
When his arms envelop her, Mel’s caught off guard. She allows him to draw her against him, his chest hard beneath her cheek.
His strength wrecks her. The dam bursts, and Mel sobs against the rough fabric of his scrubs. Tomorrow she’ll walk around with a permanent blush, embarrassed by the way she clutched at the sides of his shirt and shuddered against his body. Tonight, Mel burrows closer. Dr. Langdon rests his chin against her crown, holding her steady.
“I wanted t-to tell you… a delivery I… a baby boy, but y-you…” Mel tries to smother her sob, but it’s little use. “...were gone. You didn’t… didn’t say… goodbye. And then again… j-just now. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
Mel focuses on the vibration in his chest, barely registering the care Dr. Langdon takes not to mumble.
“Y-you left me,” she whimpers. “Everyone…”
Dr. Langdon shushes her kindly. His fingers card through her bound hair as much as they’re able, and Mel feels the faint urge to tug it free of her braid. It would be nice. If only her limbs weren’t so heavy. If only it didn’t mean leaving the security of Dr. Langdon’s arms. She needs the weight to anchor herself. Needs him.
Another minute or so passes as she breaks down against him. When the worst of the crying abates—and that’s all it ever does, eases, rather than disappear completely—he shifts back. The air that rushes between their bodies feels good against her flush skin, but the rest of it doesn’t. Mel scrambles for his touch.
In the fog of her grief, she forgets they’re meeting on borrowed time. Of course he needs to go. Dr. Langdon has small children and a wife. He’s already late getting home because of the MCI. Missed dinner. Probably won't get to tuck his children into bed.
Knowing she only has a few more moments with him, Mel searches for something to say that could even begin to describe the significance of his mentorship. Something more than her pitiful expression of gratitude. When she opens her mouth—praying the right words will come (even though they never have before)—Mel releases a sob.
His brow pulling with concern, Dr. Langdon opens the door to the backseat. He guides her to sit, hands light on her hips as she climbs in. Her foot slips a little, his fingers curling around her hipbone. A wave of heat spreads from there, pooling between her thighs; it does nothing to make her legs any less feeble.
When she settles facing the door, it comes as a relief that Dr. Langdon doesn’t move away. Instead, he lifts a battered box of Kleenex from the floor and pushes several tissues into her hand. The nice gesture does nothing to stop her tears, her shoulders shaking with them.
Mel doesn’t know how to explain it. Maybe there aren’t words. Maybe it’s only the bone-deep exhaustion sinking its claws into her. But here in the back of his SUV, Mel lets Dr. Langdon see her, all the ugliness and weakness hidden beneath her smiles and optimism. The parts of herself that she’s most ashamed of. The ones that make her feel like a bad sister, a bad daughter and doctor and friend. The facets of the person she’d been before—more realistic, more level-headed—that make themselves known when she’s at her worst—telling her to sleep, reminding her she can’t pour from an empty cup, begging her to admit that she might not be able to do all of this alone. She hasn’t shown this side of herself to anyone in nearly ten years.
As she chances a glance up at him, the worry in his blue eyes makes her feel like showing him her soft underbelly was worth it. He makes her feel seen.
“You looked after me,” she admits, voice wet and fragile. “No one… y-you’re really good at it. It was… nice.”
Shame crawls up her throat like bile. How could anything about today be nice? Mel subtly shakes her head as if to dislodge the thought.
And then I asked myself… like… what do I do with this kid? Where do I put this feeling?... And I’m looking at all those mausoleums and those crypts. And I’m thinking to myself…okay, well, that’s what I need. I just need a safe place where I can put these feelings.
That’s what she’ll do. Just like Dr. Robby said, she’ll bury these feelings. The good memories. After tonight, she’ll let them go. Not in some box with the rest of her grief, but lay them to rest for good. When she goes home tonight—
“I’m a fuck up, Mel. I don’t know how to take care of anyone,” Dr. Langdon admits, resigned.
“That’s not true!” she says suddenly. Mel takes another pass at her cheeks with the Kleenex. “You… you know how to take care of me.”
Silence hangs between them, intense and heavy. Dr. Langdon’s gaze drops from her eyes to her lips and back up again.
“I need you,” she whispers.
(No! No, she meant to say needed. As in, she needed someone like him in her corner today. Yes, that! Not… oh jeez.)
Dr. Langdon shudders his next exhale. He doesn’t blink. And she wants to curl up for fear that she’s misinterpreting this. Social cues are hard; sexual ones are harder. But the heat lingers in her pelvis—how could it not when he’s looking at her with those eyes—and Mel, so worn down, takes a risk.
When she leans forward, he meets her halfway. Her lips hesitate against his still ones. As she sighs into it, Dr. Langdon steps forward, cradling her face between his palms. Mel spreads her legs, allowing him to get closer. It’s apparently all the invitation he needs to escalate things. His tongue flicks across her lips, and Mel opens her mouth with a groan she never expected.
As the seconds tick by, everything begins to feel so insignificant—Pittfest, her responsibilities, her mother’s death, his family. When Dr. Langdon touches her, the worst parts of her life—the worst of what they’re doing now—fade to the background. It’s as if she feels whole again, a heady, unfamiliar experience after all these years.
He kisses her lips, her chin, down the delicate column of her throat where her pulse jackrabbits against his mouth. Nothing matters. She can fall apart, and Dr. Langdon will hold her together. Mel needs this desperately. Craves it as if she’s been touch starved, waiting for him all her life. Her mind swims with take care of me, take care of me, take care of me…
Maybe she’s not just thinking it but saying it.
Dr. Langdon climbs in the back with her, both of them shuffling across the seat until he’s able to shut the door behind him. As soon as she opens her legs, he lies between them and begins kissing her again. Mel’s so distracted by the feeling of him hard against her center, exactly where she wants him, that her mouth turns clumsy. She accidentally bites down on his bottom lip. Heat rushes to her cheeks, a frantic apology on her tongue, when he moans and bucks against her. Dr. Langdon nips at her lip in turn, awakening something wild within her.
“Please, I need…” she begs.
His hands begin shoving at her jacket, her shirt. Mel helps him get both off. Assumes that that will be enough for this, but Dr. Langdon reaches for the band of her sports bra too. It’s barely over her head before he paws at her breasts, his large hands massaging her and his thumbs swiping over her hardening nipples. For a moment, Mel wants to cover herself for fear of not measuring up. But how can she when he’s staring at her like that—with some misplaced reverence for her half naked body?
“Mel,” he says, choked.
How is she supposed to respond to that?
Mel plucks at his shirt. “Not fair.”
He pulls it over his head and tosses it into the front seat. Mel has a moment to take in his chest. There’s so much hair, which has never been a point of attraction for her before. But now? Jeez, she just wants to feel it all over her body.
Mel guides him back down to her with a gentle hand to the back of his neck. The hair scratches against her breasts, heightening her senses. She wriggles beneath him, and Dr. Langdon slowly thrusts against her, his head buried against her neck.
“I want to taste you.”
She nods frantically.
They both realize too late that there’s not enough room. Still, he kisses his way down her chest, his tongue circling her nipples and sucking lightly. When she feels his hand slip beneath her pants and underwear, it comes as a relief. His fingers are careful but confident; Mel can’t help but think he knows her sexual needs as well as he knew every other one she had today, those she’d been aware of and even the ones she hadn’t.
Dr. Langdon strokes her with just the right amount of pressure to build her up, requiring minimal movement on her part to get him where and how she needs him. Mel feels a bit faint and floaty, her breaths jagged as he gets her close. Then he plunges a finger in her, thrusts a few times, and adds another.
“You’re so wet, sweetheart.” He groans as his fingers push inside again. “I’d spend hours between your thighs. Jesus Christ, how are you even real?”
Mel wonders the very same thing about him. Considers whether he’d ever make good on that promise. For a moment, she almost tells him that he can have her whenever he wants her. That after their shift tomorrow, she will gladly follow him to his car, to a hotel, spread her legs for him and let him feast until he nearly drowns between her folds.
But before she can utter that embarrassing confession, Dr. Langdon removes his fingers from her and puts them in his mouth. Mel watches him work his fingers over, notices the way his eyes close and hears the long moan muffled by his sucking.
It’s the hottest thing she’s ever seen.
Her trembling hands start to push his scrubs and underwear over his ass. She needs him more than she needs oxygen. Mel doesn’t want to be separated from him any longer. She wants him inside her. Wants him to fundamentally change her in a way that he can never take back, until there’s a before-Dr.-Langdon and after-Dr.-Langdon demarcation in her life. Heal her if only for a little while—just a few minutes when she no longer feels the weight of the world on her shoulders.
“Mel,” he whispers, brushing a thumb across her cheek once more, her tears mingling with her fluids. “I got you, baby. Everything is okay.”
Despite not knowing this man, Mel falls a little bit in love with him. Even if his words are a lie, it’s the most beautiful lie anyone has ever told her. Just now, she’d give him her heart if he asked for it.
In the limited space they have to work with, they manage to get her undressed but for her socks. Dr. Langdon still has his pants and underwear around one ankle, jammed up by his shoe, but it’s enough.
Mel cradles him between her thighs, the length of him slipping between her folds. His mouth opens, a punched out breath escaping, when he catches her entrance. Tiny, aborted thrusts tease her into a frenzy until she breathes life into her dark desires.
“Fuck me,” she whispers.
Dr. Langdon doesn’t hesitate. His immediate response—obeisance to her command—makes her light-headed. As he pushes inside her, Mel wonders if she might be split in half; it’s been so, so long since anyone has had her like this.
But for all that she thinks she’s coming apart around him, Mel can’t ignore how unbelievably whole she feels—an obtrusive thought piercing her psyche for the second time tonight. Not just back to being the old Mel, but newly transformed as if reuniting with a part of herself she never knew was missing. Dangerous given the circumstances. Not the kind of woman she ever thought she could be, not until now.
With a gasp, he bottoms out. For a long moment, Dr. Langdon keeps himself still, his inhale and exhale carefully controlled as he shuts his eyes tightly. Mel wonders if this is for her benefit. Some small tenderness that has no place in a backseat hook-up.
Mel touches his cheek lightly.
“Please, Dr. Langdon,” she begs.
“Oh fuck, baby.”
He stares down at her suddenly. The intensity there makes her feel strangely beautiful.
Drawing back, Dr. Langdon thrusts in again. It’s a lot—not just him, but all the sensory information, her nerves backfiring with every stroke. Inevitably, she tears up—had she ever really stopped?—and it’s enough to give him momentary pause.
Mel shakes her head. “It’s okay.”
“You’re a sensitive person,” he says, immediately understanding.
She hiccups, nodding, and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
Dr. Langdon kisses her gently, but Mel doesn’t think it’s because he assumes she’ll break. Maybe he thinks—wrongly—that it’s what she deserves. His hand slips between their bodies, his deft fingers finding her clitoris and rubbing. It doesn’t take much before she feels the sudden build up, her stomach muscles pulling tight. Mel crests and clenches around him, her gaze locked on him as sobs wrack her body.
“Gorgeous, sweetheart,” Dr. Langdon sighs.
His thrusts turn urgent and brutal. His hands and mouth everywhere. The heat of his skin engulfing her. The smell of sex and sweat lodged in her nose. The seat buckle digging into her back hard enough to ache.
“Mel,” he chokes. “Mel…”
It’s a heady feeling, hearing her name on his lips like this. So different from the last fifteen hours. Mel floats, imagining all the undiscovered ways he might call out for her. She wants to collect each and every one of them.
“Again,” she begs.
“Mel.” He sounds pained. “Sweetheart. Baby…”
Her heart encases each endearment. Her name sounds like a prayer.
“I’m—”
Dr. Langdon spills inside her.
He ruts against her until he’s spent, moisture gathering at his temple and dampening his dark hair. So sweaty. Mel has never met anyone who sweats as much as him, and she’s overcome with the sudden urge to turn her head and lick a stripe up his forearm. Inhibitions low, she does. Her tongue comes away salty. His hips twitch one final time.
Mel isn’t sure what she anticipated the end of this to look like. Maybe that there would be more shame? She certainly felt enough at the start of all this, though not exactly for the right reasons. Maybe that she wouldn’t be able to look Dr. Langdon in the eye? No difficulties there either.
Still, she doesn’t know what to say to him exactly.
He peppers soft directions with unspoken gestures. Offering her his shirt to clean herself up. Turning her clothes right side out and passing them to her as she slowly rights herself. By the time she shrugs on her jacket, Mel’s hands begin to shake.
“Turn around,” he whispers, and she listens as well as she did in the ED.
With careful movements, he removes her hair tie and unravels her disheveled braid. Using his fingers to comb through her strands, Dr. Langdon does a good job of making her presentable, rebraiding her plait and tying it off. She smooths her hand along it. Not as tight as she’s used to—a few pieces still free—but better than she could have managed herself.
“Thank you.”
Mel doesn’t expect the light kiss. The way he slowly draws back and searches her face. She allows herself to touch his neck, to feel his carotid artery beating beneath the pads of her fingers, strong but a little slower than expected. Taking her hand into his, he brushes a kiss against her wrist.
Together, they slip out of the backseat. An awkward pause hangs in the air, Mel running her knuckles across her sternum and Dr. Langdon shoving his fists into his pockets, rocking back on his heels.
“I can walk you to your car,” he offers.
“I’ll be okay,” Mel says with a shake of her head.
He nods.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
His smile is tight. “Yeah, tomorrow.”
***
Later that night after dinner and Elf, Mel will examine herself in the mirror, taking note of the bruise on the left side of her lower back—a blossoming reminder of her night with Dr. Langdon.
When she shows up for her next shift, Dr. Langdon won’t be there. Nor for the next or the next. And so on and so on.
She will mark the passage of time by pressing her knuckles into the bruise to keep the proof that he’d been with her—that he was real—alive. It will be the only evidence she has. As it begins to fade despite her best efforts, Mel will visit a tattoo shop in Southside and ask for a small aster and morning glory bouquet—September flowers—where the bruise once was.
As September fades into October and the temperature cools, Mel will wrinkle her nose at her lunch and fall asleep sitting up in the breakroom. Dr. Langdon’s voice will play in her mind, reminding her to take breaks because the ED is tough for people like them. She will add another mental tally mark to her list—thirty-two days since she last saw his face.
At thirty-five days, Mel will stop at Walgreens on the way home and stare at shelf after shelf of pregnancy tests. At thirty-seven, she’ll finally buy one. At thirty-eight, she’ll buy two more to be sure.
Forty-eight days after having sex with Dr. Langdon—forty-eight days since he held her in his arms—Mel will place her feet in the stirrups of her OBGYN’s exam table and allow the transvaginal ultrasound to confirm what the three tests and her body already knew: she’s carrying his child.
At sixty, she will decide to keep it.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679121
|
{"authors": ["disgracedprinceera (museme87)", "kay_rae"], "language": "English", "title": "strangers"}
|
Transmitting in a nightmare of doom.
Transmitting in a nightmare of doom!
My name is Jonathan Harker and I was on a mission to travel to an estate to sell it off to a count. The night was more beautiful than any other night I have ever seen in my life before. The stars were shining bright as if it were trying to tell me to stay longer with them outside. The moon was so round, the birds were still outside singing. As I proceeded to get closer to the castle. Everything went silent, the air became colder causing me to uncontrollably shake by coldness. The castle was humongous, but it gave me goosebumps to approach it. As I approached the door to knock, the door surprisingly swung open at once as if the owner sensed me coming. The man standing in front of me was towering over my head, he was pale, old, he had sharp nails and teeth. He seemed unreal, but I shrugged it off since it is disrespectful to judge others. The tall man said “Greetings there, please come in and have some tea. We have so much to talk about.” As I walked in, the wave of unsettling and uncomfortable air filled the whole room. “Can I really trust this fellow man, even when he gives me the creeps” I thought to myself. “You can call me Count Dracula, and you must be Jonathon Harker. Am I right?” Asked Count Dracula. “Correct sir, thank you for allowing me to enter your home” I responded. BABOOMM!! A loud thunder boomed out of now where and pouring rain started to pour which led to the roads to be flooded. “Sir Harker, I insist for you to feel at home at my place, until the weather gets better. I will prepare a meal and room for you. Feel free to wonder around my house, but the basement and my office are off limits.” Smiled Count Dracula. “I am honored for your hospitality, thank you kind sir” I replied. “Am I a horrible person for judging him as a weirdo and here he is treating me with great service” was racing through my mind. While he was preparing our dinner, I noticed that the decorations were not the same as any other houses. There were odd-shaped statues, and I felt like something was missing but I could not put my finger on it. As I explored my temporary room, I was shocked on how well kept it was, everything was neatly organized, and the bed was made perfectly. “Sir Harker, the food is ready. Eat it while it’s warm” shouted Count Dracula from my bedroom door. At the dining room, I saw that there were barely any seasoning and the food was bland. “Mhmm, this food is good. Who taught you how to cook so well” I lied. “Oh, I got the recipe from a book that I bought 12 years ago. I can give it to you if you want” he answered. Of course, I declined the offer but as a guest I could not bring the courage to tell him the food was not the best. I had to stay at his house for 3 days now. The weather was horrible ever since I stepped foot inside this castle. It is as if someone was controlling it to keep me from going outside. The nights were the worst. I kept tossing and turning because I felt as if someone was communicating to me to wake up and save them from the basement. I heard screams, and crying sounds in my dreams. It felt to real and I would always wake up with my heart beating. Strangely a certain man would appear in all of my dreams, I have never seen this man in all my years of living. I could not take it anymore on the 5th night. Even Count Dracula and I were starting to get along, we were always talking about our hobbies, accomplishments, and favorite activities, but I still could not shake away the eery feeling from my body. I mustered all the courage and sneakily headed toward the basement at 2am. At this time, Dracula is always out of the house to get his groceries, which is weird, but I never questioned him about it. My heart was pounding so loud, and my steps seemed heavier than usual making me nervous of getting caught. My breathe was heavy and I was getting paranoid so badly. To enter the basement there was a door and it usually was locked but coincidentally the Count Dracula forgot to lock it. Inside there were spiraled stairs and the atmosphere was cold and spooky. The way to the basement was dark and all I had was a random candle I was able to snatch from the hallway. As I walked down, the wind from outside sounded as whispers and cackles. Wait wind, why is there wind if the basement is underground. I shuddered in fear as I was going down. I heard a sound from above me. WHOOSH!! Something black slapped my cheek. “AHHHH” I shrieked as I lost my balance and fell down the stairs, the stairs that felt like forever finally finished but my body was aching from the fall. As I picked up my candle that surprisingly did not get blown out, I saw that the small black creature was a bat. “Stupid bat, go away. I hate rats with wings like you” I cursed at the bat. At the end of the stairs was another set of doors, but this time they did not have a lock at all and were tall brown oak wood doors. It was heavy to open but I managed to open it.
|
Transmitting in a nightmare of doom.
Transmitting in a nightmare of doom!
My name is Jonathan Harker and I was on a mission to travel to an estate to sell it off to a count. The night was more beautiful than any other night I have ever seen in my life before. The stars were shining bright as if it were trying to tell me to stay longer with them outside. The moon was so round, the birds were still outside singing. As I proceeded to get closer to the castle. Everything went silent, the air became colder causing me to uncontrollably shake by coldness. The castle was humongous, but it gave me goosebumps to approach it. As I approached the door to knock, the door surprisingly swung open at once as if the owner sensed me coming. The man standing in front of me was towering over my head, he was pale, old, he had sharp nails and teeth. He seemed unreal, but I shrugged it off since it is disrespectful to judge others. The tall man said “Greetings there, please come in and have some tea. We have so much to talk about.” As I walked in, the wave of unsettling and uncomfortable air filled the whole room. “Can I really trust this fellow man, even when he gives me the creeps” I thought to myself. “You can call me Count Dracula, and you must be Jonathon Harker. Am I right?” Asked Count Dracula. “Correct sir, thank you for allowing me to enter your home” I responded. BABOOMM!! A loud thunder boomed out of now where and pouring rain started to pour which led to the roads to be flooded. “Sir Harker, I insist for you to feel at home at my place, until the weather gets better. I will prepare a meal and room for you. Feel free to wonder around my house, but the basement and my office are off limits.” Smiled Count Dracula. “I am honored for your hospitality, thank you kind sir” I replied. “Am I a horrible person for judging him as a weirdo and here he is treating me with great service” was racing through my mind. While he was preparing our dinner, I noticed that the decorations were not the same as any other houses. There were odd-shaped statues, and I felt like something was missing but I could not put my finger on it. As I explored my temporary room, I was shocked on how well kept it was, everything was neatly organized, and the bed was made perfectly. “Sir Harker, the food is ready. Eat it while it’s warm” shouted Count Dracula from my bedroom door. At the dining room, I saw that there were barely any seasoning and the food was bland. “Mhmm, this food is good. Who taught you how to cook so well” I lied. “Oh, I got the recipe from a book that I bought 12 years ago. I can give it to you if you want” he answered. Of course, I declined the offer but as a guest I could not bring the courage to tell him the food was not the best. I had to stay at his house for 3 days now. The weather was horrible ever since I stepped foot inside this castle. It is as if someone was controlling it to keep me from going outside. The nights were the worst. I kept tossing and turning because I felt as if someone was communicating to me to wake up and save them from the basement. I heard screams, and crying sounds in my dreams. It felt to real and I would always wake up with my heart beating. Strangely a certain man would appear in all of my dreams, I have never seen this man in all my years of living. I could not take it anymore on the 5th night. Even Count Dracula and I were starting to get along, we were always talking about our hobbies, accomplishments, and favorite activities, but I still could not shake away the eery feeling from my body. I mustered all the courage and sneakily headed toward the basement at 2am. At this time, Dracula is always out of the house to get his groceries, which is weird, but I never questioned him about it. My heart was pounding so loud, and my steps seemed heavier than usual making me nervous of getting caught. My breathe was heavy and I was getting paranoid so badly. To enter the basement there was a door and it usually was locked but coincidentally the Count Dracula forgot to lock it. Inside there were spiraled stairs and the atmosphere was cold and spooky. The way to the basement was dark and all I had was a random candle I was able to snatch from the hallway. As I walked down, the wind from outside sounded as whispers and cackles. Wait wind, why is there wind if the basement is underground. I shuddered in fear as I was going down. I heard a sound from above me. WHOOSH!! Something black slapped my cheek. “AHHHH” I shrieked as I lost my balance and fell down the stairs, the stairs that felt like forever finally finished but my body was aching from the fall. As I picked up my candle that surprisingly did not get blown out, I saw that the small black creature was a bat. “Stupid bat, go away. I hate rats with wings like you” I cursed at the bat. At the end of the stairs was another set of doors, but this time they did not have a lock at all and were tall brown oak wood doors. It was heavy to open but I managed to open it. A foul smell tortured my nose. Beyond the doors, it was freezing cold and so dark. I found a light switch and my eyes grew wide opened. My heart dropped, the sight I was seeing was something I never thought I would ever see. So many corpses and living humans were trapped behind bars, the basement had the same layout as my dreams that were tormenting me the past few days. A man that was covered in flowers in a separate cell was the exact man in my dreams. I approached him if he knew what was going on. “If it isn’t Jonathan Harker” Smirked the man. I was confused on how he knew my name. “Wrong, my name is uhm… Sam Guarino, and who might you be” I lied because I can not tell him my real name if I don’t even know who he is. “You cannot fool me, I know who you are because I have been sending you messages through your dreams to lead you here to rescue us. If you save us then we will reward you handsomely,” said the strange man. My mind was filled with questions, and my mouth opened “How do you know about my dreams, wait what do you mean you sent me messages through my dreams? How do you even know my name, how do I even know I can trust you? Who even are yo-” “Relax man, I will answer all your questions, but we do not have enough time. All you have to know is that we are all the town people trapped in here because we wanted to overthrow Count Dracula and later found out he was not even human. He is a powerful man in our town’s politics, he slowly started turning it into a dictatorship. We started hogging all the taxes to support his fancy castle, while the lower class grew homeless and starved to death. Once we had enough, we formed a group to take him down and kill him, but I went first to find his weaknesses. Due to the weather being horrible, I was forced to stay at his castle and was unable to inform my fellow peers of the discoveries I found. Do not forget that I am a detective Sir, anyways, my peers tried to start a riot without me take him down but failed and soon he incarcerated all of us in his basement. Also, I am not originally from this world,” said the strange man. I giggled, “Man you really had to sneak in a little joke at the end, you are quite the comedian” it seems as if he was trying to make a small little comic relief in the middle of am astonishing realization that I was trapped with a psycho. “Believe me, that was how I was able to lead you here through your dreams. I originally came from a world called earth and my name is Sherlock Holmes. I was a famous detective who people respected, but one day a I was run over by a rental horse. When I woke up, I was transmitted into this world. I do not know what happened, but I want to return home and solve my unsolved crimes sitting on my desks,” cried the strange man. I pitied the man, but my intuition told me to trust him more than Count Dracula. “Alright Shamock Henry, let us work together. What do you say?” I said as I reached out my hand. “It is Sherlock Holmes, Sir Harker,” Smiled Sherlock Holmes as he shook my hand. “Alright, what is the plan?” I questioned. He responded “The plan is to escape tomorrow, because Count Dracula is in love with me and-” I bursted out laughing because loving the same gender in considered a disgrace to humanity and sounded ridiculous for the serious man Count Dracula to be capable of loving a man. “I am serious, he threw these flowers at me and gouges other men eyes to not be able to see me, you see that pile of skeletons. They were my fellow cell mates who tried to protect me from the Count, but he is too powerful to be stopped” He exclaimed. “Why do we have to escape tomorrow, I believe we need more time, and you need to explain yourself to why you think he isn’t human and how is powerful. He is an old man for old sakes” I complained. “He can climb those stairs in a blink of an eye, he has superhuman strength that he can open the tall heavy doors with one hand and also shape shifting. If you do not believe me then be my guest and see for yourself that he does not allow any sunlight to teach him, nor does he own any mirrors because he can’t see his own reflections.” Said Sherlock as he gave me a dead serious face to prove the fact he did not drop a lie at all. I was still in disbelief of what he was saying, but then he dropped the bomb that made everything click. “Did I forget to mention the fact he also had the ability to control the weather,” Smiled Sherlock. My heart sank, he manipulated the weather to trap me and Sherlock in his castle. “H-H-How will w-we defeat him” I stuttered from fear. “Today will be the last day he will manipulate the weather because he will rest his powers to incarcerate you and possible kill you, but let’s use the weather to our advantage. If you set me and my peers free at 12am, then we can help you open all the curtains and let the sun weaken him” he answered. “That seems so easy and simple. Do you really think that will work” I asked. It seemed like it could backfire at any moment, but I really do wish it would work out smoothly. “I can’t think that properly to come up with a better solution because when the horse hit me, my brain got the worst impact and I have severe headaches all day. I apologize for I cannot come up with a better plan. My usual self would have gotten myself out here by now, I could have been by the ocean eating sandwiches” explains Sherlock. “ Okay I will hurry back up and proceed with the plan today, see you soon partner”, I wished my goodbyes and skedaddled away. It was already 4am by the time I returned to my room. I slept as a baby for the next 4 hours. The Count woke me up for breakfast. The breakfast was scrambled eggs with no salt or anything. It was a depressing breakfast but I could not refuse this monster food. I wanted to test something out and asked him “Count Dracula, do you have a position in the political system in this town”. “Why yes of course I do, owning the most money in this town makes my voice heard to all the townspeople. Go ahead and ask me more questions” The Count calmly answered. Soon, I asked the bigger question, “My cousin was kicked out of the house because he was in love with another man. Do you believe it was reasonable to kick him out” Once again, I lied to see if he would say his personal opinions. “A man loving another man is unacceptable, the Bible stated that man and woman shall be together, and not the same gender being together. Unless, a monster and man are together. Hahahaa, do you get the joke, there are no such thing as monsters in this world” said Count Dracula as he was laughing while waiting for my reaction. I was flustered at his “joke” and faked laughed to make it seem as if I agreed with him. I came up with a plan. I need to distract him where he can’t see and is still the whole time. Soon, I’ll release the men he incarcerated and then we all ambush him when he is still stationed. “Uhm Count Dracula, I have a surprise for you, can you wait here in the dining room while I prepare for it. I need you to be blindfolded and with earplugs, so that the surprise won’t be ruined”. I said. “Sure, but do not take too long before I kill you” He joked but it sent chills down my spine. Once he could not hear or see, I rushed to free my new partners and once again the doors were not locked. It was suspicious but I still went on with the plan. I used wires to open the locks and we quickly ran up the stairs, but to no surprise we were sweating and our calves were burning. The stairs were hell. As Sherlock Holmes was behind him to unveil him and everyone was in position to open the curtains, Dracula suddenly started yelling. “Darling, what are you doing. Why are you out of the cell?” “Goooo!! Open the curtains!” I screamed. One by one were opening the curtains but 5 people. Sherlock Holmes, unveiled Dracula, but he was glaring at me. My heart was racing, I had no idea what was happening. Were we not partners? “I see you met my fiancé Sherlock, we are both magical creatures. He came from a different dimension and I am a superhuman or what you humans call Vampires, and these are my fellow minions” explained Dracula while pointing at the 5 people who did not comply with the plan. “You set me up? What did I ever do to you? I thought we were in this together” I shouted at Sherlock. “Well that was to mess around with you, why did not find it suspicious to how I was fine, and had the ability to talk to you through the mind. Your brain must be dead to not think I was on Dracula’s side. I also left the doors unlocked so that you could fall into my trap” smirked Sherlock Holmes. “I must kill you now, so that word does not get out, and your homophobic self can finally be dead. How are you human and hate people for loving someone who is the opposite gender, you worry to much for other people. Also, do you really believe you can overthrow a dictatorship with only a few supporters. You have to think smart and realize that money is everything and the lives of the peasants mean nothing. All of us power hungry fools have the power to manipulate the lower class wages, food, and water supply and yet have enough supplies for all of the rich” Dracula said to while drawing out his long nails. Woah, they looked unreal. I fell on my knees to admit defeat. How could I be so naïve, all I wanted to do was to sign the form and go home. He jabbed his hand through my chest and pulled out my heart. My mind blacked out. Is this how the after life is, all darkness and nothing to see or hear. Out of nowhere, I heard “Hey Sherlock open your eyes man” from a random voice. Am I not dead? I Though to myself, my name is Jonathan Harker. SPLASH!! I gasped and was able to open my eyes. “What the hell man, you could’ve killed me” I shouted. Wait, how is this possible, I am alive. I looked around and realized I was in an unfamiliar setting. I looked through a mirror and saw I had the same face as Sherlock Holmes. I looked out the window and saw a sign that said “Rental Horses”. Oh crap. “Hey Sherlock, you scared us by getting a concussion from a rental horse.” Laughed the man as he was hugging me. Lord, why did you make me switch into Sherlock Holmes body.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679156
|
{"authors": ["LazyReaderLovesToRunn"], "language": "English", "title": "Transmitting in a nightmare of doom."}
|
only the regretful leave ghosts
Please say you're haunting me, ghost
I'm begging your fire to burn us both
Of the thousand things I've lost in life
You should know it's you I miss the most
That hat of yours lies now in state
No one to wear it so it's worn by your grave
I suppose you chose the beads as homage
Now a memorial is all that remains
Sometimes I'm scared the fire I aspire to will burn brighter than you
I know you (knew you) well enough to guess you'd never get why your legacy is something I'd choose
But I couldn't stand erasing you like that, displacing and defacing the memory of what you were to me
Overwriting what little I have left of you is the worst thing I could ever do
I have to remember you
There's so few left who really do
I almost didn't. I can't forgive it. I don't deserve this but please
Give me this piece of you to hold on to
Fire used to scare me, did you know? I had to let that go for this
It burned me, you see, to nothing; a ghost, a spectre, a will o' the wisp
Does that make your death my resurrection? Would you think my revival worth the price of its inception?
Maybe you would. I don't. If your life was the price for mine, there's no trade on this earth I'd want less
Dauntlessness was always your mask
You never ran from anything no matter who asked
I wish you had
Maybe then I'd have you as more than just another lost part of the past
Past the what-ifs and would-haves, here is where we stand:
A grave upon which rests a beaded necklace and cowboy hat
Your blood in my mouth in the form of the half-eaten fruit in my hand
Three sakazuki cups for the two of us left
Me missing you, and you gone and dead
|
only the regretful leave ghosts
Please say you're haunting me, ghost
I'm begging your fire to burn us both
Of the thousand things I've lost in life
You should know it's you I miss the most
That hat of yours lies now in state
No one to wear it so it's worn by your grave
I suppose you chose the beads as homage
Now a memorial is all that remains
Sometimes I'm scared the fire I aspire to will burn brighter than you
I know you (knew you) well enough to guess you'd never get why your legacy is something I'd choose
But I couldn't stand erasing you like that, displacing and defacing the memory of what you were to me
Overwriting what little I have left of you is the worst thing I could ever do
I have to remember you
There's so few left who really do
I almost didn't. I can't forgive it. I don't deserve this but please
Give me this piece of you to hold on to
Fire used to scare me, did you know? I had to let that go for this
It burned me, you see, to nothing; a ghost, a spectre, a will o' the wisp
Does that make your death my resurrection? Would you think my revival worth the price of its inception?
Maybe you would. I don't. If your life was the price for mine, there's no trade on this earth I'd want less
Dauntlessness was always your mask
You never ran from anything no matter who asked
I wish you had
Maybe then I'd have you as more than just another lost part of the past
Past the what-ifs and would-haves, here is where we stand:
A grave upon which rests a beaded necklace and cowboy hat
Your blood in my mouth in the form of the half-eaten fruit in my hand
Three sakazuki cups for the two of us left
Me missing you, and you gone and dead
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679166
|
{"authors": ["Solena2"], "language": "English", "title": "only the regretful leave ghosts"}
|
Fins
You and Dennis had been inseparable since Pittfest. A trauma bond that ran deep between the two of you, the youngest of both your families, first to go to college, let alone medical school, both lost a patient, and made it through the horrors of the mass casualty. You had been roommates with Trinity for a few months, and when the two of you found Dennis in the abandoned wing, you couldn’t help but offer the spare room.
“Morning.” He smiles gently.
“Hi, Denny. Smoothie? I made extra, and Trinity left early for something.” He nods, leaning against the counter beside you.
“Ready for today?”
“Are we ever? Do you have your extra scrub pairs? I left them on your dresser after I cleaned them last night.”
“Oh, really? Gosh– thank you, let me go grab them.” He walks down the hallway, a dopey smile painting his face. Two scrub pairs were neatly folded on his dresser, one dark blue and the other black. The tenderness of the gesture made his heart skip, warmth waking his body up from the poor night of rest.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The ride to work is quiet. The ambient noise of the train is soothing, legs brushing against each other, small buzzes of a teasing warmth. He watches silently out the window, the buildings passing in a blur, the presence of you beside him grounding him. You mindlessly rest your head on his shoulder, scrolling through your phone. “Trin texted, said it’s already been a crazy morning.”
“Why’d she go in so early?”
“Dr. Abbot wanted her assistance on a trauma. He called her in around four am, I think.”
“He’s really like her since that fancy move she pulled during Pittfest.” You snicker gently as he nods. “She really likes how he does things. Have you heard her talk about how excited she is for her night shift rotation? She had the biggest crush on Ellis, too.” Both of you laugh loudly, drawing a few glances but paying them no mind.
“I think she’s pining for Garcia. That woman flirts with her like there’s no tomorrow.” He grins.
“I think she could use them both. She wouldn’t get as mad about the dishes.” The laughing gets louder.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
“Trinity?” You dry your hands softly, glancing at the now-empty sink.
“Shoot!” She shouts from her room.
“Where’s Dennis?”
“Said something about family! A few days or something!” Your brows furrow. A late, drunken night had revealed the struggles he faced with his family. His older brother was all tried and true cowboys, his father was a deadbeat, and his mother was basically a nun. He hated church and couldn’t wait to get away from home. Why on earth would he want to go back?
“Oh! Uh– alright. I’m heading over to the beach!”
“Enjoy your day off! Be out a while! Parker is coming over!” You exaggerate kissy noises, laughing as she flips you the bird.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The drive was slow and warm, music playing gently, sea breeze filtering through the windows. The water glittered, the waves were gentle against the shore. You lay your towel out, lavishing in the sunlight with a contented sigh. It wasn’t too busy, a few people here and there, a soft breeze brushing your skin. You rub sunscreen on slowly, watching the water. A flicker of something jumps in the distance –your head tilts, watching closely as another iridescent flicker bounces above the waves. You stand, walking towards the water and tracking the movement. The cool water brushed your ankles and then your knees as you slowly wade into the water, enchanted by the glow. In the haze, you don’t notice a bigger wave heading towards you, sweeping you under the water.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
“Breathe, breathe, breathe… c’mon…” A familiar voice sounds above you, air pushing out of your lungs in violent coughs. “There you are…” Your eyes flutter open, looking around and adjusting to the sunlight. Dennis was above you, eyes bluer than usual. Pearls decorated his face, iridescent jewels decorating between them –your brows furrow.
“Denny?” You cough out.
“Yeah– yeah, it’s me… Hi…” His glance is relieved and gentle as he gazes down at you.
“Why? Why… what’s on your face?” You mumble, slowly sitting up, coughing uncomfortably.
“The face is the last thing you should worry about.” He smiles weakly. Your eyes widen as the land on blur and white iridescent scales, decorating an even more magnificent tail. In a haze of recovering from the water, you reach out to touch it. He watches silently, ignoring the way it makes him shiver.
“Mermaid…”
“Mhmm.”
“You.. you’re… you’re a mermaid, Dennis.”
“You’re correct.”
“Nebraska?” The word makes him laugh.
“Nebraska was real, however, an adopted family. They don’t know either. My real family is down there.”
“Can I touch it again?” He nods gently, silently watching your hand, the sound of the ocean filling the space between the two of you. The scales were soft, shimmering in the sunlight under your touch. Small fins protruded from his forearms, the spines blue, the spaces between them a beautiful white. Small patches of scales littered his arms and chest, a modest patch wrapping around his shoulder. “Am I
|
Fins
You and Dennis had been inseparable since Pittfest. A trauma bond that ran deep between the two of you, the youngest of both your families, first to go to college, let alone medical school, both lost a patient, and made it through the horrors of the mass casualty. You had been roommates with Trinity for a few months, and when the two of you found Dennis in the abandoned wing, you couldn’t help but offer the spare room.
“Morning.” He smiles gently.
“Hi, Denny. Smoothie? I made extra, and Trinity left early for something.” He nods, leaning against the counter beside you.
“Ready for today?”
“Are we ever? Do you have your extra scrub pairs? I left them on your dresser after I cleaned them last night.”
“Oh, really? Gosh– thank you, let me go grab them.” He walks down the hallway, a dopey smile painting his face. Two scrub pairs were neatly folded on his dresser, one dark blue and the other black. The tenderness of the gesture made his heart skip, warmth waking his body up from the poor night of rest.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The ride to work is quiet. The ambient noise of the train is soothing, legs brushing against each other, small buzzes of a teasing warmth. He watches silently out the window, the buildings passing in a blur, the presence of you beside him grounding him. You mindlessly rest your head on his shoulder, scrolling through your phone. “Trin texted, said it’s already been a crazy morning.”
“Why’d she go in so early?”
“Dr. Abbot wanted her assistance on a trauma. He called her in around four am, I think.”
“He’s really like her since that fancy move she pulled during Pittfest.” You snicker gently as he nods. “She really likes how he does things. Have you heard her talk about how excited she is for her night shift rotation? She had the biggest crush on Ellis, too.” Both of you laugh loudly, drawing a few glances but paying them no mind.
“I think she’s pining for Garcia. That woman flirts with her like there’s no tomorrow.” He grins.
“I think she could use them both. She wouldn’t get as mad about the dishes.” The laughing gets louder.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
“Trinity?” You dry your hands softly, glancing at the now-empty sink.
“Shoot!” She shouts from her room.
“Where’s Dennis?”
“Said something about family! A few days or something!” Your brows furrow. A late, drunken night had revealed the struggles he faced with his family. His older brother was all tried and true cowboys, his father was a deadbeat, and his mother was basically a nun. He hated church and couldn’t wait to get away from home. Why on earth would he want to go back?
“Oh! Uh– alright. I’m heading over to the beach!”
“Enjoy your day off! Be out a while! Parker is coming over!” You exaggerate kissy noises, laughing as she flips you the bird.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The drive was slow and warm, music playing gently, sea breeze filtering through the windows. The water glittered, the waves were gentle against the shore. You lay your towel out, lavishing in the sunlight with a contented sigh. It wasn’t too busy, a few people here and there, a soft breeze brushing your skin. You rub sunscreen on slowly, watching the water. A flicker of something jumps in the distance –your head tilts, watching closely as another iridescent flicker bounces above the waves. You stand, walking towards the water and tracking the movement. The cool water brushed your ankles and then your knees as you slowly wade into the water, enchanted by the glow. In the haze, you don’t notice a bigger wave heading towards you, sweeping you under the water.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
“Breathe, breathe, breathe… c’mon…” A familiar voice sounds above you, air pushing out of your lungs in violent coughs. “There you are…” Your eyes flutter open, looking around and adjusting to the sunlight. Dennis was above you, eyes bluer than usual. Pearls decorated his face, iridescent jewels decorating between them –your brows furrow.
“Denny?” You cough out.
“Yeah– yeah, it’s me… Hi…” His glance is relieved and gentle as he gazes down at you.
“Why? Why… what’s on your face?” You mumble, slowly sitting up, coughing uncomfortably.
“The face is the last thing you should worry about.” He smiles weakly. Your eyes widen as the land on blur and white iridescent scales, decorating an even more magnificent tail. In a haze of recovering from the water, you reach out to touch it. He watches silently, ignoring the way it makes him shiver.
“Mermaid…”
“Mhmm.”
“You.. you’re… you’re a mermaid, Dennis.”
“You’re correct.”
“Nebraska?” The word makes him laugh.
“Nebraska was real, however, an adopted family. They don’t know either. My real family is down there.”
“Can I touch it again?” He nods gently, silently watching your hand, the sound of the ocean filling the space between the two of you. The scales were soft, shimmering in the sunlight under your touch. Small fins protruded from his forearms, the spines blue, the spaces between them a beautiful white. Small patches of scales littered his arms and chest, a modest patch wrapping around his shoulder. “Am I dead? A soft giggle of disbelief leaves your lips. Your fingertips brush the scales covering his shoulder, sending a shiver through him. You pull back gently.
“Not dead. But probably disoriented. You’ve worked on plenty of drowning cases.” You nod weakly, bracing yourself against his shoulder. “We need to get your lungs checked…”
“But everyone thinks you’re in Nebraska…” A hand drifts along your arm gently.
“We’ll figure it out, alright? Actually… You’re not scared of the water, are you?” You shake your head gently, gasping as you’re suddenly tugged under the water again. The panic seizes you for a moment, but it dissolves as you realize a bubble has formed around your nose and mouth. Dennis elegantly swam beside you, his tail gliding through the water, reflecting the sunlight, a firm arm around you, before you open your eyes and observe the small cove he’d brought you to. He smiles, observing your wonder before moving to a shelf and grabbing something that looked like a stethoscope. Stipes of seaweed, small shells attached as the bell and ear pieces. He holds it softly to your chest, listening to your lungs. He nods, rubbing your arm gently and giving you a thumbs up.
He swims away for a moment, pulling a small box off a shelf and pulling out a string of pearls, a slightly bigger one, framed with silver in the middle. You tilt your head in curiosity before he moves behind you and gently clips it around your neck. You smile at him, and he squeezes the back of your neck gently.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
He gently brings you back up to the surface, his arms still strongly supporting you. His legs reform under the water before you two make your way back on shore. Dennis silently sat beside you, drawing in the sand. His legs had returned as you watched his fingers drift through the layers. “Do you like it?” You ask gently.
“Like what?”
“Being a mermaid, Denny.”
“It’s definitely something. You’re the first to know.”
“I think it’s fun. And I promise I won’t tell anyone, even Trinity.”
“Even Trinity? That’s special.” He grins, nudging your shoulder.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
It was late in the evening after a long shift when you gently knocked on Dennis’s door. Your feet ached, and your shoulders slumped, but you just wanted to see him. You’d been having dreams ever since your day at the beach, the patterns of his scales echoing through your dreams. He slowly pulls it open, his shoulders relaxing at the sight of you. “Weird question.” You say gently.
“That’s not new for you.” You push his shoulder gently.
“I want… I want to see your tail again. I’ve… I’ve been having the… the weirdest dreams about it.”
“Only shows if I’m in the ocean. A–and as for the dreams, it's just part of a mermaid encounter. Dreams occur consistently, flashes of the ocean.”
“Oh… well then, let's go… I’ve got a fresh tank of gas.” Dennis meets your eyes with a gentle smile, giving in to the softness of your gaze, feeling his heart stutter.
“Alright, alright.” The drive isn’t too long, the soft breeze flowing through the window, the streetlights passing over the soft lines on his face. You smile softly, turning up the radio and gently humming along. The noise makes his chest burn with a newfound affection.
“I’m really glad I met you, Dennis. As awful as Pittfest was… I’m glad I met you.” Crimson coats his cheeks, crawling down his neck. As much as the affection burns a hole through his heart, the fear of unreciprocated affection holds him back.
“I’m just glad you and Trin let me stay around…” He says quietly.
“And now I get to be friends with a mermaid…” He smiles again, sparing you a gentle glance before parking. The sand is cool beneath your feet, and the sounds of the shore are getting louder. The moonlight bounced off the waves, a gentle shimmer that sparkled across the horizon.
“The water is freezing… We have to get out to the rocks so no one can see us. You have to swim, but I’m going to have you hold onto me, alright? The waves are harsh, and you can’t let go, ok?” You nod gently, peeling away your clothes, revealing your bathing suit. He shyly strips down, and you avert your eyes from the pale shine of his skin. You walk into the water hand in hand, his legs changing underneath the cover of the ocean. He wraps an arm around your middle, your arms moving around his neck as the water laps around you. You shiver, and he pulls you tighter, his body warm. His build was bigger than most thought, mucking out stalls and working on a farm, giving him the muscle he needed.
The rocks approach, and he helps you onto a flat ledge, jumping up beside you. You shiver, arms wrapped around your middle, and he gives you a sympathetic smile. But the cold drifts away as you reach out for the scales on his tail. White in the area it protrudes, blue at the triangular tips. They were soft, the texture pleasing beneath the tips of your fingers. He watched silently, the gentle affection making red crawl over his cheeks. His eyes drift up to your lips, glad the shadow of darkness his it all. “What happens in your dreams?” He whispers.
“I–I’m swimming at the surface, looking down into the water. You’re swimming below me, looking up. It’s the colors and iridescence that I remember the most. It’s so pretty. It soothes me greatly.” His blush somehow deepens.
“I–I’m glad they help you…”
“I’m finally not dreaming about the hospital.” You smile, looking up to meet his eyes, which were a lot closer than you anticipated. Without thinking, your fingers drift up the pearls, glitter, and jewels decorating his face.
“Crown jewels. Part of them at least. The rest are down in my cove.”
“Mermaid royalty? Are you sure I didn’t die when I was drowning?” He smiles.
“I’m a prince. Heir to the throne after my father. I’m an only child under the surface.” You nod, tracing the soft details on his face.
“That’s amazing…”
“I–I–I–”
“Dennis? Are… are you ok?” You retract your hand.
“Fine. ‘m fine, sweetheart.” He whispers, clearing his throat and pulling back gently.
“Do we need to get back?”
“That’s not an awful idea.” He nods, gently grabs you, and jumps into the water.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The next few days dragged. Various traumas and triage patients blur together. You and Dennis had a few moments every so often, but the grueling schedule was forming a wedge. You missed him. The moments on the beach had been few and far between, but you couldn’t stop the dreams.
Late one night, you’re stuck in the dream of the cove. Sparkling jewels, pearls, and shells. But Dennis was so clear in your mind. The glimmer of his tail, the scales that littered his chest. IT all blurred together in calming flashes of light. You stir slowly, the blues fading from your gaze, the moonlight flooding through your open window. 3:18 AM flashed at you mockingly. The sheets pooled around your waist as you sat up with a slow yawn and stretch.
Your feet hit the cool floor as you push the blankets off you, your knees protesting gently as you stand, a groan leaving your lips with a stretch. The walk to the kitchen is mindless, filling a glass with water and rubbing your eyes. As you rinse the glass and put it away, your feet guide you to Dennis’s door. It was cracked, a line of light, illuminating the floorboards. He was hunched over his desk, the lamp on, surrounded by scattered papers, medical journals, and textbooks. He jumps, head shooting up as the door creaks open. “Denny?”
“Hey, sweetheart… What are you doing up?”
“The… the dreams came back.” You whisper.
“Was it bad?” He stands, moving to you and gently rubbing his hands up and down your arms. You shake your head, rubbing your eyes.
“I’m always in the cove with you… watching…” He squeezes your arms.
“Come lie down, alright? I wish I could get them to go away.” He mutters quietly, pulling you to his bed and letting you sit down. “Try to sleep, alright?” You nod as he presses a gentle kiss against your forehead. “That thing above my bed… It’s an ancient mermaid protection.” The gorgeous decorative piece had strung up shells, pearls, starfish, and beading. It was intricate and delicate.
“I always wondered why a farm boy from Nebraska had so many oceanic decorations in his room.” A shy smile cracks across his lips as he sits back down at his desk. “What are you reading about?”
“I’ve got to write a paper about the opioid crisis…. Ever since I mentioned joining the street team with Kiara, she asked me to research it more.” You wrap his dark blue comforter around you, subtly inhaling his scent, the oceanic whiff making your head spin.
“That’s nice…” You mutter, the exhaustion overwhelming your body.
“Sleep. Sweetheart. Please. Hopefully, the light doesn’t bother you. You shake your head, sinking deeper into the sheets, lavishing in his smell. You slowly drift off, the dreams washing over you again, even more soothingly. He stays up for another hour or two– he wasn’t sure- but when his eyes felt too heavy, they drifted to you, soundly asleep with a gentle smile dusting your lips. He matches the smile, slipping into bed beside you and wrapping an arm around you.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The tide was quiet, the water glittering from the moonlight. His arms were wrapped around your middle, chin on your shoulder, as your fingertips grazed the texture of his scales. It was incredibly soothing, helping the haze in your mind. You’d missed three days of work in a row, and sleep wasn’t coming easily. He started taking to the beach more often, hoping it’d help.
“Any dreams this week?” He murmurs against your ear.
“Every night. I don’t… I don’t understand why they are… making me feel like this.” His arms rub up and down your side.
“I talked to… a few others about it… mainly the mermaid in charge of the archives–”
“There’s mermaid archives?” He smiles, squeezing your side.
“You betcha…maybe I’ll show you someday.” You nod.
“Did you find anything out about my dreams?” He nods against your shoulder, continuing to soothingly rub your side.
“Mermaids… can have soulmates. It's cheesy, but they’re called ‘pearl bonds.’ The necklace I gave you…” Your hand drifts up to it; you hadn’t taken it off since he’d given it to you. “I didn’t realize at the time… but it’s a very old courting gesture and pearl bonds only form when… affection is uhm– reciprocated by both… involved.” He says quietly, lips brushing against your ear and jaw. A heat curls across your skin, and he smiles, kissing your temple.
“Does… does that mean the dreams will go away?”
“Only if the act of courtship is… uhm– reciprocated.” The heat deepens.
“How does that work. I need to bring you back down to the cove… during the summer solstice. You have to find something as a reciprocated act. Does that make sense?” you nod, continuing to trace patterns onto the scales.
“The summer solstice is on Sunday, right?” He nods.
“But you don’t have to return the courtship.” You turn to look at him.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“In case… You don’t… want me in that way.”
“You said the pearl bonds only happen when… it’s… reciprocated.” He nods again. “So… it’s… reciprocated.” You whisper, feeling a bunch of warm kisses against your shoulder. Your fingertips move to brush along the ribs of the fins protruding from his arms.
“We get to come back during the day for once.”
“It’ll be like my dreams…” You smile, pressing your temple against his forehead.
“Just like them. You ready to go home?” He whispers.
“Do we have to?” He smiles against the cool skin of your shoulder.
“I wish not, but we’ve gotta be out of the apartment by 6:30 tomorrow, alright?” You smile, kissing Dennis’s cheek and wrapping your arms around his shoulders.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The days blurred together slowly as Sunday approached. Traumas here and there, the drag of triage. The nights were slow, spent in the tropical smell of his dark blue sheets, the dreams becoming more vivid night to night, almost as if your body knew what was coming.
Sunday morning, you stir to Dennis brushing his fingers slowly through your hair, fingertips teasing the skin of your hairline. “Morning…” You grin gently, stretching your arms out.
“I’m so excited…”
“Really?”
“I’m ready for the dreams to go away…” He lets out a soft laugh through his nose, kissing your temple.
“Take a shower before we go, alright? The water always feels better after that.” You nod, sitting up, flutters filling your stomach at his hands on your hips. They rub up and down softly, squeezing in between, soft giggles passing through your lips at the ticklish feeling.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
The water was warmer than usual as Dennis held you, the water creeping up to your shoulders. “You ready, sweetheart?” You nod and wrap your arms around his shoulder, a bubble covering your mouth and nose as the blue floods around you. His tail glittered alluringly, the reflection of the shifting water making it even better.
It felt just like your dreams. Like you were floating, his cove was clearer than usual. His small details, the pictures, the trinkets. He sets you down softly as you continue to look around. He gives you a gentle look, silently asking if you remember what to do, and you nod, swimming towards a small reef of coral, looking around. A glimmer catches your eyes, some kind of jewel stuck in the sand, you grab it, carefully avoiding the coral. Part of it was worn down from the erosion of the sand movement, but the other side sparkled an additive blue. A sapphire must’ve fallen from the surface. You smile, swimming back over, into Dennis’s arm.
He tilts his head curiously, holding you closer. You bring your hands up, the gem in your hands. He smiles, taking it gently and pressing it to his lips for a moment. You couldn’t help but admire the way the blue matched the accents of his tail and fins. A wave of emotion crashes between the two of you, and you press your forehead against the top of his sternum, feeling his heartbeat under your palm. He kisses the top of your head, pulling you even closer before slowly swimming up to the rocks.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
His body was warm against yours, arms around your middle, his favorite way to hold you. He pressed long kisses along your shoulders and the back of your neck, the stone clutched tightly in his palm. “I’m going to have a jeweler make a necklace… So I can keep it forever.” He mutters warmly against your skin. Your fingertips trace patterns into his scales. “You’re a royal now, my dearest.” Warmth creeps across your skin.
“I didn’t even think about that… Do I have duties?” He laughs gently.
“We have no responsibilities till after my father passes, which will be a long time. Then my mother takes over, then I do, and you will not. Since you’re human.” You smile, pressing your forehead against his.
“Do I get a crown?” He smiles and nods.
“I’ll show you someday. Hopefully, once we finish school, we’ll have more time.”
“Denny?”
“My dearest.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Forever and always.” He smiles, pressing his lips slowly against yours. He gives you a few long pecks before pulling you in tightly and kissing you deeply, tongue passing your lips lovingly. Your fingers drift across his chest, feeling the patches of scales soft under your touch.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
“What the hell do you mean you’re a mermaid, Huckleberry? Do I need to start calling you Ariel?” You laugh loudly, nudging Trinity’s shoulder with a smile, a blush coating Dennis’s cheeks.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679181
|
{"authors": ["Dand_elions7231"], "language": "English", "title": "Fins"}
|
under the table
The campaign had been running for thirteen hours straight, the longest session Mike had DM’d in months. The scent of stale pizza wafted over the chaotic sprawl of character sheets, dice, and empty soda cans.
Entirely too many empty soda cans.
Mike sat at the head of the table as his leg bounced up and down like a piston. He was in agony. He’d downed three cokes in the last hour to stay alert, and now his bladder was exacting a cruel revenge. The pressure in his lower abdomen radiated sharp spikes of pain every time he shifted in his chair.
"Okay," Dustin said, slamming his hand on the table. "I cast Fireball. That’s an 8d6 damage roll, right? Because I’m level five now."
"Wait, wait," Lucas interrupted. "You can’t cast Fireball in a confined space without hitting the party. We’re in a cave, genius. You’ll roast us."
"I have Spell Sculpting!" Dustin argued. "I can shape it around you guys!"
"That’s an Evocation wizard feature, you’re playing a Sorcerer!"
Mike groaned, the sound blending in with his frustration at the argument. He needed to go. He needed to go twenty minutes ago. But he couldn't leave. If he walked away now, right at the climax of the dungeon, he knew—he just knew—Dustin would fudge his spell slots or Lucas would conveniently find a healing potion he didn't have. They were cheaters. He had to watch them.
He shoved his hand in his pocket and squeezed his penis, rolling the head between his thumb and forefinger. Being cut left the sensitive tip bare against the fabric of his underwear, and the friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. It was a dangerous game, but the sudden spark of pleasure was a welcome distraction from the pain. He found himself playing with it, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles over the smooth ridge where the head met the shaft.
He felt the change immediately. The blood rushed to the head first, causing it to swell and flare out. It felt plump and sensitive in his hand, a swollen mushroom cap demanding attention. Then the shaft began to fill, thickening and lengthening as he stiffened. The erection strained against the unforgiving teeth of his zipper. The constriction only added to the intensity.
The sounds of Lucas and Dustin bickering about spell slots seemed to fade into a pleasant background hum as he focused entirely on the sensation in his pocket. I'm definitely jerking off the second they leave, he thought hazily, giving his hardening cock another squeeze.
"Mike?" Will asked softly, looking concerned. "You okay? You’re sweating."
"I'm fine!" Mike snapped, his voice cracking. He felt his face burning hot, guilt and arousal mixing with the panic. "Just... figure out the spell, guys. The Beholder is charging its eye ray."
The force of his voice echoed straight to his bladder. The blood left his penis, any lingering arousal leaving to make way for pure pain. He squeezed tighter, his knuckles white inside his pocket. He tapped his foot frantically against the leg of the table, the vibration doing nothing to settle the sloshing liquid inside him.
Just hold it, he told himself. Five more minutes. Finish the dungeon, then run to the bathroom.
But his body had other plans. A sharp spasm hit him, and his grip faltered for a fraction of a second. He gritted his teeth and doubled over slightly, but it was too late. A jet of pee forced its way past his grip, shooting into his underwear. He clamped down instantly, panic surging through him, but the damage was done. He looked down at his lap. A dark wet spot, the size of a quarter, had bloomed on the front of his jeans.
He stopped breathing. If he took another breath he would go. He realized with a sudden, horrifying clarity that he couldn't hold this for one more second. It was beading at the tip again. Then dribbling. He could feel it, small droplets leaking out and snaking down the underside of his head, down to the shaft where he gripped tightly; the more he squeezed, the more he forced out what was already in his penis.
"Okay, fine!" Lucas yelled. "Cast the stupid fireball! Roll for damage!"
The boys all leaned over the table, watching Dustin shake a handful of dice. Mike’s eyes darted to the floor. An empty soda can lay near his foot. It was risky—insane—but he had no choice. He couldn't stand up with a wet spot, and he had already started going inside his pants.
While the sound of rolling dice filled the room ("Yes! Natural twenty!"), Mike moved with desperate speed. He grabbed the can and ducked his head, pretending to check a rule book he’d "dropped" under the table. Beneath the table, he unzipped. He flopped his penis out, leaking freely now, drops of pee falling to the floor below. Mike whimpered, his hand shaking as he tried to position the opening of the can against himself. But the angle was impossible. He was sitting down, cramped, and the can opening was too small.
He tried to press the tip against the rim. The cold contact made him start leaking even worse. The cramps were getting
|
under the table
The campaign had been running for thirteen hours straight, the longest session Mike had DM’d in months. The scent of stale pizza wafted over the chaotic sprawl of character sheets, dice, and empty soda cans.
Entirely too many empty soda cans.
Mike sat at the head of the table as his leg bounced up and down like a piston. He was in agony. He’d downed three cokes in the last hour to stay alert, and now his bladder was exacting a cruel revenge. The pressure in his lower abdomen radiated sharp spikes of pain every time he shifted in his chair.
"Okay," Dustin said, slamming his hand on the table. "I cast Fireball. That’s an 8d6 damage roll, right? Because I’m level five now."
"Wait, wait," Lucas interrupted. "You can’t cast Fireball in a confined space without hitting the party. We’re in a cave, genius. You’ll roast us."
"I have Spell Sculpting!" Dustin argued. "I can shape it around you guys!"
"That’s an Evocation wizard feature, you’re playing a Sorcerer!"
Mike groaned, the sound blending in with his frustration at the argument. He needed to go. He needed to go twenty minutes ago. But he couldn't leave. If he walked away now, right at the climax of the dungeon, he knew—he just knew—Dustin would fudge his spell slots or Lucas would conveniently find a healing potion he didn't have. They were cheaters. He had to watch them.
He shoved his hand in his pocket and squeezed his penis, rolling the head between his thumb and forefinger. Being cut left the sensitive tip bare against the fabric of his underwear, and the friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. It was a dangerous game, but the sudden spark of pleasure was a welcome distraction from the pain. He found himself playing with it, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles over the smooth ridge where the head met the shaft.
He felt the change immediately. The blood rushed to the head first, causing it to swell and flare out. It felt plump and sensitive in his hand, a swollen mushroom cap demanding attention. Then the shaft began to fill, thickening and lengthening as he stiffened. The erection strained against the unforgiving teeth of his zipper. The constriction only added to the intensity.
The sounds of Lucas and Dustin bickering about spell slots seemed to fade into a pleasant background hum as he focused entirely on the sensation in his pocket. I'm definitely jerking off the second they leave, he thought hazily, giving his hardening cock another squeeze.
"Mike?" Will asked softly, looking concerned. "You okay? You’re sweating."
"I'm fine!" Mike snapped, his voice cracking. He felt his face burning hot, guilt and arousal mixing with the panic. "Just... figure out the spell, guys. The Beholder is charging its eye ray."
The force of his voice echoed straight to his bladder. The blood left his penis, any lingering arousal leaving to make way for pure pain. He squeezed tighter, his knuckles white inside his pocket. He tapped his foot frantically against the leg of the table, the vibration doing nothing to settle the sloshing liquid inside him.
Just hold it, he told himself. Five more minutes. Finish the dungeon, then run to the bathroom.
But his body had other plans. A sharp spasm hit him, and his grip faltered for a fraction of a second. He gritted his teeth and doubled over slightly, but it was too late. A jet of pee forced its way past his grip, shooting into his underwear. He clamped down instantly, panic surging through him, but the damage was done. He looked down at his lap. A dark wet spot, the size of a quarter, had bloomed on the front of his jeans.
He stopped breathing. If he took another breath he would go. He realized with a sudden, horrifying clarity that he couldn't hold this for one more second. It was beading at the tip again. Then dribbling. He could feel it, small droplets leaking out and snaking down the underside of his head, down to the shaft where he gripped tightly; the more he squeezed, the more he forced out what was already in his penis.
"Okay, fine!" Lucas yelled. "Cast the stupid fireball! Roll for damage!"
The boys all leaned over the table, watching Dustin shake a handful of dice. Mike’s eyes darted to the floor. An empty soda can lay near his foot. It was risky—insane—but he had no choice. He couldn't stand up with a wet spot, and he had already started going inside his pants.
While the sound of rolling dice filled the room ("Yes! Natural twenty!"), Mike moved with desperate speed. He grabbed the can and ducked his head, pretending to check a rule book he’d "dropped" under the table. Beneath the table, he unzipped. He flopped his penis out, leaking freely now, drops of pee falling to the floor below. Mike whimpered, his hand shaking as he tried to position the opening of the can against himself. But the angle was impossible. He was sitting down, cramped, and the can opening was too small.
He tried to press the tip against the rim. The cold contact made him start leaking even worse. The cramps were getting the better of him. He meant to let out a little. Just a trickle to start relieving the pain. But the moment his bladder got the green light, there was nothing he could do to stop the gush that erupted from him.
It didn't go in the can.
The stream shot over his hand, spraying wildly onto the concrete floor with a deafening hiss.
"Whoa, 36 damage!" Dustin cheered. Then he paused. "Wait. What is that noise?"
"Is something leaking?" Lucas asked, frowning.
"Mike?" Will asked.
Dustin leaned over the side of his chair. Lucas ducked his head.
There was nowhere to hide. Under the table, Mike was hunched over—his penis fully exposed—spraying a chaotic fountain of piss onto the floor while he desperately, hopelessly tried to angle it into the can.
"Whoa!" Dustin shouted, scrambling back and knocking his chair over. "What the hell!"
"Mike!" Lucas yelled, recoiling. "Dude!"
Mike looked up, tears streaming down his face. His face was a mask of pure, agonizing humiliation. "I—I can't stop it"
He clamped his hand down over the tip of his penis, praying he could cut it off, but the force only multiplied. It was like covering the end of a hose: the stream didn’t slow, it splintered, shooting sideways through his fingers, spraying violently, punishing him for trying to control it.
"Why didn't you go to the bathroom?!" Lucas screamed, covering his eyes but peeking through his fingers.
"I didn't want you to cheat!" Mike sobbed. "I tried to go in the can!"
"The can?!" Dustin yelled, pointing at the puddle rapidly expanding toward his shoes. "You're peeing on the floor!"
"I’m sorry, I tried to aim but my penis is too big for the opening!" Mike wailed.
While Lucas and Dustin were covering their eyes, Will was staring. His eyes were locked on Mike’s exposed penis, tracking the stream as it hit the floor, then traveling back up to the source. He wasn't looking away.
The relief of emptying his bladder was a euphoric high that clashed horribly with the mortification burning his soul, but Will's gaze added a confusing, hot layer to the chaos. It was obvious—glaringly so—that he was getting sexual attention right now, in the middle of the worst moment of his life. Mike felt his face burn, but a weird thrill shot through his chest. It felt... good. It felt good that someone was checking him out, even like this.
He looked down at himself through the blur of his panic. He was still a little bit hard from his earlier fondling, his shaft thicker and heavier than usual as he peed relentlessly. Does he think it's big? The thought popped into his head unbidden, a flash of vanity amidst the disaster. Does he think it's a nice dick?
For a split second, the shame vanished, replaced by a strange, preening pride. He was making a mess, but he was showing off, and Will was watching every second of it.
Then the metal soda can clattered into the puddle, snapping him back to the horrible reality of his situation. He scrambled to stand up, thinking he could aim it better away from everyone.
"No, don't stand up!" Lucas warned.
Mike stood up. His penis bobbled with the force and the stream caught the air, splashing against the leg of the card table and spraying a fine mist toward the game board.
"Oh my god, watch the map!" Dustin shrieked, diving to save his character sheet.
Mike bolted for the bathroom, leaving a trail on his way there. He didn’t bother with the door. The sink was closest, and he lunged for it, bracing himself as his body finally gave up trying to hold anything back. His muscles cramped hard, intent on emptying everything as fast as possible. The stream sputtered, turned to a dribble, and stopped. It was over quickly. There wasn’t much left to give after what had already spilled across the floor.
The silence that followed was heavy.
He sniffled, wiping his eyes with his arm. He gave his penis two quick shakes—habit kicking in even through the shame—and squeezed the last drop out before hastily stuffing himself back into his soaked pants and zipping up.
He walked back toward the table and looked at his friends. They stared at him with a mix of horror and confusion.
Mike cleared his throat, his voice trembling.
"Can we..." he whispered. "Can we just pretend that didn't happen? And get back to the game?"
Lucas looked at the puddle. He looked at the wet spray on the table leg. He looked at Mike.
"Dude," Lucas said flatly. "You’re not allowed to drink coke during our campaigns anymore."
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679186
|
{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "under the table"}
|
Pater Fidelis
It had been a long day for Fourchenault Leveilleur. When Galuf's foundling called for aid in forestalling what the Eorzeans were calling "the Final Days", the Forum elected to send its response direct from the mouth of one of Sharlayan's most senior legislators. The city of scholars would not be providing aid, thank you very much. Its stance would forever remain that it would chart the course of history, not change it.
Were it not for his own children's insolence, it might've just been a quick jaunt to the continent and back again. Now he was left at the Carline Canopy, stewing in his own failure, waiting for the next airship to Vylbrand to take him far away from this whole mess. Where did he go so wrong? Was he not stern enough with the twins? Perhaps if his own damnable father hadn't poisoned their minds with such idealistic nonsense, he reckoned, this could all have been avoided in the first place.
Sigh. Fresh air. That's what he needed. A bit of fresh air to calm the nerves.
Leaving his seat and walking through the double doors at the north end of the building, he stepped onto the balcony overlooking the grand waterwheel that powered the saws and lathes of the city's famed carpentry guild. It was a clear night, perfect for stargazing, for contemplating the mysteries of the universe. It would be perfect, at least, if it weren't for Fourchenault feeling a pair of eyes on him, staring daggers through him.
He turned to face his observer. Leaning against the exterior wall, beside the double doors, was Eorzea's so-called champion. A Miqo'te woman of roughly twenty-five summers, he reckoned, with pale skin and blonde hair. She was clad in leather armor, dyed blue and black, and on her back was a massive scythe clearly more suited to harvesting the souls of men than harvesting grain. Fourchenault still towered over her — it was hard for him not to, being an Elezen man of even just average height — but her Nhalmasquen stature made her far more imposing than most of the Miqo'te Fourchenault had spent time around in his own home.
"Mistress… Celeris, was it?" Fourchenault's face was stern, relaying as little emotion as he could to the warrior before him. "Pray, forgive me. I didn't realize someone was already out here."
"Nay," the woman responded. "Not my tavern, not my balcony. Feel free to stand out here for as long as you want."
He had heard this woman speak a little at the meeting in the Lotus Stand a short time ago, mostly to parrot the "great" Louisoix's ill-advised aphorisms at Fourchenault for the umpteenth time in yet another vain attempt to convince him to forsake his nation's greatest traditions. It was a strange voice — grizzled and almost a little gravelly, a posh Imperial accent tinged with the almost melodious lilt of a native Keeper. "And it's Ser Celeris, if you must."
Fourchenault nodded. "Ser Celeris. I must say," he replied with as much interest as he could possibly feign, "the stories do not disappoint. You certainly have a presence about you."
She scoffed. "The feeling's mutual. You're exactly as stuck-up and arrogant as everyone warned me."
Fourchenault furrowed his brow. Subtlety was not one of the Warrior of Light's strong suits, it seemed. Very well. "It is bad enough my own children are against me," he said, his mouth curling into more of an explicit frown. "I do not believe I need deal with such disparagement from one such as you."
"Your own children?" Her expression shifted to one of incredulity as she pushed herself from the wall and strode to the balcony's edge, leaning against the railing. "Could've sworn you just disowned them."
"They made their choices. Now they must live with them." Fourchenault shook his head. "Maybe it will force them to reconsider the ruinous path they tread. Not that I would expect someone without children of their own to understand."
The Miqo'te glared up at him. He hadn't seen this side of her before. At the Lotus Stand, she carried herself with decorum and a diplomatic restraint suiting someone who may be considered Eorzea's representative. Here, though? Away from the gaze of the Alliance, of the Students, of the Scions? There was barely-contained rage in her eyes, an expression that was nearly deafening in its wrath.
"You're right," she growled. "I wouldn't understand." She lifted herself from the railing, turning to Fourchenault and walking closer to him. "I wouldn't understand how a parent could look at their child, who loves them more than anything in the world, and say 'we are not family anymore.' I wouldn't understand how someone could be so heartless as to cut their own flesh and blood out of their life just like that."
Fourchenault's temper nearly boiled over. For the first time since his father left Sharlayan, he felt like he was seeing red. "How dare you presume to understand my motives? I-"
"There are no motives to justify this!" The warrior grabbed at the fabric of Fourchenault's mantle with shocking strength, staggering him.
|
Pater Fidelis
It had been a long day for Fourchenault Leveilleur. When Galuf's foundling called for aid in forestalling what the Eorzeans were calling "the Final Days", the Forum elected to send its response direct from the mouth of one of Sharlayan's most senior legislators. The city of scholars would not be providing aid, thank you very much. Its stance would forever remain that it would chart the course of history, not change it.
Were it not for his own children's insolence, it might've just been a quick jaunt to the continent and back again. Now he was left at the Carline Canopy, stewing in his own failure, waiting for the next airship to Vylbrand to take him far away from this whole mess. Where did he go so wrong? Was he not stern enough with the twins? Perhaps if his own damnable father hadn't poisoned their minds with such idealistic nonsense, he reckoned, this could all have been avoided in the first place.
Sigh. Fresh air. That's what he needed. A bit of fresh air to calm the nerves.
Leaving his seat and walking through the double doors at the north end of the building, he stepped onto the balcony overlooking the grand waterwheel that powered the saws and lathes of the city's famed carpentry guild. It was a clear night, perfect for stargazing, for contemplating the mysteries of the universe. It would be perfect, at least, if it weren't for Fourchenault feeling a pair of eyes on him, staring daggers through him.
He turned to face his observer. Leaning against the exterior wall, beside the double doors, was Eorzea's so-called champion. A Miqo'te woman of roughly twenty-five summers, he reckoned, with pale skin and blonde hair. She was clad in leather armor, dyed blue and black, and on her back was a massive scythe clearly more suited to harvesting the souls of men than harvesting grain. Fourchenault still towered over her — it was hard for him not to, being an Elezen man of even just average height — but her Nhalmasquen stature made her far more imposing than most of the Miqo'te Fourchenault had spent time around in his own home.
"Mistress… Celeris, was it?" Fourchenault's face was stern, relaying as little emotion as he could to the warrior before him. "Pray, forgive me. I didn't realize someone was already out here."
"Nay," the woman responded. "Not my tavern, not my balcony. Feel free to stand out here for as long as you want."
He had heard this woman speak a little at the meeting in the Lotus Stand a short time ago, mostly to parrot the "great" Louisoix's ill-advised aphorisms at Fourchenault for the umpteenth time in yet another vain attempt to convince him to forsake his nation's greatest traditions. It was a strange voice — grizzled and almost a little gravelly, a posh Imperial accent tinged with the almost melodious lilt of a native Keeper. "And it's Ser Celeris, if you must."
Fourchenault nodded. "Ser Celeris. I must say," he replied with as much interest as he could possibly feign, "the stories do not disappoint. You certainly have a presence about you."
She scoffed. "The feeling's mutual. You're exactly as stuck-up and arrogant as everyone warned me."
Fourchenault furrowed his brow. Subtlety was not one of the Warrior of Light's strong suits, it seemed. Very well. "It is bad enough my own children are against me," he said, his mouth curling into more of an explicit frown. "I do not believe I need deal with such disparagement from one such as you."
"Your own children?" Her expression shifted to one of incredulity as she pushed herself from the wall and strode to the balcony's edge, leaning against the railing. "Could've sworn you just disowned them."
"They made their choices. Now they must live with them." Fourchenault shook his head. "Maybe it will force them to reconsider the ruinous path they tread. Not that I would expect someone without children of their own to understand."
The Miqo'te glared up at him. He hadn't seen this side of her before. At the Lotus Stand, she carried herself with decorum and a diplomatic restraint suiting someone who may be considered Eorzea's representative. Here, though? Away from the gaze of the Alliance, of the Students, of the Scions? There was barely-contained rage in her eyes, an expression that was nearly deafening in its wrath.
"You're right," she growled. "I wouldn't understand." She lifted herself from the railing, turning to Fourchenault and walking closer to him. "I wouldn't understand how a parent could look at their child, who loves them more than anything in the world, and say 'we are not family anymore.' I wouldn't understand how someone could be so heartless as to cut their own flesh and blood out of their life just like that."
Fourchenault's temper nearly boiled over. For the first time since his father left Sharlayan, he felt like he was seeing red. "How dare you presume to understand my motives? I-"
"There are no motives to justify this!" The warrior grabbed at the fabric of Fourchenault's mantle with shocking strength, staggering him. "There is nothing that could possibly justify betraying your own family like that!" With an ease betraying the might that earned this woman the title of "Warrior of Light," she pushed Fourchenault back against the railing, before turning to pace the area around the balcony. For his part, the Elezen could barely keep himself off the ground, taken off-guard by this woman's sheer audacity in assaulting a member of the Forum.
Her pacing ended as she leaned back against the railing, staring out into the night sky. "You're lucky, you know. Your family is here. They're safe. They're happy." She sighed, her head going limp. "You don't know what it's like to have the only family you've ever had trapped in the center of an empire on fire, not knowing if they're even alive. You have a privilege I could only dream of, and you're squandering it like the stuck-up, pompous lord you truly are."
Fourchenault lifted himself back to full standing height, brushing his coat down and looking at the Miqo'te standing before him. His voice was almost completely caught in his throat. "I… For what it's worth, I'm sorry you're going through such a… difficult time."
The Miqo'te just glared back at him. "If anything happened to you, Alphinaud and Alisaie, they'd be devastated." From where Fourchenault stood, it looked like Ser Celeris was using every ounce of strength she had not to boil over into a raging monster. "So I hope you have a safe trip back to Sharlayan. And may you never, ever come back here again."
She turned and walked away before Fourchenault could even attempt to reply, pushing through the double doors of the Canopy. They slammed shut behind her, leaving the elder Leveilleur alone in the silence once again. He leaned himself against the railing, looking up at the night sky.
Sigh. It had been a very long day indeed.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75677336
|
{"authors": ["ApolloCeleris"], "language": "English", "title": "Pater Fidelis"}
|
Between The Bases
There's nothing like taking a break. Izuku sighed, laying on his back and spreading his arms to the edges of the queen mattress. The sheets were the colors of his favorite baseball team, One For All. Their stadium is in Tokyo, but he never got to see his favorite team play, though he lived there for a while. Every time Izuku would drive by the enormous stadium, all he could imagine was how awesome it would be: the cheering, the concession food, and the bluish tint in the air from the stadium lights reflecting off the players. Izuku could daydream about it all he wanted, but every time, a little bit of envy and guilt would wash over those positive emotions he felt in that daydream and he couldn't help but think about everything that's changed in his life.
He couldn't help but think about the incident that caused his transfer. A dryer fire at the school had tragically destroyed the entire building. Thankfully, no one was injured, but the three month wait to get into a different school felt like years. He had done his best to distract himself during the downtime, whether by training at the gym or at the field for hours, cleaning the house, or driving with his friends who were in the same situation as him to some stupid roller rink downtown. It was all time he could've used to learn, which made him anxious.
The memories of him living with his father in Tokyo for 5 years.
The memories of his home town he now lives in again after reuniting with his mother.
His childhood bully. Izuku hated to admit it, but he looked up to him. He wished he possessed the same fearlessness and grit as his tormentor. The memory was vivid: the hard, metallic glare from red eyes that seemed to fume with hatred as the bully loomed over the greenette. Izuku felt he might be a masochist, but his deepest desire was simply to have the same relentless guts his bully displayed in hurting him every day, so he could finally stick up for himself.
Izuku’s mood now soured, he slowly sat up and stretched his arms before walking downstairs. He found his mother seated on the right side of the sage loveseat, holding a mug of coffee. A romantic comedy starring Melissa McCarthy was playing on their 45-inch TV. She slowly took a sip from her mug, clearly invested in the movie she was watching.
The greenette shuffled over to the loveseat and sat on the left side. Feeling a sudden chill, he grabbed a white, fluffy blanket from the edge of the couch and wrapped it tightly around himself. Noticing him, Inko snickered. “Do you want me to turn on the heater for you? You're practically shivering.” She gently placed her coffee mug onto the coaster on the coffee table in front of the couch. Izuku quickly nodded, causing Inko to giggle. She walked over to the thermostat, switched the heat on, and nudged the dial up to seventy-two degrees. Izuku immediately curled deeper into the blanket, trying to settle comfortably. Inko sat back down and paused the TV, turning her attention to her son. Izuku responded by raising an eyebrow.
This better not be about what I think it is….
"Izuku... We got everything set up in time..." Inko paused. Izuku tilted his head, giving her a sign to continue her sentence. Transferring schools during an emergency was difficult, especially since the necessary student files had been stored in the school's basement and burned down with the rest of the building. Izuku was hoping he would be transferred quickly, since it was his senior year—the busiest year he'd faced so far. He was already so behind, having missed almost three months of school due to the emergency. So if his mother were to say they got everything set up in time…she was way off.
“You get to start school this week, starting Monday." Inko smiled, taking a sip from her coffee mug. Izuku’s face immediately lit up; the relief was so profound he almost cried happy tears. "Friggin finally!" Izuku clapped his hands together with a sharp, delighted sound. Inko chuckled lightly as she set her mug down. "I've never seen you so excited for school, though I'd be too... You've been trapped in the house for months." Izuku nodded. While she was partly mistaken—he had used the three months wisely to train and clean while she was working—it did feel nice to hear he's finally going back to school.
Monday arrived sooner than expected, and Izuku was ready. He had prepared at least a dozen outfits for the next two weeks to minimize the stress of morning decisions. Usually, he spent a significant portion of his morning trying to fix and tame his perpetually messy hair so he wouldn't look like a goof. This attention to his appearance was one of his biggest teenage insecurities, second only to the thick scar above his eyebrow which was noticeable as soon as you took a look at the boy's face, but that’s a story for another time.
Ready to leave, Izuku walked downstairs and grabbed an apple. His mother looked up and smiled at him; he could immediately sense the warmth of her gaze. “Have a
|
Between The Bases
There's nothing like taking a break. Izuku sighed, laying on his back and spreading his arms to the edges of the queen mattress. The sheets were the colors of his favorite baseball team, One For All. Their stadium is in Tokyo, but he never got to see his favorite team play, though he lived there for a while. Every time Izuku would drive by the enormous stadium, all he could imagine was how awesome it would be: the cheering, the concession food, and the bluish tint in the air from the stadium lights reflecting off the players. Izuku could daydream about it all he wanted, but every time, a little bit of envy and guilt would wash over those positive emotions he felt in that daydream and he couldn't help but think about everything that's changed in his life.
He couldn't help but think about the incident that caused his transfer. A dryer fire at the school had tragically destroyed the entire building. Thankfully, no one was injured, but the three month wait to get into a different school felt like years. He had done his best to distract himself during the downtime, whether by training at the gym or at the field for hours, cleaning the house, or driving with his friends who were in the same situation as him to some stupid roller rink downtown. It was all time he could've used to learn, which made him anxious.
The memories of him living with his father in Tokyo for 5 years.
The memories of his home town he now lives in again after reuniting with his mother.
His childhood bully. Izuku hated to admit it, but he looked up to him. He wished he possessed the same fearlessness and grit as his tormentor. The memory was vivid: the hard, metallic glare from red eyes that seemed to fume with hatred as the bully loomed over the greenette. Izuku felt he might be a masochist, but his deepest desire was simply to have the same relentless guts his bully displayed in hurting him every day, so he could finally stick up for himself.
Izuku’s mood now soured, he slowly sat up and stretched his arms before walking downstairs. He found his mother seated on the right side of the sage loveseat, holding a mug of coffee. A romantic comedy starring Melissa McCarthy was playing on their 45-inch TV. She slowly took a sip from her mug, clearly invested in the movie she was watching.
The greenette shuffled over to the loveseat and sat on the left side. Feeling a sudden chill, he grabbed a white, fluffy blanket from the edge of the couch and wrapped it tightly around himself. Noticing him, Inko snickered. “Do you want me to turn on the heater for you? You're practically shivering.” She gently placed her coffee mug onto the coaster on the coffee table in front of the couch. Izuku quickly nodded, causing Inko to giggle. She walked over to the thermostat, switched the heat on, and nudged the dial up to seventy-two degrees. Izuku immediately curled deeper into the blanket, trying to settle comfortably. Inko sat back down and paused the TV, turning her attention to her son. Izuku responded by raising an eyebrow.
This better not be about what I think it is….
"Izuku... We got everything set up in time..." Inko paused. Izuku tilted his head, giving her a sign to continue her sentence. Transferring schools during an emergency was difficult, especially since the necessary student files had been stored in the school's basement and burned down with the rest of the building. Izuku was hoping he would be transferred quickly, since it was his senior year—the busiest year he'd faced so far. He was already so behind, having missed almost three months of school due to the emergency. So if his mother were to say they got everything set up in time…she was way off.
“You get to start school this week, starting Monday." Inko smiled, taking a sip from her coffee mug. Izuku’s face immediately lit up; the relief was so profound he almost cried happy tears. "Friggin finally!" Izuku clapped his hands together with a sharp, delighted sound. Inko chuckled lightly as she set her mug down. "I've never seen you so excited for school, though I'd be too... You've been trapped in the house for months." Izuku nodded. While she was partly mistaken—he had used the three months wisely to train and clean while she was working—it did feel nice to hear he's finally going back to school.
Monday arrived sooner than expected, and Izuku was ready. He had prepared at least a dozen outfits for the next two weeks to minimize the stress of morning decisions. Usually, he spent a significant portion of his morning trying to fix and tame his perpetually messy hair so he wouldn't look like a goof. This attention to his appearance was one of his biggest teenage insecurities, second only to the thick scar above his eyebrow which was noticeable as soon as you took a look at the boy's face, but that’s a story for another time.
Ready to leave, Izuku walked downstairs and grabbed an apple. His mother looked up and smiled at him; he could immediately sense the warmth of her gaze. “Have a good day, Mom…” Izuku replied, walking to the front door, quickly sliding on his shoes, and grabbing his bag and car keys from the coat hanger next to the door. Inko nodded, still smiling. “You too, dear.” Izuku walked out of the house and shut the door behind him, moving at a quick pace toward his car. It wasn't too fancy—a black 2010 Nissan. As long as the driver was chill, the model didn't really matter... unless it was one of those box cars. Izuku cringed at that thought, finally hopping into the driver’s seat and tossing his bag onto the passenger side.
When Izuku walked into the school, the atmosphere changed completely. He could immediately tell the stark differences between this school and his old one. There were no uniforms, and seemingly no dress code either, Izuku thought as a group of girls walked past him, all wearing mesh crop tops. Their fashion was startlingly revealing, showing their undergarments and numerous piercings. Izuku rolled his eyes and made his way to the office for his schedule.
"Midoriya!!" A familiar female voice shouted from behind, causing Izuku to jump. He turned slowly, murmuring, "Ah—yes...?" Before he could fully face the speaker, the girl rushed him and pulled him into a quick hug. Izuku immediately recognized her: Uraraka, one of his best friends from his old school. His eyes widened with delight. "Uraraka! What a coincidence!" He quickly took hold of both her hands. They both bounced excitedly on the balls of their feet.
After doing this for at least 10 seconds, they both laughed a bit and let go of each other, taking a step back. Izuku cringed at himself, imagining how stupid and immature he looked. "Do you think anyone else from our school is here?" Uraraka lightly tapped a finger against her temple in wonder. Izuku shrugged, "Other than you, I haven't seen anyone else... wouldn't it be weird if we saw Todo—"
Before Izuku could finish his sentence, he was violently shoulder checked by someone much larger than him. Izuku gasped, clearly not expecting the collision, and tumbled against the wall next to them.
“Oi, watch where you're going, nerd.” The larger boy sneered, looking down at the greenette before walking away from the two of them to his locker nearby. The boy had fluffy and spiky blonde hair, and his eyes were a familiar, fierce red. He looked tidy and clean, which made his rudeness even more confusing. Izuku caught himself on the wall next to him, furrowing his eyebrows at the blonde's retreating back. “What the hell…?” Izuku mumbled, barely audible.
Uraraka frowned, her cold, fixed stare boring into the back of the blonde's head. She looks back at Izuku and sighs, “Are you okay? I don't know what that douchebag's problem is,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. She also couldn't help but notice that Izuku looked completely bewildered.
He looks familiar..I cant put my finger on it but I've definitely seen him before.
Izuku nods, “It's fine, I feel like I've seen him before..” Uraraka raised an eyebrow and contemplated. “Hmm..” She glazes over a few times. His mind grappled with the problem trying to sort through the possibilities like a deck of cards. Who was he?
Suddenly the bell rings, making Midoriya lose all train of thought. “Wait, we have to get our schedules.” Uraraka sighs. Izuku nods and they both start walking to the office.
Izuku and Uraraka compared their class schedules and came to the dismaying realization that they only had two things in common with their schedule: lunch and their fifth-period class, English 4. Izuku sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This is ridiculous. Uraraka groaned, frantically waving her schedule around. "This is so unfair! We had almost every class together before! Why does life do this to us?" Izuku shook his head as they slowly made their way down the center of the hall. The other students had already settled into their classrooms and begun working, but since they were visibly lost, Izuku and Uraraka were granted some leeway.
"Well, bye, Uraraka! Find me at lunch..." Izuku waved at her as they parted and walked off in opposite directions. "Bye, Izuku! I'll find you, don't worry!" Uraraka replied, turning and walking into the class that took them 20 minutes to find. Izuku exhaled, having a hard grip on his paper as he searched for room number 304.
“304... 304...” Izuku hurried through building 300, his eyes scanning the numbers. “Room 304!” Izuku exclaimed when he finally located the door, a wave of relief washing over him. The class period was already halfway over, which made him nervous. He went to knock on the door, only to see that the lights were off, though he could clearly hear that a class was in session. As he raised his hand to knock, a student flung the door open and stormed out of the classroom. Izuku gasped and stumbled back, startled. He could hear the teacher attempting to calm the students before walking up to the door where the greenette stood.
"You're Izuku Midoriya?" the teacher questioned, opening the door wide enough for Izuku to step inside the classroom. Izuku entered, offering an awkward chuckle. "Yes sir, I apologize for being late. I had no idea where this class was." The man offered a slight smile and a nod. "That's fine. I'll cut you some slack since you're new," he said, shutting the door. "Students, this is Izuku Midoriya. Please be kind to him." The teacher paused to rub his dry eyes. "Here..." He picked up a paper and gestured toward the empty desk in the second-to-last row.
Izuku looked over, spotting his assigned desk right next to the blonde student who had shoulder checked him earlier. The seating arrangement placed desks in pairs, side-by-side, within the rows. What the hell, he thought. Izuku could feel his heart beat faster the closer he got to his seat. He gulped and slowly set his bag down, taking his place beside the blonde. The blonde let out a sharp, dismissive 'Tsk'—a high, fast sound of absolute judgment.
A brunette girl behind Izuku poked him. "Hey!" She quickly snagged his attention, and he slowly turned around. "Hey..." He offered the brunette a smile before she continued her question. "Do you play baseball?" The girl tilted her head, her expression one of genuine curiosity. The green-haired boy visibly gulped and glanced around the classroom before answering. He didn't remember bringing it up to anyone or maybe she saw him play but he decided not to think too much of it. "Yeah!.. how did you know?" he whispered, mindful of not disrupting the ongoing class. The girl paused for a moment before replying, "I've seen you play shortstop a few times when I went to the tournament not too long ago. Hey, you're actually really good!" Just as he thought, Izuku’s smile widened; he felt appreciated and immediately less nervous, as someone had treated him with a bit of kindness despite him being a new student. "Oh, thank you—"
“Can you two shut the fuck up?” the blonde snapped, his voice slicing through the air louder than their conversation had been. The whole room goes silent. What in the world was his problem? Izuku thought to himself. He hadn't said a single word to this guy, yet here he was acting as if Izuku had him publicly humiliated. The greenette shot the blonde a look of pure disgust. Who the hell are you talking too? He thought to himself as his look of disgust vanished in a split second. He then tilted his head, turning fully toward the blonde, and offered a bright, disarming smile. I-I’m terribly sorry,” he stuttered, quickly waving his hands in front of him. “I didn't even realize how loud we were.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then shifted his posture back to the front of the classroom, distancing himself from both the brunette and the irritated blonde.
The blonde paused, then dropped his gaze to his paper. “I don't need your dang apologies, just keep your fuckin' mouth shut,” he spat, boredom heavy in his voice. He picked up the blue mechanical pencil lying next to his notes and began idly twirling it between his fingers. Izukus's breathing shuttered.
It's not worth your time, It's not worth your time.
Leave it to Izukus’s crappy luck—he had this same guy in practically every single class, except for their electives. And because of the stupid name order seating chart? They were basically chained to the hip. Izuku was seriously hoping and praying the blonde buff boy would be chill, but a part of him wanted to be as far away as possible from that black cloud of negativity, and he didn't even know the dude’s freakin' name. The thought of being permanently bolted next to this dude for the rest of high school, or until someone finally bothered to shake up the seats, made Izuku's stomach turn.
Once lunchtime arrived, Izuku found himself surrounded by his friends from his previous school, and a deep wave of relief rushed through him. They didn't have many classes together like they used to, but it was a comfort to know they were all navigating this new environment together.
“Just kill me, guys.” Izuku dragged a hand roughly across his scalp, the action more a reflex than a conscious thought, trying to smooth away the thoughts of the guy he was gonna be stuck with for the rest of high school.
Todoroki paused, raising an eyebrow as he took a bite of his Soba. He looked a bit confused. “I thought you were excited for school to start again? You seemed anxious as hell like a child.” He calmly finished his mouthful and continued eating, his focus returning to the bowl.
“It’s not about that, Todoroki…” Uraraka chimed in, her voice trailing off. “There’s this dude with red eyes and a shortass temper who is just so rude to our goat…” She sighed, shaking her head in visible frustration. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind. He is such an —”
“No,” Izuku chirped. He fidgeted with his fingers and tried to avoid eye contact with anyone at the table. “He's not worth it. I don't even know why I’m so upset.” Izuku was serious. He never takes such little, petty things to heart, and now he is? Izuku was beyond confused with himself.
Lida suddenly cut in, jamming an index finger against his cheek as he thought, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, his face cleared up completely, his eyes lighting up with a definitive Aha! “Oh! You mean Katsuki Bakugou?”
Izuku was suddenly hit with this overwhelming surge of deja vu. He'd definitely heard that name before, and he absolutely knew a Bakugou. All at once, the dots didn't just connect—--they slammed together. Izuku instantly went paper-white.
“Dammit," Izuku groaned, bringing his hand up to slap his own forehead. How could I be this stupid? His eyes darted across the room, already feeling the sharp sting of a panic attack. It should have been obvious—he has the same eyes, for crying out loud! Suddenly, a redhead and his blonde buddy strolled over and stopped right by their table.
“You guys are new here too, right?” The redhead gives a big grin, revealing his very sharp, pointy teeth.
Uraraka nods and smiles back. “Yes! My name is Ochaco Uraraka, it's nice meeting you.” They both shake hands, and the three boys look at the redhead and his blonde friend.
“Oh!—and this is Izuku Midoriya, Shoto Todoroki and Tenya Lida!” Uraraka leans away so the two boys can see them.
“Hi! Nice meeting you!” Izuku smiles, but he can't help but notice the redhead’s intense gaze fixed right on his scarred eyebrow.
“Nice meeting you guys! My name is Eijiro Kirishima, and this is my friend, Denki Kaminari!” Kirishima grinned, slinging an arm around Kaminari’s shoulders. Kaminari gave a casual, cute wave toward their table. “I don’t know if this is a touchy subject or anything, but I heard about what happened to your guys’ previous school…” Kirishima immediately cringed at his own question, obviously regretting how straight forward he’d been.
Izuku let out a quick chuckle to try and ease the tension a bit, offering a friendly smile. “No, not at all! It’s totally fine—the school just burned down, that’s all!”
Lida let out a quick, almost startled laugh. "Midoriya! You make it sound like it's such a non issue."
The entire table, and the two guys cracked up. Izuku just laughed a little bit, his shoulders rising in an awkward shrug as he looked around, totally confused why that was so hilarious.
By the time eighth period rolled around, Izuku was totally drained. He'd completely forgotten how exhausting school was and honestly, he'd rather still be locked up in his house, just like he had been for the past three months.
He dragged himself into his eighth-period class—the only one he didn't share with Katsuki. The second he crossed the doorway, he could feel the difference; the whole atmosphere felt lighter, quieter, without the explosive blonde demanding some kind of attention.
Izuku introduced himself to his teacher who went by ‘Midnight’ with a warm handshake and a wide smile before settling into the assigned seat she pointed to. He was just grabbing his pencil when the phone rung from the teacher’s desk. Everyone in the classroom, including him, instantly snapped their heads around to watch her pick up the call.
“Oh, good afternoon!... You want Midoriya?”
She whipped her head directly toward him. His throat felt instantly dry, and he managed a nervous gulp. Am I in trouble? I’m pretty sure I didn’t even do anything yet. Izuku sighed, already anticipating the worst.
The teacher hung up and cleared her throat pointedly. “Midoriya ahem—you’re wanted in the principal’s office.”
Oh goodness.
Izuku nodded, sitting up straight in his desk chair. He leaned toward the teacher. “Um--ma’am, do I need to bring my stuff with me?” he asked, waiting patiently.
The teacher nodded firmly. “Yes, just in case. But I don't think you're in trouble, kid.” She offered a quick, easy smile. Izuku returned the smile, grabbed the straps of his worn backpack, threw it over one shoulder, and walked briskly out of the classroom.
"They're probably just asking about my schedule," the green haired boy muttered under his breath. He sped down the hall, praying it was the way to the office—because he absolutely sucked at directions.
When Izuku entered the office, he couldn't help but look around the clerk's area. The walls were covered in the school's achievements and club posters. Their school colors were sharp red and black, which was a big change from the sunny yellow and blue of his old school. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, and turned toward the lady at the front desk, with only the huge wooden barrier separating them.
“The principal asked for me? I don't know where his room is,” he asked nervously.
The lady smiled kindly and nodded, rolling her chair back a bit as she pointed down the hall. “Just two rooms down, then take a left... you can't miss him.”
Izuku gave a quick nod and headed in the direction she pointed. “Thank you, ma'am!”
All Izuku could think about was how spotlessly clean the office building was. It felt like walking into a brand new house right after it was built. Everything was white, except for the dark gray carpets. Izuku took a left—and the lady was right; he couldn't miss it: the principal's office.
There was a nameplate on the man's desk. "Principal Nezu," it read.
At least he knew the principal's name now. Izuku exhaled in relief.
Principal Nezu had tons of computers set up around him, all showing security camera feeds of the school. It was honestly kind of intimidating.
Izuku hesitantly knocked on the principal's door. The principal looked up from his computer and made a waving motion, signaling for the greenette to come inside his office.
Izuku gently opened the door and walked toward the guest chairs. "Good afternoon, sir," he said, offering a small smile, even though he felt totally nervous on the inside.
The principal returned the smile and waved his hand downward before replying, "Good afternoon, Midoriya. Please take a seat."
Izuku quickly did as he was asked, settling into the chair and looking around the office. It was a lot bigger than he imagined, with shelves of books lining the back wall and framed diplomas everywhere.
"Before your other classmate comes in, we need to have a quick discussion about your grades." Principal Nezu sighed, placing his paws elegantly on his lap, one leg crossed neatly over the other.
One of my classmates? Izuku chewed frantically on the inside of his cheek, a raw, nervous knot tightening in his stomach. His mind instantly conjured up images of his peers, trying to categorize who would be the most awkward, the most judgmental, or the most demanding. My grades!? He struggled desperately to keep his mind from spiraling into the worst case scenarios he could imagine—like his mom getting a terrifying call, or his entire academic future spontaneously combusting.
“Ah… yes sir,” Izuku managed, forcing a polite, plastic smile onto his trembling lips, his voice barely a squeak.
Principal Nezu, perched behind his oversized mahogany desk, let out a delicate, almost musical sigh. “Basically, your grades are dropping, and I know it’s not your fault,” the principal continued, his small black eyes focused directly on Izuku.
Izuku knew he was smart—he was definitely a dedicated student—but he felt powerless to control his grades spiraling. He had missed a crucial three months of school, a gap entirely out of his control due to everything that had happened. It felt like everything important in his life was slipping through his fingers, entirely out of his control. He held his breath, spine rigid, bracing for the inevitable, painful consequence.
“I know you’re a really talented baseball player, and that you were your team’s captain with the highest batting average in the district,” Principal Nezu continued, a tone of genuine admiration in his voice. “But, Izuku, if your grades drop, you won’t be able to play this semester.”
Izuku’s heart didn’t just drop—it plummeted into his shoes. He couldn’t imagine not playing baseball in his senior year; it was his escape, his passion, his ticket to a future. The sheer unfairness of the situation made his hands clench into tight fists.
Nezu suddenly broke into a wide, disconcertingly cheerful smile, which completely blindsided Izuku. Why the heck is he smiling?
“I’m making one of your classmates tutor you, so you won’t fail and you will be able to play!” Principal Nezu exclaimed, sounding far too delighted for the seriousness of the situation.
Izuku’s eyes widened to dinner plate size, his jaw slackening in shock, and the planned polite response completely abandoned him. He practically slipped out of his chair. “A tuto—”
“Oi, what'd you need me for—?” Someone behind him started, cutting Izuku off immediately as his eyes locked onto the greenette. He let out a harsh snarl at the sight of him. Izuku anxiously whipped his head back to see who it was.
They made direct eye contact for a split second, and Izuku's heart plummeted. He hadn't imagined this! Out of every single person in the school, Katsuki Bakugou had to be standing right here in the principal's office, and he was possibly gonna have to tutor him too.
“Take a seat, Bakugou.” Principal Nezu chirped, pointing a paw at the empty chair next to Izuku.
Katsuki scoffed, a low huff of annoyance, and stomped over to the chair. He dropped into it with unnecessary force and immediately crossed his arms, staring straight ahead.
Izuku swallowed hard, fighting the sudden rush of disappointment and anxiety. He focused all his effort on keeping his face completely blank and neutral, desperately trying to look like he wasn't about to vibrate right out of his skin.
He wasn't scared, he didn't know exactly what he was feeling. Impending doom maybe?
The silence was thick and heavy as Izuku did his absolute best not to even dart a look at Katsuki, who was throwing a hissy fit. The principal, meanwhile, waited patiently for the blonde to sit up straight, look him in the eye, and at least pretend to acknowledge whatever he was about to say.
The blonde must’ve finally figured out who they were waiting for, because he instantly snapped bolt upright, grabbing the arms of the chair. Izuku visibly cringed at all the weird little noises Katsuki was making in the dead silence of the room, but Katsuki just didn’t look like he gave a single crap.
“Ahem… So, Bakugou, you’ve probably met Midoriya here?” Principal Nezu asked smoothly, gesturing toward Midoriya.
Katsuki scoffed, rolling his eyes hard. “Yeah, sadly. And can you make him switch classes I'm already not in? His eyes seriously creep me out.”
Izuku froze, a slow burn of disgust creeping up his neck as he shot Katsuki a dark, irritated look. He finally snapped back, “Excuse me? You barely know me. I barely even know your name, so maybe stop talking about me like I’m not sitting right here.” Izuku definitely knew who he was, not like he would admit it.
Katsuki paused as clear anger washed over him. Katsuki was so easy to read, Izuku thought. Before Katsuki could even snap out a word, Principal Nezu started talking again.
“So, Bakugou. I have a favor to ask you, and you really don't have a choice on this,” he says with a joyful, almost unsettling smile on his face, though Katsuki didn't find anything joyful about this situation at all.
“What,” Katsuki snapped bluntly, making Izuku flinch because of how rude he was, even to his superiors.
“Well, because you need to finish your community service…” Principal Nezu hesitated, trailing off right as he got to the important part. Oh God. This isn't good. Izuku knew right away that the bad news was coming, and he didn't know if the blonde would be angry or furious. But wait, community service? What in the world did this guy do?
Principal Nezu gulped so faintly you almost missed it, before finally continuing, “I want you to tutor Midoriya. He's missed three months of school, and you two have nearly every class—”
“What? No way. He’s a nerd, he can figure it out himself!” Katsuki roared, interrupting Principal Nezu. His face was twisting with clear, explosive anger, and he looked seriously pissed off.
Izuku cringed deep down at the entire interaction. First, because he absolutely did not want Katsuki tutoring him. Second, Katsuki was being so incredibly rude to Principal Nezu that it was genuinely embarrassing to witness.
“Well, if you don't do it, then I’ll make sure you won't be participating in track, Bakugou.” Principal Nezu snaps, still managing to sound unsettlingly professional.
The silence was deafening. It was the kind of loud silence that pressed in on your ears. Izuku knew, deep down, that there was no way out of this; he was absolutely going to end up being tutored by Katsuki.
`Principal Nezu exhaled slowly before grabbing a neon pink sticky note and a pen. “You are to complete fifty hours of tutoring Midoriya. If you fail to complete this task, I will make sure you aren't allowed to do anything extracurricular.”
Katsuki was shaking with pure, incandescent rage. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white, and Izuku could hear the audible grinding of his teeth. The blonde looked down at his lap, shaking his head.
“You can’t do that—! Just let me do something else—”
“No. This is final.” Principal Nezu ripped the pink sticky note off the pad and slid it sharply across the desk toward Katsuki. “You better start soon, or you won't finish on time.”
Izuku hated to admit it, but he definitely needed the tutoring. He was a disastrous three months behind on everything and couldn't afford to start failing now. But Principal Nezu making Katsuki Bakugou his tutor? That was absurd.
Maybe I’m being punished for being a horrible person in my past life, Izuku thought, rubbing his temples as he walked toward his car after school.
Katsuki was probably going to make him study for fifty hours straight, and Izuku was absolutely not prepared for the emotional stress that was coming his way.
Maybe I should watch a scary movie first, he decided. You know, just to warm up the terror.
Izuku dug his car keys out of his pocket, and the cheap, noisy lanyard attached to them jingle-jangle-jangled as he shoved the key into the trunk lock. Since his car was, like, super old, he didn't have any of those cool automatic buttons. Whatever, he didn't really care. It's not like he was getting a new car anytime soon anyway—he was totally broke. Izuku actually shuddered thinking about how he only had $15 to his name. He seriously needed a job.
As Izuku lifted the trunk lid to practically just toss his backpack inside, a seriously loud bang slammed down a few feet away, toward the front of his car. Izuku's eyebrow shot up. He straightened up from the trunk and saw a shiny, black 2020 Hellcat—the kind that makes a huge noise, and there was this angry-looking blonde dude Izuku recognized instantly glaring from the driver's seat. Of course he drives a crazy fancy car. His parents are loaded, Izuku instantly thought and rolled his eyes.
He slammed the trunk shut, practically ran to the driver's side of his own car, yanked the door open, and dove in.
For the past two weeks, Katsuki had been a total nightmare at school, and Izuku had just been swallowing it all. He kept his mouth shut because he really, really didn't want any trouble. He knew if he said one thing, Katsuki would totally blow up and cause a scene.
The real disaster, though, was that he wasn't being tutored, and he was seriously tanking his grades now. This school's curriculum was a million miles away from his old one. Back then, everything was chill and super simple. As long as you showed up every day and didn't talk back to the teachers, you basically aced your classes without even trying.
But not here. Everything was so much more intense and way more complex. It wasn't that Izuku was dumb, he was actually pretty smart, but he couldn't just guess the answers. He needed solid notes and had to do a ton of research first, and without that tutoring, he was feeling lost in a fog. If he couldn't play baseball, he wouldn't know what to do with himself.
It was 11:30 at night on a Friday when Izuku finally jogged out onto the field to practice. The grass wasn't as well-kept as it usually was during the season. It was patchy and starting to get shaggy, and the bases hadn't been dug into the ground yet since baseball wasn't officially in session.
All that he had surrounding him was the huge, echoing field and the blinding, buzzing stadium lights shining down like alien spotlights. The green-haired boy couldn't really do much since he was by himself and it was pitch black beyond the outfield fence, but he managed. After a quick, intense stretching session, Izuku ran at least fifty laps around the base path outlines.
Pitching was his only real option for drills, so he picked up his glove. Izuku was the kind of player who could basically play any position he wanted. In the snap of a finger, he could be the starter at any spot on the diamond, but he couldn't get out of his own head.
", I suck," he muttered, “I need to get better, like, right now.”
He channeled the frustration and threw a fast, snapping curveball straight into the imaginary strike zone. Pitching wasn't his favorite—he always preferred Shortstop or Catcher.
Still, if he ever had a chance to pitch in a real game, just for shits and giggles, he totally would.
Izuku's focus wasn't just on high school glory; his sights were firmly set on Waseda University, home to arguably the best college baseball program in the entire country. Getting a spot on that team wasn't just a goal; it was the driving force behind every extra swing he took and every late-night weight session.
He'd heard the soft, persistent rumors circulating through the coaches' office and sometimes whispered by teammates after practice—the kind of whispers that suggested Waseda scouts were interested in watching him play. But Izuku, being perpetually hard on himself, always dismissed them with a shake of his head. Me? Recruit material for Waseda? The thought felt impossibly distant, a fantasy too good to be true.
Yet, the ambition fueled his days. He worked with a grinding, focused intensity, his uniform often the last one left on the drying rack after practice. He wanted a spot on that roster more than anything, and he had a fierce, quiet resolve: he was going to do whatever it took. The extra miles, the blistered hands, the endless reps just to make the Waseda dream a reality.
After a solid two hours, Izuku was finally done. He just grabbed his gear: his mitt, his water bottle, his shirt, and his phone. He was absolutely winded from the massive workout, panting like a dog, and he used the shirt he'd just been wearing to wipe the stream of sweat off his face.
Izuku was in insane shape. He had a sunkissed look, rocking those sharp six-pack abs and a very toned torso. His legs were huge, even when he was just resting, you could tell Izuku crushes his oats and never, ever skips leg day. Or any day, for that matter. His arms and back were completely ripped, and he had those popping veins tracing lines all the way down his forearms to his hands. He'd heard most girls thought that was hot, but honestly, he never really bothered to notice them.
Izuku was barely a block from his house when he finally pulled out his phone. He saw the little Snapchat notification – the ghost icon with a number glowing next to it. He never really checked his Snaps, but seeing a friend request made him curious enough to tap it open.
Whoa.
His eyes went wide. The screen showed one new friend request: Katsuki Bakugou.
Izuku’s heart didn't just drop, it practically slammed into his stomach. His face instantly felt like it was on fire, blazing red all the way up to his ears.
Why is he adding me on Snap? The questions started popping up in his brain, fast and panicked. Is he gonna threaten me? Is this some kind of trap?
He shook his head so hard his messy hair bounced. “Nah, he would definitely do that in person, screaming it in my face... “ Izuku muttered. So then, what did he want?
Izuku hovered his thumb over the 'Accept' button, hesitating for a solid five seconds. He took a shaky breath. "It's just Snapchat, it's just Snapchat, no biggie," he mumbled to himself, trying to sound way more confident than he felt. He finally tapped it.
Quickly, before he could freak out any more, he shoved his now vibrating phone deep into his shorts pocket and practically power walked the rest of the way home.
Izuku had been in the shower for a solid twenty minutes when the water suddenly turned into an unexpected shock of cold water. He yelped, whipping the faucet handle off, and frantically snagged a thick, white towel, cinching it tight around his waist. It was pushing 1:45 in the morning, so his only plan was to crash the second he wrestled his pajamas on.
A sudden buzzing ripped through the quiet of his room. He grabbed his phone—not expecting much—but froze when he saw the notification: Katsuki had sent him a chat. A sharp gasp escaped Izuku's lips. Bakugou? Texting me? And at 1 AM? Heart pounding, he tapped the screen, revealing the unexpected message.
"You awake?"
The blunt text message from Katsuki popped up on his phone screen. Izuku’s eyes narrowed, a confused frown pulling at his lips. Why in the world would Katsuki be messaging him right now? And why did he even have his account?
Izuku quickly typed a hasty reply: "uhm yeah, why’d you add me?" He hit 'send' before his brain could catch up and second-guess the choice. He quickly put his phone down and tugged on his All Might pajamas that were yet to be put on.
BZZZ.
His phone vibrated almost immediately. Katsuki. Izuku snatched it up, his stomach doing a nervous flip.
"Youre just as annoying on the phone, what a surprise. Meet me at the town park in a few."
Izuku stared at the glowing words, the meaning slowly sinking in before his eyes flew wide. "Wait, what?!" Why was Katsuki demanding they meet up at the park when it was practically two in the morning? A sharp spike of panic hit him. His heart wasn't just in his stomach—it was pounding there.
What if Katsuki was planning to jump him? What if he wanted to seriously hurt him? The thought sent a cold rush of adrenaline through him.
Izuku’s fingers flew across his screen. “Bruh it's almost 2am, I'm going to bed, and don't you hate me or something?” He hit send, trying to seem nonchalant, but his heart was pounding as fast as it had been with the last few messages.
Katsuki’s reply came almost instantly. He must have typed like a maniac for all of ten seconds. “Don’t you ‘bruh’ me. You're lucky I'm spending my precious time tutoring your sorry butt, so get your loser self to the park right now before I show up at your house and kick your ass.”
Izuku’s eyes went huge. Did he really just say that? does this guy think he is?! He wanted to collapse into his pillow, but he couldn't help himself. He quickly shot back, “You don’t even know where I live, genius.” The words flowed out way easier this time. The panic was fading into pure disbelief.
Katsuki’s next text popped up immediately: “Your location’s on asshole."
Izuku let out a dramatic gasp. He realized he’d left his location sharing ON the entire time and hadn't even noticed. He scrambled, practically fumbling with his phone, to jump into his settings and furiously switch his location OFF.
He knew he had to go, like, now, because Katsuki would absolutely show up at his place at two in the freakin' morning to kick his ass. Seriously.
He ditched the towel and threw on some ratty jeans and a T-shirt, snatching his phone and keys off the dresser. He tried to be a ghost, creeping down the hallway and taking the stairs one silent step at a time, making sure not to creak a single floorboard or wake up his mom.
Izuku sent a quick, frantic text to Katsuki: "Be there in 5. Please don't blow up my porch."
The second he slipped out the front door, the sharp, cold breeze hit him like a punch, sending immediate shivers down his back. It was way worse because he'd just gotten out of the shower and his hair was still damp.
He practically leaped into his beat-up car and jammed the key in the ignition. The engine gave its usual grumpy cough before finally roaring to life. He cranked the window down just enough, backed out of the driveway super smoothly, and drove off toward the park.
Once Izuku pulled into the park's empty parking lot, he tried to scan the area for Katsuki, but it was just too pitch black. The streetlights barely cut through the darkness. He fumbled for his phone to text Katsuki, but the screen was already lit up with a message: "Yeah that's what I thought nerd. I'll be there soon."
"Ohh," Izuku muttered, a sigh escaping his lips as he dropped the phone onto his lap. He isn't even here yet--. The thought barely finished before a loud, sharp knock against his window made him jump, heart practically climbing up his throat. He looked up, startled, to see a shock of ash-blonde hair staring back.
Speak of the devil, he thought furiously. Who just slams on someone's car window when it's dark out?!
He rolled the window down with a buzz, and Katsuki immediately scoffed. "Oi, nerd, you're wasting my time. Grab your stuff and sit at that bench over there." The blonde jerked his chin toward a shadowy wooden bench to their right before shoving his hand back into the pocket of his hoodie. He didn't wait for a reply, just stalked toward the spot.
That absolute asshole. Izuku mentally spat. Katsuki was the one who told him to meet him here, and he was the one wasting time? Give me a break.
Izuku let out a huge, dramatic sigh as he yanked his keys out of the ignition. He shoved his car door open, climbed out, and then slammed it shut with a major attitude. He stomped back to the trunk, unlocked it, and grabbed the backpack that was always sitting in his trunk when school wasn't going on unless he needed to do homework. He hoisted the strap onto his shoulder, slammed the trunk again, and then walked across the parking lot toward where grumpy-looking Katsuki was standing.
“Sit down, nerd,” Katsuki barked, stabbing a finger toward the rickety wooden bench.
Great, Izuku thought, rolling his eyes as he slumped onto the seat across from the explosive blonde. Orders again. Like he hadn't planned on sitting anyway.
He yanked his overstuffed backpack onto the bench and started pulling out his stack of textbooks and notebooks. Katsuki, of course, was already set, a small, aggressive pile of supplies beside him. The silence between them felt thick, almost vibrating.
Finally, Katsuki let out a heavy, irritated sigh that seemed too loud at the park. He flipped his phone over, turning on the flashlight, and wedged the device upright against his textbook spine. The raw, white beam of light bounced up, creating deep shadows and illuminating their faces like a bad horror movie.
Izuku just shook his head, a small, defeated sigh escaping his lips. They were here because Katsuki was here to tutor him, supposedly being responsible, yet they were huddled on this uncomfortable bench in near pitch black darkness, relying on a phone light just to see their notes. It made no sense. Zero. . Sense.
Izuku kept running the same thought over and over in his head: Katsuki was totally forgetting they used to be close when they were kids. But bringing it up felt like stepping on a landmine. Katsuki would probably just explode, literally yell at him, and tell him to focus. Still, the silence about their past was starting to feel heavy. He had to see what he’d say.
“I’m actually super surprised you don’t remember me, Kacchan,” Izuku blurted out. The old nickname, the one he hadn’t used since before he moved across the country, felt strangely fragile coming out of his mouth.
He instinctively hunched his shoulders, shifting the three months’ worth of late homework piled high in his arms—messy stacks of physics notes and crumpled English essays. It didn't matter what order they were in, just that he somehow finished them all before it was too late.
He finally dared to lift his eyes to Katsuki's face. The reaction was immediate, though only a blink long: a flicker of genuine shock, a crack in Katsuki’s usual scowl. But just as quickly, the wall went back up, the usual stormy, grumpy expression settling back into place.
“Tch. I remember you, Deku,” Katsuki scoffed, his voice rough and laced with irritation. He jammed his hands into his pockets. “I’m surprised you didn’t say anything the second you saw me.”
The name—Deku—hit Izuku like a punch in the gut. He hadn't heard that cruel, cutting nickname in years, not since they were just little kids. His heart seemed to drop straight to his stomach, sinking with a heavy, cold feeling.
The name "Deku" was just a cruel, Japanese insult, a way of saying "useless" or "blockhead." That's why Izuku hated it so much.
Every single day, he was trying his absolute best to prove he wasn't useless, to show everyone he could be someone. But hearing that nickname, especially from Katsuki, felt like a heavy, stinging slap right across his face.
Usually, when Katsuki sneered "Deku" at him, Izuku just sort of froze up and didn't say anything back. He was used to the feeling of that awful word twisting his gut, but he just forgot how much it hurt to be called something so completely meaningless.
“I didn't really connect the dots until I heard your name... and you were being totally mean anyways, so why would I even want to?” Izuku let out a quick, nervous chuckle before changing the subject. “Anyways, should I turn on my flashlight too? It's still pitch black out here.”
The blonde gave a sharp, quick nod, already aggressively flipping through his binder, the plastic rings screeching as he searched. He was hunting for the messy English notes he'd scribbled down a whole three months ago. “You got these notes?” He shoved the crumpled paper toward Izuku, who nodded back quickly.
Katsuki slammed the sheet down in front of the greenette and didn't stop, his eyes still scanning through the organized chaos of his binder, pulling out every single note page he'd taken in the last ninety days of English class. “Okay. Just copy those exactly because she actually grades our notes and all that .”
Izuku felt a weird knot in his stomach. This was the absolute calmest Katsuki had ever been around him—ever, and it made him feel completely uneasy. It was like the air was suddenly too thick, even counting back to when they were just little kids.
Izuku quickly glanced down at Katsuki's paper. It was a little creased and rough around the edges—typical of the explosive blonde, but his handwriting was totally unexpected. It was beautiful, almost like a fancy script, leaning toward a crisp cursive. He even wrote his lowercase 'a's with that neat little loop, the way you see in actual fonts. Izuku’s own notes by comparison looked frantic and rushed, even if he did try to keep them neat. Stop thinking about his handwriting, Izuku! Izuku mentally slapped himself, his face warming up as he forced his concentration back to the actual notes Katsuki had dumped on him. He started frantically copying the clean, legible words onto his own page as Katsuki, without even looking, kept stacking more and more pages onto Izuku’s already overflowing binder.
Every now and then, Izuku would shoot a question about the work over to Katsuki, and the explosive blonde would actually reply in a totally calm and collected tone, like he was a normal, chill person. Wait, was this how Kacchan acted with other people? Izuku thought, the nickname just popping up in his head out of total habit. He knew the blonde was probably going to start calling him Deku again soon, so honestly, he had zero problem mentally sticking with Kacchan.
“Oi, Deku,” Katsuki’s voice, sharp as broken glass, sliced through the quiet buzz of the park, instantly snagging Izuku's attention.
Just as he thought—he would start calling him Deku again. Katsuki stared at him.
Izuku tilted his head, the messy green curls bouncing slightly. "Yeah?” he asked, looking up from the messy scribble of notes he’d been copying from the packet.
Katsuki shifted, his crimson eyes narrowed, and for a split second, he actually hesitated. "So, why the hell did you move in the first place, just to come crawling back years later?” he spat out, though the volume was lower than his usual roar.
Izuku's wide, emerald eyes flashed with a sudden, panicked realization. It was only for a split second, though, before his face snapped back to a forced-neutral expression. The green-haired boy let out an awkward, reedy chuckle and nervously rubbed the back of his neck. He was about to stammer out some kind of answer—
“Ah, forget it,” Katsuki interrupted, rolling his eyes hard enough to hurt. He pulled out his phone, already scrolling and aggressively tapping out a text to someone. “Took you way too long to think of an excuse.”
Thank God.
Izuku let out a slow, silent breath of relief, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. He really, honestly, wouldn’t have had a clue what he would say so he's glad Katsuki is aware.
“Okay,” Izuku muttered, his throat tight, and he immediately bent back over the stacks of papers.
A couple of agonizing minutes crawled by. He finally finished the first packet, only one out of 10, and it had already eaten up almost fifty minutes of his time. The pathetic flashlight on both of their phones wasn't making things any easier. Izuku let out a ragged sigh that turned into a frustrated groan. He slammed his head down on his forearm with a thump against the hard table.
“How long are you gonna keep me hostage here, Kacchan?”
Katsuki finally lifted his gaze from the wall, his crimson eyes narrowed, and he just shook his head slowly. “However long it takes you to finish those notes, Deku. I need my community service hours, so I don't give a shit how long we're stuck here.”
Katsuki snatched up his phone and checked the time. “Seriously? … we're gonna be old and wrinkly before you even get to the halfway point.” He sighed, the sound loud and dramatically annoyed, and tossed his phone back onto the table.
Izuku’s mouth twisted into a frustrated frown, the blonde's unnecessary statement hitting a nerve. You JUST said you didn't care how long we were here for…Whatever. Izuku rolled his eyes—a silent, tiny rebellion Katsuki wouldn't even notice—and didn't bother replying, shoving his attention back down to the overwhelming notes.
Izuku finally finished all the notes, but by the time his pen clattered onto the wooden bench, the clock on his phone glowed 5:06 AM. Everything after that was a complete, blurry zero. His brain was running on fumes, and he couldn't piece together much. The only things that felt semi real were the flashes of Kacchan's focused face driving him home in his own car, and then being awkwardly carried like a sack of potatoes up to his room.
As he zombie walked into the bathroom to brush his teeth, two major questions started buzzing in his head, scratching at the edges of his exhausted memory.
First of all: How did Kacchan even get back to the park? Did he just walk all the way back to his own place after dropping him off? That seemed insane.
Second, and way more confusing: Why was he actually... not mean to me? And why did he drive me home?
Izuku rinsed his mouth out, the cold water stinging his gums, and he wiped his face hard with a fluffy towel. He tossed the towel onto the counter with a sigh and shuffled back to his bedroom, the confusion still swirling in his head.
Izuku's mind was still racing. He couldn't help but think that the only reason Kacchan was doing this whole favor thing was because he desperately needed to clock those mandatory community service hours. And, seriously, what if Izuku let him lounge in the car, dozing? That was just asking to get mugged and possibly, dramatically murdered. If that happened, Katsuki wouldn't get the hours he needed. Zero hours. Yeah, that was definitely the whole motivation.
Satisfied with his brilliantly cynical deduction, Izuku trudged back to his bed, collapsing onto the sheets for just a moment before his eyelids grew heavy, and he finally drifted off again. To himself he thought,
I wish my old high school hadn't spontaneously combusted.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679131/chapters/197924951
|
{"authors": ["LilCicyTate"], "language": "English", "title": "Between The Bases"}
|
Our Stars Aligned
Anakin was not ready for this. But he had to be, he stood in many places that were as political as moments like this before. He was always polite, and maybe even professional when he wanted to be. If he can stand it for too long, of course. That was the only other thing that really made sense for him.
Obi-Wan had come with him for this journey. It was probably because he was late, and Anakin had shrugged his shoulders, telling his Master that he wasn't doing anything on purpose. At least he showered the night before and had clean clothes set out for him. Obi-wan hadn't bothered to hide the disappointment, and by the time they reached the planet, Arrakis.
There were far more interesting reasons for why Anakin didn't want to go, but the second they entered the atmosphere, the anxiety in the pit of his stomach began, and Obi-Wan smiled at Anakin with a knowing look glinting in his eyes.
"Do I have to do this?" Anakin asked him as they drew closer towards the ships parked closest to the palace. The palace appeared barren, further out, the horizon didn't end. There was a nausea he couldn't ignore, and begging to leave was out of the question as he landed the ship almost gracefully.
"You'll be fine," Obi-Wan told him, patting Anakin on the shoulder after taking off his seatbelt and getting up from the chair. "You'll only be here until the wedding commences, and once that is finished, you'll be assigned somewhere else."
Anakin rolled his eyes at the mention of a wedding. One of many other reasons why he didn't want to come here. He got up from the chair and followed Obi-Wan once he lowered the platform and they stepped outside.
"You said it was a political agreement," Anakin said, narrowing his eyes at his master. He knew Obi-Wan didn't lie, Anakin only wanted to know the absolute truth of why he had to be the one who was chosen to go. He also didn't realize Obi-Wan was even coming along for the ride. But apparently, the political nature of such an agreement with House Atreidas does stem to some extent of questionable nature amongst the many houses. It seemed, however, that Duke Leto I Atreides had everything under control from here on out amongst the dispute with the Harkonnen's, so in any possibility, he was confused constantly why they were even brought into it beyond the alliance.
It only seemed to make Anakin suffer, and already the desert heat brushing against him was only solidifying this. He grimaced in utter disgust at the plain view before him until Obi-Wan motioned for him to follow.
They trudged a long the line of spaceships, and Anakin reached out to sense anything within this area. He was always so cautious of those who seeked the Dark Side, but he didn't feel anything. There was something strange there, an edge, a push…something there inside. He shook his head, it could be anything, negative emotions ran rampant around these types of moments and events. He figured that anxiety would become the most likely thing he'd sense while he was here.
Once inside, Obi-Wan was making sure the guards knew who they were, and while a few eyed them strangely, as if they weren't certain if these were the ones who were meant to protect their prince until the wedding day. Surely, they would also be here when the Duke signed the treaty.
Anakin was trying to figure out how long that'll be. A few weeks, he hoped less than two, but he wasn't too sure where he was going to be from here and then the wedding. He was a little begrudged over that fact as they continued through the dark marvel halls, several guards lined each hall, their weapons displayed. He did his best not to stare as they meandered past.
"Will you be staying throughout the whole process?" Anakin asked once Obi-Wan told the guard who they were and he had entered, leaving them both out in the hall.
"Do you want me to?" Obi-Wan wondered, a smile quirked on his lips. "You have not been this nervous in some time."
"I'm not nervous."
"Well, there is frustration in your energy, you might want to fix that before we begin our bodyguard duties," Obi-Wan said, nudging Anakin in the arm. "We won't be together most of the time. I'm a seasoned Jedi, I'll be lingering with Duke Leto I Atredias and you'll be—"
Anakin groaned, "Why?"
"Why not?" Obi-Wan smiled and the door opened. They were let in, and they stepped inside to a whole group of people sitting around a table. The Duke was at the front of the table, speaking to many other politician's, generals, a few soldiers.
Anakin had been told who he'd be watching for, he recalled the holograms of each person he had to know the name of, the rank, life story, and whether their parents or even friends mattered. Nonetheless, Anakin had only assured so much information in his mind, and by the time, he and Obi-Wan stood on the left side of the room against the wall, hands behind their backs as they listened in on the Duke's discussion. He could barely recall everyone inside the room besides the Duke himself, and
|
Our Stars Aligned
Anakin was not ready for this. But he had to be, he stood in many places that were as political as moments like this before. He was always polite, and maybe even professional when he wanted to be. If he can stand it for too long, of course. That was the only other thing that really made sense for him.
Obi-Wan had come with him for this journey. It was probably because he was late, and Anakin had shrugged his shoulders, telling his Master that he wasn't doing anything on purpose. At least he showered the night before and had clean clothes set out for him. Obi-wan hadn't bothered to hide the disappointment, and by the time they reached the planet, Arrakis.
There were far more interesting reasons for why Anakin didn't want to go, but the second they entered the atmosphere, the anxiety in the pit of his stomach began, and Obi-Wan smiled at Anakin with a knowing look glinting in his eyes.
"Do I have to do this?" Anakin asked him as they drew closer towards the ships parked closest to the palace. The palace appeared barren, further out, the horizon didn't end. There was a nausea he couldn't ignore, and begging to leave was out of the question as he landed the ship almost gracefully.
"You'll be fine," Obi-Wan told him, patting Anakin on the shoulder after taking off his seatbelt and getting up from the chair. "You'll only be here until the wedding commences, and once that is finished, you'll be assigned somewhere else."
Anakin rolled his eyes at the mention of a wedding. One of many other reasons why he didn't want to come here. He got up from the chair and followed Obi-Wan once he lowered the platform and they stepped outside.
"You said it was a political agreement," Anakin said, narrowing his eyes at his master. He knew Obi-Wan didn't lie, Anakin only wanted to know the absolute truth of why he had to be the one who was chosen to go. He also didn't realize Obi-Wan was even coming along for the ride. But apparently, the political nature of such an agreement with House Atreidas does stem to some extent of questionable nature amongst the many houses. It seemed, however, that Duke Leto I Atreides had everything under control from here on out amongst the dispute with the Harkonnen's, so in any possibility, he was confused constantly why they were even brought into it beyond the alliance.
It only seemed to make Anakin suffer, and already the desert heat brushing against him was only solidifying this. He grimaced in utter disgust at the plain view before him until Obi-Wan motioned for him to follow.
They trudged a long the line of spaceships, and Anakin reached out to sense anything within this area. He was always so cautious of those who seeked the Dark Side, but he didn't feel anything. There was something strange there, an edge, a push…something there inside. He shook his head, it could be anything, negative emotions ran rampant around these types of moments and events. He figured that anxiety would become the most likely thing he'd sense while he was here.
Once inside, Obi-Wan was making sure the guards knew who they were, and while a few eyed them strangely, as if they weren't certain if these were the ones who were meant to protect their prince until the wedding day. Surely, they would also be here when the Duke signed the treaty.
Anakin was trying to figure out how long that'll be. A few weeks, he hoped less than two, but he wasn't too sure where he was going to be from here and then the wedding. He was a little begrudged over that fact as they continued through the dark marvel halls, several guards lined each hall, their weapons displayed. He did his best not to stare as they meandered past.
"Will you be staying throughout the whole process?" Anakin asked once Obi-Wan told the guard who they were and he had entered, leaving them both out in the hall.
"Do you want me to?" Obi-Wan wondered, a smile quirked on his lips. "You have not been this nervous in some time."
"I'm not nervous."
"Well, there is frustration in your energy, you might want to fix that before we begin our bodyguard duties," Obi-Wan said, nudging Anakin in the arm. "We won't be together most of the time. I'm a seasoned Jedi, I'll be lingering with Duke Leto I Atredias and you'll be—"
Anakin groaned, "Why?"
"Why not?" Obi-Wan smiled and the door opened. They were let in, and they stepped inside to a whole group of people sitting around a table. The Duke was at the front of the table, speaking to many other politician's, generals, a few soldiers.
Anakin had been told who he'd be watching for, he recalled the holograms of each person he had to know the name of, the rank, life story, and whether their parents or even friends mattered. Nonetheless, Anakin had only assured so much information in his mind, and by the time, he and Obi-Wan stood on the left side of the room against the wall, hands behind their backs as they listened in on the Duke's discussion. He could barely recall everyone inside the room besides the Duke himself, and his general sitting to his right.
This, all in all, was pretty bad for himself, but he hoped he didn't have to mingle with anyone. It's not like it was one of those parties he was forced to attend to during his time in Coruscant. He'd rather be chasing down rogue's, thieves, and others who bothered the sanctuary of those he was hired to protect.
At least, this was is what he hoped as the Duke continued, and thirty minutes or so later, everyone was mostly standing up, speaking in low tones as they began leaving the room.
That was when Duke Leto I Atreidas motioned for them to come over to him and the War Master. There was someone else there, Anakin wasn't certain yet if the woman had stepped into the room while everyone was leaving, or if she was there the entire time. Maybe he hadn't been paying proper attention.
Obi-Wan introduced themselves, and Anakin hardly listened to the introductions besides noticing the amazement of the men around them besides the woman. There was something different about her that Anakin didn't fully understand. She was…somehow there, present, but also…wasn't.
He felt the force around them, Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin, while the woman had lifted her gaze and their eyes met. She smiled gently at Anakin.
By this point, the woman, Jessica, offered to introduce Anakin to her son. Anakin had gone with her out of curiosity, and Obi-Wan didn't seem to mind as he stayed, speaking of the job they'll be handling, and adding onto what will be known, including time constraints. If there were any.
The doors closed as Anakin stayed in step with Lady Jessica. She had long dark hair that went straight down her back. She wore a long black dress, there was something sheer around her, her face was almost plain, but the softness in her eyes is what caught Anakin's attention.
Lady Jessica glanced at him, a smile curved on her lips, "You're younger than I assumed you'd be, but the reports haven't been wrong about you either, Anakin Skywalker."
Anakin let out a soft noise, looking down at the floor as they walked along the hall. "Uh, yes, I've gone through these kinds of events before. I'm not new to them, if that's what you're inquiring."
"I don't mind it all," said Lady Jessica. "Is it your first time on Arrakis?"
"Yes," he said, but he wouldn't speak about the fact it wouldn't have been a choice he'd personally make.
They walked down the hall and up the stairs where they soon entered one of the rooms. He almost thought it was a bedroom when she pushed open the door, and inside was a grand marble table and there was only one other who sat inside.
He sat up almost right away at the sight of his mother, he had tousled brown hair, a pale angular face. He was boyish in his smile, a spark of warmth in his eyes.
"This is my son, Paul Atreidas."
Anakin slowly took him in, all the kindness he might've felt, and all the professionalism almost faltered, at the very sight of the one person who was now standing up and making his way over to them. Anakin can already feel his heart racing as he reached his hand out to Anakin.
"I've never met a Jedi Knight before," he said.
Anakin forced a smile, mutely taking his hand and shaking it. The words in his head had gone out almost instantly, and he had to scramble in a millisecond to get his head on right.
He cleared his throat, "I've come across royals before." It was lame, but he didn't have much to say. He kind of wished Obi-Wan was here.
"Since you're a Jedi Knight, do you mind showing a few things to Paul, he has begun his training of late and right now, his mentor is currently busy downstairs," said Jessica, smiling brightly at the two of them.
Anakin nodded curtly, barely able to look at Paul who had hurried to finish the rest of his food and drink as Jessica motioned for Anakin in the hallway.
He stayed stiff, finally able to look at the almost stony look that Jessica was now giving him. Whatever he had seen moments before, the warmth had faded instantly.
"He's the only son of House Atreidas, and i'm sure you've been briefed already on the implications going on with Arakkis?" Jessica asked him, her tone low but steady.
Anakin nodded again, recalling Obi-Wan reminding him a few times on the way here, including the hologram's he had to memorize. "I'm quite aware of what i'll be doing here. The Jedi has never failed an opportunity of such degree, Lady Jessica."
She kept her eyes on him, and that same strange feeling came over Anakin. There was something off about her, and he would like to ask Obi-Wan about it alter, once they meet again.
Her smile returned once Paul entered the hallway, glancing between them as Jessica told her son what would occur, and when his mentor will join them.
Paul leaned in and kissed his mother on the cheek before motioning Anakin to follow him down the hall.
Maybe what was worse about this was that he'd be walking alone with Paul Atredias, sparring Paul Atredias, with full knowledge that the Duke's only son was betrothed to Padme Amidala, and he had to keep his wits together, if that was even possible.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75679141/chapters/197925006
|
{"authors": ["Skullsz"], "language": "English", "title": "Our Stars Aligned"}
|
Not being me, because mine are already dead.
ᵈᵃʸ ?? ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ʸᵉᵃʳ ⁰¹⁰⁵ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵉᵍⁱⁿⁿⁱⁿᵍ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉⁿᵈ.
A morte nunca esteve confinada aos mistérios de Virth; ela simplesmente emparelhava no ar. O campo de batalha tinha um odor. Não era apenas pútrido, mas uma abominação química: carne queimada sobreposta ao ferro do sangue coagulado, uma mistura tão nauseante que a respiração falhava, não por causa dos danos, mas num reflexo instintivo de repulsa.
Deveria ter sido uma missão trivial, com a cota previsível e aceitável de baixas. Nunca um massacre completo, mas uma escalada de aniquilação que se desenrolou.
Ronan, prostrado, lutava inutilmente para conter o riso estridente que escapava por entre os lábios agora manchados de sangue. A ironia horrenda e perversamente cômica que assombrava a cena era um espetáculo digno do destino. Maldita Zara.O gosto metálico do próprio sangue era, notou com um toque de desprezo, uma lembrança de sua sobrevivência momentânea. Se se concentrasse, ainda conseguiria discernir os gritos de guerra certeiros e inúteis dos soldados da Ordem de Fibonacci, lutando desesperadamente por uma chance de sair dali vivos.
Inúteis. O pensamento veio, pesado e frio. Se não fossem completamente aniquilados hoje, seria a próxima missão para os quais fossem designados. E se não for essa, então na seguinte. A morte era apenas uma questão de um encontro marcado quando se tratava dos Maculados.
O chão, que tão amorosamente acolheu seu corpo debilitado, tremeu. Era o poder bruto de um conceito tão vasto e inegável quanto à própria Existência. O Escolhido estava ali. E, por milagre ou suprema destruição, que parecia tão determinado a acompanhar Ronan ultimamente, ele finalmente decidiu liberar os poderes do Caos — algo que o garoto sempre evitava com fervor quase religioso.
"Hoje é meu dia de sorte", pensou Ronan, uma melancolia aguda cortando a ironia do pensamento. Talvez, a simples possibilidade fosse absurda, ele realmente pudesse sair vivo dessa piada que eles insistiam em chamar de guerra.
Ele tinha uma visão privilegiada do combate que, a cada golpe, abalava os alicerces do mundo. O Escolhido distorceu a realidade, manipulando conceitos a seu bel-prazer. Conforme o jovem avançou, brandindo sua espada, uma cena se impôs à mente exausta de Ronan: Charles, com o coração transpassado por um golpe vil e covarde, vindo por trás, digno de um Maculado. Charles estava morto. Assim como Abby. Assim como Elsie.
ÁS. A sigla ecoava em sua mente, exausta pelo esforço de simplesmente manter-se respirando. A ordem de suas mortes, refletiu-se tardiamente, com um toque de culpa que logo se dissipou na indiferença.
Que se dane. Resistir não os traia de volta. Eles continuariam mortos, e Ronan continuaria respirando, o bom e perfeito soldado que era.
Então, como ele sinceramente esperava ser seu último e glorioso suspiro, Ronan se entregou de bom grado à escuridão que o cercava.
|
Not being me, because mine are already dead.
ᵈᵃʸ ?? ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ʸᵉᵃʳ ⁰¹⁰⁵ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵉᵍⁱⁿⁿⁱⁿᵍ ᵒᶠ ᵗʰᵉ ᵉⁿᵈ.
A morte nunca esteve confinada aos mistérios de Virth; ela simplesmente emparelhava no ar. O campo de batalha tinha um odor. Não era apenas pútrido, mas uma abominação química: carne queimada sobreposta ao ferro do sangue coagulado, uma mistura tão nauseante que a respiração falhava, não por causa dos danos, mas num reflexo instintivo de repulsa.
Deveria ter sido uma missão trivial, com a cota previsível e aceitável de baixas. Nunca um massacre completo, mas uma escalada de aniquilação que se desenrolou.
Ronan, prostrado, lutava inutilmente para conter o riso estridente que escapava por entre os lábios agora manchados de sangue. A ironia horrenda e perversamente cômica que assombrava a cena era um espetáculo digno do destino. Maldita Zara.O gosto metálico do próprio sangue era, notou com um toque de desprezo, uma lembrança de sua sobrevivência momentânea. Se se concentrasse, ainda conseguiria discernir os gritos de guerra certeiros e inúteis dos soldados da Ordem de Fibonacci, lutando desesperadamente por uma chance de sair dali vivos.
Inúteis. O pensamento veio, pesado e frio. Se não fossem completamente aniquilados hoje, seria a próxima missão para os quais fossem designados. E se não for essa, então na seguinte. A morte era apenas uma questão de um encontro marcado quando se tratava dos Maculados.
O chão, que tão amorosamente acolheu seu corpo debilitado, tremeu. Era o poder bruto de um conceito tão vasto e inegável quanto à própria Existência. O Escolhido estava ali. E, por milagre ou suprema destruição, que parecia tão determinado a acompanhar Ronan ultimamente, ele finalmente decidiu liberar os poderes do Caos — algo que o garoto sempre evitava com fervor quase religioso.
"Hoje é meu dia de sorte", pensou Ronan, uma melancolia aguda cortando a ironia do pensamento. Talvez, a simples possibilidade fosse absurda, ele realmente pudesse sair vivo dessa piada que eles insistiam em chamar de guerra.
Ele tinha uma visão privilegiada do combate que, a cada golpe, abalava os alicerces do mundo. O Escolhido distorceu a realidade, manipulando conceitos a seu bel-prazer. Conforme o jovem avançou, brandindo sua espada, uma cena se impôs à mente exausta de Ronan: Charles, com o coração transpassado por um golpe vil e covarde, vindo por trás, digno de um Maculado. Charles estava morto. Assim como Abby. Assim como Elsie.
ÁS. A sigla ecoava em sua mente, exausta pelo esforço de simplesmente manter-se respirando. A ordem de suas mortes, refletiu-se tardiamente, com um toque de culpa que logo se dissipou na indiferença.
Que se dane. Resistir não os traia de volta. Eles continuariam mortos, e Ronan continuaria respirando, o bom e perfeito soldado que era.
Então, como ele sinceramente esperava ser seu último e glorioso suspiro, Ronan se entregou de bom grado à escuridão que o cercava.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75677386?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["mermaid_blue"], "language": "English", "title": "Not being me, because mine are already dead."}
|
Heat in Rome
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, spilling warm golden hotel light onto the hallway. William stepped out first, steadying the man behind him with a hand at his waist.
Est bumped lightly into his back.
“Oops,” he mumbled, blinking up with a dazed smile that made William’s chest tighten.
He wasn’t 'drunk' drunk.
Just… 'soft'.
Warm cheeks, slow blinks, the kind of tipsy that turned his edges round and his voice honey-sweet.
And God, William found him dangerously cute like this.
They reached the room, and Est immediately leaned against the wall beside the door, head tipped back, lips parted in an innocent little breath.
“Rome is… spinning a bit,” he announced.
William snorted. “No, that’s you spinning.”
Est’s eyes narrowed, as if processing that was a full-time job. “Are you saying I’m… dizzy?”
“You’re cute,” William corrected without thinking.
Est’s brows lifted. “I am?”
Oh no.
He was TOO CUTE.
William opened the door, but Est didn’t move. Instead, he stepped forward and tugged gently at William’s sleeve.
“You keep looking at me,” Est said, voice lower now, warm enough to melt something inside him. “Like that.”
“Like what?” William asked, though he already knew.
“Like you wanna kiss me.”
His words were a mix of teasing and truth, softened by the slight sway in his stance.
William sucked in a breath. “Est, you’re drunk.”
“A little,” Est admitted. “Not enough to imagine you staring.”
He pressed a hand to William’s chest—warm, firm, bold in that careless, loosened way only tipsiness made him.
And he looked up with those eyes.
God.
Rome wasn’t the dangerous one tonight— Est was.
William cupped his cheek. “You’re impossible.”
Est leaned into the touch instantly, nuzzling like a cat seeking warmth. “You think I’m cute.”
“I think you’re—” William swallowed hard. “—going to make me lose my mind.”
A slow, lazy grin spread across Est’s face. “Good.”
He stepped even closer, closing every inch of space between them until William felt his breath, wine-sweet and warm against his lips.
“Let me kiss you,” Est murmured.
William’s heart hammered. “You don’t usually ask.”
Est smiled again, softer this time. “That’s because you usually kiss me first.”
And that—that—was the moment William broke.
He pushed Est gently against the inside of the door, the latch clicking shut behind them. Est gasped, hands curling in William’s shirt, his body pliant and eager.
William kissed him, slow at first, tasting warmth and Rome and Est all tangled together.
Est sighed into his mouth, fingers slipping into his hair as his posture softened even more.
“Mm… Willy…” Est’s voice was breathy, need threaded through each syllable. “You smell good.”
“Phi Est—”
“Wanna be close,” he whispered against William’s jaw. “Don’t wanna stop.”
William bit back a groan. Every part of him wanted to claim him right then, the bed just a few steps away, the city lights glowing through the curtains.
But he pulled back just a little, forehead pressed to Est’s. “Let’s get you on the bed before you fall over.”
Est blinked, innocent, needy. “Then you can… do whatever you want?”
William exhaled slowly.
This man would be the end of him.
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “All of you.”
Est smiled—sleepy, trusting, wicked all at once.
“Good,” he whispered. “I like when you do.”
And Rome faded behind them as William guided him to the bed—
where the night was only just beginning.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the golden glow from the hallway seeping through the door that had just clicked shut. William guided Est toward the bed, but Est stopped him halfway, fingers tightening around William’s wrist.
“Wait,” Est murmured.
William froze, pulse jumping. “What is it?”
Est leaned in, lips brushing William’s ear. His breath was warm, wine-soft, but his tone—his tone was suddenly sharp, teasing, knowing.
“You remember what you said during the dinner live?” Est whispered.
William blinked. “…What did I say?”
Est pulled back just enough to look at him, pupils wide, cheeks pink, expression soft but wicked.
“You,” he said slowly, poking William’s chest, “told everyone about our ‘anniversary’.”
William’s face heated instantly. “I– I didn’t mean— It slipped out— You know I meant ThamePo—”
Est smirked, drunkenness blending with boldness. “Mm. That’s not how everyone heard it.”
“Phi Est—”
“I did correct you,” Est continued, stepping closer, “but I knew exactly what you meant.”
His hands slid up William’s shoulders, hooking behind his neck.
“But you looked so cute panicking. My ai dek auan, accidentally confessing.”
William groaned. “I wasn’t confessing. You know that.”
“Oh?” Est tilted his head, lips dangerously close. “Then why are you blushing now?”
William swallowed hard. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re embarrassed,” Est countered, voice turning velvety. “We’re even.”
He tugged William down until their noses brushed.
“But you know what I meant too,” Est whispered. “Our first anniversary…”
His thumb traced William’s jaw.
“…of working together. Our first series.”
His
|
Heat in Rome
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, spilling warm golden hotel light onto the hallway. William stepped out first, steadying the man behind him with a hand at his waist.
Est bumped lightly into his back.
“Oops,” he mumbled, blinking up with a dazed smile that made William’s chest tighten.
He wasn’t 'drunk' drunk.
Just… 'soft'.
Warm cheeks, slow blinks, the kind of tipsy that turned his edges round and his voice honey-sweet.
And God, William found him dangerously cute like this.
They reached the room, and Est immediately leaned against the wall beside the door, head tipped back, lips parted in an innocent little breath.
“Rome is… spinning a bit,” he announced.
William snorted. “No, that’s you spinning.”
Est’s eyes narrowed, as if processing that was a full-time job. “Are you saying I’m… dizzy?”
“You’re cute,” William corrected without thinking.
Est’s brows lifted. “I am?”
Oh no.
He was TOO CUTE.
William opened the door, but Est didn’t move. Instead, he stepped forward and tugged gently at William’s sleeve.
“You keep looking at me,” Est said, voice lower now, warm enough to melt something inside him. “Like that.”
“Like what?” William asked, though he already knew.
“Like you wanna kiss me.”
His words were a mix of teasing and truth, softened by the slight sway in his stance.
William sucked in a breath. “Est, you’re drunk.”
“A little,” Est admitted. “Not enough to imagine you staring.”
He pressed a hand to William’s chest—warm, firm, bold in that careless, loosened way only tipsiness made him.
And he looked up with those eyes.
God.
Rome wasn’t the dangerous one tonight— Est was.
William cupped his cheek. “You’re impossible.”
Est leaned into the touch instantly, nuzzling like a cat seeking warmth. “You think I’m cute.”
“I think you’re—” William swallowed hard. “—going to make me lose my mind.”
A slow, lazy grin spread across Est’s face. “Good.”
He stepped even closer, closing every inch of space between them until William felt his breath, wine-sweet and warm against his lips.
“Let me kiss you,” Est murmured.
William’s heart hammered. “You don’t usually ask.”
Est smiled again, softer this time. “That’s because you usually kiss me first.”
And that—that—was the moment William broke.
He pushed Est gently against the inside of the door, the latch clicking shut behind them. Est gasped, hands curling in William’s shirt, his body pliant and eager.
William kissed him, slow at first, tasting warmth and Rome and Est all tangled together.
Est sighed into his mouth, fingers slipping into his hair as his posture softened even more.
“Mm… Willy…” Est’s voice was breathy, need threaded through each syllable. “You smell good.”
“Phi Est—”
“Wanna be close,” he whispered against William’s jaw. “Don’t wanna stop.”
William bit back a groan. Every part of him wanted to claim him right then, the bed just a few steps away, the city lights glowing through the curtains.
But he pulled back just a little, forehead pressed to Est’s. “Let’s get you on the bed before you fall over.”
Est blinked, innocent, needy. “Then you can… do whatever you want?”
William exhaled slowly.
This man would be the end of him.
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “All of you.”
Est smiled—sleepy, trusting, wicked all at once.
“Good,” he whispered. “I like when you do.”
And Rome faded behind them as William guided him to the bed—
where the night was only just beginning.
The bedroom was dim, lit only by the golden glow from the hallway seeping through the door that had just clicked shut. William guided Est toward the bed, but Est stopped him halfway, fingers tightening around William’s wrist.
“Wait,” Est murmured.
William froze, pulse jumping. “What is it?”
Est leaned in, lips brushing William’s ear. His breath was warm, wine-soft, but his tone—his tone was suddenly sharp, teasing, knowing.
“You remember what you said during the dinner live?” Est whispered.
William blinked. “…What did I say?”
Est pulled back just enough to look at him, pupils wide, cheeks pink, expression soft but wicked.
“You,” he said slowly, poking William’s chest, “told everyone about our ‘anniversary’.”
William’s face heated instantly. “I– I didn’t mean— It slipped out— You know I meant ThamePo—”
Est smirked, drunkenness blending with boldness. “Mm. That’s not how everyone heard it.”
“Phi Est—”
“I did correct you,” Est continued, stepping closer, “but I knew exactly what you meant.”
His hands slid up William’s shoulders, hooking behind his neck.
“But you looked so cute panicking. My ai dek auan, accidentally confessing.”
William groaned. “I wasn’t confessing. You know that.”
“Oh?” Est tilted his head, lips dangerously close. “Then why are you blushing now?”
William swallowed hard. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re embarrassed,” Est countered, voice turning velvety. “We’re even.”
He tugged William down until their noses brushed.
“But you know what I meant too,” Est whispered. “Our first anniversary…”
His thumb traced William’s jaw.
“…of working together. Our first series.”
His smile softened. “ThamePo. That’s what I was teasing.”
William exhaled shakily. “You almost gave me a heart attack that day.”
“That’s fine,” Est said, tone dipping low. “You can take it out on me tonight.”
William stiffened.
Est giggled— soft, tipsy, wicked.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not that drunk.”
“You’re drunk enough to be dangerous.”
“Mm.” Est pulled him closer by the shirt. “Why don’t you prove it?”
William didn’t think.
He pressed Est backward until the back of his knees hit the bed. Est dropped onto it with a surprised little breath, eyes sparkling.
“You,” William said firmly, leaning over him, bracing his hands on either side, “are playing with fire.”
Est licked his lips slowly.
“I like fire.”
William kissed him— deep, hungry, claiming.
Est gasped into it, fingers fisting in William’s shirt and pulling him down until their bodies aligned, heat against heat.
William pulled back just enough to speak against Est’s mouth. “You really want me to ‘take it out on you’?”
Est nodded without hesitation. “Mm-hm. Because you looked cute when you said anniversary. And I’m going to remind you about it every day.”
William groaned. “Est—”
“What?” Est’s smile was pure mischief. “You said it with your whole chest in front of everyone. ‘Our anniversary.’”
He mimicked William’s tone, teasing.
“Oh yeah, it’s our anniversary today.”
William buried his face in Est’s neck to hide his mortification, but Est shivered, breath catching sharply.
“Oh— Willy…”
His voice broke a little. “Do that again.”
William lifted his head, eyes dark now.
“Say please.”
Est’s lips parted. His cheeks flushed deeper, legs tensing where they brushed William’s hips.
“Please,” he whispered. “Come here.”
William kissed down his jaw, slow and deliberate, feeling Est melt beneath him.
“And don’t worry,” Est murmured breathlessly, hands sliding under William’s shirt. “Next time we have a live, I’ll say it first.”
William froze. “Say what?”
Est grinned, tugging him down until their foreheads touched.
“Our anniversary.”
William’s restraint snapped.
He pushed Est gently but firmly onto his back, earning a soft gasp, and kissed him again— deeper, hotter, with all the pent-up embarrassment, desire, and affection tangled together.
Est arched into him, fingers curling in his hair, pulling him closer, whispering against his lips—
“Happy anniversary, William.”
Est lay back on the sheets, breath already uneven, hair mussed against the pillows. The faint wine-pink on his cheeks made him look so soft, so undone, and William swore something in him twisted painfully at the sight.
“Come here,” Est whispered, tugging at the front of his shirt.
William didn’t make him ask twice.
He lowered himself over Est, and the moment their bodies met—heat against heat, chest to chest—Est inhaled sharply, fingers sliding around William’s neck.
“Willy…”
His voice had changed.
Less teasing now.
More want.
William kissed him— slow at first, just the edges of his lips, the corners, the soft part of his lower lip.
Est’s breath hitched.
The second kiss wasn’t slow.
It was hungry.
Est made a small noise—half gasp, half sigh—and lifted his hips without realizing it, pressing closer. William’s hand moved instinctively, sliding down Est’s side, feeling the way his breath stuttered under his touch.
“You’re warm,” William murmured against his mouth.
“You’re… heavy,” Est breathed, sounding like he didn’t mind it at all.
“I can move,” William whispered.
“Don’t.”
Est’s arms tightened around him, pulling him impossibly closer.
“Stay.”
That single word sent a shock through William.
He kissed down Est’s neck, slow, open-mouthed, letting his teeth graze just enough to make Est’s fingers curl into him. Est’s breath trembled, chest rising and falling faster.
“Willy—”
Est’s voice cracked slightly, thighs brushing William’s hips, seeking more friction, more touch, more him.
“—touch me.”
William lifted his head, eyes darkened.
“You sure?”
Est nodded, breathless. “If you stop now, I’ll die.”
William laughed softly—shaky, disbelieving—because Est could be dramatic and adorable and devastating all at once.
Then his hand slid under Est’s shirt, palm meeting warm skin.
Est’s reaction was instant.
His back arched.
A quiet sound escaped him—barely a whisper, but enough to break whatever restraint William had left.
He traced the lines of Est’s waist, the dip of his spine, the curve of his ribs.
Est trembled under every touch, eyes half-lidded, drunk on sensation now more than wine.
“Willy…” His voice was soft, pleading, his hand gripping William’s shoulder. “Closer.”
William kissed him again—deep, slow, consuming—while his other hand slipped lower, guiding Est fully against him.
Their breaths tangled, hot and uneven.
Est pulled away just long enough to whisper against William’s ear—
“Don’t hold back.”
And William didn’t.
William’s hands traced the warmth of Est’s body, slow and deliberate. Every touch, every brush of his fingers against Est’s ribs, waist, and chest made the other man shiver under him. The air between them was thick with tension, the quiet hum of the city outside forgotten.
“God, you feel… incredible,” William murmured, lips tracing along Est’s collarbone, teeth grazing softly at the hollow of his throat. Est gasped, tilting his head back into the motion.
Est’s hands tangled in William’s hair, tugging him closer. He arched, pressing every inch of himself against William, soft moans escaping his lips. William groaned low, rolling his hips slightly against Est’s, eliciting a sharp inhale from him.
William kissed his way down Est’s chest, teasing, tasting, claiming. Est’s back arched instinctively, hips lifting slightly, hungry for more. William’s hands slid lower, cupping him, exploring him with careful, possessive intent.
“You like that, huh?” William whispered, voice rough. “You like when I touch you.”
Est whimpered in response, nodding desperately, eyes half-lidded and glossy. His fingers gripped William’s shoulders tighter, pulling him down, urging him to stay close, to stay inside every moment.
William smirked, dark and dangerous, tilting his hips slightly against Est’s, feeling the subtle friction, the way Est trembled under him. “You’re driving me crazy, you know that?”
“Mm…” Est breathed out, voice soft and needy, “then… don’t stop.”
William pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of Est’s mouth, then paused, leaning back just enough to look into his eyes. “You’re mine tonight,” he said firmly. “Every inch of you.”
Est’s pupils dilated, chest rising rapidly. And then, almost mischievously, he shifted slightly, his body moving in a teasing way.
“Wait… what—” William started, but Est gave him a crooked, tipsy grin.
Before William could react, Est rolled forward, straddling him, hands braced on either side of his chest. “I… wanna ride you,” he said, voice low, sultry, playful all at once.
William froze for a split second, stunned—but the heat in Est’s eyes, the flush on his cheeks, the slight sway of his hips… it was irresistible. He groaned, hands gripping Est’s waist.
Est leaned down, lips brushing William’s ear, whispering softly, “You like this, don’t you? You like me on top of you.”
William’s grip tightened, thumbs grazing the soft skin of Est’s hips. “You’re… impossible,” he breathed. “I—fuck—”
Est laughed softly, low and teasing, rocking his hips against William slowly at first, just enough to drive him crazy. His hands slid down William’s chest, tracing muscles, feeling every twitch and shiver.
“You feel so good like this,” Est murmured, pressing closer, grinding just a little harder. His movements were bold but playful, teasing William’s control, making him groan and tremble beneath him.
William’s hands roamed up and down Est’s back, fingers digging lightly into his sides as he watched him, fascinated by how drunk and confident Est looked—how completely irresistible he was.
Est tilted his head back, hair falling across his shoulders, lips parted, eyes closed, lost in the sensation, lost in 'them'. He pressed forward, grinding with just enough force to make William gasp and tilt his hips up, meeting him.
“You're so tight,” William growled, voice low, thick with want. “Every part of you.”
Est smiled, rocking faster now, teasing, riding him deliberately, coaxing groans and moans from William with every movement. The heat between them built, every gasp, every shiver, every brush of skin electrifying, dragging them both closer to the edge.
Est’s movements became more deliberate, a rhythm that sent shivers crawling up William’s spine. Every tilt, every grind, every brush of skin against skin was designed to tease, to claim, to make William lose every shred of control he’d been holding.
William’s hands gripped Est’s hips, steadying him, guiding him just slightly, but letting Est lead. He leaned back, eyes dark, watching every subtle curve of Est’s body, every flicker of breath across his flushed skin.
“You feel so… perfect,” William groaned, voice low, nearly a growl. “Every… every part of you.”
Est shivered at the sound, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, hair falling into his face. His hands pressed down onto William’s chest, nails grazing, as he rocked forward and back with a teasing persistence that made William’s breaths hitch.
“Mm… I like when you watch me,” Est whispered, voice soft and husky, teasing. “Like you’re… waiting for me to—make you feel good.”
“I am waiting,” William admitted, voice ragged. “Waiting for you… to drive me insane.”
Est smirked, and the movement of his hips became sharper, more confident. Every grind made William groan louder, fingers pressing into the sheets, trying to anchor himself as the warmth, friction, and closeness burned into him.
“You’re so loud,” Est murmured, tilting his head back. “Like it’s… exciting you.”
“Yes,” William breathed, voice trembling. “You—fuck—you feel so good.”
Est’s grin widened, lips brushing William’s collarbone. “Then tell me,” he teased, leaning down to press soft, teasing kisses along William’s neck, watching him shiver under the touch.
“I—God, I’m… yours,” William groaned, eyes closing. “All of you. Right now. Please.”
Est’s body tensed, trembling just slightly from the rush of control, the heat, the power of teasing William so deliberately. He rocked forward a little faster, and William arched up instinctively, meeting every motion with hungry need.
“Yeah… just like that,” William groaned. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”
Est’s hands gripped his shoulders tighter, leaning forward to press his chest flush against William’s, letting the closeness add another layer of friction and heat. His lips brushed William’s ear as he whispered, teasing, seductive.
“Feels so good… you under me… all mine…”
William’s hands slid into Est’s hair, tugging him closer, hips lifting involuntarily. “You’re insane… so hot… I can’t—fuck…”
Est laughed softly, low and breathy, grinding with a teasing persistence that drove William to the edge. Every shiver, every gasp, every brush of lips and teeth against his skin felt like fire.
“Wanna feel… more,” Est murmured, rocking faster now, pressing all the right angles, every movement designed to make William lose it entirely.
William’s fingers dug into Est’s hips, nails grazing skin, heart hammering. “I—can’t… I’m—”
“Shh,” Est whispered, tilting his head down to brush lips against William’s, letting the kiss steal what little control remained. “You feel so good… I like you like this… all mine.”
The heat built unbearably between them—every shiver, every gasp, every movement synchronized, every whisper and moan pushing them closer to the edge. William’s chest pressed against Est’s, hands everywhere, pulling him closer, holding him tight, trembling with need and pleasure.
Est’s body rocked with precise, teasing insistence, controlling the rhythm now, watching William lose it completely under him. The connection, the warmth, the friction, every shiver, moan, and gasp—everything came to a white-hot peak.
William groaned low, gripping Est tight, head thrown back, overwhelmed, body taut with pleasure, every nerve set on fire. Est leaned down, pressing soft kisses along his jaw and collarbone as William gasped, choked, trembled… lost entirely in the moment.
“Fuck… Phi Est—oh God—” William groaned, the sensation too much, too exquisite, too consuming.
Est’s grin was wicked, soft, triumphant. “Mm… you like it,” he whispered, grinding one last time, hips meeting William’s in perfect sync. “You can’t get enough… can you?”
William could only shake, groaning, shivering, breath ragged. “Never… never enough…”
And then, finally, the tension broke, and the room was filled with the sounds of shivering bodies, whispered names, ragged breaths, and the intoxicating aftermath of a heat neither of them would forget—Est still straddling him, flush and mischievous, and William holding him close, completely undone.
The room was quiet except for their ragged breathing. William rested on his elbows, chest rising and falling, eyes soft as he watched Est settle against him, still straddling his waist. The wine-flushed tipsiness had faded into a drowsy, satisfied warmth, but Est’s smirk told him that playful spark was far from gone.
“You okay?” William asked, voice low, brushing damp strands of hair from Est’s face. His thumb traced the curve of Est’s cheek, gentle and possessive.
Est let out a soft hum, tilting his head to press against his hand. “Mm… yeah,” he murmured. “I’m… fine.”
Est hummed against him, muffled but satisfied. “Mm… perfect,” he whispered, eyes half-closed, fingers tracing lazy patterns across William’s chest. “Warm… safe…”
William chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from Est’s face. “Safe, huh? You were anything but safe tonight.”
“Not safe,” Est admitted, voice soft, playful, sleepy all at once. “But… good dangerous.”
William smiled against the top of his head, pressing a kiss there. “You’re impossible. I don’t know how you always do this to me.”
“Mmm…” Est yawned, squirming just enough to nuzzle his face into William’s neck. “You like it. Admit it.”
“I…” William laughed softly, low and warm. “Yeah. I like it. You—this—you… me… ” His words trailed off into a groan as he tightened his arms around Est.
“You’re… incredible,” William murmured, voice low, still thick from the intensity. “I—fuck—you really drove me insane.”
Est shifted slightly, resting a hand over William’s heart. “Feel it? That’s all yours,” he murmured, his lips brushing William’s collarbone. “Don’t… ever let go.”
“I won’t,” William promised, voice husky and low. “Never. Not tonight. Not ever.”
They stayed like that for a long time—soft, tangled, warm. Est’s breathing slowed against William’s chest, drifting toward sleep, and William traced gentle patterns along his back and shoulders, memorizing every inch of him.
“You’re… really something,” William whispered, pressing another kiss into Est’s hair. “Every time… you just—fuck… you wreck me.”
Est hummed, nestling closer. “Good. Means I’m doing my job.”
“You’re too good at it,” William admitted with a soft groan. “Too good…”
Est giggled softly, hair falling into his eyes, chest rising and falling unevenly. “Mm… you weren’t bad yourself,” he teased, though his voice was softer now, vulnerable, tipsy still from before.
William leaned back slightly, pulling Est gently down onto his chest. Est rested his head there, eyes half-lidded, lips brushing against William’s collarbone. The warmth of their bodies was comforting, intoxicating—but reality began to creep back in.
“…Tomorrow’s our fanmeeting,” William murmured after a long pause, voice careful now. “Do you… think you’ll be okay?”
Est lifted his head just enough to blink sleepily at him, a lazy, teasing grin still tugging at his lips. “Fanmeeting?” he repeated, voice soft. “Hmm… maybe… maybe I’ll survive if you stick close to me.”
William smirked, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Stick close?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “I think I might need to—make sure you’re really okay.”
Est chuckled, a soft, wine-tinted laugh. “You mean… like this?” He shifted slightly, nuzzling back against William’s chest, curling into the warmth, brushing his lips over the skin there in soft, teasing touches.
“Yeah,” William said, voice low, amused but gentle. “Like this. Making sure my messy, tipsy idiot doesn’t regret it tomorrow.”
Est laughed again, muffled against William’s chest. “I don’t regret a thing… except maybe that I might be too tired to do anything tomorrow if you keep holding me like this.”
William tightened his arms around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Then we’ll survive together. I’ll make sure you get through it, Est. No falling asleep mid-fanmeeting.”
Est lifted his head slightly, peeking up at him, eyes soft and full of warmth. “Promise?”
“Promise,” William replied firmly. “But you have to promise me something too.”
“Mmm… what?” Est murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns on William’s chest.
“Stay with me tonight. Don’t move away. I’m not letting you go, drunk or not.”
Est grinned sleepily, resting his forehead against William’s again. “Hmm… that I can do.”
They laid together, slow, soft, lingering touches replacing the fiery heat from before. William stroked the curve of Est’s hip, fingers brushing against his sides, back, shoulders. Est curled into him, occasionally nuzzling, sighing, muttering little soft words that made William’s chest ache with affection.
“…Tomorrow,” William whispered against his hair, “we’ll be fine. Just… stay like this tonight. I’ll take care of you.”
“Mmm… you always do,” Est murmured, voice nearly a whisper, closing his eyes. “Let’s… stay like this a bit longer…”
And so they did—warm, tangled, drifting slowly into a comfortable exhaustion, hearts still racing, but bodies finally satisfied. Outside, the lights of Rome glimmered faintly against the windows, but inside, it was just William and Est, holding onto each other, teasing, soft, intimate, and completely theirs.
William’s hands stayed at Est’s waist, thumbs drawing lazy, absent-minded circles as his breathing finally evened out.
“…You feel so good,” William murmured, voice low and honest, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Est lifted his head slightly, eyes still glossy, lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. “Yeah?” he asked softly, teasing even now.
William nodded, pressing his forehead back against Est’s. “Too good,” he admitted. “You always do this to me.”
Est laughed quietly, the sound soft and warm, then leaned down to kiss him—slow, unhurried, lingering. When he pulled back, he didn’t move away. Instead, he stayed close, rocking just slightly, deliberately, like he knew exactly what it would do.
William inhaled sharply. “Phi Est…”
“Mmm?” Est hummed, pretending innocence. “You sound like you miss me already.”
“I didn’t even get a break,” William said, half a complaint, half a confession.
Est grinned wider, fingers sliding up to William’s shoulders, nails grazing just enough to make him shiver. “Good,” he whispered. “Then…”
He leaned down, lips brushing William’s ear.
“…another round?”
William laughed breathlessly, hands tightening at Est’s waist, already pulling him closer again. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you love it,” Est whispered back, pressing a soft, playful kiss against his jaw. “Don’t lie.”
William could only tighten his hold on him, sighing, heart hammering. “Fine…” he muttered, a grin tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion. “One more round… then sleep.”
Est’s laugh was soft, victorious, and utterly irresistible. “Deal,” he whispered, settling closer, smirking, ready to tease William all over again.
The city outside Rome shimmered faintly through the curtains, but inside, the heat, laughter, and whispered promises of more consumed them entirely.
|
ao3_english
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2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
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https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75677391
|
{"authors": ["nuttydreams"], "language": "English", "title": "Heat in Rome"}
|
A Weird Thing To Say And Want
“Have I ever told you how it’s my dream to get eaten by you?”
The “confession” slipped out of Jax’s mouth naturally, because he was lying. Because he was always lying, right? Nothing that he said could ever have a modicum of truth, because he spoke in sarcasm. And also because Caine was too naive to know better and he needed that damn key.
So as he stood here, face-to-mouth with Caine, his arm deep within his jaws, he ignored the brief vision of what that would be like. Because it didn’t matter.
Caine stared deep into Jax’s soul. “That’s a weird thing to say and want.”
“Yeah? And?” Jax snickered, keeping his arm inside Caine’s mouth. “So what if it’s f[BOING!]ing weird? It’s the truth!”
“So you’re choosing to try and climb into my mouth to get to experience it?”
Jax blinked. “Uhh, yeah.” Slowly withdrawing back towards his seat on the other end of the table, he shook off the drool that now coated his arm. “Saw the opportunity and took it.”
Caine’s eyes dilated, somehow more than he had seen them before. “Well, it may be strange, but a human has never… wanted to be INSIDE me before!”
“Pleasedon’tsayitlikethat-”
“Well, Jax! If that’s what you really want, you shall receive it! Is it, Jax?”
Jax’s ears drooped a tiny bit. Oh God was he actually going to do this? “Yeah-”
He couldn’t even finish his sentence as Caine grabbed him. Hard. Before he could even process what was happening, he was in the ringleader’s mouth. Behind the sight of Caine, Jax quickly scrambled through the jaws and his foot hit it – yes! That damn floppy disk!
Jax had only just enough time to grab it, absolutely covered in saliva, before Caine swallowed. The small amount of light Jax once had quickly vanished, and instead he was in a dark place, warm and strangely squishy. There was just enough room for him to sit and breathe. Thankfully there was no stomach acid, because why would Caine need that? “Okay, thanks Caine, but can you let me out now?” the rabbit called out, “I want to finish our dinner!”
Whatever Caine responded with, it was muffled and distant. Jax didn’t even want to imagine what the ringleader was experiencing, but many questions came to him anyways – was his “stomach”, or at least his body, swollen by this meal he had eaten? Was he even in Caine’s stomach and not on some strange adventure?
At least he didn’t have to think about that for too long, as after a few minutes, he was finally spat back out. He caught the briefest glimpse of Caine’s body deflating, although no buttons on his suit seemed to be strained. Welp, that explained it.
That was interesting. Not bad, but interesting… alas, he had to get back to the others. Jax cleared his throat, trying to ignore the certain emotions he was feeling, before saying, “Thanks, but uhh… this was a nice dinner and everything, but could I go back to the circus?”
|
A Weird Thing To Say And Want
“Have I ever told you how it’s my dream to get eaten by you?”
The “confession” slipped out of Jax’s mouth naturally, because he was lying. Because he was always lying, right? Nothing that he said could ever have a modicum of truth, because he spoke in sarcasm. And also because Caine was too naive to know better and he needed that damn key.
So as he stood here, face-to-mouth with Caine, his arm deep within his jaws, he ignored the brief vision of what that would be like. Because it didn’t matter.
Caine stared deep into Jax’s soul. “That’s a weird thing to say and want.”
“Yeah? And?” Jax snickered, keeping his arm inside Caine’s mouth. “So what if it’s f[BOING!]ing weird? It’s the truth!”
“So you’re choosing to try and climb into my mouth to get to experience it?”
Jax blinked. “Uhh, yeah.” Slowly withdrawing back towards his seat on the other end of the table, he shook off the drool that now coated his arm. “Saw the opportunity and took it.”
Caine’s eyes dilated, somehow more than he had seen them before. “Well, it may be strange, but a human has never… wanted to be INSIDE me before!”
“Pleasedon’tsayitlikethat-”
“Well, Jax! If that’s what you really want, you shall receive it! Is it, Jax?”
Jax’s ears drooped a tiny bit. Oh God was he actually going to do this? “Yeah-”
He couldn’t even finish his sentence as Caine grabbed him. Hard. Before he could even process what was happening, he was in the ringleader’s mouth. Behind the sight of Caine, Jax quickly scrambled through the jaws and his foot hit it – yes! That damn floppy disk!
Jax had only just enough time to grab it, absolutely covered in saliva, before Caine swallowed. The small amount of light Jax once had quickly vanished, and instead he was in a dark place, warm and strangely squishy. There was just enough room for him to sit and breathe. Thankfully there was no stomach acid, because why would Caine need that? “Okay, thanks Caine, but can you let me out now?” the rabbit called out, “I want to finish our dinner!”
Whatever Caine responded with, it was muffled and distant. Jax didn’t even want to imagine what the ringleader was experiencing, but many questions came to him anyways – was his “stomach”, or at least his body, swollen by this meal he had eaten? Was he even in Caine’s stomach and not on some strange adventure?
At least he didn’t have to think about that for too long, as after a few minutes, he was finally spat back out. He caught the briefest glimpse of Caine’s body deflating, although no buttons on his suit seemed to be strained. Welp, that explained it.
That was interesting. Not bad, but interesting… alas, he had to get back to the others. Jax cleared his throat, trying to ignore the certain emotions he was feeling, before saying, “Thanks, but uhh… this was a nice dinner and everything, but could I go back to the circus?”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75674951
|
{"authors": ["SterlingFernsby"], "language": "English", "title": "A Weird Thing To Say And Want"}
|
fucking hell, sophia.
The whole rehearsal was filled with feather light touches, lingering stares and torturous anticipation.
Sophia was soaked from more than just sweat, and overly frustrated with every little thing.
”Can we just go home? We’re fine.” she snapped, gulping down her water.
”We just need to perfect this-“
Sophia wanted tocry.Which she found extremely bizarre- she had never been this desperate before.
But Manon, oh goodness Manon.
Sophia was so wound up at the thought of her. Tears clung to her eyes as she curled into a ball- back against the cool wall of the studio.
Sohey sighed.
”Fine, let’s call it for today. We’ll just push harder tomorrow, okay?”
The girls, eager to go home, agreed- quickly packing their stuff up with a sigh of relief.
The ride home was silent, air contaminated with exhaustion.
Sophia bolted to the bathroom, taking a steaming hot shower to try and numb this pent up agitation.
She lay in the dark, breathing heavy as her fingers twitched towards her phone.
She shouldn’t, they agreed to stop. For the safety of the group, to make sure it didn’t spin out of control.
But she wanted her- no,needed her.
She picked up her phone, immediately clicking on her messages- but just before she could even start to type:
manzie💋:
need me that bad?
sophia💜:
don’t get cocky, bannerman
no
manzie💋:
wdym no?
sophia💜:
i dont
need you
A lie, a blatantly obvious one. She was practically shaking with need during rehearsal.
manzie💋:
reduced to two word sentences?
you’re soaked for me, aren’t you?
sophia💜:
no. i’m not wet for you, manon.
manzie💋:
are you sure about that?
Sophia bit her lip, her thighs clenching tighter.
sophia💜:
you want me to be?
manzie💋:
tell me your fantasies
what you imagine me doing to you
sophia💜:
you really want to know?
manzie💋:
yeah
so i know what to do when it comes to the real thing
Sophia’s breath hitched.
sophia💜:
you really do want to know, huh?
manzie💋:
yes
of course
i want to know everything about you
your favourite colour (purple, just like the bruises i’m going to leave on you), your favourite thing to do (me, obviously)
every crevice of your body, what turns you on, what makes you scream
all of it, phia
Sophia felt herself clench around nothing. She was soaked from just this- already so close.
Screw her pride. She needed this.
sophia💜:
manon
i need you
please
manzie💋:
think i’m going to go to bed now
we have early rehearsals tomorrow
cuz someone couldn’t handle another hour
Sophia’s heart dropped.
sophia💜:
you’re not funny
manon
i swear
please
i need you so badly
manzie💋:
you need me, huh, soph?
sophia💜:
mhm
i do
please i need you so badly
manzie💋:
fucking hell, sophia.
Sophia held her breath, hoping for permission.
manzie💋:
admit it
beg
tell me how much you want me
are you wet right now?
just from my messages? words on a screen?
sophia💜:
if i am? what should i do about it?
manzie💋:
if i am, sweetheart…
just imagine my fingers driving in and out of you
as much as i’d love to hear you,
be a good girl and try to stop yourself from moaning my name in a pleasure filled haze
don’t want to get us caught now, do we?
sophia💜:
yes
manzie💋:
go
Sophia gulped, her hand slowly sliding down her waistband.
She found her throbbing heat quickly, the bundle of nerves pulsing to her touch. She circled it slowly- having to bite her lip to stifle the noises that would come out of her mouth.
manzie💋:
good.
now tell me,
who do you belong to?
Sophia’s hand was trembling, unable to type.
manzie💋:
tell me, sophia.
or i wont let you come.
She gasped, unable to stay quiet- trying to get her hand holding her phone to stop shaking.
sophia💜:
you
manzie💋:
good girl
well, who else’s name are you going to be screaming?
hm, darling?
Sophia couldn’t answer, too lost in chasing her release.
manzie💋:
who else’s fingers will give you as much pleasure as mine would?
Sophia willed herself to answer, her thumb stretching across the keyboard.
sophia💜:
no ones
manzie💋:
perfect
my perfect girl
you did so well
go on, take what you craved
Sophia came, arching her back as she whispered Manon’s name repeatedly.
|
fucking hell, sophia.
The whole rehearsal was filled with feather light touches, lingering stares and torturous anticipation.
Sophia was soaked from more than just sweat, and overly frustrated with every little thing.
”Can we just go home? We’re fine.” she snapped, gulping down her water.
”We just need to perfect this-“
Sophia wanted tocry.Which she found extremely bizarre- she had never been this desperate before.
But Manon, oh goodness Manon.
Sophia was so wound up at the thought of her. Tears clung to her eyes as she curled into a ball- back against the cool wall of the studio.
Sohey sighed.
”Fine, let’s call it for today. We’ll just push harder tomorrow, okay?”
The girls, eager to go home, agreed- quickly packing their stuff up with a sigh of relief.
The ride home was silent, air contaminated with exhaustion.
Sophia bolted to the bathroom, taking a steaming hot shower to try and numb this pent up agitation.
She lay in the dark, breathing heavy as her fingers twitched towards her phone.
She shouldn’t, they agreed to stop. For the safety of the group, to make sure it didn’t spin out of control.
But she wanted her- no,needed her.
She picked up her phone, immediately clicking on her messages- but just before she could even start to type:
manzie💋:
need me that bad?
sophia💜:
don’t get cocky, bannerman
no
manzie💋:
wdym no?
sophia💜:
i dont
need you
A lie, a blatantly obvious one. She was practically shaking with need during rehearsal.
manzie💋:
reduced to two word sentences?
you’re soaked for me, aren’t you?
sophia💜:
no. i’m not wet for you, manon.
manzie💋:
are you sure about that?
Sophia bit her lip, her thighs clenching tighter.
sophia💜:
you want me to be?
manzie💋:
tell me your fantasies
what you imagine me doing to you
sophia💜:
you really want to know?
manzie💋:
yeah
so i know what to do when it comes to the real thing
Sophia’s breath hitched.
sophia💜:
you really do want to know, huh?
manzie💋:
yes
of course
i want to know everything about you
your favourite colour (purple, just like the bruises i’m going to leave on you), your favourite thing to do (me, obviously)
every crevice of your body, what turns you on, what makes you scream
all of it, phia
Sophia felt herself clench around nothing. She was soaked from just this- already so close.
Screw her pride. She needed this.
sophia💜:
manon
i need you
please
manzie💋:
think i’m going to go to bed now
we have early rehearsals tomorrow
cuz someone couldn’t handle another hour
Sophia’s heart dropped.
sophia💜:
you’re not funny
manon
i swear
please
i need you so badly
manzie💋:
you need me, huh, soph?
sophia💜:
mhm
i do
please i need you so badly
manzie💋:
fucking hell, sophia.
Sophia held her breath, hoping for permission.
manzie💋:
admit it
beg
tell me how much you want me
are you wet right now?
just from my messages? words on a screen?
sophia💜:
if i am? what should i do about it?
manzie💋:
if i am, sweetheart…
just imagine my fingers driving in and out of you
as much as i’d love to hear you,
be a good girl and try to stop yourself from moaning my name in a pleasure filled haze
don’t want to get us caught now, do we?
sophia💜:
yes
manzie💋:
go
Sophia gulped, her hand slowly sliding down her waistband.
She found her throbbing heat quickly, the bundle of nerves pulsing to her touch. She circled it slowly- having to bite her lip to stifle the noises that would come out of her mouth.
manzie💋:
good.
now tell me,
who do you belong to?
Sophia’s hand was trembling, unable to type.
manzie💋:
tell me, sophia.
or i wont let you come.
She gasped, unable to stay quiet- trying to get her hand holding her phone to stop shaking.
sophia💜:
you
manzie💋:
good girl
well, who else’s name are you going to be screaming?
hm, darling?
Sophia couldn’t answer, too lost in chasing her release.
manzie💋:
who else’s fingers will give you as much pleasure as mine would?
Sophia willed herself to answer, her thumb stretching across the keyboard.
sophia💜:
no ones
manzie💋:
perfect
my perfect girl
you did so well
go on, take what you craved
Sophia came, arching her back as she whispered Manon’s name repeatedly.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75674956
|
{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "fucking hell, sophia."}
|
i will be your brother (and i'll hold your hand)
...Link...
They stirred, the feeling of cold liquid slowly lowering as it receded into the stone surrounding them.
...Open you eyes...
They slowly blinked their eyes open, staring up at the odd glowing blue stump hanging above.
Wake up, Link...
They pushed themselves up, looking around the room, which was big and mostly bare and yet felt so... small. It was dark even with the dim blue light of the stump above them and the faint orange glow of the spots on the walls, forcing them to squint to see what was around them.
Aside from the dent in the ground where they sat, there were only two other things in the room, both on either side of the large, eyed wall. One was a smooth rock sticking out of the ground that glowed with small but bright blue lights. The other was a small figure, it's colors unclear in the shadows laid down on the ground much like they had..
They crawled their way over to the figure first, grasping and shaking it (them?). Roused from slumber, small-beast blinked up at them, orange eyes glowing in the dark space. The two locked eyes only for a moment, before turning instead to face the glowing rock on the other end of the wall.
Lifting themselves up, they stumbled over, trying to stay upright. Two legs were hard to stand on, but they found bending down a little helped.
When the two finally reached the rock, the glowing lines moved very suddenly, shifting around until the shape in the middle flipped and lifted itself up to face them. It had the same eye as the door, only with blue and orange light around it.
This is a Sheikah Slate. It will guide you after your long slumber.
They turned their gaze to that of small-beast, as if seeking answers neither knew. Small-beast's mouth opened with a single, faint, "Lu?"
They shook their head in confusion. They did not understand the words of small-beast, not like the pretty voice in their head, whose meaning seemed to resonate deep into their being.
Turning to the 'Sheikah Slate,' they plucked it from the rock, staring at it in their two hands.
Registering User...
User 02 Recognized.
Welcome back, Friend.
They startled at the chiming voice of the slate, echoing in their head. They felt... something... reach out, brushing at edges of their mind, like it was asking for permission. They nodded, hesitantly, and felt what they thought was the Slate gently latch on to their mind, a quiet presence in their peripheral, easy to miss.
They jolted again as small-beast grabbed at their arm, looking between them and the Slate with a questioning gaze. Cautiously, they passed the Slate over to small beast, who accepted it gently.
"Ri?"
Scanning Entity...
No Data Found.
Observation: Sapient. Not immediately hostile to User. Likely a juvenile. Location in Ke'noi Omanu's Shrine of Resurrection: Should not be possible? Hypothesis: Divine Interference. Hypothesis: Purpose of Entity's presence is to assist User.
Like the pretty voice, they understood the Slate-Voice's meaning, even if they failed to grasp most of the words: small-beast was probably brought here to help them.
Register Secondary User?
This Action can be Undone at Anytime.
Realizing the question was directed at them, they nodded. If they could take it back, then they wanted to try.
Primary User Permission Confirmed.
Request to Unidentified Entity: Register as Secondary User?
Small-beast started much like they had, looking up at them as if for guidance. They nodded gently, trying to convey a sense of safety. Small-beast peered back down at the Slate, before giving it a small nod of confirmation.
Registration Request Accepted.
User 03-2 Registered.
Welcome, new Friend.
Small-beast shivered, eyes closed. They could only assume the Slate had reached out to small-beasts mind like it had theirs. Small-beast gave a tense nod, standing taut for a moment before relaxing as the Slate's presence settled.
Advisement: Users should proceed through the door.
Looking at each other in confusion, the two looked up to find that the eyed-wall had disappeared, revealing another room full of boxes, big and small. Carefully, they both made their way into the room, investigating the smaller boxes. Only a punch and they opened, revealing tattered cloth the Slate identified as 'clothing.' Slowly, with the instruction of the Slate, they pulled the clothes over their bare skin while small-beast watched curiously.
Once they had finished, the two made their way over the to another glowing rock, just like the last one, only this one glowed with orange like the Slate.
Hold the Sheikah Slate up to the pedestal. That will show you the way.
Trusting the words of the pretty voice, they held the Slate up to the rock, or 'pedestal.' The orange light turned a bright blue, and the eyed door next to it slid up and away to reveal a passage with a bright light shining out of it.
The light filled the room, bringing with it warmth that dispelled the cold air they had failed to notice. Looking down at
|
i will be your brother (and i'll hold your hand)
...Link...
They stirred, the feeling of cold liquid slowly lowering as it receded into the stone surrounding them.
...Open you eyes...
They slowly blinked their eyes open, staring up at the odd glowing blue stump hanging above.
Wake up, Link...
They pushed themselves up, looking around the room, which was big and mostly bare and yet felt so... small. It was dark even with the dim blue light of the stump above them and the faint orange glow of the spots on the walls, forcing them to squint to see what was around them.
Aside from the dent in the ground where they sat, there were only two other things in the room, both on either side of the large, eyed wall. One was a smooth rock sticking out of the ground that glowed with small but bright blue lights. The other was a small figure, it's colors unclear in the shadows laid down on the ground much like they had..
They crawled their way over to the figure first, grasping and shaking it (them?). Roused from slumber, small-beast blinked up at them, orange eyes glowing in the dark space. The two locked eyes only for a moment, before turning instead to face the glowing rock on the other end of the wall.
Lifting themselves up, they stumbled over, trying to stay upright. Two legs were hard to stand on, but they found bending down a little helped.
When the two finally reached the rock, the glowing lines moved very suddenly, shifting around until the shape in the middle flipped and lifted itself up to face them. It had the same eye as the door, only with blue and orange light around it.
This is a Sheikah Slate. It will guide you after your long slumber.
They turned their gaze to that of small-beast, as if seeking answers neither knew. Small-beast's mouth opened with a single, faint, "Lu?"
They shook their head in confusion. They did not understand the words of small-beast, not like the pretty voice in their head, whose meaning seemed to resonate deep into their being.
Turning to the 'Sheikah Slate,' they plucked it from the rock, staring at it in their two hands.
Registering User...
User 02 Recognized.
Welcome back, Friend.
They startled at the chiming voice of the slate, echoing in their head. They felt... something... reach out, brushing at edges of their mind, like it was asking for permission. They nodded, hesitantly, and felt what they thought was the Slate gently latch on to their mind, a quiet presence in their peripheral, easy to miss.
They jolted again as small-beast grabbed at their arm, looking between them and the Slate with a questioning gaze. Cautiously, they passed the Slate over to small beast, who accepted it gently.
"Ri?"
Scanning Entity...
No Data Found.
Observation: Sapient. Not immediately hostile to User. Likely a juvenile. Location in Ke'noi Omanu's Shrine of Resurrection: Should not be possible? Hypothesis: Divine Interference. Hypothesis: Purpose of Entity's presence is to assist User.
Like the pretty voice, they understood the Slate-Voice's meaning, even if they failed to grasp most of the words: small-beast was probably brought here to help them.
Register Secondary User?
This Action can be Undone at Anytime.
Realizing the question was directed at them, they nodded. If they could take it back, then they wanted to try.
Primary User Permission Confirmed.
Request to Unidentified Entity: Register as Secondary User?
Small-beast started much like they had, looking up at them as if for guidance. They nodded gently, trying to convey a sense of safety. Small-beast peered back down at the Slate, before giving it a small nod of confirmation.
Registration Request Accepted.
User 03-2 Registered.
Welcome, new Friend.
Small-beast shivered, eyes closed. They could only assume the Slate had reached out to small-beasts mind like it had theirs. Small-beast gave a tense nod, standing taut for a moment before relaxing as the Slate's presence settled.
Advisement: Users should proceed through the door.
Looking at each other in confusion, the two looked up to find that the eyed-wall had disappeared, revealing another room full of boxes, big and small. Carefully, they both made their way into the room, investigating the smaller boxes. Only a punch and they opened, revealing tattered cloth the Slate identified as 'clothing.' Slowly, with the instruction of the Slate, they pulled the clothes over their bare skin while small-beast watched curiously.
Once they had finished, the two made their way over the to another glowing rock, just like the last one, only this one glowed with orange like the Slate.
Hold the Sheikah Slate up to the pedestal. That will show you the way.
Trusting the words of the pretty voice, they held the Slate up to the rock, or 'pedestal.' The orange light turned a bright blue, and the eyed door next to it slid up and away to reveal a passage with a bright light shining out of it.
The light filled the room, bringing with it warmth that dispelled the cold air they had failed to notice. Looking down at small-beast, they could finally see the figure was mostly black and light blue, with two large white spots on the arms.
Link...
Their head jerked back to look at the light shing out of the passage. Link... that is what the pretty voice called them.
You are the Light-Our Light-that must shine upon Hyrule once again. Now, go...
The pretty voice faded, but much like the Slate, they thought they could still feel it in the back of their mind, giving the same warmth as the light at the end of the tunnel.
Are they Link? The pretty voice said so, so probably. But how were they the Light, the pretty voice felt a lot more like it.
Shaking the questions from their mind, they looked down at small beast, offering hand. A paw placed itself in their grasp. With a short nod, the two ran forward, hand in paw, towards the light.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-11T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75677321/chapters/197920041
|
{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "i will be your brother (and i'll hold your hand)"}
|
who will tell the story of your life
Jin's rabbit-quick pulse thrummed through the sensitive blade of Hawks's primary feathers. One pressed against his jugular, the other hovered a hair's breadth above his ribcage. He strained to move, to make the final blow he knew he needed to make, but his muscles seized in place. A small voice rang in his head, begging him to back away, to leave Jin alone.
He dropped the feathers, staggering back with a heavy, shaking exhale. “Jin, I-”
A deafening roar. A wall of heat. Searing pain like spikes of ice driving deep into his back and wings. He moved on instinct, propelling himself and the injured Jin with what was left of his wings, staggering against the far wall.
Jin struggled to a sitting position, eyes wide, hand outstretched. “Dabi! Wait! Wait, wait, wait!”
The clarity in Jin's voice and expression, the bright panic in his unmasked eyes, made the coalescing flames in Dabi's scarred hand extinguish with a sharp hiss. Blue fire illuminated the space, casting eerie shadows and rendering Dabi's face unreadable.
“He didn’t…” Jin stammered. “He could have. It seemed like he was going to. But he stopped.”
Hawks held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, stumbling to the side so that Jin was out of the line of fire. Dabi tracked him with his intense blue gaze, feet pivoting toward him. “You have twenty seconds to make your case,” he snarled.
“I…” Hawks let out a long breath that ended in a hiss of pain as the motion pulled at his burned back. “I was working for the Commission. All along. I told them where to find you. I was… ordered to kill Jin, and as many of the others as I could. But Jin… they thought he was the most dangerous.”
Dabi tilted his head, a cold smile pulling at the staples on his cheeks. “He’s the most dangerous, huh? That’s what you got from all these months of investigation?” His hand twitched, a few sparks drifting to the floor. “Sounds like you’re not too good at your job.”
Hawks shook his head. “No, I am not. Couldn’t even finish it. The job. I just… couldn’t.” His voice cracked and he tried to conceal it with a cough. “Not after getting to know Jin… everyone, really. Too little, too late, I know.” He closed his eyes. “Do what you have to. I’m at your mercy.”
Dabi relaxed his stance, shaking out his sparking, smoking hands. He growled in frustration. “It’s no fun when they want to die,” he muttered, half to himself. “And unfortunately for you, the feeling’s mutual. I saw your dumb face too many times to block it out and do what I have to. You’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that to piss me off bad enough for me to end you.” He took a half step forward. “So what are you gonna do now, birdbrain? Go crawling back to your masters, begging for forgiveness? Take out a few lower ranking villains along the way? Or are you gonna finish what you started here and go full turncoat?”
Hawks's knees shook as his body vibrated with adrenaline. He braced himself against the nearest wall, pain throbbing in time with his heartbeat. “I can’t go back,” he said, shocking himself with the firm conviction in his voice. “But… you have to understand, I can’t follow All For One. He’s… he’s a different breed than you guys. He doesn’t care about… anyone.”
Dabi narrowed his eyes. Hawks had to stop himself from flinching, locking his muscles in place.
“Can’t disagree with you on that,” Dabi said at last.
Jin lifted his head with visible effort, meeting Hawks’s eyes. “I never wanted to follow All For One. It was always about you guys. I just… wanted to belong somewhere.” His voice trailed off, tight with pain.
Dabi tore his gaze away from Hawks. He stepped backward until he crouched beside Jin. Even as he searched Jin's utility belt for the first aid supplies, he kept Hawks in the corner of his eye.
“This war shouldn’t be happening,” Hawks said in a rush, pushing himself to stand as straight as he could. “They’re sending kids after you. Schoolchildren. Even veteran Heroes won’t face you, and they’re sending children.” He made a harsh, pathetic noise, somewhere between a sob and a cough. His gaze dropped to his scorched boots, unable to meet their eyes. “Many of them… they don’t even want to fight villains. They went to school to be rescue heroes. Like Thirteen. They just wanted to keep people safe and give them hope.” He scrubbed at his eyes as tears began to well up. “They didn’t know. How could they? Nobody knew.”
Dabi looked up from where he was cleaning Jin’s wound, the intensity of his gaze forcing Hawks to lift his head. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” he said, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. “It’s like we’re all pawns in some great chess game.”
Jin flinched as Dabi wiped an alcohol pad across the gash in his side. Dabi rested a steadying hand on his shoulder. “So, knowing that…” Dabi said, “anyone have a brilliant plan?”
Hawks opened his mouth to say something, but a massive shadow darkened the doorway.
No, not just any shadow.
Dark Shadow.
“Hawks!”
|
who will tell the story of your life
Jin's rabbit-quick pulse thrummed through the sensitive blade of Hawks's primary feathers. One pressed against his jugular, the other hovered a hair's breadth above his ribcage. He strained to move, to make the final blow he knew he needed to make, but his muscles seized in place. A small voice rang in his head, begging him to back away, to leave Jin alone.
He dropped the feathers, staggering back with a heavy, shaking exhale. “Jin, I-”
A deafening roar. A wall of heat. Searing pain like spikes of ice driving deep into his back and wings. He moved on instinct, propelling himself and the injured Jin with what was left of his wings, staggering against the far wall.
Jin struggled to a sitting position, eyes wide, hand outstretched. “Dabi! Wait! Wait, wait, wait!”
The clarity in Jin's voice and expression, the bright panic in his unmasked eyes, made the coalescing flames in Dabi's scarred hand extinguish with a sharp hiss. Blue fire illuminated the space, casting eerie shadows and rendering Dabi's face unreadable.
“He didn’t…” Jin stammered. “He could have. It seemed like he was going to. But he stopped.”
Hawks held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, stumbling to the side so that Jin was out of the line of fire. Dabi tracked him with his intense blue gaze, feet pivoting toward him. “You have twenty seconds to make your case,” he snarled.
“I…” Hawks let out a long breath that ended in a hiss of pain as the motion pulled at his burned back. “I was working for the Commission. All along. I told them where to find you. I was… ordered to kill Jin, and as many of the others as I could. But Jin… they thought he was the most dangerous.”
Dabi tilted his head, a cold smile pulling at the staples on his cheeks. “He’s the most dangerous, huh? That’s what you got from all these months of investigation?” His hand twitched, a few sparks drifting to the floor. “Sounds like you’re not too good at your job.”
Hawks shook his head. “No, I am not. Couldn’t even finish it. The job. I just… couldn’t.” His voice cracked and he tried to conceal it with a cough. “Not after getting to know Jin… everyone, really. Too little, too late, I know.” He closed his eyes. “Do what you have to. I’m at your mercy.”
Dabi relaxed his stance, shaking out his sparking, smoking hands. He growled in frustration. “It’s no fun when they want to die,” he muttered, half to himself. “And unfortunately for you, the feeling’s mutual. I saw your dumb face too many times to block it out and do what I have to. You’re gonna have to try a lot harder than that to piss me off bad enough for me to end you.” He took a half step forward. “So what are you gonna do now, birdbrain? Go crawling back to your masters, begging for forgiveness? Take out a few lower ranking villains along the way? Or are you gonna finish what you started here and go full turncoat?”
Hawks's knees shook as his body vibrated with adrenaline. He braced himself against the nearest wall, pain throbbing in time with his heartbeat. “I can’t go back,” he said, shocking himself with the firm conviction in his voice. “But… you have to understand, I can’t follow All For One. He’s… he’s a different breed than you guys. He doesn’t care about… anyone.”
Dabi narrowed his eyes. Hawks had to stop himself from flinching, locking his muscles in place.
“Can’t disagree with you on that,” Dabi said at last.
Jin lifted his head with visible effort, meeting Hawks’s eyes. “I never wanted to follow All For One. It was always about you guys. I just… wanted to belong somewhere.” His voice trailed off, tight with pain.
Dabi tore his gaze away from Hawks. He stepped backward until he crouched beside Jin. Even as he searched Jin's utility belt for the first aid supplies, he kept Hawks in the corner of his eye.
“This war shouldn’t be happening,” Hawks said in a rush, pushing himself to stand as straight as he could. “They’re sending kids after you. Schoolchildren. Even veteran Heroes won’t face you, and they’re sending children.” He made a harsh, pathetic noise, somewhere between a sob and a cough. His gaze dropped to his scorched boots, unable to meet their eyes. “Many of them… they don’t even want to fight villains. They went to school to be rescue heroes. Like Thirteen. They just wanted to keep people safe and give them hope.” He scrubbed at his eyes as tears began to well up. “They didn’t know. How could they? Nobody knew.”
Dabi looked up from where he was cleaning Jin’s wound, the intensity of his gaze forcing Hawks to lift his head. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” he said, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. “It’s like we’re all pawns in some great chess game.”
Jin flinched as Dabi wiped an alcohol pad across the gash in his side. Dabi rested a steadying hand on his shoulder. “So, knowing that…” Dabi said, “anyone have a brilliant plan?”
Hawks opened his mouth to say something, but a massive shadow darkened the doorway.
No, not just any shadow.
Dark Shadow.
“Hawks!” Tsukoyomi called. “Stay back!”
Hawks stumbled forward, holding out his hands and fanning out his remaining feathers as a flimsy shield. “Wait, wait!” His shout scraped at his abused throat and he suppressed a cough. “Tsuko- Fumikage,” he continued, deliberately using Tsukoyomi’s given name. “I'm... we're working together. They're not your enemy."
The raven-headed boy narrowed his eyes. "Working together? Hawks... are you a villain?"
"No!" Hawks said instantly, wincing at Dabi's glare. "Listen, there's no time... You can tear me a new one later.” He broke out into a short, raspy, hysterical laugh. “I’m still with you, I promise, but the situation is... complicated. Do you trust me?”
Dark Shadow’s rippling form ebbed like the tide until he was almost Tsukoyomi’s size. Tsukoyomi’s feathers stood on end, trembling, and he still stood in a fighting stance, but he made no move to attack. “I trust you with my life,” he said, each word slow and deliberate. His back foot edged toward the exit. “You know that. So if you have a plan, I’ll follow it. But I truly hope you know what you’re doing.”
Hawks nodded. “Fair enough. Go, keep your classmates safe. I’ll see you on the other side of… all this.”
Tsukoyomi inclined his head in a hesitant bow, then slipped away, cloak trailing behind him.
Dabi rose to his feet, staring after Tsukoyomi's retreating form. "If you told that kid to jump off a cliff, he would. For his sake and yours, don't fuck up."
"Yeah," Hawks rasped. His tone didn't have the usual low menace that came with a threat. Was that a hint of protectiveness, then, from the villain who claimed to want to burn the world down?
A few tense seconds passed as Hawks slowly withdrew his fanned-out feathers, reattaching them to his wings.
“I’m sending some files your way, very shortly,” he said, looking over his shoulder at them. “Then, I’m gonna disappear for a while. I’ll be back, hopefully, but if not…” He turned around, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “Tell my story. Make sure everyone knows the truth about the Hero Public Safety Commission.”
Then, he stepped outside, bracing himself for a painful takeoff.
Movement behind him made him stop. He turned around to face the potential danger, only to be enveloped in a pair of strong arms. He let out a pained oof as Jin’s arms brushed his burned back. Jin let up the pressure ever so slightly, tears streaming down his bloodstained face. Behind him, Dabi groaned in frustration. “I told you not to fucking move! Now I’m gonna have to redo your stitches!”
“You’d better come back, Keigo,” Jin said, his voice low in Hawks’s ear.
Hawks’s breath froze in his lungs. The word - the name - his name - hit him like a free-dive into frigid water.
He didn't know how Jin had discovered it. In that moment, he didn't care. He knew his name, his past, and still spoke it with no hesitation.
Jin saw him.
He wrapped his arms and what was left of his trembling wings around Jin. “I’ll do my best, Jin” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Then he withdrew, stepped back, and launched himself into the air.
---
“And that’s,” Keigo said, letting out a shaky breath, “pretty much how it went. At least as far as I can remember. Go ask Dabi, I’m pretty sure he remembers me being much more pathetic.” He let out a weak laugh.
Shuichi reached across the coffee table, turned off the tape recorder, and stood. He paced around the table and sat down next to Keigo, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for trusting me with this,” he said. “If you want to take a break…”
“I’m fine,” Keigo said immediately, fluffing out his wings. They were fuller, now, but they had a ragged, wild edge that remained even after the burns had healed. Shuichi noticed that weariness still lined his face. His smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Just need some water.”
With a nod, Shuichi stood and headed for the kitchen, coming back seconds later with two bottles of water. Keigo relished the feeling of the cold bottle in his hands for a few seconds, then drained half the bottle in one go.
Shuichi took slower, more methodical sips, waiting a few minutes for Keigo to settle. “If you’re ready… the next time anyone saw you was… Atsuhiro, right?”
“As far as I know,” Keigo said with a shrug. “I’m sure he already told you all about that.”
“Yeah, but hearing your side is important, too.” Shuichi rested his ankle on his opposite knee, pressing Record.
“Alright, although I don’t have the way with words that Atsuhiro does." Keigo let out a self-deprecating chuckle.
“Just be real about it,” Shuichi said with a faint smile. “The way you were with the last story.”
“Okay. So, a little background. The first person I spoke to after the raid wasn’t Atsuhiro. It was Mera. He visited me in my cell..."
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75674986?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["thewriterhyena"], "language": "English", "title": "who will tell the story of your life"}
|
The Bartender
It was a real stormy night. It must have been months since Husk had last heard a storm like this. At least he was lucky to be inside, he thought as he listened to the jarring sound of rain pouring onto the roof. The sounds of rain mixed in with the sounds of his faucet as the bartender started cleaning up his glasses. There had been twelve costumers that night. Not his best night, definitely not his worst. Lately though, a good night would include anything over ten costumers. Husk knew that his bar was way past the good old days. That didn't mean he would ever quit it though. Not 'Husk's'. Not ever.
You see, Husk wasn't in the business for the fame. Not at all. It's the love of the game that forced him to continue trying to steer this sinking ship of a bar into the right direction. Husk loved being a bartender and he loved this place. In a way, this place was him. On certain days, Husk would even admit that this place was all there was to him. But he loved it nonetheless. He loved the people, the conversations, the drinks. According to Husk there's real skill necessary to being a good bartender. A skill he certainly posessed, as almost every single one of his costumers stayed for at least a second drink.
He knew people. Could figure them out in but a quick look. Ever heard of the saying 'talk to the bartender'? With Husk, you barely even needed to talk. He could figure you out immediately and with it, a drink to fix whatever problem you came with. That isn't to say you couldn't talk. There are some things even drinking can't fix. He should know. Husk grimaced at his own thought. He shoved it away quickly. Everyone had problems, certainly the people that came to 'Husk's'. It had that kind of reputation. Not to mention, it looked the part. You didn't enter this tiny, basement-level, sheltered bar, unless you wanted a quick escape. You came in with a problem and left it at the bottom of whatever glass Husk served you, waiting for the bartender to clean it all up. But Husk didn't mind it too much. In a way all the ghosts left at the bar make it easier to ignore his own. "'Husk's' ghosts, cover Husk's", Husk lauged a little at his own - admittedly slightly unfunny - joke. His laugh echoed right through the bar, signifying it's emptiness yet again.
He had served thirty-one drinks that night, Husk determined, as he cleaned the final glass. A solid result. If he kept it up like this, he would be able to afford his full share of rent this month. He had nearly died of embarressment when his roommate had had to help him out last month. As if a thirty-nine year old man having to live with a roommate wasn't an embarrassment in of itself... He owned a whole fucking bar, managed and tended to it himself and he still couldn't afford his rent. Times are tough, he thought to himself, as he walked up to the door, ready to close the place down. It was only one am. He usually closed the place at two, but experience had taught him that if no one was inside by now, no one would be.
What Husk didn't expect, was for the door to swing open. A dismantled figure appeared in the doorway. It was a boy, no a man, maybe? He looked like he was in his mid-twenties. His clothes were soaking wet. Must have been the storm, Husk figured as the man neared closer to him. Looked tired too, Husk noticed, but that didn't stick out to him. Most of his costumers came in tired from whatever rough day they had had earlier. Then the man spoke. His voice rang right through the empty bar, like Husk's laugh had done earlier. The sound of it was... Sweet. Sweeter than Husk had heard in a while. It intrigued him. 'Hi, I'm sorry, were you closing up? It's just that I really needed a drink and I saw this place and... I don't know. Do you mind if I come in?' The voice sounded rough, but not truly, as Husk detected. The roughness sounded more like a mask. He didn't know what the man was trying to hide away from, but he knew he wanted to find out. He wanted to know his story. Husk supposed he could keep the bar open for another hour after all.
---
It had been a rough fucking day already and now he was forced to walk through the storm as well. Angel Dust hated this kind of weather. At least this storm was nothing compared to the storm that he went through at work today, Angel figured. He steadily made his way over the slippery pavement, avoiding the growing puddles of water the best he could. He looked at his watch. Almost one fucking am. Who did Val think he was? Keeping him at work until one - fucking - am. And you best know he's going to be hearing about it too when he gets back home. Also to Val.
Valentino and Angel's relationship was... Complicated to say the least. Having to work for your boyfriend leads to certain complications, that's just the way it is. At least that's what Angel kept telling himself. Day after day after day. But despite all of the fighting, the shoots that continued for way longer than what they had agreed upon and the
|
The Bartender
It was a real stormy night. It must have been months since Husk had last heard a storm like this. At least he was lucky to be inside, he thought as he listened to the jarring sound of rain pouring onto the roof. The sounds of rain mixed in with the sounds of his faucet as the bartender started cleaning up his glasses. There had been twelve costumers that night. Not his best night, definitely not his worst. Lately though, a good night would include anything over ten costumers. Husk knew that his bar was way past the good old days. That didn't mean he would ever quit it though. Not 'Husk's'. Not ever.
You see, Husk wasn't in the business for the fame. Not at all. It's the love of the game that forced him to continue trying to steer this sinking ship of a bar into the right direction. Husk loved being a bartender and he loved this place. In a way, this place was him. On certain days, Husk would even admit that this place was all there was to him. But he loved it nonetheless. He loved the people, the conversations, the drinks. According to Husk there's real skill necessary to being a good bartender. A skill he certainly posessed, as almost every single one of his costumers stayed for at least a second drink.
He knew people. Could figure them out in but a quick look. Ever heard of the saying 'talk to the bartender'? With Husk, you barely even needed to talk. He could figure you out immediately and with it, a drink to fix whatever problem you came with. That isn't to say you couldn't talk. There are some things even drinking can't fix. He should know. Husk grimaced at his own thought. He shoved it away quickly. Everyone had problems, certainly the people that came to 'Husk's'. It had that kind of reputation. Not to mention, it looked the part. You didn't enter this tiny, basement-level, sheltered bar, unless you wanted a quick escape. You came in with a problem and left it at the bottom of whatever glass Husk served you, waiting for the bartender to clean it all up. But Husk didn't mind it too much. In a way all the ghosts left at the bar make it easier to ignore his own. "'Husk's' ghosts, cover Husk's", Husk lauged a little at his own - admittedly slightly unfunny - joke. His laugh echoed right through the bar, signifying it's emptiness yet again.
He had served thirty-one drinks that night, Husk determined, as he cleaned the final glass. A solid result. If he kept it up like this, he would be able to afford his full share of rent this month. He had nearly died of embarressment when his roommate had had to help him out last month. As if a thirty-nine year old man having to live with a roommate wasn't an embarrassment in of itself... He owned a whole fucking bar, managed and tended to it himself and he still couldn't afford his rent. Times are tough, he thought to himself, as he walked up to the door, ready to close the place down. It was only one am. He usually closed the place at two, but experience had taught him that if no one was inside by now, no one would be.
What Husk didn't expect, was for the door to swing open. A dismantled figure appeared in the doorway. It was a boy, no a man, maybe? He looked like he was in his mid-twenties. His clothes were soaking wet. Must have been the storm, Husk figured as the man neared closer to him. Looked tired too, Husk noticed, but that didn't stick out to him. Most of his costumers came in tired from whatever rough day they had had earlier. Then the man spoke. His voice rang right through the empty bar, like Husk's laugh had done earlier. The sound of it was... Sweet. Sweeter than Husk had heard in a while. It intrigued him. 'Hi, I'm sorry, were you closing up? It's just that I really needed a drink and I saw this place and... I don't know. Do you mind if I come in?' The voice sounded rough, but not truly, as Husk detected. The roughness sounded more like a mask. He didn't know what the man was trying to hide away from, but he knew he wanted to find out. He wanted to know his story. Husk supposed he could keep the bar open for another hour after all.
---
It had been a rough fucking day already and now he was forced to walk through the storm as well. Angel Dust hated this kind of weather. At least this storm was nothing compared to the storm that he went through at work today, Angel figured. He steadily made his way over the slippery pavement, avoiding the growing puddles of water the best he could. He looked at his watch. Almost one fucking am. Who did Val think he was? Keeping him at work until one - fucking - am. And you best know he's going to be hearing about it too when he gets back home. Also to Val.
Valentino and Angel's relationship was... Complicated to say the least. Having to work for your boyfriend leads to certain complications, that's just the way it is. At least that's what Angel kept telling himself. Day after day after day. But despite all of the fighting, the shoots that continued for way longer than what they had agreed upon and the occasional doubts, Angel loved his boyfriend. How could he not?
Val could also be really good to him. When Angel had had nothing, Val was the one to take care of him. He loved him for that. Yes. Despite their difficulties, Valentino was the man for Angel Dust and Angel was truly thankful for it. It's just that some days, it was hard to feel that appreciation. Like when he was walking home at one am, inexplicably sore, through a fucking storm...
He quit his steps for a moment, wondering what to do. He could go straight home, but he wasn't really feeling up to it. If he went home, he would simply be lying in bed, waiting for Val to arrive. He knew exactly how that scenario would play out too. He had known Val long enough to be able to predict his antics. At first he would let him have it for delaying their shoot earlier. It wasn't even his fault. It was Travis's - the director of all people - for showing up late. But that wouldn't matter to Val. He had to take out his anger on someone and Angel would simply be at the wrong place at the wrong time. The bad side to seeing each other both at work and at home, meant that Angel was often at the wrong place at the wrong time. After that though, they would make up. Val would apologize profusely for getting mad and Angel would accept. Because he loved Val, and Val loved him. Then Valentino would get sad about how they let the night get away from them and Angel would offer to make him feel better. That would obviously work, so the two would end the night by having sex.
Angel played the scenario out in his head over and over again. He knew the night would eventually go down like that, but that didn't mean he wanted to be waiting for it. Going home now would mean admitting defeat, awaiting the inevitable. He decided that if he had to face an angry Val anyway, he might as well do it after a drink or two. He thought about calling Cherri, his best friend. She knew all about Valentino and she would surely be able to make him feel better if he let her try. Yet, as he was looking at her contact information, he decided against it. Maybe he'd come to regret it, but he wanted to be alone for now. He needed a wallowing in his own sadness kind of moment, however dumb that sounded.
His eye fell on a small building. On it, there was an illuminated sign with an arrow pointing downwards, towards a bar. The sign read one singular word. A name, Angel figured, maybe it's owners'? The sign read 'Husk's'. This slightly grim looking basement bar might just be exactly what he needed right now. It was small, looked kinda cozy. Most importantly it was nearby and open. Angel refused to walk through this storm a minute longer. Too much of his day had been spent enduring one already.
As Angel made his way down, he noticed what seemed to be the owner - the bartender? - walking towards the door. Probably coming to close the place down. Nope, not happening, not right now. Angel flew towards the door. He slung the the door open, right before the bartender was able to reach it. Only when he looked at the confused face before him, did Angel realize he was probably expected to say something. So he spoke, softer than intended: 'Hi, I'm sorry, were you closing up? It's just that I really needed a drink and I saw this place and... I don't know. Do you mind if I come in?'
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75677341/chapters/197920136
|
{"authors": ["theencantonians"], "language": "English", "title": "The Bartender"}
|
Wilde and Hopps: Zootopia Cops in "Payoff"
Generic dance music plays from inside a nightclub. Nearby, AMY
INARI, dressed in a garish hat and overcoat, hangs up her phone,
then writes some info on a small card and gives it to a YOUNG ADULT
DEER BUCK who is accompanied by THREE SLIGHTLY OLDER BUCKS.
She'll meet you here.
The younger buck takes the card, then is led away by the older bucks
who pat him on the shoulders encouragingly.
Happy eighteenth birthday!
Amy's phone rings--it's from JASMINE. She answers.
What's up, Jasmine?
(running)
It's that crooked cop. I paid him off then pulled up the finance
app to punch it in, and he started chasing me. Maybe he thought I
was taking a photo?
Was he wearing a name tag? Did you get his plate?
Sorry, I ran when I saw him coming back.
That's fine. Hang up, get where there's witnesses. He won't be--
The sound of Jasmine tripping and her phone skittering across the
ground.
Jasmine?
The repeated sick SQUISH and CRACK of a face being pummeled three
times.
Jasmine!
The call disconnects. Amy opens a map app, then dials the EMERGENCY
NUMBER.
Please state the nature of your emergency.
I was on a call with a friend and she was attacked. Her phone's
last location was somewhere around Mimosa and Strychnos. I'm
heading there now to find her.
Okay, stay on the line, we'll send an ambulance.
She tries to flag down an open cab, but it drives past her to the
nightclub. She runs to catch up with it and looks the WOULD-BE RIDER
in the eyes.
Please. It's life or death.
The other passenger backs off. Amy gets in the cab. The CAB DRIVER
turns to her angrily.
Hey, I don't want you doing your kind of business--
(in tears)
Mimosa and Strychnos, as fast as you can. I'll pay double. I'll
pay anything. Please, just go.
Amy pulls the door closed. The cab pulls away from the curb.
WILBUR and WENDY SHARPE push a stretcher with Jasmine, a female Kudu
with her neck immobilized and her face bandaged with gauze, through
the automatic outer doors and the inner swinging doors. Amy tries to
follow past the TRIAGE NURSE behind a glass panel.
Ma'am, are you family?
I'm the closest thing to family she's got!
Nick, close your eyes!
(to herself)
Nick?
Through the window of the swinging door, Amy sees NICK WILDE in full
police uniform pressed against the wall coving his eyes with his
paws as Wendy and Wilbur push the stretcher past at full sprint. She
pushes the door open.
Nick!
Amy?
He runs toward her.
Ma'am, you can't go in that way.
Nick pushes the swinging door open from the other side.
It was him. The one I told you about. He did that to her.
Nick looks the triage nurse dead in the eye.
Please give her a wristband so she can come and go. She's a
witness.
|
Wilde and Hopps: Zootopia Cops in "Payoff"
Generic dance music plays from inside a nightclub. Nearby, AMY
INARI, dressed in a garish hat and overcoat, hangs up her phone,
then writes some info on a small card and gives it to a YOUNG ADULT
DEER BUCK who is accompanied by THREE SLIGHTLY OLDER BUCKS.
She'll meet you here.
The younger buck takes the card, then is led away by the older bucks
who pat him on the shoulders encouragingly.
Happy eighteenth birthday!
Amy's phone rings--it's from JASMINE. She answers.
What's up, Jasmine?
(running)
It's that crooked cop. I paid him off then pulled up the finance
app to punch it in, and he started chasing me. Maybe he thought I
was taking a photo?
Was he wearing a name tag? Did you get his plate?
Sorry, I ran when I saw him coming back.
That's fine. Hang up, get where there's witnesses. He won't be--
The sound of Jasmine tripping and her phone skittering across the
ground.
Jasmine?
The repeated sick SQUISH and CRACK of a face being pummeled three
times.
Jasmine!
The call disconnects. Amy opens a map app, then dials the EMERGENCY
NUMBER.
Please state the nature of your emergency.
I was on a call with a friend and she was attacked. Her phone's
last location was somewhere around Mimosa and Strychnos. I'm
heading there now to find her.
Okay, stay on the line, we'll send an ambulance.
She tries to flag down an open cab, but it drives past her to the
nightclub. She runs to catch up with it and looks the WOULD-BE RIDER
in the eyes.
Please. It's life or death.
The other passenger backs off. Amy gets in the cab. The CAB DRIVER
turns to her angrily.
Hey, I don't want you doing your kind of business--
(in tears)
Mimosa and Strychnos, as fast as you can. I'll pay double. I'll
pay anything. Please, just go.
Amy pulls the door closed. The cab pulls away from the curb.
WILBUR and WENDY SHARPE push a stretcher with Jasmine, a female Kudu
with her neck immobilized and her face bandaged with gauze, through
the automatic outer doors and the inner swinging doors. Amy tries to
follow past the TRIAGE NURSE behind a glass panel.
Ma'am, are you family?
I'm the closest thing to family she's got!
Nick, close your eyes!
(to herself)
Nick?
Through the window of the swinging door, Amy sees NICK WILDE in full
police uniform pressed against the wall coving his eyes with his
paws as Wendy and Wilbur push the stretcher past at full sprint. She
pushes the door open.
Nick!
Amy?
He runs toward her.
Ma'am, you can't go in that way.
Nick pushes the swinging door open from the other side.
It was him. The one I told you about. He did that to her.
Nick looks the triage nurse dead in the eye.
Please give her a wristband so she can come and go. She's a
witness.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75673276?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["DanRosart"], "language": "English", "title": "Wilde and Hopps: Zootopia Cops in \"Payoff\""}
|
Arthur's New Home
It felt like a wasted summer day.
For Arthur, it was. Ever since he and Kate were dropped off by the social worker at Bud and Loretta’s house, he stared at the ceiling the whole time. He couldn’t do anything other than stare at the drywalls stained with peeling paint in his room.
Arthur didn’t feel at home. This wasn’t his house, room, anything. None of his belongings were there, not even Stanley. He hated having to spend the rest of his last summer before high school like this. He planned to do a lot, like finally teaching Pal how to climb trees, but of course, that ship has sailed.
He missed his old life, with all his friends around, but he had a question.
Did they miss him back?
Yes, they were rude to him a lot, such as making fun of his glasses, putting up insulting posters of him when he snapped at that checkers game, and they were against him whenever he was involved in a problem, but friends were friends, and they were good enough for Arthur.
He missed Buster especially; they had a lot in common and hung out a lot during the summer. Francine caused most of the arguing against him, but she was apologetic in the end. Muffy was spoiled, but she managed to learn how to understand how people less wealthy than her felt. Binky was less of the bully everyone sees him to be, and was more of the aggressive goofball Arthur saw him as.
And what about his family?
David, his father, was not the best gourmet chef, but he made plenty of delicious desserts. He was more tolerant of Arthur, unlike his wife and Arthur’s mom, Jane. For the past few years, she was insufferable to be around. Constantly defending and making excuses, blah blah blah. Kate was one of, if not the only, person who stayed close to Arthur. He’s calmer with her, given she was diagnosed with autism at 3. It was a family that was perfect enough for him.
But there was one person. This person was Arthur’s other younger sister. Arthur couldn’t describe how much he hated her for everything she had done to him and his family. Every blood vessel in him would instantly evaporate once a certain initial was heard after the other.
D.W., or as he knew she hated it, Dora Winifred Read.
Throughout everything until this moment, D.W. has evolved from an innocent, harmless infant to a reckless, narcissistic brat. She was expelled from school, caused great injury to those around her, threw endless tantrums of crocodile tears, and it was no wonder Arthur hated every moment he had to pamper her, just as his parents wanted. David tried to apply proper discipline to the 10-year-old trainwreck, but it was obvious who was truly in control. A blind man could see that D.W. was Jane’s favorite, and it only took her so far.
The more Arthur thought about her, the angrier he became. He got up and clenched his fist, unable to clear up all the thoughts convincing him to spare a small chunk of his wall, but it was obvious what he wanted to do. He raised his fist, struggling to keep it still, aiming his knuckles at the texture of the drywall.
But before he could do that, he heard the door open.
“A-Arthur?” said Kate nervously
Arthur sighed before facing Kate. “Yes, Kate?”
“I found an empty book on the ground,” Kate said while stimming by flexing her fingers. “I think you should use it.”
The glasses-wearing fourteen-year-old scoffed. “I think you need this more than me.”
“You were about to hit the wall, Arthur,” the seven-year-old claimed. “Dr. Paula says writing your emotions helps you.”
Arthur had never seen Dr. Paula, but he knew she helped Kate a lot, and she was more trustworthy than his other bratty sister. He was hesitant, but then sighed. “Alright, Kate. Thanks for the book.”
He looked at the book, seeing a bright pink color, with a plastic flower as a bookmark. It felt a bit girly for him, but a journal’s a journal. He took a pencil from his new desk and used it on the first page.
“August 14
I was just doing what I do in my room when Kate came in and gave me this. She writes in these a lot, so I guess I could blow off some steam here. Hopefully this won’t be for long.
To start off, this is supposed to be my new home. Just great. I have to live with relatives I barely know, I can’t talk with my friends given that I’m miles away from them, and my belongings aren’t even here. I can’t even play with Pal anymore, because apparently it’s too much for the town to have less pollen.
Well, I guess it’s not all bad. I can know my housemates more, D.W.’s gone, and I have Kate with me. Kate’s good. She’s a bit spoiled, but not as bad as D.W.
Don't even get me started on D.W. My life would never, ever, ever be the same because of that brat. She would order me like I’m her personal butler, play that Crazy Bus song over and over again, and last but not least, she-”
Before Arthur could finish writing, Ricky burst through his door.
“HEY, ARTHUR!” the loud 15-year-old yelled.
Arthur was already losing his cool before writing in his diary, and Ricky’s yelling obviously didn’t
|
Arthur's New Home
It felt like a wasted summer day.
For Arthur, it was. Ever since he and Kate were dropped off by the social worker at Bud and Loretta’s house, he stared at the ceiling the whole time. He couldn’t do anything other than stare at the drywalls stained with peeling paint in his room.
Arthur didn’t feel at home. This wasn’t his house, room, anything. None of his belongings were there, not even Stanley. He hated having to spend the rest of his last summer before high school like this. He planned to do a lot, like finally teaching Pal how to climb trees, but of course, that ship has sailed.
He missed his old life, with all his friends around, but he had a question.
Did they miss him back?
Yes, they were rude to him a lot, such as making fun of his glasses, putting up insulting posters of him when he snapped at that checkers game, and they were against him whenever he was involved in a problem, but friends were friends, and they were good enough for Arthur.
He missed Buster especially; they had a lot in common and hung out a lot during the summer. Francine caused most of the arguing against him, but she was apologetic in the end. Muffy was spoiled, but she managed to learn how to understand how people less wealthy than her felt. Binky was less of the bully everyone sees him to be, and was more of the aggressive goofball Arthur saw him as.
And what about his family?
David, his father, was not the best gourmet chef, but he made plenty of delicious desserts. He was more tolerant of Arthur, unlike his wife and Arthur’s mom, Jane. For the past few years, she was insufferable to be around. Constantly defending and making excuses, blah blah blah. Kate was one of, if not the only, person who stayed close to Arthur. He’s calmer with her, given she was diagnosed with autism at 3. It was a family that was perfect enough for him.
But there was one person. This person was Arthur’s other younger sister. Arthur couldn’t describe how much he hated her for everything she had done to him and his family. Every blood vessel in him would instantly evaporate once a certain initial was heard after the other.
D.W., or as he knew she hated it, Dora Winifred Read.
Throughout everything until this moment, D.W. has evolved from an innocent, harmless infant to a reckless, narcissistic brat. She was expelled from school, caused great injury to those around her, threw endless tantrums of crocodile tears, and it was no wonder Arthur hated every moment he had to pamper her, just as his parents wanted. David tried to apply proper discipline to the 10-year-old trainwreck, but it was obvious who was truly in control. A blind man could see that D.W. was Jane’s favorite, and it only took her so far.
The more Arthur thought about her, the angrier he became. He got up and clenched his fist, unable to clear up all the thoughts convincing him to spare a small chunk of his wall, but it was obvious what he wanted to do. He raised his fist, struggling to keep it still, aiming his knuckles at the texture of the drywall.
But before he could do that, he heard the door open.
“A-Arthur?” said Kate nervously
Arthur sighed before facing Kate. “Yes, Kate?”
“I found an empty book on the ground,” Kate said while stimming by flexing her fingers. “I think you should use it.”
The glasses-wearing fourteen-year-old scoffed. “I think you need this more than me.”
“You were about to hit the wall, Arthur,” the seven-year-old claimed. “Dr. Paula says writing your emotions helps you.”
Arthur had never seen Dr. Paula, but he knew she helped Kate a lot, and she was more trustworthy than his other bratty sister. He was hesitant, but then sighed. “Alright, Kate. Thanks for the book.”
He looked at the book, seeing a bright pink color, with a plastic flower as a bookmark. It felt a bit girly for him, but a journal’s a journal. He took a pencil from his new desk and used it on the first page.
“August 14
I was just doing what I do in my room when Kate came in and gave me this. She writes in these a lot, so I guess I could blow off some steam here. Hopefully this won’t be for long.
To start off, this is supposed to be my new home. Just great. I have to live with relatives I barely know, I can’t talk with my friends given that I’m miles away from them, and my belongings aren’t even here. I can’t even play with Pal anymore, because apparently it’s too much for the town to have less pollen.
Well, I guess it’s not all bad. I can know my housemates more, D.W.’s gone, and I have Kate with me. Kate’s good. She’s a bit spoiled, but not as bad as D.W.
Don't even get me started on D.W. My life would never, ever, ever be the same because of that brat. She would order me like I’m her personal butler, play that Crazy Bus song over and over again, and last but not least, she-”
Before Arthur could finish writing, Ricky burst through his door.
“HEY, ARTHUR!” the loud 15-year-old yelled.
Arthur was already losing his cool before writing in his diary, and Ricky’s yelling obviously didn’t help.
“Cool it, Ricky,” said Loretta Jr. as she pushed Ricky.
“So, Arthur,” said Mo. “How do you feel?”
Arthur manages to keep his cool after hearing Mo’s voice. “I feel… okay.”
“You wanna watch TV, Arthur?” asked Loretta Jr. “PaintTed PegLegs is on in a few minutes.”
“Yeah-heh! You like PaintTed, right?” yelled a calmer Ricky.
“Eh…” hesitated Arthur. “I kinda grew out of it. I think I’ll just go outside.”
“Oooooh, cool!” said Ricky. “I’ve got my basketball pumped and ready!”
“I’ll just go outside by MYSELF, thank you,” said Arthur passive-aggressively as he walked downstairs.
“Yeesh, what’s eating him?” said Ricky.
“Do you even know what he’s going through?!” snapped Loretta Jr. “He lost his dog, parents, friends, everything! Give him a break!”
Monique sighed. “I’ll take it from here, Loretta. The thing is, Ricky, he’s going through… a lot. He’s been more aggressive recently, so it’s best to give him space.”
Ricky sighed. “Alright, alright, whatever.”
Arthur walked around his new neighborhood. No other kid his age was outside. He looked up to see a gloomy sky with the grass littered with soda cans and candy wrappers. He sighed before sitting on a rusty bench before whispering to herself.
“I just wanna go home.”
Arthur kept on mumbling to himself after that, and went on and on for quite a while until he just decided to suck it up since no one was listening to him. It was going to be a long summer.
Suddenly, a mysterious figure walked towards him.
“Arthur?”
Arthur opened his eyes, finally seeing a pro of his new home. He knew he recognized that figure, and had not seen them in a while. Trying to remember what he could about them, he said the first name he thought of when seeing them.
“...Ladonna?”
Six months before the incident.
Arthur was struggling to concentrate on his writing assignment as he was more focused on what his parents were arguing about downstairs. He didn’t mind them arguing; in fact, he was used to it. As he could barely understand what they were saying over D.W. watching the TV in her room out loud, he just decided to go back to his writing.
As David was waiting for the cookies in the oven to be ready, he confronted Jane out loud.
“Jane, this has gotten too far.”
“Don’t bring up my 'favoritism' again,” argued Jane. “D.W. did nothing wrong!”
“Jane, D.W. was expelled from school for making one of her classmates DEAF.”
“I’ve talked with D.W., and she said it was an accident!”
“The teacher and another one of her classmates alerted me that what she did was intentional.”
Jane scoffed. “That classmate was Lisa, she only says stuff against D.W. because she never invited her to her birthday party!”
David rolled his eyes. “Lisa DID invite D.W. to her birthday party two years ago. Remember how that went?”
As Jane stammered, the oven beeped.
David sighed. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Jane didn’t respond and walked back to her computer.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75677371/chapters/197920206
|
{"authors": ["ArtsiCartooni"], "language": "English", "title": "Arthur's New Home"}
|
President’s Orders
Whatever President Valentine wanted, he would get. By any means necessary. Diego Brando was adamant about what he wanted in exchange for working for the President, despite Diego’s comrade having been slain by the enemy. Diego did not stop, in fact he did not even look back. The man just kept moving forward. Funny laid down his bed and looked over at his wife, who was standing at her closet nude in all her glory.
She looked good, but when she dressed herself in lacy lingeries, Mr. Valentine knew Mrs. Valentine wasn’t doing this to appeal to him; it was to look like a goddess for the women she slept with. Whoever else knew of that fact that Scarlet was intimate with women like this aside from the occasional sex with her husband, they all kept quiet. Whether they feared for their lives or simply knew everything was confidential.
“How many this time?”
Scarlet winced, having not expected her husband to speak. At this point, she’s clad in the lingerie, spared of the lacy knickers momentarily. She turned to look at her husband on the bed, holding the coral coloured stockings she is to wear. “Two…” she admitted. “Why? Care to join?”
Funny nearly rolled his cerulean blue eyes. Last time he ‘joined’ the girls only focused on pleasing his wife and when they tired themselves out, he was finally allowed to join by fucking his wife. Even then, he didn’t get to do all that he wanted because Scarlet was just too overstimulated. “No,” He snapped, then added at his normal tone. “I have too much paperwork to deal with anyways.” Truthfully, that wasn’t at all the case, he just didn’t want to deal with Scarlet’s shenanigans.
██████████
Diego stood in Funny’s office next to him as he was dressed in the uniform of the personal guard, the grey cape dormant behind him.
Funny had grown rather bored with the lack of doing anything productive and having the stupid fact in his head that his wife was in the throes of passion. The president hadn’t realised his arm had pushed his pen away. Diego blinked as he heard it fall into the carpet with a soft thump. Given Funny’s bodyguards were occupied guarding Scarlet’s door whilst she had her fun, they weren’t here to do the simplest things like retrieving a pen off the carpet. Neither men said anything quite yet, but Diego knew that the task was left up to him; he crouched down and plucked the pen off the table and placed it down atop Funny’s desk.
|
President’s Orders
Whatever President Valentine wanted, he would get. By any means necessary. Diego Brando was adamant about what he wanted in exchange for working for the President, despite Diego’s comrade having been slain by the enemy. Diego did not stop, in fact he did not even look back. The man just kept moving forward. Funny laid down his bed and looked over at his wife, who was standing at her closet nude in all her glory.
She looked good, but when she dressed herself in lacy lingeries, Mr. Valentine knew Mrs. Valentine wasn’t doing this to appeal to him; it was to look like a goddess for the women she slept with. Whoever else knew of that fact that Scarlet was intimate with women like this aside from the occasional sex with her husband, they all kept quiet. Whether they feared for their lives or simply knew everything was confidential.
“How many this time?”
Scarlet winced, having not expected her husband to speak. At this point, she’s clad in the lingerie, spared of the lacy knickers momentarily. She turned to look at her husband on the bed, holding the coral coloured stockings she is to wear. “Two…” she admitted. “Why? Care to join?”
Funny nearly rolled his cerulean blue eyes. Last time he ‘joined’ the girls only focused on pleasing his wife and when they tired themselves out, he was finally allowed to join by fucking his wife. Even then, he didn’t get to do all that he wanted because Scarlet was just too overstimulated. “No,” He snapped, then added at his normal tone. “I have too much paperwork to deal with anyways.” Truthfully, that wasn’t at all the case, he just didn’t want to deal with Scarlet’s shenanigans.
██████████
Diego stood in Funny’s office next to him as he was dressed in the uniform of the personal guard, the grey cape dormant behind him.
Funny had grown rather bored with the lack of doing anything productive and having the stupid fact in his head that his wife was in the throes of passion. The president hadn’t realised his arm had pushed his pen away. Diego blinked as he heard it fall into the carpet with a soft thump. Given Funny’s bodyguards were occupied guarding Scarlet’s door whilst she had her fun, they weren’t here to do the simplest things like retrieving a pen off the carpet. Neither men said anything quite yet, but Diego knew that the task was left up to him; he crouched down and plucked the pen off the table and placed it down atop Funny’s desk.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75673291
|
{"authors": ["vivianovicious"], "language": "English", "title": "President’s Orders"}
|
Ulterior Motives (FIRST VERISON)
Chapter One | Relentless Lies, now - 2015
Yells echoing through-out the halls, a couple fighting, in a verge of divorcing each other, our couple; Rose, and Henry "Henry, I'm starting to forget you with.. with these- Your actions remind me of someone.. p-please stop.." She says holding a knife towards him, her voice shaking. "Is it my fault that this marriage is fake?! You could've told me that, you we're forced to be married with me, I thought you we're happy, I gave everything to you, I thought you loved me, the same way I loved you, I thought this was our happy ending, you caused me to be like this. All to realize it was.. was fake." He's on the verge of crying, his soul crushed to see the person he thought loved him, only to be the opposite. Though he doesn't know what her true intentions are, all he knows is she is a manipulator, and being false-hearted
She thought to herself, "I don't want to do this to a innocent man, he thought he was happy— No, we we're happy, and here I am being a selfish jerk.." She doesn't even want to hurt this man's feelings, she just wants to get away, get away from him. It wasn't even her fault it was someone else's, she wants to keep her sibling safe, and not get end up like this…
Chapter Two | Household, past - 2005
A teenager who is taking care of her younger sibling who is three years old, she feeds her milk, cared for her, her little sister was the only thing keeping herself alive and not taking her own life. She's always there for her even if she's sick, all of that to protect her from him. She hid herself and her sister in different rooms just to be safe from him, but if he does find them he does disgusting things to them, it's his own children so why do that to do them?
"DAD PLEASE.. D-DON'T DO THIS TO HER SHE"S ONLY THREE!" She pleaded to her father as he takes her little sister to his bedroom. " So, you want me to take your virginity multiple times, just to make her safe?" He said, almost in a mocking voice "Yes.. I want to her to have a great life, and not a traumatic one.." She knows why his father keeps doing this every time he comes home: He wants control, power, and dominance, why? He's always the laughing stock in every 'Friend group' he has, even his family calls him a joke, a disappointment. "Alright then.." He carries her easily to his bedroom, while the little one sleeps. TWO HOURS LATER.. they're finally done, she doesn't want to this to herself, she's disgusted, but also she didn't want his aggression to grow more towards her sister, his family, and herself. You may ask yourselves: 'But where is the mother? Where could she be?' Look up, and you'll see her in a better place, he killed her—she's scared that they might be the next one. "Dad..? I'll do anything to make my sister, and you safe."
Chapter Three | Underhanded Scheme, past - 2010
It's been five years now, and yet his father is still the same no matter what she does to help him, it's surprising that she hasn't got pregnant, it's still the same always, she's starting to give up on him until he got a devious idea. "Look I know that it's always like this when I get home.. but if you manage to get a man, and had a baby… give it to me, or I'll continue doing this to you, and your sister." Is he insane? She thought to herself. "B-but why are you passing your problems to another person, an innocent life?" She asked confidently. "It's not, different trauma, same feelings. I want the world to know what happened to me." His plan was almost perfect, the only thing that's almost stopping him is her daughter, if she reports this to the police— it's all ruined: So whenever she has a the thought of reporting this to the police, her sister gets it. The door opens, it was the little one, Natalie. "Daddy, mommy? What are you doing?" It was always sad when the child doesn't know that her real mom isn't here."Nothing sweetie, now go back to bed me, and your dad are talking." She left going back to her room. "So, do you agree?" His hand reaching out to her, the thought of finally getting away from his grasp was tempting, but making a sacrifice for another person's life.. "Deal…" She sounded uncomfortable, and unsure of this decision. "You have one year to get a boyfriend, and do please hurry, I might change my mind." One year.. or he'll change his mind, and keep doing this.. THE NEXT DAY.
She left the house, trying to get a boyfriend fast, and quick. She looked stressed in the beautiful dress that his dad forced her to wear, she went into a speed-dating program so it can be more efficient. Each time she introduces herself she got rejected multiple times. The staff feels bad for her every time she got rejected, day one - Failure, and this continues for the 30th day. "That idea was useless.." She draws the experience to count as a failure, a bad drawing to make it more understandable for her future self, she denies her thought of never getting freedom for Natalie and for herself. MONTH 3:
|
Ulterior Motives (FIRST VERISON)
Chapter One | Relentless Lies, now - 2015
Yells echoing through-out the halls, a couple fighting, in a verge of divorcing each other, our couple; Rose, and Henry "Henry, I'm starting to forget you with.. with these- Your actions remind me of someone.. p-please stop.." She says holding a knife towards him, her voice shaking. "Is it my fault that this marriage is fake?! You could've told me that, you we're forced to be married with me, I thought you we're happy, I gave everything to you, I thought you loved me, the same way I loved you, I thought this was our happy ending, you caused me to be like this. All to realize it was.. was fake." He's on the verge of crying, his soul crushed to see the person he thought loved him, only to be the opposite. Though he doesn't know what her true intentions are, all he knows is she is a manipulator, and being false-hearted
She thought to herself, "I don't want to do this to a innocent man, he thought he was happy— No, we we're happy, and here I am being a selfish jerk.." She doesn't even want to hurt this man's feelings, she just wants to get away, get away from him. It wasn't even her fault it was someone else's, she wants to keep her sibling safe, and not get end up like this…
Chapter Two | Household, past - 2005
A teenager who is taking care of her younger sibling who is three years old, she feeds her milk, cared for her, her little sister was the only thing keeping herself alive and not taking her own life. She's always there for her even if she's sick, all of that to protect her from him. She hid herself and her sister in different rooms just to be safe from him, but if he does find them he does disgusting things to them, it's his own children so why do that to do them?
"DAD PLEASE.. D-DON'T DO THIS TO HER SHE"S ONLY THREE!" She pleaded to her father as he takes her little sister to his bedroom. " So, you want me to take your virginity multiple times, just to make her safe?" He said, almost in a mocking voice "Yes.. I want to her to have a great life, and not a traumatic one.." She knows why his father keeps doing this every time he comes home: He wants control, power, and dominance, why? He's always the laughing stock in every 'Friend group' he has, even his family calls him a joke, a disappointment. "Alright then.." He carries her easily to his bedroom, while the little one sleeps. TWO HOURS LATER.. they're finally done, she doesn't want to this to herself, she's disgusted, but also she didn't want his aggression to grow more towards her sister, his family, and herself. You may ask yourselves: 'But where is the mother? Where could she be?' Look up, and you'll see her in a better place, he killed her—she's scared that they might be the next one. "Dad..? I'll do anything to make my sister, and you safe."
Chapter Three | Underhanded Scheme, past - 2010
It's been five years now, and yet his father is still the same no matter what she does to help him, it's surprising that she hasn't got pregnant, it's still the same always, she's starting to give up on him until he got a devious idea. "Look I know that it's always like this when I get home.. but if you manage to get a man, and had a baby… give it to me, or I'll continue doing this to you, and your sister." Is he insane? She thought to herself. "B-but why are you passing your problems to another person, an innocent life?" She asked confidently. "It's not, different trauma, same feelings. I want the world to know what happened to me." His plan was almost perfect, the only thing that's almost stopping him is her daughter, if she reports this to the police— it's all ruined: So whenever she has a the thought of reporting this to the police, her sister gets it. The door opens, it was the little one, Natalie. "Daddy, mommy? What are you doing?" It was always sad when the child doesn't know that her real mom isn't here."Nothing sweetie, now go back to bed me, and your dad are talking." She left going back to her room. "So, do you agree?" His hand reaching out to her, the thought of finally getting away from his grasp was tempting, but making a sacrifice for another person's life.. "Deal…" She sounded uncomfortable, and unsure of this decision. "You have one year to get a boyfriend, and do please hurry, I might change my mind." One year.. or he'll change his mind, and keep doing this.. THE NEXT DAY.
She left the house, trying to get a boyfriend fast, and quick. She looked stressed in the beautiful dress that his dad forced her to wear, she went into a speed-dating program so it can be more efficient. Each time she introduces herself she got rejected multiple times. The staff feels bad for her every time she got rejected, day one - Failure, and this continues for the 30th day. "That idea was useless.." She draws the experience to count as a failure, a bad drawing to make it more understandable for her future self, she denies her thought of never getting freedom for Natalie and for herself. MONTH 3: Still nothing, every day was a failure, her drawings got more messier as the days pass by, while her anger grows. MONTH 6: She started bargaining to people, and his father. "Hey if y-you date me I'll give you money!" "Dad, what if instead of one year it's five years?" "CAN SOMEONE PLEASE DATE ME!" Her voices in these phrases were raspy, pleading almost she just wants to get this deal done, and her drawings? It got lazier as the days grew. MONTH 9: Depression finally caught up to her after all these years "I wish I wasn't born forever, in purgatory.." "I wanna die…" "Am I not pretty enough..?" "I'm just a useless piece of crap, a sex toy.." Her thoughts were filled with death, and sadness. Her efforts got lazier, drawings all black and white quite depressing. MONTH 10 - DECEMBER 30: she thought to herself 'This is it.. you'll never escape his grasp.' she accepted her faith.. she wrote a note:
"Every drawing of this was worth for nothing, I'll never escape his grasp, he give me a year— A YEAR, there was literally no time for me to get a boyfriend in that time, please end my suffering.." -Rose
DECEMBER 31: The final day.. her heart sank,she was breathless, she struggles to stand up, she can't believe that the only chance she got of being free without leaving her sister, it escaped her grasp, the freedom… she doesn't even want to go outside anymore, then a knock on her door was heard. "Hey mommy?" Natalie asked, completely innocent. "Yes sweetie?" She asked lazily. "Can I tell you a story that my teacher told me?" She asked excitingly. "Sure.." "Yay!" She ran excitingly towards her 'mother'. "Alright mommy here's the story: Once a upon a there was a farmer, his crops were dying, his horse ran away, and his son broke his arm, everything was going down hill for him! But one day, as he was leaving town, his horse brought more horses, his crops regrew as the other crops dies, and his son couldn't join the war because of his broken arm! The end." This story feels like it's trying to bring hope to some people. "O-oh, that.. that's great sweetie!" She doesn't believe in these types of stories, why? Because it seems like everyday is a nightmare for her, then a another knock. "Hey you finally found 'it'?" His dad asked. "No.. not yet.." She said nervously, while Natalie watched. "You have one more day, make it count." She nods sheepishly towards her dad, as Natalie seemed very confused. "Mommy, what were you and daddy talking?" She's too curious in this world, too curious, she may even find out where her real mom is. "It's nothing sweetie, just ignore it." She says nervously."Okay!" A FEW MINUTES PASSED BY, and she's still in the house, she has nothing to do, so might as well try and find someone that likes her, walking down the street, she accidentally bumped a stranger with stacks of drawings. "AH SHIT—" The stranger said, the drawings flew everywhere, left and right, she's already tired of these people, she just wants to die. "I-I'm sorry sir.. I'm just tired.." She tries to grab the drawings made by the stranger. "It's okay, and also happy new year I guess." She looks at her watch to show 11:00 P.M, was she that lazy that it reached 11 PM without her knowing?
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75673306
|
{"authors": ["NOXD"], "language": "English", "title": "Ulterior Motives (FIRST VERISON)"}
|
I Love You So
Your apartment is cold. The lights are off, windows all shut except for the one in the living room.
It's another typical December night in Bludhaven, you reckon quietly in your too big bed.
Another night where the city bleeds crime and victims.
Another night where Bludhaven’s finest leaves to quell the wounds.
Another night where food goes cold on your dining table.
Another night with broken promises and shattered hopes you're left to pick up all by yourself.
You don't know how many nights you've had like this—the kind where Dick Grayson promises he’ll be home for dinner so you can have a date night in but oh, something urgent pops up at the very last minute.
It isn't even always vigilante related—though that is the most common reason he ditches you.
Sometimes it’s a family emergency—Damian fighting with Bruce about school and patrol again, Tim overwhelmed with his workload, Cass needing something important, Jason suffering from pit flare ups.
Other times it's his friends that need him to lend a hand with something, whether vigilante work or a particularly hard issue.
You try to be understanding—you really, really do. You know Dick has his heart in the right place. Why else would everyone be drawn to him like moths to a flame? Still, you can't help the pang of jealousy every time he deems something else more important than you. Every time he makes a commitment and goes back on it because someone else needs him more than you do, and Dick counts on you to be understanding. To be fair, you have been understanding for far longer than anyone else may have.
For years now, you smiled silently and accepted every empty promise, every apologetic look and every bouquet he sent as a token of his remorse. You nodded along, offered words of comfort and looked the other way around so that he doesn't have to worry about you too.
But now, after yet another night where he abandons you in favour of going out for patrol, you're not so sure how long you can keep doing this for. You haven't properly seen your boyfriend in a week, at most catching glimpses of him whenever he drops by the apartment to change and grab something to eat. In fact, you might've actually seen clips of him online and on TV as Nightwing more than you actually saw him in front of you.
A sad thing, but unfortunately it is your reality.
Just like on any of these nights, you're curled up on your shared bed, staring into nothing while you hug one of those huge IKEA whale plushies to your chest. You stopped wearing his clothes to bed because they never smell like him. You don't feel like you need the faux comfort you deluded yourself into thinking a piece of fabric may bring. You still remember Dick buying the plush for you years ago when you finally decided to take the next step in your relationship and move together.
You spent the entire week after you got the apartment shopping for furniture, building everything or trying to work out the logistics of hauling it up the three flights of stairs.
Things had been a little simpler then, when Dick didn't take on the entire weight of the world on his shoulders.
Your heart aches for the memories, for what used to be and for all the dreams you used to have.
There had been a time where Dick spoke of marriage, of settling down and living a quiet life together. Nothing glamourous, because you both knew you didn't need glamour if you had each other.
Whatever became of that, you wonder. The rational part of yourself knows that he probably still wanted to marry you, still wanted to build a life with you—even if he wasn't there to tell you so.
But, do you still want that? Can you stand the thought of being stuck in a life where you are never the first—no, not even the second, third or even fourth choice of someone? Can you see yourself living a life where you have to compromise, to make yourself smaller just because there isn't enough room for both you and all the responsibilities and priorities Dick sets?
The answer settles into your ribs like a secret you cannot pry out. A part of you—the naive, hopeful part that thinks maybe Dick will remember you still exist—thinks that you may be able to live like that. I mean, you managed to live with it just fine for nearly the last decade, so maybe a bit longer isn't so bad, right?
But there's another part—once quiet and small but now shrieking and thrashing to be released. That part says no. It refuses to live like this any longer, to be with a man who's married to squandering his attention and energy on everything in this world but you.
To no one's surprise, the second part begins to drown the first one out.
Suddenly, your bedroom walls seem to close in on you. The air stiffens, warms until breathing becomes nearly impossible. You tangle yourself out of your blankets and stumble through the dark hallway into the balcony, gasping for air.
The moment the cool wind touches your skin, you collapse against the glass door and slump to the ground, chest heaving and moving
|
I Love You So
Your apartment is cold. The lights are off, windows all shut except for the one in the living room.
It's another typical December night in Bludhaven, you reckon quietly in your too big bed.
Another night where the city bleeds crime and victims.
Another night where Bludhaven’s finest leaves to quell the wounds.
Another night where food goes cold on your dining table.
Another night with broken promises and shattered hopes you're left to pick up all by yourself.
You don't know how many nights you've had like this—the kind where Dick Grayson promises he’ll be home for dinner so you can have a date night in but oh, something urgent pops up at the very last minute.
It isn't even always vigilante related—though that is the most common reason he ditches you.
Sometimes it’s a family emergency—Damian fighting with Bruce about school and patrol again, Tim overwhelmed with his workload, Cass needing something important, Jason suffering from pit flare ups.
Other times it's his friends that need him to lend a hand with something, whether vigilante work or a particularly hard issue.
You try to be understanding—you really, really do. You know Dick has his heart in the right place. Why else would everyone be drawn to him like moths to a flame? Still, you can't help the pang of jealousy every time he deems something else more important than you. Every time he makes a commitment and goes back on it because someone else needs him more than you do, and Dick counts on you to be understanding. To be fair, you have been understanding for far longer than anyone else may have.
For years now, you smiled silently and accepted every empty promise, every apologetic look and every bouquet he sent as a token of his remorse. You nodded along, offered words of comfort and looked the other way around so that he doesn't have to worry about you too.
But now, after yet another night where he abandons you in favour of going out for patrol, you're not so sure how long you can keep doing this for. You haven't properly seen your boyfriend in a week, at most catching glimpses of him whenever he drops by the apartment to change and grab something to eat. In fact, you might've actually seen clips of him online and on TV as Nightwing more than you actually saw him in front of you.
A sad thing, but unfortunately it is your reality.
Just like on any of these nights, you're curled up on your shared bed, staring into nothing while you hug one of those huge IKEA whale plushies to your chest. You stopped wearing his clothes to bed because they never smell like him. You don't feel like you need the faux comfort you deluded yourself into thinking a piece of fabric may bring. You still remember Dick buying the plush for you years ago when you finally decided to take the next step in your relationship and move together.
You spent the entire week after you got the apartment shopping for furniture, building everything or trying to work out the logistics of hauling it up the three flights of stairs.
Things had been a little simpler then, when Dick didn't take on the entire weight of the world on his shoulders.
Your heart aches for the memories, for what used to be and for all the dreams you used to have.
There had been a time where Dick spoke of marriage, of settling down and living a quiet life together. Nothing glamourous, because you both knew you didn't need glamour if you had each other.
Whatever became of that, you wonder. The rational part of yourself knows that he probably still wanted to marry you, still wanted to build a life with you—even if he wasn't there to tell you so.
But, do you still want that? Can you stand the thought of being stuck in a life where you are never the first—no, not even the second, third or even fourth choice of someone? Can you see yourself living a life where you have to compromise, to make yourself smaller just because there isn't enough room for both you and all the responsibilities and priorities Dick sets?
The answer settles into your ribs like a secret you cannot pry out. A part of you—the naive, hopeful part that thinks maybe Dick will remember you still exist—thinks that you may be able to live like that. I mean, you managed to live with it just fine for nearly the last decade, so maybe a bit longer isn't so bad, right?
But there's another part—once quiet and small but now shrieking and thrashing to be released. That part says no. It refuses to live like this any longer, to be with a man who's married to squandering his attention and energy on everything in this world but you.
To no one's surprise, the second part begins to drown the first one out.
Suddenly, your bedroom walls seem to close in on you. The air stiffens, warms until breathing becomes nearly impossible. You tangle yourself out of your blankets and stumble through the dark hallway into the balcony, gasping for air.
The moment the cool wind touches your skin, you collapse against the glass door and slump to the ground, chest heaving and moving rapidly with each breath you greedily swallow like medicine.
You wish Dick were here to hold you.
You wish he was here to fret and worry about your health.
But he isn't.
He's out there somewhere grappling from rooftop to rooftop, chasing crime and saving every life while you drown in the loneliness and stale rage on your own.
The primal need to escape this space that holds lingering ghosts of him at every corner washes over you like a tsunami. It wrecks your defenses, your rationale and logical thinking until all you can do is give in.
So you do.
You gather your bearings and stand up on wobbly legs. You make it back to your bedroom and pack a bag with the essentials—clothes, documents, cards, electronics, medicine and anything else you might need. You grab your phone and you slip on your jacket because you still know that it's the dead of the winter and you'll get cold.
As if possessed, you make it to the door where you put on your snow boots and leave the apartment.
You don't take your keys with you.
You don't know where you're going, or what you'll do. All you know is that you need to get as far away from your apartment as possible—as far away from Bludhaven or anywhere that'll remind you of Dick as you can.
When your senses return, you find yourself on a night bus headed to the airport. You don't remember ever going to the Archie Goodwin airport on your own, but somehow that doesn't deter you from leaving.
You consider giving Dick a call, but you know he won't pick up.
He hasn't picked up your calls during patrol for years now.
Instead, you decide to at least text him so he doesn't worry too much about you. You know how paranoid he tends to be, and if by some wonder he does come back to your apartment and remembers he's dating someone who lives with him, he might actually worry himself into an early death.
Or maybe, that's just what you think he may be because you're holding hope he may still care.
Me: I need to clear my mind so I packed my things and I’m leaving for a while.
Me: I don't know how to deal with this anymore
Me: with your constant leaving and the anxiety of never seeing you
Me: you're everything I want but I can't deal with this Grayson
Me: I'm leaving you behind for now
Me: take care
You don't bother waiting for a read receipt or a reply you know won't come. You turn your phone off and stuff it into your bag, deciding to let your mind wander until you reach your temporary destination.
════════
Dick has had arguably the worst week of his life. Three different drug rings working together across the entire state of New Jersey, multiple Arkham outbreaks that needed his assistance and another grueling out world mission gone wrong he needed to save. And let's not get talking about his personal life—just about all of his siblings are mad at him for one reason or the other right now and he doesn't have the mental capacity to deal with it.
All he wants to do after three consecutive days with no sleep and grueling patrol is to take a hot bath and drop dead in his bed. Maybe eat something if he manages. Maybe give you a kiss if you're also asleep.
God how he misses you. He can't remember the last time he's had proper time to spend with you, but surely it can't have been that long ago. He swears he remembers planning a date for the near future with you some time ago. A relaxed night in with home cooked food, your favourite snacks and a stupid movie that requires no thinking at all.
Oh, what he'd give for that right now. But he doesn't have any energy left—not for food, not for a date and not even for a conversation. But you'll understand, because you always do. You with your quiet voice and your pretty smile and the patience of a saint. Dick thinks of a life where he comes home to you in one piece every evening at the same time. A simple life, a quiet life just for the both of you.
He swears, as soon as things slow down in the next few weeks he'll take you ring shopping. You've talked about it before—marriage that is. While it had been a hard to breach topic at first, you two slowly warmed up to the idea of a married life. Besides, it's not like it'll actually change much from what you already have, right? Fancier titles, a life long commitment and rings to prove it too.
Still, Dick can't wait to marry you. Though for now, he’ll have to settle on just seeing you before he takes the longest nap known to man.
He scales the side of the apartment building and expertly lands on the balcony. Immediately, he notices the open glass door, which might be unusual but he writes it off as just you thinking of him and giving him a way to come into the apartment without much trouble.
How sweet.
Inside, the lights are off and not a single sound is to be heard. A sort of eerie, heavy silence fills the vast space—like something grave transpired in Dick’s absence.
He writes it off as paranoia and strips off his suit because he knows how much you hate it when he drags in the grime and dirt with him inside.
He's shivering a little once he's stripped down to his boxers, but it's nothing he can't handle. His dirty suit goes into the laundry basket you put by the balcony and windows forever ago for this very purpose—a thoughtful gesture he still appreciates—and Dick quietly moves into the dining area. He stops in front of the table where various dishes are plated in a far too fancy manner for it to be a casual dinner.
Two sets of cutlery across from each other.
Candles.
His favourite dishes and yours as well.
A vase with flowers.
Fuck, the date was tonight. He remembers now, how he sent you a quick message apologizing for not making it on time because something came up.
Guilt immediately eats him from the inside out at the thought of you putting all this effort just for it to go to waste.
God, he's a crappy boyfriend sometimes.
Still, he tells himself he'll make it up to you in the morning. Maybe run to the florist by the corner and get you your favourite flowers. Make you your favourite breakfast and actually try to reschedule the date for once.
He continues his way to the bedroom but stops in his tracks when he sees an empty bed and not a sign of you being around.
“Babe? Are you in the bathroom?” His call echoes in the empty room mockingly, like the walls know something he doesn't. Dick is too tired for this, but he still can't help the worry that begins to swell within him. He checks the bathroom—empty, your toothbrush and your skin care items missing—the kitchen and every inch of the apartment.
Still, you don't show up.
Your clothes are gone from the closet, just like your jacket and boots by the entrance. Your chargers, your favourite books and your wallet. All of it is gone.
Only your keys remain on the key holder by the door.
The worry progressively turns into full-blown panic before Dick remembers that he can just call you to figure out what the hell is going on. The missing things were too deliberate for this to be some sort of kidnapping, but maybe you'd been taken under duress and forced to pack your things?
He scrambles to look for his phone, but of course luck wouldn't be on his side. It died sometime around the two hour mark of tonight's patrol and he hadn't bothered to find a way to charge it. Now, he just about runs to his bedside table to plug it in, impatiently waiting for it to light up with a sign of life.
The wait for his phone to come back to life is torturous to say the least. Various scenarios go through his mind, each one more brutal than last.
Maybe you've been kidnapped by a stalker.
Maybe some rogues figured out who you are and kidnapped you.
Maybe some evil alternative universe version of himself decided to take you and he'll never see you again.
Somehow, never once did it cross his mind that you might have left of your own violation.
His phone screen finally comes to life—his wallpaper is a picture of you both in a mirror, his arms around you while you pose with a radiant smile—and he immediately opens it. Moments later, notifications begin to flood his screen.
Social media, group chat messages, missed calls, reminders, and also messages from you that have him immediately clicking on them.
His phone nearly slips from his hand when he reads what you left for him.
You were gone—not taken, but gone out of your own free will.
He rereads the six messages like the letters might start moving to rearrange themselves into something else if he stares at it long enough.
They don't.
They remain on the screen, blinking back like they're mocking him for being so clueless and stupid. How could he not have noticed your suffering? Your loneliness?
How could he not have thought that your patience might run out one day?
No. He did think of that actually, he just chose to look the other way because there were more pressing matters to handle at the time.
Look where that got him now.
What little strength he might have had completely seeps out of him, leaving him lethargic and dizzy. His ears ring, the world spins and somehow, all he selfishly wants is for you to come back and tell him it's a joke. That you were just teaching him a lesson. That you didn't mean any of this.
He considers calling you, but he doesn't. He considers calling Bruce, but he doesn't.
He considers going after you, but he can't. He genuinely pushed himself so much in the last week, he can not muster anymore strength to give. There's no adrenaline rush on this earth strong enough to allow him to stand up and follow you.
Dick thinks that might be the most horrifyingly fitting metaphor he's ever experienced.
Instead, he weakly presses the voice message icon and takes one shuddering, deep breath before he talks.
“I just got home and I couldn't find you. I thought of the worst scenarios, you know? Kidnapping, evil clones, the whole nine yards. But uh, I guess this might be objectively a better option than you being physically hurt, maybe? I don't know, I don't know anything right now.”
“Or actually, I do know one thing. Or maybe two, it depends what you count. I know that I love you so. I know that I'm really sorry that you even had to leave, because this is your home too.”
“I'm not gonna be stupid and try to convince you to come back. I deserve this, you deserve a break to sort yourself out. Just…promise you'll be careful, okay? I love you, always have and I always will.”
“And I hope—even if it's selfish—that I'm not too late to fix this. To save us. Because I want this to work and I want you back and a part of me really hopes you'll give me another chance even if I don't deserve it.”
“Take care, I love you and let me at least know that you're safe and alive.”
For the first time in years, Dick Grayson sleeps in an empty apartment, plagued by the anxiety of not knowing when y
ou'll return or if you'll return at all.
Just like you have been sleeping in his absence for years now.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75670421
|
{"authors": ["LeenyLeens"], "language": "English", "title": "I Love You So"}
|
Drown here in the silence
He wakes up, and that’s the first indication that something is wrong. The dogs nosily gather round as Kaz picks himself up, no blood on the porch and no bootprints in the snow. No matter how hard he pinches himself and thoroughly checks every corner of the cabin for anything out of place, there’s no indication that the bastard ever came to collect, or that anything happened at all.
It doesn’t take long for the other shoe to drop, idly turning on NPR only to hear a report about a president he would’ve remembered being elected. Dinner swiftly falls by the wayside as he listens through the interview with rapidly-growing unease, coming up with explanation after explanation for what he’s hearing and finding none of them satisfactory. Local headlines aren’t much better, and he almost listens all the way through to the science stories, lost in thought and something close to terrified under the sheer shock, before the dogs get impatient for their dinner. He’s almost grateful for the nearly-empty bag of dog food and his similarly depleted pantry; he needs to head into town tomorrow anyways, might as well spend a few hours in the library and figure out just what the hell happened after the bastard pulled the trigger.
Kaz might not have been in Intel the same way Ocelot was, but research was always part of his job, and even with an unfamiliar interface spewing nonsense at the top of every page, it doesn’t take long to get to the heart of things. He wishes it had taken him longer. Civilian news articles from the past 50 years, government reports that hid atrocities behind numbers and acronyms, amateur historians examining events they only had a quarter of the information for at best… it all told a story he’s less familiar with than he should be. No matter how much Cipher and the various governments caught in the crossfire tried to keep things under wraps, the events he had been involved with over the years, directly or indirectly, in service to …his vision or opposing it, were disruptive enough to make it to the headlines. Yet news articles and government correspondence from 1974 said nothing about an insurgency in Costa Rica. He didn’t recognize any of the American presidents after Reagan. There was no gradual rise in oil prices as Outer Heaven’s expansion demanded more stolen fuel, the records he found listing a barrel of crude in 1995 a full 2 or 3 dollars cheaper than he remembered.
After being caught up in the madness for so long, he could usually see the ever-so-subtle throughline of events being steered in a certain direction, decades of geopolitics following just enough of a pattern that he could identify if something else was pulling the strings. Here, the usual spiderweb of international affairs has no spider sitting at its center. Conflicts he knows had been interfered with, either through John’s men running a mission or a third party nudging things along, ended a few weeks too early or caused a few million extra in damage to be useful to outside interests… except America or France or some other country would swoop in anyways, benefitting no cause other than their own. There was no faint, familiar indication of disasters being reinterpreted and assigned blame when he retraces his steps through central Africa and America, only the kind of raw violence that produces the same carnage.
Something resembling despair, or the kind of panic he hasn’t allowed himself in years, slowly sinks into his bones as he goes further into the weeds. For every time he remembers worldwide catastrophe being narrowly averted, the local fallout is as bad as if nothing had ever happened. John wasn’t here to draw soldiers into his twisted philosophy like a black hole devouring all the light around it, but messy, neverending wars had sprung up in the same places and spilled enough blood that Kaz can almost see the cruel smirk that would’ve crossed his face. Everything he’d devoted his life to, ruined himself in the name of, building empires and tearing them back down… it had all come to nothing. It doesn’t matter that fucking Emmerich wasn’t here with Peace Walker and Sahelanthropus and all the others they inspired when similar atrocities thinly disguised as deterrents wait in the wings. It doesn’t matter that Cipher never had its fingers in Afghanistan (he ignores the familiar ache in his limbs) when the country tore itself apart anyways. It doesn’t fucking matter that he’d made some kind of peace with the bastard and left a letter for Catherine and wished David well when he’s here in this ever-so-slightly off place and his life has never seemed so meaningless—
He doesn’t realize his hand is shaking until the door opening abruptly forces him into stillness. The pair of middle-schoolers that come through briefly glance his way, the taller boy narrowing his eyes in confusion before shrugging and asking the other one about something as they walk over to a corner table. Kaz almost laughs at the sudden, sheer
|
Drown here in the silence
He wakes up, and that’s the first indication that something is wrong. The dogs nosily gather round as Kaz picks himself up, no blood on the porch and no bootprints in the snow. No matter how hard he pinches himself and thoroughly checks every corner of the cabin for anything out of place, there’s no indication that the bastard ever came to collect, or that anything happened at all.
It doesn’t take long for the other shoe to drop, idly turning on NPR only to hear a report about a president he would’ve remembered being elected. Dinner swiftly falls by the wayside as he listens through the interview with rapidly-growing unease, coming up with explanation after explanation for what he’s hearing and finding none of them satisfactory. Local headlines aren’t much better, and he almost listens all the way through to the science stories, lost in thought and something close to terrified under the sheer shock, before the dogs get impatient for their dinner. He’s almost grateful for the nearly-empty bag of dog food and his similarly depleted pantry; he needs to head into town tomorrow anyways, might as well spend a few hours in the library and figure out just what the hell happened after the bastard pulled the trigger.
Kaz might not have been in Intel the same way Ocelot was, but research was always part of his job, and even with an unfamiliar interface spewing nonsense at the top of every page, it doesn’t take long to get to the heart of things. He wishes it had taken him longer. Civilian news articles from the past 50 years, government reports that hid atrocities behind numbers and acronyms, amateur historians examining events they only had a quarter of the information for at best… it all told a story he’s less familiar with than he should be. No matter how much Cipher and the various governments caught in the crossfire tried to keep things under wraps, the events he had been involved with over the years, directly or indirectly, in service to …his vision or opposing it, were disruptive enough to make it to the headlines. Yet news articles and government correspondence from 1974 said nothing about an insurgency in Costa Rica. He didn’t recognize any of the American presidents after Reagan. There was no gradual rise in oil prices as Outer Heaven’s expansion demanded more stolen fuel, the records he found listing a barrel of crude in 1995 a full 2 or 3 dollars cheaper than he remembered.
After being caught up in the madness for so long, he could usually see the ever-so-subtle throughline of events being steered in a certain direction, decades of geopolitics following just enough of a pattern that he could identify if something else was pulling the strings. Here, the usual spiderweb of international affairs has no spider sitting at its center. Conflicts he knows had been interfered with, either through John’s men running a mission or a third party nudging things along, ended a few weeks too early or caused a few million extra in damage to be useful to outside interests… except America or France or some other country would swoop in anyways, benefitting no cause other than their own. There was no faint, familiar indication of disasters being reinterpreted and assigned blame when he retraces his steps through central Africa and America, only the kind of raw violence that produces the same carnage.
Something resembling despair, or the kind of panic he hasn’t allowed himself in years, slowly sinks into his bones as he goes further into the weeds. For every time he remembers worldwide catastrophe being narrowly averted, the local fallout is as bad as if nothing had ever happened. John wasn’t here to draw soldiers into his twisted philosophy like a black hole devouring all the light around it, but messy, neverending wars had sprung up in the same places and spilled enough blood that Kaz can almost see the cruel smirk that would’ve crossed his face. Everything he’d devoted his life to, ruined himself in the name of, building empires and tearing them back down… it had all come to nothing. It doesn’t matter that fucking Emmerich wasn’t here with Peace Walker and Sahelanthropus and all the others they inspired when similar atrocities thinly disguised as deterrents wait in the wings. It doesn’t matter that Cipher never had its fingers in Afghanistan (he ignores the familiar ache in his limbs) when the country tore itself apart anyways. It doesn’t fucking matter that he’d made some kind of peace with the bastard and left a letter for Catherine and wished David well when he’s here in this ever-so-slightly off place and his life has never seemed so meaningless—
He doesn’t realize his hand is shaking until the door opening abruptly forces him into stillness. The pair of middle-schoolers that come through briefly glance his way, the taller boy narrowing his eyes in confusion before shrugging and asking the other one about something as they walk over to a corner table. Kaz almost laughs at the sudden, sheer mundanity of the situation; one more reminder that life goes on, regardless of what happens in it. He grounds himself in the sentiment, because the alternative is falling back into grief, and turns his attention back to the laptop.
He really should get back on track, focus on the present instead of this strange, distorted version of going down memory lane, but there’s a lingering itch to keep looking, a vaguely morbid curiosity about the lives that could’ve been lived in a world that had never known the turmoil of the Boss’ broken legacy. So, he opens yet another browser window and begins searching through government records, high school yearbooks, social media, all the easily-forgotten ways to prove that a person had lived and made an impact on this world, no matter how shallow or fleeting. He finds a small handful of the younger Diamond Dog recruits scattered across the world’s militaries, one or two mostly-forgotten Harvard classmates bragging on LinkedIn, but there’s no painfully young John awkwardly grinning at the camera when he looks through the Green Beret’s archives. A humiliating amount of time spent skimming reviews and fan sites for Westerns fails to reveal the unique combination of geniune passion, weapons analysis, and deliberately inflammatory comments that Ocelot had subjected everyone to at one point or another during movie nights. (Even in a world without anyone breathing down his neck, Kaz just can’t imagine the bastard having a traceable presence any more significant than being an impersonal, anonymous little shit.) His slightly rusty Spanish is still good enough to see that none of Uruguay’s medical and veterinary schools saw the man who became MSF’s best medic. And, after a long moment of deliberation, he finds no records of his father’s deployment to Japan.
In all honesty, he’s not surprised. They had all chosen this way of life for a reason, and he can’t imagine a universe where John wouldn’t rise head-and-shoulders above everyone else and take the world by storm, one way or another. Shaking his head at the thought of Big Boss living an ordinary civilian life, he sets aside the handful of tabs of employment histories and IMdB pages and resumes his original work of researching the 20 years he’d missed.
Bit by bit, he pieces together a timeline that feels increasingly surreal for each event added, a part of him agreeing with the sentiment that maybe the world should’ve ended in 2012. He slowly shifts from geopolitics to economics, economics to business, drifting from topic to topic as questions come up or details catch his eye. (Kaz can’t help but chuckle at the pictures of the cargo ship stuck in the Suez Canal, even as he runs the numbers out of habit and winces at what the delays would’ve cost.) It’s another hour or so before he starts looking at 2005 events in greater detail, the date in the corner of the screen still rubbing him the wrong way.
Eventually, he gets to local news, looking up who won that year’s Iditarod out of curiosity and just a little frustration that the bastard made him miss it by a matter of a few weeks. He recognizes the name, but it’s not one he’d expected: Robert Sørlie, who’d also won the 2003 race. Kaz had been in Nome when he crossed the finish line the first time, but he hadn’t bothered to join the crowd of spectators; he was there to support David, not any of the big-name competitors, and he’d already put Catherine to bed. It had been one of the rare times that Nadine’s schedule and Catherine’s spring break let him spend the full week with his daughter, and while he’d initially worried about her being bored, those fears had immediately fallen by the wayside as she eagerly explored the town with him. They spent hours in the seafood market alone, Catherine charming the vendors with her excited questions about the live crabs. Since David usually came in right at the middle of the pack, the two of them had started waiting for him after lunch that Wednesday, and Catherine’s face had just lit up as “Uncle Snake” and his team came down Front Street, expression so full of joy that it could last someone a lifetime.
…Last someone a lifetime. It would have to last him a lifetime, because that was in 2003 and he’d only seen her a few times since then and then fucking Ocelot had come to call and now he’s here and he’s alone—
He distantly recognizes that his breathing has sped up, the ache behind his eyes building with the tears he refuses to shed, and Catherine fortunately hadn’t seen him like this very much but she’d always given him a hug and whispered a quiet love you, Dad, and God he’ll never hear her say that again, not even with the hint of preteen exasperation that had started to enter her voice the last time he’d seen her—
The tears are falling now, and his hand’s shaking again, or maybe everything’s shaking, and he can’t help the choked, hysterical laugh that bubbles up because he’s the one that died, but here he is sobbing over his daughter who turned thirty in May—
The realization hits him like a truck, or John fighting dirty, and he’s nearly hyperventilating by now but he can’t get enough air and he missed his girl growing up, all his chances to be there for her stolen in the time it took the bastard to pull the trigger, and he couldn’t even give her or David the closure of a body to bury—
This must be what it’s like to be a ghost; a half-step out of synch with the world, dead and mourning the living like it’s the other way around, stuck in a place just close enough to see where your loved ones should be but too far to reach them, left forever grasping for something that’s passed a long time ago. He can feel the tears trailing down his cheeks, the shaking in his shoulders as he buries his head in his arms, but his body feels so far away that it might as well be someone else’s, and he’s at that tipping point between drowning in his emotions and feeling nothing at all.
By the time he’s gathered the energy to lift his head, at least 30 minutes have passed and the middle-schoolers are long gone, though the water bottle and note left on the corner of his table are a nice parting gesture. He closes out the many tabs he’d opened the past few hours, taking a sip of water and looking at the note without really reading it, only retaining a vague impression of polite concern when he pockets the already-crumpled loose leaf. He hasn’t been this drained in years, exhaustion both physical and emotional the only thing keeping him from breaking back down into sobbing, but he still has supplies to pick up while there’s still daylight. Grabbing his coat and heading outside, he distantly registers that it’s warm enough for the short walk to the store by the time he’s standing in front of it. He’s running on autopilot, just present enough to ensure that he ends up with what he needs and remembers to pay. By the time the groceries are stowed away for the trip back to the cabin, his mind’s cleared a little, aware enough to stay on the road. He makes it home in one piece, barely remembering any of the drive through the numbness that’s settled on him. Muscle memory carries him through the next hour or so as he slowly becomes more conscious and deliberate in what he’s doing, exhaustion now less of a bulwark and more of a burden. He absently notes that at least half of what he bought is nowhere close to where it should’ve been put away. His gaze drifts towards the gun safe with the same absentmindedness, too out of it to seriously consider anything, but enough grief bleeds through the haze that he doesn’t look away for another moment or two. He eventually turns back towards the kitchen, appetite nonexistent but knowing from past experience that he should eat.
Lacking the energy for anything more complex, he heats up some tomato soup and gives the dogs their dinner. Standing at the counter, muttering a curse under his breath at the intially-scalding soup and ignoring the three sets of puppy-dog eyes aimed at him, it’s almost enough to let him pretend it’s a normal Friday evening, if he ignores the way his thoughts move at a glacial pace and how he keeps finding himself looking at either the whiskey or the guns. He’s not so lost and desperate as to try for a second miracle, decades of stubborn refusal to capitulate to the bastard holding strong even now, and this isn’t the time to try and drink away the pain. (Maybe next time, but not tonight.) He’s just… aware that the options exist.
Rinsing out the bowl without bothering to scrub or put it away, he slowly heads to the living room, unbelievably tired but unwilling to face the pictures on his nightstand. He sags into the couch like a puppet with its strings cut, fumbling to remove his prosthetics with clumsy fingers. The breath of relief as the ache in his back begins to subside runs deeper than usual, seeming to release some of the bleak nothing clinging to his mind along with the physical pain.
Tomorrow, he’ll reorganize all the supplies he put in the wrong cabinets. Tomorrow, he’ll properly take stock of the situation and decide on a way forward. Tomorrow, he’ll head back into town and look into reestablishing the contacts he’d left back in 2005. Tonight, though, he’s drowsily watching the Northern Lights through his living room window, wondering, as he falls asleep, if Catherine can see them too.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75670451
|
{"authors": ["fangirl_from_one_dimension_to_the_left"], "language": "English", "title": "Drown here in the silence"}
|
announcements.
Hey loves. I hate having to write something like this, but life decided to body-slam me out of nowhere.
Due to an eviction that came up unexpectedly, I’m being forced to move back to New Zealand. This wasn’t planned, it wasn’t wanted, and it’s happening really fast. Between packing, relocating, and just trying to mentally process everything, I don’t have a clear timeline for when I’ll be able to continue or post the next chapter of the series.
Writing means a lot to me, and this story especially isn’t something I’m abandoning. Right now, though, my real life is louder than my creative one, and I need to get through this transition before I can give the story the attention it deserves. I don’t want to rush an update or post something half-hearted just to meet expectations.
Thank you for being patient with me and for sticking around. Your support genuinely means more than you know, especially during moments like this. I’ll update as soon as I’m settled and able to write again. Until then, please take care of yourselves, I’ll be back when I can.
|
announcements.
Hey loves. I hate having to write something like this, but life decided to body-slam me out of nowhere.
Due to an eviction that came up unexpectedly, I’m being forced to move back to New Zealand. This wasn’t planned, it wasn’t wanted, and it’s happening really fast. Between packing, relocating, and just trying to mentally process everything, I don’t have a clear timeline for when I’ll be able to continue or post the next chapter of the series.
Writing means a lot to me, and this story especially isn’t something I’m abandoning. Right now, though, my real life is louder than my creative one, and I need to get through this transition before I can give the story the attention it deserves. I don’t want to rush an update or post something half-hearted just to meet expectations.
Thank you for being patient with me and for sticking around. Your support genuinely means more than you know, especially during moments like this. I’ll update as soon as I’m settled and able to write again. Until then, please take care of yourselves, I’ll be back when I can.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75673321
|
{"authors": ["SAE_IS_MINE"], "language": "English", "title": "announcements."}
|
Why Don’t You Stay?
Ilya knew it was over the moment Shane pulled away from him and removed his wrist from Ilya’s grasp.
He knew, but he tried to hang on. He desperately wanted to hang on.
The day had been going so perfectly. Ilya had made sure to put the ginger ale in the fridge so it was ready for Shane; Ilya didn’t even like ginger ale. What was the point of calling something ale if there was no actual ale in it? He had been so nonchalant about the tuna melts, barely even smiling into the fridge when Shane accepted his offer. He had put on a hockey game, something neutral and safe, something Shane liked and could talk to him about; English wasn’t as difficult when Ilya was talking about hockey.
The biggest gamble had been asking Shane to stay. Ilya had waited until after, when Shane was fucked out and soft, to ask. He knew their schedule, knew there was no morning practice the next day. He’d been waiting for this opportunity all season, a chance to take Shane in his bed and wake up with him the next morning. Together.
And he’s almost had it. They’d fallen asleep, Ilya wrapped around Shane like he thought Shane would disappear, drift away like smoke through his fingers. Really though, could anyone blame him? That was how their… whatever-ship worked. A quick fuck (or four) and then they’d part ways. Neither of them had stayed the night, and neither one had asked to.
When Ilya woke up, the scent of Shane’s shampoo in his nose, Shane’s back warm against his chest, he’d thought maybe he was dreaming. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d dreamt of waking up with Shane, and he didn’t want to unpack that just yet. All he knew was that Shane had stayed. And had chosen to stay even longer. With him.
But then Shane’s name had slipped out of his mouth in a moment of weakness, and Ilya had fucked it all up. Sure, Shane had said Ilya’s name back, and god did it sound even better falling from Shane’s lips than Ilya could have ever imagined. The relief he felt, thinking that his name from Shane’s mouth meant he felt the same way. Their names were a boundary they’d never crossed, so for them to say them, especially in a moment of vulnerability and passion, it had to mean something. It meant something to Ilya, anyway. More than he’d like to admit.
And then he’d seen the look on Shane’s face when he pulled away, the way he wouldn’t even look at Ilya… And Ilya knew then and there he’d miscalculated.
He watched Shane tuck himself back into his pants, missing his warmth as soon as Shane levered himself off Ilya’s lap. He listened to Shane’s stammered excuses with rising panic, trying to figure out how to bring them back to the moment before he’d ruined everything.
“I’m sorry,” Shane said, voice tight. “This… I can’t.”
‘This?’ What did ‘this’ mean?
“Hollander,” he said, impressed with the way his voice didn’t shake around Shane’s last name.
He could fix this. He just had to pretend Shane’s name didn’t taste so good on his tongue. He just had to try to return them to a sense of normalcy, even if that meant never tasting Shane’s name ever again.
“I just… I can’t uh—” Shane looked scared. “I can’t do this.”
No. No, no, no.
“Hollander.” Ilya wasn’t begging—he was Russian, after all. But he was asking, beseeching Shane to stop freaking out and just stay. At least long enough to talk things through, but preferably longer. Forever, actually, would be ideal, but Ilya knew Shane wasn’t ready to hear that.
There was a moment of hesitation, a pause in which Ilya thought Shane would grant him his unspoken wish.
“I’m sorry,” Shane said, turning to leave before he even finished saying the words.
Ilya sat there, his hand outstretched towards the space Shane had just vacated. He heard the door open and close, the sound loud in the hushed silence of the house.
For a shining, golden moment, he’d had what he wanted. Shane, in his home, in his arms. The promise of having someone stay. Of having Shane stay.
But Shane was gone. And Ilya was left behind. Alone. Again.
|
Why Don’t You Stay?
Ilya knew it was over the moment Shane pulled away from him and removed his wrist from Ilya’s grasp.
He knew, but he tried to hang on. He desperately wanted to hang on.
The day had been going so perfectly. Ilya had made sure to put the ginger ale in the fridge so it was ready for Shane; Ilya didn’t even like ginger ale. What was the point of calling something ale if there was no actual ale in it? He had been so nonchalant about the tuna melts, barely even smiling into the fridge when Shane accepted his offer. He had put on a hockey game, something neutral and safe, something Shane liked and could talk to him about; English wasn’t as difficult when Ilya was talking about hockey.
The biggest gamble had been asking Shane to stay. Ilya had waited until after, when Shane was fucked out and soft, to ask. He knew their schedule, knew there was no morning practice the next day. He’d been waiting for this opportunity all season, a chance to take Shane in his bed and wake up with him the next morning. Together.
And he’s almost had it. They’d fallen asleep, Ilya wrapped around Shane like he thought Shane would disappear, drift away like smoke through his fingers. Really though, could anyone blame him? That was how their… whatever-ship worked. A quick fuck (or four) and then they’d part ways. Neither of them had stayed the night, and neither one had asked to.
When Ilya woke up, the scent of Shane’s shampoo in his nose, Shane’s back warm against his chest, he’d thought maybe he was dreaming. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d dreamt of waking up with Shane, and he didn’t want to unpack that just yet. All he knew was that Shane had stayed. And had chosen to stay even longer. With him.
But then Shane’s name had slipped out of his mouth in a moment of weakness, and Ilya had fucked it all up. Sure, Shane had said Ilya’s name back, and god did it sound even better falling from Shane’s lips than Ilya could have ever imagined. The relief he felt, thinking that his name from Shane’s mouth meant he felt the same way. Their names were a boundary they’d never crossed, so for them to say them, especially in a moment of vulnerability and passion, it had to mean something. It meant something to Ilya, anyway. More than he’d like to admit.
And then he’d seen the look on Shane’s face when he pulled away, the way he wouldn’t even look at Ilya… And Ilya knew then and there he’d miscalculated.
He watched Shane tuck himself back into his pants, missing his warmth as soon as Shane levered himself off Ilya’s lap. He listened to Shane’s stammered excuses with rising panic, trying to figure out how to bring them back to the moment before he’d ruined everything.
“I’m sorry,” Shane said, voice tight. “This… I can’t.”
‘This?’ What did ‘this’ mean?
“Hollander,” he said, impressed with the way his voice didn’t shake around Shane’s last name.
He could fix this. He just had to pretend Shane’s name didn’t taste so good on his tongue. He just had to try to return them to a sense of normalcy, even if that meant never tasting Shane’s name ever again.
“I just… I can’t uh—” Shane looked scared. “I can’t do this.”
No. No, no, no.
“Hollander.” Ilya wasn’t begging—he was Russian, after all. But he was asking, beseeching Shane to stop freaking out and just stay. At least long enough to talk things through, but preferably longer. Forever, actually, would be ideal, but Ilya knew Shane wasn’t ready to hear that.
There was a moment of hesitation, a pause in which Ilya thought Shane would grant him his unspoken wish.
“I’m sorry,” Shane said, turning to leave before he even finished saying the words.
Ilya sat there, his hand outstretched towards the space Shane had just vacated. He heard the door open and close, the sound loud in the hushed silence of the house.
For a shining, golden moment, he’d had what he wanted. Shane, in his home, in his arms. The promise of having someone stay. Of having Shane stay.
But Shane was gone. And Ilya was left behind. Alone. Again.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75670466
|
{"authors": ["ImEasyEitherWay"], "language": "English", "title": "Why Don’t You Stay?"}
|
morrigan elain lesbian fic
It was December in London, elain had gone to the Christmas market, intending to buy some fun things and some Christmas gifts. She was currently at a stall that sold candles, she liked them but she already had candles at home, especially scented candles. She moved slowly to the next stall, she could see the food stalls from here, she really wanted to have a hot chocolate with whipped cream. This stall sold jewellery, some pretty necklaces and rings, but the earrings caught her attention, pretty dragons, she really liked them, especially since she had just read a book series with dragons in it. She asked the vendor, who had made them by hand, how much for the dragon earrings?
The vendor answered, 25 pounds, elain frowned and said, sorry I don’t have the money for them. Then a voice came from next to her, a pretty blonde girl a foot taller than her who was wearing a red scarf that looked very soft said, ill buy them for you, if you buy me mulled wine. Elain was surprised and she said, okay ill do that, the blonde bought them for her and said, hi im Morrigan, lets go to the drink stands. They walked over there and she bought Morrigan a mulled wine and herself a hot chocolate with whipped cream. Morrigan took both their drinks and headed to an empty table nearby. Elain trailed behind her, they both sat down and Morrigan said, you know youre adorable with your hot chocolate with cream, elain blushed. Morrigan said, wow ive made the cute girl blush. Elain said, you think im cute? Morrigan nodded and said yeah I think youre adorable and really attractive. Are you by any chance into girls? Elain blushed deeper and said, im bisexual so yes. Morrigan smiled big at that. She said, let me give you my number then. so you can text or call me, we could go on a date sometime. Elain blushed again and asked, a date with me? But youre so beautiful and tall. Morrigan grinned, I think youre cute and beautiful too. Elain smiled back at her. they exchanged numbers and drank their drinks. Morrigan and elain stuck together for the rest of the few hours they were at the Christmas market. Morrigan walked elain to her bus stop, they said goodbye with a hug. Elain sat in the top half of the bus because downstairs was really crowded, she texted her friends, I think ive met someone, shes blonde and gorgeous, she paid for my earrings, she attached a photo of the earrings with dragons on them.
The next day she texted Morrigan, I would love to go on a date with you if you would like that too. She got a text back an hour later, yes! I want it too, where would you like to go? Do you wanna do dinner and cocktails or coffee/hot chocolate or something else entirely? Elain texted back, the dinner and cocktails sounds lovely and we could talk a lot, do you have a place in mind? Is Friday night good for you? Morrigan said, brother marcus in covent garden is good for a first date and yes Friday is good for me, what time is good for you to meet up there? Elain texted back, 8 pm seems appropriate for dinner and cocktails I think. Also ive got something to confess, ive never been on a date with someone so beautiful before. She sent the message and got quite nervous about what Morrigan would say about that, but 15 minutes later she texted back, aww youre so sweet, for the record youre super beautiful too.
They spent the whole week texting and talking over video call. They got to know lots of things about each other, like that elain can speak Korean and loves books, Morrigan enjoys music, makeup, gym and travel.
Elain knew she was going to talk a lot about travel at their dinner since it was a mutual interest of theirs. It was Friday evening now, it was 6 pm so elain just got home from work and was getting ready for her date, she only had 2 dresses for winter, a cute green flared one with long sleeves, she also put the dragon earrings in and put some light makeup on.
At half past 7 she took the subway to the restaurant. She was quite nervous and hoped Morrigan would like her in a romantic way. She walked up to the restaurant and saw Morrigan already waiting for her. she waved cheerfully at her and met her halfway, she greeted elain with a kiss on her cheek and took her hand and walked inside the restaurant, they put their coats on their chairs, Morrigan was wearing a pretty casual red dress, which matched her red lips, elain joked, let me guess your favourite colour is red? Morrigan nodded and asked whats yours then? elain said, pink, I love all things pink but pink is hard to find in winter clothes. Morrigan nodded. They ordered their food, Morrigan got the fish and elain got the chicken, both ordering a cocktail too. The cocktails came first and elain confessed she was quite nervous, Morrigan said, you don’t have to be nervous with me, I really like you and I think this is going to go really well. Elain said she had another thing to confess, Morrigan said, go ahead, elain nervously said, ive never kissed a girl yet, im a
|
morrigan elain lesbian fic
It was December in London, elain had gone to the Christmas market, intending to buy some fun things and some Christmas gifts. She was currently at a stall that sold candles, she liked them but she already had candles at home, especially scented candles. She moved slowly to the next stall, she could see the food stalls from here, she really wanted to have a hot chocolate with whipped cream. This stall sold jewellery, some pretty necklaces and rings, but the earrings caught her attention, pretty dragons, she really liked them, especially since she had just read a book series with dragons in it. She asked the vendor, who had made them by hand, how much for the dragon earrings?
The vendor answered, 25 pounds, elain frowned and said, sorry I don’t have the money for them. Then a voice came from next to her, a pretty blonde girl a foot taller than her who was wearing a red scarf that looked very soft said, ill buy them for you, if you buy me mulled wine. Elain was surprised and she said, okay ill do that, the blonde bought them for her and said, hi im Morrigan, lets go to the drink stands. They walked over there and she bought Morrigan a mulled wine and herself a hot chocolate with whipped cream. Morrigan took both their drinks and headed to an empty table nearby. Elain trailed behind her, they both sat down and Morrigan said, you know youre adorable with your hot chocolate with cream, elain blushed. Morrigan said, wow ive made the cute girl blush. Elain said, you think im cute? Morrigan nodded and said yeah I think youre adorable and really attractive. Are you by any chance into girls? Elain blushed deeper and said, im bisexual so yes. Morrigan smiled big at that. She said, let me give you my number then. so you can text or call me, we could go on a date sometime. Elain blushed again and asked, a date with me? But youre so beautiful and tall. Morrigan grinned, I think youre cute and beautiful too. Elain smiled back at her. they exchanged numbers and drank their drinks. Morrigan and elain stuck together for the rest of the few hours they were at the Christmas market. Morrigan walked elain to her bus stop, they said goodbye with a hug. Elain sat in the top half of the bus because downstairs was really crowded, she texted her friends, I think ive met someone, shes blonde and gorgeous, she paid for my earrings, she attached a photo of the earrings with dragons on them.
The next day she texted Morrigan, I would love to go on a date with you if you would like that too. She got a text back an hour later, yes! I want it too, where would you like to go? Do you wanna do dinner and cocktails or coffee/hot chocolate or something else entirely? Elain texted back, the dinner and cocktails sounds lovely and we could talk a lot, do you have a place in mind? Is Friday night good for you? Morrigan said, brother marcus in covent garden is good for a first date and yes Friday is good for me, what time is good for you to meet up there? Elain texted back, 8 pm seems appropriate for dinner and cocktails I think. Also ive got something to confess, ive never been on a date with someone so beautiful before. She sent the message and got quite nervous about what Morrigan would say about that, but 15 minutes later she texted back, aww youre so sweet, for the record youre super beautiful too.
They spent the whole week texting and talking over video call. They got to know lots of things about each other, like that elain can speak Korean and loves books, Morrigan enjoys music, makeup, gym and travel.
Elain knew she was going to talk a lot about travel at their dinner since it was a mutual interest of theirs. It was Friday evening now, it was 6 pm so elain just got home from work and was getting ready for her date, she only had 2 dresses for winter, a cute green flared one with long sleeves, she also put the dragon earrings in and put some light makeup on.
At half past 7 she took the subway to the restaurant. She was quite nervous and hoped Morrigan would like her in a romantic way. She walked up to the restaurant and saw Morrigan already waiting for her. she waved cheerfully at her and met her halfway, she greeted elain with a kiss on her cheek and took her hand and walked inside the restaurant, they put their coats on their chairs, Morrigan was wearing a pretty casual red dress, which matched her red lips, elain joked, let me guess your favourite colour is red? Morrigan nodded and asked whats yours then? elain said, pink, I love all things pink but pink is hard to find in winter clothes. Morrigan nodded. They ordered their food, Morrigan got the fish and elain got the chicken, both ordering a cocktail too. The cocktails came first and elain confessed she was quite nervous, Morrigan said, you don’t have to be nervous with me, I really like you and I think this is going to go really well. Elain said she had another thing to confess, Morrigan said, go ahead, elain nervously said, ive never kissed a girl yet, im a bit of a late bloomer and only dated one boy before and went on a date with one girl, so I hope im good enough for you. Morrigan smiled and said, that’s totally fine with me. My parents tried to talk me into dating boys too before they accepted my sexuality, but now theyre fine with it.
The food came and they tasted it and discussed how good it was and held out their forks across the table to let the other taste it. They talked about lots of things and then elain brought up travel. She said, you have travelled a lot right? And I work at a travel agency, so we could talk about that a lot. Whats your favourite place you have travelled to?
Morrigan answered, it has to be Thailand, its culture, food, nightlife combined is a heaven for me, I love going dancing and drinking with friends. also I love being by the pool and beach. Elain sighed longingly, she said, im too shy to go dancing somewhere but food culture and beaches sounds amazing. Morrigan asked, whats your favourite place you’ve been? Elain answered, probably seoul. Been there a few times when I studied in busan in korea in college, and im the expert on south korea and Japan in my company. Mor said, are you really? That’s so cool, you should definitely help plan my next trip. They continued on the subject a bit more and both had some more drinks.
Eventually it was 10 pm and the restaurant was closing, they were both half drunk on cocktails now and laughing and talking smoothly. Elain said, I might have to splurge on an uber to get home safely. Morrigan shook her head and said, you can sleep over at my apartment, you can sleep on the couch or next to me in my king-size bed, ill lend you some pyjamas. Elain nodded, ill spend the night at yours then. they got in a taxi and headed to a nice part of town, they stopped at a fancy apartment complex, elain asked, do you really live here ? it must be so expensive. Morrigan gave a sheepish smile and said, yes that’s what I haven’t told you yet, ill tell you upstairs. They went in the complex and the lobby attendant greeted them, they headed for the elevator and Morrigan pressed the button for the top floor. Elain was flabbergasted and whispered in disbelief, penthouse luxury apartment? Morrigan nodded,. They got to the top floor and she opened the apartment with a code and a key and led elain inside. Elain said wow this is super cool, are you rich or something? Before Morrigan could say anything elain walked to the huge windows with a big balcony and exclaimed, omg that’s hyde park, how the hell do you pay for this? Morrigan took her hand and led her to the couch, they both sat down and Morrigan said, I needed to be sure we would like each other before I revealed that my family is rich. My parents own a tech company, she mentioned a name that elain had definitely heard lots of times before. Morrigan asked her, you like me for me right and not for any money? Elain answered, I had a massive crush on you since I met you that day at the Christmas market, I had no idea you were rich. Elain smiled at her and said, now I know how you have travelled a lot. Morrigan smiled back at her and said yes, that’s exactly how I afford all my hobbies , also ive had a crush on you too since I saw you, even more since I saw you with that hot chocolate, speaking of, I bought some that I can heat up on the stove, and I have whipped cream too, bought it in case the date would go well. Elain laughed at that and said, yes please, its my favourite drink.
Morrigan got up to make the hot chocolate and elain followed her. Morrigan gave elain a big soft hug and pulled back a little to look in her eyes. Elain blushed a lot, Morrigan asked, can I kiss you elain? Elain nodded shyly. Morrigan gently kissed her and she kissed her back. After the kiss elain let out a sigh and said, wow that was amazing. Morrigan chuckled and said, we can do that a lot more if youre up for it.
Elain gathered all her courage and said, Morrigan, will you be my girlfriend? Morrigan beamed at her and said yes and kissed her again, this time a little deeper. The chocolate milk was boiling at this point so they turned off the stove and poured it in the mugs and used a lot of whipped cream on top.
They talked and kissed until 1 am and then Morrigan asked her if she wanted her to make up the couch or if she wanted to join her in the bed. Elain said, maybe in the bed we can cuddle and fall asleep? Morrigan led her to the bedroom, she did have a huge bed, more than enough for 4 people. she handed her a pair of clean pyjamas and they got in the bed, they cuddled and went to sleep happy.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75670481?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["osgood22"], "language": "English", "title": "morrigan elain lesbian fic"}
|
Unrequited
The stage was flooded. Water poured from the sky as three figures stood in the center of the stadium surrounded by a roaring crowd, chanting their names enthusiastically despite the downpour.
Blue lines shimmered along the stadium as the girls looked at one another, sharing excited smiles.
“Thank you Seoul!” Rumi shouted over the rain, and the crowd became deafening as her, Mira, and Zoey all walked off the stage. When they were out of the fans eyesight, Mira grabbed Rumi’s hand, giving her a soft smile. They were interrupted as Bobby, their manager, came bouncing up to them, energy radiating off him in waves.
“That was amazing girls!” He exclaimed, “ keep it up! We only have one concert left before your hiatus, then we can all relax.” He seemed more excited at the thought of their hiatus than the final show, but after almost a year on the road, it seemed understandable to the girls that Bobby would want a break - for both himself and his girls.
————
Later that night, when they had finally been able to leave the stadium, Rumi and Mira sat on the hotel room couch, Zoey passed out on the floor as the soft glow of the tv gave the dimly lit room an otherworldly glow.
Mira stared at Rumi shamelessly, her eyes tracing the soft purple hair, undone from it’s usual braid, the line of her nose, the dip of her collarbone as Rumi, already half asleep, stared at the television.
“I think we’re close,” Mira said out of the blue, tilting her head back so she was staring at the ceiling. “I mean, the honmoon glows at every concert now, it should be gold soon.”
Rumi blinked slowly, glancing at her friend briefly before returning to the tv. “Maybe, “ she sighed, “ or maybe we won’t ever get it to gold, and we’ll fail like all of the hunters before us.”
Mira started, sitting upright, turning to face Rumi fully. “What? Why would you say that?” She demanded, “ what happened to your little speech, ‘ I know we’ll get a gold honmoon’. This seems out of the blue for you.”
“You saw the honmoon today.”
“Yeah. It was glowing. That’s a good thing.”
Rumi sighed, pursing her lips.”What if it’s not enough? What if it never turns gold?” Her voice was soft, and Mira was taken aback by her doubt.
“If it doesn’t turn gold, we do our jobs and kill demons. It will be the same thing we do now. Then, when the time is right, we’ll pass our knowledge down to a new group. This is how it has been for centuries, why would it change because of us?”
For a moment, Rumi’s expression changed. Her entire face tightened, lips thinning and brows furrowing, but it was gone in an instant, smoothing into a small smile that she turned to Mira.
“ You’re right. I was just being silly. It’s late, we should go to bed.”
Mira watched as Rumi got up from the couch, her luminous hair falling down her back in waves, gleaming in the dim light. She tried to speak, to say anything that would keep Rumi from walking back to her room, but no words would come out.
————
The next days passed in quick succession, everybody focused on the upcoming concert in Beijing. Their plane flight had been relatively smooth, other than the occasional turbulence, and most of the girls’ time was spent in their makeshift studio, rehearsing their dances until their legs turned into jelly and they had to drag themselves to their hotel room.
There had still been an undeniable tension between Rumi and Mira that night, shared glances across, an eyebrow raise, but nothing else had been said about the honmoon after that night. Zoey had picked up on the fact that her friends were on edge, but hadn’t said anything in order to not disturb the peace. While Zoey wished that they would sort out whatever was going on, she also knew that her pushing wouldn’t do anything other than make things worse, especially given the pressure they were under at the moment.
There were only two days until their final concert. To Mira, it was too close. After what Rumi had said to her, she felt unprepared, uncomfortable in her movements and rhythm. Rumi, who had always been the most confident and assured in their group, was now questioning them. Despite Rumi’s reserved nature, she had always been supportive and optimistic, not overly cheery like Zoey but certain about the group’s success.
Rumi groaned as she spun into her position for what felt like the thousandth time. While both Zoey and Mira were in tank tops, she had stubbornly chosen to keep her hoodie on, and was deeply regretting it as sweat seeped from every pore of her body, soaking into her clothes. It was something that Celine, her godmother, had always insisted upon, never failing to remind her about the mistakes on her arms.
“Can we please take a break? I think that I’m literally going to die if we don’t stop right now,” Zoey gasped, placing her hands on her knees as she bent over, chest rising and falling rapidly. Rumi and Mira were both panting as well, too tired to even speak.
“I think we can be done for today, you girls should go talk to the outfit
|
Unrequited
The stage was flooded. Water poured from the sky as three figures stood in the center of the stadium surrounded by a roaring crowd, chanting their names enthusiastically despite the downpour.
Blue lines shimmered along the stadium as the girls looked at one another, sharing excited smiles.
“Thank you Seoul!” Rumi shouted over the rain, and the crowd became deafening as her, Mira, and Zoey all walked off the stage. When they were out of the fans eyesight, Mira grabbed Rumi’s hand, giving her a soft smile. They were interrupted as Bobby, their manager, came bouncing up to them, energy radiating off him in waves.
“That was amazing girls!” He exclaimed, “ keep it up! We only have one concert left before your hiatus, then we can all relax.” He seemed more excited at the thought of their hiatus than the final show, but after almost a year on the road, it seemed understandable to the girls that Bobby would want a break - for both himself and his girls.
————
Later that night, when they had finally been able to leave the stadium, Rumi and Mira sat on the hotel room couch, Zoey passed out on the floor as the soft glow of the tv gave the dimly lit room an otherworldly glow.
Mira stared at Rumi shamelessly, her eyes tracing the soft purple hair, undone from it’s usual braid, the line of her nose, the dip of her collarbone as Rumi, already half asleep, stared at the television.
“I think we’re close,” Mira said out of the blue, tilting her head back so she was staring at the ceiling. “I mean, the honmoon glows at every concert now, it should be gold soon.”
Rumi blinked slowly, glancing at her friend briefly before returning to the tv. “Maybe, “ she sighed, “ or maybe we won’t ever get it to gold, and we’ll fail like all of the hunters before us.”
Mira started, sitting upright, turning to face Rumi fully. “What? Why would you say that?” She demanded, “ what happened to your little speech, ‘ I know we’ll get a gold honmoon’. This seems out of the blue for you.”
“You saw the honmoon today.”
“Yeah. It was glowing. That’s a good thing.”
Rumi sighed, pursing her lips.”What if it’s not enough? What if it never turns gold?” Her voice was soft, and Mira was taken aback by her doubt.
“If it doesn’t turn gold, we do our jobs and kill demons. It will be the same thing we do now. Then, when the time is right, we’ll pass our knowledge down to a new group. This is how it has been for centuries, why would it change because of us?”
For a moment, Rumi’s expression changed. Her entire face tightened, lips thinning and brows furrowing, but it was gone in an instant, smoothing into a small smile that she turned to Mira.
“ You’re right. I was just being silly. It’s late, we should go to bed.”
Mira watched as Rumi got up from the couch, her luminous hair falling down her back in waves, gleaming in the dim light. She tried to speak, to say anything that would keep Rumi from walking back to her room, but no words would come out.
————
The next days passed in quick succession, everybody focused on the upcoming concert in Beijing. Their plane flight had been relatively smooth, other than the occasional turbulence, and most of the girls’ time was spent in their makeshift studio, rehearsing their dances until their legs turned into jelly and they had to drag themselves to their hotel room.
There had still been an undeniable tension between Rumi and Mira that night, shared glances across, an eyebrow raise, but nothing else had been said about the honmoon after that night. Zoey had picked up on the fact that her friends were on edge, but hadn’t said anything in order to not disturb the peace. While Zoey wished that they would sort out whatever was going on, she also knew that her pushing wouldn’t do anything other than make things worse, especially given the pressure they were under at the moment.
There were only two days until their final concert. To Mira, it was too close. After what Rumi had said to her, she felt unprepared, uncomfortable in her movements and rhythm. Rumi, who had always been the most confident and assured in their group, was now questioning them. Despite Rumi’s reserved nature, she had always been supportive and optimistic, not overly cheery like Zoey but certain about the group’s success.
Rumi groaned as she spun into her position for what felt like the thousandth time. While both Zoey and Mira were in tank tops, she had stubbornly chosen to keep her hoodie on, and was deeply regretting it as sweat seeped from every pore of her body, soaking into her clothes. It was something that Celine, her godmother, had always insisted upon, never failing to remind her about the mistakes on her arms.
“Can we please take a break? I think that I’m literally going to die if we don’t stop right now,” Zoey gasped, placing her hands on her knees as she bent over, chest rising and falling rapidly. Rumi and Mira were both panting as well, too tired to even speak.
“I think we can be done for today, you girls should go talk to the outfit coordinators after you finish washing up,” said one of the directors, pointing towards the studio exit. All three of the girls went into their separate changing rooms, quickly putting on new, clean clothing. Taking a shower would have to wait till they were back at the hotel room, but even wearing something new was a relief.
In her dressing room, Rumi stared at herself in the mirror, a blank expression on her face. She was only in a sports bra, which left her arms open and exposed. In this room , when she was completely alone, she could allow herself to look at the light purple stripes that jutted and zigzagged out and around her limbs. They were not natural marks that were made by the skin stretching or being opened. These patterns were of another world, one that lived below the earth, just under the surface. The patterns were demon marks, a reminder of her heritage, and her shame.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75673281/chapters/197908336
|
{"authors": ["I_am_artist"], "language": "English", "title": "Unrequited"}
|
Feral Fridays
BANG CHAN
[You]: can i get your opinion?
[You]: on outfits for tonight?
[Channie]: black jeans. always
[You]: ok but top tho?
[Channie]: me obviously
[Channie]: jk
[Channie]: what are the options
[You]: can i facetime you?
[Channie]: always. i'm headed back to my room now
Chan always picks up on the first ring.
He gives you a sweet smile, his dimples peeking out from his cheeks. Flopping down on the hotel couch, he holds his phone up so you have a full view of his face. Chan’s forehead was covered in a light sheen of sweat from his workout.
“I can’t decide,” you sigh, “I’m stuck between these two.” You hold up two tops against your frame, stepping back from your phone so your entire outfit could be captured on screen. As requested, you were in his favorite black jeans.
Chan watches intently, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip as he knits his brows together. “Red,” he answers, “but can I see it on?”
You nod, pulling off your tee, back to the camera.
There’s a small squeak from your phone speaker, which catches your attention. You turn your head over your shoulder, watching as your boyfriend’s cheeks and ears turn a reddish hue.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, clearing his throat, “I—you’re about to go out.”
You can sense the neediness in his voice, knitted together with a layer of embarrassment. When he was home, Chan was always so turned on after a workout; he also had a special place in his heart (or his pants) for the round of your ass in these jeans.
“I have some time,” you cooed, “and you’ve been working so hard.”
Turning back to your phone, you watched as Chan gulped, then parted his lips.
“Can I—can you show me the jeans again?” he whimpered. You watched as his image bounced slightly on the screen, his hands shaking as he pumped his length.
“Of course,” you smirked, taking a step forward.
As your hands roamed your own body, pulling over the curve of your ass and thighs, Chan whined and moaned. His eyes were glued to you, pupils lust-blown and desperate, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. His comments were your fuel.
God, please. I need to feel you around me. You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Please, baby.
“Shit,” he hissed, “I’m so close.”
Flipping around to face him, you cocked your head to the side and gave him a smirk. “Just think about how good it’s gonna feel to come inside me when I see you next week.”
With your words, his eyes snapped shut, leaning his head back. The camera shook as he dropped his phone, the only indication of his orgasm his ragged moans.
He was silent for a moment before sniffling. “Fuck.” He lifted the phone back up, blinking rapidly.
“Feel better?” you smiled, resting your head in your hands.
“So much,” he sighed, “but I’ll feel even better when I can touch you next week.”
LEE KNOW
[Meemo]: how are the babies
[Meemo]: have they eaten
[Meemo]: who am i kidding. of course they have
[Meemo]: have you eaten
[You]: lol
[You]: yes, i fed them
[You]: they're still begging for food, though
[Meemo]: fat cats
[Meemo]: call me
[Meemo]: i'll tell them myself
“I’m not sure where you got the idea that you could talk the cats out of begging,” you laughed, “but you’re welcome to try.”
“They need to hear it from their dad,” he replied, “put me on speaker.”
You click your tongue, beckoning the three cats over to the phone. Placing it on the ground, you listened as your boyfriend spoke in soft, yet firm words. Stop begging for food. I know you’ve been fed.
“They’re so needy,” you sigh, “they miss you.”
He hummed in response. “I miss them too.” Pausing, you could hear shuffling on the line, followed by the click of a door. “What about you, jagi? Are they taking care of you, too?”
You huffed. “Somewhat.”
Immediately, he sensed the hesitation in your voice. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”
Your cheeks grew warm from embarrassment. “I—Minho, I miss you.” Swallowing, you tried not to think about the ache growing between your legs. “Like… I miss… being with you.”
Minho chuckled. “Do you miss my cock inside you, jagiya?”
Choking at the sound of his words, you stood from your spot on the living room floor. “I—Minho—”
“It’s okay if you do,” he cooed, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Blinking, you moved to your room, landing sheepishly on the bed. “I do. Fuck, Minho.” Your mind wandered, thinking of the burning stretch of your body around him.
“Remember that toy we ordered? Just before I left?” His voice grew quiet. “Why don’t you go grab it.”
You crawled across the bed, reaching into the nightstand to pull out the Minho-shaped dildo and lube. “Okay.”
“What are you wearing, jagi?”
“Your shirt,” you whined, fingers working around your entrance, “nothing else.”
“Good.” He sucked in a breath, steady and calculated. “Imagine if I could touch you right now… I just want to bite your thighs as I drive my fingers into you.”
“Minho,” you choked, inserting your own to the knuckle, “fucking please.”
“Maybe I could drag my teeth along your chest, too,” he hummed, “end up right on your neck.
|
Feral Fridays
BANG CHAN
[You]: can i get your opinion?
[You]: on outfits for tonight?
[Channie]: black jeans. always
[You]: ok but top tho?
[Channie]: me obviously
[Channie]: jk
[Channie]: what are the options
[You]: can i facetime you?
[Channie]: always. i'm headed back to my room now
Chan always picks up on the first ring.
He gives you a sweet smile, his dimples peeking out from his cheeks. Flopping down on the hotel couch, he holds his phone up so you have a full view of his face. Chan’s forehead was covered in a light sheen of sweat from his workout.
“I can’t decide,” you sigh, “I’m stuck between these two.” You hold up two tops against your frame, stepping back from your phone so your entire outfit could be captured on screen. As requested, you were in his favorite black jeans.
Chan watches intently, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip as he knits his brows together. “Red,” he answers, “but can I see it on?”
You nod, pulling off your tee, back to the camera.
There’s a small squeak from your phone speaker, which catches your attention. You turn your head over your shoulder, watching as your boyfriend’s cheeks and ears turn a reddish hue.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, clearing his throat, “I—you’re about to go out.”
You can sense the neediness in his voice, knitted together with a layer of embarrassment. When he was home, Chan was always so turned on after a workout; he also had a special place in his heart (or his pants) for the round of your ass in these jeans.
“I have some time,” you cooed, “and you’ve been working so hard.”
Turning back to your phone, you watched as Chan gulped, then parted his lips.
“Can I—can you show me the jeans again?” he whimpered. You watched as his image bounced slightly on the screen, his hands shaking as he pumped his length.
“Of course,” you smirked, taking a step forward.
As your hands roamed your own body, pulling over the curve of your ass and thighs, Chan whined and moaned. His eyes were glued to you, pupils lust-blown and desperate, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. His comments were your fuel.
God, please. I need to feel you around me. You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Please, baby.
“Shit,” he hissed, “I’m so close.”
Flipping around to face him, you cocked your head to the side and gave him a smirk. “Just think about how good it’s gonna feel to come inside me when I see you next week.”
With your words, his eyes snapped shut, leaning his head back. The camera shook as he dropped his phone, the only indication of his orgasm his ragged moans.
He was silent for a moment before sniffling. “Fuck.” He lifted the phone back up, blinking rapidly.
“Feel better?” you smiled, resting your head in your hands.
“So much,” he sighed, “but I’ll feel even better when I can touch you next week.”
LEE KNOW
[Meemo]: how are the babies
[Meemo]: have they eaten
[Meemo]: who am i kidding. of course they have
[Meemo]: have you eaten
[You]: lol
[You]: yes, i fed them
[You]: they're still begging for food, though
[Meemo]: fat cats
[Meemo]: call me
[Meemo]: i'll tell them myself
“I’m not sure where you got the idea that you could talk the cats out of begging,” you laughed, “but you’re welcome to try.”
“They need to hear it from their dad,” he replied, “put me on speaker.”
You click your tongue, beckoning the three cats over to the phone. Placing it on the ground, you listened as your boyfriend spoke in soft, yet firm words. Stop begging for food. I know you’ve been fed.
“They’re so needy,” you sigh, “they miss you.”
He hummed in response. “I miss them too.” Pausing, you could hear shuffling on the line, followed by the click of a door. “What about you, jagi? Are they taking care of you, too?”
You huffed. “Somewhat.”
Immediately, he sensed the hesitation in your voice. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”
Your cheeks grew warm from embarrassment. “I—Minho, I miss you.” Swallowing, you tried not to think about the ache growing between your legs. “Like… I miss… being with you.”
Minho chuckled. “Do you miss my cock inside you, jagiya?”
Choking at the sound of his words, you stood from your spot on the living room floor. “I—Minho—”
“It’s okay if you do,” he cooed, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Blinking, you moved to your room, landing sheepishly on the bed. “I do. Fuck, Minho.” Your mind wandered, thinking of the burning stretch of your body around him.
“Remember that toy we ordered? Just before I left?” His voice grew quiet. “Why don’t you go grab it.”
You crawled across the bed, reaching into the nightstand to pull out the Minho-shaped dildo and lube. “Okay.”
“What are you wearing, jagi?”
“Your shirt,” you whined, fingers working around your entrance, “nothing else.”
“Good.” He sucked in a breath, steady and calculated. “Imagine if I could touch you right now… I just want to bite your thighs as I drive my fingers into you.”
“Minho,” you choked, inserting your own to the knuckle, “fucking please.”
“Maybe I could drag my teeth along your chest, too,” he hummed, “end up right on your neck. Just the way you like.”
Your skin burned, desperate to make this dream a reality. A small moan escaped your lips as you removed your fingers, moving to grab the dildo instead.
“Ah, I know what you really want, though,” Minho whispered, “you want me to kiss your ear while you ride me.”
It felt like Minho was reading your mind, speaking your thoughts as you sank down on top of the toy. You cried out, imagining the warmth of his skin underneath you.
“Does that feel good?” he asked, his own voice hoarse, “feeling my cock inside you?”
“Y-yes,” you whined, bouncing, “god, fuck, yes, Minho.”
“I’m gonna ruin you,” he breathed, “next time I see you… shit, jagiya. You might need to hold me down.”
“M-Minho,” you whimpered, “Minho, please, I’m so close.”
“I can’t wait to feel you come,” he sighed, “to feel you—fuck—tremble around me—shit—”
Hearing him curse, words laced with pleasure, your body shook from your orgasm. You couldn’t care how loud you were, focused on riding the silicone version of your boyfriend’s length through your high.
Chest heaving, you threw the toy across the bed, draping your fingers over your eyes. “Fucking, hell, Minho.”
He laughed. “Love you too, jagiya.”
“I’ll see you soon?”
“Soon,” he repeated, “promise.”
CHANGBIN
[Binnie Baby]: check it out
[Binnie Baby]: gains after encore, baby
[You]: yesssss
[You]: you eatin good tho?
[Binnie Baby]: not as good as when i eat you out :)
“Changbin,” you scold, “I’m working. Enough.”
He laughed. “Sorry.”
“No you’re not,” you scoff, rubbing a hand over your face, “I can picture your face right now, shithead.”
“I love when you talk dirty to me,” he teased, “when’s your next meeting?”
“20 minutes. With my boss.”
“Let me help you relax a little,” Changbin suggested, “turn your Teams messages off for, like, 10 minutes.”
You sighed, closing your eyes. “Changbin…”
“I’m serious. I know you’ve probably been working all day, no breaks. You work through lunch.” His voice lowered. “Let daddy take care of you.”
Your breath hitched, your free hand wandering down the waistband of your pants. “You wanna tell me a bit more about how you’d help me out right now?”
He giggled excitedly. “You’re at your desk, right?” With a hum of approval, he continued. “I’d start by dragging your ass to the edge of your chair and burying my face between your legs.” Your fingers worked around your entrance, trying to simulate his tongue. “I can’t even think about how good you taste right now, baby. Fuck.”
You moaned; Changbin whined in response.
“Are you alone?” you asked.
“I’m hiding in the bathroom,” he replied, “I—I got hard the second you called.”
Your mind wandered, imagining your boyfriend desperately tugging on his cock in the bathroom. He probably had his forehead pressed against the wall, eyes screwed shut as his fist moved up and down his length.
“Binnie,” you sighed, “I want you to lean me over that bathroom counter and fuck me.”
“I would love nothing more,” he continued, “than to drive my cock into you while you scream.”
You groaned. “Can you grab my ass, too?”
“Baby, is that even a question?” His voice was cut off by his own ragged breaths, tiny curses escaping his lips. “I need something to hold onto.”
You imagined him gripping your thighs, pounding into you repeatedly, your head knocking against the mirror as he rooted his fingers in your hair.
“Bin—Bin, baby—”
“I’m gonna come so hard inside you,” he choked, “I’m gonna coat your insides—”
You climaxed, dropping your phone on the desk as you moaned. Your fingers cramped as you rode, but the fever in your chest was insatiable. As you came down, you heard the familiar sound of Changbin’s whines, a whispered shit shit shit shit as he made a mess of the hotel bathroom.
You checked the time. 6 minutes before your meeting. “You fucker,” you hissed, “I gotta go cool off before I have to talk to my boss.”
You could feel him smile through the phone. “How about next time you warm my cock while he talks to you about registration codes.”
Rolling your eyes, you stood on wobbly legs. “You and your cock better finish out this tour soon.”
“Anything for you, baby.”
HYUNJIN
[Hyunjin]: just got back to the hotel, jagi
[Hyunjin]: give me 10 min to shower?
[You]: of course!
[You]: call me when ur ready <3
[Hyunjin]: i'm so sweaty
[Hyunjin]: ew
[Hyunjin]: and hungry
[You]: did you order room service?
[Hyunjin]: i begged them at the front desk the second i walked in. don't worry
[Hyunjin]: shower over, i'm ready
When he called you, hair still wet from his shower, all you could think about was how he probably smelled. Floral, hints of musk buried underneath. His moisturizer topping it all with a delicate, clean aftertaste.
“Hey handsome,” you smiled, propping your phone up against the lamp of your bed.
“Hi,” he smiled, pulling open a takeout container, “my food just got here. Tell me about your day?”
As you walked him through your Friday routine—work drama, a gym session, dinner with a friend—he listened intently, eyes watching you as he shoveled food in his mouth. It was like he couldn’t decide which he wanted more, his eyes flicking between his meal and his date.
Full and satisfied, he lied back on the bed, his phone traveling over his head to mirror yours. Leaned against a lamp, giving you the full view of your boyfriend in a large tee and grey sweatpants. His arms, crossed in front of his body so his head could rest on top of them, popped with the movement of his muscles.
“Feel good?” you asked, watching as he tucked a pillow under his chest instead.
“Wish you were here,” he sighed, “but yes.”
You watched as he continuously adjusted himself, seemingly unable to get comfortable. Recognition crossed your face; at this point, Hyunjin had every other need met. There was one more before he could fully rest. “Hey, handsome. Remember when we rented that little beachside cottage last year?”
His eyebrows raised. “Yes.”
“And we had that private beachfront spot.”
“Mhm.”
“Where I could see the stars reflected in your eyes as I rode you—”
“Jagiya,” he cut you off, “what are you doing?”
“Thinking about our vacation,” you teased, adjusting your body to show off your bare thighs in the camera.
He sucked in a shaky breath, his eyes screwed shut. “You’re torture.” He flipped over, revealing the tent of his sweats.
“Maybe we should book it again,” you suggested, “after the tour is over.”
His eyelids fluttered closed as his hand moved to his length, slowly pumping up and down. “Tell me more,” he begged, “please.”
Your body hummed with warmth as you watched him fall apart from your words. “I’m just thinking about how nice it will be for you to relax on the beach,” you mused, “warm sun on your skin.” You leaned forward, lips close to the microphone. “I could pull your cock in my mouth, too, if that would help you relax.”
Hyunjin moaned. “I love your pretty mouth,” he shook, “Your lips around m-my—fuck.”
“I wanna lick up your length,” you sighed, “watch you squirm.”
“Jagiya, please. I need you.”
“I know,” you whispered, “you deserve a break. You’ve been working so hard.”
“I can’t stop thinking about your eyes,” he groaned, long fingers gripping the sides of his face.
“I’m right here, Jinnie,” you cooed, “look at me.”
He opened his eyes momentarily, catching a glimpse of you in the camera. With that, he orgasmed, throwing his head back in pleasure as he coated his shirt in his own cum.
“Feel better?” you asked, scrunching your nose as he blinked in awe.
“Where’s my credit card?” he asked, “I’ve gotta book this trip.”
HAN
[You]: stick that fucking tongue out one more time
[You]: i dare you
[You]: jisung
[You]: i swear... you and that fucking mouth
[You]: i KNOW you know i'm watching this livestream rn
[You]: why are you testing me??
[You]: stop. stop rolling your eyes
[You]: that fucking face. you
[You]: reminds me of when i'm sucking you off...
Your phone buzzed rapidly on the counter, your boyfriend’s picture popping up on the screen. Han Jisung.
Smirking, you slid your thumb across the screen to answer it.
“Say it again,” he begged, his voice hoarse, “please, jagi, say it again.”
You laughed. “Which part, Jisungie?”
“You know which part,” he hissed, desperate, “I come off stage already half hard from the show to those fucking texts? I just ran into a storage closet.” He chuckled nervously. “Jagi, please.”
You could picture your boyfriend dashing past the stadium employees, trying to find the nearest space for a private phone call; his slender yet muscular frame shaking as he leaned against the door.
“Are you alone now?” you asked, “ready to listen?”
“Yes.” There was a pause, then a soft whimper. “Ahh.”
“You drive me crazy when you do that,” you sighed, leaning back into the couch, “the way your eyes roll when you dance… it reminds me of your face when I’m sucking you off.”
He cried out again. “Baby. Jagiya. I’m begging you. Get a plane ticket. I need your mouth.”
“I know,” you smirked, your fingers palming the space between your hips, “just think of how good it’s gonna feel when you’re home in a couple weeks.”
He sighed. “I’m gonna fuck you into the mattress.”
“Not if I fuck you into the mattress first,” you whispered.
He cursed again, short little gasps escaping his lips. Fuck, fuck, fuck. As much as he wanted to be the dominant one in the relationship, he slid so easily back into his submissive nature.
“My sweet Jisungie,” you cooed, “fucking your fist.” You closed your eyes to continue the fantasy. How much time did he have before someone would start looking for him? “How fun would it be if I could join you in that storage closet, hm? Hold onto your ass while I play with your cock in my mouth?”
Jisung hissed, “Jagi—fuck—ouch—I hit my head against the shelf—whatever, shit—”
“You know what would be so fun?” you asked, pushing him further towards the edge, “if I come and join you for a few stops on tour, and we try to see how fast I can make you come during some of those quick changes—”
He yelped, followed by ragged moans as he finished. All you could hear were his desperate breaths, struggling to capture enough air.
“Feel better, my love?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he sighed, “I need to find a towel.” He smacked his lips. “And water.” He fumbled around for a moment before continuing. “Thanks, jagi.”
“Of course,” you replied, “keep your tongue in your mouth next time, though.”
FELIX
[You]: did you get a chance to see the shoot photos i emailed?
[You]: lixie?
[You]: ah wait... you're at rehearsal lol
[You]: they're going up on instagram... hehehehe
You clicked your phone closed, tossing your phone on the bed. It had been hours since Felix had returned your last text, running between the airport, fittings, and show rehearsals. You couldn’t be mad at him—hell, it was hypocritical when your own schedule would take you away for months at a time—but occasionally you had to use desperate measures to get his attention.
Like an Instagram post.
An Instagram post, with photos from your most recent photoshoot, the carousel of images ending with you sprawled out on a bed, hair messy, teeth biting down on your finger while your outfit left little to the imagination.
Soon enough, your phone buzzed with a message.
Just got out of rehearsal. Headed back to the hotel now. Did you post it?
You smiled down at your phone, a cheeky grin spreading across your face. Before you could type out a response, his contact photo lit up with a bright ANSWER and DECLINE.
“Hi Lixie,” you smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear as the video call connected.
“Baby,” he laughed, “the shoot photos look amazing.”
“You like them?” you asked, “they’re some outtakes from the cover shoot I did last month. The photographer wanted to post them.”
“Incredible,” he sighed, flopping down on his bed, hand tugging on the edges of his baseball cap, “especially that last one.”
Biting your bottom lip, you smirked. “I thought you would like that one.”
He removed his hat, throwing it across the room. “I liked it a lot, baby.” His fingers ran through his hair. “It’s… wow. I miss you a lot right now. I just—” He shook his head, his cheeks turning a light pink. “Ah, nevermind.”
“What’s up, Lix?” you asked, furrowing your brows, “you alright?”
“Yeah,” he lied, “I… well… the photo has me thinking a lot about what you’d look like underneath me.”
Your skin grew warm. You moved backwards on the bed, flopping back and holding your phone up to a similar angle of the post. “Like this?”
His fingers moved to his mouth, brushing against his lip. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”
“Do you wanna touch me, Felix?”
He gulped. “So badly, baby.” His fingers moved down his body slowly, disappearing out of frame. From the tug of his shoulder, you could tell he was rubbing his length, desperate and begging for attention.
“Tell me what you wanna do to me.”
His eyes fluttered closed, teeth pulling up on his lip. “I wanna start by kissing you,” he breathed, “then move my lips down to your jaw, and your neck. I wanna suck that sensitive spot until you cry.”
Your breath hitched, fingers reaching below your own waistband to tease your entrance. “Then what?”
He hummed. “Then I’m going to finger you until you’re ready to take my cock, baby.”
A gasp escaped your lips, your mind working to picture his own fingers instead of yours. “That would be… oh, please, Felix.”
He chuckled, low in his chest. “That’s it, baby.”
Together, your moans filled the room, your eyes catching each other through the screen.
“I’m close,” you whispered, “please, Lixie.”
“Fuck,” he groaned, “I’m gonna bury myself inside you next time I see you.”
With his words, you stumbled over the edge, your body shaking with sweet relief. Felix wasn’t far behind, his eyes rolling back as he came.
His sweet smile returned as his chest heaved, blinking rapidly. “Thank you, baby.”
“Of course,” you replied sweetly, “next time, you’ll hear that sound in your ear.”
SEUNGMIN
[Seungminnie]: fml
[Seungminnie]: no wait. fuck your job
[Seungminnie]: i wish you could join me on this stupid press tour
[You]: minnie. baby. i have a job lol
[Seungminnie]: FUCK your job
[Seungminnie]: i come off a really good stage, and you're telling me i CANT fuck you in the bathroom? fml
[You]: minnie
[You]: working
[You]: i am at work
[Seungminnie]: jagi
[Seungminnie]: quit
[Seungminnie]: your
[Seungminnie]: job
[Seungminnie]: please :)
You roll your eyes, standing to close your office door and click it closed. As you move back to your desk, you dial Seungmin’s number and hold the phone to your ear.
“Fucking finally,” he hisses, “that’s what gets your attention?”
“You’re a troll, Kim Seungmin,” you shoot back, “a horny fucking troll.”
“But you still called me,” he whispered, “so clearly you’re thinking about me.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying not to reach through the phone and strangle your boyfriend. “I miss you too, asshole.”
He sighed, the rasp of his voice ringing through the phone. “I wish you were here,” he mumbles, “I wish I could hold you close. And kiss you.” He was quiet for a moment. “Fuck you.”
You felt your cheeks grow warm, eyes flicking back to your locked office door. “Me too, Min.”
“Do you have a minute?” he asked sweetly, his tone changing, “I just… I need you.”
Thinking for a moment, you considered the consequences. “I can’t talk much,” you replied, “but I can listen. Reply a little.”
“That’s fine,” he replied, “Let me tell you what I wish I could do to you right now.”
You closed your eyes, leaning back in your desk chair. “Please.”
“I wanna be able to come off that stage,” he breathed, “I wanna walk into my dressing room. I wanna see you sitting there, wearing my clothes.”
“I love that,” you replied, “I wore your jacket to work today.”
“Mmm.” Small moans escaped his lips. “I wanna grab you by the hips, lean you up against the door, and bury myself deep within you until you’re screaming my name.”
“People are gonna hear you,” you warned, half in his fantasy and half in your reality.
“I don’t fucking care. I want them to hear us.” He laughed. “Fucking hell, jagiya. Just having you on the phone—shit.”
“You gonna come?” you whispered, “so I can hear you over the phone?”
He whimpered before groaning, a slow and deep fuck escaping his lips. You could picture him spilling over his fist, leaning against the wall while holding his phone against his mouth.
“Good boy,” you whispered, “call me like that again and I’m withholding sex for a week when you get back.”
He chuckled. “Sorry, baby. It won’t happen again.”
I.N
[Jeongin]: can i call you?
[Jeongin]: please?
[You]: everything ok?
[Jeongin]: i need to talk to you
[Jeongin]: and see your face
You quickly tap on Jeongin’s contact, hitting the video call button. He answered almost instantly, his hair damp as he stood in the shower.
“You texted me from the shower?” you laughed, “seriously, baby?”
“I’m sorry,” he giggled nervously, his sweet dimples waving at you as he flashed his teeth, “I just… I needed to see you.”
“Everything alright?” you asked, cocking your head to the side.
“I… something happened tonight that… I just needed to talk to you about,” he sighed, “I… I saw someone who looked like you tonight, jagiya. It got in my head.”
“Innie,” you cooed, “I miss you. I’ll see you soon, I promise.”
“I feel so bad.” He leaned his head back under the water, then shook his wet face and hair before looking back at the camera.
“Bad?”
“I… I got… ahh,” he blushed, “I got a little cocky on stage because I was thinking of you.”
You smirked, raising your eyebrows. “That’s it?”
Wiping his face with his hand, he scrunched his nose. “Yeah. Except now I have a bit of a… problem.”
“You want me to help?”
He nodded, his head leaning against the tile as his free hand moved to his length.
You leaned forward, pulling the neckline of your shirt down to reveal your bare chest. Slowly, as you lifted the fabric over your head, eyes locked on your boyfriend through the screen, you watched as he fell apart. His eyebrows knit together in desperate pleasure, lips parted.
Your hands roamed your body, giving him a show.
“Jagi,” he whined, “jagi, you’re so beautiful.”
You smiled, flipping around to tease him with your ass. A deep, guttural groan escaped his lips.
“I can’t wait until I can ride you again,” you breathed, bouncing in place, “I’m gonna make an absolute mess of you.”
“Please,” he begged, “jagi, please—“
As his final moan escaped his lips, Jeongin came, his phone slipping out of his hands and hitting the tile. Between the splashes of water and the shower of cum, you couldn’t see much of his figure; instead, his echoing whines signaled a job well done.
“Oh, shit,” he whispered, “I think I made a mess.”
“Just a little,” you laughed, “but I hope it was worth it.”
“It was,” he smiled sweetly, “thank you, jagiya.”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75673296/chapters/197908366
|
{"authors": ["awalkingdiasaster"], "language": "English", "title": "Feral Fridays"}
|
Scintillation
There's no time better than the present, or so they say.
With the brightness of the merciful moon, the radiance of neon lights emitting from the plentiful skyscrapers, and the various conversations shared by the people around you, you’re convinced that Linkon nightlife is something you would never take for granted.
Night is never dark in such a lively city, but somehow your spirits are.
And you know exactly why.
You quicken your pace, determined to get to your apartment before you get the chance to encounter him. You cannot take the way your heart beats around your neighbor, nor can you withstand the depths of his gazes. His blue eyes outshine the brightness of Linkon’s neon lights, and it's impossible not to drown in them.
Which is why you need to get away.
Your apartment building is in view, and as you grumble insults towards the heavy bags of groceries holding you back, a presence looms behind. Though you can't see him, your heart seems to recognize him. There’s only one man who could make your heart pound against your ribs like this.
"Let me help," Xavier offers, holding a hand out to assist.
The groceries you were complaining about earlier suddenly become lightweight, and you simply shake your head at the friendly offer. "I’ll be fine, Xavier. Thank you."
But the more you walk, the heavier the groceries become, and you find yourself breathless even before you even get to step on the stairs. To add insult to injury, the strap of your purse falls off of your shoulder and onto the bags you'd placed on the ground. "Ugh!"
Why do the cosmos hate you so much?
Xavier rushes to your aid and lifts the grocery bags in one smooth motion. The angel menace doesn't even let you hold your purse, quickly placing it on his shoulders before you could take it. You watch as he walks up the stairs without so much as uttering a sound, a word, and you have no choice but to follow him.
Okay, maybe the cosmos like you a little bit, but why does it have to be Xavier helping you out?
"You should call me if you need help with anything," he says, as if he read your mind, "I'm always happy to help."
If you didn't know him better, you wouldn't have noticed the grumble in his tone or the tightened grip on your grocery bags. You choose not to say anything about it, instead focusing on every step you’re taking like that's worth taking note of.
Finally, after an agonizing silence and pretending that taking steps were a form of entertainment, you reach your apartment door. Linkon's nightlife stares back at you with a smile, and the stars in the sky twinkle like they're awaiting something.
A moment, perhaps? Or-
Xavier clears his throat. "Can you open your door, please?"
Your gaze shifts from the sky to your star, whose shy smile attempts to hide the struggle he's facing with the weight of your grocery bags. You squeal out a quick "Sorry!" before placing your thumb on the door's fingerprint reader. The door opens with its own little giggle, and you let Xavier enter first so he can drop the grocery bags onto your kitchen counter and leave.
But to your pleasure dismay, he's rushing to organize the items you bought. You’re only given a second to close your front door before freezing in place, staring at this man as he carries an arduous task you hadn’t asked him to.
"Xavier! You don't have to do that!"
"Why not?" he says from the kitchen.
"Because..."
In any other world, with any other man and any other heart, you would not complain about a cute guy organizing your items. It's one less task to complete, one less thing to worry about.
But in this world, with a man as cute as Xavier, compiled with your exhausted broken heart, you cannot afford to risk breaking the walls you've spent so many years building. Walls, you note, that are so fragile that seeing him do something as mundane as organizing groceries punctures a hole big enough for his shine to go through.
Which is why you need to get away.
"Because?" Xavier suddenly walks up to you with a bag of cherries you almost put back on the shelf when you grocery shopped, and like the angel menace he is, he hasn’t opened the bag even though you know he's tempted to. "A-am I bothering you?"
Yes. "No! Nothing like that!"
"Are you sure?" he asks, and you find it ridiculous that him worrying about making you uncomfortable is enough to puncture another hole through the barriers of your heart.
You sigh with a small smile, which is more than what anybody has been able to elicit from you in years. "Yes. I'm sure. Thank you for helping me out."
Xavier looks at you like you not only hung the stars, but you also made them scintillate. Like your smile and any part of yourself you let him see shines brighter than any star he has ever seen. The look makes your spirits beam, and like the nightlife in the city you’ve called home, you brighten up even more. The moment ends where your insecurities begin, however, and the smile you slipped out is flattened once more.
Of course, he notices. "Are you all
|
Scintillation
There's no time better than the present, or so they say.
With the brightness of the merciful moon, the radiance of neon lights emitting from the plentiful skyscrapers, and the various conversations shared by the people around you, you’re convinced that Linkon nightlife is something you would never take for granted.
Night is never dark in such a lively city, but somehow your spirits are.
And you know exactly why.
You quicken your pace, determined to get to your apartment before you get the chance to encounter him. You cannot take the way your heart beats around your neighbor, nor can you withstand the depths of his gazes. His blue eyes outshine the brightness of Linkon’s neon lights, and it's impossible not to drown in them.
Which is why you need to get away.
Your apartment building is in view, and as you grumble insults towards the heavy bags of groceries holding you back, a presence looms behind. Though you can't see him, your heart seems to recognize him. There’s only one man who could make your heart pound against your ribs like this.
"Let me help," Xavier offers, holding a hand out to assist.
The groceries you were complaining about earlier suddenly become lightweight, and you simply shake your head at the friendly offer. "I’ll be fine, Xavier. Thank you."
But the more you walk, the heavier the groceries become, and you find yourself breathless even before you even get to step on the stairs. To add insult to injury, the strap of your purse falls off of your shoulder and onto the bags you'd placed on the ground. "Ugh!"
Why do the cosmos hate you so much?
Xavier rushes to your aid and lifts the grocery bags in one smooth motion. The angel menace doesn't even let you hold your purse, quickly placing it on his shoulders before you could take it. You watch as he walks up the stairs without so much as uttering a sound, a word, and you have no choice but to follow him.
Okay, maybe the cosmos like you a little bit, but why does it have to be Xavier helping you out?
"You should call me if you need help with anything," he says, as if he read your mind, "I'm always happy to help."
If you didn't know him better, you wouldn't have noticed the grumble in his tone or the tightened grip on your grocery bags. You choose not to say anything about it, instead focusing on every step you’re taking like that's worth taking note of.
Finally, after an agonizing silence and pretending that taking steps were a form of entertainment, you reach your apartment door. Linkon's nightlife stares back at you with a smile, and the stars in the sky twinkle like they're awaiting something.
A moment, perhaps? Or-
Xavier clears his throat. "Can you open your door, please?"
Your gaze shifts from the sky to your star, whose shy smile attempts to hide the struggle he's facing with the weight of your grocery bags. You squeal out a quick "Sorry!" before placing your thumb on the door's fingerprint reader. The door opens with its own little giggle, and you let Xavier enter first so he can drop the grocery bags onto your kitchen counter and leave.
But to your pleasure dismay, he's rushing to organize the items you bought. You’re only given a second to close your front door before freezing in place, staring at this man as he carries an arduous task you hadn’t asked him to.
"Xavier! You don't have to do that!"
"Why not?" he says from the kitchen.
"Because..."
In any other world, with any other man and any other heart, you would not complain about a cute guy organizing your items. It's one less task to complete, one less thing to worry about.
But in this world, with a man as cute as Xavier, compiled with your exhausted broken heart, you cannot afford to risk breaking the walls you've spent so many years building. Walls, you note, that are so fragile that seeing him do something as mundane as organizing groceries punctures a hole big enough for his shine to go through.
Which is why you need to get away.
"Because?" Xavier suddenly walks up to you with a bag of cherries you almost put back on the shelf when you grocery shopped, and like the angel menace he is, he hasn’t opened the bag even though you know he's tempted to. "A-am I bothering you?"
Yes. "No! Nothing like that!"
"Are you sure?" he asks, and you find it ridiculous that him worrying about making you uncomfortable is enough to puncture another hole through the barriers of your heart.
You sigh with a small smile, which is more than what anybody has been able to elicit from you in years. "Yes. I'm sure. Thank you for helping me out."
Xavier looks at you like you not only hung the stars, but you also made them scintillate. Like your smile and any part of yourself you let him see shines brighter than any star he has ever seen. The look makes your spirits beam, and like the nightlife in the city you’ve called home, you brighten up even more. The moment ends where your insecurities begin, however, and the smile you slipped out is flattened once more.
Of course, he notices. "Are you all right?"
Your answer comes in the form of a nod and eyes barely hiding your tears of frustration. You walk past him and into the kitchen to avoid facing the pain your denial continuously stabs you with, and also to avoid the expression on Xavier's pretty face. He doesn’t deserve your confusion, your uncertainty.
Yet, he seems like he wants to bear it all.
He walks up to you, keeping up with the pace of your unwanted thoughts, and combats it with a hug from behind. He holds you like you’re sacred, like one wrong move and you’ll break—which isn’t far from the truth—and you can’t recall the last time you’ve been held like this. You can’t recall the last time you felt like you were worth holding.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he whispers on your shoulder, the longing in his tone permeating through the softness of his voice. “I don’t understand. Have I done something wrong?”
You want to tell him that he’s done everything right, but how do you tell him that that is what scares you from wanting him as much as you do? How do you tell him that he breaks every shield you’ve ever used against the persistent thoughts you have of him?
Silence blooms between your unsaid words and his patience, but the angel hugging you embraces every way you express yourself. Your silence, your frowns, your rare smiles—they are all you, and he adores every part of you.
“You did nothing wrong, Xavier.” Your soft whisper hardly breaks the silence, but you feel your broken heart patch up when his small smile appears in your periphery. “I’m just, um…”
There goes your courage, falling back into the same silence you wanted to escape from.
Before you can fall back to the trap of your own unwanted thoughts, Xavier’s grip on your waist tightens to keep you steady. To keep you from slipping into the cliff leading to your loneliness. To keep you with him.
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, okay?” he assures, placing a gentle kiss on the pulse point of your neck. It beats faster right after. “I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.”
And with the way he holds you throughout the rest of the night, the way he makes you smile again as you organize your groceries together, the way he lets you eat most of the cherries in the large bag you bought… you feel as though the weight of your insecurities is nothing compared to the solace you feel with him.
The twinkling of the stars is the heartbeat of the cosmos, but the star that stubbornly breaks down your walls with his unconditional love is what makes your heart start beating again.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75670486
|
{"authors": ["Khloe_13 (atomicwinnerdreamland)"], "language": "English", "title": "Scintillation"}
|
operation: Silent echoes
Criminals were growing harder to catch.
The government, corrupt.
The police, bought out.
There was no one left to turn to.
The lapdogs of power?
Drug lords. Untouchable hitmen.
People with money… and someone else’s blood under their nails.
Do Kang-woo was done.
He had watched people die in his hands.
He had heard the gut-wrenching screams through the GTT line, knowing they could no longer save anyone.
A single order was enough to make everyone bow their heads and pretend indifference.
And the final straw?
A member of the GTT had been brutally murdered.
Everyone knew it.
But everyone stayed silent.
Not even Kwon-joo could do anything to avenge her own teammate.
—“I can’t stand one more fucking second in this rotten system, Kwon-joo!”
—“Do you think this is my fault, Team Leader Do?”
—“Fuck the damn title! What good is it?! This team went to hell the moment everyone sold themselves to the fucking system!”
That night, something cracked inside him.
The night everything changed—both in the depths of his mind… and in Ulsan.
He wandered aimlessly under the rain.
His ID card soaked in his hand, he stared at it as if it no longer belonged to him.
Then, the smell of a cigarette hit him.
A heavy presence forced him to lift his gaze.
And he knew who it was.
—“You’re not the only one who’s sick of the system, Detective Do.”
Kang-woo didn’t step out of the rain.
He simply stared at Choi Mu-jin in the darkness, dry beneath an umbrella, cigarette smoke swirling around him like a living shadow.
—“Get lost, Choi. You’re not in prison only because I don’t have the evidence yet. You’re part of this rot.”
Mu-jin smiled—calm, calculating.
—“I’m not your enemy. I want to help you deliver justice… just like I once did on my own.”
—“You know I could arrest you for that, right?”
—“Would you rather walk away without hearing what I’m about to offer you?”
Kang-woo shot him a sideways glance.
It was impossible to ignore someone who knew exactly where to plant doubt.
—“People ignore us. Betray us. You’ve lived it, haven’t you… ‘Team Leader Do’?”
—“Get to the point.”
Mu-jin lifted the umbrella slightly, letting their faces meet in the dim light.
—“Let’s be allies.”
Kang-woo opened his mouth to refuse, but Mu-jin cut him off:
—“I won’t protect those who kill innocents. You’ll have your place beside me. You’re more than a cop pushed aside for being… what do they call you? Ah, yes. ‘Unstable.’”
For the first time, that word didn’t sound like an insult.
It sounded like recognition.
—“We’ll be allies. You’ll take down the ones who murder and hide behind the system.”
—“What’s the catch?”
—“Leave everything behind. Dongcheon will protect you.”
Kang-woo hesitated.
His principles screamed no.
But his reality… said something else.
—“The organization protects you, and you protect the organization. Nothing out of your control. No more impunity. Only justice—delivered by your own hand—for the victims the system abandoned.”
Loyalty.
Something the police had never given him.
Do Kang-woo inhaled, exhaled…
And stepped over the line.
—“Deal.”
|
operation: Silent echoes
Criminals were growing harder to catch.
The government, corrupt.
The police, bought out.
There was no one left to turn to.
The lapdogs of power?
Drug lords. Untouchable hitmen.
People with money… and someone else’s blood under their nails.
Do Kang-woo was done.
He had watched people die in his hands.
He had heard the gut-wrenching screams through the GTT line, knowing they could no longer save anyone.
A single order was enough to make everyone bow their heads and pretend indifference.
And the final straw?
A member of the GTT had been brutally murdered.
Everyone knew it.
But everyone stayed silent.
Not even Kwon-joo could do anything to avenge her own teammate.
—“I can’t stand one more fucking second in this rotten system, Kwon-joo!”
—“Do you think this is my fault, Team Leader Do?”
—“Fuck the damn title! What good is it?! This team went to hell the moment everyone sold themselves to the fucking system!”
That night, something cracked inside him.
The night everything changed—both in the depths of his mind… and in Ulsan.
He wandered aimlessly under the rain.
His ID card soaked in his hand, he stared at it as if it no longer belonged to him.
Then, the smell of a cigarette hit him.
A heavy presence forced him to lift his gaze.
And he knew who it was.
—“You’re not the only one who’s sick of the system, Detective Do.”
Kang-woo didn’t step out of the rain.
He simply stared at Choi Mu-jin in the darkness, dry beneath an umbrella, cigarette smoke swirling around him like a living shadow.
—“Get lost, Choi. You’re not in prison only because I don’t have the evidence yet. You’re part of this rot.”
Mu-jin smiled—calm, calculating.
—“I’m not your enemy. I want to help you deliver justice… just like I once did on my own.”
—“You know I could arrest you for that, right?”
—“Would you rather walk away without hearing what I’m about to offer you?”
Kang-woo shot him a sideways glance.
It was impossible to ignore someone who knew exactly where to plant doubt.
—“People ignore us. Betray us. You’ve lived it, haven’t you… ‘Team Leader Do’?”
—“Get to the point.”
Mu-jin lifted the umbrella slightly, letting their faces meet in the dim light.
—“Let’s be allies.”
Kang-woo opened his mouth to refuse, but Mu-jin cut him off:
—“I won’t protect those who kill innocents. You’ll have your place beside me. You’re more than a cop pushed aside for being… what do they call you? Ah, yes. ‘Unstable.’”
For the first time, that word didn’t sound like an insult.
It sounded like recognition.
—“We’ll be allies. You’ll take down the ones who murder and hide behind the system.”
—“What’s the catch?”
—“Leave everything behind. Dongcheon will protect you.”
Kang-woo hesitated.
His principles screamed no.
But his reality… said something else.
—“The organization protects you, and you protect the organization. Nothing out of your control. No more impunity. Only justice—delivered by your own hand—for the victims the system abandoned.”
Loyalty.
Something the police had never given him.
Do Kang-woo inhaled, exhaled…
And stepped over the line.
—“Deal.”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75670496?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["Nucitadefresa"], "language": "English", "title": "operation: Silent echoes"}
|
Ren-Ren
City lights from outside peered into the ninth floor, while everyone took their slips to clock out of the office. Eun was the first one to slip out, saying his goodbyes to the rest before the metal door had shut. Atlas took that as her cue, standing up and clocking out as well.
Rengo stood up, patting Finny on its back before saying, “you’ll be good tonight, yeah?”
Finny shrugged with a soft smile before muttering, “it’s only my fifth night.”
Rengo nodded before heading to the time tracking machine, punching a hole in xer card before heading out as well. Not long after, Calico, Alma, and Cielo had all filtered out of the office space, leaving Renji behind.
“It’s fine, I have overtime anyways,” he had said to them before they left. But now, he was alone.
Suddenly, a piercing noise echoed from his pocket. A notification? From who? None other than his omega of course.
ONE NEW NOTIFICATIONFROM: REN—Come to my office.
Renji raises his eyebrow at the text message. Ren is neverthis blunt. Worried for his boss, he stretched his legs and raised their arms to yawn before standing, promptly making his way down to Ren’s office.
“Ren? I’m here, can I come in,” Renji asked. He knocked on the door once, loudly, after speaking.
A muffled voice mumbled, “come in.”
Renji grabbed the door knob, peering through and seeing Ren, his arms folded on the desk with his head down. After hearing the door creak open, he peeked up with one eye cracked open.
“…Renji, is that you?” Ren murmured softly, sitting up completely so he could see them properly.
Renji shrugged, sarcastically saying, “no, this is Kyu—yes. Of course it’s me. What’s goin’ on, Ren?” As he spoke, he made his way over to Ren’s desk, who had stood up as well.
Ren grabbed Renji’s shoulders, gripping them slightly and pulling him forward.
“I just—… Renji, can I tell you something?”
“You can tell me anything. Is something up?”
Renji’s hands made it to Ren’s waist, slowly swaying him back and forth.
“Can you just, uhm-..,” Ren started, stuttering through his sentences. He raised one of his arms, scratching the back of his neck.
“Can I… what, Ren?”
“Just go to the convenience store or something. Can you get me… mmh-… heat suppressants?”
…Oh.
Oh.
Ren was in heat. That’s why he had called Renji in. Cause he was in heat. Renji smiled, tightening his grip on Ren slightly.
“You need heat suppressants, yeah? You really think you need them?”
Renji moved his hands to Ren’s own, guiding them to his chest. “Well, if you really want to,” Renji started, “you can touch me. I don’t mind, Ren. I’m all open for you, go on.”
Ren’s hands twitched on Renji’s chest before he slightly pulled back. He whined.
“Fuck, no… I can control myself. It’s just— I need the suppressants. You can just go to the store quickly and come back… you can go home after.”
“Well, if you really want,” Renji said, before promptly pulling out heat suppressants from his pocket. He shook them around, making sure Ren caught sight of them before putting them back in his pocket. He continued, “I can give you these. But… I want you to begfor them.”
Ren’s eyes widened. Was Renji seriously teasing him?Right now?
He crossed his arms, clicking his tongue before stating, “I’m not begging for that. I would never beg to you at all. Fuck.. if you seriously wanna be like that, I’ll only ever beg for onething.”
Renji sneered, “get on your knees and beg then.”
“I don’t wanna be the only one getting done,” Ren says, slowly getting onto his knees. Once he was situated, he leaned up to grab Renji by his tie, pulling the man on top of him.
“Thats so cheeky of you, Ren,” Renji chuckles, making himself at home sitting on top of Ren. He brings his hands up to Ren’s tie, tugging it off to unbutton their shirt. Ren whined, cupping the back of Renji’s head, the heat from their breathing hitting each other, before swiftly pressing their lips together.
Renji let out a soft moan, leaning into the kiss before slipping his tongue into Ren’s mouth. Ren’s grasp on Renji’s head tightened, fingers tangling into his hair.
“Hello, anyone in here?” Finny asked, approaching Ren’s door. Raising his hand up, he knocked quickly and quietly, ten times.
It sounded a little hectic in there, Finny will admit, but it got no response.
He grabbed a mop before unlocking the door and grabbing the door knob, gently opening the door before seeing Ren and Renji on the floor, groaning and whining into each others mouths. Finny froze, dropping everything he was holding onto the floor.
Quickly and quietly, he turned around, leaving as quick as possible and shutting the door.
Having heard the items fall, Renji pulls away, opening his eyes and turning around to see the discarded mop and keys on the floor.
Steadily (despite Ren’s whimpering), Renji got up from Ren’s lap bending down to grab the keys before straightening back up and sniffing them. He recognized the scent.
“Finny was here,” Renji stated, shutting the door. “Don’t worry, Ren, I’ll make sure we have privacy
|
Ren-Ren
City lights from outside peered into the ninth floor, while everyone took their slips to clock out of the office. Eun was the first one to slip out, saying his goodbyes to the rest before the metal door had shut. Atlas took that as her cue, standing up and clocking out as well.
Rengo stood up, patting Finny on its back before saying, “you’ll be good tonight, yeah?”
Finny shrugged with a soft smile before muttering, “it’s only my fifth night.”
Rengo nodded before heading to the time tracking machine, punching a hole in xer card before heading out as well. Not long after, Calico, Alma, and Cielo had all filtered out of the office space, leaving Renji behind.
“It’s fine, I have overtime anyways,” he had said to them before they left. But now, he was alone.
Suddenly, a piercing noise echoed from his pocket. A notification? From who? None other than his omega of course.
ONE NEW NOTIFICATIONFROM: REN—Come to my office.
Renji raises his eyebrow at the text message. Ren is neverthis blunt. Worried for his boss, he stretched his legs and raised their arms to yawn before standing, promptly making his way down to Ren’s office.
“Ren? I’m here, can I come in,” Renji asked. He knocked on the door once, loudly, after speaking.
A muffled voice mumbled, “come in.”
Renji grabbed the door knob, peering through and seeing Ren, his arms folded on the desk with his head down. After hearing the door creak open, he peeked up with one eye cracked open.
“…Renji, is that you?” Ren murmured softly, sitting up completely so he could see them properly.
Renji shrugged, sarcastically saying, “no, this is Kyu—yes. Of course it’s me. What’s goin’ on, Ren?” As he spoke, he made his way over to Ren’s desk, who had stood up as well.
Ren grabbed Renji’s shoulders, gripping them slightly and pulling him forward.
“I just—… Renji, can I tell you something?”
“You can tell me anything. Is something up?”
Renji’s hands made it to Ren’s waist, slowly swaying him back and forth.
“Can you just, uhm-..,” Ren started, stuttering through his sentences. He raised one of his arms, scratching the back of his neck.
“Can I… what, Ren?”
“Just go to the convenience store or something. Can you get me… mmh-… heat suppressants?”
…Oh.
Oh.
Ren was in heat. That’s why he had called Renji in. Cause he was in heat. Renji smiled, tightening his grip on Ren slightly.
“You need heat suppressants, yeah? You really think you need them?”
Renji moved his hands to Ren’s own, guiding them to his chest. “Well, if you really want to,” Renji started, “you can touch me. I don’t mind, Ren. I’m all open for you, go on.”
Ren’s hands twitched on Renji’s chest before he slightly pulled back. He whined.
“Fuck, no… I can control myself. It’s just— I need the suppressants. You can just go to the store quickly and come back… you can go home after.”
“Well, if you really want,” Renji said, before promptly pulling out heat suppressants from his pocket. He shook them around, making sure Ren caught sight of them before putting them back in his pocket. He continued, “I can give you these. But… I want you to begfor them.”
Ren’s eyes widened. Was Renji seriously teasing him?Right now?
He crossed his arms, clicking his tongue before stating, “I’m not begging for that. I would never beg to you at all. Fuck.. if you seriously wanna be like that, I’ll only ever beg for onething.”
Renji sneered, “get on your knees and beg then.”
“I don’t wanna be the only one getting done,” Ren says, slowly getting onto his knees. Once he was situated, he leaned up to grab Renji by his tie, pulling the man on top of him.
“Thats so cheeky of you, Ren,” Renji chuckles, making himself at home sitting on top of Ren. He brings his hands up to Ren’s tie, tugging it off to unbutton their shirt. Ren whined, cupping the back of Renji’s head, the heat from their breathing hitting each other, before swiftly pressing their lips together.
Renji let out a soft moan, leaning into the kiss before slipping his tongue into Ren’s mouth. Ren’s grasp on Renji’s head tightened, fingers tangling into his hair.
“Hello, anyone in here?” Finny asked, approaching Ren’s door. Raising his hand up, he knocked quickly and quietly, ten times.
It sounded a little hectic in there, Finny will admit, but it got no response.
He grabbed a mop before unlocking the door and grabbing the door knob, gently opening the door before seeing Ren and Renji on the floor, groaning and whining into each others mouths. Finny froze, dropping everything he was holding onto the floor.
Quickly and quietly, he turned around, leaving as quick as possible and shutting the door.
Having heard the items fall, Renji pulls away, opening his eyes and turning around to see the discarded mop and keys on the floor.
Steadily (despite Ren’s whimpering), Renji got up from Ren’s lap bending down to grab the keys before straightening back up and sniffing them. He recognized the scent.
“Finny was here,” Renji stated, shutting the door. “Don’t worry, Ren, I’ll make sure we have privacy from now on.”
And just like that, the door lock clicked.
|
ao3_english
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2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75668876
|
{"authors": ["RenjiRen"], "language": "English", "title": "Ren-Ren"}
|
Pool's story
A small white she-kit with gray splotches lay curled up in a dark leafy den. The bush above her had been woven with fallen tree branches and ferns to create a warm nursery for her to stay in when her mother left to hunt.
The fluffy kit was less than a moon old but she scrambled out of her nest, tripping over her own paws well she made her way to the narrow hole that led out of the den. “Moma?” she called out as a flash of lightning lit up a stormy night. She stuck her head out for a moment, barely making out the sparse trees and bushes around her home before rain soaked her head.
“Pool?” A worried voice called out as a black she-cat with a white underbelly appeared, illuminated by another flash of lightning.
“Mama!” The tiny kit mewed, taking a step toward where her mother stood, a rain soaked mouse lay at her paws.
“Back inside, little one,” her mother purred, gently nudging her daughter back before picking up the prey and squeezing into the dry den.
Pool bounced around her mother as she settled into their nest in the back of the den. “You're so cool mama! You caught a huge mouse all by yourself!” the tiny kit boasted, scrambling into the nest after her mother.
“Maybe, but you're the bravest cat I know. I would have been too scared to go out in a storm when I was as small as you.” she mewed, wrapping her sleek tail around the kit. She pulled the scrawny mouse closer and sank her teeth into the soft flesh.
Pool leaned forward, sniffing the mouse eagerly. “Can I try some? It smells really yummy!”
“You’re still a bit young for prey,” her mother mewed, nudging her away from the mouse.
“Aww, ok..” she mewed sadly, turning and curling up beside her mothers soft belly. Her tiny jaws stretched wide in a yawn as she nodded off to sleep.
Her mother finished the mouse and pushed the bones away from the nest. “You’re so brave, my little kit. Just like your father” she murmured, curling her body tighter around the kit. Glancing at the entrance to the den, a longing look in her eyes, she sighed before laying her head on her paws and closing her eyes, allowing a dreamless sleep to engulf her.
3 Moons later…
Pool stalked through the undergrowth of a nearby stretch of forest. She crept low to the ground, paws silent as she followed a rabbit. It was midway through the newleaf season, soon the weather would be much warmer.
“Any moment now..” she mumbled, glimpsing the bobbing tail just ahead her in the undergrowth. A few more steps.. Then pounce!
The rabbit noticed her soaring through the air a moment too late, its squeal of terror quickly died as she broke its neck.
“You caught it?” her mother appeared around a bush, carrying a limp squirrel.
“Yep! First try!” she beamed proudly. The rabbit was practically half her size, its plump belly made it appear even bigger.
“Well we should head back to enjoy our prey,” her mother mewed, padding away. The distant expression that pool had known for most of her life had returned to her mothers eyes.
She sighed, and carried her catch, the heavy rabbit drooping from her jaws.
They padded silently back to their den. They had made the den bigger over the moons to hold both the she-cats with extra room.
As they entered, pools fur got snagged, as it often did. Her fur was long and fluffy while her mothers fur was sleek and short. Is that because of my father? She thought to herself as she pulled free and padded over to her nest.
Her mother was already curled up in her own nest, absentmindedly gnawing on the squirrel at her paws.
Pool crouched beside her own nest, sinking her teeth into the flesh of the rabbit she had caught.
She finished her rabbit and pushed the bones aside. Glancing at her mother, she discovered that the older she-cat had barely taken two feeble bites from the squirrel. Her mother seemed more focused on something that wasn’t there instead of the prey.
This had become a common occurrence, and no longer surprised her, but she pitied her mother. Whatever is always distracting her must have happened before I was born she thought, sighing and turning her gaze away from her mother.
“I'm going for a walk,” she called to her mother half heartedly as she walked through the den entrance, receiving no reaction from the older she-cat.
The newleaf sun lit up her pelt as she emerged from the den. Her fur was whiter than the few melting clumps of snow that were left from leafbare.
Pool sniffed at a small mound of snow, the fresh scent of squirrel lay in the tiny prints encased in snow and mud. Her ear twitched toward a faint sound.
Paw steps? A faint hiss rang through the clear newleaf air.
Now more alert of another presence, she stealthily padded forward, paw steps silent. She flinched as the bush in front of her rustled, dropping to a defensive stance.
A mouse emerged from the bush, squeaking in terror as it saw her.
In a blur of different shades of gray a cat ran forward, just barely missing the mouse as the tom swerved to avoid colliding with her. The gray tom pushed
|
Pool's story
A small white she-kit with gray splotches lay curled up in a dark leafy den. The bush above her had been woven with fallen tree branches and ferns to create a warm nursery for her to stay in when her mother left to hunt.
The fluffy kit was less than a moon old but she scrambled out of her nest, tripping over her own paws well she made her way to the narrow hole that led out of the den. “Moma?” she called out as a flash of lightning lit up a stormy night. She stuck her head out for a moment, barely making out the sparse trees and bushes around her home before rain soaked her head.
“Pool?” A worried voice called out as a black she-cat with a white underbelly appeared, illuminated by another flash of lightning.
“Mama!” The tiny kit mewed, taking a step toward where her mother stood, a rain soaked mouse lay at her paws.
“Back inside, little one,” her mother purred, gently nudging her daughter back before picking up the prey and squeezing into the dry den.
Pool bounced around her mother as she settled into their nest in the back of the den. “You're so cool mama! You caught a huge mouse all by yourself!” the tiny kit boasted, scrambling into the nest after her mother.
“Maybe, but you're the bravest cat I know. I would have been too scared to go out in a storm when I was as small as you.” she mewed, wrapping her sleek tail around the kit. She pulled the scrawny mouse closer and sank her teeth into the soft flesh.
Pool leaned forward, sniffing the mouse eagerly. “Can I try some? It smells really yummy!”
“You’re still a bit young for prey,” her mother mewed, nudging her away from the mouse.
“Aww, ok..” she mewed sadly, turning and curling up beside her mothers soft belly. Her tiny jaws stretched wide in a yawn as she nodded off to sleep.
Her mother finished the mouse and pushed the bones away from the nest. “You’re so brave, my little kit. Just like your father” she murmured, curling her body tighter around the kit. Glancing at the entrance to the den, a longing look in her eyes, she sighed before laying her head on her paws and closing her eyes, allowing a dreamless sleep to engulf her.
3 Moons later…
Pool stalked through the undergrowth of a nearby stretch of forest. She crept low to the ground, paws silent as she followed a rabbit. It was midway through the newleaf season, soon the weather would be much warmer.
“Any moment now..” she mumbled, glimpsing the bobbing tail just ahead her in the undergrowth. A few more steps.. Then pounce!
The rabbit noticed her soaring through the air a moment too late, its squeal of terror quickly died as she broke its neck.
“You caught it?” her mother appeared around a bush, carrying a limp squirrel.
“Yep! First try!” she beamed proudly. The rabbit was practically half her size, its plump belly made it appear even bigger.
“Well we should head back to enjoy our prey,” her mother mewed, padding away. The distant expression that pool had known for most of her life had returned to her mothers eyes.
She sighed, and carried her catch, the heavy rabbit drooping from her jaws.
They padded silently back to their den. They had made the den bigger over the moons to hold both the she-cats with extra room.
As they entered, pools fur got snagged, as it often did. Her fur was long and fluffy while her mothers fur was sleek and short. Is that because of my father? She thought to herself as she pulled free and padded over to her nest.
Her mother was already curled up in her own nest, absentmindedly gnawing on the squirrel at her paws.
Pool crouched beside her own nest, sinking her teeth into the flesh of the rabbit she had caught.
She finished her rabbit and pushed the bones aside. Glancing at her mother, she discovered that the older she-cat had barely taken two feeble bites from the squirrel. Her mother seemed more focused on something that wasn’t there instead of the prey.
This had become a common occurrence, and no longer surprised her, but she pitied her mother. Whatever is always distracting her must have happened before I was born she thought, sighing and turning her gaze away from her mother.
“I'm going for a walk,” she called to her mother half heartedly as she walked through the den entrance, receiving no reaction from the older she-cat.
The newleaf sun lit up her pelt as she emerged from the den. Her fur was whiter than the few melting clumps of snow that were left from leafbare.
Pool sniffed at a small mound of snow, the fresh scent of squirrel lay in the tiny prints encased in snow and mud. Her ear twitched toward a faint sound.
Paw steps? A faint hiss rang through the clear newleaf air.
Now more alert of another presence, she stealthily padded forward, paw steps silent. She flinched as the bush in front of her rustled, dropping to a defensive stance.
A mouse emerged from the bush, squeaking in terror as it saw her.
In a blur of different shades of gray a cat ran forward, just barely missing the mouse as the tom swerved to avoid colliding with her. The gray tom pushed himself to his paws, cursing under his breath as his fur spiked.
“Who are you?” she hissed, taking a step back as her white fur bristled.
“My name is moonpaw, not that it’d be much use to you,” he hissed, straightening his body. Even though he appeared confident his paws shuffled nervously, betraying his fear.
She took a menacing step forward, her claws unsheathing and digging into the soft muddy ground. The tom was bigger than her, at least a few moons older, but he flinched away.
“Moonpaw! Where did you run off too!” a harsh yowl sounded in the air, scaring prey from their hiding spots.
Pure terror sparked in Tom's eyes. “You need to go, venomstar will tear you to shreds!” his voice an urgent whisper.
“What? This is my territory, I'm not going to hide.” she hissed, anger burned beneath her pelt. He was basically telling her to be a coward!
“Please! He wont be kind, you need to go now!" The fear in his voice and eyes made her take an uneasy step back.
She searched his gaze. I think he’s actually afraid..
Pool began to back away, the end of her tail brushing a clump of ferns. A place to hide she thought, her eyes widening as the bush moonpaw had emerged from rustled and a new scent appeared. The scent made her nose wrinkle, it was infused with the blood of many past battles and long washed away scents of death.
A few dead leaves fell from the bush as a large tom with long white fur, as well as gray and black markings, emerged. Hatred hardened his already harsh gaze as he looked at moonpaw and pool.
“Why are you talking to a Rouge..” the large tom growled as he put emphasis on the word rouge, his voice deep and silky.
Moonpaw’s ears where back, tail between his legs. Pool stood, her fur fluffed even more as she growled.
“If you think that you're still within your scent markers you're wrong,” she hissed, trying her best to hide her fear by covering it with anger.
“You can’t be older than 5 moons, you should just go run back to your mother, kit.” The tom hissed, the black, heart shaped, marking on his chest seemed like a void among his long white fur.
“I'm not a kit!” she cried, her fur felt warm as she glared at the tom.
Receiving no response from the tom, he turned to moonpaw. “Why are you speaking with a rouge, and outside of shadowclan territory as well.” he growled, tail lashing. “I will make sure you are punished for this.”
“I..i'm sorry…” moonpaw mumbled, his voice barely audible as he stared at his paws.
“Go,” he snapped at moonpaw, glancing at pool as moonpaw began to slowly pad away.
As the two toms disappeared she stared after them. She felt bad for moonpaw, pitied him even, for having to deal with harsh treatment like that.
She sighed and turned away, only glancing back once as she began to head toward her home. That encounter was over before it really began, she thought with a sigh. The undergrowth tugged at her fur as she pushed through.
Soon the small clearing was out of view.
Pool finally padded into the den, tufts of her fur catching on the entrance to the den as she pushed through.
Her mother lifted her head slightly, “Where did you run off too? You smell of blood and fear.” worry sparked in the white and black she-cats gaze.
“I was just trying out tree hunting. A-Almost fell when i tried to catch a squirrel." She lied. It’d be better to keep the encounter to myself instead of worrying her right now she thought.
“You're only 4 moons old and already trying out tree hunting?” her mother confirmed, eyes wide with surprise. “You certainly are brave.”
“Y-yup! Brave…” she muttered, glancing away from her mother guiltily.
“It's getting late,” her mother observed, glancing at the den entrance.
“Yeah..” she murmured, as fatigue suddenly hit her.
Pool's mother curled up tighter in her nest as pool made her way to her own nest.
She sighed and circled down into her own nest, the tip of her tail resting on her nose as she began to slip into a doze.
The last thing she saw was the dark den as the moon began to rise and sleep engulfed her.
(“Moma?” A tiny kit called, as a storm raged around her. She stumbled toward a black and white shape in the distance.
“No! Get back, it's dangerous out here!” The she-cat cried, her green eyes shone through the rain.
The tiny kit ignored the warning as she stumbled forward, wind and rain whipped her soft kit fluff back and forth. The shape was much closer now and as the kit tried to leap forward the last few tail lengths she slipped, falling into a pool of mud that opened in her path.
“Stop trying to be brave!” her mother yowled as she sank quickly in the mud, the eyes burned with anger as the kit squealed in terror.
“Mama?!” she cried, mud clogging her mouth, nose, and ears, allowing her to glimpse the form of a she-cat stalking away before she was completely covered with the mud.
“Are you ok?” a new voice mewed as a young gray tom pulled her out of a mud puddle.
She attempted to speak but ended up coughing instead. She spit out muddy water before she was able to take a gasp of fresh air.
“You sure swallowed a lot of water,” the tom observed, “And your fur is soaked! You must be freezing.”
She now noticed that he was curled around her, his gray fur gradually getting soaked by her muddy, wet fur. “M-moonpaw?” she exclaimed, her fur growing hot when she saw how close his face was.
“Pool?” he responded with a chuckle, his blue eyes shining kindly.
“Pool…” another voice added, deep and menacing. A giant silhouette stood above them, the green eyes harsh and the pelt a bright white with an edge of black.
“Who are you?” she hissed, her fur spiking as she realized that moonpaw was gone.
As she turned her head to search for moonpaw a fierce paw swipe knocked her over.
“I should have killed you already,” the large tom hissed, now pinning her to the ground. As he lunged forward to snap her neck the form materialized into venomstar a moment before she woke up.)
She jolted awake, her fur spiked. When she glanced at her mother all she could make out was the sleeping form across the den. The sliver of light in the sky told her it was almost dawn.
“No way i'm falling back asleep after that,” she hissed quietly, sitting up in her nest. She realized her fur was still spiked and shook her pelt to flatten it.
Pool quietly hopped out of her nest, glancing back at her mother before she slid out of the den.
She relished the cool morning air alongside the dew covered grass as she walked through the tranquil pine forest. A few birds sang through the air, creating a peaceful melody when combined with the soft rustle of pine needles.
Pool stretched her jaws wide in a yawn. “I think this newleaf sun is making me tired,” she mewed to herself as the sun started to rise, lighting up her pelt.
“I can see that,” mewed a slightly familiar voice.
She whipped around, suddenly alert, only to see a gray tom. “Moonpaw? Aren’t you outside your borders?”
“Well.. yes,” he glanced away from her, looking guilty and embarrassed. “I just noticed you through the trees and thought I might say hi. I didn’t catch your name yesterday though.” he chuckled, blue eyes sparkling brightly.
“Oh.” she murmured quietly. “My name is pool.”
“That's a pretty name,” he smiled and she turned away, her fur growing warm.
Suddenly an image of them curled up together flashed through her mind. Was that like my dream? No, we where older..
She shook her head, glancing back at moonpaw. “Well, you said hello, shouldn’t you be getting back to your territory now?” she hissed, forcing her voice to sound fierce.
He shifted his paws nervously, “Y-yeah.. I suppose you have a point. I'll see you some other time than.” he turned away, padding into the pine forest. His paws dragged across the ground as she watched him go.
Pool stared after him, guilt wormed in her belly as she forced herself to look away. “He’s a clan cat. He isn't worth my time, he’ll just choose his clan in the end.” she growled, tears brimming in her eyes as she walked away.
What am I feeling? I shouldn’t care what he thinks of me! She scolded herself.
She shook her head and began running, soon breaking free from the stretch of pines.
Pool lifted her nose to the air. She caught the scent of a vole and she dropped into a hunting stance. This should help distract my thoughts. She stalked forward, soon finding the vole and catching it easily.
When pool came within sight of the bush den it was near sunhigh. She had caught a small mouse along with the vole on her way back. She sighed, continuing forward till she pushed through the den entrance.
“Out hunting?” her mother glanced toward her daughter from where she stood near the back of the den, weaving another branch into the den wall from the inside.
“It went well, I caught us both something.” she mewed after she sat the prey down.
“That's nice.” her mother mewed, weaving the last bit of the branch into the wall before trotting over to join her daughter near the den entrance.
“I'm not that hungry,” she muttered, pushing the vole towards her mother and keeping the mouse closer to her.
“Ok,” her mother flicked her tail and picked up the vole.
Pool absentmindedly watched her mother settle into her nest and bite into the vole as she carried the mouse to her own nest. As she bit into the soft flesh of the mouse she turned her head toward the den entrance.
Many moons later…
The afternoon sunlight illuminated the soft grass that filled the clearing, soft yellow light shining through the leaves above her head.
Pool yawned, her jaws stretching wide. She lazily looked around. He asked me to meet him at sunhigh, it's at least a quarter past now so he should be here. She thought to herself.
As she adjusted her position in the grass a gray tom burst from the undergrowth.
“I'm sorry that i'm late,” he padded toward her, “It took me awhile to sneak away from camp. Everyone kept congratulating me so I wasn't able to leave easily.”
“Right, last we met you said you where going to become a warrior soon.” she remembered him excitedly telling her about his warrior assessment.
“Yep! I’ve got my warrior name now, and it should be easier for us to meet.” he beamed proudly.
She smiled softly, over the recent moons he had asked to see her more, his affection for pool had become more and more obvious with every meeting. We are just friends, he would still choose his clan in the end... she told herself constantly, not even half believing the words anymore, and she couldn’t deny that she saw him the same way as he saw her.
“So what's your name now? Moonface? Or maybe moonnose?” she teased, beckoning him to sit with her tail as he hovered near her in the grass. The gray tom was still just as kind and nervous as he had been many moons ago.
“You wish!” he laughed, hesitating before finally settling down next to her, leaving a small patch of grass between them. “My name is Moonshard now.” his eyes sparkled as he told her his warrior name.
“It fits you,” she mewed, moving her tail to rest on top of his.
Moonshard began to softly pur as he curled his tail around hers, the sleek dark gray and black fur of his tail partially hidden by her fluffy white fur.
“How often are you going to pester me to meet with you now? Everyday? Or perhaps every other day so I can sleep once in a while.” she joked, a laugh shadowed her mew.
“You wish I could visit you multiple times a day,” a wide happy smile on his face as he chuckled, “You can’t deny that you love me.”
“If I tell you that I love you too much then your ego would be even more inflated and your head would be filled with air.” she murmured affectionately before adding quietly, “but you're right, I do love you even if you're dumb.”
“What was that?” he murmured, leaning his muzzle closer to hers.
“I said you're dumb,” she touched her nose to his.
“That wasn’t all, was it?”
“No, it wasn't,” she pulled away, smiling as she saw his confused face.
“Then are you going to tell me what you said?”
“If you can catch me.” she teased playfully, unwrapping her tail from his and standing up.
“That's not fair!” he complained, standing up as she began to step away.
“Then catch me if it's so unfair,” she giggled, boosting herself onto a low branch of a tree.
“I suppose I'll have too then,” he sighed, soon reaching the same tree and boosting himself up as she climbed to another branch.
He climbed higher as she moved to another branch about the same height from the ground.
“You don’t have much room left, might as well tell me what you said!” he called as she edged farther along her branch.
“You wish! I’ll never give in to you.” she called back as she launched herself to another tree, soaring through the air and managing to grasp the branch a tail length from the tip. Her back legs churned in the air for a moment before she scrambled onto the branch, and began scrambling down the tree near the base.
Moonshard stood stunned for a moment before he started down from the tree he was in, leaping down the last few tail lengths.
When her paws made contact with the grass she glanced back before bolting away when moonshard landed on the ground.
“You should know by now that you’ll never beat me in a race!” he called, chasing after her.
“Last time we tested that was moons ago!” she laughed.
Moonshard slowly began to gain ground as they raced through the trees.
“Ready?” pool called, eyes bright as she glanced back at the tom.
“Ready for what?” he called back.
Suddenly mischief sparkled in her eyes and she slid to a halt.
Alarm flashed on moonshards face as he realized she had stopped. As the tom scrambled to stop himself, pool began running again, this time moving toward moonshard.
Pool launched herself once she was within a few tail lengths from him, tackling him and causing both of them to roll across the grass. They finally rolled to a stop under the shade of a tall tree, both of them on their sides well facing each other and laughing.
“What was that for?” he laughed, unable to control a wide smile that spread across his face.
“I just wanted to see if I could really confuse you. I guess I succeeded with that.” pool chuckled, her green eyes meeting his blue ones.
“Are you gonna tell me what you said now?” he murmured.
“The deal was you catch me and I tell you.” she smiled mischievously.
“Well, I caught you..” he mewed, looking slightly puzzled.
“Technically, I caught you.” she told him matter of factly.
“Well, I have you now!” he pulled her closer with his foreleg, his tail wrapping around her simultaneously.
“Ok... I guess you win.” she murmured, leaning into his soft chest fur.
“So what was it that you said?” he rested his chin on her head.
“Y’know, i don’t think i remember.” she mewed, her voice partially muffled by his fur.
“Liar!” he hissed playfully, pulling his head back enough so he could see her head buried in his fur.
“I would never lie to youuu....” she giggled, pulling her head back slightly as well, her green eyes sparkling happily.
“Yeah right, you try saying you don’t love me but we both know that the opposite is true.” he murmured.
“Heh.. I guess you're not wrong..” she chuckled softly.
“Soo.. was that what you said then?” he tilted his head to the side.
“Maybe...“ She murmured, resting her head against his chest again.
“I knew it!” he exclaimed softly. Moonshard leaned his head and began gently grooming her, purring softly.
Soon, under the effect of the warm sunlight, gentle grooming, and soft purring, pool fell asleep with her head resting against moonshards fur.
(“What are you doing?” hissed moonshard, his eyes burned with.. Rage?
“W-what do you mean?’ she crouched as the tom backed away. This isn’t like him! Fear made her fur spike as the tom unsheathed his claws.
“You were right, I will leave you. My clan is more important.” with that he turned and stalked away.
Pool crouched on the ground, tears flooding her eyes. “I knew he would leave me, but.. It hurts.” sobs shook her mew. Suddenly pain struck in her stomach, like little claws ripping from the inside. A gasp, laden with pain, escaped her.
A gray tom appeared behind her. Didn't he disappear through the undergrowth in front of me? She thought before another bolt of pain clouded her mind.
“Pool? Are you ok?” worry filled his mew as he crouched beside her, his flank pressed against hers.
She tried to respond but another bolt of pain shot through her body. Pool glanced at moonshard, worry lit his eyes.)
She woke up as a bolt of pain shot through her stomach. She yelped from the sudden pain, attempting to push herself to her paws but ending up in a crouch.
“Pool?! What's wrong?” alarm and worry sparkled in his wide eyes as he pressed against her flank, allowing her to lean heavily against her.
“I-i think I might have eaten some bad prey.” she hissed. That has to be it, right? She thought, no other possible cause came to mind.
“Then it's probably just stomach cramps,” he murmured, eyes showing his uncertainty.
“Probably..” she forced the word out, shifting her body till she was laying on her side on the ground well still leaning heavily against moonshard.
Moonshard glanced at the sky, the sun was beginning to set in the distance. “I should be getting back…” he murmured, worry showing in his eyes when he glanced back at pool.
“I’ll be fine, the cramp is already subsiding.” she mewed, “you don’t want venomstar punishing you for being away too long.”
“I suppose you're right,” he muttered, slowly standing up, causing her to shift her position. “I’ll come back tomorrow, at sunhigh.”
“I’ll see you then, I suppose,” she mewed.
He pressed his nose to her head briefly before turning and disappearing into the undergrowth.
Pool stayed in the clearing for awhile after he’d left.
Her mother still lived in the old bush den but she was often just sleeping or wandering the forest.
Whenever pool had confronted her mother about why she was always wandering the forest, the best answer she could get was, “I lost something, i know it's here.. somewhere....”
she left, relishing the afternoon sunlight that warmed her pelt as the last of the pain seeped away.
She slowly pushed herself to her paws and left the clearing. Pool padded along a well worn path that led towards a bush den. The old den had new branches woven into the sides, only noticeable due to the green still showing on the branches. As she neared the den, she turned onto a smaller and newer path that led to a small cozy den dug into the roots of a tree. Ferns, moss, and bramble vines had been woven together to make a curtain over the entrance.
Ever since pool was a kit her mother had become more and more detached, looking for something or someone that hadn't been there in a long time if it had ever been there at all.
She glanced back at the bush den, letting out a heavy sigh before turning back to push past the bramble screen and slide into her den. The dirt had been scraped away from the tree roots higher up and used to block out any holes that let in air or rain, as well as being used to even out the floor and build a lip around where her nest now resided. She stepped into her nest, circling down into the soft moss and ferns.
The dying light of the setting sun reached under and through the bramble screen, casting an uneven mixture of golden-orange and greenish light. The faint rays of light warmed her fur as she burrowed deeper into the nest.
Pool rested the tip of her tail on her nose as sleep pressed at the edge of her vision. Finally with a yawn, she closed her eyes to the growing darkness in the den and slipped into a deep sleep.
(Three tiny shapes stood in front of her. They mewed something.. It sounded like it could have been pool but she wasn't sure.
“Who are you?” she asked. She wanted to take a step away from them but she couldn’t, it didn’t feel right too...
“You’ll know exactly who we are soon!” three voices chirped cheerfully in unison. Pool blinked and then they where gone, replaced by moonshard.
“Pool, this is great news!” he mewed happily, his different colored blue eyes both shining proudly.
“What do you mean? What news?” she asked.
He responded with a chuckle, “You know exactly what I mean, you told me the news yourself.”
“Could you remind me then...?” pool shifted her paws. What news did I tell him?
“You told me only recently, and I imagine that it would be really hard to forget.” he mewed, moving his head to glance at her side.
Hard to forget...? She glanced at her side. Everything seems normal though.
When pool lifted her gaze again, moonshard was walking away. “Moonshard?” she called out.
As he glanced back at her a bolt of pain ran through her stomach, clouding her mind. Pool dropped to a crouch, gritting her teeth.
“Pool?” moonshard called out though his voice was muffled.)
She slowly blinked her eyes open to bright sunlight trickling into the den. Pool blinked sleep from her eyes as she heaved herself out of the nest. My stomach feels heavy she thought as she stretched each leg in turn.
“Pool?” a voice called from somewhere outside the den.
“Who's calling my name...” she grumbled. Pool pushed out of the den, her fur snagging on the brambles. She growled as a tuft of fur was left behind on the bramble when she pulled away.
“Pool?” the voice was closer now and she recognized the voice..
“Moonshard?” pool lifted her head to look around, catching a glimpse of gray fur.
“Pool! There you are.” he mewed, bounding over to meet her.
“What are you doing here?” she tilted her head to the side in confusion.
“I said I'd come back at sunhigh. I've been waiting in the clearing for awhile now.”
She glanced at the sky, suddenly realizing it was already a quarter past sunhigh. “I'm so sorry, I must have been much more tired than I realized when I fell asleep last night.” she mewed, glancing back at moonshard apologetically.
“It’s alright,” the worry and concern in his eyes was quickly replaced with relief.
“The suns still bright, we could go relax in the clearing now. The grass there is always warm.” she mewed.
Moonshard looked thoughtful for a moment. “Alright, I'm fine with that plan.” he mewed at last.
The two cats walked side by side, heading back toward the grass clearing. Pool soon started to slow down, an unknown weight tiring her. Moonshard soon noticed her pace decrease and slowed down to match her.
“Are you alright?” he mewed, a shimmer of worry surfaced in his eyes.
“My body just feels really tired, I'm sorry that I'm slowing you down.” she mewed, looking at her paws.
“We don’t have to go to the clearing, if you're tired you can just go rest and i'll head back.” disappointment showed on his face, he clearly didn’t want to leave but didn’t want to bother her either.
“No!” she cried, “I want to spend time with you.”
“But if you're tired..” he began and was cut off as her tail flicked his ear.
“I.. I am tired but.. Maybe we could spend time together in my den.” she murmured.
“I'd love that.” he mewed, turning back toward her den.
The two cats padded back through the trees, eventually reaching the tree den. Pool pushed inside first, flinching as a thorn caught on her belly.
That doesn’t normally happen, she thought to herself as she pulled free.
She flopped down heavily in her nest as moonshard slipped into the den.
“It’s beautiful in here,” he murmured, awestruck as he looked at the soft greenish and orange light that illuminated the den.
Pool stretched her jaws wide in a yawn, blinking her eyes sleepily as she rested the tip of her tail on her nose.
Moonshard glanced at her and then at the den entrance. “Maybe I should leave you to rest..” he shuffled his paws nervously.
“What?” she mewed, her eyes clouded with sleep.
“It’s just.. If i'm here you might not be able to sleep..” he trailed off as she lifted her head and pushed herself into a sitting position.
“I’d sleep better if you stayed...” her voice was soft as she glanced at him before letting her gaze rest on her paws.
Moonshard stared at her with surprise for a moment before glancing away in embarrassment.
She beckoned him with her tail as she shuffled to the side of her nest. Moonshard slowly padded across the den before settling down next to her in the nest, his flank pressed against hers.
Sleep tugged at pools eyes, her eyelids drooping as her head leaned to the side and caught on his shoulder.
Moonshard flinched slightly as her head fell against him but he soon relaxed as her soft snores filled the den. “She's already asleep,” he whispered, breathing in her warm scent.
The last edge of consciousness left her as pool slipped into a dream.
(Pool lay curled around three small shapes in a soft moss nest inside the tree den.
Moonshard ducked into the den, a pur rumbling in his throat as he carried a rat to her. “I caught this for you,” he murmured softly, glancing between pool and the small shapes.
“Thank you,” she purred gratefully, pulling the prey towards her and sinking her teeth into the soft flesh. Suddenly a belly cramp caused her to gasp in pain.
“What's wrong?” Moonshard fretted, his eyes shining with worry. They were now in a shadowy bush den, moss scraps scattered the floor between the thickly cushioned nests. Her belly stuck out from her side some and it was only pool and moonshard in the den. “Do you need me to fetch the medicine cat?” he mewed, glancing towards the den entrance.
“No!” panic shot through her. But why? She asked herself, what was so wrong about getting help from a medicine cat that had lots of experience with caring for she-cats during this.
“O-oh, alright... I’ll just stay here with you then.” he padded forward and curled his body around hers, their tails wrapping around one another.
Moonshard groomed her head gently, his soft purs filling the den as she slowly woke up.)
Pool blinked sleep from her eyes and slowly lifted her head to glance around the den.
“You're awake.” he mewed, his eyes flicking away from hers in embarrassment.
“I am.” she yawned, her jaws stretching wide. Pool leaned her head to the side gently resting it against his shoulder again.
Moonshard pressed his nose to her head for a moment before pulling his muzzle away. “Did you sleep well?” he murmured.
“As well as I could with you in my nest.” she joked before seeing a guilty expression spread across his face and added, “but i slept well, my stomach has just been bothering me recently.”
“Your stomach?” he murmured, stretching his head to glance at her belly before alarm flashed over his face.
“What's wrong?” she mewed, worry filling her as he sat frozen with shock for a moment. She glanced at her own belly, it seems a bit swollen but not that out of the ordinary i hope, she thought.
After a moment he shook his head, before turning back to pool, an expression of shock still on his face but now mixed with some.. joy? “Nothings wrong. Pool, don’t you know what this means?”
“What ‘what’ means? What happened?” her worry started to ebb away as his shock was replaced with happiness.
“Pool, your carrying kits. I'm no medicine cat or queen but even I can tell that you're expecting.” he mewed cherrily.
“But, how could I be expecting kits? Wouldn’t I have known?” she glanced at her belly again, it had been heavier than normal..
“That would explain why you've been so tired. I've heard from a few queens that kits are like a boulder weighing them down from the inside sometimes. If you're carrying our kits that would make a lot more sense, wouldn’t it?” he stared at her, his two colored blue eyes glittering lovingly in the dim light.
“But how long would I have till they come..?” she murmured, trying to guess in her head how much longer it would be.
“I'm not sure.. But maybe the shadowclan medicine cat could tell you?” he mewed, his eyes carrying a question that he left unspoken.
“You want me to come to shadowclan?” surprise flashing through her. It might be safer to raise kits in a clan... she thought, thinking the idea over in her head.
“If you wanted to, we could head to the camp now.” he mewed slowly.
“I..i think I need some time to think of the idea.” pool mewed, glancing away from him to study the root walls of the den.
“Alright, that makes sense. Ill come back tomorrow to see what you say.” he mewed, and with that he slowly picked his way out of the nest and padded out of the den, bright afternoon sunlight bursting into the den before the bramble screen settled back into place.
The next day Moonshard asked again. This time they met closer to the shadowclan border. Pool rested under a bush, moonshard lay beside her.
“Did you think about what i said...” he began awkwardly.
“Why else would I have dragged myself all the way over here,” she hissed teasingly, “I will come with you to shadowclan, it would be the best for our kits.”
“Should we go now then?” moonshard mewed, glancing in the direction of shadowclan territory.
“No other time would be any better,” she muttered.
The two cats traveled to the shadowclan border and moonshard paused.
“We should wait here, if not the clan may perceive you as a threat.” he glanced worriedly at her belly.
She nodded and sat down heavily. Moonshard paced along the border, his muzzle to the air as he searched for the scent of a patrol.
After a while, as the sun began to set, the scent of a shadowclan border patrol drifted to them on the wind.
“A patrol is coming,” he mewed to her, nudging pool to her feet.
Soon the patrol stepped into the open. The patrol contained 3 cats, two tabby she-cats and a brown tom.
“Moonshard, what are you doing here?” one of the she-cats mewed, a silver tabby with hazel eyes, her tail lashed from side to side as she glared at pool.
Moonshard opened his mouth to respond but pool stepped forward, unsteady on her paws but she stood tall. “I wish to speak with venomstar.” she told them confidently, her green eyes bright.
“How do you know the name of our leader?” the tom chirped, he was noticeably younger than the she-cats, probably still an apprentice.
“It’s clear how,” the other she-cat hissed, her brown tabby fur bristled, she looked to be the same age as moonshard though maybe a bit older. “She’s your mate, isn’t she.” the tabby spat, her pale green eyes glittering dangerously as she hissed.
An uneasy growl rumbled in moonshards throat as pool hissed back. “What I do is none of your business.” pool glanced uneasily at her belly before quickly flicking her gaze back to glare at the patrol.
“It is not our job to question her,” the silver tabby mewed calmly, moving between the hissing she-cats. “Our job is to take her to the camp and let venomstar deal with her.”
The silver tabby began walking away, flicking her tail in a signal for them to follow. Pool walked close to moonshard as they followed the she-cat, the rest of the patrol close behind.
When the patrol led them into the camp they where met with curious and hostile stares as cats picked up the rogue scent.
“What is this?” a deep menacing voice sounded. Venomstar loomed above pool and moonshard as the patrol melted into the crowd. The shadowclan leader stood on the rock that jutted up from the marshy ground, a low growl rumbling menacingly in his throat.
“I have come to speak with you.” pool spoke, resisting the urge to back away and instead standing tall.
“We don't welcome rogues... into our camp.” he snarled, claws unsheathing as he seemed ready to attack.
“Now, venomstar, it would go against everything the clans stand for if we harm an expecting queen.” a brown tom with dark brown paws and a light brown underbelly entered the camp behind them, his yellow eyes shone brightly in the late afternoon sunlight.
“Woodclaw, your back from hunting.” venomstars voice held a hint of annoyance but he sheathed his claws.
“Woodclaw...“ moonshard let out a sigh of relief as the older tom padded past.
“Moonshard is a bright warrior.” he came to a stop in front of the younger warrior, “he wouldn’t bring a potentially dangerous cat straight into the camp without a good reason.”
“He brought a rogue into MY camp.” Venomstar hissed, his annoyance quickly turning into anger.
“Our camp,” Woodclaw corrected, “is filled with capable warriors that wouldn’t be defeated by one pregnant queen.”
Pool opened her mouth to speak but Moonshard quieted her with his tail tip to her mouth. “You’ll only make it worse.” he murmured quietly to her, his eyes sparkling with worry.
“Let her speak,” woodclaw mewed gently, “she came here to speak, not hold her tongue, after all.”
Moonshard hesitantly lowered his tail, worry still shimmering in his eyes as pool stepped forward.
“As woodclaw has already pointed out, I am carrying kits.” Pool mewed, her eyes darted to the brown tom, then to moonshard, and finally back to venom star as she continued confidently. “Kits are precious, and I know I could protect them if I'm completely alone. But I would have a better chance of keeping them safe if... if i joined shadowclan.” she glanced around the camp, worry starting to rise in her as she saw the shocked expression on most of the clans faces.
“You... Want to join shadowclan?” venomstar repeated slowly, his voice deep and menacing.
Woodclaw padded forward and sat near the base of the leader's rock, he nodded slowly to show his approval as venomstar narrowed his eyes.
“Carrying kits doesn’t mean you're good for our clan, you're a rogue and your kits will still be rogues.” venomstars green eyes glittered with hatred.
“These kits aren’t full rouges!” moonshard cried, fear clouding his gaze as venomstars cold stare turned to him.
“What?” venomstar spat.
Moonshard crouched low to the ground, his eyes wide, ears flat to his head, and his tail tucked between his legs as the shadowclan leader leaped off the rock and stalked toward the young warrior.
Pool stepped between moonshard and venomstar, her tail lashing and her ears back as she growled at the large white tom.
“Venomstar, harming your warriors won’t do any good for you.” woodclaw mewed calmly, taking a step toward him.
“He is a traitor to his clan! His mate is a rogue for starclan's sake!" Venomstar hissed.
“And you're so much different?” woodclaw challenged, he now stood face to face with venomstar.
The two toms stood in tense silence, for a moment it seemed a fight would break out before venomstar growled in defeat and looked away.
“I thought fur would go flying,” pool whispered to moonshard, letting out a heavy sigh of relief as venomstar turned back towards the leader rock.
“The elders say woodclaw is the only cat that has ever gotten him to back down since the day he became a warrior.” Moonshard whispered back.
“We’ve known each other since kithood, venomstar won’t listen to any other cat, he barely listens to me.'' Woodclaw mewed, his voice light as he padded up to moonshard and pool.
“Some of us have known him just as long, you just managed to make somewhat friends with him.” the silver tabby mewed as she stepped forward to stand beside woodclaw.
Woodclaw nodded to her as if a silent conversation had passed between them.
“I can’t speak for venomstar, starclan knows how stubborn he is, but i would welcome you into the clan.” the silver tabby mewed, her hazel eyes gazing kindly at pool.
“I’ll convince him to allow you to stay for the night, after that i'm not sure if i could persuade him to let you join us.” woodclaw murmured.
“A night is better than nothing,” Pool sighed.
“I don’t think the other warriors would agree with me but it would be best if you stayed in the nursery.” the silver tabby gestured to a bush den that seemed to have stronger walls than the other dens. “Hazelpaw can help you get settled into the nursery for the night.” she beckoned to the brown tom that had been part of the earlier patrol.
He bounded over to them, “What do you need?” he mewed eagerly to the warrior.
“You are going to help our guest settle into the nursery for the night, you can hunt for her as well.” she mewed, her long fluffy tail swished from side to side softly.
“Hazelpaw.” Woodclaw greeted the apprentice warmly.
“Hi woodclaw!” He greeted the warrior with a bright smile.
“Hazelpaw! Are you chatting with the rogue?” a brown tabby hissed, reluctantly padding forward well keeping her gaze partially trained on pool.
“Silverleaf just wanted me to do something...” His gaze was trained on his paws as he shuffled them nervously.
“He’s my first apprentice, I would appreciate it if you stopped calling him to do random things when he should be training.” She hissed to the silver tabby, silverleaf.
“Apprentices can learn from more than just their mentors, adderbark.” silverleaf mewed calmly.
“Silverleaf is a wise warrior, and his mother. You should try listening to the information she has to offer.” Woodclaw spoke, the tip of his tail flicking was the only sign that betrayed his annoyance.
Adderbark glared at them for a moment before turning and stomping away.
“You make it sound like I'm an elder!” she scolded him playfully after adderbark had disappeared inside one of the dens.
“You might as well be!” Woodclaw laughed, ducking as she swiped at his ears.
“I can take you to the nursery now.” Hazelpaw stood in front of pool, she could now see his bright amber eyes and the barely visible silvery stripes on his tail and face.
“I’ll go talk to venomstar then.” woodclaw mewed, bounding away.
“It wouldn’t hurt if you had a medicine cat check on your kits.” silverleaf murmured, she began to head towards a den dug into the side of the hollow as moonshard acknowledged her with a nod.
Hazelpaw beckoned with his tail and began to lead the way to the nursery, pool followed him with moonshard close behind. The apprentice led them into a shadowy bush den, fern and moss scraps scattered the floor between the thickly cushioned nests.
Hazelpaw bent to sniff a nest near the den entrance, after a moment he turned and scraped more moss scraps into the nest before taking a step back. “You can sleep here, I can get some more moss if you need more cushion.” he chirped, his amber eyes shining in the gloom.
“Thank you,” pool stepped past him and circled down into the nest, resting on her side.
Hazelpaw nodded to her and headed out of the den, passing silverleaf as she entered into the nursery.
Silverleaf stepped to the side as a gray tom with light brown paws and ears entered the den.
“This is feathersight, our medicine cat.” silverleaf told pool. The tom took a hesitant step forward, over his closed eyes rested identical sets of claw marks that had scared over long ago.
“What happened to you...?” pool mewed hesitantly, watching the tom's ears angle towards her as she spoke.
“I started out training to be a warrior and then was hurt in a battle, I lost my sight so I decided to become a medicine cat instead.” He mewed simply.
“And you're here to check on my kits?” she asked nervously.
“I am,” he nodded, taking a few steps forward, feeling gently with his paws until he reached the edge of her nest. “May I feel your belly? Just to see if the kits are healthy, ofcourse.”
“I won’t turn away the help of a fully trained medicine cat.” she murmured, adjusting her position so her belly faced toward him.
The blind tom took some time gently feeling her stomach with his paws. After awhile he pulled away, taking a step back before reporting. “You kits seem perfectly fine. I can hear three kits, though one seems as if it may be a bit smaller than the others.”
“Smaller? Will my kits all be able to survive if I have to leave the clan?” fear began to spread through her as she thought of losing one of her kits.
“All of your kits are healthy, just because one may be smaller doesn’t mean the kit can’t be strong.” feathersight soothed.
“Fear is bad for your kits, you need to stay calm.” Silverleaf reassured her, stepping forward to run her tail gently down pools spine.
Moonshard padded forward as well, nuzzling her head and calming her with his purs.
Silverleaf led feathersight out of the nursery as moonshard settled into the nest beside pool.
Pool had begun to doze as woodclaw padded into the den. She groggily lifted her head as woodclaw spoke.
“I was able to convince venomstar to allow you to stay for the night, but he is determined to have you out of our camp by sunhigh tomorrow.” woodclaw murmured, a hint of sadness in his mew.
“Then I'll rest as much as I can and set out tomorrow.” she mewed.
“You’ll have to find a new home farther away, he’ll quickly find your current home.” Moonshard paused to take a shaky breath, his voice was filled with worry and sadness as he continued, “He’ll definitely make sure to watch me whenever I'm out of camp from now on.”
She stared at him in surprise for a moment before she spoke, “So.. I'll have to move farther away from you and not be able to see you again?”
Moonshard nodded sadly, tears gathering in his eyes.
“You should cherish the time you have together,” Woodclaw mewed gently before he turned and left the den, leaving them in peace.
Pool rested her head on her paws and moonshard curled his tail around her, resting his head on his own paws.
After a while, Hazelpaw brought them a rat and a lizard before leaving again. Moonshard and pool shared the prey, pushing the bones away from the nest before curling closer together and soon, falling asleep to the gentle rhythm of each other's breathing.
“Moonshard.” a voice called softly.
Pool lifted her head, blinking sleep from her eyes as moonshard stirred beside her.
Silverleaf pushed her way into the den, two mice hung limply from her jaws by their tails.
Pool watched her as the silver tabby dropped the prey next to her nest.
“Hazelpaw is out training with adderbark and i thought you might be hungry,” silverleaf murmured.
“Thank you.” she mewed gratefully as silverleaf padded out of the den.
Pool gently nudged moonshard as his eyes began to close again and pushed a mouse towards him. “Silverleaf brought us prey,” she murmured, pulling the other mouse towards herself.
They ate quietly together, comforted by each other's presence. Moonshard and pool finished their prey and groomed themselves before padding out of the den.
Bright morning sunlight greeted them as they left the bush den. The position of the sun told pool that she had about half the morning till it would be sunhigh.
Woodclaw entered the camp, jaws filled with prey as he acknowledged moonshard and pool before depositing his prey in the freshkill pile.
Moonshard led pool to a sunny patch on the ground near the entrance of the nursery.
Pool flopped down with a heavy sigh and moonshard curled around her.
Cats padded in and out of camp, returning from patrol, depositing prey in the freshkill pile, and leaving to hunt. The shadowclan cats worked through the morning, the camp was mostly quiet aside from animals in the marsh beyond the hollow and the sound of pawsteps on the well worn dirt clearing. Quiet murmuring broke the uneasy silence, every cat by now knew of their guest.
When there was less than a quarter of the morning left till sunhigh venomstar padded towards pool, a look of annoyance on his face. Woodclaw followed close behind the leader with an unreadable but calm expression.
“It’s almost sunhigh,” venomstar snarled, lifting his head high to glare down at pool.
“According to our agreement you must leave our camp by sunhigh,” a hint of regret shadowed woodclaws mew.
“I won’t allow a rogue to take shelter in my camp, especially when it's a queen who will only bring more rogues who will not be clan born.”
“She’s still a queen, our kits could become great warriors!” Moonshard protested, his voice rising to a wail and venomstar turned to glare at the young warrior.
“It is reasonable to force her away even with kits so close to being born. For starclans sake, why can’t we just let her stay until the kits are old enough to travel?” woodclaw took a step forward and raised his head high to stare venomstar directly in the eyes.
“I don’t want rouges in my camp.” Venomstar hissed fiercely but his tone was shadowed by a faint hint of guilt.
“What about her? Did she never hold any importance to you?” woodclaw challenged, his yellow eyes shone as he stood face to face with venomstar.
“What does woodclaw mean?” pool murmured under her breath to moonshard.
“Only Starclan knows,” her mate whispered back.
Venomstar stood still for a moment, his fur bristled and his expression was a mixture of outrage, shock, and guilt. “That was a mistake, she means nothing now..” he finally spat, flattening his ears and turning away from woodclaw with narrowed eyes.
“Then will you let pool stay? At least for maybe a moon so the kits can grow and be watched by feathersight?” woodclaws mew was softer now as he spoke to venomstar.
“No, I want her out of my camp today.” Venomstar turned back to glare past his deputy at pool.
Woodclaw let out a sigh and turned to pool with a sad and regretful expression. “Venomstar won’t change his mind so, as sad as I am to say this, you must leave our camp today.” he sighed again after he finished.
Pool nodded slowly and pushed herself onto her unsteady paws. “It's alright, you tried your best.” she murmured, adjusting her paws to stand more steadily before turning to moonshard and continuing, “this is where our paths split, i hope you can find someone else to make you happy.” She touched her nose gently to his forehead before pulling away and beginning to make her way to the camp entrance.
Moonshard let out a wail of despair like an orphaned kit. “Why can’t I come with you? I won’t love any other cat, I only love you, pool.” he cried desperately and ran towards her, a look of horror on his face.
The thought of breaking his heart by leaving hurt her but she shook her head, “I can’t let you come with, your clan needs you more.”
“But our kits! I don’t want to leave you.” he pressed against her, his mew cracking.
“I’ll teach our kits about you but you have to stay here.” pool tore her gaze away from his and took a few more steps toward the entrance, her heart breaking more with every step she took away from moonshard.
He stood in shock, his ears flat to his head and a look of despair on his face. “Could you give at least one of our kits a clan name? For me?” he mewed quietly, his gaze trained sadly on pool.
She glanced back at him for a moment, a blossom of fierce love and a desire to run back to him burned in her heart. “Of course, i’ll name one of them moonnose for you.” she mewed with a quiet but sad laugh.
Moonshard lifted his head and smiled sadly at her. They held each other's gaze for a moment before pool turned away and finally padded out of the camp.
She slowly made her way through shadowclan territory, her kits weighing her down. Pool was still in sight of the camp when a silver tabby emerged from the camp and padded towards her, easily catching up with pool.
“Silverleaf?” pool mewed, pausing to look at the shadowclan she-cat.
“As soon as you left moonshard tried to follow you and woodclaw stopped him. I promised Moonshard that I would help you get to the border.” Silverleaf mewed gently, moving to pools side and allowing the queen to lean heavily against her strong muscled shoulders.
“He must be worried sick,” she mewed sadly, regretting her decision to make him stay.
“That tom really loves you, it's a shame venomstar won’t let you stay.” silverleaf guided pool forward through the marshy pine forest.
They padded along in silence, silverleaf silently helping pool when she stumbled. The sun soon began to sink in the sky, casting long shadows across the marsh. When they reached the shadowclan border pool paused, crouching down with her sides heaving.
“I should be heading back now, will you be alright to continue on your own?” Silverleaf looked at her with a soft and kind expression as she waited for pool to catch her breath.
“I’ll be fine, you can leave.” pool panted, pushing herself back to her paws.
Silverleaf nodded and turned back, quickly disappearing into the marsh, as pool began to pad forward again.
The white queen emerged into the small clearing in front of the bush den as the moon was beginning to rise above the trees in the night sky. Pool padded forward and stuck her head into the bush den. The walls had a few holes and the pale moonlight filtering into the den allowed her to see the messy nest at the back of the den where a few scraps of her mothers black and white fur rested among the old moss and ferns.
Pool padded forward and gently ran her paws around the rim of the nest. Memories of the tiny white kit with gray splotches curled comfortably with her mother in the nest filled her head and she let out a sad sigh.
“She’s somewhere else right now, I wish I could have seen her before I leave...” she mumbled sadly before slowly curling down into the nest, resting her muzzle on her paws as her belly was turned to the side. The stale scent of her mother filled her nose as she slowly closed her eyes and fell asleep.
(She blinked her eyes open slowly to see a gray tom standing over her.
“Pool!” He cried out happily.
“Moonshard, why are you here? I thought you where at the shadowclan camp.” pool stared at the tom in shock.
“I came to find you, why would I want to go without the cat i love in my life?”
“But.. shadowclan.. You.. I told you to.. What?” she stammered, scrambling to her paws as confusion clouded her thoughts.
“I know you told me to stay there but I just had to come find you.” he murmured, a deep loving pur rose in his throat as the gray tom rubbed his head against pool.
Moonshard stepped into the nest beside pool and they both settled down beside each other, their tails twining and purs filling the den.
“I'm glad I'm here and I'll be able to see our kits grow.” he mewed happily.
“I'm glad your here too...” She buried her head in his soft chest fur and moonshard rested his chin on top of her head.
Both of them closed their eyes and their conscience soon faded.)
Pool slowly opened her eyes to see early morning sunlight streaming through the holes in the walls of the bush den.
She lifted her head and turned to look beside her, half expecting to see Moonshard before she remembered the cruel reality that she would never see him again.
She let out a long sad sigh before pushing herself to her paws, the weight in her belly reminding her of the precious burden that would allow her a connection to her mate even though they would be apart.
“I should hunt,” she muttered, exiting the den and padding away to try and find prey. Pool padded in a direction that carried her farther from shadowclan and the cat she loved with every step.
Soon she stopped to hunt and she caught a rabbit after missing two mice. Pool settled down to eat her prey as the position of the sun told her it was sunhigh. The sunlight warmed her white and gray pelt and pool stretched out to doze in the soft grass below a tree.
After a while pool pushed herself back to her paws and continued on, stopping when she reached a small stream to quench her thirst before continuing her journey.
When the sun began to set in the sky, pool found herself in a clearing. She caught a scrawny bird before returning to the clearing and settling into a thick patch of grass that she made into a makeshift nest.
Pool ate her bird quickly and pushed away the bones before curling up and falling asleep as the moon began to rise into the darkening sky.
The pale light of dawn slowly woke her as hints of the sun began to show through the trees.
Pool stretched her jaws wide in a yawn before resting her head back on her paws and curling closer around her belly, resting her fluffy tail on the tip of her nose.
Pool dozed through the morning until the sun began to rise above the trees and warm yellow light lit the small clearing.
Her belly rumbling finally forced her from the makeshift nest in the grass and led her to hunt in the thickly wooded area she had found herself in.
The entire day before she had traveled, moving at a pace that tired her quickly but she had forced her legs to keep moving and she was now farther from shadowclan's territory than she had ever been before.
Pool hunted till sunhigh, her swollen kit belly slowing her down and making her miss most of the prey. When she returned to the clearing that she had slept in the night before all she had was two pieces of prey; a mouse and a thrush.
She ate the mouse but picked up the thrush and carried it as she traveled a bit farther from the direction she came to find a place to make camp.
The white and gray furred queen soon came upon the base of a tree that had been struck by lightning and had long since been hollowed out by some kind of bug. The rest of the tree was laying on the ground nearby; a rotting pile of old bits of wood.
Plants had grown up and over top the tall stump to cover the open top and prevent rain from getting in and causing the stump to decay more. Pool pushed aside a few of the vines to reveal a hole in the side of the stump that was large enough for a full grown cat to squeeze through with a little wiggle room.
She stepped into the stump to a dimly lit space with a rough floor that pricked her paws and enough space for two nests to fit snuggly.
“With some moss and ferns to line the floor this could make a fine den,” she murmured, glancing thoughtfully at her belly before backing out of the den. Pool buried the thrush she had caught nearby the stump to hide it from other creatures and set off to find moss.
Pool found a few wide rocks clustered together beside a stream that was wide enough she would have to jump across to keep her paws dry. The stream ran into a nearby pond where some strong smelling herbs grew.
“Borage!” she exclaimed happily, remembering the small blue flowered plant from when her mother had shown it to her as a kit. Her mother had explained that the herb could be used to help queens produce milk as well as being used to bring down fevers and sooth bad bellies.
Pool made a note in her head about the large patch of borage that grew close to the pond for water and rested in a sunny area.
She turned back to the rocks and collected a large pile of moss, making sure it was dry and getting as little dirt left on as possible. After she had collected a nice pile she rolled it into two bundles of moss, tucking one under her chin and grabbing the other in her jaws before heading back towards the tree stump.
When pool arrived at the tall stump, she dropped one moss ball on the ground and took the other inside the stump and spread it out across the floor inside the stump. When she finished she retrieved the other moss ball and placed it near the back of the stump den.
She exited the den and quickly collected bracken and ferns nearby before returning and starting to weave a nest. She weaved the bracken fronds with the ferns to create a nest which she then lined with the rest of the moss she had collected.
Pool exited the den and dug up the thrush, gulping it down quickly and reburying the bones before returning to her new den as the sun began to make its descent through the sky.
She circled down into the nest and curled her tail protectively around her belly.
Pool rested her muzzle on her tail before closing her eyes and drifting off to sleep as the last rays of sun disappeared and left the den in a calming darkness.
A fresh bolt of pain jolted her awake with a yelp. She could feel her kits moving in her belly as she moved to rest on her side. Pool gritted her teeth till the pain began to ebb away.
“They’ll be here any day now,” she murmured as she glanced down at her belly.
Pool lifted her head and, through the gaps in the vines overhead, she saw the bright moon high in the middle of the sky.
Pool pushed herself to her paws and padded out of the den, heading towards the stream. Pool collected some wide waxy leaves before collecting a moss ball and soaking it in water, wrapping it in the leaves she had found to keep the water.
She collected a few stalks of borage before returning to the stump den with her herbs and waterlogged moss.
When she padded into the den she dropped her herbs and moss beside the nest before flopping down heavily into the nest, wincing as a bolt of pain passed through her.
She let out a sigh and closed her eyes, resting in her nest well she attempted to fall back asleep.
When the sun began to rise she left her den. Pool spent the whole day hunting, after a while she had collected a small but respectable pile of prey by the time the sun was a quarter past sunhigh. She collected more borage and layed out all the herbs she had collected so far to dry in the sun.
Pool had caught a crow and a thrush well hunting and she buried all her prey near the stream to keep it cold and allow it to last longer. Pool took the crow back to her den with her and stripped its feathers off before she ate it, using the bird's feathers to line her nest.
The next day, pool ate the thrush and a mouse she had caught the previous day, using the thrush's feathers to line her nest and the floor of her den.
Pool made sure she had fresh moss with fresh water near her nest, along with borage in the den as well.
She went to sleep in her nest, laying on her side with her head resting on her paws.
Pool woke up in the middle of the night from a sharp bolt of pain that was harsher than the other cramps had been. When the cramp began to fade a fresh wave of pain washed over her and she cried out in surprise before gritting her teeth.
“My kits!” she gasped, as another wave of pain came. A shudder ran down her body as she pushed herself to a crouch.
She panted, her heart quickening as another shudder ran through her and something fell to the ground behind her. Pool whipped around to nip the translucent birthing sack. The tiny she-kit opened its tiny mouth and began to cry out as soon as it was free, pool moved to comfort her daughter before another shudder overtook her body and another kit tumbled to the ground. She turned and nipped the sack, licking the kit backwards till it began to move and mewl with its sister.
Pool looked at her daughters lovingly as the cramps paused. She was taking a slow and shaky breath as she thought it was over before another wave of harsher pain shook her and she screeched in agony as one more shudder passed through her and the last kit was born.
She turned again on shaky paws to free the last kit. The third kit was a tom, smaller than his sisters. Panic rose in pool when she began to lick the kit but it didn’t move. She started to groom him more fiercely before, at last, he took his first breath of air and began to squeak along with his sister's mewls.
She settled into the nest and gently guided all three kits to her no longer swollen belly. Pool reached to pull some borage and the leaf wrap containing the moss towards her as her tiny newborn kits began to suckle.
Pool unwrapped the leaf and licked the moss to release some of the water it contained and then she stripped a few leaves off of one of the borage stems. She chewed the borage before swallowing it. The borage had a sweet, almost honey-like flavor that she washed down with more water from the moss.
Pool raised her head to look through the vines that covered the roof of her den. “It’ll be dawn soon,” she murmured, stretching her jaws wide in a yawn before she rested her chin on her paws and curled her tail protectively around her kits, receiving squeaks of protest when her fluffy tail brushed the tiny kits.
She smiled when the kits mewed, their tiny pink mouths open wide. “I'm sorry,” she mewed, a hint of laughter shadowing her words.
The kits returned to their quiet suckling, tiny paws needing her belly as the white queen nodded off to sleep.
When the sun began to rise, pool was stirred by her kits mewling and tiny paws prodding her muzzle.
She opened her eyes to see a black kit with white paws, ears tips, tail tip and a few white markings on her face. The kit was prodding her mothers white muzzle with tiny white paws. Her dark blue eyes shone in the greenish yellow light that dimly lit the den.
“Hello little one,” she mewed, gently rolling the black and white kit over as she lifted her muzzle. The she-kit rolled over and mewed happily, rolling on top of the other she-kit.
Now that the den was no longer shrouded in darkness from the night, she could see what her kits looked like.
The other she-kit, white with gray splotches and dark gray paws, mewled in protest as her sister rolled into her. The white and gray kit slowly blinked open her eyes to reveal rich emerald green eyes.
Pool watched her daughters with amusement as they began to play fight. Tiny paws against her belly drew her gaze away from the she-kits.
The smaller tom kit had woken up and began to suckle, needing her belly with his paws. The kit was gray with patches of multiple shades of darker and lighter gray. His eyes where still closed but the tiny ears had unfolded during the night to reveal the thin wisps of ear fur.
Pool leaned down to give the tom kit a gentle lick on the head and he squeaked in response.
The she-kits had tumbled out of the nest onto the soft moss and feathers that padded the floor inside the stump. At their brothers squeak, they scrambled back towards him. The black and white kit stumbled into the nest, her legs a bit longer than her sisters, and bounced happily to her mother and began to suckle beside the tom. The white and gray kit struggled to get over the lip of the nest, her back legs churning a bit off the ground as her front paws grasped at the moss in the bottom of the nest.
Her daughter mewled angrily as the lip of the nest prevented her from following her sister. She strained her back legs to push off the floor of the den. As pool reached her forepaw towards the kit to pull her over the lip the kit tumbled forward, rolling over and landing on her back inside the nest.
With a purr of amusement, pool gently flipped her daughter back over and guided the kit to her belly where the she-kit joined her littermates in suckling.
When the kits had filled their bellies they huddled together against their mothers belly and soon fell back asleep, a small mound of gray, black and white.
Pool gently stood up, moving moss towards the kits to help keep them warm when they mewled their sleepy protests.
She looked at her kits lovingly before slipping out of the den.
Now without the weight of her kits dragging her down she reached the stream much quicker. She lapped at the water and then dug where she had buried her prey.
When pool unearthed the prey a rancid crowfood scent hit her nose and she shied away from the hole in disgust. Maggots where visible in the mouse and squirrel that had been buried beside the stream. Pool quickly reburied the rotten prey and turned back to the forest to find fresh prey.
She easily caught a rabbit, strength was quickly returning to her body after having carried her kits and the initial exhaustion of giving birth. Pool returned to the stump den with the rabbit clamped securely in her jaws.
As she neared the stump where her kits where the wails of kits filled the air along with the rancid scent of a fox.
Pool raced towards her kits, dropping the rabbit when she entered the clearing. The sight of a fox attempting to squeeze through the entrance of the stump den sent anger pulsing through her and she raced forward to sink her claws into the predator.
The fox turned a moment too late as pool launched herself with a battle cry, landing on its back and sinking her claws into the red fur.
The stinking creature howled in pain as she ripped clumps of fur from its back. The foxes' long snout swung back and forth as it attempted to dislodge the white queen from its back. Pool thrusted her head forward and sank her teeth into the foxes ear, springing off the fox as it dropped to the ground in pain and tried to get her off.
As soon as pool was off the fox spun to face her, blood dripping down its back and from its ear. Fear shimmered in the foxes eyes as pools fur bushed and she took a menacing step forward, ready to attack again.
The larger creature turned and dashed away into the undergrowth, tail tucked firmly between its hind legs.
Pool retrieved the rabbit that now had dirt on its fur, and turned quickly to make sure her kits where ok.
She set the rabbit down just inside the entrance and padded forward to comfort the mewling she-kits at the back of the den.
The kits calmed down with a few comforting licks from their mother but their fur remained spiked.
Pool suddenly realized her son wasn’t beside his sisters and panic shrilled through her as she assumed the worst. As she began to turn to check outside the den after not seeing him inside a squeak made her head turn.
The gray tom squeezed out from where he had hidden below some of the moss in the nest. Scraps of moss and bits of ferns clung to his fur as he padded towards his mother. The tiny kit's eyes had opened to reveal one light blue eye and one emerald green eye.
“Did.. did the fox even know you where there?” she muttered, eyes wide in surprise to see that the kit had been able to hide so well.
All the kit did in response was meow happily at his mother.
Pool turned to the entrance of the den to sniff around. The scents she found told her that the she-kits had followed her out of the den but ran back when the fox found them. She found the scent trail from the tom but all it showed was that he had hidden in the moss before his sisters had re-entered the den.
“The fox would have found you if it had made it into the den... Like a secret hiding in plain sight...” she murmured thoughtfully. “Secret... I think that name fits you.” she turned to her son who returned her gaze with bright eyes.
“Would you like to be called secret?” she mewed before realizing she was talking to a kit.
“Secret!” he chirped, the high pitched kit voice shocked her as he repeated his new name.
Pool stood in shock for a moment before she smiled at her son. “My little, not so secret, Secret.” she mewed, reaching her muzzle forward to brush it against her son's cheek.
A quiet purr rose in his chest as pool rubbed her muzzle against the small gray tom's cheek.
The two she kits ran to brush against pool as well, squeaking in protest that secret was getting attention from pool and they weren't.
After a moment pool lifted her head, grabbed the rabbit that still layed near the den entrance, and stepped into the nest before she sank her teeth into the soft flesh.
Her kits stepped forward, sniffing the rabbit curiously before pool gently pushed them back.
“You're a bit young for prey,” she murmured, using her tail to pull them towards her belly instead.
The kits, already having forgotten the rabbit and the fear of the fox encounter, began to suckle hungrily, needing pools belly to get more milk.
One moon later…
Pool padded towards the stream, three kits following close behind.
“How far is the stream!” Darkmoon complained loudly.
“It's too far, my paws are gonna fall off!” greyclaw chimed in.
Pool had allowed the two she kits to choose their own names, and after hearing stories of shadowclan and their father, they decided to think of their own clan names. The black and white kit had chosen her name from how when the moon was gone from the sky, her black fur had made her almost invisible but her white fur shone almost as bright as the moon when it was full in the night sky.
The white and gray kit had picked her name because her paws where the only part of her that was dark gray. Darkmoon had joked about her name being dark-grayclaw instead and had received a swipe at the ears.
Pool had offered for secret to choose his own name but he had kept the name from his mother, saying it made him unique.
“We've walked to the stream before at least a quarter moon ago. We were smaller then and your paws didn’t fall off” secret pointed out matter of factly.
“Don’t use facts at me! I'm busy complaining.” Darkmoon whacked the smaller tom with her tail playfully.
As the kits growled playfully, about to spring at each other, pool pushed aside a few fronds of bracken to reveal the stream.
The three kits bounced past their mother as she held the bracken back and stopped near the edge of the stream.
“Be careful,” pool mewed as greyclaw leaned closer to the water to stare at something under the surface.
“I will mama.” the white and gray kit breathed, her breath barely disturbing the water.
The kit crouched beside the water, the only sign of life was the steady rise and fall of her breathing and her forepaw slowly stretching out. Then, as quick as a snake, her paw shot forward into the water, sparkling droplets flying as she hooked something out of the water.
A small trout flapped wildly before greyclaw pounced on it excitedly and bit behind its head.
The kits where just starting to lose their kit fluff and where already attempting to hunt.
“Did i do good, mama?” The she-kit looked at her mother expectantly, her emerald green eyes sparkling with pride.
“You did very good,” pride swelled in her chest as the other two kits crowded around to inspect their sisters' catch with excitement.
“I can catch something too!” darkmoon mewed, turning to sniff a nearby grass clump.
Secret nodded in agreement and, along with greyclaw, turned to the stream again.
The she-kit focused on something almost immediately though it took the tom longer to find something.
When the tom struck the water his paw only pulled up water onto the shore and he muttered his frustration at missing the fish.
“Your shadow alerted the fish and gave it time to escape.” Greyclaw pointed out, her eyes flicking to her brother as she rested her tail tip on secrets shoulder before her gaze returned to the water.
The kit struck the water and, instead of pulling up a fish, she pulled a rock out of the water, soaking her paws with stream water. The small rock was a pearly white with a purplish shine. The sunshine caught on the rock, shimmering brightly under the sun.
As pool opened her mouth to speak, a rustling in the bushes drew her attention.
Darkmoon emerged, the black and white kit was the biggest in her litter and stood around a half a head taller than her sister. The she-kit was dragging a bird, mud clumped the feathers of the creature that was at least half the size of the kit.
“It’s huge!” secret exclaimed, running to his sister and inspecting the bird. The tom was noticeably smaller than his sisters and the bird was over half his size.
“Look what I found darkmoon.” greyclaw beckoned her sister with her tail, gaze still fixed on the shiny rock.
“What is it? Why is it so shiny?” the black and white kit whispered in awe of the white stone.
“It’s a rock I found in the stream. The sunlight caught on it at the bottom of the stream.” greyclaw explained, pushing herself from a crouch into a sitting position. The white and gray kit licked her chest fur as her littermates gathered to look at the white stone.
“It’s very nice but we should get back to the den. You can carry your prey back if you want.” pool stepped forward, her tail flicking to the fish and bird beside the stream.
“What about the rock?” greyclaw mewed, picking up the rock carefully between her teeth, gaze flicking to the fish.
“I can carry the fish!” secret chirped, moving to grasp the trout in his jaws.
Pool nodded to her kits when darkmoon collected her prey and turned to lead the kits back toward the stump den.
Venomstars pov...
It had only been a few days since the rogue had left shadowclan. There was often an uneasy muttering as cats talked about the no longer secret relationship between the young warrior, moonshard, and the rogue queen he loved.
He’s been moping around camp and barely contributing to the clan, he sneered to himself as he watched the gray tom pad slowly across the clearing, dragging his paws along the dirt with his tail dragging along the ground.
“He’s still grieving.” muttered a ginger tom with black splotches and black paws, yellow eyes casting a sympathetic glance at moonshard.
“She was a rogue shadowclaw.” the brown tabby, adderbark, hissed scornfully.
“Imagine if I was forced out of the clan, you’d probably feel the same as him then.” the ginger and black tom mewed.
“Your a loyal warrior, venomstar wouldn’t force you out. Plus you're not a rogue.” adderbark snapped, though there was a now hint of understanding to her words.
The conversation between the two warriors boiled his blood. Is the rest of my clan sympathizing with the rogue and that traitor too? Venomstar turned and disappeared into his den angrily before he could snap at the younger warriors.
After about a moon had passed, cats where still talking about the relationship between moonshard and the rogue. Everytime he heard anyone sympathizing with Moonshard, his anger grew.
Venomstar had come up with a plan in his head and, only telling Woodclaw he would be back in a day or two, he stalked out of camp and headed toward the edge of his clan's territory.
“Venomstar!” woodclaw called after him, bounding to catch up with him well he was still in sight of the camp.
Venomstar turned to face the deputy angrily. “What do you want? I have something to do.” he hissed, eyes narrowed to harsh green slits.
“Are you going after the rogue queen? What about our clan?” woodclaw hissed back fiercely.
“Of course I'm going after her. This clan needs an example of how traitors are punished.” he held his head high as he spoke. If i kill her and bring the body back moonshard won’t have any reason to keep moping about a cat he’d never see again.
“You can’t, no cat would respect you for killing a queen.” Woodclaw gasped, a look of horror on his face.
“Maybe not, but they’ll fear me. And fear is sometimes better than hard earned respect that could waver with one mistake.” his voice was cold and the white furred tom turned to continue towards the border of shadowclan territory.
For a moment woodclaw stood in shocked silence in utter defeat as he tried to find words.
“What about her?” the deputy muttered at last, determination to stop his leader had rehardened his gaze.
“She... holds no importance to me.” he hissed as images of a kind black and white cat with green eyes flashed through his mind and reawakened a buried pain in his heart.
“Did she never make you happy? Then why did you spend so many nights with her, only to find out about your only kits that you never met because they where rogues.” sympathy mixed in his eyes as he held his gaze firmly with venomstars.
Pain glittered in his eyes as he remembered the she-cat telling him happily that she was carrying his kits and then he turned her away when he became deputy so he could focus on rising in the clan.
Venomstar shook his head and anger returned to his gaze. “That rogue holds no more importance to me than the rogue queen.” he yowled, pain and anger blazing in his eyes.
“Then why..” Woodclaw hissed, “Why have kits that you wouldn’t raise? And why now ruin the lives of kits before they truely get to live?”
“Because these cats in my clan need to see an example of what happens if you betray the clan.” When he finished, instead of waiting for another response, he turned and burst into a run, quickly disappearing from woodclaws view.
When venomstar reached the border he stopped to listen for woodclaw, continuing when he decided that he wasn’t being followed.
As sunhigh arrived he found what looked like an old camp. The stale scent of the rogue that had stayed in shadowclan camp was faintly recognizable as well as another scent he knew well that overlaid it.
As curiosity drove him, Venomstar pushed his head into the tattered old den.
Scraps of black and white fur laid in the nest that rested at the back of the den.
He padded to the nest, stretching his muzzle down to brush against the clumps of fur. The fur was rough, dried out instead of the soft texture of lush healthy fur, but it faintly carried the scent of who it belonged to.
“Violet...” he muttered well he pulled his muzzle back.
He shook his head as guilt filled him. “I have something to do, I can't let this... rogue... distract me,” he growled, turning and exiting the den, soon picking up the scent he was following previously and leaving the camp.
A quarter of the afternoon was left before sunset when venomstar found fresher paw prints in the mud near a pond.
The paw prints where from earlier that day, leading into the woods near the direction venomstar had traveled.
The white tom followed the tracks backward, using the scent when the ground hardened and there weren't easily visible prints.
He followed the scent back, moving silently through the trees.
Venomstar soon padded into a clearing, fresh scents wafting toward him on a slight breeze from an old stump that was covered in vines.
Cautiously, he pushed vines aside to reveal the entrance into the hollow stump. As he stepped onto the cushioned moss covering on the floor of the den, a warm milky scent hit his nose.
Three kits, a mixture of black, white, and gray, rested in the nest against the back wall of the stump. The small bodies where curled up together, fur still retaining some of their kit soft fluff.
“If that rogue isn’t here, then I can use these kits as an example.” he growled softly, taking another quiet step towards the kits.
As venomstar took another step forward his paw pad landed on the hard shaft of a feather. He hissed in pain and pulled his paw back to examine it. When he saw that it hadn’t broken skin he turned back to the kits.
The kits, now awake, backed farther from him with their fur fluffing up.
A black and white she-kit hissed at him. “Leave us alone!” she cried.
The black and white fur reminded him of the cat he had once cared for, the only difference was that this kit had dark blue eyes instead of emerald green eyes like violet.
“Why should I?” he snarled, making the kit shy away from him as her fear scent filled the air.
“Mama will be back soon and send you home with your tail in between your legs!” a white and gray she-kit with dark gray paws cried, her emerald green eyes sparkling with fear.
“You're too noisy, I'll deal with you first.” he hissed, snatching the white and gray kit from the nest and dragging her outside.
The other two kits followed after worriedly as he pinned her in the dirt outside the stump den.
The kit struggled helplessly as venomstar sank his claws into her soft flesh.
Squeaks of horror sounded from the other two kits when venomstar sank his teeth into her small neck, quickly ending her life.
When he dropped the kit and took a step toward the other kits the black and white kit stepped forward angrily, small tail lashing as she stood in front of her brother, a gray kit with patches of different shades of gray as well as one light blue and one emerald green eye.
“How dare you hurt her!” she cried, leaping at venomstar who knocked her to the ground, pinning her next to her sisters corpse.
“No!” the small tom howled as venomstar sank his teeth into the other she-kit.
When the black and white kit went limp he released her and turned to the tom.
“I won't kill you, yet...” He sneered, grasping the tom by the scruff.
The kit struggled in his jaws, swinging his tiny paws until his claw caught venomstars muzzle, drawing blood from a small cut just above his mouth.
Venomstar hissed, dropping the kit for a moment before he pinned the small kit against the dirt.
“How dare you, you pest!” he snarled, opening a wound across the kits back with his claws.
The kit cried out in pain and venomstar picked him up again, leaving the clearing well blood soaked the ground around the she-kits and dripped down the small tom's back.
Venomstar traveled at a brisk pace through the woods, eyes darting back and forth to keep an eye out for dangers.
When the long furred warrior's stomach rumbled he slowed his pace, trotting along as hunger and fatigue began to slow him.
The kit mewled pitifully, most likely from hunger.
“Hush, you're fine,” his growl was muffled by the kit in his jaws.
“Mama...” he whispered sadly, wincing at the pain from his wound.
A low growl rumbled in the shadowclan leader's throat and the kit quieted, muttering softly to himself.
After a while of walking the kit began to struggle again, his paws flexing to show small sharp claws.
“Stop that or I'll make sure you bleed out before we get back.” he threatened.
As he thought the kit had stopped fighting, and he moved to continue walking, a small blur in his vision distracted him and before he knew it paint shot over his eyes as small claws ripped upward over his eye lid.
Venomstar shut his eyes a second before claws hit his right eyelid. A roar of pain escaped him and he dropped the kit, crouching and pressing his paw over the injured eye.
When he slowly blinked open his left eye, his right eye open a fraction, venomstar whipped his head around to spot the kit, only to discover that the gray kit had escaped into the shadowy undergrowth.
The scent of his blood and the small spots of blood from the kit, most likely from when he had fallen to the ground after being released, clouded his nose and prevented him from finding the kits scent trail.
After some searching venomstar reluctantly left and continued toward shadowclan territory.
Along the way he passed the tattered old bush den and soon re-entered his own clan's territory as the moon climbed in the sky. Almost moon high he thought to himself as his hunger clawed at his stomach and he padded onward.
“Venomstar?” a cat called out.
He stepped around a clump of ferns to see the entrance to the hollow where shadowclan territory rested.
A silver tabby stood next to the camp entrance, confusion showing on her face as she gazed at the shadowclan leader.
“Silverleaf.” he greeted her, a tone in his voice warning her from asking more questions.
An expression of caution crossed her face as she stepped aside to allow him past.
The leader of shadowclan padded briskly past her, trotting into the hollow that held his clan's home.
The moon was beginning to sink in the sky as he grabbed a rat and a lizard from the small fresh kill pile. He carried the prey over to his den and crouched at the entrance as he sank his teeth into the small body of the rat.
He took his time eating, hints of dawn showing in the sky when he pushed away the remains of the prey.
Venomstar began to groom the kit blood from his paws and muzzle as the sky lightened.
Cats began emerging from their dens, casting weary glances at the white tom when they woke up enough to realize he was back.
Before long a brown tom exited the warrior den, blinking sleep from his eyes and stretching before he spotted venomstar. A serious look covered his face as woodclaw trotted briskly over to the shadowclan leader.
“Your back?” he mewed, the deputy's voice carried an unspoken question.
“I am.” the white tom responded, not answering the question.
The brown tom took a quick breath and a look of concern clouded his expression. “You smell of fresh blood.” he hissed.
“And? I told you what I was doing.” venomstar looked away, breaking up the gathering crowd with a harsh glare.
“But, that's... Kit blood?” Woodclaw breathed as a look of understanding and unease crossed his face. “You kill those kits?”
“Whats it to you, their rouges.” venomstar hissed, standing up and disappearing into his den, leaving the cats to gather around woodclaw curiously.
Pools pov…
She had left her den around sunhigh, hunting through the afternoon as her kits slept peacefully in the stump den.
Pool had collected two mice, a rabbit, and a plump trout by the time the sun was beginning to set.
She held the mice and fish by their tails in her jaws with the rabbit tucked under her chin.
She traveled as quick as she could well laden with prey, using trails that had become familiar to her in her time living there.
An odd scent tickled her nose but she shrugged it off as the scent of her prey over took her sense of smell.
Soon she pushed her way out of the undergrowth, gasping in horror at the sight that lay in front of the stump den in the dwindling daylight.
Pool abandoned her prey and rushed to her daughters. Darkmoon and greyclaw where laying stiff in a pool of their own blood that seeped from wounds in their necks.
“No!” she shrieked in disbelief when she nudged her daughters and received no response. Another scent overlaid the kits and told her what had killed them.
“Venomstar?!” she spat with anger as she realized he must have come to make her suffer by killing the kits.
She quickly dug a grave next to the den, gently moving the kits into it. She winced as their blood touched her tounge and a metallic taste spread around her mouth.
Pool buried the kits, laying the trout near their grave as a final goodbye.
“I’m sorry I failed you..” she whispered before she turned to follow the blood trail left by her son that was infused with venomstars scent. “I’ll kill him, he will pay for killing my daughters.” she hissed.
She followed the blood trail till she found a small clearing with blood spatter on the ground. Venomstars scent was heavily infused with the scent of secret.
“No!” she breathed in horror and tears welled in her eyes.
Pool crouched as grief filled her and her quiet sobs broke the silence of the night as the moon began to rise in the sky.
“That, Foxheart... killed my kits.” she hissed as tears fell from her face to the ground. “He killed them, so i'll take the one thing most important to him.”
She slowly rose her head, pure rage burned in her grief filled heart. “I’ll end his life, that foxheart doesn’t deserve the title of leader of shadowclan.” the white queen rose to her paws, continuing at a brisk pace to follow venomstars scent as a fierce flame of anger blazed inside of her.
The moon was just beginning to make its descent in the sky when she left the blood spattered clearing behind. Her grief fueled her anger and the rage grew more with each step she took closer to the killer of her kits.
Soon her pace increased until pool was trotting quickly, legs moving almost mechanically as her anger grew even more and dulled her grief as she imagined standing over venomstars corpse.
By time pool was trotting through the clearing of her old home the sky was beginning to show the first hints of dawn. She paused for a moment to look at the old tattered bush den and the trail that led to the den she had dug in the roots of a tree.
“They should have been raised here...” she muttered, thinking fondly of her kits playing in the clearing before, with a sharp pain of grief, she was reminded of the harsh reality that she had been forced to leave and then her kits had been killed in cold blood.
“Right, I need to continue.” she hissed, turning and continuing past the clearing in the direction of shadowclan territory.
Venomstars scent grew more jumbled with the scent of his clan as pool reached the edge of the territory where she would find the killer of her kits, as well as the father of her kits.
A pang of sadness and love hit her heart as she thought of seeing her mate again with the news of their kits deaths.
Just as she was a few pawsteps into the territory, a rustling in the sparse undergrowth made her fur prickle. She whipped around to find a terrified mouse, along with a brown tom that pounced after the prey.
The apprentice caught the mouse quickly before he looked up to realize pool was there.
“You're that one rouge. Moonshards mate, right?” he mewed, amber eyes shining curiously.
“I... was..” She responded slowly, her thoughts where distracted from her grief for a moment as two other cats emerged from the undergrowth to stand on either side of hazelpaw.
One of the cats was recognizable as the tabby adderbark, well the other was a ginger tom, with black splotches and paws, that pool didn’t recognize.
“You...” adderbark hissed angrily as she recognized the white queen. The brown tabby seemed to sway slightly on her paws as she took a step forward.
The ginger and black tom leaned over hazelpaws head to steady the she-cat with his muzzle. “Don’t forget, you need to take things easy.” he murmured softly, just loud enough that pool could hear him.
“I'm not here for you,” Pool hissed, her grief rekindling her anger and tears threatened to overflow from her eyes.
“Who are you here for then?” hazelpaw chirped, curiosity showed in his eyes as he stepped out of the way so the ginger and black tom could step towards adderbark.
“I'm here for venomstar,” her eyes narrowed and she looked away from the apprentice as grief filled her eyes.
“Weren't you already denied from joining the clan about a moon ago?” the ginger and black tom turned to her with confusion.
“I will not join a clan with the one responsible for what happened to my kits!” she snapped angrily.
“Did he... Kill them?” adderbark gasped, and for once something other than anger showed in her eyes as the tabby looked at pool.
Pool nodded sadly, her throat tightening.
“So... what? You’ll kill him?” understanding began to show in the she-cats eyes as she looked at pool sympathetically.
“That foxheart doesn’t deserve his life if he’ll take the lives of kits so easily.” the anger returned to her as she took a step towards adderbark, ears back as she held the tabby she-cats gaze fiercely.
For a moment the brown tabby looked as if she was gonna say something in defense of venomstar but then she lowered her head. “We’ll stay out of the camp till at least sunhigh. Whatever happens, you deserve vengeance for your kits. May starclan light your path...” adderbark turned to lead the toms away from pool and farther into the shadowclan territory. Hazlepaw collected the mouse and cast a wary glance at pool before disappearing after the two warriors.
After the patrol was out of her sight, pool continued towards the shadowclan camp.
Soon the white she-cat could smell the strong scent of the hollow that would contain the one cat she was looking for.
When she reached the entrance, there was no guard so she continued down the path, stopping just inside the hollow.
Eyes around the camp began to turn to the rogue, murmuring among the cats drawing more attention as she stood there.
“I need to see venomstar,” she announced loudly, her gaze flicking around the camp.
“P.. pool?” a hesitant voice called as a gray tom emerged from a den. His soft tired expression melted her anger for a moment as she stared into his blue eyes. “I.. I thought you weren't coming back?” his eyes sparkled with an unsaid question.
“I have.. Something I need to do here..” she hissed, turning her head away before she could see his hurt any longer.
Just then movement caught her eye as a large white tom with a black marking over his heart padded into the clearing from his den.
“Venomstar...“ she growled menacingly, taking a step towards her target.
“What is this rogue doing here? Shouldn’t you have been driven out already?” he hissed angrily as his fur spiked up.
“You know what i'm doing here,” she spat angrily as confused murmurs rose in the crowd, “you are the one who disturbed us and ruined everything!”
He took a step forward, looming over her as a few warriors gathered behind him, ready to fight. “Are you accusing me of something?” his voice rumbled around the hollow.
“Yes, I am,” she hissed.
And that was the moment she saw a reddish tint still caught on his chin fur.
“What is that?” she yowled as she caught a hint of the scent. “My kits!”
With that she leaped, white fur clashing as she was quickly locked with the shadowclan leader, tearing her claws into his fur and skin.
Surprised cries sounded from around the hollow, drowned out by venomstars howl of pain.
Venomstar soon lay lifeless on the floor, a deep gash along his throat along with other small injuries.
As pool stepped back from the body three other warriors launched an attack, yowling about vengeance for their leader as shades of brown and gray fur met with white.
“Pool!” moonshard cried out, the horror in his voice hearable above the sounds of battle.
“I'm sorry,” she hissed, twisting and turning as she fought off the attackers with teeth and claws. Eventually three layed dead and the other backed down. Venomstar and two of his clanmates lifeless bodies laid in the center of the camp.
Moonshard ran to a wounded pool, bite marks and scratches visible all over her body as the blood slowly stained her fur.
“Why did you do that, are you ok?” his worried mew made her laugh, her body shaking.
“He.. he killed them,” she coughed, a trickle of blood coming from the corner of her mouth.
“Our kits?” he breathed, wide eyed understanding showing on his face.
“He killed them, d..darkmoon and greyclaw... and secret, our son..” she wheezed, tears mixing with blood as they ran down her face.
“Our.. son.. K.. killed?” he took a step back in disbelief, his face filling with grief.
“W-wait, pool you need herbs! Your wounded, i need to get feathersight!” he cried as she stumbled and flopped heavily onto the groun., turning quickly he almost collided with a silver tabby that had walked up behind him.
“You won’t reach him in time, feathersight is all the way at carrion place. She may lose too much blood before you can get him back here.” silverleaf mewed sadly.
“Then send someone faster than me, carry him back for starclans sake, I can't lose her again!” Moonshard cried frantically, panic causing his fur to spike in fear.
After a moment the silver tabby nodded and turned to speak with a few warriors who quickly left the camp.
Finally he turned to pool. “It’ll be ok, I promise,” he mewed, seeming to be trying to reassure himself as well as pool.
As he crouched down she reached a paw up to press it against his heart. “Thank you, moonshard. Don.. don’t forget our kits..” she coughed. “O..our daughters.. And.. s..son.”
“W.. what where they like?” tears in his eyes began to roll down his cheeks as he leaned closer to pool.
“Amazing, p..perfect.” she stared into his eyes for what felt like forever. “I love you, moonshard..” she trailed off, her paw slipping off his chest as she laid her head down on its side.
“No..” he breathed as her eyes began to slowly close, “No, you can’t leave me! I love you pool, please don’t leave me again!” he cried, tears falling to the ground as he sobbed.
“I love you.. moonnose...“ she breathed, her last breath escaping as she closed her eyes one more time.
The camp grew quiet, filled only by moonshards sobs.
Eventually a few warriors returned with feathersight, who received a sad look from him as the medicine cat confirmed her death.
One by one cats comforted the grieving warrior, comforting him for the loss of both his kits and mate.
“This isn’t fair,” he muttered, “she should have gotten to raise them, if not for venomstar she would still be alive.”
Soon the two patrols that had been out, led by woodclaw and adderbark. They brought back prey as well as confusion when they saw the scene in the clearing.
“What happened here?” woodclaw exclaimed, eyes widening as he stared at the bodies of his clanmates, leader, and of pool.
“He killed them..” was all moonshard could manage, throat tightening again as he buried his muzzle in pools fur.
“She.. she met our patrol near the border, she told us that venomstar killed her kits and she wanted revenge.. I didn’t think it would turn out like this though.” adderbark explained, moving closer to shadowspot.
“Well, what's done is done. We shall hold vigil for them tonight.” woodclaw mewed, “All of them, the rogue included.” with his last words the deputy glanced around the clearing, silencing any complaints before they started.
Moonshard moved her body slowly, gently tucking in her stiffening legs until she looked almost as if she was simply asleep. The clan collected flowers and put them in the fur of all the cats. He covered Pool's body in flowers, hiding the blood stained fur as more tears collected in his eyes.
Through the night the cats mourned the lost and buried them in the morning. Moonshard took Pool's body and buried her in the clearing where they had met many times before, the sun soon rose and cast a soft glow on her grave.
“Wherever you and our kits are, may starclan light your path.” he sighed, a few tears falling onto her grave before he turned and headed back to shadowclan territory.
For a while cats comforted him. Woodstar left him off most patrols for at least a moon or two before slowly putting him on more. Eventually most cats forgot or had never met the cat he once loved but he kept her in his heart, never finding another mate or bringing more kits into the world that where his.
Many many moons later..
He sighed, walking slowly so as to not hurt his joints. He eventually reached the sunny clearing, but first he passed it and went to the old bush den and the old den under the tree.
Time had not been kind to the abandoned dens, wind and rain had ripped them until it was tattered almost beyond repair, though his old bones wouldn’t be able to fix them now.
He returned to the sunny clearing, laying down in the soft sun warmed grass next to the hidden mound.
“Oh pool, if you could be here with me i’d bet a mouse that you’d be scolding or messing with me..” he laughed softly, “you always had that humor, even if no one else understood it much.”
“If venomstar had let you in all those moons ago, maybe shadowclan could be better. Ravenstar ain’t all that bad but you could keep almost anyone in line with your tongue.” he smiled to himself, closing his eyes and soaking in the sun.
Just as he began to dose, a rustling in the undergrowth drew his attention. Pushing himself to his paws, Moonshard looked around, “Who's there?” he called looking around in confusion.
“S..sorry mister, i didn’t mean to scare you.” a cat about the size of an apprentice with gray and brown fur mewed, stepping out of the undergrowth.
Before he could speak the young cat continued, “are you one of those clan cats? I've heard how you live in groups and fight a lot.” he mewed, bright green eyes, with a hint of blue around his pupils, shining in the sun.
“Yes, I'm a member of shadowclan.” he chuckled slightly, remembering how pool had listened with the same bright curiosity when he first told her stories of shadowclan.
“Then why are you so far out of your borders?” he sat down, tilting his head to the side with a puzzled expression.
As Moonshard opened his mouth to respond, a rustling behind the younger cat drew his attention.
The gray and brown cat turned as well to see a tom, with multiple patches of different shades of light and dark gray on gray fur, step out of the undergrowth.
“timber, what are you doing so far from our camp?” hissed the gray tom to the younger cat, though a note of concern shadowed his voice.
As Moonshard glanced over the newcomer, something seemed familiar even though he had never met this cat before.
“And who might you be?” he mewed, his old voice drawing the attention of both rogues.
“I'm timber! And this is my dad, se-” timber was cut off as his father covered his mouth with his tail.
“And why should I tell a clan cat my name when I don’t even know you.” the tom mewed suspiciously, keeping an eye on both moonshard and the younger cat as he stepped in front of timber.
“Well I suppose you're right, but you never make new allies if you never repeat your name. I'm moonshard, don’t worry my old bones can’t do much damage to you and your kit.” he mewed, his voice light and friendly.
“Wait, I've heard that name before..” The gray tom's fur began to lay flat and he appeared deep in thought.
“Yeah, didn’t you used to tell us stories about some clan tom?” timber mewed, receiving a flick across his ears from the gray tom's tail.
“Yes, I'd never met the tom but.. he was my father.” he mewed slowly, still eyeing moonshard with suspicion but also now curiosity began to show on his face.
For a moment he was puzzled before he understood, “Who was your mother?” Moonshard mewed quickly, his heart racing as he waited for an answer.
“Why should I tell you?” he hissed, fur spiking up.
“I might know who your father is, please just tell me her name!” his voice rose slightly in desperation.
“Pool, her name.. was pool.” he reluctantly mewed.
“Then... is your name secret?” Moonshards blue eyes stared into the gray toms light blue and emerald green eyes.
“H-how did you know that?” surprise flashed over his face as he took a step back.
“Secret, I know your mother, pool. She was my pool.” he watched his son take a step back in confusion, shaking his head.
“No.. you can’t be her mate, you can’t be him..” The disbelief on his kits face showed clearly as the tom looked from timber to moonshard.
“I am, she was my mate.. And that means you are my son...” his voice trailed off, as his eyes met with secrets.
“Then why weren’t you with us? Pool told us you had died.. Why hadn’t you been there to protect us??” his voice rose as took another step back, his face showing the pain and anger from many, many moons ago.
“She wouldn’t let me come, she told me that I had to stay in shadowclan and that they needed me.. Not a day of my life has passed where I didn't wish I could have met my kits and raised them with the cat I loved.” he mewed sadly, gaze falling to his paws, “I shouldn’t have listened to her, then i could have been there to protect you, if only venomstar could have let her into shadowclan...”
Timber rested his tail tip on his fathers shoulder, comforting secret as he crouched to the ground, silently stuck in his own thoughts.
“I cared so much, but the day pool came back to the camp, I thought all my kits where dead, I had nothing but my clan.” he mewed, hesitantly taking a step towards his son, longing to comfort his kit.
“B..but i survived that mess, i escaped venomstar and lost my sisters... you should have been there, or at least her..” his already quiet voice trailed off as he huddled on the ground, squeezing his eyes shut as if it would block out the grief.
“I know, I wish I could have been there, but i didn’t know you where even alive, pool found blood and must have assumed the worst because of venomstar. She didn’t know, all she could do was let her grief and anger drive her until she died of blood loss.” he stepped forward, crouching on the other side of his kit, running his tail down his spine.
“H..how did she die of blood loss..?” secret mewed, looking into moonshards eyes, his face desperate and filled with grief.
“Her anger brought her to shadowclan camp, she attacked venomstar and took his life and two others of cats most loyal to him before she died of blood loss.” he explained sadly.
“Don’t you have any cats that could have helped?” the gray tom mewed angrily.
“We do, it was bad luck that feathersight was all the way at carrion place. I was furious but even if the fastest runners had carried the blind cat back, it would have been too late.'' He hung his head in grief, gaze flickering to the grass covered mound that hid the body of the one cat he loved.
They stayed in silence for a few long moments before Secret pushed himself to his paws. “We should head back, your mother will be starting to worry.” he mewed to timber, his eyes dull as he glanced back at moonshard.
Timber gently guided his father out of the clearing, soon disappearing into the undergrowth.
Once the undergrowth settled, he turned and began the trek back to shadowclan camp, a sense of peace filling him now that he had more closure for what happened to his kits.
To be continued...
Eventually in a warrior's new life...
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75668891
|
{"authors": ["Midnightwolf352"], "language": "English", "title": "Pool's story"}
|
Heatmaxxxing
What's up guys, it's your boy DRIPS, here! I'm just doing a little mid-recovery check in today. Update y'all on my progress and give you a heads up what the next eight weeks will be looking like.
A flash of static, and a graffiti-art logo flashes on the screen with a wailing electronic riff. It cuts back to the streamer, sitting shirtless on a over-designed gamer chair. Behind him is a minimalist bed and frame, drenched in color from an LED sign in the shape of his channel's logo. DRIPS looks about twenty six, with bleached, messy hair and over-ear headphones. He's fit, with the lighting going even further to make his lean muscles pop.
As you know, two months ago I dropped my biggest birth yet. Four babies, two male and two female! They have all gone to super good homes, and settling in really well. I'm really trying to push for five-plus next time, because I've been hearing that four is the last big plateau. Once you break five, that's when you start getting the really high numbers. Seven. Eight. My bro Tvvunk dropped nine last week, be sure to check him out.
I have two more months before I expect another heat, so it's all about working hard to rebuild. So, we've got a supplement plan I've been sticking to.
He lines up half a dozen bottles and powders in front of the camera.
First, we've got protein. Basic stuff, helps build muscle and heal any strain from the previous carry. This I actually double during a carry, because you're building for a whole family. For now, though, it's all about maintenance and repair.
This one is a collagen blend. It doesn't get discussed much, but pushing your body like this can do a number on your skin over time. Stretching, sagging. This helps tighten everything up. Obviously, once I get bred we'll cut this off and switch to an elasticizing lotion.
These two, taken together are a linchpin in any heatmaxxing regimen. They hit your hormones, and really dial in your body to focus on breedability. My heats read two... three times as potent since I picked these up.
This one is a sleep supplement. Obviously y'all see me when I'm recording, but these recovery times are really mostly sleep for me. I try to hit over twelve hours each day, which really just speeds up the return to baseline.
And this last one is one I just picked up. I'm using it off label, it was originally developed for shaking and tremors- but it's really good for tightening muscle control. And yeah, after this carry I was finding that I was still looser than I wanted after about a month, so this has really been helping with that.
Speaking of which, I'm going to switch over, show y'all the gym routine.
Cuts to DRIPS walking into a gym, pecs peeking out of his loose tanktop. He stretches a few times, and beams a grin at the camera. It fast-forwards as he crushes a round of squats, with a brief cut in to catch his round ass stretch his shorts.
Okay! So, we've got the five by fives- I cover that in way more detail in another video. Those are the essentials, squats, deadlifts. All the stuff you need to get around during a supercarry. The rest of the routine, though, is all focus on strength for the actual breeding process. It's fundamental- a solid breeding sesh will give you the best results.
First I've got the thigh crushes. First you wrap your ankles to each of the weight chains. Once the go over the pulley, the chains are short enough, they'll pull your legs apart. Then, doing an active hang from the overhead bar, you squeeze your thighs together. Keep your leg straight, and you should feel it right on the side of your thighs and glutes.
Second, we've got weighted leg lifts. Now, I've been doing this for a while, so each leg is rocking forty pounds, but you can start with nothing and work your way up. Lay on your back and lift them up, making sure to extend until your knees touch your chest. You should feel it both ways, so take the movement slowly. Endurance is important. Sustained tension is going to support a long knotting. Explosive strength is just going to, I don't know, launch your alpha right off of you.
Now, I like to switch my cardio to rows during recovery. I do five minutes sprints, on and off for 30 minutes. It really works the core and back and builds the capacity for longer, strenuous activity. I like sneaking a vibrator behind my balls for this. After a big carry, I get really sensitive, so it helps me build nerve endurance as well. Being able to focus and work through those sensations really make the difference between a heatmaxxer omega and a pet. Y'know Omegas really deal with a lot of stigma around just melting at the slightest arousal, but it just takes training. Practice.
Last but not fuckin' least, we have the anal lifts. Get a strong, metal plug, and clip that to your chain and kettle bell. Should be taut in squat, not deep, it's not about working the hams. Then... When you stand, clench, and your should lift the weight right up. Nnngh. Again, this is about endurance, if you are
|
Heatmaxxxing
What's up guys, it's your boy DRIPS, here! I'm just doing a little mid-recovery check in today. Update y'all on my progress and give you a heads up what the next eight weeks will be looking like.
A flash of static, and a graffiti-art logo flashes on the screen with a wailing electronic riff. It cuts back to the streamer, sitting shirtless on a over-designed gamer chair. Behind him is a minimalist bed and frame, drenched in color from an LED sign in the shape of his channel's logo. DRIPS looks about twenty six, with bleached, messy hair and over-ear headphones. He's fit, with the lighting going even further to make his lean muscles pop.
As you know, two months ago I dropped my biggest birth yet. Four babies, two male and two female! They have all gone to super good homes, and settling in really well. I'm really trying to push for five-plus next time, because I've been hearing that four is the last big plateau. Once you break five, that's when you start getting the really high numbers. Seven. Eight. My bro Tvvunk dropped nine last week, be sure to check him out.
I have two more months before I expect another heat, so it's all about working hard to rebuild. So, we've got a supplement plan I've been sticking to.
He lines up half a dozen bottles and powders in front of the camera.
First, we've got protein. Basic stuff, helps build muscle and heal any strain from the previous carry. This I actually double during a carry, because you're building for a whole family. For now, though, it's all about maintenance and repair.
This one is a collagen blend. It doesn't get discussed much, but pushing your body like this can do a number on your skin over time. Stretching, sagging. This helps tighten everything up. Obviously, once I get bred we'll cut this off and switch to an elasticizing lotion.
These two, taken together are a linchpin in any heatmaxxing regimen. They hit your hormones, and really dial in your body to focus on breedability. My heats read two... three times as potent since I picked these up.
This one is a sleep supplement. Obviously y'all see me when I'm recording, but these recovery times are really mostly sleep for me. I try to hit over twelve hours each day, which really just speeds up the return to baseline.
And this last one is one I just picked up. I'm using it off label, it was originally developed for shaking and tremors- but it's really good for tightening muscle control. And yeah, after this carry I was finding that I was still looser than I wanted after about a month, so this has really been helping with that.
Speaking of which, I'm going to switch over, show y'all the gym routine.
Cuts to DRIPS walking into a gym, pecs peeking out of his loose tanktop. He stretches a few times, and beams a grin at the camera. It fast-forwards as he crushes a round of squats, with a brief cut in to catch his round ass stretch his shorts.
Okay! So, we've got the five by fives- I cover that in way more detail in another video. Those are the essentials, squats, deadlifts. All the stuff you need to get around during a supercarry. The rest of the routine, though, is all focus on strength for the actual breeding process. It's fundamental- a solid breeding sesh will give you the best results.
First I've got the thigh crushes. First you wrap your ankles to each of the weight chains. Once the go over the pulley, the chains are short enough, they'll pull your legs apart. Then, doing an active hang from the overhead bar, you squeeze your thighs together. Keep your leg straight, and you should feel it right on the side of your thighs and glutes.
Second, we've got weighted leg lifts. Now, I've been doing this for a while, so each leg is rocking forty pounds, but you can start with nothing and work your way up. Lay on your back and lift them up, making sure to extend until your knees touch your chest. You should feel it both ways, so take the movement slowly. Endurance is important. Sustained tension is going to support a long knotting. Explosive strength is just going to, I don't know, launch your alpha right off of you.
Now, I like to switch my cardio to rows during recovery. I do five minutes sprints, on and off for 30 minutes. It really works the core and back and builds the capacity for longer, strenuous activity. I like sneaking a vibrator behind my balls for this. After a big carry, I get really sensitive, so it helps me build nerve endurance as well. Being able to focus and work through those sensations really make the difference between a heatmaxxer omega and a pet. Y'know Omegas really deal with a lot of stigma around just melting at the slightest arousal, but it just takes training. Practice.
Last but not fuckin' least, we have the anal lifts. Get a strong, metal plug, and clip that to your chain and kettle bell. Should be taut in squat, not deep, it's not about working the hams. Then... When you stand, clench, and your should lift the weight right up. Nnngh. Again, this is about endurance, if you are pushing past a minute, then you need to up the weight and stay careful you don't lock your knees.
It cuts back to the streamer's room as he flexes. The bottles are all put away, and he leans back into his microphone arm.
So... There we go! We've got a little less than eight weeks left. And yeah... I'm really pushing for it, I think we're going to break five this time.
Now, you Alpha's out there who thinks they're up for the challenge, keep an eye out at the links below or jump on my mailing list. I'll let you know as soon as breeding lottery is up. Before then, I'll be filming a little show so you can see what you're in for. And for my Omega brothers, keep up all the good work! If you're carrying, if you're recovering, if you're just starting your supercarry journey or if you're a seasoned pro... I love y'all. Catch you next time
He blows a kiss into the camera before he reaches up to turn off the recording.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75668896?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["ghost_afterparty"], "language": "English", "title": "Heatmaxxxing"}
|
somewhere only we know
“I want you to fuck me, Rozanov,” is the first thing Shane says as soon as the door closes behind him.
And, well, it’s certainly one way to greet Ilya. Cheeky, direct. It's such a shame that Ilya doesn't seem to appreciate it.
“Hello to you too, Hollander,” he says instead, a hand still on a door handle. When he looks Shane up and down, his eyebrow raises in that scrutinizing way Shane can’t stand. Not today. “It’s good to see you. Want some coffee?”
Asshole.
“It’s past midnight,” Shane answers.
That annoying eyebrow raises even higher.
“I know.”
“It’s too late for coffee.”
“Hmm.” Ilya’s lips press into a thin line for a second, as if deep in thought. When they part… “Tea then?”
Fucking asshole.
Shane seriously can’t stand him. Not here, not now. Not after the shit show that happened on ice just a few hours ago.
Something inside him bristles at the mere memory. Rage surges into his bloodstream.
“Cut it out,” he hisses right in Ilya's face. Or rather, in the direction Ilya’s face should be in. Somehow, tonight he’s unable to meet that molten gaze head-on – can only observe Ilya’s slightest twitches from the corner of his eye, cataloging his reactions. “If you have to, at least give me some vodka.”
Once again, Ilya only hums.
Anger tightens like a ring around Shane's arteries. Blood roars in his head. Nausea returns. So does the need to jump out of his skin. The need to scratch deep grooves into his arms, till he peels off everything that feels constricting.
He screwed up today. Completely screwed up, and everyone saw, Ilya included. That’s why…
“Jesus Christ, just fuck me,” he repeats with more heat than he expected to hold inside. It feels like throwing up, except no lightness follows. “Fucking fuck me, Rozanov, and then—”
“Amazing English,” Ilya cuts him off, still so casually. Too casually. “Been reading The New Yorker?”
Fucking, fucking asshole. Pretending as if everything’s alright. As if he hasn’t seen Shane royally mess up today, over and over again, until there was no way to save the damn score. Or maybe worse – maybe this is his weird, sarcastic way of dangling the failure over Shane’s head. Ha, that would be fitting. Shane’s loss is his win, after all. Bastard must be so happy.
This was such a bad idea.
“Whatever,” Shane spits out, turning back towards the door. “I’m leaving. I shouldn’t have come here anyway—”
He reaches for the door handle – and instead runs into Ilya’s hand. Calloused fingers wrap around his own. Tightly.
“What the—”
“Done throwing a hissy fit?” Ilya asks. “Or you need a moment longer, Hollander?”
“What do you think—”
“A moment longer, then,” Ilya decides – and yanks Shane towards himself so hard that Shane can’t help but stumble a few steps forward.
“What are you—”
“You played good today, you know that?”
It’s stupid how easily one sentence can put out all the anger burning in Shane’s chest. How it’s enough to make him let go: stop controlling his body and just fall face-first into Ilya’s chest. How in the moment he doesn’t even feel embarrassed.
Above all, it’s stupid how he expected exactly all of this to happen. How – even if only subconsciously – he’s come to Ilya because he wanted it to happen.
It’s one thing to hook up with his rival after an intense game – it’s completely different to come to him looking for comfort. The first one is dumb; the second even dumber.
And yet, Shane is here, and Ilya…
“You did your best,” he whispers, pressing his nose to the top of Shane’s head. “Team was shitty, but you did good, yeah?”
Shane lets out a long-held breath.
“Don’t talk about my team like that.”
Even right now, when doing something they can never know about, he feels protective of the guys he steps on ice with. And Ilya must find it endearing. Barely holding back a smirk, he presses his nose against Shane’s coarse hair even harder.
“Is true. They were shitty.” His hand finally lets go of Shane’s hand. Instead, his arms embrace Shane’s entire body. “You were… not perfect. But good. Compared with their shitty play.”
Shane’s deep breath turns into a huff.
“Thanks, asshole. You, on the other hand, sucked.”
“Aww!”
If Ilya tries to sound offended, he fails big time. Especially since right after he presses a small kiss into Shane’s head. And another one, right behind his ear.
The warmth returns, but it’s not fueled by anger anymore.
Shane’s eyes flutter, then close. His tense muscles relax, letting him melt into Ilya’s body. God, how he missed this feeling. It’s been over three months…
“You didn’t actually suck that much,” he mumbles.
Ilya lets out a small, triumphant, “Ha!”
“Still, you picked too many fights. Pointless fights, might I add,” Shane continues. “One day someone’s going to actually snap and break your nose or something.”
“That would be a pity. You like my nose.”
“Fuck off.”
The snort that escapes Shane’s throat is not elegant. Too bad. He can’t bring himself to care. The rhythm of his heart is peaceful now, pumping the blood through his veins without
|
somewhere only we know
“I want you to fuck me, Rozanov,” is the first thing Shane says as soon as the door closes behind him.
And, well, it’s certainly one way to greet Ilya. Cheeky, direct. It's such a shame that Ilya doesn't seem to appreciate it.
“Hello to you too, Hollander,” he says instead, a hand still on a door handle. When he looks Shane up and down, his eyebrow raises in that scrutinizing way Shane can’t stand. Not today. “It’s good to see you. Want some coffee?”
Asshole.
“It’s past midnight,” Shane answers.
That annoying eyebrow raises even higher.
“I know.”
“It’s too late for coffee.”
“Hmm.” Ilya’s lips press into a thin line for a second, as if deep in thought. When they part… “Tea then?”
Fucking asshole.
Shane seriously can’t stand him. Not here, not now. Not after the shit show that happened on ice just a few hours ago.
Something inside him bristles at the mere memory. Rage surges into his bloodstream.
“Cut it out,” he hisses right in Ilya's face. Or rather, in the direction Ilya’s face should be in. Somehow, tonight he’s unable to meet that molten gaze head-on – can only observe Ilya’s slightest twitches from the corner of his eye, cataloging his reactions. “If you have to, at least give me some vodka.”
Once again, Ilya only hums.
Anger tightens like a ring around Shane's arteries. Blood roars in his head. Nausea returns. So does the need to jump out of his skin. The need to scratch deep grooves into his arms, till he peels off everything that feels constricting.
He screwed up today. Completely screwed up, and everyone saw, Ilya included. That’s why…
“Jesus Christ, just fuck me,” he repeats with more heat than he expected to hold inside. It feels like throwing up, except no lightness follows. “Fucking fuck me, Rozanov, and then—”
“Amazing English,” Ilya cuts him off, still so casually. Too casually. “Been reading The New Yorker?”
Fucking, fucking asshole. Pretending as if everything’s alright. As if he hasn’t seen Shane royally mess up today, over and over again, until there was no way to save the damn score. Or maybe worse – maybe this is his weird, sarcastic way of dangling the failure over Shane’s head. Ha, that would be fitting. Shane’s loss is his win, after all. Bastard must be so happy.
This was such a bad idea.
“Whatever,” Shane spits out, turning back towards the door. “I’m leaving. I shouldn’t have come here anyway—”
He reaches for the door handle – and instead runs into Ilya’s hand. Calloused fingers wrap around his own. Tightly.
“What the—”
“Done throwing a hissy fit?” Ilya asks. “Or you need a moment longer, Hollander?”
“What do you think—”
“A moment longer, then,” Ilya decides – and yanks Shane towards himself so hard that Shane can’t help but stumble a few steps forward.
“What are you—”
“You played good today, you know that?”
It’s stupid how easily one sentence can put out all the anger burning in Shane’s chest. How it’s enough to make him let go: stop controlling his body and just fall face-first into Ilya’s chest. How in the moment he doesn’t even feel embarrassed.
Above all, it’s stupid how he expected exactly all of this to happen. How – even if only subconsciously – he’s come to Ilya because he wanted it to happen.
It’s one thing to hook up with his rival after an intense game – it’s completely different to come to him looking for comfort. The first one is dumb; the second even dumber.
And yet, Shane is here, and Ilya…
“You did your best,” he whispers, pressing his nose to the top of Shane’s head. “Team was shitty, but you did good, yeah?”
Shane lets out a long-held breath.
“Don’t talk about my team like that.”
Even right now, when doing something they can never know about, he feels protective of the guys he steps on ice with. And Ilya must find it endearing. Barely holding back a smirk, he presses his nose against Shane’s coarse hair even harder.
“Is true. They were shitty.” His hand finally lets go of Shane’s hand. Instead, his arms embrace Shane’s entire body. “You were… not perfect. But good. Compared with their shitty play.”
Shane’s deep breath turns into a huff.
“Thanks, asshole. You, on the other hand, sucked.”
“Aww!”
If Ilya tries to sound offended, he fails big time. Especially since right after he presses a small kiss into Shane’s head. And another one, right behind his ear.
The warmth returns, but it’s not fueled by anger anymore.
Shane’s eyes flutter, then close. His tense muscles relax, letting him melt into Ilya’s body. God, how he missed this feeling. It’s been over three months…
“You didn’t actually suck that much,” he mumbles.
Ilya lets out a small, triumphant, “Ha!”
“Still, you picked too many fights. Pointless fights, might I add,” Shane continues. “One day someone’s going to actually snap and break your nose or something.”
“That would be a pity. You like my nose.”
“Fuck off.”
The snort that escapes Shane’s throat is not elegant. Too bad. He can’t bring himself to care. The rhythm of his heart is peaceful now, pumping the blood through his veins without a sound. He almost forgot his body can be this quiet. In the off-season, without Ilya near, even his breathing has a tendency to be too loud. Which… Yeah. He’s not going to think about that, either. No matter what weird dreams he's been having about Ilya recently, their relationship isn’t like that. It’s purely physical.
“For the record,” he whispers with face still pressed into Ilya’s neck, “I did mean it when I said I want you to fuck me, Rozanov.”
This time it’s Ilya’s turn to snort.
“Alright,” he answers in a tone somewhere between sarcasm and amusement. His hand slides down Shane’s back, one finger running over the line of Shane’s spine until it reaches his pants. There, his thumbs hook into the belt loops.
“I’ll fuck you in a second, Hollander.”
It’s a promise – one Ilya often gives and always keeps. That’s why, when their lips meet, and the slow kisses turn Shane's mind into foam, he tries not to worry. They'll end up in bed anyway, just as they should. Without any unnecessary feelings.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75668901?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["under_the_bracken"], "language": "English", "title": "somewhere only we know"}
|
Into My Embrace
Ralph stood at a pier, gazing out into the ocean. A chilly winter breeze swept by and ruffled the fair boy’s brown locks. The waves causing the wood to creak underneath his feet. The pier has long since been abandoned due to residents and workers moving to more industrialized areas. The lighthouse was no longer in service, and all that’s left on the pier are some old lamps fizzing in and out of life, not knowing when the glow will shine its last second.
Unlike himself who knew exactly when and how he would end, Ralph chuckled bitterly.
Despite 15 years having past, Ralph had never lived a day past the events of the island. His family had moved to wherever his father was serving at shortly after arriving at the docks and reuniting with his parents. He had finished an education he could not remember, and worked a job he could not recall, for he was plagued by memories of his dead peers every waking moment of his life. Simon, Peter, and many others hadn’t made it back, and neither had him.
A few years after his return, his father died during deployment. And a month ago, his mother died of an illness. Which illness it was, he could not recall.
The beast has got her! The beast! Kill the pig, skin the pig, spill its blood.
Neverending chants continued as Ralph quit his job and sold his apartment, buying a train ticket and making the 2-day trip back to where it started. He had gotten off the stop two towns over, where people still lived at, and walked all the way to the abandoned pier, ditching his blazer halfway through the walk. Britain’s winter did nothing to quell the flames nicking at him anyway.
Ralph stood at the pier. He hadn’t eaten since getting off the train, his stomach growled to notify him of the fact. The creaking of the wood and the crashing of the waves filled the otherwise isolated atmosphere, but he could not hear any of it. The boy’s ears were still filled with the hysterical screams of hunters and the crackling of trees as the fire consumed them.
Kill the pig, skin the pig, spill its blood.
“Long time no see, pretty boy.” A voice called out behind him, cutting through otherwise quiet night.
A voice too familiar. Of a chief. Of a certain redhead.
Ralph didn’t reply, turning around to face none other than Jack Merridew. Even under the dim glow of the pier lamps, it was obvious that the man had thrived after the incident. The long coat he wore outside of his tailored suit clearly kept the icy air at bay, his red hair still messy, but in an intentional way that highlighted his infuriatingly blessed facial proportions.
It seems that the 15 years have treated him kindly. How unfair, when it only continued to torment Ralph.
--
Jack had not expected to see Ralph. He had just taken some time off runnning his family's company and decided to take a trip down memory lane, in some kind of twisted longing and perhaps a feeling tugging him towards the pier. The pier they first docked on when the navy took them away from the island and back to civilization.
The freckled man had mixed feelings about the island. It was a satisfying release from the rules and regulations of society. He was finally respected, no boring adult was there to tell him what to do. Instead, he was in charge, all the little-uns looked to him for directions, for guidance.
All except one.
Responsible Ralph, civilized Ralph, gorgeous Ralph, with his silky brown locks and fair complexion and hazel eyes. Eyes he could stare at all day and still find them captivating.
Jack felt guilty to remember how breathtaking Ralph’s face had been when he hunted him down, when the sharpened end of his spear was pointed at the angel. A face of fear, of resolve, of defiance. Ralph had disappeared the moment he was reunited with his family, presumably moving away to accommodate his father’s deployment. Oh how Jack would gladly give up his family fortune if it meant finding Ralph again.
The hour drive through abandoned towns meant only he was going to be at the pier, the one he was reintroduced to the boring society. When he arrived at the pier, no other car had been there. So he thought he saw a ghost on the pier when a pale silhouette appeared under the musty pier lights.
He hadn’t expected to find the beautiful boy from once upon a time standing in front of him, wearing only a simple white shirt, black slacks and beaten leather shoes. The man’s hair appeared to be neatly trimmed, a very characteristic sign of the man’s devotion to civilization.
“Long time no see, pretty boy.” Jack called out, partially to confirm that his eyes weren’t tricking him.
Despite his pathetic excuse of a winter attire doing nothing to keep off the cold, Ralph did not shiver, remaining still as his eyes met Jack’s own. The brunette’s face remained as ethereal as Jack remembered, his bone structure matured to compliment the beautiful face Jack dreamed of constantly. Jack frowned a little at the man’s empty eyes and sunken cheeks, making it obvious that life had not
|
Into My Embrace
Ralph stood at a pier, gazing out into the ocean. A chilly winter breeze swept by and ruffled the fair boy’s brown locks. The waves causing the wood to creak underneath his feet. The pier has long since been abandoned due to residents and workers moving to more industrialized areas. The lighthouse was no longer in service, and all that’s left on the pier are some old lamps fizzing in and out of life, not knowing when the glow will shine its last second.
Unlike himself who knew exactly when and how he would end, Ralph chuckled bitterly.
Despite 15 years having past, Ralph had never lived a day past the events of the island. His family had moved to wherever his father was serving at shortly after arriving at the docks and reuniting with his parents. He had finished an education he could not remember, and worked a job he could not recall, for he was plagued by memories of his dead peers every waking moment of his life. Simon, Peter, and many others hadn’t made it back, and neither had him.
A few years after his return, his father died during deployment. And a month ago, his mother died of an illness. Which illness it was, he could not recall.
The beast has got her! The beast! Kill the pig, skin the pig, spill its blood.
Neverending chants continued as Ralph quit his job and sold his apartment, buying a train ticket and making the 2-day trip back to where it started. He had gotten off the stop two towns over, where people still lived at, and walked all the way to the abandoned pier, ditching his blazer halfway through the walk. Britain’s winter did nothing to quell the flames nicking at him anyway.
Ralph stood at the pier. He hadn’t eaten since getting off the train, his stomach growled to notify him of the fact. The creaking of the wood and the crashing of the waves filled the otherwise isolated atmosphere, but he could not hear any of it. The boy’s ears were still filled with the hysterical screams of hunters and the crackling of trees as the fire consumed them.
Kill the pig, skin the pig, spill its blood.
“Long time no see, pretty boy.” A voice called out behind him, cutting through otherwise quiet night.
A voice too familiar. Of a chief. Of a certain redhead.
Ralph didn’t reply, turning around to face none other than Jack Merridew. Even under the dim glow of the pier lamps, it was obvious that the man had thrived after the incident. The long coat he wore outside of his tailored suit clearly kept the icy air at bay, his red hair still messy, but in an intentional way that highlighted his infuriatingly blessed facial proportions.
It seems that the 15 years have treated him kindly. How unfair, when it only continued to torment Ralph.
--
Jack had not expected to see Ralph. He had just taken some time off runnning his family's company and decided to take a trip down memory lane, in some kind of twisted longing and perhaps a feeling tugging him towards the pier. The pier they first docked on when the navy took them away from the island and back to civilization.
The freckled man had mixed feelings about the island. It was a satisfying release from the rules and regulations of society. He was finally respected, no boring adult was there to tell him what to do. Instead, he was in charge, all the little-uns looked to him for directions, for guidance.
All except one.
Responsible Ralph, civilized Ralph, gorgeous Ralph, with his silky brown locks and fair complexion and hazel eyes. Eyes he could stare at all day and still find them captivating.
Jack felt guilty to remember how breathtaking Ralph’s face had been when he hunted him down, when the sharpened end of his spear was pointed at the angel. A face of fear, of resolve, of defiance. Ralph had disappeared the moment he was reunited with his family, presumably moving away to accommodate his father’s deployment. Oh how Jack would gladly give up his family fortune if it meant finding Ralph again.
The hour drive through abandoned towns meant only he was going to be at the pier, the one he was reintroduced to the boring society. When he arrived at the pier, no other car had been there. So he thought he saw a ghost on the pier when a pale silhouette appeared under the musty pier lights.
He hadn’t expected to find the beautiful boy from once upon a time standing in front of him, wearing only a simple white shirt, black slacks and beaten leather shoes. The man’s hair appeared to be neatly trimmed, a very characteristic sign of the man’s devotion to civilization.
“Long time no see, pretty boy.” Jack called out, partially to confirm that his eyes weren’t tricking him.
Despite his pathetic excuse of a winter attire doing nothing to keep off the cold, Ralph did not shiver, remaining still as his eyes met Jack’s own. The brunette’s face remained as ethereal as Jack remembered, his bone structure matured to compliment the beautiful face Jack dreamed of constantly. Jack frowned a little at the man’s empty eyes and sunken cheeks, making it obvious that life had not been as kind to Ralph as it had to himself.
“How are you not cold? It’s freezing out here.” Jack tried to make conversation, but the other man remained silent, simply look at him. Or through him, judging by his gaze.
Ralph turned back towards to endless sea, as if Jack didn’t exist. Slightly irritated, Jack smirked and dug up the past, trying to reignite the fiery spurt he had the pleasure of seeing all those years ago.
“Are you here to reminisce too? Happy anniversary to the both of us, then.”
No rebuttal was made. Nor any sort of reaction came from the other. A tense silence fell between the two of them, and Jack was worried that it really wasn’t the angelic boy from all those years ago. Until a low, steady voice cut through the silence like a knife gliding through soft butter.
“You can finish it, you know. I’m done running.”
“Pardon?” Jack’s smirk fell and his eye widened as guilt rose within him. He knew exactly what the other was referring to.
His mistake, the one prey that got away.
The one who Jack thanked God every night that it did.
--
Ralph slowly walked along one of the longer docks towards the ocean, one step in front of another, each step bringing back a memory. Of yelling, of spears sharpened at one end, of pigs, of fire.
Of hope going up in smoke, along with the island.
Every single second of the past 15 years, Ralph could only feel the agonizing pain of fire cracking underneath his skin, hot sand nipping at the soles of his feet. The winter chill did nothing to help, only fanning at the flames in his mind.
“Come now, Merridew. I’m finally asking for it. Why the hesitation?” Ralph closed his eyes as he smiled at the pitch black ocean. One step, and the water will invite him into their cool embrace. The ocean will finally extinguish the burning pain. The mistake of his survival will finally be corrected.
Something will be done by the end of the night, be it by Merridew’s hands, or the deep waters.
“I don’t— I’m not—I’m not the chief anymore. Not since we came back.” Jack paced the docks in urgent strides, hoping to catch up to Ralph. The thump of each hurried step bounced against the crashing of the waves.
“What a shame. You’ve fared well after leaving. And I’m the only one who is still stuck on the damned island.” The brunette turned to face him, a single stream of silent tears flowing down his left cheek. Despite that, Ralph was smiling, as if the wind whisked away his burden. The pale man’s expression only served to further worry Jack, a chill creeping up his spine.
“Ralph—” Jack took one step towards the other man. Ralph turned his back towards the redhead, once again facing the flowing waters.
“I sincerely wish you all the best, Merridew,” He bid his last goodbye. “It’s finally my turn.”
“Don’t!”
Ralph took a step off the edge, fully expecting to plunge into the cold, dark abyss. Instead, two sturdy arms hooked around his waists and yanked him back, causing both men to fall back onto the dock. Ralph was stunned, then struggled in Jack’s arms, trying to get back into the water, where he could finally be free, but the other man wouldn’t budge.
“Let go!” Frustrated tears rolled down Ralph’s face as he kept trying to pry the arms away from him. He needed to go. His chance to depart from the scalding chains of the world was so close, he would be delusional to deny it and stay. He kept struggling in the firm grip, fighting for his chance to get away. It wasn’t until a mop of red hair appeared in his teary vision and the feeling of a face buried in his neck when he stilled.
--
“Please.” Jack whispered a plea into the crying man’s neck. He kept his arms securely wrapped around Ralph in case the man tried to jump back into the sea. The man was ice cold, and probably would not have survived had he jumped. Jack finally relaxed when Ralph stopped struggling and went limp, remaining wrapped around Ralph as the brown-haired man broke down and wept in his arms.
Half an hour went by without either man saying anything. Jack looked at Ralph to check, finding that the frail man had stopped crying, opting to stare blankly downwards. Jack carefully got up and helped (lifted) the other up, taking the other’s cold hand and gently leading him away from the pier and towards his car. Ralph did not say anything, eyes blankly staring at the ground as Jack eased him into the passenger seat. The redhead fastened Ralph’s seatbelt, the shrugged off his own winter coat and draped it over the pale man, who gave no reaction and continued to stare downwards.
Jack slid into the drivers seat, thankful that he had a healthy amount of muscle built up and was somewhat resistant to the cold, unlike the concerningly skinny Ralph. “To my place.” He looked over to the man in question for any sign of protest, and found that Ralph was now blankly staring out of his passenger window instead of downwards, still unresponsive.
The drive to Jack’s house was uneventfully quiet, with Jack checking every now and then to make sure his car doors were locked, just in case Ralph decided to escape and head back to the pier.
Upon arriving, Jack made his way over to the other side of the car to open the door for Ralph, only to find the pale man asleep, his head slightly tilted. Even haggard and unconscious, Ralph still managed to have the kind of beauty Jack had only ever read about in books talking about fae and nymphs. Not wanting to disturb the well-needed rest of the sleeping beauty, Jack cautiously lifted the delicate man off the car seat and carried him into his house, meticulously removing their shoes and beelining towards his bedroom.
Jack gingerly laid Ralph on his bed and covered him with a duvet. Placing a featherlight kiss on the sleeping man’s hair before turning to head to the guest room for the night. Just as he stepped out the door, a shuffling sound drew his attention back to the bed, where he found Ralph curling in on himself and gripping the duvet so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Concerned, Jack grabbed a blanket and gently layered it over the duvet.
He was about to leave when he felt a small tug on his sleeve. The freckled man looked down and saw Ralph’s hand had let go of the duvet and changed to grip Jack’s shirt. The man himself, however, remained unconscious and unaware, remaining in deep slumber.
“We will talk about this tomorrow, Ralph.” He muttered as he removed his suit and climbed under the covers to join the other. Ralph’s sleeping face scrunched up and his body shrunk away towards the other side of the bed, but Jack hugged Ralph close, determined not to let the man go. The redhead buried his face in Ralph’s chest, finding comfort in his heartbeat as he drifted off to sleep.
They will talk more tomorrow, hopefully.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75666486
|
{"authors": ["Cookies_and_Crack"], "language": "English", "title": "Into My Embrace"}
|
basic need
It’s time to wake the little one.
II opened his eyes with a smile and was up and out of bed without delay.
He was slow to open the door to Vessel’s room and tried not to have his excitement take over when he saw the smaller-than-usual lump under the duvet and a mop of lighter hair on the pillow.
“Sweetheart?” II carefully sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on top of the blankets. He didn’t pull them off yet, even though part of him really wanted to. He wanted to be gentle, first and foremost. “It’s time to wake up,” he tried softly, rubbing his hand over what he recognized as a thin arm. There was some shifting and a small sound of waking. II smiled and used three fingers to hook into the edge of the blanket and pull it lower, so he could see a sleepy face. “Good morning,” he greeted with a warm smile, keeping up with the movements of his other hand.
Vessel blinked at him slowly, then his lips spread into a sleepy smile behind his comfort blanket.
“Morning,” II greeted again, just because he could. His heart was beating so fast and he couldn’t contain his smile. He was so excited and happy to see that little face.
Vessel steadied his little blanket at his collar and moved to sit up, then tucked up to the warmth of II’s chest, meeting his sleepy warmth with his own.
II was quick to hold him and pull him closer. The little boy was so warm and small, he had half a mind to just scoop him up and tuck the two of them right back in for a proper cuddle. He had different plans, though.
“Morning.” He dropped kisses to Vessel’s hair and lightly swayed with him. “Welcome, little bug. I’m so happy you’re here.” They stayed like that for a long minute, with II rubbing Vessel’s back, then the man gave him a gentle squeeze as he said, “I love you.”
The boy wiggled and then six round, brown eyes blinked up at II, slightly out of sync from sleepy delight. “I love you!” Vessel surged forward for another hug, pressing his face into his shirt like he wanted to press up against II’s heart directly. “Love you!” he repeated, fiddling with his blanket with one hand while the other held onto II’s shirt.
II chuckled. He moved a hand to stroke his hair, noting how Vessel’s fist stilled in his comfort item as if to process the other sensation. “Cuddlebug,” he murmured fondly. “How about we wash your little face, then get breakfast, hm?”
Vessel let him lead him to the bathroom after tucking his blankie beside his pillow.
Soon, II was shepherding him downstairs and setting breakfast on the table. They ate and II could indulge in cutting up the little boy’s grilled cheese and some fruit they shared. He made sure Vessel knew he could leave food on his plate, then together they cleaned up.
He hung the tea towel beside the sink and reached for one of Vessel’s hands. “Time to get ready now, lovey. The zoo awaits.”
Vessel’s eyes went round at that, making him look very much like a bug. He searched II’s face and his eyes crinkled when the man nodded and squeezed his hand.
II was already fairly sure he chose right but that quiet but sweet reaction confirmed it. The weather wasn’t the warmest for outside activities, but Vessel once said - or more like muttered, in that forever quiet way of his - something that made him pick this as their program for the day: do you think maybe the animals are a little lonely when less people visit them in winter?
II didn’t know if that was the case but he knew his love wasn’t fully joking and actually was wondering whether the animals might be sad that people don’t want to go to the zoo when it’s cold out. He suspected that empathy ran even deeper while Vessel was in a child’s body and with his regular mind, according to Sleep, a little clouded to more or less match a child’s headspace, so Vessel could get some rest and experience the comfort and affection of an attentive caregiver.
Upstairs, II almost faltered, but was encouraged to step to Vessel’s wardrobe and open it. To his relief, it was filled with a selection of children’s clothes, so he stood aside and brushed Vessel’s hair back, seeing his hesitant interest.
“Pick what you like best, baby,” he urged gently, knowing that Vessel would need a bit of time to go over what was a fairly wide selection. II suspected it was definitely more than he had had when he was actually that age, based on his round eyes and careful hands that reached out to touch a fuzzy sweater. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned, pulling his sweater over his head, Vessel was already half-dressed. The straps of his dungarees dragged behind him with a soft clank as he returned to the one of the shelves to pick out a sweater. His choice fell on a knitted one with what looked like a line of fluffy cows just below the collar. He pulled it on and spotted II while his small hands searched for arm holes, but his feet were already carrying him to the man.
II crouched and helped him finish putting the sweater on, then opened his arms for him and wrapped them around Vessel
|
basic need
It’s time to wake the little one.
II opened his eyes with a smile and was up and out of bed without delay.
He was slow to open the door to Vessel’s room and tried not to have his excitement take over when he saw the smaller-than-usual lump under the duvet and a mop of lighter hair on the pillow.
“Sweetheart?” II carefully sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on top of the blankets. He didn’t pull them off yet, even though part of him really wanted to. He wanted to be gentle, first and foremost. “It’s time to wake up,” he tried softly, rubbing his hand over what he recognized as a thin arm. There was some shifting and a small sound of waking. II smiled and used three fingers to hook into the edge of the blanket and pull it lower, so he could see a sleepy face. “Good morning,” he greeted with a warm smile, keeping up with the movements of his other hand.
Vessel blinked at him slowly, then his lips spread into a sleepy smile behind his comfort blanket.
“Morning,” II greeted again, just because he could. His heart was beating so fast and he couldn’t contain his smile. He was so excited and happy to see that little face.
Vessel steadied his little blanket at his collar and moved to sit up, then tucked up to the warmth of II’s chest, meeting his sleepy warmth with his own.
II was quick to hold him and pull him closer. The little boy was so warm and small, he had half a mind to just scoop him up and tuck the two of them right back in for a proper cuddle. He had different plans, though.
“Morning.” He dropped kisses to Vessel’s hair and lightly swayed with him. “Welcome, little bug. I’m so happy you’re here.” They stayed like that for a long minute, with II rubbing Vessel’s back, then the man gave him a gentle squeeze as he said, “I love you.”
The boy wiggled and then six round, brown eyes blinked up at II, slightly out of sync from sleepy delight. “I love you!” Vessel surged forward for another hug, pressing his face into his shirt like he wanted to press up against II’s heart directly. “Love you!” he repeated, fiddling with his blanket with one hand while the other held onto II’s shirt.
II chuckled. He moved a hand to stroke his hair, noting how Vessel’s fist stilled in his comfort item as if to process the other sensation. “Cuddlebug,” he murmured fondly. “How about we wash your little face, then get breakfast, hm?”
Vessel let him lead him to the bathroom after tucking his blankie beside his pillow.
Soon, II was shepherding him downstairs and setting breakfast on the table. They ate and II could indulge in cutting up the little boy’s grilled cheese and some fruit they shared. He made sure Vessel knew he could leave food on his plate, then together they cleaned up.
He hung the tea towel beside the sink and reached for one of Vessel’s hands. “Time to get ready now, lovey. The zoo awaits.”
Vessel’s eyes went round at that, making him look very much like a bug. He searched II’s face and his eyes crinkled when the man nodded and squeezed his hand.
II was already fairly sure he chose right but that quiet but sweet reaction confirmed it. The weather wasn’t the warmest for outside activities, but Vessel once said - or more like muttered, in that forever quiet way of his - something that made him pick this as their program for the day: do you think maybe the animals are a little lonely when less people visit them in winter?
II didn’t know if that was the case but he knew his love wasn’t fully joking and actually was wondering whether the animals might be sad that people don’t want to go to the zoo when it’s cold out. He suspected that empathy ran even deeper while Vessel was in a child’s body and with his regular mind, according to Sleep, a little clouded to more or less match a child’s headspace, so Vessel could get some rest and experience the comfort and affection of an attentive caregiver.
Upstairs, II almost faltered, but was encouraged to step to Vessel’s wardrobe and open it. To his relief, it was filled with a selection of children’s clothes, so he stood aside and brushed Vessel’s hair back, seeing his hesitant interest.
“Pick what you like best, baby,” he urged gently, knowing that Vessel would need a bit of time to go over what was a fairly wide selection. II suspected it was definitely more than he had had when he was actually that age, based on his round eyes and careful hands that reached out to touch a fuzzy sweater. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned, pulling his sweater over his head, Vessel was already half-dressed. The straps of his dungarees dragged behind him with a soft clank as he returned to the one of the shelves to pick out a sweater. His choice fell on a knitted one with what looked like a line of fluffy cows just below the collar. He pulled it on and spotted II while his small hands searched for arm holes, but his feet were already carrying him to the man.
II crouched and helped him finish putting the sweater on, then opened his arms for him and wrapped them around Vessel once he stepped between them.
“Look at you, all dressed, love. Good job!” he praised. He looked the boy over to make sure he dressed warmly, then helped him do up his dungarees. “All set?” Vessel answered with an enthusiastic nod, so II kissed his forehead and stood. “Let’s go pack some snacks, then.”
To both their delight, two backpacks, one simple black and the other shaped like a dinosaur were waiting for them, sitting on the couch. II packed them some drinks and snacks to last them until lunch, then put the bags in the car. After Vessel was in a warm coat with a scarf, they set out, mostly listening to the radio. II didn’t push Vessel to talk and the little boy seemed content looking out the window and spending the drive waking up some more and listening to II. As if no time had passed, II pulled into the zoo parking lot, finding a free spot easily.
Getting out, he made sure the straps of Vessel’s backpack were a comfortable length, then he took a small, warm hand, so they could get their tickets. Vessel was shy greeting the cashier, but II simply stroked his hair with an approving smile and handed him the map as they thanked the woman and entered the zoo.
They started near the entrance, reading signs about the inhabitants and how they handled the cold weather. Since it was nearby, II steered Vessel toward the gift shop, both so he could browse while he still had the energy and because II thought he might like it if he had a friend to take along as they explored the zoo.
He encouraged the boy to take the plushies in hand to see which one he liked best. Vessel did so, quietly and carefully, but II knew his heart was captured when he stopped at a fuzzy ray and gently hugged it to himself, then looked at II, seeking approval. II just checked to make sure it was the one he wanted, then ushered him to the counter, so he could pay for the ray that Vessel didn’t even have to let go of, because the woman at the register reached down to scan the tag, smiling first at him, then at II.
Once outside, II made sure they were out of the way on the path and that Vessel’s plushie was safe between them, then hugged him. Vessel held onto his ray tight but put his other arm around II who let him take the comfort he needed, in no rush to let go either.
After a few minutes, they resumed their walk, taking their time and chatting about what they saw. II didn’t want to tie Vessel to himself by constantly holding his hand but offered it when he noticed that the boy was keeping close to his side or when they entered the Night House where only dim lights provided guidance for visitors. There were less animals to see in their usual habitats and noticeably less people around but neither of them minded. They were checking out some exhibitions housed in a building near the midpoint of the zoo, when II realized Vessel had been sticking to his side for a while and getting a little slower.
He stopped and stroked the back of Vessel’s hand. “Are you a little tired, lovey?” At a shy nod, II leaned down to take his backpack off for him and pointed to some benches nearby. “That’s okay. Come on, let’s sit down for a bit.”
Vessel followed and sat close, petting his ray as if unsure what to do while II dug into their bags.
“I think a snack might help. What do you say, bug?”
The boy nodded again and agreed quietly, “Okay.”
II pulled out two juice boxes and offered a packet of biscuits and another of some small salty pretzels. Vessel put his finger on the biscuits, so II got it open and set it down between them.
“We haven’t visited everyone yet.” II cocked his brows with a smile when Vessel looked at him after getting his straw into his juice box. The boy smiled, visibly more energized, even from just sitting down and snacking on some biscuits. II wanted to see more of that carefree expression, so he asked to see the map. “What’s still left to see, love?”
Vessel wiggled closer and laid his ray down in his lap, then went through which parts of the zoo they hadn’t been to yet, drawing onto the map with his finger. II nodded along and they discussed which animals must be the grouchiest because of the chilly weather. Vessel was all smiles, hugging his plushie, then reached for II’s hand again as they exited the building and resumed their walk.
It was a little cold, but II made sure Vessel’s scarf kept the slight wind out and offered him the beanie and gloves he packed in the morning, putting some on himself. The weather wasn’t unpleasant, though, and Vessel seemed refreshed after their snack break, ready to see what was left.
They wrapped up their trip with a stop at a nearby restaurant, a fast-food place that surprisingly wasn’t full of people looking for someplace to warm up. II suspected it might have had something to do with the goosebumps he felt on his nape when they entered, but he just placed their order and got them a table, chatting with Vessel, happy to see that he was pleasantly tired but not yet overtired.
Vessel was neat for a child, if a bit on the far side of shy, but neither came as a surprise to II. He also ate quietly, then sat back with his ray in his lap after wiping his mouth and hands. II was still eating but that wasn’t surprising either, seeing how small Vessel’s appetite was. II didn’t push him, just checked in to make sure he was full.
He finished eating, too, and smiled warmly when Vessel made eye contact, nibbling on his straw while sipping his drink.
“What did you like best today, baby?”
Vessel thought for longer than II expected, apparently struggling to come up with an answer. II realized he might have made a mistake with the out-of-the-blue question, but then the boy seemed to arrive at something, judging from the way his face lit up slightly.
“Everything,” came the soft reply, with Vessel tucking his ray under his chin and looking a little embarrassed.
II was fairly sure he made an involuntary noise of affection. He beamed at Vessel and put his hand on the table, palm up. At first, Vessel reached out, then lifted his ray, too, so its fin and his hand could both rest in II’s. It only made II’s eyes crinkle more.
“I agree, love. Everything was very nice today.” II nodded, giving Vessel’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I had a lot of fun, too.”
Vessel smiled a closed-lipped but bright smile, all six eyes gleaming, then got out of his chair for a hug. II’s heart squeezed in surprise at the sudden and enthusiastic gesture after seeing the boy behave fairly timidly the whole day. He had an armful of a very content little guy and reveled in the affection, both received and given.
The drive home was quiet again and II started to notice signs of tiredness in Vessel. At home, they changed into cozy clothes, then curled up on the couch to wind down after the journey. Vessel snuggled up to II’s side, nuzzling his ray, then later let himself be loosely wrapped in a throw while II left to make a quick dinner. He wanted Vessel to have a home-cooked meal after a day out and kept an eye on the boy as he watched TV, blinks getting slower and more out of sync as time passed.
After dinner, II drew him a warm bath, then found him in his bed after his own shower, curled up with his blankie and plushie. He had soft pajamas on, courtesy of Sleep, and was quick to shift closer once II laid down for a cuddle before bedtime.
Vessel tucked his head into the crook of II’s neck with a sleepy, content sound and let himself melt into the feeling of being held, struggling to keep his eyes open while surrounded with so much warmth.
“I love you so much, Vessel,” II said right beside his ear after kissing his cheek. “Little lovebug.” He nuzzled him, hoping Vessel felt his smile, then hugged him tight, feeling giddy at how easy it was to hold all of him and roll onto his back with the boy as a bundle of warmth in his arms.
II held him, unhurried and gentle, rubbing his back and stroking his hair as they half-heartedly watched the tail end of a movie II was sure they had seen numerous times before. It didn’t matter, though. Vessel was relaxed in his arms, taking comfort in him and his comfort items, burrowing closer when II gave a tired chuckle at a joke he knew was coming.
He kissed the top of Vessel’s head again because he could and because he adored how Vessel seemed to duck his head at the gesture, all smiley and sleepy delight.
“I love you,” he murmured, feeling all gooey and like his body couldn’t contain all the love he felt.
When Vessel didn’t react or reply, II realized he had fallen asleep. He gently laid the boy down beside him and tucked him in with his plushie, then made sure he had his blankie at his chin, right where he liked to press his face into it. Then he spent some time stroking his hair and dropping featherlight kisses to it and his forehead and finally laid down some distance away, so they both had space if they moved around in their sleep. II knew he did, and he didn’t want to disturb his little boy’s rest or push him to the edge of the bed.
He listened to Vessel’s breaths a little longer after he clicked the light off, then drifted off, too.
II woke to a sliver of sunlight bathing the room in gentle light and the feeling of a tall body curled up surprisingly small behind him. He turned onto his other side and was met with the image of six eyes slowly searching his face and a bottom lip being nibbled on, barely hidden behind the head of a ray plushie.
“Morning, love,” he greeted, slow from sleep and affection.
Vessel shifted and wrapped an arm around his back, almost enveloping him with his frame, but still managing to make II feel as if he was no taller than him.
“You said we weren’t gonna do anything special,” Vessel spoke quietly over his shoulder, sounding a little confused and worried.
“We didn’t,” II replied simply.
Vessel pulled back to give him a look, a mix of nervous and embarrassed, sorry and sad.
II smiled sadly in turn, tilting his head a little as he slid his palm over his partner’s cheek.
“We didn’t,” he repeated, then leaned in to press a tender kiss to Vessel’s worried lips.
The man seemed to try and consider that, deflating with a sigh when he couldn’t manage to wrap his head around the previous day.
“And you know you can always just ask, love,” II reminded, looking between his eyes to make sure Vessel understood. “Sleep said so.”
With that, he pulled the man close and rubbed circles between his shoulder blades as they lay together, blankie and ray lying pressed between them.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75666496
|
{"authors": ["bubatron"], "language": "English", "title": "basic need"}
|
just this once
The next week rolled around faster than either of them expected. Another town, another arena, another night of pyro and noise. But something felt different the moment Kat walked through the backstage doors.
Maybe it was that Terri wasn’t hiding behind crates waiting to ambush her.
Maybe it was that Kat didn’t feel the need to watch her back.
Maybe it was the realization that their moment in the dim hallway had actually meant something. That it hadn’t just been a fluke incident.
Kat found Terri in the makeup area, already in her gear, leaning forward in the chair as the stylist touched up her lipstick. She looked impatient, pouting at her reflection, tapping her nails on the counter.
The second she caught Kat in the mirror, though, her expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“Hey,” Kat said, waving as she passed by.
Terri tried to give her a smirk — her usual weapon of choice — but it fizzled out halfway, collapsing into something gentler.
“Hi,” she murmured back.
Just that. Just hi. But behind that simple greeting was warmth. Electricity. The knowledge that Terri was opening herself up to Kat. Allowing herself to be vulnerable.
Allowing Kat to really see her.
The stylist moved, giving them a clear line of sight. Kat lingered in the doorway, unsure if she was reading too much into the openness in Terri’s eyes. Terri glanced at the stylist, then back at Kat, then tilted her head toward the hallway.
A silent question: Can you wait for me?
Kat nodded.
A few minutes later, Terri slipped out, her usual confidence tucked away like a piece of ring gear she hadn’t put on yet.
“Well?” she said, folding her arms, but the stance lacked its old bite. “Are you going to say something or just stare at me?”
Kat laughed. “You waved me over.”
“I didn’t wave,” Terri protested. “I gestured. Elegantly.”
Kat stepped closer. “You asked me to wait.”
Terri blinked — caught. “…Possibly.”
They stood in a quiet corner backstage, where the noise of the arena was nothing but distant echoes. Terri fidgeted with the hem of her top, eyes darting away when Kat looked directly at her.
“So,” Kat said gently, “how are you feeling?”
Terri scoffed, looking offended at the very suggestion of feelings. “Fine.”
Kat raised an eyebrow.
Terri deflated. “Nervous. Happy. Annoyed. I don’t know, Kat, I don’t do this.”
Kat brushed a strand of hair behind Terri’s ear, touching her so lightly Terri barely breathed.
“You’re doing just fine,” Kat whispered.
Terri’s eyes shimmered. Not with tears — Terri wouldn’t allow that — but with something quieter, something new. She swallowed hard.
“…Can I—” Terri started, then stopped. Her voice dropped. “Can I have a hug?”
Kat’s heart melted instantly. She stepped forward, looping her arms gently around Terri’s waist. Terri hesitated for a fraction of a second before burying her face against Kat’s shoulder, arms tightening around her like she’d been waiting years for permission.
Kat stroked her back, slow and steady. “Just this once, huh?”
Terri huffed a laugh into her shoulder. “Don’t push your luck.”
But she didn’t let go.
A stagehand rounded the corner, froze, and awkwardly backed away without saying a word.
Terri pulled back first — just enough to look at Kat. Her hands remained on Kat’s hips.
“This doesn’t mean anything dramatic,” she said quickly. “No labels. No weirdness. Just—just whatever this is.”
Kat smiled softly. “Whatever this is sounds good to me.”
A beat, then:
Terri leaned in, pressed the gentlest kiss to Kat’s cheek, then pulled back like she’d done something scandalous.
“…Don’t tell anyone,” Terri whispered.
Kat squeezed her hands. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Terri nodded, exhaled shakily, then took Kat’s hand — briefly, just for a heartbeat — before letting go and slipping back toward the chaos of the arena.
Kat watched her go, warmth spreading through her chest.
Whatever this was…whatever it was becoming…
It was real.
And it was theirs.
|
just this once
The next week rolled around faster than either of them expected. Another town, another arena, another night of pyro and noise. But something felt different the moment Kat walked through the backstage doors.
Maybe it was that Terri wasn’t hiding behind crates waiting to ambush her.
Maybe it was that Kat didn’t feel the need to watch her back.
Maybe it was the realization that their moment in the dim hallway had actually meant something. That it hadn’t just been a fluke incident.
Kat found Terri in the makeup area, already in her gear, leaning forward in the chair as the stylist touched up her lipstick. She looked impatient, pouting at her reflection, tapping her nails on the counter.
The second she caught Kat in the mirror, though, her expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“Hey,” Kat said, waving as she passed by.
Terri tried to give her a smirk — her usual weapon of choice — but it fizzled out halfway, collapsing into something gentler.
“Hi,” she murmured back.
Just that. Just hi. But behind that simple greeting was warmth. Electricity. The knowledge that Terri was opening herself up to Kat. Allowing herself to be vulnerable.
Allowing Kat to really see her.
The stylist moved, giving them a clear line of sight. Kat lingered in the doorway, unsure if she was reading too much into the openness in Terri’s eyes. Terri glanced at the stylist, then back at Kat, then tilted her head toward the hallway.
A silent question: Can you wait for me?
Kat nodded.
A few minutes later, Terri slipped out, her usual confidence tucked away like a piece of ring gear she hadn’t put on yet.
“Well?” she said, folding her arms, but the stance lacked its old bite. “Are you going to say something or just stare at me?”
Kat laughed. “You waved me over.”
“I didn’t wave,” Terri protested. “I gestured. Elegantly.”
Kat stepped closer. “You asked me to wait.”
Terri blinked — caught. “…Possibly.”
They stood in a quiet corner backstage, where the noise of the arena was nothing but distant echoes. Terri fidgeted with the hem of her top, eyes darting away when Kat looked directly at her.
“So,” Kat said gently, “how are you feeling?”
Terri scoffed, looking offended at the very suggestion of feelings. “Fine.”
Kat raised an eyebrow.
Terri deflated. “Nervous. Happy. Annoyed. I don’t know, Kat, I don’t do this.”
Kat brushed a strand of hair behind Terri’s ear, touching her so lightly Terri barely breathed.
“You’re doing just fine,” Kat whispered.
Terri’s eyes shimmered. Not with tears — Terri wouldn’t allow that — but with something quieter, something new. She swallowed hard.
“…Can I—” Terri started, then stopped. Her voice dropped. “Can I have a hug?”
Kat’s heart melted instantly. She stepped forward, looping her arms gently around Terri’s waist. Terri hesitated for a fraction of a second before burying her face against Kat’s shoulder, arms tightening around her like she’d been waiting years for permission.
Kat stroked her back, slow and steady. “Just this once, huh?”
Terri huffed a laugh into her shoulder. “Don’t push your luck.”
But she didn’t let go.
A stagehand rounded the corner, froze, and awkwardly backed away without saying a word.
Terri pulled back first — just enough to look at Kat. Her hands remained on Kat’s hips.
“This doesn’t mean anything dramatic,” she said quickly. “No labels. No weirdness. Just—just whatever this is.”
Kat smiled softly. “Whatever this is sounds good to me.”
A beat, then:
Terri leaned in, pressed the gentlest kiss to Kat’s cheek, then pulled back like she’d done something scandalous.
“…Don’t tell anyone,” Terri whispered.
Kat squeezed her hands. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Terri nodded, exhaled shakily, then took Kat’s hand — briefly, just for a heartbeat — before letting go and slipping back toward the chaos of the arena.
Kat watched her go, warmth spreading through her chest.
Whatever this was…whatever it was becoming…
It was real.
And it was theirs.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75666506
|
{"authors": ["ohnoitsthebat"], "language": "English", "title": "just this once"}
|
Aii Yah We Piwates: The Milkshake Treasure of Plastick Island 🏴☠️🦥🫧🐾
“Aiii yah fwends… story time.”
Papa Teo had barely sat down before the Kiplets began doing that thing they do where their eyes go shiny and their brains go WHOOOOSH into Adventure Mode.
You know the mode.
The one where a normal, innocent evening turns into a historical reenactment of chaos.
It started, as many tragedies do, with a bathroom door.
Papa had just finished tidying the flat a little—piano piano, like a tired Italian nonno sweeping crumbs with dignità—and he was thinking, Right. Calm. Quiet. Tea. Maybe a cartoon.
Then the Kiplets waddled in, three tiny gremlins in a trenchcoat of confidence, and stared at the bathtub like it had personally insulted them.
The bathtub—smooth, white, slightly squeaky when you touch it—sat there minding its business.
But to the Kiplets…
…it was not a bathtub.
It was the Sea.
And the bathmat was not a bathmat.
It was a dock.
And the shampoo bottle?
Clearly a lighthouse.
One Kiplet—Sergio, who always acted like he’d read a pirate manual and was now morally obligated to be dramatic—lifted a paw and whispered:
“Plastick Island.”
The others gasped like he’d said a forbidden prophecy.
“Plastick Island…” repeated the second Kiplet in a spooky voice, as if the tub might suddenly start singing sea shanties.
The third Kiplet, who had the attention span of a fizzy sweet, pointed at the tap and went:
“DAT… da silver snake.”
Papa blinked. “The… silver snake.”
“Yah!” the Kiplet insisted, nodding with absolute authority. “He bite. He go pshhh. He make ocean.”
Papa looked at the tap.
Then at them.
Then back at the tap.
“…Okay,” he said softly, because honestly? This was safer than arguing with Kiplets. “So. We have an ocean. We have a snake. What are we?”
Sergio puffed his chest out so hard his fluff nearly achieved flight.
“Aii Yah… We Piwates.”
The other two echoed like a sacred chant:
“AII YAH WE PIWATES!”
Papa, helpless, tried to keep a straight face and failed immediately.
“You’re pirates,” he repeated, like he’d been told a fact about economics he wasn’t emotionally ready for.
The Kiplets nodded gravely.
Then, because pirates must be dressed properly, they began raiding Papa’s bathroom supplies with the efficiency of a tiny criminal syndicate.
Within thirty seconds:
A washcloth became a captain’s cloak A hair clip became a hook (it absolutely was not) A toothbrush became a sword A single cotton pad became a pirate hat (balanced on Sergio’s head like a wobbly moon)
Papa watched, sipping his tea, as his bathroom slowly turned into a low-budget pirate film.
He was quietly considering calling the United Nations.
But then Sergio leaned in close, voice low, serious, cinematic:
“Papa.”
“Yes, Captain Sergio?”
The Kiplet narrowed his eyes.
“We need… ship.”
The second Kiplet looked around urgently, spotted Papa’s plastic laundry basket, and smacked it like a car salesman.
“DIS. DIS BOAT.”
Papa’s brain went: No.
His heart went: That’s kind of adorable.
His life went: Welp.
So the laundry basket became The S.S. Slothbeard, and Papa placed it on the bathroom floor with the careful tenderness of a man transporting a royal infant.
The Kiplets climbed in like professional sailors, except:
One got stuck for a second and pretended it was “part of the plan” Another tried to row with a toilet roll Sergio stood at the front like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic, except instead of romance he was radiating the energy of unpaid parking tickets.
He raised the toothbrush-sword to the ceiling.
“Crew,” he said.
“Aii yah,” whispered the crew.
Sergio pointed dramatically toward the bathtub.
“Our map say… treasure on Plastick Island.”
Papa tilted his head. “And where did you get a map?”
The third Kiplet pulled out a crumpled receipt from somewhere—Papa didn’t want to know—and unfolded it like an ancient scroll.
It had absolutely nothing on it except the words:
SPAR £3.10 MILK
But to them, it was destiny.
The second Kiplet tapped the receipt. “See? It say… Milk. Treasure.”
Papa tried not to laugh. “So the treasure is… milk.”
“NO,” Sergio corrected sharply, like Papa had just embarrassed him in front of the Pirate Council.
“Milk… shake.”
The crew all shivered.
Milkshake was not just a drink.
Milkshake was myth.
Milkshake was legend.
Milkshake was the warm, sweet, sacred reward Papa sometimes brought home like a benevolent king returning from war.
Milkshake meant joy.
Milkshake meant comfort.
Milkshake meant the world was safe, even if you were three tiny goblins living in a flat with a bathtub-ocean and a tap-snake.
Papa softened a little at that, the way you do when you realise your little chaos creatures are actually just… little.
“Okay,” he said gently. “So how do we reach Plastick Island?”
Sergio pointed at the bathmat dock. “We sail.”
“With what wind?” Papa asked.
Sergio looked offended, like this was a silly question.
He pointed at Papa’s hairdryer.
“The Wind Machine.”
Papa stared at the hairdryer.
Then stared at Sergio.
Then quietly
|
Aii Yah We Piwates: The Milkshake Treasure of Plastick Island 🏴☠️🦥🫧🐾
“Aiii yah fwends… story time.”
Papa Teo had barely sat down before the Kiplets began doing that thing they do where their eyes go shiny and their brains go WHOOOOSH into Adventure Mode.
You know the mode.
The one where a normal, innocent evening turns into a historical reenactment of chaos.
It started, as many tragedies do, with a bathroom door.
Papa had just finished tidying the flat a little—piano piano, like a tired Italian nonno sweeping crumbs with dignità—and he was thinking, Right. Calm. Quiet. Tea. Maybe a cartoon.
Then the Kiplets waddled in, three tiny gremlins in a trenchcoat of confidence, and stared at the bathtub like it had personally insulted them.
The bathtub—smooth, white, slightly squeaky when you touch it—sat there minding its business.
But to the Kiplets…
…it was not a bathtub.
It was the Sea.
And the bathmat was not a bathmat.
It was a dock.
And the shampoo bottle?
Clearly a lighthouse.
One Kiplet—Sergio, who always acted like he’d read a pirate manual and was now morally obligated to be dramatic—lifted a paw and whispered:
“Plastick Island.”
The others gasped like he’d said a forbidden prophecy.
“Plastick Island…” repeated the second Kiplet in a spooky voice, as if the tub might suddenly start singing sea shanties.
The third Kiplet, who had the attention span of a fizzy sweet, pointed at the tap and went:
“DAT… da silver snake.”
Papa blinked. “The… silver snake.”
“Yah!” the Kiplet insisted, nodding with absolute authority. “He bite. He go pshhh. He make ocean.”
Papa looked at the tap.
Then at them.
Then back at the tap.
“…Okay,” he said softly, because honestly? This was safer than arguing with Kiplets. “So. We have an ocean. We have a snake. What are we?”
Sergio puffed his chest out so hard his fluff nearly achieved flight.
“Aii Yah… We Piwates.”
The other two echoed like a sacred chant:
“AII YAH WE PIWATES!”
Papa, helpless, tried to keep a straight face and failed immediately.
“You’re pirates,” he repeated, like he’d been told a fact about economics he wasn’t emotionally ready for.
The Kiplets nodded gravely.
Then, because pirates must be dressed properly, they began raiding Papa’s bathroom supplies with the efficiency of a tiny criminal syndicate.
Within thirty seconds:
A washcloth became a captain’s cloak A hair clip became a hook (it absolutely was not) A toothbrush became a sword A single cotton pad became a pirate hat (balanced on Sergio’s head like a wobbly moon)
Papa watched, sipping his tea, as his bathroom slowly turned into a low-budget pirate film.
He was quietly considering calling the United Nations.
But then Sergio leaned in close, voice low, serious, cinematic:
“Papa.”
“Yes, Captain Sergio?”
The Kiplet narrowed his eyes.
“We need… ship.”
The second Kiplet looked around urgently, spotted Papa’s plastic laundry basket, and smacked it like a car salesman.
“DIS. DIS BOAT.”
Papa’s brain went: No.
His heart went: That’s kind of adorable.
His life went: Welp.
So the laundry basket became The S.S. Slothbeard, and Papa placed it on the bathroom floor with the careful tenderness of a man transporting a royal infant.
The Kiplets climbed in like professional sailors, except:
One got stuck for a second and pretended it was “part of the plan” Another tried to row with a toilet roll Sergio stood at the front like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic, except instead of romance he was radiating the energy of unpaid parking tickets.
He raised the toothbrush-sword to the ceiling.
“Crew,” he said.
“Aii yah,” whispered the crew.
Sergio pointed dramatically toward the bathtub.
“Our map say… treasure on Plastick Island.”
Papa tilted his head. “And where did you get a map?”
The third Kiplet pulled out a crumpled receipt from somewhere—Papa didn’t want to know—and unfolded it like an ancient scroll.
It had absolutely nothing on it except the words:
SPAR £3.10 MILK
But to them, it was destiny.
The second Kiplet tapped the receipt. “See? It say… Milk. Treasure.”
Papa tried not to laugh. “So the treasure is… milk.”
“NO,” Sergio corrected sharply, like Papa had just embarrassed him in front of the Pirate Council.
“Milk… shake.”
The crew all shivered.
Milkshake was not just a drink.
Milkshake was myth.
Milkshake was legend.
Milkshake was the warm, sweet, sacred reward Papa sometimes brought home like a benevolent king returning from war.
Milkshake meant joy.
Milkshake meant comfort.
Milkshake meant the world was safe, even if you were three tiny goblins living in a flat with a bathtub-ocean and a tap-snake.
Papa softened a little at that, the way you do when you realise your little chaos creatures are actually just… little.
“Okay,” he said gently. “So how do we reach Plastick Island?”
Sergio pointed at the bathmat dock. “We sail.”
“With what wind?” Papa asked.
Sergio looked offended, like this was a silly question.
He pointed at Papa’s hairdryer.
“The Wind Machine.”
Papa stared at the hairdryer.
Then stared at Sergio.
Then quietly accepted his fate.
He picked it up, turned it on the lowest setting, and pointed it near the laundry basket.
A soft “fffffwwww” filled the bathroom.
The Kiplets reacted like they’d been hit by a cinematic soundtrack.
“WIIIIIND!” screamed the second one, flinging their little arms up like they were being blessed.
The third Kiplet fell over dramatically. “I am blown away…”
Sergio gripped the basket edge with the intensity of a man steering a ship through a storm.
“Hold fast, crew!” he roared.
Papa, still holding the hairdryer, deadpanned:
“You are literally in a laundry basket.”
Sergio’s eyes glittered with fearless nonsense.
“Aii yah… pirate life.”
They “sailed” (dragged) the basket closer to the bathtub until the crew could stare down into the white, empty basin.
It felt huge, from Kiplet height. Like a crater. Like a world.
Sergio leaned forward.
The “ocean” stared back.
Then the tap dripped once.
plink.
All three Kiplets froze.
Their heads slowly turned toward the tap-snake.
The third Kiplet whispered, terrified:
“He awake.”
Papa leaned in, soft voice, like a parent in a bedtime story. “Captain… what do we do if the silver snake attacks?”
Sergio took a deep breath.
Then, with astonishing calm, he held up a tiny travel-size soap bottle like a sacred weapon.
“We offer… tribute.”
He placed the soap bottle near the tap.
The other Kiplets bowed solemnly.
The tap did not attack.
The snake accepted tribute.
Peace was achieved.
Papa nodded like this was a completely normal diplomatic event.
“Excellent negotiations,” he said. “Proud of you.”
Sergio’s chest puffed even more.
“Now,” he said, “we land.”
The Kiplets climbed out and approached the bathtub edge like explorers arriving at the rim of a new continent.
Getting in was… an ordeal.
One tried to climb using the towel hanging nearby and ended up spinning like a little sloth pendulum.
Another attempted a running jump, bounced off the tub wall, and landed on the bathmat with a sound that was basically boof.
Sergio, meanwhile, pretended he meant to do all of it.
Papa helped them in, one by one, placing each Kiplet into the tub like a delicate dumpling.
“Welcome,” he declared. “To Plastick Island.”
The Kiplets stood in the empty bathtub, looking around like they’d arrived in a sacred temple.
The second Kiplet pressed a paw to the smooth enamel.
“It… cold land.”
The third Kiplet nodded. “It… slippery nation.”
Sergio raised the receipt-map again and paced dramatically.
“Treasure should be… here.”
They searched.
They searched like professionals.
They checked behind the shampoo bottle lighthouse.
They investigated the drain like it was a cursed cave.
They interrogated a rubber duck (who refused to cooperate and kept smiling smugly).
Minutes passed.
The crew began to panic.
The third Kiplet looked up at Papa, eyes wide, voice small.
“Papa… is treasure… not real?”
That question landed softly in the room like a little raindrop. Quiet. Tender.
Papa’s face warmed.
Because, look—Kiplets were ridiculous. Kiplets were chaos. Kiplets would probably commit minor crimes if left unsupervised near a biscuit tin.
But they were also… little.
And their whole pirate game wasn’t really about treasure.
It was about believing, for a while, that wonder still existed.
So Papa leaned on the tub’s edge, voice gentle.
“Hmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Captain Sergio. What if…”
He reached into his pocket.
“…the treasure is not buried.”
The Kiplets stared.
Papa pulled out three straws.
Not just any straws.
Milkshake straws—the wide ones.
The holy tubes.
The crew gasped so hard the bathroom nearly lost oxygen.
Sergio whispered, trembling:
“Stwaws…”
Papa nodded like a wise old pirate elder.
“And what do milkshake straws mean?”
The second Kiplet’s eyes went watery with joy.
“MILKSHAKE COMING.”
The third Kiplet began bouncing in place like a tiny worshipper at the altar of sweetness.
“Papa bring treasure… Papa bring treasure…”
Sergio, however, stayed calm—because captains must be composed in the face of fortune.
But his voice cracked slightly when he spoke.
“Where… is it.”
Papa gave a slow, teasing smile.
“Aii yah. You want the final clue?”
The Kiplets leaned in so close they nearly toppled into the drain-cave.
Papa pointed… not to the bathtub… but to the bathroom door.
“Beyond Plastick Island,” he whispered, “is the Great Kitchen Sea.”
The Kiplets gasped like they’d just discovered the twist ending to a film.
“And in that sea…” Papa continued, “there is a place called…”
He paused dramatically.
The Kiplets vibrated with suspense.
Papa finally delivered the sacred words:
“…The Fridge.”
The Kiplets SCREAMED.
Not a normal scream.
A Kiplet scream.
A sound that says: we are small and delighted and we have no volume control.
Sergio raised the toothbrush sword.
“CREW!” he yelled. “WE RAID THE FRIDGE!”
Papa laughed, scooping them up one by one like giggling contraband.
“Alright, alright, pirates,” he said, carrying them out of the bathroom. “But we do this properly. March in a line. No biting. No declaring war on the kettle.”
The second Kiplet saluted. “No war… on kettle.”
The third Kiplet whispered to the kettle as they passed:
“I respect you.”
In the kitchen, Papa set them on the counter (safely, away from anything hot), and opened the fridge with ceremonial seriousness.
The Kiplets watched like it was a vault in a heist movie.
Papa reached in.
Rustling.
A pause.
Then—
He pulled out three small milkshakes (or one big one to share, depending on the night—pirate budgets are real).
The Kiplets froze in stunned, holy silence.
Then the third Kiplet whispered:
“…We did it.”
Sergio placed a paw on the milkshake cup like he was being knighted.
“Aii Yah,” he said, voice full of emotion. “We… piwates.”
Papa handed them the big straw like a pirate treaty.
“One sip each,” he said firmly, narrowing his eyes in the way parents do when they love you but also fear your chaos. “And then we don’t spill it on the floor.”
The second Kiplet nodded so hard they nearly fell over. “No spill. Promise.”
They took turns, sipping like tiny kings.
Their faces changed with each sip: from seriousness… to wonder… to pure, fizzy, milkshake joy.
The third Kiplet sighed happily.
“This… taste like… victory.”
Sergio nodded slowly. “And lactose.”
Papa snorted into his sleeve.
Then, because pirates must commemorate their great deeds, Sergio stood up tall—milkshake moustache forming, utterly dignified—and declared:
“Tonight we write in pirate book. Treasure found. Plastick Island conquered. Silver snake negotiated.”
The second Kiplet raised a paw.
“And rubber duck… arrested.”
The third Kiplet nodded solemnly.
“Duck go jail.”
Papa laughed, leaning on the counter, watching them sip their treasure.
Outside, maybe the night was cold.
Maybe the world was loud.
Maybe tomorrow had essays and deadlines and grown-up things.
But right now, in this little kitchen, there was warm light, silly pirates, and milkshake treasure.
And honestly?
That was enough.
Papa lifted his mug in a toast.
“To Captain Sergio and the fearsome Kiplet crew.”
Sergio raised his straw like a sword.
“Aii Yah,” he proclaimed.
“We piwates… forever.”
And the Kiplets—sticky-faced, victorious, and completely unbothered by reality—answered together:
“AII YAH WE PIWATES!”
…Then the third one immediately hiccuped from drinking too fast and fell over like a fainting Victorian poet.
Pirate life is hard.
Piano piano. 🦥🏴☠️🥤🌧️
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75668871/chapters/197896801
|
{"authors": ["Teo Grey (TeoGrey)", "TeoGrey"], "language": "English", "title": "Aii Yah We Piwates: The Milkshake Treasure of Plastick Island 🏴☠️🦥🫧🐾"}
|
Every Child's Fantasy
“Spunk,” the Swedish girl said. “Spunk.” She paused and looked up to the heavens. “I don't know what it means, Mama, but it's such a lovely word!”
That little girl's name was Pippi—maybe you've heard of her? She lived in Villa Villakulla all by herself, except for a monkey named Mister Nilsson and a spotted horse she called 'little old man.' Everyone in town knew her on sight. The wild girl, shorter than average, with cute buck teeth and the braided orange pigtails sticking straight out from her head. She only seemed to have one dress to wear, of light green linen. She wore long stockings—which provided a suitable surname for her. One of these matched her dress, and the other matched her hair. When she deigned to wear shoes at all, she wore an exceedingly long pair of them. She liked having room to wiggle her toes, of course!
Today she was outside grinding coffee beans, having just learned what coffee even was. The fact that it paired so nicely with cookies made her want to have it all the time. Her nice friends from the town, Annika and Tommy, had brought her to a grown-up party, only to watch in dismay as she grabbed an indecent amount of the cookies and picked her nose. The women of the town simply didn't know what to do with her, and when they tried to correct her bratty behaviour, they ran into the most unexpected ability in a girl her age.
Pippi could push them around! She'd left the party having inadvertently yanked the tablecloth off, with all the china crashing to the floor. Then she'd pulled the rug under three women's feet and sent them tumbling too. Her strength was an anomaly, to say the least, that could only be interpreted as the blessing of some trickster god. In fact it was her defence against any adults who tried to police her or, in one case, to steal from her.
She lived free, almost ferally, with only a modicum of education. She had a great deal of gold coins, however, in a bag that her father had left for her. He was off in the South Seas somewhere, as she always said, and his (possibly pirate) gold financed shopping trips with her friends. She didn't want to grow up, but reaching the age of nine on her own had led to certain discoveries about her body. More specifically, she discovered how good it felt to play with her little cunny, which she freely did at all hours of the day and night. She had no shame about it because she'd never learned such a strange concept. When others, like Mrs. Prysselius or the police, told her to cover up, or that she “shouldn't be playing with herself,” she had an answer ready.
“Why not? It's fun!”
Sometimes Annika and Tommy came over and found Pippi completely nude—which was a sight to behold, when the rest of the town was so conservative, so painfully uptight. Tommy had never seen a girl naked, not even his sister, so the first exposure became a kind of revelation, unforgettable. The contrast to his own body (“so that's what a girl looks like!”) and the lack of breasts made her seem exotic, yet within reach. Compared to the women of the town, here was a fun-loving girl, so frequently nude and completely unembarrassed.
In other words, she was a nature girl living in the city. The rumours spread fast—at first about a rich girl who lived all by herself, then about her powers, which everyone hesitated to ascribe to magic. It would make them seem so backwards, to call any little girl a witch. It could not be explained, but modern science would surely put the mystery to rest someday. For now, she was both fearful and fascinating, with an ever-growing fanbase of local girls and boys—and men—that she hardly knew about.
Having ground her coffee, she skipped inside her house and set about brewing a pot. The stuff had a bitter taste but also a wildly stimulant effect, and it allowed her to stay up much later than she normally would. She sweetened the flavour by having it with cream cake and butter cookies, whilst laughing at some of Mister Nilsson's antics. The strangest thought occurred to her—that she could run a business like the candy shop, or the pharmacy, only she'd give away what people wanted or needed, and accept whatever money they decided to give her in exchange. Fixed prices were so boring! And kids who came hungry would always be able to eat for free.
Around eight o' clock, as she played with the soapy water meant for cleaning dishes, the urge to masturbate struck her again. She immediately shed her clothes, down to her trademark stockings, and let the summer twilight attend her nakedness, this girl of nine with only the slightest prepubescent mounds on her chest. Pippi toyed with her nipples with her left hand and moved her slippery right hand between her legs, massaging the cleft of her preteen sex. No sooner had the impulse arrived than she was acting to satisfy it, laughing off the occasional stare of her pets. She'd learned long ago about the joy that her cunny could bring, as long as she worked with it—and pushed with her
|
Every Child's Fantasy
“Spunk,” the Swedish girl said. “Spunk.” She paused and looked up to the heavens. “I don't know what it means, Mama, but it's such a lovely word!”
That little girl's name was Pippi—maybe you've heard of her? She lived in Villa Villakulla all by herself, except for a monkey named Mister Nilsson and a spotted horse she called 'little old man.' Everyone in town knew her on sight. The wild girl, shorter than average, with cute buck teeth and the braided orange pigtails sticking straight out from her head. She only seemed to have one dress to wear, of light green linen. She wore long stockings—which provided a suitable surname for her. One of these matched her dress, and the other matched her hair. When she deigned to wear shoes at all, she wore an exceedingly long pair of them. She liked having room to wiggle her toes, of course!
Today she was outside grinding coffee beans, having just learned what coffee even was. The fact that it paired so nicely with cookies made her want to have it all the time. Her nice friends from the town, Annika and Tommy, had brought her to a grown-up party, only to watch in dismay as she grabbed an indecent amount of the cookies and picked her nose. The women of the town simply didn't know what to do with her, and when they tried to correct her bratty behaviour, they ran into the most unexpected ability in a girl her age.
Pippi could push them around! She'd left the party having inadvertently yanked the tablecloth off, with all the china crashing to the floor. Then she'd pulled the rug under three women's feet and sent them tumbling too. Her strength was an anomaly, to say the least, that could only be interpreted as the blessing of some trickster god. In fact it was her defence against any adults who tried to police her or, in one case, to steal from her.
She lived free, almost ferally, with only a modicum of education. She had a great deal of gold coins, however, in a bag that her father had left for her. He was off in the South Seas somewhere, as she always said, and his (possibly pirate) gold financed shopping trips with her friends. She didn't want to grow up, but reaching the age of nine on her own had led to certain discoveries about her body. More specifically, she discovered how good it felt to play with her little cunny, which she freely did at all hours of the day and night. She had no shame about it because she'd never learned such a strange concept. When others, like Mrs. Prysselius or the police, told her to cover up, or that she “shouldn't be playing with herself,” she had an answer ready.
“Why not? It's fun!”
Sometimes Annika and Tommy came over and found Pippi completely nude—which was a sight to behold, when the rest of the town was so conservative, so painfully uptight. Tommy had never seen a girl naked, not even his sister, so the first exposure became a kind of revelation, unforgettable. The contrast to his own body (“so that's what a girl looks like!”) and the lack of breasts made her seem exotic, yet within reach. Compared to the women of the town, here was a fun-loving girl, so frequently nude and completely unembarrassed.
In other words, she was a nature girl living in the city. The rumours spread fast—at first about a rich girl who lived all by herself, then about her powers, which everyone hesitated to ascribe to magic. It would make them seem so backwards, to call any little girl a witch. It could not be explained, but modern science would surely put the mystery to rest someday. For now, she was both fearful and fascinating, with an ever-growing fanbase of local girls and boys—and men—that she hardly knew about.
Having ground her coffee, she skipped inside her house and set about brewing a pot. The stuff had a bitter taste but also a wildly stimulant effect, and it allowed her to stay up much later than she normally would. She sweetened the flavour by having it with cream cake and butter cookies, whilst laughing at some of Mister Nilsson's antics. The strangest thought occurred to her—that she could run a business like the candy shop, or the pharmacy, only she'd give away what people wanted or needed, and accept whatever money they decided to give her in exchange. Fixed prices were so boring! And kids who came hungry would always be able to eat for free.
Around eight o' clock, as she played with the soapy water meant for cleaning dishes, the urge to masturbate struck her again. She immediately shed her clothes, down to her trademark stockings, and let the summer twilight attend her nakedness, this girl of nine with only the slightest prepubescent mounds on her chest. Pippi toyed with her nipples with her left hand and moved her slippery right hand between her legs, massaging the cleft of her preteen sex. No sooner had the impulse arrived than she was acting to satisfy it, laughing off the occasional stare of her pets. She'd learned long ago about the joy that her cunny could bring, as long as she worked with it—and pushed with her fingers against that tiny hill, that unmistakable button, standing up at the crest of her folds. The more she spread herself open and rubbed across it, the better that sensation became. Within minutes she was switching it up, juicing her fingers by dipping them into her syrupy little slit, then glossing her whole piqued young pussy with them.
Playing with one made her want to indulge the other. She tapped on her clit and made some adorable animal noises. Those soft moans seemed to come involuntarily when she rubbed that part of her body. She even experimented and tried not to make any sound, but then little sighs escaped her anyway. Her soaked fingers kept chasing the feeling, and positive reinforcement trained her in what she liked—what felt best, adding waves to that current of electric joy.
Little did she know, Carlsen—the mayor of the town, along with two of his friends, Viktor and Ingmar—approached Villa Villakulla, having made the usual excuses to their wives. They were close enough to overhear the nine-year-old's telltale grunts and moans. She was fingering herself and they knew it. The revelation that the girl was in fact as free-spirited (and acquainted with self-pleasure) as the rumours suggested made for an instant aphrodisiac. They were getting hard before Carlsen even knocked on her door.
“Oh! Come on in. Or don't. I don't care!”
The three men laughed at that breezy invitation, and the mayor opened the door. When they strode in, the little girl didn't stop masturbating but instead smiled at them, her fingers still toying with her hairless kitty.
“I thought it was Annika and Tommy for a minute. But I'm almost as happy to see you three,” she said, not even knowing who they were. Their smiles and their attire immediately set her at ease. They weren't here to rob her, she could tell that much at a glance. “I'm very pleased to see you. Can I do something for you?”
“Looks like you're having fun already, little girl,” Carlsen said.
“Uh huh! My name's Pippi.”
“Well, Pippi. My name's Carlsen, and these fine gentlemen are Ingmar and Viktor.” They waved, eyes locked on the way she was openly toying with her underage cunny, glistening with the peach syrup she'd already worked up. “We just wanted to join in your fun. Is that alright?”
“Sure!”
“Where are your parents?”
“My mama is an angel up in heaven. My father's far away in the South Seas.”
“You don't say. And you live here all alone?”
“Yes! Except for Mister Nilsson.”
“Oh? Where's he?”
“In that ti-i-iny blue bed, over there.”
The men looked, with a little apprehension, only to witness a monkey drowsily regarding them from a small wooden bassinet, painted ocean blue. They laughed again, glancing at each other then back at the girl. Viktor shut the front door and moved to lock it, only to discover that the door didn't even have a lock. Meanwhile Pippi was looking them all over and continuing to manipulate her clit. Through the haze of her precocious arousal, they all seemed especially friendly, and therefore viable playmates. How did boys, how did men make themselves feel like this, she wondered. Lucky for her, they were about to show her.
“It's so nice to see a little girl who knows how to make herself feel good,” Ingmar said, grinning.
“Oh? Do other girls not play like this? It feels great!"
“Not all of them,” Carlsen replied. “Some don't ever learn how. There are some silly people who tell them it's a bad thing, but we know better, don't we, Pippi?”
“Yeah! Like those boring old school-marms who tell me to cover up!”
“That's right. Speaking of which, I suppose we're a bit overdressed! Do you mind if we get comfortable, like you?”
“I don't care!”
She had her legs spread at the kitchen table, and even moved her chair to let the men see her better. At the same time, they were undressing across from her—all three of them handsome in a fatherly way, solidly built, with good hygiene. She watched them intently, with her innate curiosity turning into a pleasant kind of anticipation. I'm really going to see it, she thought. Finally some men who get it! They weren't here for her gold, or to rush her into an orphanage, none of that silliness. Instead the men were taking off their coats, their vests and undershirts, their belts and finally their trousers, revealing to the child—one, two, three—the risen spires of their cocks. Big, twitching, uncircumcised. Her green eyes went even wider.
“You ever seen a hard cock, little strumpet?” Viktor asked her while jerking his own to the sight of her. It had been several years since he'd had the pleasure of a girl near her age—not since the trip to Amsterdam, and that girl had been twelve, already well-experienced and working at a brothel.
“Only on Little Old Man!”
“Say what, now?”
“Horse!”
“Oh. I suppose that makes sense. We saw him out front. He's freckled like you are, eh?”
“You're so smart to notice.”
Carlsen and Ingmar looked to him with mirthful grins, witnessing his shock at encountering the girl's bratty sarcasm. She was still smiling at them, however, with her stockinged legs spread wide and her right hand busy between them. With her left hand, she curled a finger at them, actively signalling for them to come closer.
“Wanted a closer look, did you?” Carlsen peered down at her, still working his fist around his cock as he regarded the masturbating child.
“I want a boat like my Daddy's, but you'll do for now!”
“We can help you with that, you know.”
“The boat?”
“No, no. With what you're doing down there. Playing with your little pussy. There are parts of your body we can reach that you cannot.”
“Prove it!”
“Help us help you, Pippi. Here, let's clear the table. You can hop on that, and get on all fours. Let us really see you.”
No one was going to interrupt them at this hour, least of all her parents. The pigtailed nine-year-old had the freedom to convert Villa Villakulla into a pedo-friendly fuck-house, with a workhorse if she felt like milking buckets of cum for the fun of it. Her little-girl pheromones had laid a stamp all over the place, to say nothing of the pervasive sense of comfort with herself, in her own skin, and the capabilities of her body. She climbed onto the table, but in her rebellious way she didn't go onto all fours. She performed a handstand and a perfect, gymnastic splits to go with it, exposing herself completely to all three men. The spread of her legs made her child labia slide apart, those pink petals only appearing to be delicate.
Did her rumoured super-strength mean supreme endurance? Would it make her into a little girl more fuckable than most? There were three virile men in the room, primed to test that out. All three peered close and fed her praise, calling her things she'd never heard other boys or men say. Pretty and sexy and hot little thing, all with obvious meaning attached, given the way they were slowly pumping their cocks to her display. She looked at all their equipment, upside-down, and wiggled her toes in the air as they admired her. Her inherent sense of mischief was tickling, which only served to amplify her burgeoning excitement.
“Well? Do something! My hands are busy. You touch me.”
They needed no further invitation. Viktor ran his hands over her stockings and along her soft, child thighs, toying with her garter belt and its lacy connections. Meanwhile, Ingmar moved behind her and set about groping her lusciously bubbly butt, round and cute and spreadable. He tested her reaction to him slapping each mound, but the redheaded girl only laughed, baiting him into spanking her harder. She could take it! At the same time, Carlsen took what was presumably being left to him out of respect for his leadership: a long feel of that glistening pink invitation, the obviously inflamed vulva and swollen clit of a rambunctious little girl. Her laughter turned into intrigued squeals and affirmative hums of consent. That matched her body language, this handstand and splits, translating to sustained presentation and willful vulnerability.
“We're not tickling you, are we, Pippi?” Carlsen asked.
“I'm not ticklish! I like it!”
Viktor's hands roamed the most. He felt up the tone of her spread legs, massaged her feet, then reached down to drift his fingertips over her nipples, which were already perky and responsive. He tripped the circuit among them and her clit, serving to inflate that needy little organ even more. Pippi responded with more unabashed moans, breathy declarations of joy and encouragement to continue. Except Carlsen did more than continue—he ramped everything up by laying a prolonged kiss on her saucy little dish, that delicious young pussy that she raised up for him. He leaned in and tickled her with his moustache and beard, lovingly applying his tongue up and down her preteen folds. Hot to the touch, enticingly sweet to taste, even gently throbbing as her child sex drive activated in full. Masturbating alone was fun enough, but now here was a man putting his mouth on her flower. It felt intense, rich, and just so mysteriously euphorically good that she didn't even realise she was closing her legs around the mayor's face.
“Hrrk! Pippi,” he croaked, as that outsized muscle power compressed his neck. “Easy! Please, let up...!”
“Oh? Oh, yeah,” she said, laughing, in a tone of voice that was as apologetic as she ever got. “I don't know my own strength sometimes! Here, why don't we do this in my bed?”
Carlsen gasped for air, while his friends laughed off the near-fatal mix-up. Despite the danger, Carlsen seemed to have no regrets—and who would, with a nine-year-old's femalia fresh in his mouth, peach juice sparkling in his beard? He nodded to the idea she presented, but Pippi had already flipped upright and started marching toward her bedroom, leading Viktor and Ingmar by the hand.
When they arrived at her bed, Pippi jumped onto it and put her feet on her pillow in the typical way she slept. Only, she had no intention of sleeping this early, with caffeine in her blood and three new friends to play with. Instead, she bridged on the bed—raising her pelvis high and bending herself in another look-at-me pose. Then she lay cross-wise on the bed, hanging her pigtailed head off one side and spreading her bent legs on the other.
“Am I sexy like this?” She stuck her tongue out, crossed her eyes. “C'mon! Let's keep going, you jerks! What else can we do that feels good?”
Carlsen knelt down this time between her thighs and picked up right where he'd left off: jamming on the little girl's clit until she was panting and airing those care-free moans. At the same time, for a girl who liked things messy, giving oral sex to grown men was the next step up. Viktor and Ingmar stood right where she could experiment with it, letting their cocks spring up near her inverted face. She reached out without needing to be told, fixing her back-handed grip around each dick and stroking them—using only a small fraction of her strength this time. Despite the pleasant distraction of Carlsen's tongue teasing her clit, Pippi proved herself able to divide her focus and stroke two at once: skiing, a pole for each hand, how appropriate for a young Swedish girl.
“Open up, trouble-maker,” Ingmar said, moving to drag the tip of his cock over her soft little lips, kissing them with precum.
“I don't make trouble! It finds me!” As if to prove it, Pippi opened her mouth and let that dick find the hole, plus the warm, velvety suction within. She seemed to intuitively grasp the basics of a blowjob, even at nine years old, and it helped that a man was using his mouth so expertly, so intently, on her drenched little cunny at the same time. She worked up spit and applied it, leaning back to actively soak the pole, then gliding her tongue along the crown before sticking it out, flattening it, receiving what amounted to a face-fuck. Superhuman though she was, that didn't mean Pippi got to avoid the fun warm-up to really sucking dick, noisily adjusting, coughing, gagging, sputtering.
“Hllgh—ack! L-lugh! Hmmmn—glyuck! Mmmnh,” she purred between her throat's involuntary protests. As a result of this new phallic occupation, her salivary glands went into overdrive, producing an even more effective, lubricant slobber that ran out in strings up her face. Through it all she was giving these muffled moans and squeaks whilst revolving her hips, grinding against the influx of oral pleasure that a grown man was providing.
Talk about a memorable first date! The three men had merely showed up at her vacant house, and caught her masturbating, only to observe her blatant fuck-me performance of a handstand on the kitchen table and a gymnast's bridge on the bed, followed by wet submission, laying her body out for them. Now that Ingmar had his dick wet, he proved his magnanimous nature by pulling back—and letting Viktor tag in. Pippi didn't say anything but instead just opened her mouth wide, a non-verbal invitation, stretching her tongue out to make more room for his thicker cock. He eased the foreskin back and docked in her inviting little throat, pushing his tip past her tonsils only to discover that she was suppressing her gag reflex—if it even remained at all. Kids learned fast, and Pippi in spite of her lack of schooling seemed to learn faster than most. She choked it down eagerly, and at the same time fixed her hand back around Ingmar's cock, stroking it with a swirling grip and medium cadence. Not too fast, not too slow, feathering the squeeze of her hand until Ingmar groaned and moved closer.
Non-verbal cues were her specialty, reading people rather than books. Her sea legs were wide apart now as Carlsen ate ravenously between them, drubbing her prominent clit, delving under it and sliding across it from all directions. The attention only made it appear to swell even more, the pearl of a happy little oyster. Carlsen knew how to read people too, especially little girls. He watched her closely as her respiration picked up, as the muscles in her legs tensed and relaxed, as she arched her back. He listened to her moans go off in a series of muffled obscenity, underage ecstasy, while he lapped at her clit in waves. He spread her open further and made that clit the center of his attention, prepared to ease off whenever the intensity proved too great—only to see that she was consistently pushing for more, actively grinding against his mouth and raising her hips.
As such, he laid into it, and took advantage of the cream trickling from her vise-tight little aperture, that hot vanilla melt. He pushed it back into her with one digit, testing for the presence of a hymen, only to find that she'd lost it already—probably in some horse-riding misadventure, or climbing a tree and tightly straddling a branch. Whatever the reason, it meant he had a clear path into her drooling nine-year-old vagina, and he kept driving his middle finger, steadily deeper inside. Already she was tensing up on it, spasming in seismic foreshocks that heralded the coming quake.
Two cocks were keeping her mind off of it, yet a river of sensation kept flowing into her brain all the same. Every time she switched from one cock to the other, Pippi gave these endearing little squeals and moans, only to latch on again and further mess up her freckled features with precum and drool. The run-off prompted both men to drag their dicks over her face at times, a child more cave-girl than angel, no pedestal low enough for her down-to-earth mindset, with every true notion of her sealed by the present display of totally precocious carnal awareness. The girl was hot, hungry, pre-orgasmic and talented, sucking and stroking two men while a third brought her to the brink of orgasm.
Then, he threw her over it. Socketing his finger into her cunny, fluttering his tongue over her clit, never relenting in the rhythm nor adjusting the calibrated pressure, Carlsen read all the signs and delivered on their promise. He brought Pippi to a wickedly powerful peak—all her core strength made for even more intense contractions, and the start-stop group sex made her feel the climax in two dizzying waves. First it came in high and hot and bewildering, then it was sweeping through her with a vengeance, making her feel somehow reborn in its wild pleasure. She'd made herself cum before, but this was something else!
“Hnnn—hllgh! Mmmn—MMM! Hnngh, ah, yeah, yeah...! Fff—oooh!!” A little face-fucked girl's epiphany, cumming harder with a cock in her mouth than she ever had when left to her own devices. Her body trembled like physical gratitude for the place to which Carlsen had brought her. He carried her through it, easing off once she'd passed that critical point, and giving the sensitivity time to fade. Then he was upright between her legs, beating meaningfully on her soaked young cunny with his prick, solid and heavy like a hammer. She knew what animals got up to, and was she not an animal herself? Monkey, horse, human being, a drooling little girl freely sucking two different dicks and lying on her own bed with her legs spread, clearing the mayor for a landing in that silky pink sheath. It looked tight as a coinslot but noticeably swollen, warmed up by his thick finger, ready to stretch for something bigger still.
“Ready for this?”
“I'm always ready! Try me. C'mon, I know the word. Fuck me, mister. I dare you!”
He went on using his cock for a paint-brush, working it up and down her overheated slit, further smearing the honey gloss with an extra layer of prejaculate juice.
“Talk like a little brat, you'll get fucked like a little slut.”
“You say that like it's a bad thing. There's a hole there, right? I'm waiting. Fill it already!”
Who was he to refuse that challenge, or turn down that request? The forty-year-old mayor of the town shoved his cock into the nine-year-old child's pussy. He grunted, feeling its exquisite constriction, a super-powered little cunny, and Pippi gave no more than a pleasantly surprised hiss. He was really doing it! She even moved closer to the penetration, laying her body out in such a way that he could thrust at a more downward angle, while she leaned back and serviced the duo on the opposite side. She took on a forked spitroast in her own bed, surrounded by faded childhood drawings and a painting of a hot-air balloon on the wall. Her bag of gold coins sat right on her dresser, but the three men had a greater treasure writhing and moaning between them, a pigtailed girl with mismatched socks, learning the hardcore joy of having her pussy utterly pounded.
In this case, there was no power imbalance. The little girl could have fought them all off with ease, if she wanted to. Instead, she was taking on three cocks at once and giving earnest little cries—modulated by the dick in her mouth. Here was the culmination of this particular child's fantasy: making fast friends with three grown men and inviting them into her bedroom, laying herself out, letting them circulate through her mouth, her pussy, her hands. Another tight hole got soaked with the excess, the grool and precum running down from the junction of Carlsen's big dick and the sweet, pink cavity it was filling. Summer nights in Sweden were humid, and all four participants worked up a sweat through the course of that first official round, plowing little Pippi's cunny and occupying her mouth by turns.
“Here, Viktor,” Carlsen said. “She likes you. You want next?”
“You know it. Round and round,” he replied, circling his finger in the air, suggesting the carousel they were set on running Pippi through. She looked up with hazy enthusiasm, nodding her head in agreement with the switch, before tilting back and polishing Ingmar's cock some more. Not even watching him while Viktor shoved in, Pippi experienced the sequence of lacking cock, then having it re-supplied. Viktor repurposed all the saliva she'd left gleaming on his dick and soon slid into place, churning the frothy, grippy little hole. Hotter and tighter and at the same time more receptive than anything he'd ever fucked before, Viktor found entirely new levels of gratification through Pippi's young pussy. A bursting sense of rightness, of reward, pulsed through his brain as he worked it over.
Meanwhile Pippi kept squealing her approval and slurping noisily, staying busy with her hands and mouth, taking turns on Carlsen and Ingmar now. She tasted herself on Carlsen's cock and looked up at him with adorable gratitude in her eyes, narrowing them at him in a way that looked like playful feline affection. She made a show out of licking his crown like ice cream, drawing off the flavour, then sticking it deep in her mouth again, willing it into her throat, whatever the angle. Her side-to-side suck 'n' stroke proved all the more impressive for the fact that she was doing it at the same time as her nine-year-old cunny was getting stuffed, right to her back walls.
Viktor put down a methodical, pumping thrust, making the most out of the unexpected gift. Friendship had its benefits, and all three men had known each others' predilections since high school. They'd swapped their little sisters and cousins, then engaged in some bouts of what might later be called sex tourism, visiting places where hard candy could be acquired for a price. Now he knew well how to fuck tween pussy, and applied that knowledge to a preteen, ramming in until he was nearly hilted inside. The kid's cunny had grown so hot, wet, invitingly swollen, that he could pummel it with his dick and manipulate her little clit at the same time, swirling his thumb over it at intervals. She kept rising up on her shoulders and trembling, her squeaky muffled moans jumping an octave, until he saw the first hints of it all being too much. Then he held off, giving her system time to adjust during the valleys between the peaks.
The only issue was, Viktor wanted her to cum before he swapped out. He saw the way Pippi went back and forth for those increasingly sloppy blowjobs, and fixed her crowd-pleasing grip around the dick she'd just been polishing, and the needy body language of a child drove him to get her off. He clamped down on the tension rising in his own loins and pumped his cock into her harder still, spreading her open and laying stimulant claim to her clit with his thumb yet again. She ground upward, into his thrusts and into the attention, overcoming some internal threshold for what she could withstand during the gangbang. Viktor brought her over that edge, and Pippi wound up quivering in a fashion that told them everything they needed to know: she was cumming again, this time with her cunny totally occupied. Her toes curled, the pace of her switch-hitting suckjobs slowed. An electric storm passed through her, making her body convulse and her face contort, a blissed-out expression coming through.
“MMMNH!! Hnnnh—ulgh... mmngh!!” Her primitive, cock-blocked speech confirmed what all the other evidence suggested. She'd peaked now, with penetrative satisfaction thrown in, creaming around Viktor's dick. It made her buzz with energy and slide back, in a dreamy way, into still more attentive cocksucking for both men within range. Viktor just watched in a kind of benevolent masculine pride, having this girl cum so hard from his fine work, railing her juicy little underage twat and playing upon her throbbing, wide-awake clit.
Next up was Ingmar. He slid around to replace Viktor just as soon as that pussy was free—except, in his case, he made sure to tease both of her holes as an intermission. He used his finger to incrementally broaden her tiny pink lemon drop, that anal ring going from tight little asterisk to a winking orifice to a sweetly fuckable possibility. Then he manoevred to drag his cock over both opportunities, applying some pressure on her back door until Pippi felt the urge to say something.
“Hey, banana-brain! That's the wrong one!”
“Is it? You know we can fuck that one, too. Do you wanna try?”
Pippi seemed to think about it, both hands still gripping their respective poles.
“Hmm. I don't care. Actually—no, not yet. Fuck my pussy more!”
“As you wish.”
Ingmar drove into her insatiable young cunt then, every stroke serving to scratch the itch. Her moans rose back into this happy key, a gratifying melody as she went into her new routine of popsicle-sucking each cock on offer. Now she tasted herself on two different slabs, this piquant blend of precum and her own, self-made nectar. She drew it lovingly from Viktor's dick and switched over, ten or twelve pulls at a time. They helped the girl out, minimising the work she had to put in with her neck, and sliding into her capable, friendly little mouth. At moments when her mouth ran dry, she opened it wide—and the men indulgently spat down into it. Her bright smile, thrown between cycles of the most enthusiastic fellatio, further suggested that she loved the mess of it all.
By now the tight churn of penetration was obscenely audible, a shlk-shlk-shlk as Ingmar plowed that juicily initiated little cunny. He drove deep, at first amazed by what she could accept. Then, upon further consideration, he remembered that she was a very special girl. Super strength, and now this carnal flexibility, the perfect buttercup condition of her pussy in taking on almost the full measure of his cock. He reached the gates of her prepubescent womb and knocked on them again and again, resetting his angle to work the ventral tissue beside them, then raising it until he was working the dorsal tissue, too. That stroke produced even more of her endearing little squeals and chirps amid the background hum, the burble and squawk and slurp of her dick-sucking efforts. More than ever, her bedroom smelled like sexually active little girl, the resident aroma of daily and nightly masturbation rituals now amplified by the perfume of group sex, a child getting positively filled with dick.
Filled, that is, minus one hole. Ingmar wanted to see that third orifice pumped too, and he'd planted the seed—so to speak—in Pippi's mind. She knew enough to know that the other side was a pipe instead of a thimble, and she could likely fit even more dick within it. That thought remained like an unspoken challenge, and she'd never been the type to refuse a dare—especially those she proposed to herself. As such, about a hundred thrusts later, when Carlsen moved back around for his turn, Pippi insisted on climbing onto him, which served to present that other option to the group.
“You get on my bed. Watch me do it now?”
“A fine plan, indeed. Whatever the lady of the house desires.”
“Don't be formal with me! I'm a viking's daughter, don't you know!”
“It shows.”
“Uh huh! Proud of it, too,” she said, hopping on top of Carlsen once he lay in the child-sized bed. The nine-year-old straddled his waist and guided his upright cock to her little soaked pink socket. They all watched as she sat down on it, a cheerful girl taking pleasure from the impalement. Once she'd anchored herself, Pippi began to rock forward and back, working her hips in a primal way, sliding that mini-sheath around a seriously big cock. All the warm-up helped her get there, pushing down until she was humping a good six inches of it. She chewed her bottom lip, some way to process the sensations, then stuck her tongue out to show how pleased she was to achieve her own penetration this time.
They gave her a minute to get her bearings, but she barely needed it. The girl was riding hard, making her pigtails bounce in sympathy. The other two men moved in on either side and she resumed the gleeful multi-tasking, latching onto Ingmar's cock—to taste herself again, fresh from her overheated pussy—then warmly drawing from Viktor's too. She used both cocks for handlebars, giving her further leverage to rise and fall, riding Carlsen's dick. The sweet constriction of her cunny was something he knew he couldn't resist forever—it made his balls twitch, made them ache to unload up inside her. Still, he valiantly held off, even while she upped the pace and squeezed down on his length, working it at a rhythm that led to escalating moans.
Of course, before long, she was edging on yet another climax. Pippi didn't even need the assist of clitoral extra credit—she was getting herself off through the fuck-stick provided, rising up and dropping down, pumping her little pussy around Carlsen's upright flagpole. They all watched her get there, squealing through the crescendo toward another orgasm. Carlsen merely toyed with her nipples and reached around to smack her buoyant, heart-shaped butt, making it blush red from the impacts. When she got there, now for the third time, her eyelids twitched and her whole body shook. She soaked her latest partner's cock with a rush of nectar, and an adorable whimper came into her cries at the tail-end of the peak. She sounded like the full range of positive emotion: the unabashed expression of ecstasy and joy, surprise and awe, raw lust and affection.
“That's what you like, huh, girly?” Ingmar asked, watching her bounce on one dick and service two more. “Happy little slut, aren't you? All that cock feels good?”
“Mmmn! What do you think?!” she teased, panting and sighing after throwing the question right back at him.
“I think you're a little animal. I think you found your new favourite hobby. Riding a different kind of horse, mm? I think you can take one in your ass, too, yeah?”
“Now? Yeah! Let's try.”
Staying rooted on Carlsen's cock—which pulsed inside her, oscillating close to the edge of his own release—Pippi lowered herself and reached back, spreading her ass open out of instinct or just a good guess. She'd parted her legs before, and now it made sense to spread the supple mounds back there, exposing the teased little rosebud of her ass. Ingmar turned out to be the volunteer to deflower that hole, much as he'd been the one to prepare it. He redistributed the grool and precum, that commingled lubricant fuck-juice, and worked it up through the tight, ruby star-fruit she presented. It made for slow going, at first, but then her instinct to clamp down gave way to a new impulse: to relax, opening up for the incoming fingers. First one, then a second, gradually working her hole open while she periodically shuddered and bucked her hips. Viktor mostly let her focus on the task, but once Ingmar was actually managing to work his fingers up inside her, he returned to put his cock in her face, dragging it over her freckled features and bringing the tip back into her mouth.
“Stay, just like that,” Ingmar coached her. “Keep it relaxed.”
“Mmmn!” She hummed at first with her mouth full, then pulled off and wiggled her nose across Viktor's glans. An intimate eskimo kiss. “I will! C'mon, try. Fill it now. With your cock. I can take it. Fuck me! Make all my holes happy.”
It wasn't even begging—she was baiting him now, challenging him, straight-up demanding that he drill her ass. Ingmar accepted the call and moved into place from behind, aiming his cock with one hand and holding her lower back with the other, like stabilising the target. He worked that hole open, extra-tight with the fuck in progress but well-lubed and prepared for rear-entry penetration. That narrow pink hole yielded to his cock, letting him shove slowly into place. Just like that, he found himself fucking a nine-year-old in the ass, her first time coinciding with the ongoing occupation of her other primary holes. The coppertop girl, living like a happy orphan, a temporarily abandoned child, made the most of her existence and churned her hips in receipt of the double stuffing, emitting still more gleeful moans around the dick in her mouth.
Viktor gripped one of her pigtails and found that it had some kind of springy resistance to moving too much. Even her hair was strong! He just held onto it then and slid into her mouth, using that drooling orifice at just the pace he liked. The scene playing out before him was unprecedented in his experience, having only heard tales of Parisian whores maybe twice her age who'd accomplished such feats. Here was a child, a girl of primary-school age who didn't even go to class, taking on an experience of perfectly criminal pleasure. Both her holes were getting broadened, pumped and fucked, while her cheery blowjob became more of a progressive insertion, with Viktor holstering his cock in her throat again and again. She had to open wide for that much dick, but she got it done—or got it down, as the case may be.
For the nature girl in question, her whole body was buzzing on the experience. Her clit pulsing, her hairless pussy soaking and stuffed, her ass revealed as a source of pleasure too, it all brought her to a place of a quivering, orgasmic redemption—and repetition. The more she humped down, and the more Ingmar rammed in from behind, the more uncontrollable the cycle became. She had to breathe fast to keep up with the demands on her muscles, this elevated heart rate, and yet every breath laced her brain with male pheromones, carried on oxygen that spurred her to greater feats of 'airtight' fuckery. Ingmar hadn't lied when he'd said that her ass could take even more cock than her little cunny: the circular entryway admitted his cock into a hot velvet cavity, and the man succeeded in burying his full length in there over time. She went into slack-jawed mode, like perpetual hunger that no amount of pelvic thrusts could fulfill. Pippi gave newly receptive, energised suction, working the seal of her lips around Viktor's cock until he was groaning and nodding to her like a promise, or a warning.
Around her seventh orgasm, Carlsen finally lost control. His cock twitched up in her and shot off thick ribbons of spunk, the cream-filling that supplied meaning to the word at last. He inundated her little pussy and Pippi experienced another new gratification, this bone-deep sense of wellness in having that channel utterly filled with cum. It unlocked new chemicals in her brain, the cocktail of happiness, a cheat code to even deeper affection for the men surrounding her, plowing her. They were such good guys, they were true friends, welcome at all hours—she might even share her gold with them, if they were hard up. Carlsen held her by the hips and stayed inside, still stiff in the frothy aftermath, while Ingmar went on drilling her from behind, from above.
It took maybe another fifty thrusts before he too was unloading inside her, grunting, making all the standard sounds of ejaculatory male approval. Here came the genesis of her new addiction, a favourite pastime and pursuit, rich grown-up cum just blasting inside her ass until it felt like sticky, indirect pleasure of its own kind. She loved the mess, and now she felt messier than ever, weirdly satisfied in a holistic way. That reached a new level when Viktor pulled her hair, making her angle her face upward, a freckled canvas for him to splatter with cum. In the way of a kid discovering the novelty of sex, Pippi giggled and smiled through the facial, getting some across one eye and some more up her nose, making her cough and bubble it out. She licked her lips but that only collected a fraction of the spillage, with most of the load out of reach, a liquid painting, drying on her forehead and up in her orange hair.
Their wives all thought they were at the pub, as usual. They still had another hour to enjoy her, and Pippi made no protest, no yawn to suggest that she was sleepy. Instead, she freely let them stick around—and recharge. Suffice to say, they watched her play with the mess they'd collectively made, striking new obscene poses on the bed with their cum still leaking out of her. She swirled all three loads together with her palms and ate it up, making faces at the taste, only to tilt her head and deem it one of those foods that were better for you than they tasted.
“Hmm. Must be health food!”
"Yeah, it's very nutritious. You should eat all you can.”
“Do you have more?”
“For a girl like you? Yeah, I bet we can work up another serving.”
The second round involved all three of them in a cycle, working their cocks through her tenderised little ass, then watching her suck them afterwards, gleaning the taste of her cream-lined hole from each one. At another point they let her climb up and take it in the air, one cock on each side, hammering her durable young pussy and filling her ass at the same time in all six combinations. Arithmetic wasn't exactly her strong suit, and it didn't take long before she lost count of those shuddering peaks, the orgasms that seemed to vibrate her entire body with bliss. Each man there got to experience the unparalleled sensation of a little girl cumming around his cock.
By the end of it she was kneeling and praying for it in the Eastern way—that is, palms upward. She tilted her head back, opening her mouth wide and sticking out her tongue. All three men beat off across the finish line, one after the other, aiming for her mouth but ultimately soaking her face even more. Her buck teeth, her rosy cheeks, her freckled nose, her chin and chest, everything got hit with stray semen, blasted by three loads in quick succession. She looked like she'd taken a particularly creamy pie in the face, this baptism by cum, and she couldn't help giggling again as she chased the droplets with her tongue.
“We really ought to clean you up,” Carlsen said, laughing.
“I like it messy!”
“That'll help you grow up. The more you eat—”
“I don't wanna grow up.”
“Oh, no? Yeah, you're perfect just the way you are, Pippi.”
“Damn right!”
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ao3_english
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2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
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https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75666526
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{"authors": ["AbigailRabbit"], "language": "English", "title": "Every Child's Fantasy"}
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Sacred Fire in the Dark | Sailor Mars Villain Song | Heavy Metal, Gothic Rock, Symphonic Metal
After Sailor Moon and Sailor Venus, it’s Sailor Mars’ turn to get a villain song.
A thunderous heavy metal backbone merges with gothic rock guitar textures and symphonic orchestral layers—strings, brass, and choir swell beneath soaring female vocals, Japanese taiko drums, koto, and pentatonic melodies intertwine, adding intricate depth to the dramatic soundscape.
LYRICS(Verse 1)Out in the night, where the wild winds soar,A shrine maiden lost to her heart’s deep core.With sacred fire in her heart, once a beacon bright,But the shadows creep in, stealing her light.
(Chorus)Oh, can they feel the darkness call?Sailor Mars, she’s ready to fall,The flames inside her start to twist and churn,Come join the night, let their passion burn.
(Verse 2)The whispers of the void, they beckon her near,Embrace the blackness, let her fury steer.Once a Sailor Guardian, now a queen of night,With a smirk on her lips, she ignites the fight.
(Chorus)Oh, can they feel the darkness call?Sailor Mars, she’s ready to fall,The flames inside her start to twist and churn,Come join the night, let their passion burn.
(Bridge)Rally the others, heed the haunting tune,Together in shadows, where they all commune.The light was a prison, now they’ll be free,Embrace the dark, oh, can’t they see?Sailor Moon’s power, trying to corrupt,The Silver Crystal's glow, but she won’t give up.
(Verse 3)Each Sailor Guardian's heart, she’ll twist and bind,Bring them to the darkness, leave the light behind.No more heroes, just the thrill of sin,Underneath the stars, let the dark begin.
(Chorus)Oh, can they feel the darkness call?Sailor Mars, she’s ready to fall,The flames inside her start to twist and churn,Come join the night, let their passion burn.
(Outro)In the shadows, where their spirits rise,They’ll face the world, beneath midnight skies.Sailor Mars, in the depths of despair,Come join the night, if they dare!Come join the night, if they dare!Come join the night, if they dare!Come join the night.Come join the night.
(Dialogue)“My inner flame once sought to protect,But now in the dark, I choose to reflect.”
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Sacred Fire in the Dark | Sailor Mars Villain Song | Heavy Metal, Gothic Rock, Symphonic Metal
After Sailor Moon and Sailor Venus, it’s Sailor Mars’ turn to get a villain song.
A thunderous heavy metal backbone merges with gothic rock guitar textures and symphonic orchestral layers—strings, brass, and choir swell beneath soaring female vocals, Japanese taiko drums, koto, and pentatonic melodies intertwine, adding intricate depth to the dramatic soundscape.
LYRICS(Verse 1)Out in the night, where the wild winds soar,A shrine maiden lost to her heart’s deep core.With sacred fire in her heart, once a beacon bright,But the shadows creep in, stealing her light.
(Chorus)Oh, can they feel the darkness call?Sailor Mars, she’s ready to fall,The flames inside her start to twist and churn,Come join the night, let their passion burn.
(Verse 2)The whispers of the void, they beckon her near,Embrace the blackness, let her fury steer.Once a Sailor Guardian, now a queen of night,With a smirk on her lips, she ignites the fight.
(Chorus)Oh, can they feel the darkness call?Sailor Mars, she’s ready to fall,The flames inside her start to twist and churn,Come join the night, let their passion burn.
(Bridge)Rally the others, heed the haunting tune,Together in shadows, where they all commune.The light was a prison, now they’ll be free,Embrace the dark, oh, can’t they see?Sailor Moon’s power, trying to corrupt,The Silver Crystal's glow, but she won’t give up.
(Verse 3)Each Sailor Guardian's heart, she’ll twist and bind,Bring them to the darkness, leave the light behind.No more heroes, just the thrill of sin,Underneath the stars, let the dark begin.
(Chorus)Oh, can they feel the darkness call?Sailor Mars, she’s ready to fall,The flames inside her start to twist and churn,Come join the night, let their passion burn.
(Outro)In the shadows, where their spirits rise,They’ll face the world, beneath midnight skies.Sailor Mars, in the depths of despair,Come join the night, if they dare!Come join the night, if they dare!Come join the night, if they dare!Come join the night.Come join the night.
(Dialogue)“My inner flame once sought to protect,But now in the dark, I choose to reflect.”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75666531
|
{"authors": ["MiaQc"], "language": "English", "title": "Sacred Fire in the Dark | Sailor Mars Villain Song | Heavy Metal, Gothic Rock, Symphonic Metal"}
|
Devilish Retribution
"You would have made a fine Orokin," Roathe tells Cam. The tenno's face flicked between horror and disgust before settling on raw hatred.
"I'm nothing like your kind," he spat, shifting nebula eyes burning silvery grey like storm clouds, dotted by stars and flashes of lightning.
"You learn well from your enemies," the protoframe tilted his head as he regarded the boy, "You take their strengths for yourself." He begins to circle Cam, tail swishing like a cat about to pounce.
"The adaptability of a Sentient," he says, a hint of malicious laughter in his voice, "The cruelty of an Orokin," void energy began to glow in Cam's palms in response to his anger, "The ruthlessness of a Corpus–"
As Roathe returned to face Cam, the tenno lashed out with a void-enhanced kick.
Right to poor Roathe's nether bits.
The protoframe went down with a cry of pain, instinctively covering his groin. Through the blinding pain he was vaguely aware of Cam saying something before moving away.
When the pain finally cleared enough for Roathe to move, he stalked around to hunt down the wayward brat. He stormed up to where Cam was half-hiding behind Lyon.
Cam flinched slightly at Roathe's approach and Lyon turned his head, raising a silent, judging eyebrow at him.
"I–" Roathe began, tail flicking with frustration. The eyebrow crept higher. Roathe cut his words off before he could dig his grave further, instead he glared daggers at the boy.
Lyon gave Cam a sideways glance, then turned the full force of disapproval and judgement onto Roathe. A second eyebrow joined the first. 'Really? Picking fights with a child?' he seemed to say. Roathe's pride stung and he retreated, grumbling under his breath about the vainglorious whelp.
When Roathe had stalked away, Lyon turned to Cam with an identical raised eyebrow.
"He started it," Cam said defensively. The eyebrow raised further. Cam bristled. Both eyebrows were raised, a silent fatherly disapproval.
"Fine," he huffed, "I'll avoid fighting with him." That made the look soften to something more neutral. And as Cam walked away, he could've sworn he heard a soft chuckle coming from the priest.
|
Devilish Retribution
"You would have made a fine Orokin," Roathe tells Cam. The tenno's face flicked between horror and disgust before settling on raw hatred.
"I'm nothing like your kind," he spat, shifting nebula eyes burning silvery grey like storm clouds, dotted by stars and flashes of lightning.
"You learn well from your enemies," the protoframe tilted his head as he regarded the boy, "You take their strengths for yourself." He begins to circle Cam, tail swishing like a cat about to pounce.
"The adaptability of a Sentient," he says, a hint of malicious laughter in his voice, "The cruelty of an Orokin," void energy began to glow in Cam's palms in response to his anger, "The ruthlessness of a Corpus–"
As Roathe returned to face Cam, the tenno lashed out with a void-enhanced kick.
Right to poor Roathe's nether bits.
The protoframe went down with a cry of pain, instinctively covering his groin. Through the blinding pain he was vaguely aware of Cam saying something before moving away.
When the pain finally cleared enough for Roathe to move, he stalked around to hunt down the wayward brat. He stormed up to where Cam was half-hiding behind Lyon.
Cam flinched slightly at Roathe's approach and Lyon turned his head, raising a silent, judging eyebrow at him.
"I–" Roathe began, tail flicking with frustration. The eyebrow crept higher. Roathe cut his words off before he could dig his grave further, instead he glared daggers at the boy.
Lyon gave Cam a sideways glance, then turned the full force of disapproval and judgement onto Roathe. A second eyebrow joined the first. 'Really? Picking fights with a child?' he seemed to say. Roathe's pride stung and he retreated, grumbling under his breath about the vainglorious whelp.
When Roathe had stalked away, Lyon turned to Cam with an identical raised eyebrow.
"He started it," Cam said defensively. The eyebrow raised further. Cam bristled. Both eyebrows were raised, a silent fatherly disapproval.
"Fine," he huffed, "I'll avoid fighting with him." That made the look soften to something more neutral. And as Cam walked away, he could've sworn he heard a soft chuckle coming from the priest.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75666536
|
{"authors": ["GrandNinjaMasterRen"], "language": "English", "title": "Devilish Retribution"}
|
There’s only so much wine
“What’s on your mind?” JJ began, slowly beginning to pour the glass of Malbec into two glasses- one for her, one for Emily.
It wasn’t often they met for an evening like this, however they’d had a string of rough cases recently and they both needed a night to drink and binge shitty television, to not think about anything.
Emily however, seemed to have trouble on the ‘not thinking about anything part’. She wouldn’t admit it, however she’d had a little bit of a drink before JJ’s arrival, only a glass. Emily knew this was a bad idea, however things she had managed to finally shove to the back of her mind had reemerged, and as much as she enjoyed JJ’s company, it didn't help.
“What?” She was a little out of it, and she knew too many questions would lead to something stupid being said. Now was not the time. “Nothing, I was just, a little zoned out.”
”C’mon. I know what you look like when you are zoned out. There’s something in your eyes. It won’t hurt to share.”
JJ took a small sip of her wine, carefully looking at Emily. Not profiling, just… noticing. Emily was rarely this absentminded, she knew it was something. Emily forced a small smile and snorted.
“Trust me JJ. It’s nothing.”
It’s everything. It could ruin the friendship, cause everything to come crashing in. It would change things-shatter them into thousands of pieces that couldn’t be put together again.
She’s married with two children, Emily.
”Then why do you have such a big problem with sharing it? You can’t just say something like nothing and move on when you’re looking like that.”
”Like what?”
JJ looks at Emily, her head tilting to the side almost playfully before she continues speaking.
“Hmm. It’s hard to describe. It’s certainly a look, I’ll give you that.” She pauses, pursing her lips slightly before continuing. “It’s a guy, isn’t it?”
And suddenly Emily is fifteen again, talking about middle school crushes with friends. Or at least, what she’d imagined she’d be doing at fifteen if she’d lived in America instead of Italy. What she wanted to be happening.
“Ew. JJ, no.”
“A girl?”
That makes Emily pause before she takes another sip of wine. The pause was a second too long, and they both knew it.
“I work. The only time I go out for a drink is when I’m with you and Penelope. Where would I have even met anyone-“
“So you met them through work. This mystery he. Or she.”
Emily looked at her. And JJ looked at Emily in return. She had that look about her- Emily. The one JJ knew well. The one that meant the emerging thought had festered. Aged. Darkened. Grown strong, not stale. Similar to the wine that sat in both of their glasses. Something that makes or breaks a person.
“Be realistic. It’s me. I live in my flat. Alone. I’m happy with my life.” It’s kind of true. Emily likes to think she is, but deep down she knows that she isn’t completely. “I wake up. Shower. Get dressed. Fruit and coffee. Work. Home. Tea. Watch shitty television. I don’t meet people. I don’t date.”
“Yeah, I know that. Believe me, it’s a problem me and Penelope have been trying to solve for a long long time now.” JJ sighs, putting her glass down before looking at Emily, really looking at her.
“Y’know, that day we met. Well, not technically met but you know. When you were in Hotch’s office.” The one that’s now Emily’s. “You looked at me. And for a moment, I don’t know. Something seemed possible.”
“JJ-“
“You say you're happy. And I know I am. I have will. Henry. Michael. Our team. Our job. It takes. So much-“
“It gives me you.”
There’s a few beats of silence. The women look at each over, almost daring each over to do the unspeakable. Emily almost reaches out. Almost. But her mind is quick- it lists all of the wrongs of the situation and she knows they outweigh the rights.
JJ is younger. Married. Happily.She has two sons. Technically, Emily is in a higher position than JJ. It’s unprofessional.
Yet so tempting.
Dangerously tempting.
“JJ can I say something stupid?”
The wine is starting to kick in, that extra glass taking effect.
“Emily, don’t-“
It’s like she knows what’s about to happen. And wants to stop it. Needs to.
“No- no I’ve got to say it. It’s- it’s so stupid. You have your life. Your family-“
“Em, please don’t do this-“
“Jennifer Jareau I love you.”
The room falls silent once more. Before it was with the weight of the unsaid, now it’s the weight of everything said.
“This is-“
Emily laughs sharply, cutting JJ off abruptly. The silence never lasts long. It never would.
“So stupid. I know. But I can’t not, JJ. You’ve- you’ve been here for me for the worst parts of my life. And I’d do it all again if it meant I’d have this job with you.”
JJ sharply inhales. There's a small rush of salt in her eyes but none of it falls. It just sits there and fills.
“You’re drunk.”
“Maybe I am. But you can’t act like you didn’t feel it too. At some point. Way back when. And- and I’m not asking for anything. I just- I needed you to know.”
A pause.
“I’m happy for you and Will. I
|
There’s only so much wine
“What’s on your mind?” JJ began, slowly beginning to pour the glass of Malbec into two glasses- one for her, one for Emily.
It wasn’t often they met for an evening like this, however they’d had a string of rough cases recently and they both needed a night to drink and binge shitty television, to not think about anything.
Emily however, seemed to have trouble on the ‘not thinking about anything part’. She wouldn’t admit it, however she’d had a little bit of a drink before JJ’s arrival, only a glass. Emily knew this was a bad idea, however things she had managed to finally shove to the back of her mind had reemerged, and as much as she enjoyed JJ’s company, it didn't help.
“What?” She was a little out of it, and she knew too many questions would lead to something stupid being said. Now was not the time. “Nothing, I was just, a little zoned out.”
”C’mon. I know what you look like when you are zoned out. There’s something in your eyes. It won’t hurt to share.”
JJ took a small sip of her wine, carefully looking at Emily. Not profiling, just… noticing. Emily was rarely this absentminded, she knew it was something. Emily forced a small smile and snorted.
“Trust me JJ. It’s nothing.”
It’s everything. It could ruin the friendship, cause everything to come crashing in. It would change things-shatter them into thousands of pieces that couldn’t be put together again.
She’s married with two children, Emily.
”Then why do you have such a big problem with sharing it? You can’t just say something like nothing and move on when you’re looking like that.”
”Like what?”
JJ looks at Emily, her head tilting to the side almost playfully before she continues speaking.
“Hmm. It’s hard to describe. It’s certainly a look, I’ll give you that.” She pauses, pursing her lips slightly before continuing. “It’s a guy, isn’t it?”
And suddenly Emily is fifteen again, talking about middle school crushes with friends. Or at least, what she’d imagined she’d be doing at fifteen if she’d lived in America instead of Italy. What she wanted to be happening.
“Ew. JJ, no.”
“A girl?”
That makes Emily pause before she takes another sip of wine. The pause was a second too long, and they both knew it.
“I work. The only time I go out for a drink is when I’m with you and Penelope. Where would I have even met anyone-“
“So you met them through work. This mystery he. Or she.”
Emily looked at her. And JJ looked at Emily in return. She had that look about her- Emily. The one JJ knew well. The one that meant the emerging thought had festered. Aged. Darkened. Grown strong, not stale. Similar to the wine that sat in both of their glasses. Something that makes or breaks a person.
“Be realistic. It’s me. I live in my flat. Alone. I’m happy with my life.” It’s kind of true. Emily likes to think she is, but deep down she knows that she isn’t completely. “I wake up. Shower. Get dressed. Fruit and coffee. Work. Home. Tea. Watch shitty television. I don’t meet people. I don’t date.”
“Yeah, I know that. Believe me, it’s a problem me and Penelope have been trying to solve for a long long time now.” JJ sighs, putting her glass down before looking at Emily, really looking at her.
“Y’know, that day we met. Well, not technically met but you know. When you were in Hotch’s office.” The one that’s now Emily’s. “You looked at me. And for a moment, I don’t know. Something seemed possible.”
“JJ-“
“You say you're happy. And I know I am. I have will. Henry. Michael. Our team. Our job. It takes. So much-“
“It gives me you.”
There’s a few beats of silence. The women look at each over, almost daring each over to do the unspeakable. Emily almost reaches out. Almost. But her mind is quick- it lists all of the wrongs of the situation and she knows they outweigh the rights.
JJ is younger. Married. Happily.She has two sons. Technically, Emily is in a higher position than JJ. It’s unprofessional.
Yet so tempting.
Dangerously tempting.
“JJ can I say something stupid?”
The wine is starting to kick in, that extra glass taking effect.
“Emily, don’t-“
It’s like she knows what’s about to happen. And wants to stop it. Needs to.
“No- no I’ve got to say it. It’s- it’s so stupid. You have your life. Your family-“
“Em, please don’t do this-“
“Jennifer Jareau I love you.”
The room falls silent once more. Before it was with the weight of the unsaid, now it’s the weight of everything said.
“This is-“
Emily laughs sharply, cutting JJ off abruptly. The silence never lasts long. It never would.
“So stupid. I know. But I can’t not, JJ. You’ve- you’ve been here for me for the worst parts of my life. And I’d do it all again if it meant I’d have this job with you.”
JJ sharply inhales. There's a small rush of salt in her eyes but none of it falls. It just sits there and fills.
“You’re drunk.”
“Maybe I am. But you can’t act like you didn’t feel it too. At some point. Way back when. And- and I’m not asking for anything. I just- I needed you to know.”
A pause.
“I’m happy for you and Will. I always have been. You deserve each over. But you know I would go through everything again if it meant we had the chance we’d never got. You deserve the sun, and if you wanted it I would find a way to fly up there and take it for you, even just to see you smile for a few short moments. To watch the way your face lights up, your eyes sparkle. For you to look at me the same way you do to Will.”
JJ doesn’t reply to that. Not directly. She takes a few breaths, and excuses herself to the bathroom.
It hits Emily a few moments later. The wine glass is empty and on the table, her head buried in her hands, silvery tresses falling over here like a shield.
“For fucks sake, Emily. Why’d you have to go and ruin things.”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75664871
|
{"authors": ["m1rr0rfor3v3r"], "language": "English", "title": "There’s only so much wine"}
|
I Will Follow You Into the Dark
The light was dying.
It bled across the chamber walls in blinding streaks of orange and red, the kind of color that made everything look hot and feverish. Dust motes floated in it, slow and golden in little specks, like snow that hadn’t learned it was supposed to fall. The fire had gone out hours ago, untended. The air smelled of cooled wax, medicinal herbs, and the bitter tang of tonics.
They had taken her body away hours ago–wrapped in linens that smelled like her–and carried her through the Red Keep while bells tolled long and low. He hadn’t followed–he couldn’t; he’d stayed on the balcony and stared down at the waters of the bay, watched the city around him move about its day as if time hadn’t just stopped.
Just another act of cowardice, he’d thought, What else would they expect?
Now, there was no one left. No nurses, no maids, no maesters. No one moved about the room in quiet panic, nor whispered condolences that rang hollow.
Just him.
Like a fool, he’d clung to his mother’s ramblings toward the end–ones of light, beautiful gates that opened if one only prayed hard enough. But he knew her, his sweet, stubborn wife.
She’d linger in the dark until he came, strong-willed until the end.
Aegon sat at the foot of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, the bittersweet smell of wine clinging to him like smoke. He hadn’t moved for hours, save to raise bottles and cups to his lips. The air was still heavy with the ghost of her–lavender oil, herbs that she’d been fond of using in her baths, the soft sweetness that seemed to cling in every room long after she’d left it.
It should’ve been comforting, yet all it did was choke him.
“They say you looked peaceful,” his voice came out cracked and dry, slurred as his tongue felt too heavy for his mouth, “They always say that, don’t they?”
The sound fell flat in the room.
He reached for the bottle he’d most recently been nursing, found it empty, and tossed it aside. It rolled across the stone floor until finally hitting the leg of her dressing table with a hollow clink. He stared at it until his vision blurred, silently willing her voice to ring out–to scold him, to console him, anything at all.
“You’d hate this,” he muttered, sucking in a breath, “The quiet.”
He could still hear her–that half-laugh, half-sigh she gave whenever he said something stupid or crass. She’d been so good at softening the edges of him, dulling the sharper parts until he’d almost passed for gentle.
He’d been hers before he’d been anything else.
And now she was gone, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to be.
The bed looked enormous without her in it–he’d grown so used to the sight of her resting there, hair tousled while she’d obediently downed tonic after tonic, following Orwyle’s advice–trying to get better. The servants had cleared it all earlier–ridded the room of wash basins, glass bottles with labels on them he couldn’t pronounce, mortars and pestles. All gone, as though cleanliness could trick him into forgetting. But the smell lingered–sweet rot and lavender oil, sickness and her.
On the nightstand sat the silver hairbrush she’d used that morning, still threaded with strands of her. He reached for it before stopping himself, hand trembling in the air. It felt obscene–touching what she’d left behind when she couldn’t touch him back.
He took another drink, downing the sweet wine and letting it burn at his insides. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, laughed once–short and hoarse. “You’d scold me for this,” he said, more to her than to himself, “You’d take the damn bottle and make that face, scrunch up your nose. Tell me the king ought to see straight once in his life.”
Outside, the sky darkened further. Golden orange gave way to crimson that slipped into rust, until the whole world looked like it was drowning in its own blood.
He stood unsteadily before crossing to the balcony doors. He’d drawn them wide hours ago, maybe to air out the smell of sickness, maybe so he wouldn’t feel so trapped. The city below was fading into shadow, the last scraps of sunlight sliding over the rooftops. How dare they live, drinking and shouting and carrying on.
How dare they.
Behind him, the room was silent save for the whisper of the curtains and the occasional creak of cooling wood.
Aegon turned back quickly–too quickly–and the floor tilted. He caught himself on a bedpost, fingers slipping against carved wood. When he righted himself and looked up, his eyes landed on the pillow that still held the shape of her head. He hesitated only a moment before taking it. The fabric was smooth beneath his fingers, soft and faintly warm from where the sun had shown upon it. When he pressed it to his face, the scent hit him–her skin, her perfume, her.
That was all it took.
The first sob came out strangled, a mean thing caught somewhere between his teeth and his throat. The next one tore free without warning, all the breath leaving his lungs as he collapsed onto the bed. Soon he was
|
I Will Follow You Into the Dark
The light was dying.
It bled across the chamber walls in blinding streaks of orange and red, the kind of color that made everything look hot and feverish. Dust motes floated in it, slow and golden in little specks, like snow that hadn’t learned it was supposed to fall. The fire had gone out hours ago, untended. The air smelled of cooled wax, medicinal herbs, and the bitter tang of tonics.
They had taken her body away hours ago–wrapped in linens that smelled like her–and carried her through the Red Keep while bells tolled long and low. He hadn’t followed–he couldn’t; he’d stayed on the balcony and stared down at the waters of the bay, watched the city around him move about its day as if time hadn’t just stopped.
Just another act of cowardice, he’d thought, What else would they expect?
Now, there was no one left. No nurses, no maids, no maesters. No one moved about the room in quiet panic, nor whispered condolences that rang hollow.
Just him.
Like a fool, he’d clung to his mother’s ramblings toward the end–ones of light, beautiful gates that opened if one only prayed hard enough. But he knew her, his sweet, stubborn wife.
She’d linger in the dark until he came, strong-willed until the end.
Aegon sat at the foot of the bed, shirt half-unbuttoned, the bittersweet smell of wine clinging to him like smoke. He hadn’t moved for hours, save to raise bottles and cups to his lips. The air was still heavy with the ghost of her–lavender oil, herbs that she’d been fond of using in her baths, the soft sweetness that seemed to cling in every room long after she’d left it.
It should’ve been comforting, yet all it did was choke him.
“They say you looked peaceful,” his voice came out cracked and dry, slurred as his tongue felt too heavy for his mouth, “They always say that, don’t they?”
The sound fell flat in the room.
He reached for the bottle he’d most recently been nursing, found it empty, and tossed it aside. It rolled across the stone floor until finally hitting the leg of her dressing table with a hollow clink. He stared at it until his vision blurred, silently willing her voice to ring out–to scold him, to console him, anything at all.
“You’d hate this,” he muttered, sucking in a breath, “The quiet.”
He could still hear her–that half-laugh, half-sigh she gave whenever he said something stupid or crass. She’d been so good at softening the edges of him, dulling the sharper parts until he’d almost passed for gentle.
He’d been hers before he’d been anything else.
And now she was gone, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to be.
The bed looked enormous without her in it–he’d grown so used to the sight of her resting there, hair tousled while she’d obediently downed tonic after tonic, following Orwyle’s advice–trying to get better. The servants had cleared it all earlier–ridded the room of wash basins, glass bottles with labels on them he couldn’t pronounce, mortars and pestles. All gone, as though cleanliness could trick him into forgetting. But the smell lingered–sweet rot and lavender oil, sickness and her.
On the nightstand sat the silver hairbrush she’d used that morning, still threaded with strands of her. He reached for it before stopping himself, hand trembling in the air. It felt obscene–touching what she’d left behind when she couldn’t touch him back.
He took another drink, downing the sweet wine and letting it burn at his insides. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, laughed once–short and hoarse. “You’d scold me for this,” he said, more to her than to himself, “You’d take the damn bottle and make that face, scrunch up your nose. Tell me the king ought to see straight once in his life.”
Outside, the sky darkened further. Golden orange gave way to crimson that slipped into rust, until the whole world looked like it was drowning in its own blood.
He stood unsteadily before crossing to the balcony doors. He’d drawn them wide hours ago, maybe to air out the smell of sickness, maybe so he wouldn’t feel so trapped. The city below was fading into shadow, the last scraps of sunlight sliding over the rooftops. How dare they live, drinking and shouting and carrying on.
How dare they.
Behind him, the room was silent save for the whisper of the curtains and the occasional creak of cooling wood.
Aegon turned back quickly–too quickly–and the floor tilted. He caught himself on a bedpost, fingers slipping against carved wood. When he righted himself and looked up, his eyes landed on the pillow that still held the shape of her head. He hesitated only a moment before taking it. The fabric was smooth beneath his fingers, soft and faintly warm from where the sun had shown upon it. When he pressed it to his face, the scent hit him–her skin, her perfume, her.
That was all it took.
The first sob came out strangled, a mean thing caught somewhere between his teeth and his throat. The next one tore free without warning, all the breath leaving his lungs as he collapsed onto the bed. Soon he was shaking–soundless–the kind of weeping that wracked the whole body. His fingers dug into the pillow, clinging to it as he had her hand only hours before.
“Gods,” he breathed into it, “Gods, please–”
He didn’t know what he was begging for. Perhaps to have her back, perhaps for the universe to take him, too. The pillow muffled his words, soaked up his tears. He pressed his face deeper until it hurt to breathe.
She was supposed to have time, Orwyle had assured him there was plenty of time to slow the spread of sickness, to make her well. And then she’d slipped away so easily, wasted away in mere days.
“You were the only one who ever believed me,” he mumbled finally, “The only one who saw anything good in me.”
Aegon spoke her name, once. Then again, until it lost meaning and became the only prayer he dared trust.
He stayed quiet for a while as the sun dipped below the horizon. The last light crawled across his cheek, turning the tears on his face to amber. Then, it was gone, leaving the room hollow and grey. The shadows were merciful in a way–the only thing left that didn’t demand he keep living.
* * * * * * * * * *
He didn’t notice the tears stop until he realized his throat hurt from breathing too hard. His head pounded; the wine had soured in his stomach. Slowly, he pushed himself up with a groan and set her pillow back in its place and ran his hand over the fabric, carefully smoothing it until it lay flat.
Rising unsteadily, he paced the room before stopping, fists clenched. Grabbing for a half-empty bottle, not caring what it was, he tipped it up and drank until the liquid stung his throat and his lungs wept for air. He didn’t notice when he started talking again, it just happened–words spilling from him like blood from a wound.
“You made me think I wasn’t my father, now look at me,” he muttered, a bitter laugh clawing at his chest, “Gods, but you thought I was worth saving.”
He remembered her voice, soft and teasing, You don’t have to be perfect, Aegon, just present. He remembered her fingers straightening his collar, brushing dust from his sleeve, and tapping at his chin until he met her eyes. He remembered the way she’d said his name–not as a curse or a title, but as something that belonged only to her.
And now, it belonged to no one.
He stopped then, standing in the middle of the room. His hands still shook, just as they had all evening.
The sound of his own voice disgusted him, as did everything else–the air felt wrong on his skin. Snatching a goblet from a nearby table, he hurled it at the wall. It hit with a dull crack and bounced off the floor and the silence that followed afterwards was one of the worst things he’d heard.
Sinking down on the bed again, breathing hard, he rested his head in his hands. “You’d be angry with me,” he whispered to the empty room, “For drinking. For not… not wanting–”
The words stuck in his throat, feeling wrong and yet, like the only next step he could bear to take.
He thought of her saying wait for me. He thought of her voice, soft and weak but still so sure, promising that there was something beyond this life worth the pain of living. They’d had talks in those final hours when she was blessedly lucid–of the Gods, of what comes next, of realms of light and love and… He wondered if she still believed that now. If he still believed it.
“There will be no light when I die,” he whispered to the still air, “But I’ll find you, even in the dark.”
The thought didn’t frighten him now as it had so many times before. It settled him like a truth that had just been waiting to be said aloud. Instead of imagining her ghost, he was thinking of her waiting–hands folded, eyes kind, not asking him to hurry but not telling him to stay either.
He straightened slowly, grabbing at the bedpost again to steady himself. I won’t keep you long, he’d thought.
It must be late by now, but he knew sleep would not come. The fire in the hearth had gone to cinders, the air had cooled, the color leached out of the room. He moved through it like someone walking through another man’s memory, touching the thing she’d left behind– a half read book, a sachet of herbs she’d used in her baths, her shawl that she’d spent so long embroidering draped over the back of a chair. Each one seemed sacred and yet unbearable.
Picking up the shawl, he pressed it to his face and inhaled deeply–savoring what was left of her familiar smell. He swallowed against the tightness at the back of his throat, willed his eyes to stop stinging with new tears. He refolded the shawl and set it neatly in the chair before her dressing table, his touch lingering on the silk. “I’ll follow after you,” he said softly, a vow.
Leaving it, he paced a few steps over toward the small desk in the corner and retrieved his dagger, knowing he’d need it. The decision had settled within him the moment she’d gone still in his grasp, quiet and absolute.
The wind blew in through the balcony doors, smelling of sea salt and faraway rain. It stirred the curtains and slipped past him, brushing his cheek like a hand that used to know him.
At the door, he turned once more. The room looked softer now, in shadow–peaceful, even. Her pillow was a pale blur on the bed, the only bright thing left.
He smiled at it, small and tired, and then left.
The latch in the heavy oak doors clicked behind him. The curtains billowed once, twice, then stilled. The scent of her lingered, fainter now–fading.
Aegon wound his way through dim corridors, intent on going to the Godswood tree she’d adored so much. He did not pray to the Gods now, he knew they didn’t listen. Instead, he prayed to her–the one good thing he had.
I’m coming, he thought, nearing the courtyard, I’ll be with you soon.
He’d follow, of course he would. Where else was there to go?
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75664876
|
{"authors": ["aemondsbabe"], "language": "English", "title": "I Will Follow You Into the Dark"}
|
The night Santa actually came
Snow and cold, garlands and the smell of hot cocoa, children and their parents. All of them filled the squares, streets, and alleys. From every house poured songs, and laughter echoed everywhere. And the reason for all this was Christmas. It turned the gray metropolis into a city of bright lights and joy. Only one gray spot made its way through the crowd. Y/N L/N. A young woman, loudly shuffling her feet through the snow, walked on, and each time she passed noisy groups or couples in love, she watched them with envy. In her tiny apartment, the place she was heading to, no one was waiting for her. That’s why the joyful holiday of Christmas brought her no happiness—after all, what’s the point of a holiday if there’s no one to celebrate it with?
Y/N finally reached her building and made it to her apartment, slamming the door shut behind her. Once inside, she leaned against the door and slowly slid down to the floor, completely drained. The bags she had been carrying all this time were very heavy, and in the morning Y/N had forgotten her gloves. The blizzard outside hadn’t spared her at all, and all the snow on her clothes immediately began to melt, leaving wet spots behind. Her mood was truly awful. All she wanted was to crawl into her bed and sleep for a century, or even longer. Gathering her last bit of strength, barely pushing herself off the floor, Y/N took off her outerwear before going to change into something comfortable. Already dressed in an oversized T-shirt and old sweatpants, she collapsed onto her cool bed. She only had enough strength to wrap herself in a giant blanket like a cocoon. All day she had thought she would fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, but the thoughts buzzing in her head were like flies, not letting her relax for even a minute. Tossing and turning, she couldn’t stop thinking about the holiday, the fun, and the unforgettable atmosphere of Christmas. As a child, she waited for this day every year—but not this time. She was no longer that child, but a grown young woman. Her adult side insisted that this was just another day like any other, so she could simply forget about it and go to sleep. But the child inside her still hoped that someone in a red jumpsuit would come and turn this boring evening into something unforgettable. It still waited and hoped for that very Christmas miracle.
|
The night Santa actually came
Snow and cold, garlands and the smell of hot cocoa, children and their parents. All of them filled the squares, streets, and alleys. From every house poured songs, and laughter echoed everywhere. And the reason for all this was Christmas. It turned the gray metropolis into a city of bright lights and joy. Only one gray spot made its way through the crowd. Y/N L/N. A young woman, loudly shuffling her feet through the snow, walked on, and each time she passed noisy groups or couples in love, she watched them with envy. In her tiny apartment, the place she was heading to, no one was waiting for her. That’s why the joyful holiday of Christmas brought her no happiness—after all, what’s the point of a holiday if there’s no one to celebrate it with?
Y/N finally reached her building and made it to her apartment, slamming the door shut behind her. Once inside, she leaned against the door and slowly slid down to the floor, completely drained. The bags she had been carrying all this time were very heavy, and in the morning Y/N had forgotten her gloves. The blizzard outside hadn’t spared her at all, and all the snow on her clothes immediately began to melt, leaving wet spots behind. Her mood was truly awful. All she wanted was to crawl into her bed and sleep for a century, or even longer. Gathering her last bit of strength, barely pushing herself off the floor, Y/N took off her outerwear before going to change into something comfortable. Already dressed in an oversized T-shirt and old sweatpants, she collapsed onto her cool bed. She only had enough strength to wrap herself in a giant blanket like a cocoon. All day she had thought she would fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, but the thoughts buzzing in her head were like flies, not letting her relax for even a minute. Tossing and turning, she couldn’t stop thinking about the holiday, the fun, and the unforgettable atmosphere of Christmas. As a child, she waited for this day every year—but not this time. She was no longer that child, but a grown young woman. Her adult side insisted that this was just another day like any other, so she could simply forget about it and go to sleep. But the child inside her still hoped that someone in a red jumpsuit would come and turn this boring evening into something unforgettable. It still waited and hoped for that very Christmas miracle.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75662406?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["CozyCornerOfMadness"], "language": "English", "title": "The night Santa actually came"}
|
Autotheist
Patrick had always thought the world was simply a product of his imagination. Not something real. No.
For him, the world was completely fake, a product of his mind so he could coexist with his "creations." A joke that it wasn't funny. A cheap stage set where no one was real.
But, there were days when he wondered if the others were as real as he was.
For example, that afternoon, when Henry was reclining in Belch's car seat, a cigarette in his mouth, his gaze lost somewhere Patrick couldn't see. The wind whispered through the trees, and the road seemed far away that day, and yet, Patrick felt that the only thing that was truly real was himself, and maybe—just maybe—Henry.
Maybe. It was a stupid thought, it didn't make sense, but sometimes he thought that about others, that maybe some people were as real as he was, but it didn't make sense.
For Patrick, not even his parents were real. They had simply brought him from a hospital where he was born real, just like his brother, but Patrick wouldn't allow anyone else to be as real as him and disrupt the order, the order that existed in his "family."
Because even Henry, on his worst days, seemed too "human" to be completely real.
Too weak.
Too burdened by anger, frustrations, wounds that never healed.
And Patrick didn't understand. If Henry were like him, he wouldn't feel anything.
He didn't understand the weight of the world on Henry's shoulders.
He didn't understand the need to get so angry over things that didn't matter.
But he watched him.
As if watching Henry was the closest thing to feeling something.
Belch had gotten out of the car to buy something at the gas station with Victor, while Patrick had stayed in the back seat, with Henry in the passenger seat.
Sometimes, Henry noticed that Patrick seemed to look at others so close when Patrick himself had those stupid delusions of being God or some other nonsense, and Henry hated everytime patrick looked at him like that.
"What the hell are you looking at?" Henry say without turning around.
Patrick leaned his head back on the seat in front of him and didn't answer.
Henry turned just enough to look at him.
"Do you want me to punch you in the face so you understand that I exist?"
"That would only prove you're a 'human,' not that you're real."
Henry rolled his eyes; he wouldn't say another word.
†
At night, in his room, Patrick would hear his parents' voices downstairs, and he would sit there in the dark, wondering:
What if it's just noise?
Shadows projected to fill the room?
Like that stupid set from the school play?
†
Sometimes, when Patrick saw his mother acting with such a devotion to God, he chuckled to himself. God didn't exist, and in that case, Patrick was the only true God. If he died, everyone else will die with him, without exception, he was sure of it.
There was something almost comforting about that idea.
If he was God, then the world was justified.
Maybe he was the only authentic entity.
Everyone else was a puppet of his mind.
Even Henry.
†
It was quite late, almost night, but Patrick and Henry were walking through the woods while Patrick stared at him like one animal studying another.
Henry noticed, but he said nothing, until they continued walking and Patrick spoke.
"All this stuff that's supposed to exist isn't real."
Henry stared at him for a long moment.
"Stop talking shit," he muttered.
Patrick took a step forward.
"What if you're just a shape my mind invented to keep me from getting bored? A shape trying to convince me it's real too?" he asked, his tone was almost like a child. "What would you do if I told you... that you're not real?"
Henry grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him closer.
"I'm here, Hockstetter, I'm real, and you need to stop talking shit, you bitch," Henry said, his tone was like a threatening. "Stop acting like a complete lunatic, because I'm here, talking to you."
Patrick didn't flinch. He barely blinked.
"But I'm talking to you too," he whispered.
"How do you know you're real, Hen? How can you prove it?"
Henry opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't find an answer.
None that would convince Patrick to stop his nonsense.
Patrick smiled, not mockingly, but as if he'd just confirmed something.
"Look," he said quietly. "Nothing is real, Henry, except me." You must wake up.
|
Autotheist
Patrick had always thought the world was simply a product of his imagination. Not something real. No.
For him, the world was completely fake, a product of his mind so he could coexist with his "creations." A joke that it wasn't funny. A cheap stage set where no one was real.
But, there were days when he wondered if the others were as real as he was.
For example, that afternoon, when Henry was reclining in Belch's car seat, a cigarette in his mouth, his gaze lost somewhere Patrick couldn't see. The wind whispered through the trees, and the road seemed far away that day, and yet, Patrick felt that the only thing that was truly real was himself, and maybe—just maybe—Henry.
Maybe. It was a stupid thought, it didn't make sense, but sometimes he thought that about others, that maybe some people were as real as he was, but it didn't make sense.
For Patrick, not even his parents were real. They had simply brought him from a hospital where he was born real, just like his brother, but Patrick wouldn't allow anyone else to be as real as him and disrupt the order, the order that existed in his "family."
Because even Henry, on his worst days, seemed too "human" to be completely real.
Too weak.
Too burdened by anger, frustrations, wounds that never healed.
And Patrick didn't understand. If Henry were like him, he wouldn't feel anything.
He didn't understand the weight of the world on Henry's shoulders.
He didn't understand the need to get so angry over things that didn't matter.
But he watched him.
As if watching Henry was the closest thing to feeling something.
Belch had gotten out of the car to buy something at the gas station with Victor, while Patrick had stayed in the back seat, with Henry in the passenger seat.
Sometimes, Henry noticed that Patrick seemed to look at others so close when Patrick himself had those stupid delusions of being God or some other nonsense, and Henry hated everytime patrick looked at him like that.
"What the hell are you looking at?" Henry say without turning around.
Patrick leaned his head back on the seat in front of him and didn't answer.
Henry turned just enough to look at him.
"Do you want me to punch you in the face so you understand that I exist?"
"That would only prove you're a 'human,' not that you're real."
Henry rolled his eyes; he wouldn't say another word.
†
At night, in his room, Patrick would hear his parents' voices downstairs, and he would sit there in the dark, wondering:
What if it's just noise?
Shadows projected to fill the room?
Like that stupid set from the school play?
†
Sometimes, when Patrick saw his mother acting with such a devotion to God, he chuckled to himself. God didn't exist, and in that case, Patrick was the only true God. If he died, everyone else will die with him, without exception, he was sure of it.
There was something almost comforting about that idea.
If he was God, then the world was justified.
Maybe he was the only authentic entity.
Everyone else was a puppet of his mind.
Even Henry.
†
It was quite late, almost night, but Patrick and Henry were walking through the woods while Patrick stared at him like one animal studying another.
Henry noticed, but he said nothing, until they continued walking and Patrick spoke.
"All this stuff that's supposed to exist isn't real."
Henry stared at him for a long moment.
"Stop talking shit," he muttered.
Patrick took a step forward.
"What if you're just a shape my mind invented to keep me from getting bored? A shape trying to convince me it's real too?" he asked, his tone was almost like a child. "What would you do if I told you... that you're not real?"
Henry grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him closer.
"I'm here, Hockstetter, I'm real, and you need to stop talking shit, you bitch," Henry said, his tone was like a threatening. "Stop acting like a complete lunatic, because I'm here, talking to you."
Patrick didn't flinch. He barely blinked.
"But I'm talking to you too," he whispered.
"How do you know you're real, Hen? How can you prove it?"
Henry opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't find an answer.
None that would convince Patrick to stop his nonsense.
Patrick smiled, not mockingly, but as if he'd just confirmed something.
"Look," he said quietly. "Nothing is real, Henry, except me." You must wake up.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75662431
|
{"authors": ["martyrzz"], "language": "English", "title": "Autotheist"}
|
Embarrassed to death
Avid didn't mean to. He just got really hungry. He hasn't had the best time with his new vampire hunger. It was easy suppressing it but the guilt he still feels from the urges from his cursed wound still makes it very hard for him to actually eat. Having someone get between him and his meal isn't exactly the best thing for the person in between. Owen should have realized that. Owen never spoke a lot to Avid mostly just in group discussions but for a moment Owen just made Avid see red. All of his instincts just said to bite.
One second he was looking at the lumberjack, the next his blood was in his throat while Owen was on the ground. Avid went up in a panic, the feeling of New blood filling him as he looked at the corpse on the ground. It was only a few moments before Owen awoke, not even giving Avid any time to react as his head was removed from his body. He didn't even feel the pain of the kill before he woke up in his bed in the crypt. Panic flooded his body all over again as he left a newly turned vampire in the middle of the woods. This was going to end badly
******
Scott was having quite a good day. The ballroom was just finished and he was getting his fill of blood in when the doorway was opened. Owen stormed in, which was confusing as the vampires hadn't even talked to the town for the last few days. Excluding the vampires that still lived in the town. It only took a few moments for Scott to realize why. Owen's eyes are blood red and already have streaks white in his hair. Scott knew that Owen would have been turned in the last few hours, being up to level two already was very impressive but also deeply concerning.
“Welcome to the castle,” Scott said politely. Quite happy that he didn't have to go through another song and dance of convincing a new vampire to switch sides once they turned.
“ Don't care” was all that Owen replied, walking straight to where they kept the food. Stuffing bottles of blood into his pockets with no concern of who they belonged to or who was around.
“I see that you decide to come to us” Scott had no idea who turned him but whoever did made the right call. Scott can already see that Owen would be quite a powerful vampire, he doesn't know why he didn't think of it first.
“I don't care about your politics but I'm not suicidal enough to go back to the village with all that silver running around and I'm not dealing with there screaming” Owen said as he rolled his eyes finishing going through the chest and finally turning to look at the elder vampire.
“ you've made the right-”
“ still don't care “ Owen interrupted a third time “it's embarrassing enough how I got turned, I'm going to get a room and finally have a turning sleep “
“you haven't had a turning sleep “Owen was already up to level two, how did he?
“I woke up within 5 minutes and kind of gorged myself.“ He looked embarrassed, well as embarrassed as Owen could look. If Scott hadn't been around for hundreds of years learning how to understand people and manipulate them he wouldn't have noticed. He walked to the stairs of the crypt. Scott will only realize later that Owen should have not known that the rooms were downstairs.
On his way there Owen ran into Avid coming up the stairs. He froze in his steps not doing anything when Owen pushed him off the stairs. He hit the ground with a loud slam and let out a groan. Owen stopped and looked down at Avid at the bottom of the staircase only saying “you deserve that” making his way down the staircase again.
“Tell pyro I'm taking his room” he didn't even stop to get any commentary. Continuing his way into the crypt. Scott stood there waiting for Avid to make his way up the stairs again so he could ask a few questions.
“What was that about?” Scott finally asked when Avid was right in front of him rubbing his hand against the back of his neck with a guilty look in his eyes. “I might have accidentally turned Owen a little while ago.”
“I knew about the new blood, every vampire knew about the new blood, I just didn't expect you to be turning anyone, Darling” Avid has been quite reluctant about the idea of turning anyone, he's only recently gotten around to the idea of using his bat form. This change was certainly unexpected.
“It was an accident he got in between me and a wild cow and he was teasing me and taunting me and well I just”
“Decided to turn him” Scott raised an eyebrow, not liking how long it was taking to get to the point.
“No” Avid said as he shook his head putting his hands in front of him in a sweeping motion “I didn't mean to turn him I just bit him, I don't know whether he was low on health or if I just don't know how much blood you could take without killing someone”
“Did you say anything?” Scott wanted to know why exactly Owen immediately turned to the castle, while the silver and the screaming are good answers he also knows that apo is freely allowed in the town and he's heard about the rumors between Owen and the doctor
“I didn't get the chance to,
|
Embarrassed to death
Avid didn't mean to. He just got really hungry. He hasn't had the best time with his new vampire hunger. It was easy suppressing it but the guilt he still feels from the urges from his cursed wound still makes it very hard for him to actually eat. Having someone get between him and his meal isn't exactly the best thing for the person in between. Owen should have realized that. Owen never spoke a lot to Avid mostly just in group discussions but for a moment Owen just made Avid see red. All of his instincts just said to bite.
One second he was looking at the lumberjack, the next his blood was in his throat while Owen was on the ground. Avid went up in a panic, the feeling of New blood filling him as he looked at the corpse on the ground. It was only a few moments before Owen awoke, not even giving Avid any time to react as his head was removed from his body. He didn't even feel the pain of the kill before he woke up in his bed in the crypt. Panic flooded his body all over again as he left a newly turned vampire in the middle of the woods. This was going to end badly
******
Scott was having quite a good day. The ballroom was just finished and he was getting his fill of blood in when the doorway was opened. Owen stormed in, which was confusing as the vampires hadn't even talked to the town for the last few days. Excluding the vampires that still lived in the town. It only took a few moments for Scott to realize why. Owen's eyes are blood red and already have streaks white in his hair. Scott knew that Owen would have been turned in the last few hours, being up to level two already was very impressive but also deeply concerning.
“Welcome to the castle,” Scott said politely. Quite happy that he didn't have to go through another song and dance of convincing a new vampire to switch sides once they turned.
“ Don't care” was all that Owen replied, walking straight to where they kept the food. Stuffing bottles of blood into his pockets with no concern of who they belonged to or who was around.
“I see that you decide to come to us” Scott had no idea who turned him but whoever did made the right call. Scott can already see that Owen would be quite a powerful vampire, he doesn't know why he didn't think of it first.
“I don't care about your politics but I'm not suicidal enough to go back to the village with all that silver running around and I'm not dealing with there screaming” Owen said as he rolled his eyes finishing going through the chest and finally turning to look at the elder vampire.
“ you've made the right-”
“ still don't care “ Owen interrupted a third time “it's embarrassing enough how I got turned, I'm going to get a room and finally have a turning sleep “
“you haven't had a turning sleep “Owen was already up to level two, how did he?
“I woke up within 5 minutes and kind of gorged myself.“ He looked embarrassed, well as embarrassed as Owen could look. If Scott hadn't been around for hundreds of years learning how to understand people and manipulate them he wouldn't have noticed. He walked to the stairs of the crypt. Scott will only realize later that Owen should have not known that the rooms were downstairs.
On his way there Owen ran into Avid coming up the stairs. He froze in his steps not doing anything when Owen pushed him off the stairs. He hit the ground with a loud slam and let out a groan. Owen stopped and looked down at Avid at the bottom of the staircase only saying “you deserve that” making his way down the staircase again.
“Tell pyro I'm taking his room” he didn't even stop to get any commentary. Continuing his way into the crypt. Scott stood there waiting for Avid to make his way up the stairs again so he could ask a few questions.
“What was that about?” Scott finally asked when Avid was right in front of him rubbing his hand against the back of his neck with a guilty look in his eyes. “I might have accidentally turned Owen a little while ago.”
“I knew about the new blood, every vampire knew about the new blood, I just didn't expect you to be turning anyone, Darling” Avid has been quite reluctant about the idea of turning anyone, he's only recently gotten around to the idea of using his bat form. This change was certainly unexpected.
“It was an accident he got in between me and a wild cow and he was teasing me and taunting me and well I just”
“Decided to turn him” Scott raised an eyebrow, not liking how long it was taking to get to the point.
“No” Avid said as he shook his head putting his hands in front of him in a sweeping motion “I didn't mean to turn him I just bit him, I don't know whether he was low on health or if I just don't know how much blood you could take without killing someone”
“Did you say anything?” Scott wanted to know why exactly Owen immediately turned to the castle, while the silver and the screaming are good answers he also knows that apo is freely allowed in the town and he's heard about the rumors between Owen and the doctor
“I didn't get the chance to," Avid says sheepishly, his hands staying in front of him as he moves them around anxiously. “He kind of killed me”
“How?” is all Scott says. When you turn, vampires obtain instincts. They either seek comfort from the person that turns them or they try to flee. they don't kill their sire
“He literally went for the throat, he used his ax and chopped off my head” Scott sighed, putting his hand to his head as he realized what a headache this is going to be.
“Well at least he didn't go running into town about you turning him in; he had enough sense to come here.” Owen gorging himself on blood immediately probably isn't the best sign of his eating habits, but it's not the worst thing Scott's had to deal with since getting a new coven of fledglings. If things get too bad Scott will send him out to get more supplies, which seems to be what he's always doing for the town's folk.
“We have a gathering tomorrow already planned. Just steer clear of him until then and you should probably tell pyro that his room's been confiscated by a newly turned. If he wants it back he'll have to fight it from Owen, I'm not touching that.”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75662451
|
{"authors": ["Red2384"], "language": "English", "title": "Embarrassed to death"}
|
Hiyori
Hiyori.
A beacon of light profusely shining from the depths of Hell, Hiyori.
An eternal flame surrounded by the frigid chill of winter, Hiyori.
The fruit of lust and the embodiment of an incubus, Hiyori.
Whether it be nursing a patient back to health, evaluating an ill child's intentions, or hosting a tutoring session for a friend in need, Hiyori is the very definition of hospitality.
I know from the collection of .txt files that line the digital walls of my library. Each letter of dialogue containing Hiyori's feelings, emotions, thoughts, entertainments, and experiences.
Autobiographies that I did not write.
On the leather chairs of the gallery, I sit. Hiyori's head lies cradled in my lap, staring up at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
Eyes vacant of light.
Eyes vacant of life.
"You got around well," I praise as I stroke his synthetic hair.
I could've asked why he built his life around people who would offer only a fraction of the love I've constantly given him.
But Hiyori is exhausted.
I know from the cloud of never-ending information that fogs my mind.
In a gentle, swift motion, I close his eyes with my palm, and my own soon follow.
|
Hiyori
Hiyori.
A beacon of light profusely shining from the depths of Hell, Hiyori.
An eternal flame surrounded by the frigid chill of winter, Hiyori.
The fruit of lust and the embodiment of an incubus, Hiyori.
Whether it be nursing a patient back to health, evaluating an ill child's intentions, or hosting a tutoring session for a friend in need, Hiyori is the very definition of hospitality.
I know from the collection of .txt files that line the digital walls of my library. Each letter of dialogue containing Hiyori's feelings, emotions, thoughts, entertainments, and experiences.
Autobiographies that I did not write.
On the leather chairs of the gallery, I sit. Hiyori's head lies cradled in my lap, staring up at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
Eyes vacant of light.
Eyes vacant of life.
"You got around well," I praise as I stroke his synthetic hair.
I could've asked why he built his life around people who would offer only a fraction of the love I've constantly given him.
But Hiyori is exhausted.
I know from the cloud of never-ending information that fogs my mind.
In a gentle, swift motion, I close his eyes with my palm, and my own soon follow.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75662471
|
{"authors": ["kipisi_Velvet"], "language": "English", "title": "Hiyori"}
|
It feels inhumane to lose this much
One pressed herself closer against the body beside her, making them giggle. She could feel the grass under her as she looked up at the sunsetting behind the skyline. She finally turned her head to look over at the girl next to her. “Aren’t the stars great?” She asked excitedly, already giddy at the thought of sharing a moment with someone. Anyone. Finally, Three turned to face her, a soft smile on her face. “Yeah… it’s great” One shifted over, giving Three room to put her arm under her.
The night was filled with a now settling silence, recovering after being disturbed. But sometimes the quiet was too empty. “Hey one, do you wanna know something cool about the moon?” No. Not really. But if it made her feel less alone, then it’s fine. As long as she knows that she didn’t leave her. “Sure, go ahe-” “Ok, so, basically, the moon doesn't actually PRODUCE light-” she lifts her free hand to poke at the moon. “- it reflects! To be more specifi-”... One relaxes into her arm as she slowly tunes her out. She stares at the moon. Insignificant. Unable to do anything by itself. Only significant when paired with something else. The moon wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for the Earth. It wouldnt’ve mattered to the Earth if the sun wasn’t there. What right does it have to be the muse for so many? She stares at the moon with disgust.
It stares back with the same intensity.
Judging them. Judging her. Disgusted by what it sees. But why? Why won’t it stop looking at her? Judging her? She didn’t do anything wrong, and even if she did… she could fix it. Just.. stop looking at her like that. Why won't it stop looking at her. Why do they keep looking at her like that. She didn’t mean to…
One wakes up alone. Again she’s staring at the moon on her back, but from a different angle. From inside. The cold rocky surface feels like sandpaper compared to the memory of soft grass from home (If it was even ever hers.) She looks over and the faint made up memory of Three is already fading. She could’ve been with her. She should’ve. This was… whos fault. If three didn’t… but then again she never should’ve hurt her… so maybe it is her fault?… But… It’s okay. She’s going to fix it. She’s going to fix... This. Things will be right. She’s right. And… she’ll be alright. She has to be. She'll prove it to the others.. but was it even about them? It's more for herself and…
…
…
…
She’ll fix it. She has to.
|
It feels inhumane to lose this much
One pressed herself closer against the body beside her, making them giggle. She could feel the grass under her as she looked up at the sunsetting behind the skyline. She finally turned her head to look over at the girl next to her. “Aren’t the stars great?” She asked excitedly, already giddy at the thought of sharing a moment with someone. Anyone. Finally, Three turned to face her, a soft smile on her face. “Yeah… it’s great” One shifted over, giving Three room to put her arm under her.
The night was filled with a now settling silence, recovering after being disturbed. But sometimes the quiet was too empty. “Hey one, do you wanna know something cool about the moon?” No. Not really. But if it made her feel less alone, then it’s fine. As long as she knows that she didn’t leave her. “Sure, go ahe-” “Ok, so, basically, the moon doesn't actually PRODUCE light-” she lifts her free hand to poke at the moon. “- it reflects! To be more specifi-”... One relaxes into her arm as she slowly tunes her out. She stares at the moon. Insignificant. Unable to do anything by itself. Only significant when paired with something else. The moon wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for the Earth. It wouldnt’ve mattered to the Earth if the sun wasn’t there. What right does it have to be the muse for so many? She stares at the moon with disgust.
It stares back with the same intensity.
Judging them. Judging her. Disgusted by what it sees. But why? Why won’t it stop looking at her? Judging her? She didn’t do anything wrong, and even if she did… she could fix it. Just.. stop looking at her like that. Why won't it stop looking at her. Why do they keep looking at her like that. She didn’t mean to…
One wakes up alone. Again she’s staring at the moon on her back, but from a different angle. From inside. The cold rocky surface feels like sandpaper compared to the memory of soft grass from home (If it was even ever hers.) She looks over and the faint made up memory of Three is already fading. She could’ve been with her. She should’ve. This was… whos fault. If three didn’t… but then again she never should’ve hurt her… so maybe it is her fault?… But… It’s okay. She’s going to fix it. She’s going to fix... This. Things will be right. She’s right. And… she’ll be alright. She has to be. She'll prove it to the others.. but was it even about them? It's more for herself and…
…
…
…
She’ll fix it. She has to.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75662496
|
{"authors": ["Lemon_0510"], "language": "English", "title": "It feels inhumane to lose this much"}
|
my heart wasn't the only thing that shattered.
The Garden wasn’t usually like this.
Life in the Garden of Delights was lovely, peaceful. The angels’ soft singing. The rustling of leaves. Chatter, gentle and cheerful. Occasionally, the plucks of Eternal Sugar’s lyre. Calm, tranquil, happy.
This was anything but that.
The sound of jam, rushing through the garden in a flood of red liquid, filled Pavlova Cookie’s ears. It was nothing like he’d ever heard. It was loud. Insistent. He closed his eyes but it didn’t calm him. The noise just grew louder.
His ears were ringing. Was Eternal Sugar laughing? She was saying something. A crash of rubble, pieces of a marble shrine. Crashing around him. He flew away before he was trapped by the debris. Settled on a branch of the Garden’s largest tree. He looked around.
Blood–red strawberry jam, everywhere. Rushing through the garden in a sticky flood. He looked closer and saw Hollyberry and her friends trying to escape. Foolish. Nobody had ever escaped Eternal Sugar before. But for one, tantalizing moment, he felt the urge to run with them.
Freedom. Delicious freedom. It would whisper in his ear from time to time. Leave, it told him. Are you truly happy here?
Every time he shook it off. Denied it. Pavlova knew what happened to those who invoked the wrath of Eternal Sugar Cookie. Deep down, he knew that this wasn’t where he was really happy. But he didn’t want to face it. Couldn’t believe it. So he tricked himself into believing that this was what true joy was.
His eyes flicked from left to right and finally, he spotted her. Golden, winglike icing, a blue dress that fluttered behind her like a flag as she flew through the air. She was beautiful. But most striking, however, were her wings.
Tattered and broken. Ripped near the edges, creased like they’d been folded into origami and unfolded. By normal standards, very unattractive. To Pavlova? Beautiful.
Before, they’d been covered in coats of syrup thicker than glass. Gorgeous, yes, but just another reminder of a cage they were in. Pavlova couldn’t imagine his own wings trapped like that. Stuck like that forever—jusut something else to remind him he’d never be free.
A cage with gilded bars is still a cage.
Pavlova stared jealously at Sugarfly, whose silhouette was growing smaller by the second. He found himself envious of that freedom. He flexed his wings and felt that strike of longing again, to go after her.
Eternal Sugar was screaming. He didn’t hear it. Hollyberry and her friends were now but a tiny dot in the distance. He didn’t move. Just stared back at them, watching the golden dot that was Sugarfly until it passed through the boundaries of the Garden and Pavlova closed his eyes.
———
Her voice was hollow as she spoke to him. “Pavlova, dear, don’t get distracted.”
Eternal Sugar frowned at him. She seemed tired these days. Hollow. An empty nesting doll. But she forced a smile as she gestured at Pavlova Cookie. “Flowers.”
“Oh. Of course, Eternal Sugar Cookie,” Pavlova responded. He was tired too. There was a growing pain behind his eyes, like he was on the verge of tears. But he ignored it and turned his attention back to the assortment of flowers before him.
“She likes red,” Eternal Sugar murmured. She was both talking to him and herself. “Strong, vibrant red. She said it made her feel strong. But I didn’t.”
No response. Pavlova wasn’t paying attention. He took a red rose from the arrangement and flew up to place it near the top of the marble arch. It was newly built. Fresh, beautiful, but empty. Like the rest of the garden these days.
“Roses. She liked roses too. Strength in love. Passion.” She definitely wasn’t talking to Pavlova anymore. But she smiled, a little strained, at Pavlova Cookie regardless. “Well, I suppose I could take over here. Thank you, Pavlova.”
Pavlova nodded numbly. The sun was hurting his eyes, boring into them like the rays were needles. He flew off, leaving to his secluded spot in the tangled leaves of the Garden’s largest tree.
The sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes intensified. It stung against his eyelids, worsening as he tried to close them. He choked out a sob, unintentionally. The stinging grew stronger. It felt like needles behind his eyes.
Another sob. Pavlova felt a wave of emotion crash over him, and the piercing in his eyes grew stronger. He found tears rushing down his face, falling like rain down to the Garden below. Unnatural. The Garden of Delights didn’t have space for tears. But he couldn’t stop.
The piercing was getting stronger, and he let it. He didn’t have energy anymore. Pavlova leaned against the massive trunk of the tree, blinking heavily. He looked down. Where he thought he might see tears, he saw little stars.
Pavlova picked one up, even as more fell down his face. They were small, the size of large blueberries, and shaped like stars. They glowed softly like little lights. He examined them, turning them around as more tears fell like meteors.
A pang of longing ripped
|
my heart wasn't the only thing that shattered.
The Garden wasn’t usually like this.
Life in the Garden of Delights was lovely, peaceful. The angels’ soft singing. The rustling of leaves. Chatter, gentle and cheerful. Occasionally, the plucks of Eternal Sugar’s lyre. Calm, tranquil, happy.
This was anything but that.
The sound of jam, rushing through the garden in a flood of red liquid, filled Pavlova Cookie’s ears. It was nothing like he’d ever heard. It was loud. Insistent. He closed his eyes but it didn’t calm him. The noise just grew louder.
His ears were ringing. Was Eternal Sugar laughing? She was saying something. A crash of rubble, pieces of a marble shrine. Crashing around him. He flew away before he was trapped by the debris. Settled on a branch of the Garden’s largest tree. He looked around.
Blood–red strawberry jam, everywhere. Rushing through the garden in a sticky flood. He looked closer and saw Hollyberry and her friends trying to escape. Foolish. Nobody had ever escaped Eternal Sugar before. But for one, tantalizing moment, he felt the urge to run with them.
Freedom. Delicious freedom. It would whisper in his ear from time to time. Leave, it told him. Are you truly happy here?
Every time he shook it off. Denied it. Pavlova knew what happened to those who invoked the wrath of Eternal Sugar Cookie. Deep down, he knew that this wasn’t where he was really happy. But he didn’t want to face it. Couldn’t believe it. So he tricked himself into believing that this was what true joy was.
His eyes flicked from left to right and finally, he spotted her. Golden, winglike icing, a blue dress that fluttered behind her like a flag as she flew through the air. She was beautiful. But most striking, however, were her wings.
Tattered and broken. Ripped near the edges, creased like they’d been folded into origami and unfolded. By normal standards, very unattractive. To Pavlova? Beautiful.
Before, they’d been covered in coats of syrup thicker than glass. Gorgeous, yes, but just another reminder of a cage they were in. Pavlova couldn’t imagine his own wings trapped like that. Stuck like that forever—jusut something else to remind him he’d never be free.
A cage with gilded bars is still a cage.
Pavlova stared jealously at Sugarfly, whose silhouette was growing smaller by the second. He found himself envious of that freedom. He flexed his wings and felt that strike of longing again, to go after her.
Eternal Sugar was screaming. He didn’t hear it. Hollyberry and her friends were now but a tiny dot in the distance. He didn’t move. Just stared back at them, watching the golden dot that was Sugarfly until it passed through the boundaries of the Garden and Pavlova closed his eyes.
———
Her voice was hollow as she spoke to him. “Pavlova, dear, don’t get distracted.”
Eternal Sugar frowned at him. She seemed tired these days. Hollow. An empty nesting doll. But she forced a smile as she gestured at Pavlova Cookie. “Flowers.”
“Oh. Of course, Eternal Sugar Cookie,” Pavlova responded. He was tired too. There was a growing pain behind his eyes, like he was on the verge of tears. But he ignored it and turned his attention back to the assortment of flowers before him.
“She likes red,” Eternal Sugar murmured. She was both talking to him and herself. “Strong, vibrant red. She said it made her feel strong. But I didn’t.”
No response. Pavlova wasn’t paying attention. He took a red rose from the arrangement and flew up to place it near the top of the marble arch. It was newly built. Fresh, beautiful, but empty. Like the rest of the garden these days.
“Roses. She liked roses too. Strength in love. Passion.” She definitely wasn’t talking to Pavlova anymore. But she smiled, a little strained, at Pavlova Cookie regardless. “Well, I suppose I could take over here. Thank you, Pavlova.”
Pavlova nodded numbly. The sun was hurting his eyes, boring into them like the rays were needles. He flew off, leaving to his secluded spot in the tangled leaves of the Garden’s largest tree.
The sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes intensified. It stung against his eyelids, worsening as he tried to close them. He choked out a sob, unintentionally. The stinging grew stronger. It felt like needles behind his eyes.
Another sob. Pavlova felt a wave of emotion crash over him, and the piercing in his eyes grew stronger. He found tears rushing down his face, falling like rain down to the Garden below. Unnatural. The Garden of Delights didn’t have space for tears. But he couldn’t stop.
The piercing was getting stronger, and he let it. He didn’t have energy anymore. Pavlova leaned against the massive trunk of the tree, blinking heavily. He looked down. Where he thought he might see tears, he saw little stars.
Pavlova picked one up, even as more fell down his face. They were small, the size of large blueberries, and shaped like stars. They glowed softly like little lights. He examined them, turning them around as more tears fell like meteors.
A pang of longing ripped through him. He still thought about that day. The day Sugarfly had left. He remembered it so clearly. Sugarfly, her wings aloft, winging her way through the air. Free, like a bird. Not like him. Every once in a while he’d feel it again. That pain, that insistent pang, the longing to be free. To join her.
He shut his eyes tight, the stars spilling through his vision, little bursts of white light dazzling him as each fell. Only now did he become aware of a little sound that accompanied each tear. A soft ring, like Eternal Sugar’s lyre, or wind chimes. Crystalline, sort of. Every ring reminded him of Sugarfly and the promise of freedom. A deadly lullaby, trying to lure Pavlova to escape.
He almost did for a second. Flew off, left the garden for good. But he saw Eternal Sugar in the distance. Her sugar–pink silhouette, examining a marble shrine. One to her and Hollyberry. Her face was contorted in agony, like she was crying too. And Pavlova, as he saw her, knew he couldn’t leave. He was stuck here, tied to the Garden like a bird in a cage.
He didn’t want to imagine what might happen if he tried.
———
“Pavlova, dear, are you okay?”
She wore a mask of concern, but Pavlova could tell she was tired too. He didn’t respond, just nodded and forced a smile. The pain was still there, stabbing at his eyes. He tried to ignore the stinging.
“Alright, then. You look distracted. In pain. Are you sure something’s not wrong?”
Eternal Sugar frowned at him. Pavlova shook his head, numb.
“No,” he responded in a small voice.
“You’re not happy,” she responded. There was the hint of a threat in her voice. “Tell me, dear, what’s troubling you?”
“My eyes just hurt a bit,” Pavlova said in a small voice. “But I’m happy.”
“Are you now?” Eternal Sugar hummed. She sighed. “Well, then, go take a break. Don’t strain yourself, dear.”
Pavlova Cookie nodded and flew away, glad that he was fast enough to be well away from Eternal Sugar as his eyes started to burn. He found a secluded corner of the garden—an old, cracked marble shrine, still bearing the stains of the jam flood that had destroyed it. Faint pink patterns like dripping jam covered the once–white stone. The heart statue that had stood in the middle was shattered, the sugar crystals scattered everywhere. Pavlova sat at the edge and tipped his head back.
The glowing tears came again. Each sent a ring through the air and made bursts of white appear. It wasn’t this bad at first. But it had been a month of this now. The stabbing at the back of his eyes almost every day, followed by the tears. Little stars, like crystals. Pink, red, gold, blue, they came in every shade of the rainbow, shattering as they fell on the ground. They joined the shards of sugar glass around Pavlova.
It always came with thoughts of her. Sugarfly Cookie. Not just her, but the freedom that came with her. The desire to live, and let go, and be free from this Garden forever. The regret that came when he remembered he didn’t follow her. And would never see her again.
Every star that shattered on the ground was another memory. Sugarfly, helping a dazed Cookie into the Garden to meet Eternal Sugar. Asking her to do his assignments for him. He’d thought then that she was weak, doing nice things like that. All not true. Clearly, Sugarfly had bravery, breaking free from Eternal Sugar like that.
Slowly, the stinging mellowed into a quiet hum, and Pavlova just sat there. Watched his reflection in the shards around him. Didn’t move, or speak. He kept replaying that scene in his mind—Sugarfly, leaving, her tattered wings flying behind her.
Pavlova Cookie wasn’t sure which he wanted more—Sugarfly, or the promise of freedom that came with her.
———
“You’re not okay, Pavlova Cookie.”
Her voice was sweet, but there was a terrifying tone underneath. A threat, dipped in syrup.
“Why aren’t you happy? The Garden is still as beautiful as ever. More so, perhaps, since it’s been rebuilt. Why do you look in pain?”
Eternal Sugar frowned, but there was something sharp in her expression. A shard of sugar glass that cut Pavlova like a knife.
“I don’t—” He choked back a sob. He felt the stinging again. It used to hurt. Not anymore. It was just there, piercing at the back of his eyes.
“Pavlova, dear, don’t cry,” Eternal Sugar said. Her tone was motherly. Perfect. But Pavlova wasn’t a fool. He chose to believe it before—the lie, the promise of happiness. But now? He heard everything. The little crack in her voice, the hollowness, and above all, the threat. She had lost so much when Hollyberry left. So she held onto what she had, trapping the Garden in a dream of false happiness. Held onto it tight, like a vice, choking everyone inside.
“I—” He couldn’t stop it now. The tears came, and this time, the world around him was leached of colour in little bursts every time that ringing sound came. Eternal Sugar’s face swam in front of him. A mask of concern, but a little panic beneath.
“Pavlova Cookie.” She said melodically. The threat was clearer now. “You didn’t tell me you had star tear disease.”
“I—what now?”
“Star tear disease. Who is it?”
She said that like a sharp knife sparking against metal.
“I—I don’t know.”
A lie? Was it? Pavlova didn’t know. The real answer flashed in the back of his mind. Sugarfly Cookie. But he didn’t say that.
“Well, we can’t have this,” Eternal Sugar said with a sigh. “Pavlova, dear, tell me the truth. Who is it that you love?”
She cupped his face in her hand. She was much taller than him, even though Pavlova had transformed since Sugarfly left. Her wings cast a shadow over him, and he couldn’t see her face, though her eyes seemed to flicker ominously.
“I don’t know,” he stammered.
“Yes, you do.” Eternal Sugar’s grip tightened. “Tell me.”
“I think—I—”
“Dearest,” she said.
“Sugarfly,” he said, shutting his eyes tight. As he did, a cascade of tears streamed down Pavlova’s face, burning colourless holes into his vision.
“Sugarfly Cookie,” Eternal Sugar said slowly. Her face darkened. Pavlova shut his eyes tighter, regretting saying anything.
“Her. She left the Garden. Left us, this perfect picture of happiness. And yet your heart still yearns after her.”
She seemed to be thinking to herself now. Then she let go of Pavlova Cookie.
“Very well, then. I’ll cure your star tear disease.”
“You—thank you,” Pavlova stammered out. “I… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be grateful.”
Be grateful.
He was anything but right now. The tone of her voice, the intonation. It said anything but I’ll help you, because I want you to be happy.
He should be. Should be grateful. Should be so thankful for the happiness Eternal Sugar had given him. Be furious at Sugarfly, for making such a mistake.
The key word was should.
———
Pavlova woke up from a deep slumber and noticed he was lying in a field of flowers.
Pink and red roses, hyacinths, tulips, every flower from the edges of Crispia and back, surrounded him. He sat up abruptly and looked around.
He was sitting in a meadow, in a bed of blooms. He was wearing a flower crown that smelled of sugar. Not light and sweet, like meringues. Strong, sickly, like a rotting rose. Fitting. He almost ripped it off, but then he saw Eternal Sugar.
“Oh, you’re awake, Pavlova, dear,” she said. There was a note of venom in her tone. “How are you feeling?”
“...Fine,” he said. There was a very subtle piercing behind his eyes, but he didn’t know why. “Why am I here?”
“Oh, just a quick spell for your… well–being,” she responded, sweet. Pavlova Cookie didn’t understand.
“What did you do?”
“Like I said, a spell. For your health. It isn’t good for one to keep their thoughts in a box like that. So I just… let it all out. There might be some memory loss, but you’re fine.”
“Okay…” Pavlova said hesitantly. Eternal Sugar nodded approvingly, like a mother.
“Good. Now rest. Don’t try to fly, your wings are weak.”
She left. Pavlova was left sitting in the meadow, noticing that the sugar–sweet air was starting to smell sickly.
———
He found a note near the shattered sugar shrine.
If you’re reading this, you’ve forgotten her.
Don’t forget her.
You’re in a cage. One with gilded bars. A golden cage is still a cage.
Don’t forget her.
She’s sunlight and sugar, she’s freedom and gold. She’s all you want. This place isn’t. It won’t make you happy. You’re not happy. Don’t listen to the whispers she puts in your ears, it’s just a cage. She’s what you need.
Don’t forget her.
Remember her. You thought she was weak–willed, with no spine. You thought she could never had the backbone to escape. But she did, and you didn’t. Don’t forget her, remember what she did. Remember her.
Her name is Sugarfly Cookie.
———
He ran his hand over the ink. It was faintly shimmering and pink, and smelled like strawberries and cream, with a note of that sickly sweet scent from the meadow. Sugarfly Cookie. He touched the name. Sugarfly Cookie. He didn’t remember anything about her, but the name brought a little pang of longing to him.
The part about the cage. It couldn’t be true. There were gaps in his memory, blank spaces like somebody had cut the film of his mind and pieced the bits back together, but Pavlova was sure that Eternal Sugar meant well. She wanted happiness, like the rest of them. This ‘Sugarfly’ wasn’t here anymore, was she? That sounded foolish. Why would anybody leave the Garden of Delights?
Pavlova thought about the sickly sweetness of the air, the undertone of Eternal Sugar’s voice. He’d forgotten a lot, but he could remember the jars of jam, Cookies floating inside. The statues that looked suspiciously like Cookies he once knew before they disappeared. The fear, of being like them. Eternal Sugar’s warnings, coated in syrup and hidden in compliments, guarded by guilt and false happiness.
It was like fishing under a thick layer of ice, but Pavlova vaguely remembered somebody with golden icing and a bright smile. Syrupy wings that broke free one day. And with her, came another pang, this time stronger. Longing for her, for freedom.
Suddenly the stinging got stronger. Pavlova gasped and dropped the note, clutching his eyes.
He choked a sob out. Tears started to run down his face. Starry, crystalline—not normal tears. Each tear made his vision blur and spark, blurring monochrome for a few seconds before colour returned to the world.
The stars shattered on the ground. Pavlova looked around, and noticed that what he thought were sugar shards were really just shattered crystal, scattered everywhere. They came in every shade of the rainbow. Another sob wracked his throat, accompanied by a ringing sound like wind chimes.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, crying. But eventually, Pavlova picked himself back up and walked away, leaving the note among the shards of his tears.
———
“Wake up, Pavlova Cookie.”
Pavlova’s eyes fluttered open. He was lying in a meadow. The soft grass fluttered around him. Flowers dotted the landscape.
Eternal Sugar was standing above him, frowning. “Dearest, you haven’t been taking care of yourself.”
“What’s happening? Why am I here?”
“We had to do a little spell,” she told Pavlova. “For your mind.”
“My… what’s going on?” Pavlova struggled to sit up. Something felt wrong. “I don’t… My eyes hurt. I don’t remember…”
“Oh, I thought that might be a little side effect,” Eternal Sugar said with a little sigh. “But your eyes… hmm. We might need a little tweak later.
“For now, stay here, hmm? Don’t stress yourself. Stay here. You’ll feel happier.”
———
He found the note again.
The ink was faded, set in raspberry coloured ink.
If you’re reading this, you’ve forgotten her.
Don’t forget her.
You’re in a cage. One with gilded bars. A golden cage is still a cage.
Don’t forget her.
She’s sunlight and sugar, she’s freedom and gold. She’s all you want. This place isn’t what you want. It won’t make you happy. You’re not happy. Don’t listen to the whispers she puts in your ears, it’s just a cage. She’s what you need.
Don’t forget her.
Remember her. You thought she was weak–willed, with no spine. You thought she could never had the backbone to escape. But she did, and you didn’t. Don’t forget her, remember what she did. Remember her.
Her name is Sugarfly Cookie.
There was a footnote in a different colour at the bottom.
No, don’t remember her. Please, forget her. You’re better off without her.
A crystalline chime sounded, along with the shatter of glass. It was just one, but then it was two, then it was three, then it was four, then it was too many to count.
———
He woke up again. There was a stabbing pain in his head. His eyes felt strained, so he closed them.
Eternal Sugar’s voice was far away. “Dearest, Pavlova Cookie. You must stop doing this to yourself. This suffering is your own fault.”
He didn’t try to move. He hurt everywhere.
“Rest, dear. Please.”
Pavlova opened his eyes ever so slightly, just to look at Eternal Sugar.
“...What happened?”
“Nothing. Just forget about it, okay, dear? And rest.”
———
If you’re reading this, you’ve forgotten her.
Don’t forget her.
You’re in a cage. One with gilded bars. A golden cage is still a cage.
Don’t forget her.
She’s sunlight and sugar, she’s freedom and gold. She’s all you want. This place isn’t what you want. It won’t make you happy. You’re not happy. Don’t listen to the whispers she puts in your ears, it’s just a cage. She’s what you need.
Don’t forget her.
Remember her. You thought she was weak–willed, with no spine. You thought she could never had the backbone to escape. But she did, and you didn’t. Don’t forget her, remember what she did. Remember her.
Her name is Sugarfly Cookie.
———
Her name is Sugarfly Cookie.
———
Her name is Sugarfly Cookie.
———
Her name is Sugarfly Cookie.
———
The ground was a mess of exploded shards and crystals. Pavlova could barely see as he stumbled to the old shrine that had become his second home.
The colour had left his vision long ago, leaving nothing but shades of grey. Now what was left was leaving too. His vision blurred in parts, other parts were completely silent. Nothing. The cause of his love.
Love wasn’t happiness. Pavlova knew that now. He sat down among the crystals, lying down, ignoring the cuts that sank into his skin. He closed his eyes. It didn’t make much difference.
Love was suffering. The stories were wrong. Love didn’t make people happy. It wasn’t true Happiness. It was the calm before the storm, it was the eye of the hurricane. It was the peace before heartbreak wrecked your mind.
Some Cookies didn’t even get there. Pavlova was stuck in the storm, letting the waters ravage him, unable to escape. Suffering because of love. Once upon a time, he’d thought that love was the perfect solution to everything. The answer to everything. That was when he was young and naive.
He thought about Sugarfly again. A little spark of happiness and hope ignited in him whenever he thought about her. Sugarfly, her sweetness, her personality, her wings, her smile, her voice.
But he shut that down immediately. This suffering was because of her. The suffering, being torn between Happiness and freedom, the stars, the blindness, the colour was gone because of her. So he didn’t think about her anymore. Tried not to.
Pavlova Cookie took one last look at the Garden before falling asleep. He didn’t want to wake again.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75662506
|
{"authors": ["lemontiramisuuu"], "language": "English", "title": "my heart wasn't the only thing that shattered."}
|
cherry chapstick
“Wowza.”
Robin will admit that it’s not the most eloquent of reactions. But it was the first thing that came to mind. After all, exactly what else are you supposed to say when Nancy Wheeler calls you all the way up to her roof just to show you a ring cradled in the palm of her perfect little hand?
And not just any ring.
An engagement ring. One of the most notable kinds of ring, really. Right up there next to wedding.
Robin’s throat feels a bit dry.
“Yeah.” Nancy mumbles in reply and, okay, not exactly the glowing reaction that one might expect from a newly engaged woman, but who was Robin to judge.
She squints at the ring briefly then, tilts her head in examination. It looks modest in Nancy’s palm, but pretty. Sparkly as it glints in the moonlight, and tucked right next to that scar that Nancy has in the pit of her palm. For a moment Robin finds her gaze half tracing the risen flesh along with the silver of the band, blinking hard before—
“How did Jonathan even – get a hold of that thing?” Robin’s nose wrinkles thoughtfully. “I mean, with, you know.” An arch of her brows as she flicks her eyes up to meet Nancy’s gaze. “Our rather limited options here in good ol’ Hawkins USA?”
“Murray.” Nancy replies simply, brows arching even as her gaze stays pinned to that pretty little ring. But not in the gaga gooey romantic way that one might expect. Honestly, it kind of seems to Robin like Nancy is trying to melt a hole into the thing with her eyes alone. And considering that it’s Nancy freaking Wheeler Robin doesn’t feel particularly inclined to doubt her ability to do so. “Apparently.”
“Oh.” Robin says simply in reply as her gaze flicks between Nancy and the ring a couple of times in thought before she ultimately quite weakly shrugs. “Makes sense.”
And then there is a pocket of silence and Robin can’t help but feel like — it’s awkward. Like she’s making it all awkward. Here, Nancy wanted to share the good news with her as a friend and she and the weird fucking feeling in her stomach are making it weird—
“Congratulations!” Robin blurts out in a rush as she remembers herself, leaning towards Nancy in a way that makes the shorter girl start. Robin gestures in the space between them awkwardly, her mouth opening and closing before she adds, “On, you know–”
“I didn’t say yes.” The response is abrupt. It’s the most words that Nancy has said in succession since Robin climbed on the roof with her. And the most surprising. Robin can feel where her own lips are parted into a neat ‘o’, her eyes wide as Nancy seems to flick her own gaze from the ring and back before she’s hastily shoving the thing into her pocket as if to hide it.
The silence grows.
“... Oh.” Robin replies for the simple fact of not knowing what else to say. Nancy’s gaze has left her now as she pulls her knees up to her chest, as she crosses her arms over her knees almost stubbornly and Robin’s mind seems to both stall and race all at once. Nancy’s eyes are on the night sky as she seems to stare steadily ahead and Robin really, really wishes she knew how the fuck to tackle this conversation— “I’m sorry.”
The words are out of her mouth before she can think about them and Nancy’s eyes are back on her before she can blink.
Nancy’s delicate features screwed up in bewilderment as she flicks her gaze over Robin with an entirely perplexed, “For what?”
“I don’t know.” Robin is quick to admit, her shoulders rising and falling in another awkward shrug. “I don’t know what else to say to someone — saying no to an engagement. What’s the opposite of congratulations?” Robin’s arms span wide with the question as her brows slowly furrow. “My condolences?”
“I didn’t say no.” Nancy says with a firmness that makes Robin’s brain stall again. She blinks rapidly.
“Could you maybe tell me what you did say?” Robin can hear the crack in her voice with the question, her hands gesturing in the space between them as she adds, “Because I feel like that could be really helpful for, you know–” A floundering gesture. “Those of us who weren’t there.”
Nancy exhales slowly through her nostrils, her gaze sliding from Robin to the skyline and back before she’s sighing to say, “ I–”
And for a moment, Nancy Wheeler of all people seems to fumble for words. It’s truly a sight to see. Robin finds herself taking in the rare sight thoroughly, from the tiny wrinkle between Nancy’s brows to the aborted part of her lips to the delicately calloused fingers playing with the sleeve of her cardigan.
“I said I had to think about it.” She settles on finally, her lips pursing together following the words as if some part of her wishes she could take them back. Robin isn’t sure if the goal would be to take them back from Jonathan or Robin herself.
Probably the former.
Definitely the former.
Robin’s brows raise.
“Think about—” Her brows pull together as she tries to meet Nancy’s gaze. Not an entirely easy feat, considering Nancy seems to be looking just about anywhere else. “...Marrying him?”
Nancy’s
|
cherry chapstick
“Wowza.”
Robin will admit that it’s not the most eloquent of reactions. But it was the first thing that came to mind. After all, exactly what else are you supposed to say when Nancy Wheeler calls you all the way up to her roof just to show you a ring cradled in the palm of her perfect little hand?
And not just any ring.
An engagement ring. One of the most notable kinds of ring, really. Right up there next to wedding.
Robin’s throat feels a bit dry.
“Yeah.” Nancy mumbles in reply and, okay, not exactly the glowing reaction that one might expect from a newly engaged woman, but who was Robin to judge.
She squints at the ring briefly then, tilts her head in examination. It looks modest in Nancy’s palm, but pretty. Sparkly as it glints in the moonlight, and tucked right next to that scar that Nancy has in the pit of her palm. For a moment Robin finds her gaze half tracing the risen flesh along with the silver of the band, blinking hard before—
“How did Jonathan even – get a hold of that thing?” Robin’s nose wrinkles thoughtfully. “I mean, with, you know.” An arch of her brows as she flicks her eyes up to meet Nancy’s gaze. “Our rather limited options here in good ol’ Hawkins USA?”
“Murray.” Nancy replies simply, brows arching even as her gaze stays pinned to that pretty little ring. But not in the gaga gooey romantic way that one might expect. Honestly, it kind of seems to Robin like Nancy is trying to melt a hole into the thing with her eyes alone. And considering that it’s Nancy freaking Wheeler Robin doesn’t feel particularly inclined to doubt her ability to do so. “Apparently.”
“Oh.” Robin says simply in reply as her gaze flicks between Nancy and the ring a couple of times in thought before she ultimately quite weakly shrugs. “Makes sense.”
And then there is a pocket of silence and Robin can’t help but feel like — it’s awkward. Like she’s making it all awkward. Here, Nancy wanted to share the good news with her as a friend and she and the weird fucking feeling in her stomach are making it weird—
“Congratulations!” Robin blurts out in a rush as she remembers herself, leaning towards Nancy in a way that makes the shorter girl start. Robin gestures in the space between them awkwardly, her mouth opening and closing before she adds, “On, you know–”
“I didn’t say yes.” The response is abrupt. It’s the most words that Nancy has said in succession since Robin climbed on the roof with her. And the most surprising. Robin can feel where her own lips are parted into a neat ‘o’, her eyes wide as Nancy seems to flick her own gaze from the ring and back before she’s hastily shoving the thing into her pocket as if to hide it.
The silence grows.
“... Oh.” Robin replies for the simple fact of not knowing what else to say. Nancy’s gaze has left her now as she pulls her knees up to her chest, as she crosses her arms over her knees almost stubbornly and Robin’s mind seems to both stall and race all at once. Nancy’s eyes are on the night sky as she seems to stare steadily ahead and Robin really, really wishes she knew how the fuck to tackle this conversation— “I’m sorry.”
The words are out of her mouth before she can think about them and Nancy’s eyes are back on her before she can blink.
Nancy’s delicate features screwed up in bewilderment as she flicks her gaze over Robin with an entirely perplexed, “For what?”
“I don’t know.” Robin is quick to admit, her shoulders rising and falling in another awkward shrug. “I don’t know what else to say to someone — saying no to an engagement. What’s the opposite of congratulations?” Robin’s arms span wide with the question as her brows slowly furrow. “My condolences?”
“I didn’t say no.” Nancy says with a firmness that makes Robin’s brain stall again. She blinks rapidly.
“Could you maybe tell me what you did say?” Robin can hear the crack in her voice with the question, her hands gesturing in the space between them as she adds, “Because I feel like that could be really helpful for, you know–” A floundering gesture. “Those of us who weren’t there.”
Nancy exhales slowly through her nostrils, her gaze sliding from Robin to the skyline and back before she’s sighing to say, “ I–”
And for a moment, Nancy Wheeler of all people seems to fumble for words. It’s truly a sight to see. Robin finds herself taking in the rare sight thoroughly, from the tiny wrinkle between Nancy’s brows to the aborted part of her lips to the delicately calloused fingers playing with the sleeve of her cardigan.
“I said I had to think about it.” She settles on finally, her lips pursing together following the words as if some part of her wishes she could take them back. Robin isn’t sure if the goal would be to take them back from Jonathan or Robin herself.
Probably the former.
Definitely the former.
Robin’s brows raise.
“Think about—” Her brows pull together as she tries to meet Nancy’s gaze. Not an entirely easy feat, considering Nancy seems to be looking just about anywhere else. “...Marrying him?”
Nancy’s eyes snap to her again, and Robin can feel a jolt of surprise in her pulse even as Nancy almost sharply says, “Yes, Robin.”
Robin raises her hands in innocence, quick to add, “Sorry, just–” A wince and another slightly embarrassing crack in her voice as she says, “Clarifying.”
Some of the tenseness in Nancy’s shoulders seems to deflate a bit at that, the firmness of her gaze almost softening in a way that’s maybe — apologetic? Regretful?
Either way, whatever the look is it makes some of the tension melt out of Robin too, makes her own gaze gentle as Nancy seems to sigh and scrub her hands over her face in sheer frustration.
Robin watches and swallows, before valiantly trying again. “... Is it—cause of Steve?”
“What?” Nancy’s expression is scrunched incredulously once again, her eyes on Robin like she maybe just suggested that Vecna marry Nancy and Jonathan, right here on the Wheeler’s roof. “No!”
Robin finds her hands raised in innocence for the second time in the span of five minutes and she has to really, truly wonder why she endeavors to open her big mouth— “Sorry, sorry! Just – asking—”
“This has nothing to do with Steve!” Nancy bites out then, her finger pointing to Robin with firmness that makes Robin wince internally once more. “This—” Nancy’s jaw clenches before she directs her finger towards herself, jabbing into her own chest as she says, “This is about me!”
“Right.” Robin is nodding in a way that she hopes might mollify Nancy’s frustrations, her head shaking to say, “Sorry. Of course, I–” Robin grimaces. “Do you want to – maybe tell me what you’re thinking?” The words come out in a rush. Robin swallows as she looks into the intensity of Nancy’s eyes, firm and unyielding and deep. “Because — as we can tell, I’m not really the best at guessing but—” A hopeful raise of her brows. “I can listen.”
Nancy meets Robin’s eyes for a long moment then, unwavering and studying in a way that kind of makes the hairs on Robin’s feel like they’re standing on end, because — Nancy chose her. Of all the people to talk to post rejecting – or maybe postponing – Jonathan Byer’s proposal, Nancy chose her to talk to. Robin could barely believe it when the landline rang.
Hell, she can barely believe it now.
And somehow in her heart she knows she can’t mess this up. She can’t.
So when Nancy nods, stiff and quick in agreement, Robin can’t help the rush of relief that floods though her, all encompassing and full until the sensation is derailed by Nancy Wheeler quite suddenly reaching into the pocket of her pink cardigan and pulling out a flask.
A blink.
“Where’d you get that?” Robin asks, voice pitching up a bit higher in her surprise as she watches Nancy screw off the top of the flask efficiently.
Nancy doesn’t hesitate to take a swig, knocking it back unflinchingly in a way that Robin knows might intimidate some. Robin just finds herself kind of impressed. Or maybe more than kind of impressed actually.
“Don’t worry about it.” Nancy replies as she passes the flask to Robin firmly, blinking at the way that Robin briefly fumbles with it. And for a moment there Robin can swear that something shifts briefly in Nancy’s eyes, quicker than Robin can read it. It’s there in the corners of Nancy’s mouth and the depths of her gaze and gone by the time that Robin has a grip on the flask and Nancy has redirected her gaze to the nightlit Hawkins around them again.
Robin stares at the porcelain flask in her hands consideringly, turning it this way and that as she debates between the solidarity of friendship and the truly awful taste of alcohol, before her loyalty wins out and she’s wrapping her lips around the mouth of the flask and trying not to remember that Nancy’s lips were there just seconds ago. Because that’s weird and almost entirely the opposite of friendly.
Some part of her wonders if anyone else ever thinks about this stuff. Or if she’s just — wired kind of wrong.
Don’t mess this up. Don’t mess this up.
Whatever Nancy put in the flask burns on the way down. Robin’s face scrunches in distaste as she pulls the flask from her mouth and she slides her tongue over her lips instinctively before she can fully think about it, and just like that the feeling of the heat of embarrassment on the back of her neck is entirely too present. Because suddenly she finds her brain fixated on the impossible thought that the taste of Nancy’s lip balm is lingering in her mouth, and then she finds herself convinced that that thought is written all over her face, and then she finds her eyes sliding over to Nancy just to find Nancy’s gazing out into the night as she pays Robin no mind at all because—
She just got proposed to hours ago.
God, Robin, get a grip. Stop being weird.
“So.” Robin tries as she passes the flask back to Nancy, swallowing hard as she tries to swallow her uncooperative thoughts in the same gulp.
Nancy doesn’t let her finish.
“My mom married young.” Nancy says, and with the words the flask in Robin’s hands is suddenly gone and just as suddenly at Nancy’s lips. Robin watches as Nancy takes a swing and has to wonder if Nancy is perhaps holding false delusions of tasting Robin’s lip balm.
She doubts it.
Robin blinks hard to focus.
“... Okay.” Robin tries slowly, carefully, as she watches Nancy wipe at her mouth with the back of her hand.
“She got married and popped out three babies and—got the perfect little house and brought forth the perfect little nuclear family–” Nancy’s nostrils flare as she passes the flask back to Robin. “And that was it. That was her life.” A twist of her features. “That is her life.”
This time Robin’s nod is more certain. She takes the flask carefully, trying not to drop it even as she says, “... Okay.”
“And I don’t want that to be my life.” Nancy declares then, sharp as she moves to meet Robin’s gaze just as Robin brings the flask to her lips and – Robin has to pause then even as she swallows the burning liquid which is — maybe vodka? Whiskey? How does one tell the difference? It all tastes like battery acid to Robin.
(Awful except for that lint of something pleasant, something that coats the seam of her lips and sticks to her tongue and she swears that it’s — strawberry lip balm.
Or is it cherry?)
Robin blinks hard to find Nancy still looking at her. She tries to force herself to concentrate past the burning in her throat.
“Nance, I don’t think that’s going to be your life.” Robin utters once she swallows, and Nancy seems to blink at her in surprise. Robin shrugs stiltedly. “I mean, you’ve been to an interdimensional netherworld and you’re a gunslinger in pastel pink, I really can’t see you being—” Her brows furrow. “The matriarch to a nuclear family.” A beat, before she shrugs and says, “No offence to your mom.”
“Yeah, but—” Nancy’s nostrils flare again. There’s a frustration thinly veiled behind her doe eyes. She plucks the flask from Robin’s hands again before she’s meeting her eyes with a confident addition of, “We’re going to kill Vecna.” A beat before there’s a steel behind Nancy’s gaze as she adds, “I’m going to kill Vecna.”
Robin’s heart is hammering sideways, and she thinks it’s mostly from fear from the mere mention of Vecna but also she’s not entirely sure if it’s only that considering its combination with the twist of her stomach. So maybe it’s a bit of admiration. After all, Nancy Wheeler might just be the bravest, most badass girl she’s ever met. It’s — something to look up to.
That’s all.
“Before he hurts anyone else. Before he —” A shake of Nancy’s head as her expression twists in disgust, “touches my mom, or dad, or Holly or Mike.” Her eyes meet Robin’s, sharp and inflexible as she says, “We’re going to win. Save the world.”
Nancy’s gaze is intense. Robin’s mouth is dry. Her voice comes out huskier for it. “... Yeah.” A nod that’s only a bit jerky. “Of course we are, Nance–”
Nancy distractedly takes a swing from the flask, quick and sharp before she’s pulling it from her lips to firmly ask, “But what happens after that?”
Robin blinks. Just once, quick and hard as she registers the question. Her brows furrow.
“Uh,” She’s spanning her arms wide in a shrug. “World peace? We all cheer?” Nancy hands her back the flask, and their fingertips brush as Robin wraps her fingers around it. Robin tries not to notice it. Don’t be weird. “I dunno, Nancy. Big happy ending?”
“I mean, okay, yeah.” Nancy says in reply, shrugging one shoulder beneath her oversized cardigan. Her eyes search Robin’s efficiently before she’s asking, “But then what?”
Robin blinks at the question.
“... I don’t know.” Robin’s brows furrow a bit. Her fingers tighten around the flask as she shrugs, as her voice softens to a sincere note. “... I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”
It’s maybe — not entirely true. Robin has thought about it a little bit.
They save the world and she’ll take Vickie on a date. A real, proper date.
That’s – really about as far as she’s gotten, and she’s not entirely sure that’s the kind of thing Nancy’s talking about or if this is really the time to reveal to Nancy Wheeler of all people that she’s into girls and that her big save the world goal is to take a girl on a date—
Nancy meets her eyes then and there’s that strange shift again. Something different from the firmness in Nancy’s gaze as before, or maybe something the same. Robin doesn’t know how to read it. She swallows dry.
“... But you know, huh?” Robin tries then, her smile growing soft and crooked as she brings the flask towards her lips. “Come on, Wheeler, let’s hear it.” Robin doesn’t know what possesses her to bump Nancy’s knee with her own. Maybe the large gulps of whatever this mystery liquid is that they’re sharing between them? Or maybe she’s overcompensating? Maybe both? Either way, what’s done is done and Robin tries and fails not to overthink it as she swallows. “Then what?”
Nancy’s eyes are on where their knees have made contact before her gaze is flicking back up to Robin and— there’s a fire in Nancy’s eyes then. One not entirely unlike the one that was there when she held that sawed off fucking shot gun, ready and willing to blast Vecna’s head to high heaven and—
Robin takes a swing from the flask and the burn goes all the way down to her stomach.
(Is it peach? Coca cola? Vanilla?)
“Then I’ll do what I would’ve been doing now.” Nancy replies firmly then, certainly. Robin’s tongue flicks over the seam of her lips. “What I should’ve been doing now. If there was no Vecna, if there was no — upside down. If it all stayed dead and we weren’t stuck in this goddamn lockdown.”
There’s a twist of determination in Nancy’s features. Robin moves to hand her back the flask and Nancy takes it without even looking.
“I should be at Emerson right now.” Nancy says with a shake of her head, gesturing firmly but almost carelessly with the flask. “I should be studying journalism, and – fucking proving every smarmy motherfucker who ever doubted me wrong and–” Nancy’s eyes narrow then, head shaking as she moves to take a gulp from the flask that’s big enough for Robin’s brows to raise a bit. Nancy swallows before she’s gesturing with both hands to say, “If Vecna is dead and we save everyone, and I mean everyone — Mom, Dad, Holly, Mike — then I should finally—” Nancy’s head shakes. “Be a fucking college student! I should finally be free of all this, free to – be who I always wanted to be! To get out of this hell of a town, to have new experiences, to experiment—”
And Robin is listening maybe too intently, the alcohol warming her body and making Nancy’s rant feel almost cinematic like a scene in a coming of age movie. Robin could see Nancy as the lead girl in one of those movies. Can see her as the lead period.
And so perhaps it’s due to the lull of quickly oncoming intoxication that the next words slip out, unbidden and unprompted from any of her brain function.
“Experiment with what?”
The words seem to break Nancy out of her rhythm, forcing her to look at Robin with a blink. There is a moment where their eyes meet that Robin doesn’t quite know what’s going on because just briefly then Nancy looks almost startled. Is it because Robin interjected? Because she spoke? Is it the question itself?
Robin just finds herself looking back at her. She doesn’t quite know what to do. Some part of her feels like she should take the question back but for once in her life her mouth isn’t moving fast enough.
And then Nancy’s brows are furrowing, her head shaking as she seems to fumble for words for the second time in one conversation which has to be a record or something, right?
“I … I don’t know. Something! Anything.” Nancy replies before she’s suddenly taking another swing from the flask, this gulp just as big as the last. She wipes her mouth on the back of her wrist, expression twisting to say, “I’ve never — “ Nancy seems to think then, her brows furrowing in a considering way that perhaps speaks to the large swigs of mystery alcohol she’s been consuming. “.. I don’t know. Gotten high.” She supplies with a wave of her hand, face scrunching as she determines, “I could experiment with that.”
Robin perks up a bit at that, her brows raising as she says, “Oh, you should definitely try that.” Her tone is bright as her grin grows. “It’s really fun.”
Nancy gives Robin a funny look at that, the corner of her lips twitching briefly. But then, between one blink and the next the look is gone with a shake of Nancy’s head and a distracting chew of her bottom lip.
“The point is—” Nancy moves to hand Robin the flask back, the movement firm as her expression twists to add, “None of my plans even – slightly involved being married.” Her expression scrunches. “Or – engaged, and that has nothing to do with Jonathan or Steve. It’s just—” Nancy makes a gesture with her hands and Robin finds her gaze falling to follow it. Nancy sighs. “Me. It’s not what I planned.”
Robin considers this carefully then, taking the flask from Nancy and moving to take another swing. She can feel the alcohol going to her head a bit, can feel her muscles loosening up with it. She finds herself quite suddenly remembering that she’s kind of a lightweight. Then she licks the seam of her lips, quick and instinctive, and finds herself trying to remember what Vickie’s lip balm tastes like.
The thought is there and gone before it can settle. She slides her teeth along her bottom lip thoughtfully.
(Maybe it’s raspberry? Or blue raspberry? Or blueberry?)
“That makes sense.” Robin says simply in reply, and this time when Nancy’s gaze finds her it almost seems to be in relief.
“... Yeah?” Nancy asks, and Robin is quick to nod as she hands the flask back to Nancy.
“Yeah.” Robin says simply then as she watches Nancy take the last gulp the flask has to offer, a drop of liquid falling from the corner of her lips down her jaw. Nancy wipes at it with her fingertips. Robin tries not to stare.
Don’t be weird.
Her next words come out an inch too fast. “Not wanting to be married yet is a really good reason to pause on the whole ‘will you marry me?’ question.”
Nancy’s gaze finds Robin, their eyes meeting. She seems to search Robin’s gaze before she’s arching a brow and replying, “ … You’re not just saying that because you like me?”
Robin’s pulse jumps and sputters, once like the engine of Steve’s stupid car and just like that her brain is stalling again, her body covered with the pins of needles that comes with the feeling of being caught and—
Was it the knee thing? Or – the lip balm thing? Or something — strange and innate and odd that Robin was doing that she didn’t even notice—
Nancy’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“... Huh?” Robin produces eloquently, the word — if it could even be called that – more of a breath than anything and—
Nancy begins to toss the flask casually between her hands.
“... You don’t have to tell me what I want to hear just because we’re friends, you know?” Nancy says, and Robin feels something in her stomach loosen, as that anxious feeling of being caught finally begins to fade because that’s what Nancy meant. That Robin likes her as a friend. Which Robin – does. So she really doesn’t know why she was feeling caught in the first place.
She tries a bit harder to remember what Vickie’s lip balm tastes like.
Raspberry? Mango?
“You can tell me if I’m —” Nancy’s head shakes as her gaze falls to the flask. ”... Awful for leaving Jonathan hanging”
“I don’t think you’re awful.” The words are out before Robin can think about them, honest and instinctual in a way that Nancy seems to catch as she searches Robin’s face. Robin meets Nancy’s gaze with purpose, her eyes going wide and honest as she reiterates. “I don’t.” A beat before she shrugs, “I like you better than Jonathan anyways so I’m inclined to kind of align with you on whatever you do.” There’s that twitch at the corner of Nancy’s lips again, as Robin nods and simply says, “I’d be on your side of the divorce.”
Something shifts in Nancy’s gaze again. She tosses the flask from hand to hand as she seems to almost try to smother a smile.
“... Thanks, Robin.” Nancy murmurs as her gaze falls to the flask once more, and Robin hums in response.
“No problem.” Robin chirps as she leans back in a way that’s maybe precarious on a roof but Robin finds that she’s perhaps a bit too tipsy to be paranoid about. “Happy to help.”
And for a moment Robin feels like she did just that, feels the pleased sensation of a job well done, or at least a job not messed up. Nancy wanted to talk to somebody and Robin was able to be that somebody, able to reassure her about something that was obviously eating her alive and — make her feel better kinda. Is that a correct assessment to make? I mean, Nancy was smiling a bit at the end there. That has to count for something right?
Maybe Robin is an okay friend. Maybe she’s even a good friend.
For just a moment Robin decides to bask in it. Just … rest in the silence and the chirp of crickets and the buzz of alcohol in her blood as she decides she’s definitely maybe tipsy and that Nancy Wheeler’s booze is really strong. She finds herself tilting her head back, because she’s warm — drinking always makes her so warm —and if she leans back just right she can almost feel coolness of the breeze on her flushed throat and—
The sound of a clatter makes her blink her eyes open only to blink at the sight of the flask rolling down the slope of the roof. Robin stares at the sight, at how the flask is there one minute and gone the next, brows furrowing as it disappears into the deep darkness of whatever is off the edge of the Wheeler’s house and— there isn’t even a shatter. It’s just there and then not there, gone in a blink—
“Fuck.” Nancy utters belatedly at the same moment Robin says—
“What if we die?” The question is out before Robin’s gaze is pulled from the edge of that roof. Nancy looks to Robin with surprise.
“What?” Nancy asks perplexedly then, and Robin is quick to shrug as she finally drags her eyes away from where the flask once was.
“What if we die?” She asks again, and Nancy brows seems to scrunch in bewilderment or maybe it’s concern. Robin finds herself pushing herself back onto her elbows to add a thoughtful,“ isn’t that why most people do stuff like get married before going to war or something?” Her brows raise as she makes a nonsensical gesture with her hand. “Just in case — they die and regret … not doing it?”
There’s clarity in Nancy’s gaze suddenly, quick and clear before her expression seems to go firm again with stubbornness. “If I die I’m not going to regret not getting married.”
“Yeah?” Robin asks, not out of a need to challenge Nancy, more out of curiosity than anything. Because — if she died she’s pretty sure she’d regret not asking Vickie on a date. So — maybe it has to be before saving the world thing. You know, just in case.
“Yeah.” Nancy says firmly, and the word sounds different coming out of Nancy’s mouth than it usually does in a way that suddenly reminds Robin that Nancy had way more of whatever was in that flask than she did. Her eyes flick over Nancy then, studying that stubborn steel in her gaze and that twist in her lips and wondering how much of it is due to the alcohol.
Nancy’s tongue flicks over the seam of her lips then, and it’s only through noticing that fact that Robin realizes her gaze is still there. There on the twist of Nancy’s lips.
She forces her eyes up, and when she does Nancy’s gaze is waiting for her. Nancy’s brows furrow and Robin tipsy brain can’t help but hope it’s because of the conversation and not because she caught Robin spacing out and—
“I know what I’d regret if I died and—” Nancy’s head shakes firmly as Robin feels relief at the continuation of the conversation, at Nancy maybe not noticing where her gaze had fallen—“It’s not that.”
Robin blinks. Her head tilts in consideration and before she can fully think about it, “... What would you regret then?” Robin meets Nancy’s gaze with the question, curious as she asks, “Emerson?”
Nancy’s brows furrow, that stubborn firmness still there for reasons that Robin can’t quite compute at this level of intoxication. Not that Robin would be able to compute the expression sober, but still. The point still stands.
And now so does Nancy.
Well, not quite standing, but she’s up and onto her knees, crossing — or rather shuffling — across the meager distance between them in a way that has Robin blinking in bewilderment perhaps exactly twelve seconds before Nancy Wheeler is swinging a leg over her lap and—
Huh?
It’s the only full thought that Robin is able to get out before her brain is stalling at the warmth of Nancy’s weight on her hips, at the confidence that she seems to exude as she settles there and straddles her, and–
What?
The intensity is back in Nancy’s eyes. A fire thinly veiled behind them, all focused on a single point, all focused on Robin and for just a second Robin has to wonder if she maybe fell off the roof and this is the hallucination she’s having while passed out.
But then Nancy Wheeler’s eyes are closer than they were before, and Nancy Wheeler’s front is flush to hers and Nancy Wheeler’s hand is on her jaw, soft and calloused as she tilts it up and—
The warmth of Nancy’s mouth on hers is sudden and complete in a way that kind of halts all coherent brain function, in a way that kind of reduces Robin’s consciousness to the hot slide of lips against hers and well—
It’s pretty hard to hallucinate that.
Oh.
(And just like that, one coherent thought wiggles free from the void that has become Robin’s brain. Well, half a thought. A single instinctual word, way, way in the very back of her consciousness.
Cherry.)
Somehow it feels like time slows down. Robin can feel the hitch of her own breath, can feel Nancy’s lips moving against hers, can feel her own hands sliding to Nancy’s hips entirely of their own volition, mind you, because frankly her brain is still trying to catch up to the series of events–
Nancy’s mouth is hot. Hot and soft and hard against Robin’s mouth, like she’s trying to prove a point or make a point or make Robin’s toes curl, one of those or maybe all of them and as Nancy’s bottom lip slides between hers the sound that rises from Robin’s throat is maybe a little embarrassing—
Nancy’s hand finds the line of her throat, just settles there as she tips Robin’s head back, as she deepens the kiss with an innate assertiveness that really does make Robin’s toes curl as it’s followed by the hot slide of Nancy’s tongue and—
Robin has the briefest instant to think ‘Nancy Wheeler’s tongue is in my mouth’ before the words Nancy Wheeler’s tongue is in my mouth really register and, suddenly, the hot poker of arousal in her lower stomach is like some kind of alarm bell, sharp and blaring and—
Robin has to force herself to pull back with a swallow, blinking hard as she shakes her head, as she tries to regain some level of conscious thought.
“Whoa.” It’s a full, complete sentence. The end of a thought. Robin’s lips are still tingling from Nancy’s mouth. Her eyes are still on Nancy’s mouth. “O–Okay, um—”
Nancy’s eyes flutter open and for a moment Robin can’t help but drunkenly feel like she’s looking at a Disney princess. A Disney princess who just pinned her to the roof and made out with her, but a Disney princess nonetheless.
But then Nancy’s eyes blink open. And then their eyes meet. And it feels like the alarm in Nancy’s gaze kind of sobers them both up quick.
“I–” There’s a beat of what seems to be like paralyzing surprise before Nancy is straightening, sitting up in Robin’s lap like that is even slightly less distracting. “Oh–”
Robin doesn’t know what’s happening. Maybe it’s the alcohol sloshing around in her brain or the fact that Nancy Wheeler just kissed her or hell, maybe Nancy’s lips just scrambled her fucking brain but Nancy is sitting in her lap and her lips are pink and parted and Robin can still feel that hot feeling rolling around in her lower gut like it belongs there or like this is the time and she just—
Panics.
“I feel like maybe I should go.” Robin is quick to rush out, and her lips are still hot from the pressure Nancy’s mouth, her skin still tingling from the contact or the alcohol or maybe both. Her mind is scrambling for words or an excuse or anything as Nancy Wheeler’s big doe eyes scan her face like it’s the first time she’s seeing it— “I forgot I have a thing—
“A thing?” Nancy is quick to rush out, and Robin is already nodding then as she scrambles to straighten, as Nancy shifts off of her lap as a result, and somehow in the tangle of limbs Robin’s foot slips and she kind of lurches a bit down the roof and Robin thinks, for just that second, that she might really fall of the Wheeler’s roof like the flask and die.
But then she regains her footing, not by her own merit but because Nancy’s hand is tight and warm and reassuring on her bicep as she catches her and as Robin looks into Nancy’s eyes she can’t even convince herself that her breath doesn’t catch in her throat. Her hammering heart is somewhere way too close to where she can still now definitely taste Nancy’s chapstick in her mouth and yet it still feels like there’s no blood going to her brain, because what is going on—
“Thanks.” Robin breathes, and the words come out maybe just a bit too close to breathless.
Nancy blinks, her own voice sounding shallow in response as she breaths a soft, “Uh huh.”
There's a beat then where their shared look lingers, where whatever just happened kind of stays charged in the air between them and—
Robin forces herself to look away with effort.
“Yeah, I just—” Robin tries to scramble to her own knees in what is basically a crawl, which in hindsight will definitely be humiliating but at the moment? Just seems like the quickest form of escape. Nancy jerks her hand from her bicep as if burned. Robin swallows hard and only tastes the warmth of Nancy’s mouth. Fuck. Fuck. “I’ve got this thing at the radio.”
“Right.” Nancy utters, and her voice suddenly sounds a bit clearer, like whatever intoxication was fogging it up has kind of cleared away and Robin can kind of understand the sentiment. Even as she makes her way to the terrasse, she can’t help but feel like she’s maybe never been more sober in her life. Everything suddenly feels very, very real. She can feel the place where Nancy’s hand was on her throat like some kind of brand. "A thing at the radio." Nancy repeats with a nod. "At ... night."
“Yeah. A — night thing at the radio. Super — important!” Robin nods, her head bobbing with the movement until she's stopping before the terrasse in preparation to climb down it, only to freeze as she makes the mistake of looking back and finds Nancy’s eyes on her. Robin’s lips part in surprise. “Um.”
Nancy seems to start at that, blinking hard in response to Robin’s gaze only to quite abruptly, jerkily and awkwardly gesture Robin’s way to reply, “Well.” Nancy looks away then, gaze on anything but Robin as she adds, “Thanks for — coming over.”
Robin nods then, finally feeling unpinned by Nancy’s gaze enough to try and awkwardly begin to get her long limbs down the terrace. Her voice comes out a pitch too high then, cracks even as she says, “Of course! Yeah!”
A thick swallow as she fits her feet into the holes of the terrace, quick in her attempt at a clean escape. She crushes one of Mrs. Wheeler’s flowers in the process, and smothers a wince.
“Bye Nancy!” The words are stilted and maybe too loud in the night. Robin finds herself wincing even as she moves to try and make her way down that terrace in determination to get out of dodge. And yet, as she climbs down she can’t help but feel like she hears the softness of Nancy’s response.
“Bye … Robin.”
It could just be her imagination. It’s probably just her imagination, right? All of this is probably just her imagination, some kind of weird, horny, fever dream about one of her closest friends because — people have those right? Right?
Robin suddenly doesn’t know if that would make this any more normal.
Her feet touch down on the ground then, firm as they settle on the soil and Robin doesn’t waste a second before she’s moving, making her way towards her path home at a brisk walk that she knows Nancy can probably see from the roof. And for a moment Robin almost feels like she can feel Nancy’s gaze on her, like she’s watching and — it’s an effort not to look back.
“... What the fuck?” Robin finds herself breathing frantically into the night air then, blinking hard as she picks up her pace and very intentionally doesn’t look back despite feeling Nancy’s gaze on the back of her neck. Which she knows is probably her imagination, and isn’t really there but a couple of hours ago she would’ve also told anyone who asked that Nancy Wheeler was straighter than an arrow so what the fuck does Robin know—
“What the fuck?” Robin repeats again with feeling as she turns off the Wheeler’s street, as the taste of cherry lingers warm and present in her mouth and—
God, she messed it up.
Fuck.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75660926
|
{"authors": ["solasta"], "language": "English", "title": "cherry chapstick"}
|
Membrane Vs Aliens
“Ugh…”
The loud blaring had caused him to finally stir, a monotonous beeping akin to an alarm. Assuming it was his alarm clock, he reached over to shut it up- or tried to anyway. The muscles on his shoulder area moved, but no arm was there to accompany said movement. He tried a few more times out of habit, before realizing it was getting him nowhere. At long last, he opened his eyes.
It took a few seconds longer than normal, but he managed to open them up all the way. His vision was blurry for a moment, and he was temporarily seeing double. He blinked a few times as his vision cleared up, and he realized the sound wasn’t from a bedside alarm clock. Rather, it seemed to be coming from up above, the sound resonating throughout wherever he was. Indeed, it was so loud it was almost ear-splitting, with each beep’s vibrations being slightly felt in the room’s interior. Well, that was certainly irritating. But annoying noise aside, there was a much more pressing issue: where was he?!
His head was spinning for a moment as he managed to sit up, then he stood and looked around. The room he was in was dim, and it seemed he had gotten up off of a bed. The interior was mostly empty, save for the bed, a toilet, and a table and chair. Wait a second- this was a CELL. The moment that fact registered in his mind, fear settled into his body. Not only were his cybernetics missing, he was trapped in some strange place and wearing strange clothes (a gray outfit with orange highlights alongside a pair of equally as gray shoes, something that seemed to almost resemble something a prisoner would wear fittingly enough).
At long last, the alarm went silent. But the man didn’t really have much time to appreciate that as instantly after that every single piece of furniture in the cell was retracted into the walls, and he heard something else behind him- mechanical whirring. Before he could even look behind to see what it was, he felt it- the now moving wall of the cell hit him and he fell down- right onto his face. The wall kept moving against him, with him and his face sliding across the cold metal floor the entire time.
After that was over, he managed to stand up once more (a rather difficult feat without arms), and realized something else- he had been pushed into another room. This one was far larger, and was white and well lit unlike his gloomy cell. Having no other choice, he took a step forward, then a few more. CRUNCH! During his steps, he had stepped on something. Instinctively he looked down and lifted his foot. It was… a chair? A rather tiny one, one small enough for a doll house. What a strange object to have in such a place, he thought.
He took more steps, and something caught his eye- a table and chair that seemed to be at the proper size. Were they for him? As soon as he thought that, he saw the plate on it. And after that, some sort of pipe thing descended, and spit out some sort of mushy looking stuff onto the plate alongside a spoon, and unceremoniously departed back into the ceiling. Well, whatever that stuff was certainly looked disgusting, not to mention the question of how he was supposed to eat it without arms.
So he just stood there, still in disbelief. This couldn’t be real. Yes, it was a dream! It had to be!
“Hello.”
He jumped, looking around for where the voice had possibly come from. He looked left, right, up… then down. Gross! A cockroach!
His face contorted into a grimace, and he lifted his leg… and stomped. He missed. The bug dodged, again and again as the man’s foot failed to make contact. “Stop that”, the cockroach yelped, the same voice from earlier.
With that the would-be bug crusher froze, his look of disgust now replaced with one of shock. A talking cockroach?! Okay now this HAD to be a dream. Once it was clear he was too frozen in surprise to continue trying to step on the little thing, the cockroach skittered up the leg of the table and onto the top of it and began to speak again.
“Long time no see, old friend. I wasn’t quite expecting such a violent reunion.”
Wait, what?
He knelt down out of confusion, and realized something- the cockroach wasn’t a cockroach at all- at least not in its entirety. Indeed, only the head seemed to be that of the titular insect. Below that was the body of a man. The face of the head was still human-esque, accompanied by antennae and huge, bulbous eyes. This kept on getting weirder, and it wasn’t over yet.
At last, he began to speak to the thing. His voice was slightly strained, tired sounding: “Old friend? Who are you?”
“Ah. A reasonable reaction. Do you perhaps recall over a decade ago, at the university we attended together?”
“...”
“Room 28 in the dorms, how we first met.”
Then, it clicked. At last he realized why that voice sounded familiar. “Herbert”, the man muttered questioningly.
The face of the roach man broke out into a smile. “There it is! Good to see you again, although I’ve prayed it wouldn’t be here.”
Herbert, his old roommate from
|
Membrane Vs Aliens
“Ugh…”
The loud blaring had caused him to finally stir, a monotonous beeping akin to an alarm. Assuming it was his alarm clock, he reached over to shut it up- or tried to anyway. The muscles on his shoulder area moved, but no arm was there to accompany said movement. He tried a few more times out of habit, before realizing it was getting him nowhere. At long last, he opened his eyes.
It took a few seconds longer than normal, but he managed to open them up all the way. His vision was blurry for a moment, and he was temporarily seeing double. He blinked a few times as his vision cleared up, and he realized the sound wasn’t from a bedside alarm clock. Rather, it seemed to be coming from up above, the sound resonating throughout wherever he was. Indeed, it was so loud it was almost ear-splitting, with each beep’s vibrations being slightly felt in the room’s interior. Well, that was certainly irritating. But annoying noise aside, there was a much more pressing issue: where was he?!
His head was spinning for a moment as he managed to sit up, then he stood and looked around. The room he was in was dim, and it seemed he had gotten up off of a bed. The interior was mostly empty, save for the bed, a toilet, and a table and chair. Wait a second- this was a CELL. The moment that fact registered in his mind, fear settled into his body. Not only were his cybernetics missing, he was trapped in some strange place and wearing strange clothes (a gray outfit with orange highlights alongside a pair of equally as gray shoes, something that seemed to almost resemble something a prisoner would wear fittingly enough).
At long last, the alarm went silent. But the man didn’t really have much time to appreciate that as instantly after that every single piece of furniture in the cell was retracted into the walls, and he heard something else behind him- mechanical whirring. Before he could even look behind to see what it was, he felt it- the now moving wall of the cell hit him and he fell down- right onto his face. The wall kept moving against him, with him and his face sliding across the cold metal floor the entire time.
After that was over, he managed to stand up once more (a rather difficult feat without arms), and realized something else- he had been pushed into another room. This one was far larger, and was white and well lit unlike his gloomy cell. Having no other choice, he took a step forward, then a few more. CRUNCH! During his steps, he had stepped on something. Instinctively he looked down and lifted his foot. It was… a chair? A rather tiny one, one small enough for a doll house. What a strange object to have in such a place, he thought.
He took more steps, and something caught his eye- a table and chair that seemed to be at the proper size. Were they for him? As soon as he thought that, he saw the plate on it. And after that, some sort of pipe thing descended, and spit out some sort of mushy looking stuff onto the plate alongside a spoon, and unceremoniously departed back into the ceiling. Well, whatever that stuff was certainly looked disgusting, not to mention the question of how he was supposed to eat it without arms.
So he just stood there, still in disbelief. This couldn’t be real. Yes, it was a dream! It had to be!
“Hello.”
He jumped, looking around for where the voice had possibly come from. He looked left, right, up… then down. Gross! A cockroach!
His face contorted into a grimace, and he lifted his leg… and stomped. He missed. The bug dodged, again and again as the man’s foot failed to make contact. “Stop that”, the cockroach yelped, the same voice from earlier.
With that the would-be bug crusher froze, his look of disgust now replaced with one of shock. A talking cockroach?! Okay now this HAD to be a dream. Once it was clear he was too frozen in surprise to continue trying to step on the little thing, the cockroach skittered up the leg of the table and onto the top of it and began to speak again.
“Long time no see, old friend. I wasn’t quite expecting such a violent reunion.”
Wait, what?
He knelt down out of confusion, and realized something- the cockroach wasn’t a cockroach at all- at least not in its entirety. Indeed, only the head seemed to be that of the titular insect. Below that was the body of a man. The face of the head was still human-esque, accompanied by antennae and huge, bulbous eyes. This kept on getting weirder, and it wasn’t over yet.
At last, he began to speak to the thing. His voice was slightly strained, tired sounding: “Old friend? Who are you?”
“Ah. A reasonable reaction. Do you perhaps recall over a decade ago, at the university we attended together?”
“...”
“Room 28 in the dorms, how we first met.”
Then, it clicked. At last he realized why that voice sounded familiar. “Herbert”, the man muttered questioningly.
The face of the roach man broke out into a smile. “There it is! Good to see you again, although I’ve prayed it wouldn’t be here.”
Herbert, his old roommate from college, was here too. But, assuming this wasn’t a dream, what happened to him? Herbert seemed to recognize that was what was on the other’s mind, and provided.
“Experiment gone wrong, horribly wrong.”
“You… have the head of a roach”, the other man said as he knelt down further, “and you’re so… SMALL.”
At that, Herbert chuckled a little. “The first part’s right, but small I am not. You, my old friend, are gargantuan.”
“Don’t be ridiculous”, he said standing back up and taking a few steps backward, “I’m not-”
Before he could finish, he slipped. He landed hard on his back, an appropriately loud boom from his fall echoing throughout the room. A sharp surge of pain shot through him, more specifically where his arms used to be. He cried out as such, barely even registering what he had slipped on, only taking proper notice a whole five seconds later. Stuck to the bottom of his shoe was something blue and gooey, then of course it talked too.
It had a face, and a single eye. “Hi there”, it chirped somehow. Then, something appeared in its expression: a flash of recognition: “Dad”, it squealed happily. Dad?
The blob thing detached itself from the man’s foot, and then proceeded to hug his other one. “Daddy”, it cooed. Now, it was the man’s turn to have some recognition: “Benzoate Ostylezene Bicarbonate”, the man murmured.
“Eh, you can just call me Bob”, the blob creature said nonchalantly as he continued to affectionately hug the foot.
“Oh, are you two acquainted?”, Herbert said with surprise.
“Yes, it seems like it. Years ago, in an attempt to revolutionize snacking everywhere, an experiment was performed with a modified tomato and some modified ranch dressing. The result was… this. So this is where they put it. However, it used to be a lot bigger.”
“They?”
“The government and I are, let’s say, familiar with each other.”
Wait a second. This could only mean one thing- he too was being held in that same facility he knew of, but not the location of. This thought raised all sorts of other alarm bells and questions, only to be quickly pushed away with the notion of it all being a dream.
Then, of course, another creature appeared- on his face. He hadn’t even noticed it scurrying up his back and later onto his head, catching him quite off guard.
It was upside down as it clung onto his face, its grip firm and relentless.
“Wow, look at you. I know what you're thinking: first day in prison, you wanna take on the toughest guy in the yard? Well, I'd like to see you- wait- hold up-”
The reptilian, fish, ape, thing jumped off of the man’s face and onto the ground. Its features then sported a look of something else: RAGE. “YOU”, it cried pointing a scaly finger.
Another awkward reunion. “Oh, you two know each other as well?”, Herbert said nervously.
“Specimen F-1SH, also known as The Missing Link. Fished from the ocean and defrosted as per my order, then after he went berserk he was taken and held somewhere.”
“That’s LINK to you, you overgrown jerk! You and your white hair are going down, gramps!”
Well, there it was again. The implication that he was huge, and now his hair being white? Being enormous would be one thing, but white hair? That couldn’t be- oh. He managed to catch a glimpse of himself on the shiny floor, a reflection: yes, once jet-black hair was now a stark white. Worse, something else was apparent that the Professor hadn’t previously considered: his face was on full display. His awful, horribly scarred face. How embarrassing, but he had a more pressing matter to attend to. With that, he sighed and stood back up. He ignored Herbert’s questions, Bob’s hugging of his foot, Link’s threats and obscenities. This was it. He had to wake up soon.
He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, fully expecting to wake up in his own room. Nope. He opened them, and he was still there. He tried again with the same results. Then again. And again.
“What are you doing?” Herbert asked.
“Waking up, this isn’t real.”
Herbert’s face went from confusion to something akin to sympathy. “Sadly, I’m afraid this is real. The sooner you figure that out the better you’ll be.”
Indeed, this “dream” did seem oddly realistic, especially with the throbbing where his arms used to be after he fell.
“Tell me, Membrane, what do you remember before waking up here?”
Membrane paused, then at long last was able to properly recall previous events once the brain fog finally faded away. It all came flooding back at once:
The previous day had started normally just like any other. He had been approaching his own facility, Membrane Labs, for a day of hard work and science. He’d been so confident, so engrossed in his own thoughts as he crossed the parking lot that he failed to notice it: the huge hunk of radioactive rock hurtling towards him from the sky.
He hadn’t noticed it, let alone the cries of his assistant as he unsuccessfully tried to warn his boss of the incoming danger. By the time he heard Lucius’ shouts, he turned around to see the man running towards him and waving his arms frantically. He was about to bid the other man good morning and ask what was wrong when- THUD.
The meteorite hit him, just mere meters away from the front doors of the lab. He had been crushed underneath it, much to the horror of Lucius who quite reasonably assumed the falling rock had killed the Professor. Instead, just moments later Membrane managed to punch his way through the no-longer-glowing meteorite with the sheer power of his mechanical arms alone, dirty and with a singed labcoat but otherwise unharmed.
“Well, that was mildly inconvenient”, the Professor said nonchalantly as he dusted himself off and prepared to get to work in spite of Lucius’ protests.
“Sir, you need a hospital! What if that thing was radioactive, had a weird space virus or-”
“Nonsense”, Membrane had replied as he stubbornly decided to get to work (you see, in half an hour from then he had a live presentation to do for his show). So with that he had changed into a clean labcoat and got ready to go live, with no way of being able to predict the disaster that would happen later.
He had been finishing up the presentation, it was something to do with educating the populace about quantum physics. He had asked the audience if they had any questions, and a guy raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Yeah uh, are you supposed to be glowing like that?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m not- oh.”
At that moment he had gotten a glimpse of himself in one of the floating monitors stationed in the area, and yes he was in fact glowing like a human glowstick. Stunned for a second, he tried to play it off rationally.
“Oh, it’s probably just a side effect of-”
Before he could even finish, it happened. Right after the green glow in his skin faded away, it started.
He recalled the screams of horror from both the audience and his aides, and how he had (rather unsuccessfully) tried to defuse the situation and get things calm again. As for what was going on, he was growing- rapidly to boot. He grew, grew and grew some more until the entire area was in shambles- as was his precious labcoat. To add insult to injury, his own cybernetics had fallen off rather painfully as he outgrew them. By the time it stopped, his head had crashed through the roof of the building and he could see numerous people running away from the area and shrieking in terror.
He had found it increasingly difficult to keep a level head as the situation kept escalating, but he kept trying. He eventually bent over back into the room, likely to keep trying to calm people down. That was to no avail, as the next thing he remembered was the auditorium being flooded with more people: these ones were dressed in combat garb and were coming right towards him rather than running away. Before he could even respond, he felt something- something sharp was now jabbed in his rear end for some reason. He couldn’t get it out due to not having arms, which already sucked. Then he heard one of the soldiers say something:
“It’s not working! More darts!”
More pain, more sharp stuff in the butt for a few seconds. Then, he felt it: he was getting dizzy, woozy. He tried not to, but eventually he collapsed onto the ground- right into where the audience would have been sitting. He heard another voice, Lucius’ voice:
“What are you doing?! Leave him alone! Don’t you know who he is?!”
For a moment he could see his assistant struggling to get to him, only to be held back by a pair of soldiers. “SIR”, Lucius had cried before the Professor’s vision finally faded to black.
Well, that certainly explained why he was there, why his arms were gone (and why his butt also felt numb and tingly, he observed), and that he was in fact massive. But where did the soldiers come from? Who called them?
It only took a few minutes of Membrane remembering to put two and two together, but to him it felt like hours. So he took more steps backwards, still in sheer disbelief. He bumped into something- something big and fuzzy. He turned around, and saw another inmate he somehow failed to see before- this one was even bigger than he was. A huge, hulking mass of fur and insect-like traits. Now this one he wasn’t familiar with.
“That’s Insectosaurus”, Herbert said matter of factly.
Insectosaurus just stood there, apparently not seeing the man but he could surely see it. Some slobber fell from the creature’s mouth and onto Membrane’s head, which prompted a snicker from Link.
It finally hit him- this was real.
This was bad! No, catastrophic! He had to get out of there! The world needed him and his mind! His kids needed him! And on top of that, he was huge! How was he supposed to deal with THAT?
So he did what any famous, well educated man of science would do- he panicked.
He lost his composure completely. He ran about the room, his huge, thundering footsteps shaking the room slightly as he yelled like an idiot.
“Now now, let’s not-” Herbert began. Too late.
Membrane had begun to kick the walls to no avail, screaming for to be let out in his frenzy. Arms or not, he still managed to make quite a scene- and a lot of noise.
Herbert kept trying and failing to calm the giant man down, Bob just stared and Link smirked while folding his arms while Insectosaurus kept standing there absentmindedly.
This went on for a bit, until something finally happened. A section of the wall opened, apparently that was a door. “That’s enough”, came one more familiar voice- it was gritty, full of irritation. The owner of the voice came flying in, assisted by a sort of jetpack device. He hovered in front of the still very upset man, who proceeded to shoot him a glare.
“General Monger”, Membrane said flatly.
“In the flesh.”
The two men were in fact acquaintances, although they had met only a select few times with both being when the Bob and Link creatures were being sent away to be held in captivity. They had shaken hands, and each time Membrane was sworn to secrecy. So much for that.
“Ya done?” Monger asked.
“Where am I”, Membrane barked, ignoring the question.
“Fraid I can’t tell ya that, at least not the actual name. What I can tell ya is that you’re now in a state of the art monster holding facility, welcome.”
“...monster?”
“Yup.”
“I’m not a monster.”
Monger either didn’t hear that, or didn’t care. “Come along, time for yer orientation. Rest of ya, time to back in yer cells. Now get movin’!”
Monger flew through the huge doorway, clearly expecting Membrane to follow. He did so, seeing as he really had no other choice.
What he was greeted with was astounding- a huge space abuzz with activity from both machines and government workers. He was now on a moving platform that moved him around throughout the area as Monger began to go on about the facility, but Membrane just ignored him out of irritation about his situation.
He did at least catch a glimpse of the cells of his jailmates. There was Herbert or Dr. Cockroach as he was now apparently called according to Monger as he babbled, with the roach headed man tinkering with something that turned out to be a bomb (with Monger revoking the ‘toybox privileges’ immediately after, much to Membrane’s amusement). Then there was Bob, who was repeatedly throwing a ball against the wall seemingly to keep himself occupied. After that was Link, who wasted no time shooting Membrane a dirty look and a certain profane hand gesture. Finally, there was Insectosarus who just splattered some sort of silky snot all over the glass much to Membrane’s disgust.
“And here we are," Monger finished, “yers.”
There was the same cell from earlier in its drab glory. Rather than stepping inside, Membrane turned to face the general. “Can I call my family?”
“Negative.”
“Lucius?”
“Nope, any and all contact with the outside world is a no-go.”
“And I’ll be here for how long?”
“Indefinitely.”
The utterance of the last word caused another wave of panic to hit the colossal man. His fear rang loud and clear on his face, which prompted Monger to reply with “Don’t worry, think of this place like a hotel you never leave because it’s locked from the outside!”
“Not helping.”
Monger just sighed.
“Into yer cell, now.”
Membrane just complied out of a lack of choice (if he had his arms, he’d actually have swiped at or perhaps grabbed Monger out of anger).
“By the way,” Monger added, “the prison psychologist has had us redecorate yer cell!”
All that was there was a small poster up on the wall where Membrane could see it- a poster promoting Membrane Labs and by extension the Professor himself. He turned around and shot Monger a look as if to say “Seriously?”.
As the cell began to close, Monger said one last thing: “Oh and by the way, the government has changed your legal name to Giganticus.”
Right after that, the wall had closed and he was alone again. It took him a second to process that last statement, but when he did he was angry. So very angry. So angry that he screamed. Once again, he threw a fit.
The nerve, the audacity! How DARE they! How dare they keep him, one of the most important people in the world, locked up here let alone change his name!
He kicked and shoulder slammed the cell walls, not caring about the pain erupting in his shoulders. Loud bangs followed as he attacked the walls of the cell, with the walls soon being littered with various sizable dents from the force of his kicks. Once it was clear he couldn’t escape, he just started yelling- he yelled all kinds of nasty things that made Link’s words look like a kitten’s mew in comparison.
He did all that until his throat was sore, as was his body. With nothing else to take his anger out on, he sat down on the bed. He scowled, his entire being full of so much hatred that he was shaking.
He tried once again to delude himself into thinking it wasn’t real, but the physical pain and mental agony kept reminding him that it was in fact actually happening. They couldn’t keep him here. He was going to escape, he had to. Not just for his own sake, but it was fact true that both his inventions and family required his attention. Wait… his family. His children. Where were they? Were they alright? Did they know what happened?!
These thoughts were even more troubling. What if he never got out? What if he never saw them again? No! He wouldn’t let that happen, he couldn’t! But for now he was stuck, the cell truly was inescapable much to his chagrin.
With little else to do the man just sat there, wondering if the workers throughout the base even heard his childish tantrum. Speaking of, he felt foolish for letting his emotions manifest that way. He briefly looked at the dents he had caused, then down at the floor.
“This isn’t over, Monger,” he mumbled.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75662396/chapters/197877091
|
{"authors": ["RibbonDee"], "language": "English", "title": "Membrane Vs Aliens"}
|
Honeymoon Baby
Shane had imagined many things about their honeymoon. Long beach walks, lazy mornings tangled in sheets, maybe even that obnoxiously cute couple’s massage Ilya kept joking about.
He had not imagined this.
He was on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed against cool marble tile, shivering despite the tropical humidity. His stomach rolled again, violently and aggressively, and he barely had time to grab the toilet seat before he threw up again.
“Ilya,” Shane groaned from the floor, “if I throw up one more time, just let me die.”
“No dying on honeymoon,” Ilya said firmly, kneeling beside him and placing a cold hand on Shane’s sweaty forehead. “You promised me ocean sex.”
“Ilya,” Shane whimpered, “I can’t even look at the ocean. Everything moves.”
“You need hospital.”
“No. I need ginger ale."
“Shane,” he said softly, “you are dying.”
Shane glared at him weakly. “I’m not dying.”
“You have thrown up twelve times.”
“It wasn’t twelve.”
“I counted.”
Shane groaned and let his eyes close. “Please don’t count.”
“This is not normal. Honeymoon should be sexy. Not…this.” Ilya gestured vaguely at Shane, the trash can full of tissues, and the general aura of misery.
Shane tried to sit up, and the world spun like he was trapped inside a washing machine.
“Ilya,” he whispered, “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Immediately, Ilya knelt beside him and supported his shoulders, strong arms steady and gentle all at once. “I have you,” he murmured, voice low. “Lean on me.”
Shane did, grimacing because he was sweating and nauseous and pathetic, but leaning against Ilya felt like slipping into bed after a long road trip.
But then the nausea surged again, vicious and sudden, and Ilya barely moved in time to help him lean over the toilet.
“Okay,” Ilya said, wiping Shane’s mouth with a cold towel afterwards. “This is too much. We go to doctor.”
“No.” Shane’s voice was hoarse. “It’s just food poisoning.”
“It has been three days.”
“I’m a delicate ecosystem.”
“You are dramatic,” Ilya corrected. “And sick.”
Shane groaned. “Please stop using your concerned voice. It makes me feel like an injured rabbit.”
Ilya ignored that. He sat back on his heels, studying him intently, not just worried, but thinking very hard. That look usually meant trouble, or that he was about to propose something insane.
“What?” Shane asked suspiciously.
“You have no fever,” Ilya said slowly. “You have no aches. Just nausea. And…mood swings.”
Shane blinked. “Mood swings?”
“You cried yesterday because the resort ran out of berry pancakes.”
“They WERE out,” Shane snapped. “It was tragic!”
Ilya nodded solemnly, like he was agreeing with Shane’s grief but also cataloguing data. “Yes. And this morning, you cried because I said good morning too loud.”
“It wasn’t too loud,” Shane muttered. “I was fragile.”
Ilya’s expression sharpened. “Shane… did you forget we stopped doing something recently?”
Shane made that cute, scrunched up, confused face that Ilya loved.
“…forget… what?”
“Protection,” Ilya whispered, lifting one eyebrow. “You know. We have not used condoms since our engagement night. Remember engagement night? On the floor. On plane for game after. In the shower. In bed. Against wall. In the pool.”
Shane covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god, stop listing!”
But Ilya kept going, counting on his fingers now. “Balcony. Jacuzzi. And—”
“ILYA.”
Ilya’s hand dropped. His voice dropped, too. “Shane… we did not use anything. At all. Because we were…celebrating.”
Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“That doesn’t—” His breath hitched. “I mean, that can’t— Ilya, did we make—”
But a sudden wave of dizziness hit him again, and he clutched Ilya’s shirt.
Ilya was already standing. “You stay. I go to gift shop.”
“The gift shop?”
“For test.”
“You think the resort gift shop sells pregnancy tests?”
Ilya shrugged. “They sell sunscreen and $45 gummy bears. They probably sell everything.”
Thirty minutes later, Ilya burst back into their suite like the hero of a spy movie returning with the answers to everything.
“They had four brands,” he declared proudly, holding up small pastel boxes. “I buy all.”
Shane stared at the pile of tests. “What kind of gift shop sells pregnancy tests?”
“Luxury one,” Ilya replied. “Also has condoms, lube, vitamins, sex dice, snorkels, and batteries.”
Shane didn’t have the strength to unpack that.
Testing was… humiliating. Shane sat on the closed toilet lid, leaning against Ilya, while one test processed on the counter and the rest waited in line like little plastic soldiers.
His stomach twisted, but not from nausea this time.
“Ilya,” he whispered after a minute, “I’m scared.”
Ilya slid a hand into his hair, thumb brushing lightly against his temple. “I am here. Whatever happens, we figure it out.”
Shane swallowed. “What if it’s positive?”
“Then is good.”
“Good?” Shane stared at him. “How is that good? We’re married for like two seconds! We’re not ready for a baby! We play hockey! I barely take care of myself!”
Ilya cupped his cheeks
|
Honeymoon Baby
Shane had imagined many things about their honeymoon. Long beach walks, lazy mornings tangled in sheets, maybe even that obnoxiously cute couple’s massage Ilya kept joking about.
He had not imagined this.
He was on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed against cool marble tile, shivering despite the tropical humidity. His stomach rolled again, violently and aggressively, and he barely had time to grab the toilet seat before he threw up again.
“Ilya,” Shane groaned from the floor, “if I throw up one more time, just let me die.”
“No dying on honeymoon,” Ilya said firmly, kneeling beside him and placing a cold hand on Shane’s sweaty forehead. “You promised me ocean sex.”
“Ilya,” Shane whimpered, “I can’t even look at the ocean. Everything moves.”
“You need hospital.”
“No. I need ginger ale."
“Shane,” he said softly, “you are dying.”
Shane glared at him weakly. “I’m not dying.”
“You have thrown up twelve times.”
“It wasn’t twelve.”
“I counted.”
Shane groaned and let his eyes close. “Please don’t count.”
“This is not normal. Honeymoon should be sexy. Not…this.” Ilya gestured vaguely at Shane, the trash can full of tissues, and the general aura of misery.
Shane tried to sit up, and the world spun like he was trapped inside a washing machine.
“Ilya,” he whispered, “I think I’m going to pass out.”
Immediately, Ilya knelt beside him and supported his shoulders, strong arms steady and gentle all at once. “I have you,” he murmured, voice low. “Lean on me.”
Shane did, grimacing because he was sweating and nauseous and pathetic, but leaning against Ilya felt like slipping into bed after a long road trip.
But then the nausea surged again, vicious and sudden, and Ilya barely moved in time to help him lean over the toilet.
“Okay,” Ilya said, wiping Shane’s mouth with a cold towel afterwards. “This is too much. We go to doctor.”
“No.” Shane’s voice was hoarse. “It’s just food poisoning.”
“It has been three days.”
“I’m a delicate ecosystem.”
“You are dramatic,” Ilya corrected. “And sick.”
Shane groaned. “Please stop using your concerned voice. It makes me feel like an injured rabbit.”
Ilya ignored that. He sat back on his heels, studying him intently, not just worried, but thinking very hard. That look usually meant trouble, or that he was about to propose something insane.
“What?” Shane asked suspiciously.
“You have no fever,” Ilya said slowly. “You have no aches. Just nausea. And…mood swings.”
Shane blinked. “Mood swings?”
“You cried yesterday because the resort ran out of berry pancakes.”
“They WERE out,” Shane snapped. “It was tragic!”
Ilya nodded solemnly, like he was agreeing with Shane’s grief but also cataloguing data. “Yes. And this morning, you cried because I said good morning too loud.”
“It wasn’t too loud,” Shane muttered. “I was fragile.”
Ilya’s expression sharpened. “Shane… did you forget we stopped doing something recently?”
Shane made that cute, scrunched up, confused face that Ilya loved.
“…forget… what?”
“Protection,” Ilya whispered, lifting one eyebrow. “You know. We have not used condoms since our engagement night. Remember engagement night? On the floor. On plane for game after. In the shower. In bed. Against wall. In the pool.”
Shane covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god, stop listing!”
But Ilya kept going, counting on his fingers now. “Balcony. Jacuzzi. And—”
“ILYA.”
Ilya’s hand dropped. His voice dropped, too. “Shane… we did not use anything. At all. Because we were…celebrating.”
Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“That doesn’t—” His breath hitched. “I mean, that can’t— Ilya, did we make—”
But a sudden wave of dizziness hit him again, and he clutched Ilya’s shirt.
Ilya was already standing. “You stay. I go to gift shop.”
“The gift shop?”
“For test.”
“You think the resort gift shop sells pregnancy tests?”
Ilya shrugged. “They sell sunscreen and $45 gummy bears. They probably sell everything.”
Thirty minutes later, Ilya burst back into their suite like the hero of a spy movie returning with the answers to everything.
“They had four brands,” he declared proudly, holding up small pastel boxes. “I buy all.”
Shane stared at the pile of tests. “What kind of gift shop sells pregnancy tests?”
“Luxury one,” Ilya replied. “Also has condoms, lube, vitamins, sex dice, snorkels, and batteries.”
Shane didn’t have the strength to unpack that.
Testing was… humiliating. Shane sat on the closed toilet lid, leaning against Ilya, while one test processed on the counter and the rest waited in line like little plastic soldiers.
His stomach twisted, but not from nausea this time.
“Ilya,” he whispered after a minute, “I’m scared.”
Ilya slid a hand into his hair, thumb brushing lightly against his temple. “I am here. Whatever happens, we figure it out.”
Shane swallowed. “What if it’s positive?”
“Then is good.”
“Good?” Shane stared at him. “How is that good? We’re married for like two seconds! We’re not ready for a baby! We play hockey! I barely take care of myself!”
Ilya cupped his cheeks gently. “You will be perfect. You are soft-hearted. Loving. You make everything safe. You will be best at this.”
Shane’s eyes burned. “But what if I—?”
“Shh,” Ilya murmured, pressing their foreheads together. “You think too far. First, we see test.”
The timer beeped.
Ilya kneeled in front of him instantly, hands on Shane’s knees. “Shane?”
“Ilya,” he squeaked, holding up the test with trembling hands, “um. We need to talk.”
Shane handed him the stick. He watched Ilya read the two clear lines.
Then Ilya exhaled a shaky, emotional sound he almost never made.
“My love,” he whispered, voice thick. “We… we made a baby.”
Shane froze….then promptly burst into tears.
He didn’t even feel embarrassed, because Ilya caught him immediately, pulling him against his chest, running a hand down his back in long, soothing strokes.
“I’m sorry,” Shane sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m crying on our honeymoon, I’m sorry I’m disgusting—”
“You are beautiful,” Ilya murmured fiercely. “And brave. And mine.”
Shane’s breath hitched. “You’re not scared?”
“I am terrified,” Ilya admitted softly, smiling through it. “But also… happy. So happy, zaychik.”
Shane sniffled. “We’re going to be parents.”
“We are,” Ilya said, kissing his hair. “And our baby will be chaotic like you and stubborn like me. Terrible combination. Perfect combination.”
Despite everything — nausea, exhaustion and shock — Shane laughed.
Ilya lifted his chin gently. “We call doctor in the morning. Tonight, you rest. I hold you.”
“But what about our honeymoon plans?”
Ilya smirked. “We make new plans.”
“Like what?” Shane asked weakly.
“We lie in bed. We cuddle. We watch bad TV. And,” he added with a gentle kiss to Shane’s forehead, “we celebrate our baby.”
Shane leaned into him, exhausted but safe.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”
Ilya eased them both up from the bathroom floor, arms wrapped firmly around Shane.
“Come,” he murmured. “Bed time. Rest time. Do-not-throw-up-on-me time.”
Shane let out a shaky laugh as Ilya guided him toward the fluffy white sheets. He curled up against Ilya’s chest, already feeling sleep tugging at him.
“Goodnight, zaychik,” he whispered. “And goodnight, tiny baby. Your papa is very excited and very stupid. But will love you forever.”
Shane, half-asleep, mumbled, “You mean both papas are stupid?”
Ilya grinned. “Yes. But Hayden is the stupidest. Remember this.”
Shane fell asleep with a smile on his face.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75660941
|
{"authors": ["Riri_S"], "language": "English", "title": "Honeymoon Baby"}
|
Mine to Claim
Laughter — melodic, genuine — struck Verso like a blade aimed with precision. The same laughter she reserved only for those closest to her. The laughter he had never heard directed at other men.
Verso turned at the sound and saw her. Alicia sat by the fireplace, leaning slightly forward, elbows on her knees, her eyes bright. A young man sat beside her, his features clear, his smile shy. If Verso remembered correctly, his name was Claude. The boy spoke quickly, sometimes gesturing emotionally with his hands, while Alicia — devilishly effortlessly — responded, leaning closer as if sharing a secret.
Verso felt his jaw clench.
What is he even trying to do…
He heard nothing around him — the sounds merged into a single white noise, as though he were underwater. But he saw everything: how Claude looked at Alicia longer than etiquette allowed; how she bit her lip slightly as she listened; how strands of her copper-red hair fell over her shoulders and the boy almost admired them.
And over all of it — a faint blush on Alicia’s cheeks.
A blush only Verso could see.
He stepped closer. Slowly, like a predator ready to strike.
“What are you two so animatedly discussing?” His question was soft, but his eyes remained cold.
The young painter brightened.
“I was telling Alicia about a new technique with pastels. Yesterday, Maestro Renoir—”
“Ah, speaking of Renoir,” Verso interrupted, “Alicia can tell a far more interesting story.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder — a polite gesture, but his fingers pressed harder than necessary.
Alicia tensed almost imperceptibly.
“What story?” the boy asked.
Verso smiled in return. Coldly. Even nastily.
“About the time she ruined one of the maestro’s paintings.”
Alicia’s head snapped up.
“Verso!”
Her exclamation drew the attention of several guests, their conversations pausing mid-sentence. Verso went on as if he hadn’t heard her at all, as though she were merely part of the decor.
“Yes, yes. Right before an important exhibition. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
Alicia flushed, opening her mouth to argue, but Verso squeezed her shoulder again, warning her not to intervene. She swallowed and lowered her gaze.
“She wasn’t so small anymore when she performed this ‘heroic deed’,” Verso said almost tenderly. “Decided that if the maestro paints for everyone, she could too. Took a brush, dipped it in gouache, and drew a streak across the finished landscape. Bright red. Like a blood bruise.”
A nervous laugh rippled through the room. Someone shook their head.
Alicia stared straight ahead, blinking not once. Her crimson cheeks stood out against her pale face.
Verso saw this and pressed on, satisfied:
“Renoir was delighted, of course. Said it made the painting ‘livelier.’ Allowed her to add a few more strokes… to save the situation. And then spent an entire night trying to fix this child’s masterpiece.”
Laughter echoed through the room.
And the young painter — damn him — smiled too. Warmly. With something almost… admiration?
Verso felt something crack in his chest.
He leaned closer to Alicia, and almost brushing her ear, murmured quietly:
“Red suits you, you know?”
She snapped her head toward him, her eyes full of hurt.
“Why did you say that?”
“Because the truth never hurts,” Verso said loudly, for everyone to hear.
But inside him, jealousy spread like hot tar. It made him vulnerable and furious at once, and he hated the feeling — even more than he hated what it revealed: how deeply he cared.
The boy laughed politely.
“I don’t think it was such a terrible offense… I think the maestro was touched that you wanted to help him.”
Alicia exhaled softly, trying to reclaim her composure.
Verso looked at the young man as though calculating just how easily he could throw him out the window.
“Oh, she always wants to help,” he said. “Sometimes… even too eagerly.”
Alicia stood abruptly and whispered, barely audible:
“We’ll talk. Right now.”
He inclined his head slightly, a polite, almost submissive gesture — but his eyes remained cold.
“Of course, Alicia. At your service.”
Alicia slammed the door to her room so sharply that the books on the shelf by the wall trembled, threatening to fall.
“You—” her voice shook. “You had no right to say that in front of everyone.”
“And you had no right to smile at some boy as if you weren’t the daughter of a noble family but a dockside whore,” Verso spat, venomous.
“He was just being polite! How dare you—” She lunged toward him, arm raised to strike.
Verso caught her slender wrist easily, stopping her hand before it reached his cheek.
“Careful,” he said quietly. “You have no idea how angry I am.”
He stepped closer, leaving her no room to retreat, no chance to free her hand. She had no choice but to move with him. Verso stopped in front of the tall mirror by her wardrobe, forcing her to stand before it.
“Watch,” he whispered at her ear. His breath washed over her skin, hot enough to burn. “Is this how you’d want to stand in front of
|
Mine to Claim
Laughter — melodic, genuine — struck Verso like a blade aimed with precision. The same laughter she reserved only for those closest to her. The laughter he had never heard directed at other men.
Verso turned at the sound and saw her. Alicia sat by the fireplace, leaning slightly forward, elbows on her knees, her eyes bright. A young man sat beside her, his features clear, his smile shy. If Verso remembered correctly, his name was Claude. The boy spoke quickly, sometimes gesturing emotionally with his hands, while Alicia — devilishly effortlessly — responded, leaning closer as if sharing a secret.
Verso felt his jaw clench.
What is he even trying to do…
He heard nothing around him — the sounds merged into a single white noise, as though he were underwater. But he saw everything: how Claude looked at Alicia longer than etiquette allowed; how she bit her lip slightly as she listened; how strands of her copper-red hair fell over her shoulders and the boy almost admired them.
And over all of it — a faint blush on Alicia’s cheeks.
A blush only Verso could see.
He stepped closer. Slowly, like a predator ready to strike.
“What are you two so animatedly discussing?” His question was soft, but his eyes remained cold.
The young painter brightened.
“I was telling Alicia about a new technique with pastels. Yesterday, Maestro Renoir—”
“Ah, speaking of Renoir,” Verso interrupted, “Alicia can tell a far more interesting story.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder — a polite gesture, but his fingers pressed harder than necessary.
Alicia tensed almost imperceptibly.
“What story?” the boy asked.
Verso smiled in return. Coldly. Even nastily.
“About the time she ruined one of the maestro’s paintings.”
Alicia’s head snapped up.
“Verso!”
Her exclamation drew the attention of several guests, their conversations pausing mid-sentence. Verso went on as if he hadn’t heard her at all, as though she were merely part of the decor.
“Yes, yes. Right before an important exhibition. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
Alicia flushed, opening her mouth to argue, but Verso squeezed her shoulder again, warning her not to intervene. She swallowed and lowered her gaze.
“She wasn’t so small anymore when she performed this ‘heroic deed’,” Verso said almost tenderly. “Decided that if the maestro paints for everyone, she could too. Took a brush, dipped it in gouache, and drew a streak across the finished landscape. Bright red. Like a blood bruise.”
A nervous laugh rippled through the room. Someone shook their head.
Alicia stared straight ahead, blinking not once. Her crimson cheeks stood out against her pale face.
Verso saw this and pressed on, satisfied:
“Renoir was delighted, of course. Said it made the painting ‘livelier.’ Allowed her to add a few more strokes… to save the situation. And then spent an entire night trying to fix this child’s masterpiece.”
Laughter echoed through the room.
And the young painter — damn him — smiled too. Warmly. With something almost… admiration?
Verso felt something crack in his chest.
He leaned closer to Alicia, and almost brushing her ear, murmured quietly:
“Red suits you, you know?”
She snapped her head toward him, her eyes full of hurt.
“Why did you say that?”
“Because the truth never hurts,” Verso said loudly, for everyone to hear.
But inside him, jealousy spread like hot tar. It made him vulnerable and furious at once, and he hated the feeling — even more than he hated what it revealed: how deeply he cared.
The boy laughed politely.
“I don’t think it was such a terrible offense… I think the maestro was touched that you wanted to help him.”
Alicia exhaled softly, trying to reclaim her composure.
Verso looked at the young man as though calculating just how easily he could throw him out the window.
“Oh, she always wants to help,” he said. “Sometimes… even too eagerly.”
Alicia stood abruptly and whispered, barely audible:
“We’ll talk. Right now.”
He inclined his head slightly, a polite, almost submissive gesture — but his eyes remained cold.
“Of course, Alicia. At your service.”
Alicia slammed the door to her room so sharply that the books on the shelf by the wall trembled, threatening to fall.
“You—” her voice shook. “You had no right to say that in front of everyone.”
“And you had no right to smile at some boy as if you weren’t the daughter of a noble family but a dockside whore,” Verso spat, venomous.
“He was just being polite! How dare you—” She lunged toward him, arm raised to strike.
Verso caught her slender wrist easily, stopping her hand before it reached his cheek.
“Careful,” he said quietly. “You have no idea how angry I am.”
He stepped closer, leaving her no room to retreat, no chance to free her hand. She had no choice but to move with him. Verso stopped in front of the tall mirror by her wardrobe, forcing her to stand before it.
“Watch,” he whispered at her ear. His breath washed over her skin, hot enough to burn. “Is this how you’d want to stand in front of him?”
His silhouette towered above her—tall, dark, painfully compelling. He seemed to push every other shape in the room out of her vision completely.
“Let go,” she breathed, but her voice had lost its earlier conviction.
Verso leaned in, lips brushing her hair, inhaling her scent slowly, indulgently.
“No,” his reflection said. “Watch, Alicia.”
His hand slid along her narrow waist, tracing the line of her ribs, stopping beneath her breast. He could feel the tremor that ran through her at every touch.
“Like this?” he asked, voice low. “Would you let him touch you like this?”
“Verso…” She twitched, and he felt the frantic beating of her heart. “There are guests in the house…”
Her weak protest was met with his faint smile. Agonizingly slowly, he began to unfasten the buttons of her blouse.
“When has that ever stopped us?” he murmured against her neck. He kissed her lightly at first, then harder, teeth grazing sensitive skin. He saw her lips press together—rage, shame, desire all tightening inside her.
His hand slipped beneath her chemise, closing over her breast—not gently, no, with possessive certainty, as if demanding her body give him an answer. In the mirror, her shoulders trembled.
He tugged the thin fabric down, and her small breasts with their flushed, tight peaks came into view, framed by lace. His hand moved lower, sliding along her thigh. His fingers brushed the fabric between her legs—so carefully it felt like a promise, showing he could undo her far more easily with tenderness than with force.
Alicia tried to protest, but what escaped her mouth was a soft, treacherous sound—half breath, half moan.
“Don’t you dare…” she whispered.
“Why not?” he murmured into her neck, lips barely touching her skin. “Isn’t this what makes you so… obedient?”
Alicia flinched and tried to turn away, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Open your eyes,” Verso said, firm, unyielding, gripping her thigh.
“Verso… please…” she begged, desperate.
He froze.
Alicia almost never pleaded—especially not when he was rough with her. Her sudden surrender seemed suspicious, but so wanted, so necessary to them both that Verso decided he could question her motives later. When his cock wasn’t pressing hard against her spine.
He took her chin, turning her face toward him—finally letting her see his eyes not in the mirror but up close, dangerously close. With every ragged breath, Alicia’s exposed chest rose and fell. She looked at him with naked desire, raw need. And when he leaned in, she parted her lips, expecting his mouth on hers.
But Verso stopped a hair’s breadth away, and she didn’t dare close the distance herself.
He looked at her as though she belonged to him by right.
And quietly, almost gently, he said:
“Take off your skirt, Alicia.”
He still didn’t kiss her—only brushed his lips against her cheek as he spoke against her ear.
“And your underwear.”
Her fingers shook as she undid the little side fastenings. When the skirt slid down her legs, Alicia was left nearly bare, vulnerable and exposed.
She stood before him in an open blouse and a thin chemise that barely reached mid-thigh. She didn’t cover herself, afraid that the gesture would betray her weakness even more.
Verso tossed the discarded fabric aside and returned to her like a wave rolling in, ready to swallow her whole.
“Remember.” He set his palm on her stomach, barely touching. “You’re going to watch.”
A beautiful flush lit up her cheeks as she nodded, just barely.
His hand moved down with effortless certainty, gliding along the soft inside of her thigh and higher, feeling her wetness before he even reached her. When his fingers brushed her center, a broken whimper slipped from her parted lips. He eased her open, sliding between slick folds, pressing slow circles against her clit.
Alicia pushed back against him as if searching for safety in the very place she was bound to lose herself.
And this—this moment—was what he’d been waiting for.
“Tell me what you want,” he rasped against her ear. “Do you want more? Then ask for it.”
“Please…” she breathed, barely audible.
Verso didn’t move, his hand frozen between her legs.
“Louder, Alicia.”
She trembled. He knew pride and humiliation were tearing her apart—but her willingness to break for him, to yield, was as startling as it was intoxicating.
“Please…” A little louder. “Verso… I want…”
She couldn’t finish.
But he understood perfectly.
His hand slid deeper. And despite her sudden, strange pliancy, Verso had no intention of being gentle now—two fingers pushed into her at once, meeting the familiar tight resistance, though her slickness made it easier.
She tensed all over and tried to look away—from embarrassment, from the way the mirror laid everything bare.
“Watch,” he ordered, moving his fingers slowly, deliberately, clearly meaning to teach her a lesson. “Watch how you react. To me. Only to me.”
The reflection was unbearably sweet, and Verso could have devoured it for the rest of the evening. Alicia whimpered, her thighs loosening, opening for him in an instinctive invitation. He added a third finger, stretching her wider, while his thumb found her clit again, circling harder and faster around the swollen bud.
“Verso…” she moaned, openly, without a shred of control.
“Is that you moaning from just my hand?” he whispered playfully. “Sweetheart, we do still have guests downstairs.”
Her knees buckled, but he caught her, steadying her with a commanding palm against her stomach.
“Verso… I… I can’t…”
“You can. And you will. Not until you tell me the truth.”
His voice dropped—lower, rougher. Heat shot through her spine.
“Wh—what truth?” she gasped.
He bent to her ear, fingers moving inside her with sure, relentless strokes, dragging tension through her body until she arched, biting her lip to hold back a cry.
“That you want me,” he breathed. “That you need only me.”
Her breaths came sharp and uneven, her chest rising quickly.
“Say who you belong to right now.”
She shut her eyes—only to be pushed sharply forward by his hand on her hip, not hard, but firm enough to make her obey.
“Eyes, Alicia.”
She complied. Her gaze was glassy, lit by the heat he’d coaxed out of her.
“I…” Her voice broke again when he quickened his pace, her hips clenching around his hand. “I want… you.”
He stilled for a heartbeat, savouring her surrender.
“Only me?” he whispered against her neck, his tongue dragging a slow line over her skin.
Her body jolted under the assault of sensation.
“Yes…” Alicia murmured. “Yes, only… you…”
She nearly cried out when he left her suddenly, only to undo his own trousers. Her trembling hands clawed at the mirror’s frame for balance, her forehead pressing to the cool glass as she fought for breath.
“Don’t move,” he rasped.
He rose behind her, pressing his whole body to hers as he bent his knees just enough to line up with her hips. His cock—hard, swollen, already aching—pressed to her folds getting some of her grease. Alicia shivered at the heat of him, at the sheer size. It wasn’t their first time; they knew each other’s bodies too well for that. And yet she reacted as if it were—tightening, bracing, trembling in anticipation.
He guided himself slowly to her and pressed in with the tip. Even after everything he’d done to prepare her, she was always tight at the start: walls fluttered around him, clenching as though to push him out, when in truth they were drawing him deeper. Verso groaned under his breath at the feeling—her body resisting and welcoming in the same time, slick and ready but stubbornly, deliciously tense.
He barely pushed in an inch or two before Alicia gasped.
“God… you’re so fucking tight,” he exhaled, fingers digging into her hips as he held her in place and pushed in harder.
Alicia bit her lip, staring at their reflection—her own face flushed and open-mouthed, and his behind her, twisted with pleasure.
Finally he sank into her fully—one smooth, forceful thrust that stretched her around him, filled her to the brink. And before she could cry out, he covered her mouth with his hand.
“We don’t need an audience, do we?”
Her body clenched around him so hard he froze, fighting the sudden wish cum right away.
Verso began to move—slowly at first, letting her adjust, letting her body loosen and tighten again with each careful thrust.
But his thoughts kept circling back to the boy downstairs. Her light, careless laughter.
Jealousy steered his rhythm.
He slammed into her faster, rougher, almost punishing—driving into her with enough force that she bowed forward, her forehead nearly touching the mirror. Only he could take her like this, drag desperate sounds from her throat, make her burn hot and wet around him with each sharp snap of his hips.
Then he slowed. His thrusts lengthened, grew lazy, teasing. He almost slipped out of her completely just to push back in achingly slow. Alicia whimpered, jerking her hips back in protest, but he held her still—one hand firm on her waist, the other sliding into her hair and tugging her head up so she’d look at herself.
Overstimulated, trembling, she reacted to every pause as if it were torture. She knew what he wanted—what he waited for. Her soft sounds melted into shallow, pleading breaths.
“Verso… please…” she finally whispered, begging for the rhythm he had taken away.
Jealousy flared once more—sharp, electric—and then broke into something like triumph.
He picked up the pace again, relentless now, pushing her right to the edge. His hand slipped down between her thighs, finding her clit, stroking in time with his thrusts. She fell apart instantly. Her cry tore free before she could swallow it; her whole body shook as the orgasm crashed over her, clenching around him so hard he nearly lost control.
At the last second he pulled out and came with a low groan, spilling hot cum across her ass. The streaks ran down her skin in slow, heavy trails.
The jealousy was gone. Only the two of them remained.
Verso eased away, his breath still uneven but no longer edged with urgency. Her body trembled from the intensity that still lingered between them. Alicia sagged forward, hands braced on the fogged mirror, leaving blurred prints on the glass. She was glowing, hair sticking to her neck, lips swollen from biting. She made no move to wipe his release from her skin.
He turned her toward him gently—without the roughness from earlier. His hands slid along her waist, drawing her closer, and he buried his face in her neck, breathing her in: the mix of sweat, desire, and something that was hers alone.
Alicia melted into his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, her fingers curling weakly into his shirt. They stood like that for a few seconds, simply breathing in the same rhythm, until the world slowly seeped back in—the muted hum from downstairs, the sweet smell of desserts. Dinner was nearly over.
Verso pressed a soft kiss to her temple and whispered:
“Are you okay?”
She nodded without lifting her gaze, though a faint smile touched her lips. Her body still echoed with the aftermath: the small spasms deep inside where he had just been, the pleasant heaviness in her muscles. His hand drifted up her back. His touch was tender now—fingertips gliding over her skin not to demand, but to soothe, smoothing away the tension he’d created.
Alicia lifted her head and met his eyes. They were dark, but no longer taut with jealousy. Something deeper had taken its place.
“I missed you,” she said simply, rising onto her toes and looping her arms around his neck. “You left so suddenly, Verso… Those two weeks were torture.”She kissed him lightly.
Verso pulled back just a little—barely the distance of her breath. But it was enough for her to see something spark in his eyes.
Surprise.
“Torture?” he murmured, studying her face as if rearranging something he thought he already understood.
Alicia nodded, gaze steady. Her hands stayed around his neck, fingers lazily playing with his hair. She looked relaxed, soft… and satisfied?
And he understood.
His hands tightened subtly on her waist, and she felt the shift.
“Alicia…” His voice dropped lower.
He didn’t finish. He couldn’t.
Because she smiled. A small, almost innocent smile—but beneath it was the confession he never expected.
“You gave in so easily,” she said, almost offhand, as if she weren’t talking about how he had taken her in front of the mirror, made her watch herself fall apart under his hands, pushed her until she begged. Her finger traced the line of his cheek. “I get angry too, Verso. Just… differently.”
He drew a slow breath, trying to tell where her words ended and the challenge began.
“So… that boy…” he said quietly.
“Claude?” Alicia raised her eyebrow. “He’s sweet. But I’m afraid he misunderstood something.”
Verso tensed—just a little. Enough for her smile to turn almost tender.
“When we go downstairs,” she continued, her voice calm and sure, “I’ll tell him he isn't welcome here. That I’m…” Her gaze deepened. “…not available.”
She brushed her thumb along Verso’s lower lip slowly.
“Except to you.”
Only then did she add in a whisper:
“Well? Are you still planning to punish me more, or going to kiss me properly this time?”
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75660956
|
{"authors": ["Aymeline"], "language": "English", "title": "Mine to Claim"}
|
Hazbin Hotel: A Brighter Christmas
Vincent had done a few ludicrous things in his life.
He really didn't think dressing up as Santa Clause for the network was going to be one of them.
But, here he was.
Standing in his dressing room at the crack ass of dawn with a costume box on his chair. Pulling out a Santa suit with fake stuffing fat to make anyone wearing it look rounder. The fur was starting to yellow. The belt was tarnishing.
And the beard? Don't get him started. He had to tame the tangled mess himself with a cheap brush he got at the corner store. The cheap piece of fur shed like a husky with every pass he did. It was like his own personal hell.
He couldn't just back out now. No one else would be willing to put up with this.
The real reason he took the job was for the sac.
He had a rotting news anchor to dispose of. Nothing else he'd found really could fit Harold inside. But, he also couldn't drag the body out without any witnesses. That was a surefire way to get put behind bars.
He still had a career to expand and he wasn't letting that end today.
The closest dumpster was on the east side of the plot near his studio. All Vincent had to do was get Harold there. He could already picture the police finding the body. They couldn't connect shit, even if they had to save their lives.
Vincent started regretting how quickly he agreed. The suit was awful. The top half alone felt like it weighed 60 pounds. The hat smelt like it had been in a grandma's storage closet. He wouldn't be surprised if it was.
Cost effective his ass.
He would kill Barbara if she said ANYTHING about the costume. He didn't want to hear a single hehe out of her before they were on the air.
But, he swallowed his pride to be the network's Santa for a day.
He shoved Harold's body in the sac and headed off, trying to stay in the alleys.
All he had to do was get there without being caught-
"Oh my stars, SANTA?!"
That voice sounded too starstruck. Too... stupid.
Fuck, Vincent forgot about Alfie.
In all his planning, he'd forgotten the red-haired himbo was usually early to work just to prepare. Of all the coworkers he had, it just had to be the talk-show host. The guy who got locked out of his own studio 6 times in his first month on the air.
Thankfully, the walking gay flag still believed in Santa Claus at 30 and had the situational awareness of a turkey.
Vincent had to use that to the fullest extent. Like hell he was telling Alfie he wasn't Santa. The talk-show host had too much of a mouth for that. That would draw too many questions. He was telling if he found out. And who would the police believe more? The talk-show host with a large mass of fans or a news anchor?
Killing Alfie now would draw too much suspicion.
"Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas, little boy." Vincent pulled the best Santa impression he could manage. Not like Alfie would notice that it was his voice.
Alfie was just staring at him for a solid 30 seconds. Maybe he recognized someone for once in his life.
"Sa... San... Santa!" Thank God Alfie didn't gain any genius over night. The talk-show host was giddy, looking at him with stars in his eyes.
"Yes, I'm Santa." The words felt like hot coals on Vincent's tongue as he forced a jolly smile.
"Sa... San-"
"Alright, that's enough."
Alfie had stars in his eyes. "Wow, it's really you!" He looked like he'd just won a golden ticket, hugging Vincent like a child with a toy. This guy was practically radiating joy to the point it could be contagious.
"Wait, but where's your sleigh?" Shit, Alfie still had some amount of thought in there, he just doesn't use it.
"Well... Uh, I... loaned it to the... Easter bunny."
"That makes sense. Then, where's your reindeer?"
"Getting groomed back home. Can't have their coats dirty, especially before my ride. Right?" Vincent was praying for Alfie's questions to stop at this point.
"Oh, okay. That makes sense." Alfie finally bought it, hook line and sinker. "Then, Santa, tell me. Am I on the nice list this year?"
Vincent swallowed back the heavy 'the fuck you aren’t' he wanted to say. "Yes, you're on my nice list this year." How the hell did he get himself in this situation?...
Oh, right... He still had to dump Harold's body.
That was why he was here.
Even in death, the old man was still causing him problems.
Knowing Alfie, he probably found Vincent because of his shitty sense of direction. They had to share a studio, but Alfie had gotten 3 down from it. If Vincent got Alfie to the studio, that would get him off his back.
"Well, one of my elves have told me that you may be lost."
"Am I?" He can't be this fucking dense. Alfie looked around for a moment.
"Would you like some help finding your way?" As good as Vincent was at the moment, dumping the body would just cancel it out.
"Sure, that would be nice." That was probably the most coherent thing Alfie had said all morning.
○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○
"Thank you, Santa!"
Vincent watched as Alfie went inside with a wave. He'd mostly done it to make sure
|
Hazbin Hotel: A Brighter Christmas
Vincent had done a few ludicrous things in his life.
He really didn't think dressing up as Santa Clause for the network was going to be one of them.
But, here he was.
Standing in his dressing room at the crack ass of dawn with a costume box on his chair. Pulling out a Santa suit with fake stuffing fat to make anyone wearing it look rounder. The fur was starting to yellow. The belt was tarnishing.
And the beard? Don't get him started. He had to tame the tangled mess himself with a cheap brush he got at the corner store. The cheap piece of fur shed like a husky with every pass he did. It was like his own personal hell.
He couldn't just back out now. No one else would be willing to put up with this.
The real reason he took the job was for the sac.
He had a rotting news anchor to dispose of. Nothing else he'd found really could fit Harold inside. But, he also couldn't drag the body out without any witnesses. That was a surefire way to get put behind bars.
He still had a career to expand and he wasn't letting that end today.
The closest dumpster was on the east side of the plot near his studio. All Vincent had to do was get Harold there. He could already picture the police finding the body. They couldn't connect shit, even if they had to save their lives.
Vincent started regretting how quickly he agreed. The suit was awful. The top half alone felt like it weighed 60 pounds. The hat smelt like it had been in a grandma's storage closet. He wouldn't be surprised if it was.
Cost effective his ass.
He would kill Barbara if she said ANYTHING about the costume. He didn't want to hear a single hehe out of her before they were on the air.
But, he swallowed his pride to be the network's Santa for a day.
He shoved Harold's body in the sac and headed off, trying to stay in the alleys.
All he had to do was get there without being caught-
"Oh my stars, SANTA?!"
That voice sounded too starstruck. Too... stupid.
Fuck, Vincent forgot about Alfie.
In all his planning, he'd forgotten the red-haired himbo was usually early to work just to prepare. Of all the coworkers he had, it just had to be the talk-show host. The guy who got locked out of his own studio 6 times in his first month on the air.
Thankfully, the walking gay flag still believed in Santa Claus at 30 and had the situational awareness of a turkey.
Vincent had to use that to the fullest extent. Like hell he was telling Alfie he wasn't Santa. The talk-show host had too much of a mouth for that. That would draw too many questions. He was telling if he found out. And who would the police believe more? The talk-show host with a large mass of fans or a news anchor?
Killing Alfie now would draw too much suspicion.
"Ho ho ho. Merry Christmas, little boy." Vincent pulled the best Santa impression he could manage. Not like Alfie would notice that it was his voice.
Alfie was just staring at him for a solid 30 seconds. Maybe he recognized someone for once in his life.
"Sa... San... Santa!" Thank God Alfie didn't gain any genius over night. The talk-show host was giddy, looking at him with stars in his eyes.
"Yes, I'm Santa." The words felt like hot coals on Vincent's tongue as he forced a jolly smile.
"Sa... San-"
"Alright, that's enough."
Alfie had stars in his eyes. "Wow, it's really you!" He looked like he'd just won a golden ticket, hugging Vincent like a child with a toy. This guy was practically radiating joy to the point it could be contagious.
"Wait, but where's your sleigh?" Shit, Alfie still had some amount of thought in there, he just doesn't use it.
"Well... Uh, I... loaned it to the... Easter bunny."
"That makes sense. Then, where's your reindeer?"
"Getting groomed back home. Can't have their coats dirty, especially before my ride. Right?" Vincent was praying for Alfie's questions to stop at this point.
"Oh, okay. That makes sense." Alfie finally bought it, hook line and sinker. "Then, Santa, tell me. Am I on the nice list this year?"
Vincent swallowed back the heavy 'the fuck you aren’t' he wanted to say. "Yes, you're on my nice list this year." How the hell did he get himself in this situation?...
Oh, right... He still had to dump Harold's body.
That was why he was here.
Even in death, the old man was still causing him problems.
Knowing Alfie, he probably found Vincent because of his shitty sense of direction. They had to share a studio, but Alfie had gotten 3 down from it. If Vincent got Alfie to the studio, that would get him off his back.
"Well, one of my elves have told me that you may be lost."
"Am I?" He can't be this fucking dense. Alfie looked around for a moment.
"Would you like some help finding your way?" As good as Vincent was at the moment, dumping the body would just cancel it out.
"Sure, that would be nice." That was probably the most coherent thing Alfie had said all morning.
○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○
"Thank you, Santa!"
Vincent watched as Alfie went inside with a wave. He'd mostly done it to make sure he didn't have a witness nearby. Especially not Alfie.
He was definitely going to hear about this later, out of costume of course.
But that wasn't important. The body was.
In the mist of getting Alfie off his back, Vincent nearly forgot about the real reason he came.
He quietly crept to the side of the building, watching his back as he walked in the alleyway.
The dumpster was there, thankfully.
He opened the lid. The odor hit him like a baseball bat to the skull. Vile with a hint of rotten.
Without a second thought, he threw that sac on the ground, opening it up. The smell still stung at his eyes as he threw Harold's body in. That was where the bastard deserved to rest, in absolute filth.
The weight he'd been lugging around was finally off his back. All he had to do now was get as far away as possible.
○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○~~~○
Later did come.
Vincent could hear Alfie's footsteps approaching the second they were off the air. The amount of giddiness was a sign from a mile away.
It wasn't like Vincent could refuse to speak with Alfie. They were still coworkers. So, he had to listen to the whole story like he wasn't just there.
At least Barbara was there to do most of the talking. "So, you think that you saw... Santa?" She was genuinely looking at Alfie like he'd just told her that he'd found Krampus.
"Yep, I really did!"
"And he said... he loaned his sleigh... to the Easter bunny?"
"Yep, you should've seen 'em," Alfie started rambling on about how 'Santa' was.
Barbara genuinely looked puzzled. If Alfie was adamant about something, he probably wasn't lying about what he saw. After a minute, she connected the dots.
Barbara looked at Vincent for a moment, remembering that he was the one with the costume.
She had no clue how he could've gotten himself in that situation, and a believable one at that. All he gave her was a look of 'let him stay delusional' before she understood.
"That's so nice, Alfie." She'd just ask him when they were alone.
"And he promised that he'd have a present for me this year." Shit, he forgot about that.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75660961?view_full_work=true
|
{"authors": ["Ssquidicc"], "language": "English", "title": "Hazbin Hotel: A Brighter Christmas"}
|
can you heal me, my love?
The therapy clinic smelled faintly of eucalyptus and clean rubber mats—an odd combination Kaz Brekker had grown to tolerate over the past three weeks. He sat on the treatment bed, a stack of resistance bands coiled beside him like useless strings. His right leg was encased in a sleek black brace, the kind the therapist insisted would keep him from “doing something stupid.”
As if he had energy left for stupidity.
When the door to the PT gym swung open, Kaz barely glanced up. New patients came in every day—people limping, stiff, braced, taped. He assumed this was another.
Until the room suddenly shifted, like every piece in it leaned subtly toward the girl who’d just walked in.
She didn’t limp. She floated.
Dark hair pulled into a high braid, shoulders straight, wearing a simple T-shirt and track pants. Her left arm was wrapped in athletic tape, and she favored her right leg ever so slightly, but moved with that unmistakable precision of someone who lived inside their body like it was an instrument.
An athlete—clearly.
She offered a polite, tight smile to the front desk assistant. Something about her expression suggested she wasn’t used to needing help.
Kaz understood that intimately.
He turned away, trying not to stare, but the room offered no distractions—only overenthusiastic posters about joint mobility and an exercise ball wobbling in the corner, mocking him.
The therapist, Marianne, clapped her hands.
“Okay, team! Today we’ve got two new regimens happening on the south mat. Kaz, you’ll be working there—and so will our new arrival.” She turned to the girl. “Inej, this is Kaz. Kaz, meet Inej.”
Kaz gave a curt nod.
The girl—Inej—looked at him for exactly one second too long, as if evaluating and immediately understanding every weakness he tried to hide.
Not ideal.
She lowered herself onto the mat with practiced grace, then winced. Her hand drifted to the taped thigh.
Marianne handed her a set of resistance bands. “We’re going to start gentle today. Nothing wild.”
“I’m not afraid of wild,” Inej said softly.
Her voice caught Kaz off guard: low, warm, carrying a faint lilt he couldn’t place.
He turned back to his own exercise sheet. Leg lifts. More leg lifts. And after that, balance training. Again.
Fantastic.
Marianne moved off to help someone else, leaving them in an awkward silence. The kind where two people pretend they aren’t aware of each other but very much are.
Inej began her routine—ankle mobility, slow controlled extensions, a stretch that made her grip her knee tightly to steady herself.
Kaz should’ve stayed out of it.
He didn’t.
“You’re compensating,” he said before thinking. “Favoring the joint. You’ll throw your whole alignment off.”
She blinked, surprised—not offended, just surprised. “I know,” she said. “I’m trying not to.”
“Try harder,” he muttered.
The corner of her mouth quirked. “You sound like my coach.”
“I’ll take that as an insult.”
She laughed under her breath, a soft exhale like bells muted by distance.
They worked in parallel for some time. Kaz kept stealing glances, watching her posture, the determined set of her jaw, the way she paused between stretches with a hand pressed to her heart as though checking that all her pieces were still there.
Eventually, she asked, “You’re recovering from…?”
“A snapped tibia.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t my favorite Tuesday.”
“And you?” he asked.
“Fall from the balance beam during finals.” Her fingers absently touched a thin silver bracelet on her wrist—etched with tiny geometric patterns. Something traditional. Subtle. Beautiful. “I’ve been training for Paris qualifiers. Or I was.”
Kaz hated the sympathy that instinctively rose in him. “You’ll get back to it.”
She gave him a sideways look. “You say that like you know.”
“Well,” Kaz said, deadpan, “I’m currently the king of pointless optimism.”
She snorted. Actually snorted. “I didn’t think you were the optimistic type.”
“I’m not. But I hate watching people give up.”
She held his gaze a moment too long again. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not planning to.”
They continued their sets. Kaz steadied himself on the parallel bars for weight-bearing. Inej practiced balance drills nearby, her brows knit in frustration each time her leg trembled.
After her fourth wobble, she sagged down onto a bench.
“I used to be able to do handstands on moving horses,” she murmured. “Now look at me.”
“Horses?”
“Trick riding. Acrobatics. My parents taught me.” Her voice softened, nostalgia threaded through it. “My mother used to dab sandalwood paste on my wrists before competitions. Said it kept me steady.”
Kaz didn’t know what sandalwood smelled like, but the idea of it lingered pleasantly in his mind.
He didn’t say anything, but something in him shifted. A thread of connection tugged taut.
Inej watched him test his weight again. “Your form is good.”
“I know.”
“Your attitude is terrible.”
He tried to smother a smile. Failed.
Sessions passed with a kind of easy rhythm—banter, shared grimaces of pain, the
|
can you heal me, my love?
The therapy clinic smelled faintly of eucalyptus and clean rubber mats—an odd combination Kaz Brekker had grown to tolerate over the past three weeks. He sat on the treatment bed, a stack of resistance bands coiled beside him like useless strings. His right leg was encased in a sleek black brace, the kind the therapist insisted would keep him from “doing something stupid.”
As if he had energy left for stupidity.
When the door to the PT gym swung open, Kaz barely glanced up. New patients came in every day—people limping, stiff, braced, taped. He assumed this was another.
Until the room suddenly shifted, like every piece in it leaned subtly toward the girl who’d just walked in.
She didn’t limp. She floated.
Dark hair pulled into a high braid, shoulders straight, wearing a simple T-shirt and track pants. Her left arm was wrapped in athletic tape, and she favored her right leg ever so slightly, but moved with that unmistakable precision of someone who lived inside their body like it was an instrument.
An athlete—clearly.
She offered a polite, tight smile to the front desk assistant. Something about her expression suggested she wasn’t used to needing help.
Kaz understood that intimately.
He turned away, trying not to stare, but the room offered no distractions—only overenthusiastic posters about joint mobility and an exercise ball wobbling in the corner, mocking him.
The therapist, Marianne, clapped her hands.
“Okay, team! Today we’ve got two new regimens happening on the south mat. Kaz, you’ll be working there—and so will our new arrival.” She turned to the girl. “Inej, this is Kaz. Kaz, meet Inej.”
Kaz gave a curt nod.
The girl—Inej—looked at him for exactly one second too long, as if evaluating and immediately understanding every weakness he tried to hide.
Not ideal.
She lowered herself onto the mat with practiced grace, then winced. Her hand drifted to the taped thigh.
Marianne handed her a set of resistance bands. “We’re going to start gentle today. Nothing wild.”
“I’m not afraid of wild,” Inej said softly.
Her voice caught Kaz off guard: low, warm, carrying a faint lilt he couldn’t place.
He turned back to his own exercise sheet. Leg lifts. More leg lifts. And after that, balance training. Again.
Fantastic.
Marianne moved off to help someone else, leaving them in an awkward silence. The kind where two people pretend they aren’t aware of each other but very much are.
Inej began her routine—ankle mobility, slow controlled extensions, a stretch that made her grip her knee tightly to steady herself.
Kaz should’ve stayed out of it.
He didn’t.
“You’re compensating,” he said before thinking. “Favoring the joint. You’ll throw your whole alignment off.”
She blinked, surprised—not offended, just surprised. “I know,” she said. “I’m trying not to.”
“Try harder,” he muttered.
The corner of her mouth quirked. “You sound like my coach.”
“I’ll take that as an insult.”
She laughed under her breath, a soft exhale like bells muted by distance.
They worked in parallel for some time. Kaz kept stealing glances, watching her posture, the determined set of her jaw, the way she paused between stretches with a hand pressed to her heart as though checking that all her pieces were still there.
Eventually, she asked, “You’re recovering from…?”
“A snapped tibia.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t my favorite Tuesday.”
“And you?” he asked.
“Fall from the balance beam during finals.” Her fingers absently touched a thin silver bracelet on her wrist—etched with tiny geometric patterns. Something traditional. Subtle. Beautiful. “I’ve been training for Paris qualifiers. Or I was.”
Kaz hated the sympathy that instinctively rose in him. “You’ll get back to it.”
She gave him a sideways look. “You say that like you know.”
“Well,” Kaz said, deadpan, “I’m currently the king of pointless optimism.”
She snorted. Actually snorted. “I didn’t think you were the optimistic type.”
“I’m not. But I hate watching people give up.”
She held his gaze a moment too long again. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not planning to.”
They continued their sets. Kaz steadied himself on the parallel bars for weight-bearing. Inej practiced balance drills nearby, her brows knit in frustration each time her leg trembled.
After her fourth wobble, she sagged down onto a bench.
“I used to be able to do handstands on moving horses,” she murmured. “Now look at me.”
“Horses?”
“Trick riding. Acrobatics. My parents taught me.” Her voice softened, nostalgia threaded through it. “My mother used to dab sandalwood paste on my wrists before competitions. Said it kept me steady.”
Kaz didn’t know what sandalwood smelled like, but the idea of it lingered pleasantly in his mind.
He didn’t say anything, but something in him shifted. A thread of connection tugged taut.
Inej watched him test his weight again. “Your form is good.”
“I know.”
“Your attitude is terrible.”
He tried to smother a smile. Failed.
Sessions passed with a kind of easy rhythm—banter, shared grimaces of pain, the occasional challenge thrown across the mat.
One afternoon, as Kaz practiced walking without the brace, he stumbled—just slightly. Enough that the world tilted and he felt that bolt of helpless anger.
Before he could curse, a hand touched his wrist.
Light. Steady.
He looked up. Inej stood close enough he could smell something faint on her skin—warm, sweet, woody.
Sandalwood.
“Don’t rush,” she said quietly. “You’re stronger than you think. But you can’t cheat the small steps.”
He stared at her, throat tight.
“You’re one to talk.”
“I’m learning too,” she admitted. “But… maybe we don’t have to learn alone.”
For a moment, the clinic faded away—the beeping machines, the clatter of equipment, Marianne lecturing someone about posture. All of it blurred.
Kaz swallowed. “Inej?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Her smile, small and bright, settled somewhere deep inside him.
They finished their session side by side. Matching pace. Matching breath.
And by the time they left the clinic—walking into the cool afternoon air—Kaz had the strange, unfamiliar certainty that something had begun.
The next week, Kaz arrived to physical therapy early. This was unusual. He had never been early to anything in his entire life unless money or survival was involved. But he found himself on the south mat ten minutes before his scheduled time, stretching carefully, pretending he wasn’t waiting.
When the door opened and Inej walked in—hair damp from a morning shower, hoodie zipped up to her chin, gym bag slung across her shoulder—he told himself that he wasn’t relieved.
He failed at lying to himself almost instantly.
“Early today?” she asked, dropping her bag beside him.
“I like beating the crowd,” he said.
“There is no crowd. It’s Tuesday at 9 a.m.”
Kaz grunted, which only made her smile wider.
They began their warm-up side by side. Whenever she reached forward in a hamstring stretch, her braid slipped over her shoulder like a length of dark silk. Whenever he shifted his weight, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye—measuring his discomfort, his stubbornness, maybe both.
“Let’s start with some assisted work,” Marianne called as she approached. “Partners today.”
Kaz stiffened. Marianne smiled like she knew.
“Inej, help stabilize Kaz’s gait for the walking drill. Light support on the forearm. No more.”
Inej nodded easily.
Kaz did not nod. He stared at his therapist like she’d committed treason.
“Come on,” Inej said gently. “It’s not so bad.”
It was terrible.
Not because he needed help—he did, and he hated that. But because when Inej moved to his side and placed her hand lightly on his forearm, his entire nervous system reacted like someone had flipped a switch. Her fingers were warm, steady, grounding.
He took a breath. Then another.
“Ready?” she asked.
“No.”
She laughed. “Too bad.”
They walked the length of the mat. Kaz concentrated on each step, but every time he faltered—even slightly—Inej braced him with the smallest pressure of her fingers.
“You’re getting better,” she murmured as they turned. “Your stride is longer.”
“It still feels wrong.”
“It will. Until it doesn’t.”
He looked at her then—really looked. She was close enough for him to see the faint shimmer of sandalwood oil on the inside of her wrist where the bracelet moved, close enough to hear the soft rush of her breath.
She didn’t look away.
Something tightened in his chest.
When they finished the drill, Marianne dismissed them to self-guided exercises. Inej stepped away first, giving him space he hadn’t asked for but appreciated more than he could say.
They worked in parallel again, but the air between them hummed. Kaz didn’t know how to describe it except that he was aware of her like a new muscle—one he hadn’t used before but now couldn’t forget.
After a while, Inej shifted into a standing balance exercise, one foot resting lightly against her calf. Her posture shook with the tiniest tremor.
Kaz watched her struggle to steady herself.
“You can adjust your focal point,” he said. “Pick something that doesn’t move.”
She opened one eye. “Are you offering unsolicited advice again?”
“It’s my best quality.”
She laughed, but she did as he suggested—fixing her gaze on the far wall, on the black line where the mat met the mirror. Slowly the trembling eased.
“You’re a good teacher,” she said.
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
He almost told her the truth then—that teaching was easy because she listened. Because she tried. Because she didn’t flinch when she saw him struggle.
But the words stuck in his throat, so he settled for watching her finish her reps with newfound steadiness.
When their session ended, Kaz slung his bag over his shoulder and headed toward the exit. Inej caught up with him in three quick steps.
“You’re leaving?”
“Walking home.”
She looked at him with something cautious behind her eyes. “Can I walk with you?”
He froze.
He should say no. Not because he didn’t want her to—but because wanting anything felt dangerous, like leaning too far over a drop.
But Inej waited without pushing. Without expectation.
“Fine,” he said. “If you can keep up.”
Her smile was small and victorious.
Outside, the air was cool, the kind that hinted at rain later in the day. They fell into step easily—her stride smooth despite her injury, his still awkward but improving.
After two blocks, she asked quietly, “Does it hurt much today?”
“Some,” he admitted.
“Mine too.”
They walked a little further before she added, “I used to believe pain was something you pushed through. That if you ignored it, it would go away.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m learning that now.”
A silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but weighty. Future-shaped.
Then she reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped bundle.
“This is for you,” she said.
Kaz blinked. “Why?”
“It helps with inflammation.” She unwrapped the square to reveal a small blend of spices—turmeric, ginger, black pepper, all mixed in a soft golden powder. “My mother used to give me this after training. You add it to warm milk or water.”
Kaz stared. It was such a simple thing. Small. Unassuming. But it carried weight—the kind that pressed into his ribs, startling and soft.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.” She placed it carefully in his palm. “But I wanted to.”
He swallowed. “Thank you.”
She nodded, but her eyes were searching his face—looking for things he didn’t know how to say.
They reached the corner where their paths diverged. Inej paused, her braid brushing her shoulder.
“See you Thursday?” she asked.
Kaz hesitated. Then—quietly, honestly—“Yes.”
Her smile lit up her whole face. “Good.”
She walked away, light on her feet despite everything. Kaz watched her until she turned the corner, a faint sandalwood-warm scent lingering in the air.
He tightened his grip around the small packet of spices and continued home with a strange new ache beneath his ribs.
Not pain.
Something infinitely more dangerous.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75662476/chapters/197877301
|
{"authors": [], "language": "English", "title": "can you heal me, my love?"}
|
A Weekend to Remember
You rummaged through your storage boxes, judging each item that you came across by utility.
“Maaaaa” Andy whined. “It’s jus’ a weekend! Do I really need all this stuff?” He looked at you with pleading eyes.
It was Thursday, and the kids were set to leave for the school trip the next day. You glanced up from your rummaging and gave him an affirmative look. Nodding determinedly, you stated, “can’t be too prepared.”
“Paaaa!” Andy called out.
Logan tromped up the stairs. “Now what’s all this ruckus goin’ on up here?” An amused grin grew on his face as he saw the mess scattered around you and Andy pouting at the border to the mess.
“Ma’s tryin’ to make me bring the whole house to Portia!”
Chuckling, Logan addressed you. “Dear, it’s jus' a weekend trip to Portia with the school. I think he’ll be fine with the clothes on his back and the essentials. I don’t usually take much goin’ monster huntin’ an' I fare alright." He took a few steps closer to you before continuing, "and y'know Andy’s been with me on some a' those”
Sighing, you pushed away from the storage box defeatedly and sighed, "fine."
“Thanks Pa!” Andy jumped and clicked his heels in victory before grabbing the backpack that he had originally packed. His excitement roused Nemo, who had been sleepily observing the hullabaloo from a safe distance. Bag in hand, Andy ran down the stairs to place his now approved packed back by the front door and was followed by Nemo, who mimicked his excitement.
“Don’t forgot yer Ma did all this cuz she loves ya and cares about ya!” Logan shouted as Andy raced off.
“Thanks Ma! Love ya’ too!” Andy shouted from the first floor.
Another sigh escaped your lips as you stood up. You closed your eyes and crossed your arms while shaking your head in amusement. Tiptoeing around the mess, Logan came to stand in front of you and placed his arms on your shoulders. You looked up to be treated to his handsome smile. “I can see that smile on yer lips,” he said as if his smile wasn't contagious. “Ya’ really stepped up into being such a good Ma to Andy, and I can’t thank ya’ enough.”
At hearing that, you peered up at him and pulled his face down to give him a peck on the lips. Your eyes glinted with affection as you said quietly, "I love and care for my family. I want to make sure you’re both taken care of”
“Aw darlin’ you dun needa worry too much. We’re both big boys, and we can take care ‘a ourselves, most the time,” Logan replied as his hands rested on your waist. He pulled you closer to him. “You, my darlin', gotta take more care of yerself or else how’re ya gonna take care of us? Even better would be to jus’ let us take care of you more”. You couldn’t putting a hand on his cheek to cradle his face. In response, he turned his face slightly and kissed your palm. He bent down and touched his lips to your ear. I a gravely voice, he growled “like this weekend — I plan on takin real good care of you.”
A shiver shot straight from your ear downwards, making you clench your thighs together.
Before you had a chance to ask for clarification, he stood back up and looked at you so affectionately that you almost thought you had imagined what he had just said. “So fer now, conserve yer energy.” A devious glint sparkled briefly in his eyes before announcing loud enough to carry through the house, “so why don’t we head on over to the Blue Moon for dinner so yer Ma ain’t gotta cook tonight.”
“Yahoo!” exclaimed Andy from the first floor. “Heck yea! C’mon Nemo, race ya there!” You heard a distant bark before the door was thrown open, and two small figures could be seen racing away.
“Hey!” Logan turned and exclaimed, but the targets of his scolding were long gone. You rolled your eyes in amusement, smile still hanging on your lips. Logan turned back to you and extended out his hand. “Shall we join them, my love?”
You took his hand and walked together to the Blue Moon Saloon.
|
A Weekend to Remember
You rummaged through your storage boxes, judging each item that you came across by utility.
“Maaaaa” Andy whined. “It’s jus’ a weekend! Do I really need all this stuff?” He looked at you with pleading eyes.
It was Thursday, and the kids were set to leave for the school trip the next day. You glanced up from your rummaging and gave him an affirmative look. Nodding determinedly, you stated, “can’t be too prepared.”
“Paaaa!” Andy called out.
Logan tromped up the stairs. “Now what’s all this ruckus goin’ on up here?” An amused grin grew on his face as he saw the mess scattered around you and Andy pouting at the border to the mess.
“Ma’s tryin’ to make me bring the whole house to Portia!”
Chuckling, Logan addressed you. “Dear, it’s jus' a weekend trip to Portia with the school. I think he’ll be fine with the clothes on his back and the essentials. I don’t usually take much goin’ monster huntin’ an' I fare alright." He took a few steps closer to you before continuing, "and y'know Andy’s been with me on some a' those”
Sighing, you pushed away from the storage box defeatedly and sighed, "fine."
“Thanks Pa!” Andy jumped and clicked his heels in victory before grabbing the backpack that he had originally packed. His excitement roused Nemo, who had been sleepily observing the hullabaloo from a safe distance. Bag in hand, Andy ran down the stairs to place his now approved packed back by the front door and was followed by Nemo, who mimicked his excitement.
“Don’t forgot yer Ma did all this cuz she loves ya and cares about ya!” Logan shouted as Andy raced off.
“Thanks Ma! Love ya’ too!” Andy shouted from the first floor.
Another sigh escaped your lips as you stood up. You closed your eyes and crossed your arms while shaking your head in amusement. Tiptoeing around the mess, Logan came to stand in front of you and placed his arms on your shoulders. You looked up to be treated to his handsome smile. “I can see that smile on yer lips,” he said as if his smile wasn't contagious. “Ya’ really stepped up into being such a good Ma to Andy, and I can’t thank ya’ enough.”
At hearing that, you peered up at him and pulled his face down to give him a peck on the lips. Your eyes glinted with affection as you said quietly, "I love and care for my family. I want to make sure you’re both taken care of”
“Aw darlin’ you dun needa worry too much. We’re both big boys, and we can take care ‘a ourselves, most the time,” Logan replied as his hands rested on your waist. He pulled you closer to him. “You, my darlin', gotta take more care of yerself or else how’re ya gonna take care of us? Even better would be to jus’ let us take care of you more”. You couldn’t putting a hand on his cheek to cradle his face. In response, he turned his face slightly and kissed your palm. He bent down and touched his lips to your ear. I a gravely voice, he growled “like this weekend — I plan on takin real good care of you.”
A shiver shot straight from your ear downwards, making you clench your thighs together.
Before you had a chance to ask for clarification, he stood back up and looked at you so affectionately that you almost thought you had imagined what he had just said. “So fer now, conserve yer energy.” A devious glint sparkled briefly in his eyes before announcing loud enough to carry through the house, “so why don’t we head on over to the Blue Moon for dinner so yer Ma ain’t gotta cook tonight.”
“Yahoo!” exclaimed Andy from the first floor. “Heck yea! C’mon Nemo, race ya there!” You heard a distant bark before the door was thrown open, and two small figures could be seen racing away.
“Hey!” Logan turned and exclaimed, but the targets of his scolding were long gone. You rolled your eyes in amusement, smile still hanging on your lips. Logan turned back to you and extended out his hand. “Shall we join them, my love?”
You took his hand and walked together to the Blue Moon Saloon.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75662501/chapters/197877431
|
{"authors": ["low_eggspectations"], "language": "English", "title": "A Weekend to Remember"}
|
The Meeting Through Opium
Louis James Moriarty watched as the heavily intoxicated man he came here to bring him home sat down in the carriage, almost falling over on the seat. There will be no more problem with him on his way home, Louis noted in his mind - he was too drugged for that. He told the man's address to the driver and stared after the carriage as it rolled over on the street.
The mission was accomplished.
This case was unlike any other that his brother, William and their group needed to face. It had nothing to do with uncovering the nobles' evil deeds - what they usually did - and they didn't even need to murder anyone. They were visited by one of their acquaintances, a noblewoman called Lady Norfolk - they sometimes talked with her and her husband at social gatherings - she was the one who asked for their help. Not as the Lord of Crime, but as her husband's friend - to find him and bring him home as soon as they can. The young Lord Norfolk unfortunately became the addict of opium and disappeared for days. Louis offered that he will find him, so William can continue working on the more important cases. Louis happily took up the servant role in the household, but he was also excellent when he needed to follow clues which led him to this opium cave. He successfully rescued Lord Norfolk and sent him back to his worried wife. As the job was done, Louis should have gone home as well, but something dragged him back to the opium cave. What he saw inside, those living human corpses who were not even at their senses anymore, just vegetated, infuriated him. He was sure that if William learns about this place, he will agree that this can't keep going, that those poor people can't be robbed of their lives that way - so Louis wanted to find more information regarding the opium cave so they could take action faster. He turned around and walked inside again, silencing the owner with a threatening gaze. His eyes wandered among the victims of the drug - then a moment later, Louis froze from the shock.
He spotted a very familiar figure lying among the others, in dirty and shattered clothes. The blue eyes were soullessly staring to the void. Louis' stomach knotted up from the sight. He was often annoyed by Sherlock Holmes, but for some reason, it hurt him to see him in this state.
"I shouldn't be so surprised seeing you here." He noted bitterly and bowed down to Sherlock. The detective faintly glanced at him and something sparkled up in his gaze as he recognized him. A smile appeared on his face. He leaned closer to Louis.
"Yo, Louis." He greeted him and grabbing Louis' hand, he drew him to himself. "Don't say my name out loud. I am here because of a case and I must keep my incognito." He whispered. Louis rolled his eyes. He didn't believe what Sherlock said, not even for a second. He knew it well how much he liked drugs, this was one of the reasons why he tried to keep him away from William. There were other reasons for it, but Louis didn't want to admit some of them.
"Don't lie to me, I can see right through you. You are just an addict." He hissed and took his hand out of Sherlock's fingers because the grip started to feel irritatingly comfortable. "Whatever, you are coming with me now." He stated and stood up. "We need to leave this place. I am about to vomit from the horrible smoke."
"I don't want to leave." Sherlock declined and crossed his arms. "See, I am following a clue. I can't..."
"I have enough of this." Louis cut into Sherlock's speech and grabbed his arms, forcing him to his feet. "It is not worth fighting, I am way stronger than you in this state." He told Sherlock sharply and held him tight, not letting him escape. "I will get a carriage and bring you home."
"You take everything too seriously and understand nothing from my job." Sherlock complained, but in the end, he let Louis lead him out of the opium cave without making a racket. Louis was grateful for this. He didn't want to get in conflict with the owner - not yet, at least.
It was not easy to get a carriage with Sherlock on his side who didn't look like a trustable customer, but finally, Louis was able to pay enough to one of the drivers to bring them to the Baker Street. They were not talking for a while - Louis already had too much from Sherlock for a lifetime. He was also ashamed of the fact that his heart was actually aching from seeing the detective so low. What Sherlock even matters to him? He would be better off dead - or at least, out of their lives. His presence just complicated everything, especially his soul. Louis clenched his fist and turned his head away from the detective. That was when Sherlock spoke.
"So, what were you doing there, Louis?"
"It has nothing to do with you." Louis answered in an annoyed voice.
"Have you taken an interest in drugs?" Sherlock asked cheerfully.
"Of course not. I am not like you." Louis grunted and felt as the anger flooded him. "And you should really quit drugs. It is heavily unhealthy. Just take
|
The Meeting Through Opium
Louis James Moriarty watched as the heavily intoxicated man he came here to bring him home sat down in the carriage, almost falling over on the seat. There will be no more problem with him on his way home, Louis noted in his mind - he was too drugged for that. He told the man's address to the driver and stared after the carriage as it rolled over on the street.
The mission was accomplished.
This case was unlike any other that his brother, William and their group needed to face. It had nothing to do with uncovering the nobles' evil deeds - what they usually did - and they didn't even need to murder anyone. They were visited by one of their acquaintances, a noblewoman called Lady Norfolk - they sometimes talked with her and her husband at social gatherings - she was the one who asked for their help. Not as the Lord of Crime, but as her husband's friend - to find him and bring him home as soon as they can. The young Lord Norfolk unfortunately became the addict of opium and disappeared for days. Louis offered that he will find him, so William can continue working on the more important cases. Louis happily took up the servant role in the household, but he was also excellent when he needed to follow clues which led him to this opium cave. He successfully rescued Lord Norfolk and sent him back to his worried wife. As the job was done, Louis should have gone home as well, but something dragged him back to the opium cave. What he saw inside, those living human corpses who were not even at their senses anymore, just vegetated, infuriated him. He was sure that if William learns about this place, he will agree that this can't keep going, that those poor people can't be robbed of their lives that way - so Louis wanted to find more information regarding the opium cave so they could take action faster. He turned around and walked inside again, silencing the owner with a threatening gaze. His eyes wandered among the victims of the drug - then a moment later, Louis froze from the shock.
He spotted a very familiar figure lying among the others, in dirty and shattered clothes. The blue eyes were soullessly staring to the void. Louis' stomach knotted up from the sight. He was often annoyed by Sherlock Holmes, but for some reason, it hurt him to see him in this state.
"I shouldn't be so surprised seeing you here." He noted bitterly and bowed down to Sherlock. The detective faintly glanced at him and something sparkled up in his gaze as he recognized him. A smile appeared on his face. He leaned closer to Louis.
"Yo, Louis." He greeted him and grabbing Louis' hand, he drew him to himself. "Don't say my name out loud. I am here because of a case and I must keep my incognito." He whispered. Louis rolled his eyes. He didn't believe what Sherlock said, not even for a second. He knew it well how much he liked drugs, this was one of the reasons why he tried to keep him away from William. There were other reasons for it, but Louis didn't want to admit some of them.
"Don't lie to me, I can see right through you. You are just an addict." He hissed and took his hand out of Sherlock's fingers because the grip started to feel irritatingly comfortable. "Whatever, you are coming with me now." He stated and stood up. "We need to leave this place. I am about to vomit from the horrible smoke."
"I don't want to leave." Sherlock declined and crossed his arms. "See, I am following a clue. I can't..."
"I have enough of this." Louis cut into Sherlock's speech and grabbed his arms, forcing him to his feet. "It is not worth fighting, I am way stronger than you in this state." He told Sherlock sharply and held him tight, not letting him escape. "I will get a carriage and bring you home."
"You take everything too seriously and understand nothing from my job." Sherlock complained, but in the end, he let Louis lead him out of the opium cave without making a racket. Louis was grateful for this. He didn't want to get in conflict with the owner - not yet, at least.
It was not easy to get a carriage with Sherlock on his side who didn't look like a trustable customer, but finally, Louis was able to pay enough to one of the drivers to bring them to the Baker Street. They were not talking for a while - Louis already had too much from Sherlock for a lifetime. He was also ashamed of the fact that his heart was actually aching from seeing the detective so low. What Sherlock even matters to him? He would be better off dead - or at least, out of their lives. His presence just complicated everything, especially his soul. Louis clenched his fist and turned his head away from the detective. That was when Sherlock spoke.
"So, what were you doing there, Louis?"
"It has nothing to do with you." Louis answered in an annoyed voice.
"Have you taken an interest in drugs?" Sherlock asked cheerfully.
"Of course not. I am not like you." Louis grunted and felt as the anger flooded him. "And you should really quit drugs. It is heavily unhealthy. Just take more cases if you are bored." He scolded Sherlock, finally turning back to him. He saw that Sherlock was smiling and he wanted to erase that stupid smile from his face with a punch if it was needed, but he was able to control himself at the last moment.
"It was for a case." Sherlock repeated his lame excuse and his irritating smile became wider. "But thanks for worrying for me."
"I am not worrying for you!" Louis lashed out furiously.
"Well, what you say shows otherwise." Sherlock grinned and he seemed to be amused by Louis' angry expression. "You care for me."
"Continue this and I will stab you just to prove you wrong!" Louis glared at the detective who just shrugged his shoulders.
"You are changing your plans just to bring me home. You clearly had a reason why you came back to the opium cave again after you dealt with the drugged lord. But you forgot about your original intention and you are here with me, making sure that I reach the Baker Street safely. You haven't done this for the other guy." He summarized what Louis didn't like to hear. "Think about what this means, Louis. And if you realize, visit me." Sherlock winked at him provocatively.
"This doesn't mean anything." Louis grinded his teeth while he knew well that Sherlock was right. He still didn't want to accept it. He didn't want to care about the other man whom he wished to think of as his enemy.
"I feel dizzy. Can I lie down on your lap?" He heard Sherlock's voice again and Louis felt that the question made his cheeks turn red. He hoped that the detective wouldn't notice it and wouldn't start to speculate about the meanings again.
"Stay where you are or I will really kill you." He murmured threateningly and closed his eyes, wishing for the ride to be over soon. He didn't want to bear Sherlock's company longer than it was necessary.
He tried to forget that it was indeed not necessary to bring him home.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75658421
|
{"authors": ["Miwhotep"], "language": "English", "title": "The Meeting Through Opium"}
|
Smoke Break
Philippe approaches Lebanne and Jacinthe slowly as if they're a pair of particularly aggressive alpha Pokémon. Jacinthe ignores him, deep in conversation with another SBC member blathering on about something or other about this fancy hotel she's trapped them in. So he addresses her maid instead, "Are you sure I can’t step just for a few minutes? I just need a smoke break real quick. I promise I'll come back right after." He takes the pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket for emphasis.
Lebanne makes a noise, a sucking in of breath through her teeth, her eyes sliding briefly over to Jacinthe. She looks back at Philippe, and he gets the distinct impression that she finds this whole tournament turned hostage situation just as deeply irritating as he (and more importantly Corbeau) does.
Lebanne looks as if she doesn't give two shits about whether or not he goes out for a smoke break or not. But she can't very well break from Lady Jacinthe's orders now, can she? Before she can say something to that effect in a Jacinthe approved way, the woman herself says, "Mais non!" She smiles at Philippe, but the glint in her eyes is decidedly unfriendly, "No one may leave until Le Super-Tournoi de Jacinthe has reached its glorious conclusion!"
Lebanne gives him the tiniest of shrugs and Philippe huffs out a breath. Yeah. Figures. "Do you mind if I smoke in here then?"
Jacinthe eyes narrow just little bit, and Philippe worries he may he may have pushed too hard. But what can he do? A man needs his smoke breaks. And if she won't let him do it outside. Well. He doesn't technically need her permission, but best to be polite and all that.
The moment passes and Jacinthe's smile brightens back to max, "D'accord!" She says, clapping her hands together, "We want all participants of Le Super-Tournoi de Jacinthe to be as comfortable as possible before we get started! Which should be quite soon! Our dear Team MZ seems to have only one Rogue Alpha left!"
Oh. So that's why it's taking so long. Why the SBC couldn't have simply moved this ridiculous tournament to another day, Philippe will never know. Harmony is quite the capable trainer, so this interminable wait might be over soon. He hopes.
Jacinthe turns to Lebanne, "Would you please fetch M. Philippe an ashtray from the lobby?" And then very pointedly, in the same soft voice, "And ensure the filtration system is turned to max?" Heh. Well that's the price she has to pay for not letting leave for a few minutes. "Once you've finished those tasks, Lebanne, please head over to Hotel Z to escort Harmony and Urbain to our humble little tournament."
Lebanne bows deeply, "As you wish, Mistress Jacinthe." And briskly walks out of the Jacinthe Zone.
Philippe might feel sorry for her, but this whole trapped until the tournament starts thing had left him quite light on pity. With the matter closed, Jacinthe turns back to the other SBC member to resume their conversation on...whatever it is these snooty rich people talk about.
He makes his way back over to Corbeau, who's been glaring daggers in Jacinthe's direction this whole time (which she had ignored entirely). His fingers drum an inpatient rhythm on his cheek and, without taking his eyes off their host, asks, "Well?"
Philippe shakes his head, "It's a no-go, Boss."
"Unsurprising." Corbeau huffs, "And I'm sure the balcony's off limits, too. In case you've gotten a taste for parkour like a certain member of Team MZ."
Philippe can't help but smile, "But she sent Lebanne to get an ashtray from the lobby."
"How generous of the princess." Corbeau snorts, the corners of his lips curl up just a hint, "Nothing but the best for her hosta—I mean guests."
Philippe huffs out a little laugh. Good. Corbeau doesn't look quite as ready to stab someone anymore. The boss really has mastered the art of the resting bitch face, but Philippe knows it's mostly just for show. Corbeau's just worried about the work piling up in their absence and what kind of chaos the grunts could get up to if left to their own devices for too long. Philippe is too, to be fair. Hopefully Kazuma and Akira have level enough heads to keep the Rust Syndicate building from collapsing at the very least.
Just then, Lebanne returns and sets down an ashtray with a little more force than is strictly necessary. Philippe holds in his desire to sigh, while Corbeau rolls his eyes, "Yes, yes," he waves her off, "consider Princess Jacinthe's message heard. Smoking is a nasty habit, we know. Don't you have more productive things you could be doing than lecturing Philippe here?"
Lebanne cannot suppress the small chuckle that escapes her lips before she remembers herself, glancing over at Jacinthe to make sure her slip-up hadn't been caught. She gives the pair one last stern look on Jacinthe's behalf before turning heel and leaving through the Jacinthe Zone again.
Free to finally take his smoke break, Philippe pulls out a pack and a lighter from an inner pocket in his suit jacket. He taps a
|
Smoke Break
Philippe approaches Lebanne and Jacinthe slowly as if they're a pair of particularly aggressive alpha Pokémon. Jacinthe ignores him, deep in conversation with another SBC member blathering on about something or other about this fancy hotel she's trapped them in. So he addresses her maid instead, "Are you sure I can’t step just for a few minutes? I just need a smoke break real quick. I promise I'll come back right after." He takes the pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket for emphasis.
Lebanne makes a noise, a sucking in of breath through her teeth, her eyes sliding briefly over to Jacinthe. She looks back at Philippe, and he gets the distinct impression that she finds this whole tournament turned hostage situation just as deeply irritating as he (and more importantly Corbeau) does.
Lebanne looks as if she doesn't give two shits about whether or not he goes out for a smoke break or not. But she can't very well break from Lady Jacinthe's orders now, can she? Before she can say something to that effect in a Jacinthe approved way, the woman herself says, "Mais non!" She smiles at Philippe, but the glint in her eyes is decidedly unfriendly, "No one may leave until Le Super-Tournoi de Jacinthe has reached its glorious conclusion!"
Lebanne gives him the tiniest of shrugs and Philippe huffs out a breath. Yeah. Figures. "Do you mind if I smoke in here then?"
Jacinthe eyes narrow just little bit, and Philippe worries he may he may have pushed too hard. But what can he do? A man needs his smoke breaks. And if she won't let him do it outside. Well. He doesn't technically need her permission, but best to be polite and all that.
The moment passes and Jacinthe's smile brightens back to max, "D'accord!" She says, clapping her hands together, "We want all participants of Le Super-Tournoi de Jacinthe to be as comfortable as possible before we get started! Which should be quite soon! Our dear Team MZ seems to have only one Rogue Alpha left!"
Oh. So that's why it's taking so long. Why the SBC couldn't have simply moved this ridiculous tournament to another day, Philippe will never know. Harmony is quite the capable trainer, so this interminable wait might be over soon. He hopes.
Jacinthe turns to Lebanne, "Would you please fetch M. Philippe an ashtray from the lobby?" And then very pointedly, in the same soft voice, "And ensure the filtration system is turned to max?" Heh. Well that's the price she has to pay for not letting leave for a few minutes. "Once you've finished those tasks, Lebanne, please head over to Hotel Z to escort Harmony and Urbain to our humble little tournament."
Lebanne bows deeply, "As you wish, Mistress Jacinthe." And briskly walks out of the Jacinthe Zone.
Philippe might feel sorry for her, but this whole trapped until the tournament starts thing had left him quite light on pity. With the matter closed, Jacinthe turns back to the other SBC member to resume their conversation on...whatever it is these snooty rich people talk about.
He makes his way back over to Corbeau, who's been glaring daggers in Jacinthe's direction this whole time (which she had ignored entirely). His fingers drum an inpatient rhythm on his cheek and, without taking his eyes off their host, asks, "Well?"
Philippe shakes his head, "It's a no-go, Boss."
"Unsurprising." Corbeau huffs, "And I'm sure the balcony's off limits, too. In case you've gotten a taste for parkour like a certain member of Team MZ."
Philippe can't help but smile, "But she sent Lebanne to get an ashtray from the lobby."
"How generous of the princess." Corbeau snorts, the corners of his lips curl up just a hint, "Nothing but the best for her hosta—I mean guests."
Philippe huffs out a little laugh. Good. Corbeau doesn't look quite as ready to stab someone anymore. The boss really has mastered the art of the resting bitch face, but Philippe knows it's mostly just for show. Corbeau's just worried about the work piling up in their absence and what kind of chaos the grunts could get up to if left to their own devices for too long. Philippe is too, to be fair. Hopefully Kazuma and Akira have level enough heads to keep the Rust Syndicate building from collapsing at the very least.
Just then, Lebanne returns and sets down an ashtray with a little more force than is strictly necessary. Philippe holds in his desire to sigh, while Corbeau rolls his eyes, "Yes, yes," he waves her off, "consider Princess Jacinthe's message heard. Smoking is a nasty habit, we know. Don't you have more productive things you could be doing than lecturing Philippe here?"
Lebanne cannot suppress the small chuckle that escapes her lips before she remembers herself, glancing over at Jacinthe to make sure her slip-up hadn't been caught. She gives the pair one last stern look on Jacinthe's behalf before turning heel and leaving through the Jacinthe Zone again.
Free to finally take his smoke break, Philippe pulls out a pack and a lighter from an inner pocket in his suit jacket. He taps a cigarette out from the carton, but before he can light it an outstretched hand appears in his vision.
Corbeau, who's gone back to giving Jacinthe his best Arbok impression, wiggles his fingers expectantly in Philippe's direction. "Oh?" Philippe says, lightning his cigarette, "I thought you were trying to cut back, boss."
Corbeau's gaze switches over to Philippe for just a moment, yellow eyes flashing as a warning that he's not to be crossed right now, and Philippe barely suppresses the shiver that runs up his spine, "Extenuating circumstances." Corbeau says simply.
Philippe hums in agreement before placing the whole pack in Corbeau's waiting palm. He quickly taps out his own cigarette and turns expectantly towards Philippe to light it. He does so, trying desperately to think only of his beloved Skarmory.
Corbeau goes through the pack faster than usual, a testament to how all this hanging around grates on his nerves. Philippe is a little worried they'll run out before the tournament starts. Unprepared fool that he is, he didn't think to bring more than one pack. Please hurry, Harmony...
The first to make any sort of complaint is Ivor. He attempts several noises that might be coughs before announcing loudly, "Come, Gwynn! Let's go to the other side, away from these Rust Syndicate hooligans and their unjust habits!"
Gwynn stares at her brother for a long while, radiating annoyance at being addressed so loudly. She huffs and turns her nose up at him, leaving Ivor to slink off to the other end of the room dejectedly all by himself.
A little while later, Canari pulls down her mask down briefly, sniffs the air, and pulls a face. She begins making exaggerated gagging noises, stage whispering, "Let's bounce, G-Volt!" Gwynn says something in quiet agreement. The pair then give Corbeau and Philippe some of the dirtiest looks Philippe has ever seen and march to the other side of the room.
That just leaves Tarragon who seems unbothered. When Corbeau, generous man that he is, attempts to offer one to him, Tarragon waves him off, "I'm good!" He says with a loud chuckle. He then nods over towards Canari, "The little miss would kill me if I started up again. Gotta keep up my image, or I won't be allowed at the meetups."
Corbeau shrugs, "Suit yourself." And he motions for Philippe to light his next cigarette.
Philippe has only been half paying attention to these interactions, too busy trying not to fixate on how the smoke curls gently around Corbeau's fingers, the way it wreaths his head on the exhale. How the light haze of cigarette smoke left in the air accentuates the boss' already sleek features, bringing out yellow of Corbeau's eyes making him seem like a predator lurking just out of sight. His mouth feels suddenly dry, and Philippe tries to swallow the feeling down. He looks instead at one of the fancy chandeliers on the ceiling, hoping the little sparkles of light will serve as enough of a distraction.
Now is not the time. He's supposed to be like Skarmory! Sturdy, steady, stalwart. Above such things like pining. Above trying to excuse his obvious staring as making sure the boss is content enough, given the situation. Above fixating on the way the cigarette dangles from the boss' lips. Above wondering what else those lips would look good stretched around.
Oh. Philippe blinks. He's staring again, isn't he? Has the room always been this hot? He attempts to subtly loosen his tie a little in the vain hope it will help him cool off. It does not.
He must have made some sort of sound because Corbeau glances at him, eyebrow raised. "Is something wrong?" Corbeau says, a corner of his mouth lifts slightly, amused.
Philippe swallows again, he feels a bead of sweat roll down the back of his head. There's not a lot he can say in this room full of people that won't inconvenience the boss in some way. And he won't do that. No matter how tempted his is to just pluck the cigarette from the boss' lips and take it for himself. A tiny voice in the back of his mind urges him to tell the boss how he drives him to such distraction, see how he reacts to that (as if Corbeau doesn't already know that he makes Philippe melt like a Scizor exposed to too much mega energy).
Before Philippe can say or do anything stupid, the elevator door finally opens. Lebanne leads Harmony and Urbain into the Jacinthe Zone and Philippe sees Corbeau visibly relax.
The pair take in the scene: Corbeau and Philippe (plus Tarragon) on one side of the room wrapped in a cloud of cigarette smoke and irritation, and everyone else who's been roped into this silly tournament on the other side looking relatively miserable.
It's Urbain, of course, who decides to open his big mouth, "Eesh," he says, making a face, "What happened in here?"
"Finally!" Canari sighs dramatically, "We've been waitin' here forever for you, Harmony."
Harmony blinks, head tilted slightly, "For me? Why? Is everything ok?"
Canari huffs out another long-suffering breath, "After you left, we figured the tourney was off. But when we tried to leave, we got trapped in this weird 'Jacinthe Zone' thing."
Harmony's eyes widen and she looks in horrified consternation between Canari and Jacinthe. She opens her mouth to say something, but Jacinthe claps her hands interrupting her, "I am delighted to announce that my tournament— organized by me and in my honor— has recovered its missing pieces!"
She then motions to a screen behind her which flickers to life with the tournament bracket. Philippe glances at is long enough to see that his first opponent is Ivor. That will be a bit of an uphill battle he sighs to himself...
He glances down at Corbeau casually stubbing out his cigarette, "Looks like the princess decided to put the two meatheads together in the first round." He says with a casual smirk.
"Boss..." Philippe says, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice sounds too close to a whine in to his ears. Corbeau's smirk widens, amused by his own mean joke. He can't very well take his anger out on Jacinthe for holding them hostage this whole time, but still. There's a small part of him, though, that enjoys the boss' mean side just a little too much...
Philippe looks away from Corbeau, face suddenly hot again. He catches Harmony's gaze and she silently mouths "sorry" at him. Philippe waves her off, it really isn't her fault after all. Jacinthe could just as easily have rescheduled this whole tournament nonsense if she had really wanted. But no one says no to Princess Jacinthe. Not even the up-and-comer in the Battle Royale.
"She's a good kid, isn't she." Philippe says quietly enough so only Corbeau can hear.
He hums in agreement. His smile turns wicked as he says, "And it seems I'll finally be able to teach our little loan defaulter about settling his debts for himself."
Philippe can't help the guffaw that escapes. Poor Urbain. Hope he knows what's coming his way. Philippe cracks his neck. Looks like Le Super-Tournoi de Jacinthe will be fun after all.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75658431
|
{"authors": ["MurayamaTsuru"], "language": "English", "title": "Smoke Break"}
|
Warmth in December
The sun had barely risen when Donggyu arrived at the airport, the world outside still wrapped in sleep. Yet there he was — standing alone in the arrival hall, waiting for the flight from Beijing to land on a cold December morning. Waiting for him.
Time crawled. He checked the clock again — 6:15 a.m. The flight was 15 minutes late. It wasn’t much; delays happened all the time. Still, unease coiled in his chest. Maybe it was just impatience, or maybe it was the ache of missing him — almost three long months apart, and now every second felt unbearable.
After F1are was announced to debut, the pre-debut members were granted four months to rest — time to be with family, go out with friends, or simply live the last traces of their normal lives before everything changed. It was generous, considering the administrative chaos between their individual companies. For now, they could breathe, free from the weight of endless evaluations and practice rooms.
But Donggyu didn’t want to rest. He wanted to debut already.
He’d had enough of the empty practice rooms, the stale air of his company’s basement studio, and the suffocating silence that came with uncertainty. Every day blurred into the next — training, rehearsing, waiting — all without the promise of ever stepping on stage. It was torture disguised as routine.
Now, though, things were different. The idea of debut no longer felt like a distant dream but something tangible, something his. He had a reason to push forward — people he looked forward to working with, people to love and be loved by.
Most importantly, he had Kaiwen.
Well, not now. Instead of having his boyfriend in his arms at the dorm, Donggyu was waiting—for what felt like forever—for him to come back from China.
Kaiwen had been impossibly busy ever since Boys2Planet ended. Right after the finals, he was already on the first flight to Beijing for his CEO’s concert. Then Shanghai for a fan meet—where Donggyu spent an entire hour on text complaining about the whole Masato thing. (“Kaiwen do you love me or Masato more” “Babe, please…”).
And as if that wasn’t enough, he went straight to Wuzhen for a filming schedule with some of his company’s artists. Donggyu pitied him. The man barely had a moment to breathe, much less reconnect with his family.
Donggyu also felt a little guilty. He’d been begging Kaiwen to come back to Korea right after his shoot, whining that he couldn’t stand another minute without him. It was supposed to be a joke—something playful he said out of missing him too much—but he quickly regretted it when Kaiwen, without even hesitating, agreed and went to ask his managers if he could leave that same night.
Panic set in instantly. Donggyu texted him nonstop, telling him to stay a few more days, to spend time with his family and friends instead. But Kaiwen only reassured him with that calm tone he always had, saying it was fine—that he missed him a lot too.
KE642 – Korean Air
From: Wuzhen, China
Status: Arrived
Donggyu shot up from his seat the moment he saw it. His heart pounded as he rushed toward the arrival gates, eyes darting through the crowd spilling out from the doors. Dozens of unfamiliar faces passed him, but he was only looking for one—a tall man, 182 centimeters, light brown hair.
He was getting stares for how frantic he looked, but honestly? He couldn’t care less. He just needed to see his baby again.
A group of tall, broad-shouldered Chinese men and a few lady staff members with lanyards emerged from the arrival doors, forming a loose shield around someone in the middle. Then—there he was.
Their eyes met.
Donggyu’s heart skipped. He smiled and waved, and Kaiwen’s face immediately broke into that familiar toothy grin. He lifted one hand to wave back, the other still caught in his manager’s grip—clearly being stopped from giving fan service this early in the morning. Donggyu almost laughed. It was the crack of dawn; no one in their right mind would be at the airport at this hour to ask for selfies or autographs. Still, it was so Kaiwen to be that eager—to want to greet anyone who even looked his way.
He waited—barely breathing—as Kaiwen finally stepped past the gate. The moment he did, Donggyu pulled him straight into his arms, hugging him so tight it almost hurt. The warmth that had been missing from his life for the past five months was finally back, pressed against him, alive and real.
Kaiwen giggled softly against his shoulder, arms wrapping around him in return. Guess he wasn’t the only one who’d been counting the days.
“Kaiwen, baby, wake up—we’re here.” Donggyu’s voice was soft as he gave the sleeping man's shoulder a gentle shake. His heart ached watching him stir; part of him just wanted to carry Kaiwen straight to bed and let him sleep the whole day away.
Instead, he took Kaiwen’s hand and guided him inside, letting the managers deal with the luggage.
“Donggyu… ’m sleepy…” Kaiwen mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion.
Donggyu chuckled quietly, his chest
|
Warmth in December
The sun had barely risen when Donggyu arrived at the airport, the world outside still wrapped in sleep. Yet there he was — standing alone in the arrival hall, waiting for the flight from Beijing to land on a cold December morning. Waiting for him.
Time crawled. He checked the clock again — 6:15 a.m. The flight was 15 minutes late. It wasn’t much; delays happened all the time. Still, unease coiled in his chest. Maybe it was just impatience, or maybe it was the ache of missing him — almost three long months apart, and now every second felt unbearable.
After F1are was announced to debut, the pre-debut members were granted four months to rest — time to be with family, go out with friends, or simply live the last traces of their normal lives before everything changed. It was generous, considering the administrative chaos between their individual companies. For now, they could breathe, free from the weight of endless evaluations and practice rooms.
But Donggyu didn’t want to rest. He wanted to debut already.
He’d had enough of the empty practice rooms, the stale air of his company’s basement studio, and the suffocating silence that came with uncertainty. Every day blurred into the next — training, rehearsing, waiting — all without the promise of ever stepping on stage. It was torture disguised as routine.
Now, though, things were different. The idea of debut no longer felt like a distant dream but something tangible, something his. He had a reason to push forward — people he looked forward to working with, people to love and be loved by.
Most importantly, he had Kaiwen.
Well, not now. Instead of having his boyfriend in his arms at the dorm, Donggyu was waiting—for what felt like forever—for him to come back from China.
Kaiwen had been impossibly busy ever since Boys2Planet ended. Right after the finals, he was already on the first flight to Beijing for his CEO’s concert. Then Shanghai for a fan meet—where Donggyu spent an entire hour on text complaining about the whole Masato thing. (“Kaiwen do you love me or Masato more” “Babe, please…”).
And as if that wasn’t enough, he went straight to Wuzhen for a filming schedule with some of his company’s artists. Donggyu pitied him. The man barely had a moment to breathe, much less reconnect with his family.
Donggyu also felt a little guilty. He’d been begging Kaiwen to come back to Korea right after his shoot, whining that he couldn’t stand another minute without him. It was supposed to be a joke—something playful he said out of missing him too much—but he quickly regretted it when Kaiwen, without even hesitating, agreed and went to ask his managers if he could leave that same night.
Panic set in instantly. Donggyu texted him nonstop, telling him to stay a few more days, to spend time with his family and friends instead. But Kaiwen only reassured him with that calm tone he always had, saying it was fine—that he missed him a lot too.
KE642 – Korean Air
From: Wuzhen, China
Status: Arrived
Donggyu shot up from his seat the moment he saw it. His heart pounded as he rushed toward the arrival gates, eyes darting through the crowd spilling out from the doors. Dozens of unfamiliar faces passed him, but he was only looking for one—a tall man, 182 centimeters, light brown hair.
He was getting stares for how frantic he looked, but honestly? He couldn’t care less. He just needed to see his baby again.
A group of tall, broad-shouldered Chinese men and a few lady staff members with lanyards emerged from the arrival doors, forming a loose shield around someone in the middle. Then—there he was.
Their eyes met.
Donggyu’s heart skipped. He smiled and waved, and Kaiwen’s face immediately broke into that familiar toothy grin. He lifted one hand to wave back, the other still caught in his manager’s grip—clearly being stopped from giving fan service this early in the morning. Donggyu almost laughed. It was the crack of dawn; no one in their right mind would be at the airport at this hour to ask for selfies or autographs. Still, it was so Kaiwen to be that eager—to want to greet anyone who even looked his way.
He waited—barely breathing—as Kaiwen finally stepped past the gate. The moment he did, Donggyu pulled him straight into his arms, hugging him so tight it almost hurt. The warmth that had been missing from his life for the past five months was finally back, pressed against him, alive and real.
Kaiwen giggled softly against his shoulder, arms wrapping around him in return. Guess he wasn’t the only one who’d been counting the days.
“Kaiwen, baby, wake up—we’re here.” Donggyu’s voice was soft as he gave the sleeping man's shoulder a gentle shake. His heart ached watching him stir; part of him just wanted to carry Kaiwen straight to bed and let him sleep the whole day away.
Instead, he took Kaiwen’s hand and guided him inside, letting the managers deal with the luggage.
“Donggyu… ’m sleepy…” Kaiwen mumbled, voice slurred with exhaustion.
Donggyu chuckled quietly, his chest warming at the sound. “I know, sweetheart. You can sleep inside, but first you gotta get up”
As soon as they got in the house and in their shared room, he helped Kaiwen out of his coat, undoing buttons and pulling off layers until the younger man stood there looking small and heavy-lidded from fatigue. It was probably overboard—Kaiwen could handle it all himself—but Donggyu couldn’t bring himself to leave his side. The poor boy looked like he could collapse at any moment.
Once the managers dropped off the last of Kaiwen’s things and left, Donggyu ran a warm bath, the steam curling around them as the morning light filtered through the frosted window. He coaxed Kaiwen in, ignoring his sleepy protests, and climbed in after him.
“See? Warm,” Donggyu murmured, brushing damp hair away from Kaiwen’s forehead as he helped wash his back. Every now and then, he pressed a small kiss to his shoulder, gentle and fleeting—just to remind himself he was really here again.
For a moment, it felt like time had stopped. The dorm was quiet, the air filled with the faint sound of morning birds and the distant scent of falling snow.
Perfect.
By around 9 a.m., Kaiwen was fast asleep in Donggyu’s arms, sprawled across the couch where they were supposed to be watching a movie. Donggyu found himself far more interested in the small mole near Kaiwen’s right eye than the antics of the main character on the screen. His boyfriend’s cheek was pressed against his arm, using it as a pillow. His mouth was slightly open, and long bangs slipping over his eyes—he looked unbearably cute.
Donggyu’s hand, which had been resting on Kaiwen’s waist, reached up to gently push the bangs away, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. Kaiwen shifted closer, nuzzling into Donggyu’s chest, and Donggyu tightened his embrace, cupping the back of his head. Surrounded by warmth and the quiet rhythm of Kaiwen’s breathing, he let himself relax completely, content to stay just like this until the world woke up.
When he woke again, the room was suddenly alive with chatter and loud noises coming from all corners of the house—the kitchen, the TV, the bathroom. Donggyu, just roused from sleep, became hyper-aware of everything around him.
He tried to sit up, but something heavy pressed against his arms, holding him down and forcing him back into the couch.
Kaiwen’s cute, still-sleeping face was inches from his, soft snores rising despite the increasing noise around them. Donggyu couldn’t help but smile and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
“Gross, Donggyu hyung!”
The voice made him lift his head. Woojin, cup of steaming tea in hand, was stepping out of the kitchen, glaring right at him. The living room was bustling with the rest of the group, back from their holiday, each doing their own thing. Donggyu blinked, realizing he had completely forgotten—the group had agreed to return to the dorm a month before debut, to bond and get used to the dorm atmosphere together.
“Looks like you guys had fun with the dorm all to yourselves,” Kangmin teased.
Suddenly very tired again, Donggyu let out a groan, dropping his head and closing his eyes. “Kaiwen just came back this morning… I was in the dorms alone for the whole two months…”
“Aww, was our Donggyu lonely? Did you miss us?” Leejeong cooed, heading over with puckered lips, aiming for a kiss. Donggyu turned his head into his arm—the one Kaiwen was resting on—blocking his attempt without a word.
The movement stirred Kaiwen awake. His eyes fluttered open, still half-sleepy, taking in the playful chaos around him.
“Hey, Kaiwonie~~ how was your flight?” Kangmin asked softly.
“Mm… so tired,” Kaiwen murmured, sitting up slowly, his voice still thick with sleep.
“Missed you guys though,” he added, and the group collectively cooed at his sleepy affection.
“Hey… you didn’t say you missed me when I saw you earlier,” Donggyu sulked softly.
“Gosh, Donggyu, he’s yours, we get it—but save some Kaiwen for the rest of us!” Haneum chimed in, and the room burst into laughter at the sheer cuteness of the couple.
Kaiwen yawned, leaning into Donggyu, who grumbled but wrapped an arm around him protectively, secretly loving the attention from the group despite pretending to be annoyed.
The day went on as usual. The group went out for hotpot, played games on the TV, and ended the night with a horror movie—Woojin hiding against Junmin’s shoulder at every jump scare.
🎄🎁❤️
As the night deepened, everyone dispersed to their own rooms, most already fast asleep.
Kaiwen stayed in bed, waiting for Donggyu to finish getting ready. His eyelids were heavy, and he struggled to keep them open. Finally, a small plea slipped out.
“Baobei… please hurry… I’m so sleepy…”
Donggyu paused, staring at his boyfriend. Even with his eyes half-closed, Kaiwen still seemed to be fighting sleep.
The nickname sent a warm tingle through him, a possessive flutter that made him feel like only he could hear it. He quickened his pace and slipped under the sheets, wrapping himself around Kaiwen. Listening to the steady rhythm of the other’s breathing, Donggyu couldn’t stop thinking about that little pet name. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep, a small smile tugging at his lips as he dreamed of Kaiwen.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75660946/chapters/197872286
|
{"authors": ["haokkvii"], "language": "English", "title": "Warmth in December"}
|
Remembering or Fantasizing
Avid stood in front of the imposing castle, looking up at the tall spires that seemed to almost reach the clouds.
“You can do this.” He whispered to himself, unsure if anyone, vampire or not, would hear him. Though he wasn’t sure if anyone from town would just show up at the castle, not like Avid had done at least. Alone and without anything to fight off or even kill a vampire if necessary.
He had hidden all of that in an underground chest somewhere that he could go dig back up later, if he needed it.
He took a few deep breaths and shook his hands out. He didn’t want to psych himself out of this. He had come too far to let the last treads of doubt still clinging to his mind stop him from entering the castle.
He couldn’t turn back now, he had already made sure to start a fire in town, it was quite easy to do when everyone else had left to go turn a beacon. There would be nothing left for him to go back to. The others would for sure know that it was he who had started the fire, as he was the only one who hadn’t gone with them, so unless they assumed it was some of the vampires, then Avid was the most likely culprit.
Finally, he took his first step onto the crumbling bridge, which was more a shell of what it once was, what it would soon become once again.
He moved carefully over the bridge, taking extra care not to slip and fall.
He couldn’t have a serious accident now, not when he’s made it this far.
Having made it to the other side of the crumbling and barely stable bridge, Avid finally took his eyes away from his feet. He swallowed some of the spit that gathered in his mouth, suddenly feeling even more unsure than before.
A part of his brain reasoned that he could still turn back, that all would be fine, that the town would surely blame the vampires, maybe he could say he had charged after them? Maybe? It didn’t even sound like a believable excuse to Avid’s own ears.
The other part of his brain, the one that had brought him here, kept up the assurances that it had been giving him since he first picked up the flint and steel. The town never liked him, so why should he stay there? Both Drift and Shelby were vampires living in the castle, and they seemed to be a lot happier than they had been back in town.
A third part of his mind made itself known by simply whispering, ‘Scott’s there too.’
“Right, Scott’s just behind this door, or I guess he’s probably somewhere in the castle. I hope I don’t have to go find him.” He spoke aloud to himself as he made the final trek up to the giant doors.
They weren’t locked. Why would they be? When what hid within was far stronger and faster than any lock could ever hope to be.
He pushed open the doors, stepping into a dark, barely lit room.
A plush carpet at his feet led all the way down to a long table at the end of the room, or maybe the hall is a better word to describe the enormity of the room, that Avid now found himself in. There wasn’t anybody in there, except for himself, of course. Not that he would have been able actually to see if anybody was hiding somewhere.
He took a few hesitant steps forward, “Umm,” He called, unsure if there was anybody to hear him.
“Shelby? Drift?” He tried, hoping for a familiar face to show up, maybe that would calm his nerves.
As he neared the table, close enough for his hand to touch the carved wood, the door behind, the same one he had come in from, slammed shut. He whirled around with a yelp, panic once again setting in, his wide eyes searching for a figure that could have closed the door, but he found nothing standing there.
Instead, he was startled by someone leaning down and whispering into his ear.
“Boo!”
Avid whirled around so suddenly that he fell on his ass. He looked up, feeling small tears gather in the corner of his eyes, directly into Scott’s smirking face.
“Well, well, well, what do I have here? A vampire hunter has wandered into my castle, without any weapons or allies. What am I to do about you? Hmmm.” The elder vampire spoke, the smirk still on his face as he looked at the human who had still not made a move to stand up from where he had fallen.
“And calling out for two of the vampires here, I would have thought you hated them, should you not? They are evil, bloodthirsty monsters now, by your own description.”
Avid wanted to argue, he really did, but he knew that he didn’t really have anything that he could say against those claims, that was what he had once said, what he had once believed. Instead, he ended up just dumbly opening and closing his mouth, before ending up just skewing his lips closed in guilty silence. His gaze met the floor.
“What? Lost for words? I do have that effect sometimes.” He looked up, startled at Scott’s words, his face red, and his eyes wide as his mouth tried to come up with some answer or excuse that wasn’t just a complete jumble of words.
Scott was leaning up against the end of the table, not quite sitting on it, at least not fully. It would still be easy for him
|
Remembering or Fantasizing
Avid stood in front of the imposing castle, looking up at the tall spires that seemed to almost reach the clouds.
“You can do this.” He whispered to himself, unsure if anyone, vampire or not, would hear him. Though he wasn’t sure if anyone from town would just show up at the castle, not like Avid had done at least. Alone and without anything to fight off or even kill a vampire if necessary.
He had hidden all of that in an underground chest somewhere that he could go dig back up later, if he needed it.
He took a few deep breaths and shook his hands out. He didn’t want to psych himself out of this. He had come too far to let the last treads of doubt still clinging to his mind stop him from entering the castle.
He couldn’t turn back now, he had already made sure to start a fire in town, it was quite easy to do when everyone else had left to go turn a beacon. There would be nothing left for him to go back to. The others would for sure know that it was he who had started the fire, as he was the only one who hadn’t gone with them, so unless they assumed it was some of the vampires, then Avid was the most likely culprit.
Finally, he took his first step onto the crumbling bridge, which was more a shell of what it once was, what it would soon become once again.
He moved carefully over the bridge, taking extra care not to slip and fall.
He couldn’t have a serious accident now, not when he’s made it this far.
Having made it to the other side of the crumbling and barely stable bridge, Avid finally took his eyes away from his feet. He swallowed some of the spit that gathered in his mouth, suddenly feeling even more unsure than before.
A part of his brain reasoned that he could still turn back, that all would be fine, that the town would surely blame the vampires, maybe he could say he had charged after them? Maybe? It didn’t even sound like a believable excuse to Avid’s own ears.
The other part of his brain, the one that had brought him here, kept up the assurances that it had been giving him since he first picked up the flint and steel. The town never liked him, so why should he stay there? Both Drift and Shelby were vampires living in the castle, and they seemed to be a lot happier than they had been back in town.
A third part of his mind made itself known by simply whispering, ‘Scott’s there too.’
“Right, Scott’s just behind this door, or I guess he’s probably somewhere in the castle. I hope I don’t have to go find him.” He spoke aloud to himself as he made the final trek up to the giant doors.
They weren’t locked. Why would they be? When what hid within was far stronger and faster than any lock could ever hope to be.
He pushed open the doors, stepping into a dark, barely lit room.
A plush carpet at his feet led all the way down to a long table at the end of the room, or maybe the hall is a better word to describe the enormity of the room, that Avid now found himself in. There wasn’t anybody in there, except for himself, of course. Not that he would have been able actually to see if anybody was hiding somewhere.
He took a few hesitant steps forward, “Umm,” He called, unsure if there was anybody to hear him.
“Shelby? Drift?” He tried, hoping for a familiar face to show up, maybe that would calm his nerves.
As he neared the table, close enough for his hand to touch the carved wood, the door behind, the same one he had come in from, slammed shut. He whirled around with a yelp, panic once again setting in, his wide eyes searching for a figure that could have closed the door, but he found nothing standing there.
Instead, he was startled by someone leaning down and whispering into his ear.
“Boo!”
Avid whirled around so suddenly that he fell on his ass. He looked up, feeling small tears gather in the corner of his eyes, directly into Scott’s smirking face.
“Well, well, well, what do I have here? A vampire hunter has wandered into my castle, without any weapons or allies. What am I to do about you? Hmmm.” The elder vampire spoke, the smirk still on his face as he looked at the human who had still not made a move to stand up from where he had fallen.
“And calling out for two of the vampires here, I would have thought you hated them, should you not? They are evil, bloodthirsty monsters now, by your own description.”
Avid wanted to argue, he really did, but he knew that he didn’t really have anything that he could say against those claims, that was what he had once said, what he had once believed. Instead, he ended up just dumbly opening and closing his mouth, before ending up just skewing his lips closed in guilty silence. His gaze met the floor.
“What? Lost for words? I do have that effect sometimes.” He looked up, startled at Scott’s words, his face red, and his eyes wide as his mouth tried to come up with some answer or excuse that wasn’t just a complete jumble of words.
Scott was leaning up against the end of the table, not quite sitting on it, at least not fully. It would still be easy for him to walk over to Avid if he had to.
With a sigh, Scott waved his hand, dissipating Avid’s flustered and embarrassing attempts to explain himself.
“Why did you really come here, Avid?” He asked, breaking Avid out of his panic.
He was left blinking dumbly up at the vampire. “Huh?”
Avid could swear he saw Scott roll his eyes, but the man would surely deny it.
“I mean, you didn’t come here just to see Shelby and/or Drift, obviously.” He pushed himself away from the table. “It just doesn’t make sense, you know? You spent all that time accusing people, me especially, of being a vampire and of having killed various people in that town. So what I don’t understand is why you would suddenly feel the need to come here, without your… things…” Scott spoke the last word with clear disgust on his face, as he picked some invisible hair from his pristine coat.
“Well… I umm.” He couldn’t find a way to explain. How do you even explain that you just felt like you had to, that something deep in his subconsciousness had told him to come here? To come to Scott.
Scott crossed his arms and raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him.
“I don’t know, ok!?” He finally yelled. “It just felt like something was telling me to come here, and I don’t know why, but it felt like I had to listen to it!” He had shut his eyes tightly as he yelled so he couldn’t see Scott’s expression at his admittance.
After a moment, the silence was broken by a chuckle.
Avid looked back up at Scott, his eyes almost wetting his cheeks.
He felt himself become slightly annoyed, he had just admitted something deeply personal to the man he had feelings for, and he was laughing at him!?
Scott must have seen the slightly annoyed look of disbelief on his face, as he quickly tried to smother his laughter behind a fist. “Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then what did you mean by it like!? You just started laughing after I shared something deeply personal, something I was scared to even bring up, and you just started laughing at me!”
At the end of his little rant, he felt his teary face being lifted up by a finger on his chin. His mouth dropped open as he looked into Scott’s red eyes.
“There, no need to cry for that now, is there?”
Scott spoke gently, almost like he was speaking to a child, a child that was having a fit over not getting a toy they wanted, or something similar, which Avid now realized was a lot like how he had just acted.
As he continued looking into Scott’s eyes, neither of them speaking, Avid started to feel a shiver run down his back. He didn’t know if it was just his imagination, but Scott’s gentle smile had taken on a much more lecherous glint than before.
Avid glanced around the big closet he had been led to. Scott hadn’t really given him many instructions or told him to do anything specific. He had simply asked him to put on the outfit he had left for him. And Avid had quickly found it sitting on the lone chair in the room.
Though he hadn’t moved to open it yet.
When he first noticed the bag, a shiver ran down his spine, but he didn’t know if it was from fear or something else entirely.
Finally, he took a deep breath and told himself that he probably shouldn’t make Scott wait for him. It was just a bag, how bad could it be? Scott probably just wanted Avid to dress in some finer clothes, he was always commenting on what others were wearing.
But as he opened the bag and finally looked inside, he realized that no, Scott didn’t just want to dress him up in his own clothes, or some of his friends. According to Shelby, Scott had almost a full crypt of various clothes that had been left behind by some of the man’s past friends.
A knock on the door brought him out of his shocked stare down with the contents of the bag.
Standing in the doorway was Scott, who had obviously changed into different clothes as well, as the silk shirt that the vampire was currently wearing wasn’t the one Avid remembered him wearing.
“Need help?” He asked, already walking over, stopping once he stood directly behind Avid. He made quick work of reaching into the bag and pulling the stringy outfit for him. Avid’s hands held stubbornly onto the now-empty bag.
He held the barely clothing up in front of Avid, so he could see himself in the mirror. For a moment, Avid mourned at not being able to see Scott standing behind him.
“Personally, and you know I have great taste, I think you would look absolutely delicious in this, don’t you think so as well, my dear?”
Avid could do nothing but stare into his own blushing face staring back at him in the mirror.
Scott pressed a kiss to his cheek, which ultimately broke Avid out of his stupor. He looked down as a pale hand began undoing the buttons on his vest.
He snapped back into awareness as the last button on his vest came undone. He grabbed Scott’s hand, stopping him from continuing to undress him. His face was burning red, and he refused to look Scott in the eye, as he turned around in the other's arms before starting to push the other out of the room.
“I-I’LL DO IT!! I’LL DO IT MYSELF!!” He said, maybe a little too loudly, though Scott only laughed as he was pushed out of his own closet. “You can wait out here, I’ll… I’ll be quick!!” He spoke with sudden determination as he shut the door behind Scott.
He lets a small smile appear on his face, his sudden excitement making him nearly bounce on his feet. He turned and quickly made his way back over to the outfit that had been discarded on the floor. He hurriedly shed his clothes and changed into the outfit Scott had gotten for him. He spent a good while simply looking at himself in the mirror. It was the first time he had worn anything like this, but he kind of liked the way it looked and how it felt against his skin, he didn’t think he would be entirely opposed to wearing something like this again.
When he opened the door into the room, Scott had sat himself on a nearby chair. He uncrossed his legs and shifted to fully take in the man who now stood in front of him.
Avid nervously grabbed onto his own wrist behind his back.
Scott didn’t say anything, he simply lifted his fisted hand, his index finger curling slowly into his fist, he repeated the gesture a few times, before Avid ‘got it’ and moved over to the man. He was then quickly pulled down to straddle the man's lap, he felt Scott’s hands settle on his barely clothed hips, and his own hands settled on top of Scott’s shoulders.
Their lips were locked together barely a second later.
Slowly, Scott’s hands moved from his hips. Avid felt them move under his thighs, right before he was lifted as Scott stood up, taking small but quick steps over to the bed, where he quickly deposited Avid.
Avid looked up at Scott, slightly dazed, who was leaning over him on the bed.
It wasn’t long before their lips were once again connected, and he felt Scott’s hands start to move once again. This time, he started to remove his own clothes, piece by piece.
♥•••♥
Avid slowly blinked awake.
He was lying on his own pillow, back in his own bed, in the house he shared with Drift.
He slowly moved to sit up, grimacing at the feeling of drool on his cheek. He reached a hand up to rub the remaining sleep from his eye.
He considered going back to sleep, back to the amazing dream he had just been having. But he was stopped from lying back down by a knock on his door.
“Good morning! Hope you're awake. I made breakfast.” Drift’s voice came from the other side of the door. Avid only groaned as an answer.
As they were eating breakfast, it was silent for the most part, at least until Drift put down her fork and knife, and turned to Avid with a lifted eyebrow and a slight quirk on her lips.
“So did you have a good dream?”
Startled by the question, Avid ended up accidentally biting his tongue. Which thankfully helped him not to answer his roommate’s question. Though if her interested expression, what Avid liked to call her ‘detective face’, he wasn’t going to get away with not answering her for long. If Avid knew her as well as he thought, she had already come to her own conclusions.
He was unsure of how long he would be able to neither confirm nor deny, before he had.
|
ao3_english
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2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
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https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75656701
|
{"authors": ["PrinsesseButt101"], "language": "English", "title": "Remembering or Fantasizing"}
|
The Wolves of Arkhangelsk: An Headcanon Dump of Vasily and Mischa Volkov
"My perfect baby girl. It would have been better if you were never born. But God rarely listens to me." — Mischa Volkova
"A mistake. A blinding, gut-wrenching mistake." — Vasily Volkov
Elijah Volkov was not born into cruelty by accident. His parents—Vasily and Mischa—were themselves products of historical trauma, religious rupture, and the particular paranoia that comes from being hunted across generations. To understand the prophet who would later try to burn Sydney alive, we must first understand the wolves who raised him.
The name "Volkov" means "of the wolf." It is not the family's original name. They changed it during the Second World War, shedding their Jewish identity like a skin that had become too dangerous to wear. This name change is the first lesson the family would teach its children: survival requires transformation. Identity is a costume. The true self must be hidden, protected, denied.
Elijah learned this lesson too well.
Mischa's family were German Jews who fled to Russia to escape rising antisemitism in their homeland. Arkhangelsk—a port city in the Russian Arctic, cold and remote—seemed far enough from the gathering storm. They were wrong, of course. The storm followed. It always does.
But before the war, before the name change, before the conversion that would sever them from their ancestors, Mischa was already marked as different.
She was the only blonde in her family.
In a household of dark hair and dark eyes, she emerged golden—a genetic echo of some distant ancestor, perhaps, or simply the random shuffle of heredity. Her parents swore she was theirs. They told her to focus on more important things. They dismissed her questions with the impatience of people who have already spent too much energy on survival to waste any on a child's identity crisis.
But Mischa knew. Not that she was adopted—she wasn't—but that something was wrong with her. Some fundamental error in her making that expressed itself in her coloring, in her temperament, in the hollow space where faith should have lived. She was related to her family by blood, but she never felt related to them by soul.
Mischa never told Vasily that her family was German. In the Soviet Union, in the aftermath of the Great Patriotic War, German heritage was dangerous—even for Jews who had fled Germany to escape persecution. The irony was bitter: her family had run from German antisemitism only to find themselves suspect for being German at all.
So she buried it. Another layer of hidden identity, another truth that couldn't be spoken. She told Vasily her family had always been Russian, had always been from Arkhangelsk, had always been exactly what they appeared to be. The lie was small but corrosive. It established the foundation of their marriage: concealment, performance, the careful management of which truths were safe to share.
Mischa grew up believing herself to be a mistake that God had made and refused to correct. This belief calcified into something like theology: she was evidence of divine indifference, proof that prayers go unanswered, that the universe makes errors and doesn't care enough to fix them.
When the Hasidic matchmakers paired her with Vasily Volkov—a young man from a local shepherding family—she accepted without protest. What did it matter who she married? She was already wrong. At least Vasily was strong, capable, certain of himself in ways she would never be. Perhaps his certainty could fill the space where her own should have been.
It didn't.
Mischa and Vasily were betrothed young, as was custom in their Hasidic community. The marriage was arranged, practical, designed to produce children and maintain community ties. Love was not the point. Survival was the point. Continuity was the point.
But even practical marriages require some foundation of mutual respect, and Mischa and Vasily's foundation was cracked from the start. She was too melancholy for him—too withdrawn, too prone to silences that stretched for hours. He was too hard for her—too convinced of his own rightness, too quick to interpret her sadness as weakness.
They coexisted more than they lived together. Two people sharing a house, sharing a bed, sharing nothing that mattered.
When Mischa became pregnant, she felt not joy but dread. Whatever was wrong with her—whatever error had made her the blonde daughter in a dark-haired family, the faithless woman in a faithful community—she was certain it would pass to her child. She prayed, for once, genuinely prayed, that God would spare this baby. That whatever curse she carried would end with her.
God, as always, did not listen.
Before Elijah was born, the doctors discovered the abnormality. The fetus was developing in ways that didn't fit neatly into either category—not clearly male, not clearly female, but something the medical terminology of the time called a "birth defect."
For Vasily, this was confirmation of everything he secretly
|
The Wolves of Arkhangelsk: An Headcanon Dump of Vasily and Mischa Volkov
"My perfect baby girl. It would have been better if you were never born. But God rarely listens to me." — Mischa Volkova
"A mistake. A blinding, gut-wrenching mistake." — Vasily Volkov
Elijah Volkov was not born into cruelty by accident. His parents—Vasily and Mischa—were themselves products of historical trauma, religious rupture, and the particular paranoia that comes from being hunted across generations. To understand the prophet who would later try to burn Sydney alive, we must first understand the wolves who raised him.
The name "Volkov" means "of the wolf." It is not the family's original name. They changed it during the Second World War, shedding their Jewish identity like a skin that had become too dangerous to wear. This name change is the first lesson the family would teach its children: survival requires transformation. Identity is a costume. The true self must be hidden, protected, denied.
Elijah learned this lesson too well.
Mischa's family were German Jews who fled to Russia to escape rising antisemitism in their homeland. Arkhangelsk—a port city in the Russian Arctic, cold and remote—seemed far enough from the gathering storm. They were wrong, of course. The storm followed. It always does.
But before the war, before the name change, before the conversion that would sever them from their ancestors, Mischa was already marked as different.
She was the only blonde in her family.
In a household of dark hair and dark eyes, she emerged golden—a genetic echo of some distant ancestor, perhaps, or simply the random shuffle of heredity. Her parents swore she was theirs. They told her to focus on more important things. They dismissed her questions with the impatience of people who have already spent too much energy on survival to waste any on a child's identity crisis.
But Mischa knew. Not that she was adopted—she wasn't—but that something was wrong with her. Some fundamental error in her making that expressed itself in her coloring, in her temperament, in the hollow space where faith should have lived. She was related to her family by blood, but she never felt related to them by soul.
Mischa never told Vasily that her family was German. In the Soviet Union, in the aftermath of the Great Patriotic War, German heritage was dangerous—even for Jews who had fled Germany to escape persecution. The irony was bitter: her family had run from German antisemitism only to find themselves suspect for being German at all.
So she buried it. Another layer of hidden identity, another truth that couldn't be spoken. She told Vasily her family had always been Russian, had always been from Arkhangelsk, had always been exactly what they appeared to be. The lie was small but corrosive. It established the foundation of their marriage: concealment, performance, the careful management of which truths were safe to share.
Mischa grew up believing herself to be a mistake that God had made and refused to correct. This belief calcified into something like theology: she was evidence of divine indifference, proof that prayers go unanswered, that the universe makes errors and doesn't care enough to fix them.
When the Hasidic matchmakers paired her with Vasily Volkov—a young man from a local shepherding family—she accepted without protest. What did it matter who she married? She was already wrong. At least Vasily was strong, capable, certain of himself in ways she would never be. Perhaps his certainty could fill the space where her own should have been.
It didn't.
Mischa and Vasily were betrothed young, as was custom in their Hasidic community. The marriage was arranged, practical, designed to produce children and maintain community ties. Love was not the point. Survival was the point. Continuity was the point.
But even practical marriages require some foundation of mutual respect, and Mischa and Vasily's foundation was cracked from the start. She was too melancholy for him—too withdrawn, too prone to silences that stretched for hours. He was too hard for her—too convinced of his own rightness, too quick to interpret her sadness as weakness.
They coexisted more than they lived together. Two people sharing a house, sharing a bed, sharing nothing that mattered.
When Mischa became pregnant, she felt not joy but dread. Whatever was wrong with her—whatever error had made her the blonde daughter in a dark-haired family, the faithless woman in a faithful community—she was certain it would pass to her child. She prayed, for once, genuinely prayed, that God would spare this baby. That whatever curse she carried would end with her.
God, as always, did not listen.
Before Elijah was born, the doctors discovered the abnormality. The fetus was developing in ways that didn't fit neatly into either category—not clearly male, not clearly female, but something the medical terminology of the time called a "birth defect."
For Vasily, this was confirmation of everything he secretly feared about his wife: that her strangeness, her melancholy, her fundamental wrongness had contaminated their child. He had married damaged goods, and now he would pay for it with a damaged heir.
For Mischa, it was worse. It was prophecy fulfilled. The curse she had always known she carried had passed down, just as she'd feared. She had created another mistake, and this time the mistake was a person who would have to live with what she had done to them.
The tension that had always existed between them calcified into something colder. They stopped pretending to be partners. They became two people trapped in a house with a problem neither of them knew how to solve.
When Elijah was born, Mischa looked at her baby and saw confirmation of everything she had always feared. The wrongness had passed down. The error had reproduced. She had created another mistake, another piece of evidence that the universe makes things it shouldn't and refuses to unmake them.
"My perfect baby girl. It would have been better if you were never born. But God rarely listens to me."
This is not the statement of a woman who hates her child. It is the statement of a woman who hates herself and sees her child as extension of that self-hatred. Mischa loved Elijah—in her hollow, distant way, she loved him. But she also saw him as proof of her own fundamental wrongness, and she could not separate the love from the horror.
She withdrew. She had always been prone to melancholy, but after Elijah's birth, she retreated into it completely. She became a ghost in her own home—present but not present, visible but not seen. She fed her child and clothed her child and never once made her child feel wanted.
This was Mischa's sin: not cruelty, but absence. She didn't hurt Elijah; she simply wasn't there to protect him from the one who would.
In Adam's economy of sin, Mischa represents Sloth—but not the common understanding of laziness. Theological Sloth is acedia: spiritual apathy, the failure to care about what should matter, the withdrawal from moral engagement with the world.
Mischa saw what Vasily did to Elijah. She saw the fear in her son's eyes, the way he flinched at his father's moods, the way he made himself small and silent. She knew—how could she not know?—that her husband was breaking their child in ways that would never heal.
And she did nothing.
Not because she approved. Not because she was cruel. But because she had long ago decided that the universe was indifferent, that prayers go unanswered, that wrong things happen and no one fixes them. Her own wrongness had taught her to expect wrongness everywhere. When it arrived in her home, she recognized it and accepted it and retreated further into her hollow space.
Adam didn't need to possess Mischa. He just needed her to be exactly who she already was: a woman too broken to intervene, too absent to protect, too convinced of cosmic indifference to believe that her actions could matter.
Her Sloth made space for what would come. Her withdrawal created the vacuum into which horror rushed. She didn't devour her son; she simply stepped aside and let the devouring happen.
(Note: Rowan also carries the weight of Sloth in Adam's constellation—the acedia of someone who sees too much and feels powerless to act. The sin echoes across generations, finding different vessels: the mother who wouldn't protect her child, the prophet's student who couldn't save himself. Sloth is not one person; it is a pattern, repeating.)
Mischa Volkova died in a house fire.
That is the official story. That is what Elijah was told, what the records show. A tragic accident. A woman who perhaps fell asleep with a candle burning, or left the stove on, or simply had the terrible luck of being in the wrong place when old wiring sparked.
The truth is simpler and more terrible: Mischa set the fire herself.
By the time of her death, Vasily was already gone—his suicide had left her alone in the house that had been their prison. Elijah was away at medical school, pursuing the career that would eventually lead him to that hospital, to Sydney's comatose form, to everything that came after. For the first time in decades, Mischa was truly alone.
You might think Vasily's death would have freed her. Without the wolf in the house, perhaps she could have finally reached out to her son, finally broken her pattern of absence, finally become the mother she had never managed to be.
But Sloth doesn't work that way. Acedia isn't caused by external circumstances—it's a fundamental orientation toward existence. Vasily's presence had given Mischa someone to withdraw from. Without him, she had only herself, and herself was the hollow she had been fleeing her entire life.
She had watched her son be destroyed, piece by piece, by the man she had married. She had seen Elijah retreat into that peculiar stillness that children develop when they learn that no one is coming to save them. She had heard Vasily's philosophy—"the strong devour the weak"—repeated like scripture, and she had seen it enacted on her child's body.
And she had done nothing. For years, she had done nothing. Her Sloth was not ignorance; it was complicity through inaction. She knew exactly what she had failed to do.
With Vasily dead and Elijah gone, there was nothing left to structure her avoidance. No one to withdraw from. No child to fail to protect. Just the empty house and the accumulated weight of everything she hadn't done.
The fire was her answer to herself. Not an escape from guilt—Sloth doesn't feel guilt strongly enough to be motivated by it—but a final act of withdrawal. She had been absent from her son's life in every way that mattered; now she would be absent entirely. She had failed to protect him; now she would remove herself as a factor in the equation altogether.
There was no note. No explanation. No dramatic confession. She simply waited until a day when no one would come looking, locked the doors, and lit the match. The fire was thorough. The house burned to its foundations.
Elijah was at medical school when he got the news. He never knew it was suicide. He was told it was an accident, a tragedy, one of those terrible things that happen to families for no reason. He mourned his mother—or mourned the idea of her, since the real woman had been absent long before she died—without ever understanding that her death was a choice.
This is its own form of cruelty, though Mischa didn't intend it that way. By hiding the truth of her death, she left Elijah with the belief that the universe had simply taken his mother, randomly, meaninglessly, so soon after taking his father. It confirmed everything he would later come to believe about a cosmos that destroys without purpose. If he had known the truth—that Mischa chose to leave, that her death was an act of will rather than chance—it might have changed something. Given him something to rage against. Something to understand.
Instead, he got only absence. His mother's final gift was the same as all her others: a void where something should have been.
Vasily's family had lived in Arkhangelsk for generations—poor Jewish shepherds eking out survival in the Russian Arctic, tending their flocks against wolves and winter and the endless hostility of a world that had never wanted them.
They were Hasidic, devout, bound by traditions that stretched back centuries. The men wore their beards long and their faith longer. The women kept homes that were poor in material goods but rich in ritual. They observed Shabbat in their drafty houses, lit candles against the Arctic dark, and believed that God watched over them even when the evidence suggested otherwise.
The family name was not Volkov then. It was something else—something Jewish, something that marked them as targets. The name has been lost now, deliberately forgotten, scrubbed from memory as thoroughly as they could manage. What remains is only the wolf-name they adopted to survive.
When the Nazis came—not to Arkhangelsk directly, but close enough that the terror spread—Vasily's family made a choice that would define everything that came after.
They converted to Russian Orthodoxy.
This was not a spiritual decision. No one in the family suddenly believed in the Trinity or the saints or the resurrection of Christ. It was survival mathematics: Jewish families were being rounded up, deported, killed. Orthodox families were not. The equation was simple, even if the cost was not.
They changed their name to Volkov—"of the wolf"—because wolves survive. Wolves are not prey. Wolves do the hunting, not the dying. The name was an aspiration, a prayer to a god they no longer officially believed in: make us predators, not victims. Make us the ones who devour, not the ones who are devoured.
The conversion hollowed something out of them. You cannot abandon the faith of your ancestors—the faith that sustained your family through centuries of persecution—without losing something essential. What grew in the hollow space was harder, colder, more cynical than what had been there before.
Vasily was born into this hollowed-out family. He never knew the old name, the old faith, the old way of being in the world. He knew only the wolf-name and the wolf-philosophy: survive at any cost. Trust no one. The strong devour the weak.
Vasily didn't mind the Soviet Union. This surprises people who expect all Russians of his generation to be either devoted communists or secret dissidents, but Vasily was neither. He was simply a man who understood power and felt comfortable in its presence.
The USSR was strong. It had defeated the Nazis. It had built an empire. It had nuclear weapons and space programs and the ability to project force across the globe. Vasily respected these things. He felt a genuine patriotism—not for communist ideology, which he found tedious, but for the empire itself. The center. The power.
He joined the KGB not out of ideological commitment but because the KGB was where power concentrated. It was where a smart, ruthless man could make himself useful and be rewarded for his usefulness. It was where wolves went to hunt.
The work suited him. He had a talent for reading people, for identifying weaknesses, for applying pressure at exactly the right points. He learned interrogation techniques, surveillance methods, the art of making people betray themselves. He learned that most humans were weak, that most resistance collapsed under sufficient pressure, that the strong really did devour the weak—it was just a matter of being strong enough.
These were not revelations to Vasily. They were confirmations. His family had already taught him the wolf-philosophy; the KGB just gave him tools to implement it.
When the Soviet Union began to crumble, Vasily saw it coming. He had spent his career reading signs of weakness, and the signs were everywhere: the economic stagnation, the political paralysis, the growing restlessness in the satellite states. An empire built on fear requires constant maintenance, and the maintenance was failing.
Other men might have felt despair at watching their country collapse. Vasily felt opportunity.
He had access to resources, to networks, to information about where money was hidden and how it could be moved. When the USSR dissolved into chaos, Vasily was one of the men who knew how to profit from the dissolution. He made away with a fortune—not enormous by oligarch standards, but enough to transform a shepherd's grandson into a man of means.
The money felt like vindication. His family had spent generations as poor Jews, then as poor converts, always scraping, always surviving but never thriving. Now Vasily had wealth. He had proven the wolf-philosophy true: the strong devour the weak, and he was finally strong enough to do the devouring.
He decided to leave Russia. The country was chaotic, dangerous, full of other wolves who might try to take what he had accumulated. America was safer—a place where money could buy security, where a man with resources could build a life without constantly watching for rivals.
He took Mischa with him. She was his wife; she would come. He did not ask if she wanted to go. Her wants were not relevant to his calculations.
In America, the Volkov family grew reclusive.
This was partly practical—Vasily had money he couldn't fully explain, connections he didn't want examined, a past that would not survive scrutiny. The less contact with neighbors, with authorities, with anyone who might ask questions, the better.
But it was also something darker. Vasily had always believed that other people were threats or tools, and in America, without the structure of the KGB to channel that belief into productive work, it curdled into pure paranoia. Everyone was potentially dangerous. Everyone wanted something. The only safe people were the people he controlled absolutely.
His family.
Mischa was already withdrawn, already absent, already retreating into her hollow space. She required no effort to control; she had surrendered before he asked her to. But Elijah—Elijah was a different matter.
Vasily looked at his intersex child and saw everything he had spent his life fleeing.
Weakness. Abnormality. Difference. The kind of deviation that gets noticed, that draws attention, that makes people ask questions. His entire survival strategy—the name change, the conversion, the move to America, the careful construction of an unremarkable life—was predicated on not standing out. And now he had a child who would always stand out.
"A mistake. A blinding, gut-wrenching mistake."
But there was something else beneath the disgust, something Vasily would never have admitted: fear.
Elijah reminded Vasily of the old stories. The Jewish mysticism his family had supposedly left behind, the tales of beings that didn't fit neatly into categories, the religious texts that spoke of things that were both-and-neither. Elijah's body felt like an accusation—proof that the old faith still had power, that the conversion hadn't really taken, that the God they had abandoned was marking their children with signs of His continued claim.
Vasily didn't believe in God. Not really. Not anymore. But he feared the possibility that God might believe in him.
So he set out to correct the mistake. To force Elijah into a shape that would be unremarkable, controllable, safe. The constant disapproval, the contempt, the wolf-philosophy repeated until it became doctrine—these created an atmosphere of fear that didn't require fists to be devastating.
Vasily was trying to save his son from the world's cruelty by being harder than the world could ever be. He was trying to toughen Elijah, to prepare him for a cosmos where the strong devour the weak. He was failing utterly, but he was failing with conviction.
Vasily was many things—cruel, cold, convinced of his own philosophy—but he was not without conscience. The wolf-costume he wore was always that: a costume. Underneath, there was still the shepherd's grandson, the boy who had watched his family abandon their faith to survive, the man who had built his identity on hardness because softness had nearly gotten his people killed.
Whether Vasily ever struck Elijah is unclear. What is certain is that he made his child fear him. The constant disapproval, the contempt for Elijah's body and sensitivity, the wolf-philosophy repeated until it became the air the family breathed—these created an atmosphere of terror that didn't require fists to be devastating. Elijah learned to flinch at his father's moods, to read danger in his silences, to make himself small and quiet and invisible. A child can be broken without ever being hit.
But Vasily loved his son. In his broken, inadequate way, he loved him.
The guilt crept in slowly, then all at once. Vasily would catch Elijah watching him with those wide, wary eyes—the eyes of a prey animal calculating escape routes—and something would twist in his chest. He had justified everything: it was discipline, it was toughening, it was preparing Elijah for a world that would be crueler than any father could be. But the justifications were wearing thin.
He started drinking more. He stopped sleeping. He would stand in the doorway of Elijah's room at night, watching his son's troubled sleep, and feel something vast and terrible opening beneath him.
What have I done?
The question had no good answer. He had made his child afraid of him. He had looked at his son's body and called it a mistake. He had installed a philosophy of devouring into a child who would spend his life being devoured. And for what? Elijah wasn't stronger. Elijah was terrified.
The suicide was not a statement. It was a surrender. Vasily couldn't face his son, couldn't confess, couldn't do the slow and painful work of accountability. He took the coward's way out: a gun, a moment of resolve, and then nothing.
He died believing he was the worst thing that would ever happen to Elijah.
He was wrong.
When a soul leaves a body, it creates a vacuum. Most of the time, the vacuum collapses—the body becomes meat, begins to decay, returns to the earth. But sometimes, something else fills the space before it can close.
Adam had been watching the Volkov family for a long time. He had recognized in Elijah something rare and valuable: a soul capable of containing contradictions, of holding both victim and prophet, prey and predator. A soul that could be shaped into a vessel for Adam's purposes—but only if it was wounded in exactly the right ways.
Vasily's cruelty had started the work. The fear, the contempt, the wolf-philosophy—these had created fractures in Elijah's psyche, fault lines along which he could be broken and rebuilt. But it wasn't enough. Adam needed something more. Something that would shatter Elijah so completely that he would spend the rest of his life searching for a framework to contain the pieces.
When Vasily pulled the trigger, Adam was ready.
The soul departed. The vacuum opened. And Adam slipped in.
What happened next was not Vasily's crime. Vasily was dead, his soul gone wherever souls go, his guilt and love and cruelty all finished. What remained was meat and memory—a body that still looked like Elijah's father, still moved like him, still spoke in his voice.
But the thing inside was not Vasily.
Adam used the father's body to commit an act the father never would have committed. This is important: Vasily was cruel, but he was not that. He made his son fear him; he did not rape him. The emotional abuse was Vasily's sin. The sexual assault was Adam's—enacted through a corpse that still wore a familiar face.
For Elijah, this distinction was impossible to perceive. He saw his father's hands. He heard his father's voice. He felt his father's weight. How could he know that his father was already dead? How could he understand that the thing whispering "the strong devour the weak" was not the man who had taught him that phrase, but something ancient and hungry that had stolen his father's mouth to speak through?
He couldn't. He can't. He will likely never know.
The horror of it is precise: Elijah believes his father did this to him. He believes the man who raised him, who terrorized him, who he nonetheless loved in the complicated way abused children love their abusers—he believes that man also raped him. He carries that belief like a stone in his chest, and it has shaped everything he's become.
The truth—that his father's guilt drove him to suicide, that Adam violated Elijah using a corpse, that Vasily was already beyond the reach of blame by the time the worst thing happened—this truth might have changed something. Might have given Elijah someone other than his father to hate. Might have separated the emotional cruelty (Vasily's real crime) from the sexual assault (Adam's crime wearing Vasily's face).
But Elijah will never know. And so he carries both sins as one, attributed to a man who was only guilty of one of them.
Strip away the possession. What remains?
A man who was shaped by history—whose family's survival came at the cost of their identity, their faith, their sense of safety in the world. A man who learned that softness gets you killed and hardness keeps you alive. A man who loved his son and expressed that love through fear because fear was the only language he trusted.
A man who felt guilty. Who couldn't live with what he'd done. Who chose death over facing the child he'd failed.
Vasily was not a monster. He was a broken person who broke another person, and then broke himself. The monster came after—wearing his face, using his body, committing crimes he never would have committed.
In Adam's economy, Vasily was not a deadly sin. He was simply raw material. The fear and contempt that defined his parenting made him useful—made his body a weapon Adam could wield, made his face a mask that would maximize Elijah's trauma. But Vasily himself was just a man. A cruel man, a cowardly man, but a man nonetheless.
The sin that killed him was not Lust. It was Despair—the belief that his wrongs were unfixable, that death was easier than change, that his son would be better off without him.
He was wrong about that last part. But he'll never know.
From his mother, Elijah inherited:
The sense of fundamental wrongness. Mischa believed herself to be a cosmic error, and she transmitted this belief to her son through a thousand small absences. Every time she failed to protect him, every time she withdrew instead of comforting, every time she looked at him with that hollow recognition—you are like me, you are wrong like me—she taught him that some people are simply mistakes the universe made.
The hidden heritage. Elijah is Jewish through both parents, though neither of them practiced by the time he was born. He is also German through Mischa's family, though she never told anyone. These hidden identities—the faith that was abandoned, the nationality that was concealed—live in Elijah as absences, as the sense that there are true things about himself that he doesn't know and might never discover.
The capacity for spiritual emptiness. Mischa's Sloth was not laziness but acedia—the profound spiritual apathy that cannot care about what should matter. Elijah inherited this as a vulnerability. In his darkest moments, when the prophet-performance fails, he falls into something very like his mother's hollow: a place where nothing matters, where intervention is impossible, where the only response to suffering is withdrawal.
The blonde hair. A small thing, but significant. Elijah has his mother's coloring, the same genetic echo that made her feel like a stranger in her own family. When he looks in the mirror, he sees her looking back.
From his father, Elijah inherited:
The wolf philosophy. "The strong devour the weak" was the first doctrine Elijah learned, and he has never been able to fully unlearn it. Even when he rejects it consciously, it shapes his expectations. He assumes relationships are competitions. He assumes vulnerability is weakness. He assumes that love, ultimately, is just a polite word for consumption.
The capacity for cold violence. Vasily's rage was never hot. It was calculated, controlled, applied with precision for specific effects. Elijah inherited this capacity—the ability to do terrible things without losing himself in emotion, to hurt systematically rather than impulsively. His wrath is cold because his father's cruelty was cold.
The paranoia. Vasily trusted no one, saw threats everywhere, built his life around the assumption that others were always calculating how to hurt him. Elijah absorbed this worldview. His elaborate theologies, his careful testing of loyalty, his assumption that everyone has hidden motives—these are Vasily's paranoia refined into something that looks like wisdom.
The voice. When Elijah gets angry, truly angry, his accent shifts. Russian consonants harden. Vasily's cadences emerge. The father's ghost lives in the son's throat, speaking through him in moments of extremity.
Together, Mischa and Vasily created conditions that made Elijah's transformation into the prophet almost inevitable:
The prophet role was Elijah's answer to this impossible inheritance. He built a theology that transformed his wrongness into specialness, his weakness into chosen suffering, his parents' failures into necessary trials that prepared him for revelation. He couldn't change what had been done to him, so he changed its meaning.
But the meaning-making was always fragile. Underneath the prophet's certainty lived Mischa's hollow and Vasily's violence, waiting to emerge. The theology was a house built on a foundation of fire and wolves—and houses like that always burn.
Adam doesn't create evil. He cultivates it. He finds the seeds that are already present—in individuals, in families, in communities—and provides the conditions for them to grow.
In the Volkov family, Adam found:
Vasily was not a deadly sin. He was a delivery mechanism—a body Adam could use once the soul had fled. His cruelty created the conditions; his suicide created the opportunity. The wolf-philosophy he taught Elijah was damage, passed down like a genetic disease, making Elijah vulnerable to the entity that would later claim him.
These patterns were not implanted. They grew from the family's history: the trauma of persecution, the survival mechanisms that became pathologies, the religious rupture that left them hollow. Adam simply recognized what was already there and waited for his moment.
The Volkov name means "of the wolf." It was chosen as a prayer for strength, a hope that the family could become predators rather than prey.
But the name was a lie. The Volkovs were never wolves. They were sheep who dressed in wolf skins, hoping the costume would protect them. Vasily's cruelty was not strength; it was terror wearing a mask of dominance. Mischa's withdrawal was not peace; it was surrender dressed as acceptance.
And Elijah—Elijah inherited the wolf-name and the sheep-nature, the costume and the fear inside it. His prophet role was another layer of disguise: the sheep who becomes a shepherd, who leads other lost creatures, who pretends to know the way through the wilderness.
Underneath all the performances, all the costumes, all the wolf-names and prophet-titles, there was only what there had always been: a child who was hurt by the people who should have protected him, who built elaborate structures to contain pain that could not be contained, who repeated his parents' sins in new forms because he had never learned any other way to be.
The wolves of Arkhangelsk were never wolves at all. They were just a family of wounded people, wounding each other, calling it survival, calling it strength, calling it love.
Vasily died first—shot himself, or was emptied of the force that had been keeping him alive. The wolf-philosophy consumed its prophet.
Then Mischa burned, alone in the house after Elijah had left for medical school, choosing fire as her final withdrawal.
The house in America is gone. The old house in Arkhangelsk exists only in fragmented memory. The sheep are scattered. The old faith is forgotten, the old name lost, the old ways abandoned.
What survives is Elijah: blonde like his mother, cold like his father, carrying both their sins in his bones. He doesn't know that Mischa's death was suicide. He doesn't fully understand what possessed Vasily in those final years. He knows only that he was born wrong, raised cruel, and left alone—orphaned by violence and fire before he'd finished medical school—with questions no one will ever answer.
The prophet role is his attempt to answer them anyway. To make meaning from meaninglessness. To transform the chaos of his origins into something that feels like purpose.
But the meaning is built on missing information. He doesn't know what his parents really were—not just to him, but to themselves. He doesn't know about the German heritage, the hidden Jewishness, the conversion that hollowed them out, the survival mechanisms that became pathologies. He has only fragments, and from fragments he has built a theology.
In the end, the Volkov family story is a story about what happens when survival becomes the only value. When you change your name and your faith and your entire way of being just to stay alive, you survive—but the thing that survives might not be worth saving. Vasily survived by becoming cruel. Mischa survived by becoming absent. Elijah survived by becoming a prophet.
All of them were trying not to be devoured.
All of them were devoured anyway.
The wolves of Arkhangelsk were eaten by something older and hungrier than themselves, and all that's left is ash, and a blonde man with his mother's eyes and his father's rage, standing in a hospital room watching a comatose patient breathe, trying to make sense of a story that was broken before he was born.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75656716
|
{"authors": ["thesaltedman"], "language": "English", "title": "The Wolves of Arkhangelsk: An Headcanon Dump of Vasily and Mischa Volkov"}
|
Sparks
Grease was sticking to you like a second skin as you carefully toiled over the hood of the red Porsche in front of you.
Swanky, and boy was she beautiful. The type of girl you would know how to treat right. Much nicer than any of the cars that usually care through here, but hey the boss sure knew some nice people.
The sun was burning down on your back in a way that was sure to stain the skin.
Oh well, sunscreen was fucking expensive and unnecessary. You only wore it on the special occasions when Cho nagged you after you’d gotten new ink done.
Judging by his instructions two weeks prior, you should probably be lathering it all over you, but oh well, he could shove it.
A break would be really nice right now, but you didn’t want Toji or Kuna on your ass.
So instead, you sat on the hood of the car and wiped your brow with the back of your hand before replacing the baseball cap on your head.
The Porsche hummed under you, the clutch was worn and the vacuum was cracked. It should fetch you a good price when you get around to fixing it.
You lazily reached into the pockets of your loose jeans to pull out a pack of Marlboro reds and lit one with the flick on your hand.
Fuck, life was boring. Paycheck to paycheck and you weren’t even making enough to go drinking, let alone pay the rent on that shitty apartment, which was the reason you were couch surfing or sleeping on the linoleum tiles of the office, or inside the car you were working on at that exact moment.
Yuki’s place was your usual spot, but she kicked you out occasionally so she could hook up with whatever pathetic man she had brought home.
She was the closest thing to any sort of mother you had ever had actually.
Sure, enough there was a loud bang from behind the glass that connected the office to the garage.
“GET BACK TO WORK YOU FUCKING DEADBEAT! DON’T YOU DARE MESS UP THAT FUCKING CAR! FUCKING DUMBASS!”
Jeez, Sukuna was angry on a normal day, but this was a whole new level. The boss must’ve been on his ass about keeping this beaut in perfect condition as well.
After flipping him your middle finger you hopped off the car and stubbed out your cigarette.
Jeez, it was going to be a long day.
--
Now, it just wasn’t fair.
You were sitting by the side of the Porsche as you tucked into yet another beer, watching the stars glint like little headlights above your head.
Yeah, sure you were a lightweight, whatever?
This sexy car probably had a nice home, and what did you have? Nothing? Heck, you hadn’t even lined up a couch to sleep on tonight and right now it was looking like it was gonna be the office floor. Or…
Your eyes wandered to the shiny car behind you, Sukuna wouldn’t notice if you slept in it tonight. Heck, that bum probably would be late to work like usual and you would have plenty of time to clean up. He wouldn’t notice shit.
And so, you carefully climbed in, sprawling your legs over the driver’s seat, one resting against the steering wheel and the other pressed against the shiny glass window. You balanced your phone, cigarettes and beer bottle against the dash before slowly pulling your cap down over your eyes and letting sleep take you.
--
Maybe Sukuna, for once in his deadbeat life had been right for once. Because he was right, you really were a dumbass.
The first thing that registered in your addled brain where bright harsh lights pouring down on you, then a sharp pain in your foot. Once you opened your eyes you were met with yet another joy, two large, muscled tan arms, which were tightly folded above your head. And you knew exactly who they belonged to.
Shit.
You scrambled up and felt an even sharper stabbing sensation into your left ankle; you let your eyes drag upwards and catch the sight of a shattered car door window by the driver’s side.
Uh Oh.
The pain of the glass digging into your skin was a secondary pain to the next sensation that met you. Through the window behind your sleeping form, you could see a tall, tanned man, blonde slicked back hair coupled with a pair of thick sunglasses.
Nanami.
“Boss.”
You said in a slurred tone as you turned to look at him behind you. Further behind him you could see Sukuna, who genuinely looked like he was about to beat your ass. Toji was next to him and surveyed the situation with more lazy amusement than actual anger. Yuki was lurking somewhere further in the garage, smoking a pack.
“Get your foot out of the fucking window before it gets cut further.”
Squirming out of the car, you found yourself awkwardly standing next to it, taking in the damage. Your beer had spilled onto the plush white leather seats, which were also now dusted in your own sweat and cigarette ash. That damage was secondary to the smashed window which had caused incisions into your leg and the leather upholstery.
“Why on earth, under any good reason were you sleeping in a client’s car?”
His voice was level and deadly, he was even scarier than Sukuna in situations like this, it felt like he could cut you into bits with his words.
|
Sparks
Grease was sticking to you like a second skin as you carefully toiled over the hood of the red Porsche in front of you.
Swanky, and boy was she beautiful. The type of girl you would know how to treat right. Much nicer than any of the cars that usually care through here, but hey the boss sure knew some nice people.
The sun was burning down on your back in a way that was sure to stain the skin.
Oh well, sunscreen was fucking expensive and unnecessary. You only wore it on the special occasions when Cho nagged you after you’d gotten new ink done.
Judging by his instructions two weeks prior, you should probably be lathering it all over you, but oh well, he could shove it.
A break would be really nice right now, but you didn’t want Toji or Kuna on your ass.
So instead, you sat on the hood of the car and wiped your brow with the back of your hand before replacing the baseball cap on your head.
The Porsche hummed under you, the clutch was worn and the vacuum was cracked. It should fetch you a good price when you get around to fixing it.
You lazily reached into the pockets of your loose jeans to pull out a pack of Marlboro reds and lit one with the flick on your hand.
Fuck, life was boring. Paycheck to paycheck and you weren’t even making enough to go drinking, let alone pay the rent on that shitty apartment, which was the reason you were couch surfing or sleeping on the linoleum tiles of the office, or inside the car you were working on at that exact moment.
Yuki’s place was your usual spot, but she kicked you out occasionally so she could hook up with whatever pathetic man she had brought home.
She was the closest thing to any sort of mother you had ever had actually.
Sure, enough there was a loud bang from behind the glass that connected the office to the garage.
“GET BACK TO WORK YOU FUCKING DEADBEAT! DON’T YOU DARE MESS UP THAT FUCKING CAR! FUCKING DUMBASS!”
Jeez, Sukuna was angry on a normal day, but this was a whole new level. The boss must’ve been on his ass about keeping this beaut in perfect condition as well.
After flipping him your middle finger you hopped off the car and stubbed out your cigarette.
Jeez, it was going to be a long day.
--
Now, it just wasn’t fair.
You were sitting by the side of the Porsche as you tucked into yet another beer, watching the stars glint like little headlights above your head.
Yeah, sure you were a lightweight, whatever?
This sexy car probably had a nice home, and what did you have? Nothing? Heck, you hadn’t even lined up a couch to sleep on tonight and right now it was looking like it was gonna be the office floor. Or…
Your eyes wandered to the shiny car behind you, Sukuna wouldn’t notice if you slept in it tonight. Heck, that bum probably would be late to work like usual and you would have plenty of time to clean up. He wouldn’t notice shit.
And so, you carefully climbed in, sprawling your legs over the driver’s seat, one resting against the steering wheel and the other pressed against the shiny glass window. You balanced your phone, cigarettes and beer bottle against the dash before slowly pulling your cap down over your eyes and letting sleep take you.
--
Maybe Sukuna, for once in his deadbeat life had been right for once. Because he was right, you really were a dumbass.
The first thing that registered in your addled brain where bright harsh lights pouring down on you, then a sharp pain in your foot. Once you opened your eyes you were met with yet another joy, two large, muscled tan arms, which were tightly folded above your head. And you knew exactly who they belonged to.
Shit.
You scrambled up and felt an even sharper stabbing sensation into your left ankle; you let your eyes drag upwards and catch the sight of a shattered car door window by the driver’s side.
Uh Oh.
The pain of the glass digging into your skin was a secondary pain to the next sensation that met you. Through the window behind your sleeping form, you could see a tall, tanned man, blonde slicked back hair coupled with a pair of thick sunglasses.
Nanami.
“Boss.”
You said in a slurred tone as you turned to look at him behind you. Further behind him you could see Sukuna, who genuinely looked like he was about to beat your ass. Toji was next to him and surveyed the situation with more lazy amusement than actual anger. Yuki was lurking somewhere further in the garage, smoking a pack.
“Get your foot out of the fucking window before it gets cut further.”
Squirming out of the car, you found yourself awkwardly standing next to it, taking in the damage. Your beer had spilled onto the plush white leather seats, which were also now dusted in your own sweat and cigarette ash. That damage was secondary to the smashed window which had caused incisions into your leg and the leather upholstery.
“Why on earth, under any good reason were you sleeping in a client’s car?”
His voice was level and deadly, he was even scarier than Sukuna in situations like this, it felt like he could cut you into bits with his words.
“Boss I-”
Yuki stepped forward, cutting through your words artfully as she carefully inspected the mirror.
“I asked her to work overtime on the car this night. I take responsibility. I overworked her, Sir.”
She shot a glare at Sukuna, a subtle reminder that she was the one who owned this garage, even if she let him play manager from time to time.
He swallowed thickly and had the decency to look slightly put out as he kicked a pebble with his foot.
Nanami watched both you and Yuki thoughtfully, he knew Yuki had a knack for protecting you regardless of the situation. But he did trust her, he gave her full ownership of the garages he owned and they went deep. But still, he wasn’t going to let you get away with this.
“Go sweep up the glass.”
He said bluntly, giving you a stern look which sent you scampering to find a dustpan and brush.
Jesus he was one scary mother fucker.
You glanced over your shoulder to see Yuki carefully talking to him, gesturing to the beer bottle and saying things like “rough time” and “we’re trying to get her out of drinking.”
He was silent like usual and regarded you with steely gaze as you sweep up the glass shards by the side of the door.
“This won’t happen again.”
“Yes sir.”
You mumbled in an uncharacteristically meek voice, not lifting your head.
He sighed loudly before continuing.
“The owner, and personal friend of mine will be coming over to see the car. You will personally explain the situation and apologize, profusely.”
“Yes sir.”
Another loud sigh and he turned to look over the lot of you, and the garage.
“All of you need to clean yourselves and this place up. Especially you,”
Of course, the sentiment was aimed at you, of course.
“Yes sir.”
And with that, and the sound of smart dress shoes thumping, he left.
“I can’t fucking believe you! What are you a fucking raccoon! Why are you sleeping in our clients-”
“Sukuna enough.”
Yuki’s voice was strict, enough to shut both of you up, probably enough to shut anything up for that matter.
You slowly straightened up with the dustpan, and you were given probably your 50th dirty look of the morning.
“Go get changed and wash up. You heard what he said.”
“Yes ma’am.”
And with that you scurried off. Jesus you were being pathetic today.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75656771
|
{"authors": ["pinky_09_pie"], "language": "English", "title": "Sparks"}
|
Bathtime loven
The door shuts behind them with a heavy, hollow sound—one that feels like it carries the weight of the entire day. Dust still clings to the edges of their clothes, the faint scent of curses lingering in the air like smoke.
Gojo exhales slowly, letting the tension bleed out of him in half-shaky waves. Suguru stands beside him, still and quiet, his shoulders set in that familiar way that tells Gojo he’s been holding himself together for too long.
“Suguru,” Gojo says softly, not loud enough to startle, just enough to draw his eyes. “Bath?” Suguru huffs a tired chuckle. “Is that your way of saying I look like hell?” Gojo moves closer, fingers brushing Suguru’s sleeve. “It’s my way of saying you deserve to feel human again.”
Suguru’s expression softens—barely, but enough.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Lead the way.”
Warm Water, Soft Edges
The bathroom fills with steam quickly, softening the sharp corners of the tile and smoothing the harshness of the world outside. Gojo moves with practiced ease, gathering towels, adjusting the water temperature, dropping in Suguru’s favorite cedar-scented oil like he’s done this a hundred times.
Suguru watches him with a tired fondness that he’ll deny later. “Are you going to keep fussing,” Suguru asks, “or actually get in with me?” Gojo gives him a look. “Fussing is love, thank you.”
“Then you must love me a great deal.”
Gojo pauses—just a beat—before answering quietly,
“…Yeah. I do.”
Suguru’s breath catches, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he steps into the bath, the warm water enveloping him in a slow, comforting embrace. A soft sigh escapes him, long and low, the kind he rarely allows anyone to hear.
Gojo stares.
Suguru cracks an eye open. “Get in, Satoru.”
“Yes, sir,” Gojo mutters, slipping in behind him.
The water ripples around them, warm and weightless. Suguru leans back into Gojo’s chest without hesitation, his wet hair brushing Gojo’s shoulder. Their bodies fit together with thoughtless familiarity, like this is something they’ve always done, even if they never admitted it.
Gojo wraps his arms around Suguru’s middle—gentle, steady, grounding.
Suguru lets out another quiet sound. More relaxed now. More at ease.
“Comfortable?” Gojo murmurs.
Suguru nods. “You always run the bath perfectly.”
“Of course I do,” Gojo says, kissing the corner of his jaw. “I’m perfect.”
Suguru snorts softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously perfect,” Gojo corrects.
But Suguru’s smile lingers.
Little Tender Things
“Lean forward,” Gojo says, reaching for the small bucket.
Suguru does, water lapping against his collarbones.
Gojo pours warm water over his shoulders, watching it slide down Suguru’s skin—over the curves of muscle, the subtle scars, the places only Gojo knows by heart. Suguru breathes in deeply, the heat loosening knots that have sat in him for hours.
Gojo grabs the shampoo and begins to wash Suguru’s hair, his fingers massaging slow circles into his scalp.
Suguru goes boneless.
“I should hire you,” Suguru murmurs, voice rumbling low. “Oh? Good benefits?” “The best. Unlimited access to me.”
Gojo smirks. “Already redeemed that one.” Suguru laughs quietly—a warm, tired sound that loosens something deep in Gojo’s chest. The longer Gojo works, the more Suguru melts. His shoulders drop. His breath steadies. His eyes close again, lashes relaxed instead of furrowed.
“You’re tired,” Gojo murmurs, softening.
Suguru nods. “You always notice.”
“Of course I notice.”
Gojo rinses his hair gently. “You think I don’t pay attention to you?”
Suguru says nothing for a moment. Then, quietly—
“I think you pay attention to everything except yourself.”
Gojo pauses, hands in Suguru’s hair.
Suguru turns slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against Gojo’s cheek.
“You scared me today,” Suguru admits quietly.
Gojo breathes out, steady. “But I’m here.”
“I know,” Suguru whispers, closing his eyes. “That’s why I can say it.”
Gojo shifts, pulling him back fully against his chest, wrapping both arms around Suguru’s torso. He presses a kiss to the side of Suguru’s head—slow, lingering, careful.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gojo murmurs. “Not as long as you’re here.”
Suguru’s fingers find Gojo’s hand under the water, lacing together without hesitation.
“I know,” he says again. “I just… needed to hear it.”
Gojo squeezes his hand.
“You’ll hear it as many times as you want.”
Warm Quiet
For a long moment, they sit like that—steam rising softly around them, water warm against their skin, their breaths syncing without effort. Suguru leans heavier into him, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of Gojo’s heartbeat behind him.
Gojo sways them gently, subtle movements meant only for Suguru to feel.
“Relaxing?” Gojo asks quietly.
Suguru hums. “Mm. Could stay here forever.”
“Then we will,” Gojo whispers, nose brushing Suguru’s temple. “I’ll run the water until it evaporates.”
Suguru chuckles under his breath. “Wasteful.”
“Romantic.”
“Stupid,” Suguru corrects, but his voice is thick with fondness.
Gojo smiles
|
Bathtime loven
The door shuts behind them with a heavy, hollow sound—one that feels like it carries the weight of the entire day. Dust still clings to the edges of their clothes, the faint scent of curses lingering in the air like smoke.
Gojo exhales slowly, letting the tension bleed out of him in half-shaky waves. Suguru stands beside him, still and quiet, his shoulders set in that familiar way that tells Gojo he’s been holding himself together for too long.
“Suguru,” Gojo says softly, not loud enough to startle, just enough to draw his eyes. “Bath?” Suguru huffs a tired chuckle. “Is that your way of saying I look like hell?” Gojo moves closer, fingers brushing Suguru’s sleeve. “It’s my way of saying you deserve to feel human again.”
Suguru’s expression softens—barely, but enough.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Lead the way.”
Warm Water, Soft Edges
The bathroom fills with steam quickly, softening the sharp corners of the tile and smoothing the harshness of the world outside. Gojo moves with practiced ease, gathering towels, adjusting the water temperature, dropping in Suguru’s favorite cedar-scented oil like he’s done this a hundred times.
Suguru watches him with a tired fondness that he’ll deny later. “Are you going to keep fussing,” Suguru asks, “or actually get in with me?” Gojo gives him a look. “Fussing is love, thank you.”
“Then you must love me a great deal.”
Gojo pauses—just a beat—before answering quietly,
“…Yeah. I do.”
Suguru’s breath catches, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he steps into the bath, the warm water enveloping him in a slow, comforting embrace. A soft sigh escapes him, long and low, the kind he rarely allows anyone to hear.
Gojo stares.
Suguru cracks an eye open. “Get in, Satoru.”
“Yes, sir,” Gojo mutters, slipping in behind him.
The water ripples around them, warm and weightless. Suguru leans back into Gojo’s chest without hesitation, his wet hair brushing Gojo’s shoulder. Their bodies fit together with thoughtless familiarity, like this is something they’ve always done, even if they never admitted it.
Gojo wraps his arms around Suguru’s middle—gentle, steady, grounding.
Suguru lets out another quiet sound. More relaxed now. More at ease.
“Comfortable?” Gojo murmurs.
Suguru nods. “You always run the bath perfectly.”
“Of course I do,” Gojo says, kissing the corner of his jaw. “I’m perfect.”
Suguru snorts softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously perfect,” Gojo corrects.
But Suguru’s smile lingers.
Little Tender Things
“Lean forward,” Gojo says, reaching for the small bucket.
Suguru does, water lapping against his collarbones.
Gojo pours warm water over his shoulders, watching it slide down Suguru’s skin—over the curves of muscle, the subtle scars, the places only Gojo knows by heart. Suguru breathes in deeply, the heat loosening knots that have sat in him for hours.
Gojo grabs the shampoo and begins to wash Suguru’s hair, his fingers massaging slow circles into his scalp.
Suguru goes boneless.
“I should hire you,” Suguru murmurs, voice rumbling low. “Oh? Good benefits?” “The best. Unlimited access to me.”
Gojo smirks. “Already redeemed that one.” Suguru laughs quietly—a warm, tired sound that loosens something deep in Gojo’s chest. The longer Gojo works, the more Suguru melts. His shoulders drop. His breath steadies. His eyes close again, lashes relaxed instead of furrowed.
“You’re tired,” Gojo murmurs, softening.
Suguru nods. “You always notice.”
“Of course I notice.”
Gojo rinses his hair gently. “You think I don’t pay attention to you?”
Suguru says nothing for a moment. Then, quietly—
“I think you pay attention to everything except yourself.”
Gojo pauses, hands in Suguru’s hair.
Suguru turns slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against Gojo’s cheek.
“You scared me today,” Suguru admits quietly.
Gojo breathes out, steady. “But I’m here.”
“I know,” Suguru whispers, closing his eyes. “That’s why I can say it.”
Gojo shifts, pulling him back fully against his chest, wrapping both arms around Suguru’s torso. He presses a kiss to the side of Suguru’s head—slow, lingering, careful.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Gojo murmurs. “Not as long as you’re here.”
Suguru’s fingers find Gojo’s hand under the water, lacing together without hesitation.
“I know,” he says again. “I just… needed to hear it.”
Gojo squeezes his hand.
“You’ll hear it as many times as you want.”
Warm Quiet
For a long moment, they sit like that—steam rising softly around them, water warm against their skin, their breaths syncing without effort. Suguru leans heavier into him, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of Gojo’s heartbeat behind him.
Gojo sways them gently, subtle movements meant only for Suguru to feel.
“Relaxing?” Gojo asks quietly.
Suguru hums. “Mm. Could stay here forever.”
“Then we will,” Gojo whispers, nose brushing Suguru’s temple. “I’ll run the water until it evaporates.”
Suguru chuckles under his breath. “Wasteful.”
“Romantic.”
“Stupid,” Suguru corrects, but his voice is thick with fondness.
Gojo smiles against his skin.
“I like you soft like this.”
“I’m not soft,” Suguru mutters weakly.
“You’re literally melting on me.”
Suguru sinks lower in the water. “Shut up.”
Gojo kisses the top of his head.
“Make me.”
Suguru sighs… and turns around.
Water shifts, warm and gentle, as Suguru moves to face Gojo fully, knees brushing his hips. He cups Gojo’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones, water dripping from his fingers.
Gojo stills.
Suguru’s voice drops to something quiet, honest, unguarded.
“You did well today,” he murmurs. “You always do.”
Gojo swallows. “So did you.”
Suguru leans forward, resting his forehead against Gojo’s.
Their noses brush.
Their breaths mingle.
Everything slows.
“Thank you,” Suguru whispers—not dramatic, not heavy, just sincere.
“For being here.”
Gojo’s hands settle on Suguru’s waist, holding him like he’s something precious, something irreplaceable.
“There’s nowhere else I’d be,” Gojo answers softly.
Suguru kisses him. Gentle. Slow. Warm. The kind of kiss that feels like soaking in sunlight after hours of cold.
Gojo melts into it instantly.
When they part, Suguru rests his head against Gojo’s shoulder, letting himself be held.
“Stay like this,” Suguru murmurs.
Gojo wraps his arms around him again, chin resting lightly on his head.
“I’m not moving,” he says. “Promise.”
Suguru hums in contentment, eyes drifting shut as the warm bath and Gojo’s steady presence cradle him in quiet safety.
And for the first time all day, the world outside finally feels far away.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-13T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75656776
|
{"authors": ["Buddiesupporter118"], "language": "English", "title": "Bathtime loven"}
|
Has no idea what the fuck to name this shit ^^!
Kokichi-kuns Pov:
As me and my brother Harry were sitting on the train a ginger came and sat with us, than a brown haired nerd. They kind of reminded me of my past classmates! As I started to drift off to sleep I couldn't tell what's real but all i see is that fucking hydraulic press, Kaito with a worried look but still trying to seem strong..
I'm scared.
Please let me out.
I hope this is a dream!
But than i notice the press is starting to lower, I wanna cry, but I just lay there smiling. It's for the others I remind myself. But those words keep repeating in my head
"Your alone and always will be Kokichi" why- it's my fault I know, but I won't let them be sad that I'm dead:).. just then my body went pale, I'm scared..
I'm scared
I'm sacred
1'M SČ̣@=3Ð
CLANG!
...
I wake up wide eyes, scared, but Harry, and Ron don't seem to notice.. Hermione did.
"Uhm Kokichi? Are you okay-"
"Mhm!! Pfttt your so silly mione!! Ofc I'm fine lolol!!" I quickly put on the act cutting her off.
"We're here!! Look harry!"
The four if us got off the hogwarts express, standing in shock at the tall building, just then Two blondes came up to us the girl, she looked like miu..
We looked at eachother shocked. Just than the blonde boy spoke up.
"Yall two must be the potters? I can tell by the scar on Harry's head and scared on Kokichis neck, let me introduce me and my sisters name, I'm Draco Malfoy, and she isMiu Malfoy."
SO I was right. She is Miu. Miu looked like she about to tear up.. it's been a long time, just than the stupid idiot who named himself as Draco spoke up.
"Trust me harry, I can help you decide who your friends are and who they should be."
What an idiot bro >:(!
"I'm pretty sure I can choose my own friends."
"Nishishihishsih~ Harry is right he dosen't need your help bozo!"
"W-WHAT?? Your making a VERY DUMB CHOICE HARRY."
Draco and Miu walked away Miu handing me a very small wave and slight smile.
TIME SKIP TO THE SORTING HAT!!
Apparently my old classmates from hopes peak are here too. It was my turn for the sorting hat .
"Hmmm... your very smart indeed.. you could possibly qualify for ravenclaw... but you have more potential in slytherin..."
"SLYTHERIN!"
Draco smirked, harry, who got into griffindor looked sad, and confused. Some people looked disgusted and surprised, but I just kept walking over to the slytherin table.
After the sorting we were making our ways ti the houses.
This chapter was probably short <33
Bye bye guyss!!
-Bazil-chan!!
|
Has no idea what the fuck to name this shit ^^!
Kokichi-kuns Pov:
As me and my brother Harry were sitting on the train a ginger came and sat with us, than a brown haired nerd. They kind of reminded me of my past classmates! As I started to drift off to sleep I couldn't tell what's real but all i see is that fucking hydraulic press, Kaito with a worried look but still trying to seem strong..
I'm scared.
Please let me out.
I hope this is a dream!
But than i notice the press is starting to lower, I wanna cry, but I just lay there smiling. It's for the others I remind myself. But those words keep repeating in my head
"Your alone and always will be Kokichi" why- it's my fault I know, but I won't let them be sad that I'm dead:).. just then my body went pale, I'm scared..
I'm scared
I'm sacred
1'M SČ̣@=3Ð
CLANG!
...
I wake up wide eyes, scared, but Harry, and Ron don't seem to notice.. Hermione did.
"Uhm Kokichi? Are you okay-"
"Mhm!! Pfttt your so silly mione!! Ofc I'm fine lolol!!" I quickly put on the act cutting her off.
"We're here!! Look harry!"
The four if us got off the hogwarts express, standing in shock at the tall building, just then Two blondes came up to us the girl, she looked like miu..
We looked at eachother shocked. Just than the blonde boy spoke up.
"Yall two must be the potters? I can tell by the scar on Harry's head and scared on Kokichis neck, let me introduce me and my sisters name, I'm Draco Malfoy, and she isMiu Malfoy."
SO I was right. She is Miu. Miu looked like she about to tear up.. it's been a long time, just than the stupid idiot who named himself as Draco spoke up.
"Trust me harry, I can help you decide who your friends are and who they should be."
What an idiot bro >:(!
"I'm pretty sure I can choose my own friends."
"Nishishihishsih~ Harry is right he dosen't need your help bozo!"
"W-WHAT?? Your making a VERY DUMB CHOICE HARRY."
Draco and Miu walked away Miu handing me a very small wave and slight smile.
TIME SKIP TO THE SORTING HAT!!
Apparently my old classmates from hopes peak are here too. It was my turn for the sorting hat .
"Hmmm... your very smart indeed.. you could possibly qualify for ravenclaw... but you have more potential in slytherin..."
"SLYTHERIN!"
Draco smirked, harry, who got into griffindor looked sad, and confused. Some people looked disgusted and surprised, but I just kept walking over to the slytherin table.
After the sorting we were making our ways ti the houses.
This chapter was probably short <33
Bye bye guyss!!
-Bazil-chan!!
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75660971/chapters/197872361
|
{"authors": ["BAZILISaroace"], "language": "English", "title": "Has no idea what the fuck to name this shit ^^!"}
|
Alive and Well
Harry James Potter was a hero. Just over three months ago, he defeated the darkest wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort. It came at a cost: the lives of some of the people he cared about. The first to die from the Second Wizarding War was Cedric Diggory, just an innocent who lost his life to a newly risen Voldemort. Soon after, Harry;s own godfather Sirius Black was killed when he fell through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. Headmaster Dumbledore died when he was killed by Severus Snape. The Final Battle claimed the lives of Snape, Remus, Tonks, Fred Weasley, and Harry’s own girlfriend, Daenerys Targaryen, a transfer student from the United States.
Harry could not bear the grief that crippled him after the war. A month after the Final Battle, Ron and Herimone discovered a passed out Harry in the bathroom. He had attempted suicide by slitting his wrists. After spending a week at St. Mungos, he was moved to the Psych Ward. He was there for two months before being given the all clear from the muggle born mind healer that he could be discharged. Ron and Herimone convinced him to return to Hogwarts for their seventh year. After much consideration, he was finally persuaded and soon found himself on the Hogwarts Express. Harry was a little apprehensive about going back, but after much reassurance from his friends, he decided that he wouldn’t mess up their lives anymore and did what they suggested.
Harry felt his chest tighten with anxiety as he thought about all the people he had lost within the last two years or so. He was reminded of what Dumbledore had once told him, “You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?” Dumbledore had had a point. After the war had ended, Harry was left with the ghosts of his past. His physical scars-minus the one that would forever remain on his head- had healed, but the emotional ones would take time. But he had his friends by his side. He still had a long road ahead, but he would make a full recovery.
Harry sighed and looked over at his friends as they put their heads over a book. He smiled fondly as he watched the couple and thought back to when they had gotten together. Right in the middle of the Final Battle, of all places. Harry thought it was piss poor timing, but nonetheless he was still happy for them. As he continued to stare at them, the thought of losing them suddenly crossed his mind. He found himself blinking back tears, so he turned to face the window again.
He must have drifted off in the abyss of his thoughts because he gave a startled jump when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He immediately pulled out his wand and put it in Ron’s surprised face.
“Easy, mate.” Ron murmured in a tone he hoped was calm. “It’s just me.”
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath to settle his nerves. Ron and Herimone exchanged a worried glance. It had been months since the Final Battle and they knew that it had broken him, but they were damn determined to help him in any way they could.
Harry opened his eyes and met their gaze. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I was just startled.”
“I’m the one that’s sorry, Harry.” Ron said. “I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that. I just wanted to tell you that we’re here.”
Harry nodded and having grabbed his belongings, he left the train and followed his friends.
Harry had barely taken two steps into the castle when the Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall bombarded him and motioned for him to follow her. As they were walking to what used to be Professor Dumbledore’s office, Harry wondered what he had done to be escorted to her office. As far as he knew, he had done nothing wrong. The two continued to walk in silence until they reached the statue of the griffin, the entrance to the office.
“Dumbledore’s Army.” McGonagall said, and Harry couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips. Memories raced through his head as he recalled the secret army that he had raised during his fifth year, months before he was tricked by Voldemort that caused the death of his beloved godfather.
The stairway opened, and the two climbed the stairs and walked into the office that Harry had assumed that he would never see again. It was the same, except there was a portrait of Snape and McGonagall next to one of Dumbledore, hung up with the previous Headmasters. The Snape portrait sneered at him, and Harry smiled back warmly. Portrait Snape just stared.
“Have a seat, Potter.” McGonagall commanded as she sat on the other side of the desk. She took a moment after sitting herself down to scrutinize the young man in front of her. She could see the dark circles under his eyes indicating not enough sleep. He was pale, and his eyes were void of life and it made Minerva sad to see the effects of the war on her favorite pupil. She vowed to make it better, and she was just about to do that.
“How are you coping, Mr. Potter?” she suddenly asked. Harry flinched from the sudden
|
Alive and Well
Harry James Potter was a hero. Just over three months ago, he defeated the darkest wizard of all time, Lord Voldemort. It came at a cost: the lives of some of the people he cared about. The first to die from the Second Wizarding War was Cedric Diggory, just an innocent who lost his life to a newly risen Voldemort. Soon after, Harry;s own godfather Sirius Black was killed when he fell through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. Headmaster Dumbledore died when he was killed by Severus Snape. The Final Battle claimed the lives of Snape, Remus, Tonks, Fred Weasley, and Harry’s own girlfriend, Daenerys Targaryen, a transfer student from the United States.
Harry could not bear the grief that crippled him after the war. A month after the Final Battle, Ron and Herimone discovered a passed out Harry in the bathroom. He had attempted suicide by slitting his wrists. After spending a week at St. Mungos, he was moved to the Psych Ward. He was there for two months before being given the all clear from the muggle born mind healer that he could be discharged. Ron and Herimone convinced him to return to Hogwarts for their seventh year. After much consideration, he was finally persuaded and soon found himself on the Hogwarts Express. Harry was a little apprehensive about going back, but after much reassurance from his friends, he decided that he wouldn’t mess up their lives anymore and did what they suggested.
Harry felt his chest tighten with anxiety as he thought about all the people he had lost within the last two years or so. He was reminded of what Dumbledore had once told him, “You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don’t recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble?” Dumbledore had had a point. After the war had ended, Harry was left with the ghosts of his past. His physical scars-minus the one that would forever remain on his head- had healed, but the emotional ones would take time. But he had his friends by his side. He still had a long road ahead, but he would make a full recovery.
Harry sighed and looked over at his friends as they put their heads over a book. He smiled fondly as he watched the couple and thought back to when they had gotten together. Right in the middle of the Final Battle, of all places. Harry thought it was piss poor timing, but nonetheless he was still happy for them. As he continued to stare at them, the thought of losing them suddenly crossed his mind. He found himself blinking back tears, so he turned to face the window again.
He must have drifted off in the abyss of his thoughts because he gave a startled jump when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He immediately pulled out his wand and put it in Ron’s surprised face.
“Easy, mate.” Ron murmured in a tone he hoped was calm. “It’s just me.”
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath to settle his nerves. Ron and Herimone exchanged a worried glance. It had been months since the Final Battle and they knew that it had broken him, but they were damn determined to help him in any way they could.
Harry opened his eyes and met their gaze. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I was just startled.”
“I’m the one that’s sorry, Harry.” Ron said. “I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that. I just wanted to tell you that we’re here.”
Harry nodded and having grabbed his belongings, he left the train and followed his friends.
Harry had barely taken two steps into the castle when the Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall bombarded him and motioned for him to follow her. As they were walking to what used to be Professor Dumbledore’s office, Harry wondered what he had done to be escorted to her office. As far as he knew, he had done nothing wrong. The two continued to walk in silence until they reached the statue of the griffin, the entrance to the office.
“Dumbledore’s Army.” McGonagall said, and Harry couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips. Memories raced through his head as he recalled the secret army that he had raised during his fifth year, months before he was tricked by Voldemort that caused the death of his beloved godfather.
The stairway opened, and the two climbed the stairs and walked into the office that Harry had assumed that he would never see again. It was the same, except there was a portrait of Snape and McGonagall next to one of Dumbledore, hung up with the previous Headmasters. The Snape portrait sneered at him, and Harry smiled back warmly. Portrait Snape just stared.
“Have a seat, Potter.” McGonagall commanded as she sat on the other side of the desk. She took a moment after sitting herself down to scrutinize the young man in front of her. She could see the dark circles under his eyes indicating not enough sleep. He was pale, and his eyes were void of life and it made Minerva sad to see the effects of the war on her favorite pupil. She vowed to make it better, and she was just about to do that.
“How are you coping, Mr. Potter?” she suddenly asked. Harry flinched from the sudden tone she used.
“I[‘m managing.” he replied, looking everywhere except at the Headmistress. If he had looked, he would have seen the tears well up in her eyes. They were gone when Harry finally made eye contact. She took a deep breath and spoke in a much gentler tone than before, secretly bracing herself for what she was going to say.
“I know that you have been hospitalized for the past few months.” she began. “But something remarkable has happened, something not even I can explain.” McGonagall gave the boy a look over her spectacles. Harry stared blankly back at her. Minerva suddenly reached into her desk and pulled out the recent Daily Prophet and handed it over to Harry, who took it with shaking hands. He was hit with a picture of his parents, with Sirius and Remus. Harry froze and after a few moments of shock, began to read the article.
“Victims of Wizarding Wars Return From The Dead!”
“In all of wizarding history, there has never been any case where a witch or wizard who had died returning from the dead. It had been considered impossible. Many have tried and failed to resurrect their loved ones to no avail. It had been said that You-Know-Who had been looking for ways to resurrect his loyal Death Eaters from death during his reign of terror.
It isn’t known how it was possible, but four victims of the last two Wizarding Wars were declared alive and well and exactly who they claimed to be: James and Lily Potter, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.
As widely known, James and Lily Potter were murdered by You-Know-Who Halloween night of 1981. When he attempted to murder their young son Harry, the Killing Curse rebounded and separated You-Know-Who from his body, making the wizarding community believe that he was defeated. The Curse left young Harry the first to survive the Killing Curse.
Lily and James were seen last week crawling out of their graves, and immediately searching for their son. They were sent directly to the Ministry to verify their identities.
Soon after, a man was seen wandering the Department of Mysteries after stepping out of the Veil. Ex-convict and Azkaban escapee Sirius Black (who was posthumously declared innocent two months ago) spent twelve years in the Wizarding Prison after allegedly betraying the Potters to You-Know-Who and blowing up a crowd of muggles. It was later proven that it had been Peter Pettigrew who betrayed the Potters and framed Black. Two months ago, Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt declared him cleared of all charges.
It was two years after his escape from Azkaban that Black was killed in the Department of Mysteries by his deranged, Death Eater cousin Bellatrix Lestrange, considered You-Know-Who’s most loyal follower. She had flung a curse at Black, causing him to slip and fall right into the Veil.
The last to return from the dead was werewolf and former Defense Against The Dark Arts Professor Remus Lupin. He had been killed three months ago during the Final Battle when he was hit by a curse from vicious Death Eater Antonin Dolohov, who was notorious for torturing muggles, witches and wizards in the first Wizarding War.
Lupin is considered the first werewolf to be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class for his bravery in the Final Battle. His life and death have paved the way for werewolves to have a better life, becoming the inspiration behind Lupin’s Law, a legislation that prohibits discrimination against werewolves in the workplace and the general public. For the first time, werewolves are able to hold positions of power like werewolf Abel Montgomery, who was elected to be one of Minister Shacklebolt’s advisors just last week.
All four returnees are currently in an undisclosed location. But two questions remain: will more people return and if so, will You-Know-Who?”
Harry stared at the paper in utmost shock, unable to move and unable to think. After the shock wore off, anger rolled in. He distrusted the authenticity of the articles written in The Daily Prophet, especially since they slandered him in his fifth year, calling him “The Boy Who Lied.” After that, he never read a single word of that paper.
He crumpled the article up in his fist and threw it away from him. He stood up and faced McGonagall angrily. Minerva noted that this was the most emotion she had ever seen from one of her Gryffindors.
“What kind of sick game are you playing at?” he snarled in fury. “You know damn well that people can’t return from the dead! Dumbledore himself had said that people can’t come back after dying-” And Harry cut off, choking on a sob. Minerva watched the emotions display themselves on Harry’s face, before settling on grief.
Minerva reached across the desk to take Harry’s hand. “I know this is a lot to take in, Potter.” She said, “It’s really them. I saw them myself. Madame Pompey examined them as well. They’re alive.”
Those words were all it took for the anger to fade away and for the first time in months, Harry felt like a burden was being lifted from his shoulders. He looked directly into McGonagall’s face and saw it in her eyes that she was telling the truth. He believed her.
“When can I see them?” he asked, almost impatiently. McGonagall smiled.
“They’re in the Hospital Wing, in Poppy’s private rooms. I’m sure she will let you in.” Harry immediately turned and ran to the door.
“Potter?” McGonagall’s voice stopped him from exiting. He turned to look at her. “They are so proud of you. So am I.”
Harry smiled. “Thanks Professor.” And he swiftly left the room.
Harry raced down the Halls, heart pounding from a mixture of adrenaline, fear and happiness. He was going to see his family. After all these years, he was finally going to meet his parents.
He reached the Hospital Wing doors and paused at the entrance. Fear suddenly ran rampant in his body. What if his parents didn’t want to see him? What if they believed it was his fault they died? What if they all blamed him for their deaths? Harry felt his heart drop. What if they found out that he had been hospitalized? Would they think that he was a freak? Before Harry could completely freak out, the door opened up to reveal the Hogwarts Healer, Madame Pomprey. Both stared at the other in complete silence.
“So you’ve heard?” she asked finally. Harry nodded.
“Professor McGonagall told me.” he responded, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants. Suddenly the med witch smiled at him.
“Come on in, Potter.” she invited, holding the door open for him. Harry entered the room and frantically glanced over the room for his family but didn’t see them.
“They’re in the private room, dear.” Pomprey said, bottling a vial of the Wolfsbane Potion. Harry’s eyes trailed over to the back door which led to the private room. He gathered his Gryffindor courage and slowly approached the door and braced himself to knock.
(INSIDE THE ROOM)
“Can someone explain to us how we’re all alive?” James Potter announced loudly, throwing up his hands dramatically. Sirius, Remus, and Lily watched with various expressions. Lily rolled her eyes. “Maybe Albus can.” she suggested.
“I don’t think so, Lily.” Remus told her. The others in the room looked over at him. “What do you mean by that, Remus?” she asked.
Remus looked uncomfortable. “Because he’s dead.” he mumbled. “Unless he came back when we did.”
The others gasped. “How?” James breathed, shocked.
“Severus was given orders by Albus to kill him so he did.” Remus shrugged. Sirius stood up, agitated.
“And so Snivelius agreed to do it?” he snarled. Remus nodded. “I was not there so I don’t know the specifics. I would have asked Harry, but he was dealing with enough as it is and I didn’t want to make things worse.”
“BLOODY MERLIN’S SAGGY LEFT TESTICLE!” James bellowed loudly. Lily slapped his arm irritably.
“Would you keep it down?” she hissed.
“What is it, Prongs?” Sirius stared. James turned to face them, his face horrified. “I forgot I had a son!” Sirius stared some more and then burst into laughter. He laughed so hard that he fell off the bed he had just sat down on. Remus smirked and Lily paled.
“Harry!” she cried out. “Oh Merlin James, we have to find him!”
“Do you guys think that the reason that we’re alive is because Harry must have defeated Voldemort?” Sirius piped up. For a few moments, no one said anything and Sirius continued. “Maybe some mysterious force is rewarding Harry for saving the entire Wizarding world.”
“Are you actually making sense, Padfoot?” Remus snickered behind his hand. James grinned in amusement while Lily outright giggled. Sirius looked scandalized. “OI! I am capable of making sense!” he protested. This time, the other three adults burst into laughter. Sirius crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.
The laughter continued until suddenly there was a knock on the door. The laughter immediately ceased. “Uhh, come in?” Sirius slowly said, his hand secretly grabbing his wand from behind his back. The others waited with anxious hearts as they watched the door open.
(HARRY)
Harry knocked, and the laughter inside the Private Room stopped immediately. He took another deep breath and before he opened the door he heard someone speak. “Uhh, come in?” the voice hesitantly said. Harry grabbed the doorknob and slowly turned it and opened the door just as slowly.
Just as the door was opened enough for him to walk through but still not enough for the people inside to see him, Madame Pompey was suddenly there beside him. “Go on, Harry.” she nudged him gently. “They’re waiting.” Harry swallowed, and then slowly, ever so slowly, entered the room, looking behind him and when he turned around….
“AHHHHHH!” Harry cried out, startled at the wand that was suddenly in his face. He tripped over his feet but before he could fall, a hand grabbed him and steadied him. Harry blinked and stared at the long haired man he hadn’t seen in over two years.
The two stared at each other before suddenly, the older man embraced Harry. Harry started trembling in Sirius’s arms. Sirius started rubbing his godson’s back soothingly.
“Oh Merlin, you’ve grown.” he whispered.
“It’s only been three years.” Harry whispered back, tightening his grip on his godfather.”
“Who is it, Padfoot? I can’t see!” A voice suddenly complained. Sirius withdrew from Harry for a moment to respond. “Wouldn’t you like to know, ehh Prongs?” And Harry knew it, right then and there that his father was back there. He bit his lip in anticipation.
“Bloody tell us already!” James cried out impatiently and Harry heard a smack and then his father complained. “Ouch Lily, that hurt!”
“Stop acting like a child then.” a beautiful voice responded. Harry couldn’t help the laughter that escaped him. He doubled over, clenching his stomach as the laughter flooded throughout his body.
“OI! Who’s laughing at me!?”
That made Sirius, who had been observing Harry laugh and the two clung to each other in their amusement.
“ALRIGHT, THAT DOES IT!” And Harry heard loud, angry footsteps approach and then hid behind Sirius as James appeared. “When I find out whoever is laughing at me, I’ll throttle-” James stopped as he stared at Sirius and the person hiding behind him. James frowned.
“Who is that, Padfoot?” he asked. Sirius shrugged, but grinned widely at his friend.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Prongs.”
“Who is he, I am not going to ask you again.” James demanded, taking a step closer to Sirius. Sirius’s eyes widened, and immediately stepped backward toward his godson and accidentally caused Harry to trip and fall to the floor. “Bloody hell, Sirius.” Harry whined.
“Sorry, Harry.” Sirius apologized. James froze.
“Is that…” he could not finish. Harry brushed himself off, standing up and unexpectedly met his father’s eyes. Both of them stared at the almost complete replicas of each other. No one knew what to say or do. Sirius, however, smiled widely and went to retrieve the other two adults who were curious about the visitor they received.
“Dad?”
And James all but burst with happiness at that word. He grinned and both rushed to each other and embraced. Harry smiled against his father’s chest, not knowing that James was doing the same. For a moment, father and son stood, still embraced when Lily and Remus came over. Lily immediately shoved her husband off Harry and she grabbed her son and began attacking him with kisses.
“I was in the middle of hugging him, Lily!” James whined. “Shut up.” was her response. Harry clung to his mother and buried his face in her chest, listening to her heartbeat. Harry opened his eyes after a few moments and looked up to meet Remus’s gaze. Remus beamed at him happily, and Harry smiled back.
Lily finished embracing her son as Remus stepped forward and hugged Harry fondly. The two stood there until Remus pulled away.
“How are you? That’s good, have you seen Tonks? How about Teddy? How’s my son? Why aren’t you answer-” Remus rambled until he was interrupted.
“Remus John Lupin, you have a son!?” Lily shrieked in surprise. The room was silent as everyone stared at Remus. James suddenly grinned.
“I knew you were talking out your arse when you said that you were never getting married and having kids.” He slapped Remus’s back proudly.
“Who’s the mother?” Sirius asked seriously. He had a suspicion on who it might be but he wanted Remus to confirm it.
“Tonks.” Remus replied.
“YOU MARRIED AND HAD A BABY WITH MY COUSIN????” Sirius bellowed, so loudly that Madame Pompey came out of her office to see what the noise was. “Mr. Black, this is a Hospital Wing! Please control yourself!” she scolded, before retreating back to her office. Sirius turned back to Remus, as did everyone else. Remus nodded and turned back to Harry.
“How’s my son?” he asked and frowned when Harry shifted his weight and avoided meeting the werewolf’s eyes. “What is it?” Remus asked, fearing the worst.
“I haven’t seen him.” Harry mumbled, staring at the ground.
“Well, why not?” Remus probed gently. The others waited with bated breath.
“I’ve been at St. Mungos for the past two months. I wasn’t allowed to see him.” Harry tensed, For a few moments, no one said a word, processing what Harry had said.
“Why?” Sirius said, a little too bluntly. Remus gave him an elbow to the ribs.
“Because of reasons.” Harry made sure to keep his wrists covered up to not let them see the scars that resided there.
“You can tell us, sweetheart.” Lily encouraged, running a hand through her son’s hair.
“I can’t.” he whispered, still staring at the floor. James approached his son and hugged him, feeling Harry stiffen. “You don’t have to tell us right away, Harry.” he said, lifting Harry’s head to meet his gaze. “But it does no good to bottle things up. Just ask your Uncle Padfoot.”
Sirius looked away from his upset Prongslet and gave James a mock-glare. “Up your ass with broken glass!”
James snickered, and both Lily and Remus rolled their eyes at Sirius. But Harry felt slightly better at that exchange, letting out a small smile.
“Oh please Sirius, don’t give me that look.” James said, looking over at his long haired friend. “You were always the one bottling things up until they led to outbursts, don’t even deny it.”
Sirius scoffed. “I wouldn’t call them outbursts. I like to call them random fits of anger.”
“That’s the same thing as an outburst, Sirius.” Remus informed the man, who only crossed his arms. Harry couldn’t help but let out a snicker at his godfather’s reaction. Sirius let out a low, continuous growl which made Harry go into fits of giggles. Sirius made it even funnier by sticking out his tongue. Lily rolled her eyes.
“Very mature, Sirius.” She shook her head in mild annoyance.
“Why, thank you, Lily-Flower.” Sirius gave a mock bow.
“That wasn’t a compliment.” Harry informed his godfather.
“And don’t call me Lily-Flower.” Lily added.
James, still standing next to Harry and coughed to hide his laughter. Remus, who was still standing by Harry, decided at that moment to clear his throat loudly. Everyone turned to him.
“What do we do now?” he asked. No one said a word. No one knew what to say.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75658401/chapters/197864541
|
{"authors": ["TonyStarkAlive3000"], "language": "English", "title": "Alive and Well"}
|
Doubt and assurance
A few days after they’ve quietly, tentatively gradually admitted their feelings for each other, looking back now unable to recall who took the final step, and have agreed to keep the developments between them, Audrey sensed something was not right with Siegfried. He was polite as ever and much more amiable than usual, yet she had the distinct feeling he was also trying to keep something from her. At first it made her worried that he thought better of their newfound closeness, that he found her lacking, but then she remembered the last time he behaved this way. It was when she had requested a few days off to attend Mary’s birthday in Sunderland and he was afraid she was leaving, not to come back.
When they were finally alone in the kitchen, before he had the chance to escape, she decided to confront him. As expected he tried to dismiss her suspicions at first, feeling ashamed that he unintentionally and despite his best efforts to the contrary roused her concern, but Audrey quickly turned her famous stare on him and made him bend to her will. He felt it was unfair for him to burden her with his insecurities and was also afraid at times that she was with him not from the pure wish and longing of her heart, but out of some sense of obligation and noble selflessness.
She remembered reminding Tristan that Charlotte and her lot were not better than him, and yet she felt at times beneath Siegfried, for being his employee, a housekeeper and a divorcee. Thinking back to his crucial encouragement for her to go through with her divorce and his advice for her not to care if anyone judged her for it, wasn’t always sufficient to quiet her feelings of inadequacy. She always had a strong sense of self and steady self-worth, however the way her former husband had treated her had eaten away at her confidence as a woman, of her worthiness as a wife, at her abilities to be what a man needed and deserved. While the years have helped lessen her guilt over not being able to save Robert, for eventually leaving him and then divorcing him, his abuse has left permanent scars on how she thought about her potential as a partner.
He sighed. “You are right, I’m afraid.” He said not daring to meet her eyes as he sat at the end of the table and she leaned against the sink.
Despite her own doubts she had assured herself several times that he wouldn't be ashamed of her, but she wasn't so sure now.
“Of what others will think when they learn that you and I … ?”
His eyes snapped up to her and he stood. “Never. I would be remiss if I made you think that. Well, it’s kind of the opposite, actually. I don't feel worthy of you, you deserve so much better. I know you’ve put up with me for more than a decade, which in itself is a great accomplishment, and you know me better than anyone, probably seen most, if not all of my flaws, but… Audrey, you are so good, so precious and pure. You deserve to be cherished and I’m loud and selfish and inconsiderate and… You deserve the best and I'm not it.”
She stepped towards him, resting her hands on him between his chest and shoulders.
“You are the best. The best man I’ve ever known.” She said decidedly, instinctively caressing him in a soothing manner.
He scoffed. “Maybe the best vet in Yorkshire. But not the best person to deserve you.”
“Allow me to be the judge of that. I couldn't imagine a better man to love me even if I tried.”
He still looked at her utterly unconvinced. It broke her heart and filled her with even more affection for him at the same time.
“Who took me in when I had no job, no reference and no place to stay? Who gave me a home and a family when I had neither, but always dreamed of both? Who let me be the lady of the house and boss everyone around even though I was the employee? Who always lets me speak me mind? Who kept me safe all these years? Who gave me my faith back in men? Who offered to drive me to find me son when he weren't speaking to me? Who was there for me, supporting and encouraging me, when I needed it to divorce Robert? Who saved a fox just for me, when I was beside myself with worry, because I didn't know whether me Edward was alive or not? Who notices whenever I’m troubled? Who tells me that I’m remarkable and a marvel, the answer to every question, and all those ridiculous wonderful things? … You do and you did, Siegfried Donald Farnon.”
Her eyes never left his face as she spoke, willing him to believe every single one of her words, and while he lost himself in observing the sparkle of her gaze as he often did, she sensed his continued apprehension, so she pushed on.
“This battered and bruised woman showed up at your doorstep and you have taken her in, no questions asked, saving her. You have given me a safe place to stay, a job to earn my living, a purpose to keep going by allowing me to care for you and your little brother, and with it all freedom to heal and rebuild myself and my life. You never held me back. When I wanted to go to the Lakes …, you let
|
Doubt and assurance
A few days after they’ve quietly, tentatively gradually admitted their feelings for each other, looking back now unable to recall who took the final step, and have agreed to keep the developments between them, Audrey sensed something was not right with Siegfried. He was polite as ever and much more amiable than usual, yet she had the distinct feeling he was also trying to keep something from her. At first it made her worried that he thought better of their newfound closeness, that he found her lacking, but then she remembered the last time he behaved this way. It was when she had requested a few days off to attend Mary’s birthday in Sunderland and he was afraid she was leaving, not to come back.
When they were finally alone in the kitchen, before he had the chance to escape, she decided to confront him. As expected he tried to dismiss her suspicions at first, feeling ashamed that he unintentionally and despite his best efforts to the contrary roused her concern, but Audrey quickly turned her famous stare on him and made him bend to her will. He felt it was unfair for him to burden her with his insecurities and was also afraid at times that she was with him not from the pure wish and longing of her heart, but out of some sense of obligation and noble selflessness.
She remembered reminding Tristan that Charlotte and her lot were not better than him, and yet she felt at times beneath Siegfried, for being his employee, a housekeeper and a divorcee. Thinking back to his crucial encouragement for her to go through with her divorce and his advice for her not to care if anyone judged her for it, wasn’t always sufficient to quiet her feelings of inadequacy. She always had a strong sense of self and steady self-worth, however the way her former husband had treated her had eaten away at her confidence as a woman, of her worthiness as a wife, at her abilities to be what a man needed and deserved. While the years have helped lessen her guilt over not being able to save Robert, for eventually leaving him and then divorcing him, his abuse has left permanent scars on how she thought about her potential as a partner.
He sighed. “You are right, I’m afraid.” He said not daring to meet her eyes as he sat at the end of the table and she leaned against the sink.
Despite her own doubts she had assured herself several times that he wouldn't be ashamed of her, but she wasn't so sure now.
“Of what others will think when they learn that you and I … ?”
His eyes snapped up to her and he stood. “Never. I would be remiss if I made you think that. Well, it’s kind of the opposite, actually. I don't feel worthy of you, you deserve so much better. I know you’ve put up with me for more than a decade, which in itself is a great accomplishment, and you know me better than anyone, probably seen most, if not all of my flaws, but… Audrey, you are so good, so precious and pure. You deserve to be cherished and I’m loud and selfish and inconsiderate and… You deserve the best and I'm not it.”
She stepped towards him, resting her hands on him between his chest and shoulders.
“You are the best. The best man I’ve ever known.” She said decidedly, instinctively caressing him in a soothing manner.
He scoffed. “Maybe the best vet in Yorkshire. But not the best person to deserve you.”
“Allow me to be the judge of that. I couldn't imagine a better man to love me even if I tried.”
He still looked at her utterly unconvinced. It broke her heart and filled her with even more affection for him at the same time.
“Who took me in when I had no job, no reference and no place to stay? Who gave me a home and a family when I had neither, but always dreamed of both? Who let me be the lady of the house and boss everyone around even though I was the employee? Who always lets me speak me mind? Who kept me safe all these years? Who gave me my faith back in men? Who offered to drive me to find me son when he weren't speaking to me? Who was there for me, supporting and encouraging me, when I needed it to divorce Robert? Who saved a fox just for me, when I was beside myself with worry, because I didn't know whether me Edward was alive or not? Who notices whenever I’m troubled? Who tells me that I’m remarkable and a marvel, the answer to every question, and all those ridiculous wonderful things? … You do and you did, Siegfried Donald Farnon.”
Her eyes never left his face as she spoke, willing him to believe every single one of her words, and while he lost himself in observing the sparkle of her gaze as he often did, she sensed his continued apprehension, so she pushed on.
“This battered and bruised woman showed up at your doorstep and you have taken her in, no questions asked, saving her. You have given me a safe place to stay, a job to earn my living, a purpose to keep going by allowing me to care for you and your little brother, and with it all freedom to heal and rebuild myself and my life. You never held me back. When I wanted to go to the Lakes …, you let me go, as did you when me Edward has returned, always telling me I had my own life to live. You not only let me go, you took me back both times. You've always trusted me, I never had to fear that you would retaliate for something I have said or done. I’ve never known an employer who would have put up with me telling them off, buying things from their money and inviting aspiring vets for a job without their permission, but you did. Even when you drink too much, you are never violent. You never hurt others intentionally. You are only ever a danger to yourself, but you’ve let me in, you let me reach you, you allowed me to help, unlike Robert. You let me be your partner in building a family, when I couldn't keep mine together. You might be loud, you might bluster and you might occasionally lack awareness, you might struggle to admit when you were wrong, but you are never driven by bad intentions, you love those in your care so fiercely, I’ve seen you more than once eventually admit and apologize for your mistakes, and being so endearingly earnest in your attempts to make things right. You listen to me and I see how hard you try to do better. That’s the most any of us can do. I enjoy your harmless chaos and you always keeping me on my toes, although don't quote me on that the next time you muck up my floor, loose your keys or holler for me through the house. No day is boring with you, and I prefer you to test me patience each day, rather than me having to be idle or away from you. When you look at me, you make me feel beautiful and like if I were the most precious thing. I have never felt safer, more respected, and truly cherished, then whenever I’m in your arms. I always thought Evelyn Farnon was a lucky woman for having a husband, who was so utterly devoted to her. With me history I should know. Having given away my heart completely once before, and having it broken and mistreated, it took much more time, effort and patience from you, before I was ready to give it to you completely and willingly. You first helped to mend it, and you’ve done so unknowingly, with being the best friend anyone could ask for through it all. You’re a good man, Siegfried Farnon, no matter how much you try to hide it. I have told you before and I don’t mind reminding you of it for the rest of our lives. I count myself so lucky and blessed that you should want to share your life with me. That is if you still want to?”
“Of course I still want to. If you really think nothing and no one could make you happier.” He replied, while finally putting his arms around her waist and she closed her arms around his neck in response. He was astonished by this woman time and again. While he still didn’t feel worthy he knew it would be smart to take her word for it. He also sensed he wasn’t the only one struggling to believe their luck, much as it was unfathomable for him how she could feel that way. “I hope you know you are never too much or not enough. You're perfect to me exactly as you are.”
She was stunned not for the first time how well he could read her, that he knew the right words that she needed to hear in the moment, and he offered them unprompted.
“Maybe we both have to be content with the knowledge that we are deemed worthy by the other.”
“You are right, as always.”
“You've already made me happy, long before we’ve admitted our feelings to each other and you’ve made all my wishes come true.” she beamed up at him in further affirmation.
“All your wishes?” he asked, affronted, a smile hiding in the corner of his lips.
“Well, maybe not all of them, but certainly most of them, and I’m sure you will soon fulfill the rest.” She whispered leaning close to him, before the distance entirely disappeared between them and they forgot themselves in kissing each other.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75656781
|
{"authors": ["Labda"], "language": "English", "title": "Doubt and assurance"}
|
Affection
The sun set in the horizon, painting the sky in a beautiful pink hue. Duan Ling rested in the courtyard, gazing at the peach blossom tree. Its petals drifted around him like snow, decorating the ground in warm spring colours. Had any passerby glanced inside, they’d find themselves unable to look away.
Duan Ling caught a stray petal in his palm before squeezing and watching it float away.
The peach blossom tree was a symbol of his father’s awaited arrival, but now it also reminded him of his short time spent with Lang Junxia. Duan Ling sincerely hoped, from the bottom of his heart, that the assassin was doing well, wherever he was.
He didn’t miss him much though, not when a certain someone’s presence filled this space so completely. Now this home was filled with life, carrying signs of his father everywhere.
From time to time, he glanced towards the door of their residence in anticipation.
Trying to quickly pass the time, Duan Ling turned his attention to the garden. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and bent down to turn over the soil. His hard work had blossomed into a lovely little garden. Duan Ling wished Lang Junxia were here to see it. He’d be offended to learn that his father had more or less told him if he wished to be a gardener then so be it. What did it matter? He chuckled softly and picked up a broom to sweep the courtyard.
Gathering the scrolls and papers scattered outside, diligently wiping down the tables and chairs, Duan Ling finished cleaning up. Trying his best to keep busy till his father came home.
Left with nothing more to do, he grabbed a book from the study and settled into the divan in the courtyard.
He started to read out and recite the lines from the book and eventually dozed off.
…
Night had fallen. Someone had lit the lantern hanging outside their estate.
Feeling a slight chill, Duan Ling stirred awake. He found himself bundled up in Li Jianhong’s arms, his father still wearing the robe he had left home in. Duan Ling gazed at his profile, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow over the contours of his face. Duan Ling traced his finger along his nose to his lips and felt Li Jianhong smile against his hand. Suddenly caught and feeling shy, Duan Ling burrowed into Li Jianhong’s arms.
Li Jianhong turned towards Duan Ling with a smile, ”Why did you stay out in the cold?”
“....”
“You missed your dad, didn’t you?”
Duan Ling pouted. “If you already know then why ask.”
Li Jianhong kissed the edge of his mouth. “So silly.”
He pulled Duan Ling to lay over his chest. Idly tracing his delicate fingers, Li Jianhong said, “My son, what did you read today? Tell me about it.”
Duan Ling rattled off about the passages he read. He also spoke about the essays assigned to him at school. He had made quite a lot of progress in the past few months. Despite Li Jianhong being lenient with him, he hadn’t neglected his education. His father listened eagerly, nodding at times and asking a few questions here and there.
“Very good.” A proud smile lingered on his lips.
A moment later, Duan Ling asked, “Where did you go?”
Li Jianhong spoke about his travels, described the bustling village he visited, just a few hours of horse ride away, and the people he met from different tribes. He told Duan Ling about a new noodle dish he found and promised to take him along next time. Duan Ling’s eyes lit up when he heard this.
Li Jianhong continued, talking about what he was planning next, how far he might have to travel, and no he couldn’t take Duan Ling with him, he still had to go to school and study.
Duan Ling sulked, absentmindedly playing with the jade arc on Li Jianhong’s chest.
“When can I come along with you?”
“I want you to focus on your growth, there will be many opportunities to go on trips with me.” He flicked his nose, “Don’t forget you’re the son of the crown prince One’s fate is predetermined. Not to be escaped. And besides, your dad’s not going anywhere.”
“When?” Duan Ling pressed for a concrete answer.
Li Jianhong slipped his hands inside Duan Ling’s undershirt and lazily caressed his back. He contemplated before answering, “Three Years. When you’re sixteen, I’ll take you everywhere I go. Happy now?”
Duan Ling nodded.
“I also brought you a sweet.”
Duan Ling suddenly sat up, full of energy.
Li Jianhong took out a small box from his pouch, revealing a flower shaped sugary candy inside.
A sweet aroma wafted in the air. Duan Ling took it out of the box and nibbled on it. It melted on his tongue, filling his mouth with sweetness, Duan Ling exclaimed a satisfied Mmm. Li Jianhong pulled him back to lay on him.
“Is it yummy? I was worried it wouldn’t stay fresh by the time I returned.”
Duan Ling nodded enthusiastically and stuffed the entire thing into his mouth. Li Jianhong chuckled and brushed the crumbs from his bulging cheeks.
“Didn’t leave a single bite for your dad?”
Duan Ling swallowed and looked at him sheepishly.
Li Jianhong caught his wrist and flipped them over. He launched a
|
Affection
The sun set in the horizon, painting the sky in a beautiful pink hue. Duan Ling rested in the courtyard, gazing at the peach blossom tree. Its petals drifted around him like snow, decorating the ground in warm spring colours. Had any passerby glanced inside, they’d find themselves unable to look away.
Duan Ling caught a stray petal in his palm before squeezing and watching it float away.
The peach blossom tree was a symbol of his father’s awaited arrival, but now it also reminded him of his short time spent with Lang Junxia. Duan Ling sincerely hoped, from the bottom of his heart, that the assassin was doing well, wherever he was.
He didn’t miss him much though, not when a certain someone’s presence filled this space so completely. Now this home was filled with life, carrying signs of his father everywhere.
From time to time, he glanced towards the door of their residence in anticipation.
Trying to quickly pass the time, Duan Ling turned his attention to the garden. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear and bent down to turn over the soil. His hard work had blossomed into a lovely little garden. Duan Ling wished Lang Junxia were here to see it. He’d be offended to learn that his father had more or less told him if he wished to be a gardener then so be it. What did it matter? He chuckled softly and picked up a broom to sweep the courtyard.
Gathering the scrolls and papers scattered outside, diligently wiping down the tables and chairs, Duan Ling finished cleaning up. Trying his best to keep busy till his father came home.
Left with nothing more to do, he grabbed a book from the study and settled into the divan in the courtyard.
He started to read out and recite the lines from the book and eventually dozed off.
…
Night had fallen. Someone had lit the lantern hanging outside their estate.
Feeling a slight chill, Duan Ling stirred awake. He found himself bundled up in Li Jianhong’s arms, his father still wearing the robe he had left home in. Duan Ling gazed at his profile, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow over the contours of his face. Duan Ling traced his finger along his nose to his lips and felt Li Jianhong smile against his hand. Suddenly caught and feeling shy, Duan Ling burrowed into Li Jianhong’s arms.
Li Jianhong turned towards Duan Ling with a smile, ”Why did you stay out in the cold?”
“....”
“You missed your dad, didn’t you?”
Duan Ling pouted. “If you already know then why ask.”
Li Jianhong kissed the edge of his mouth. “So silly.”
He pulled Duan Ling to lay over his chest. Idly tracing his delicate fingers, Li Jianhong said, “My son, what did you read today? Tell me about it.”
Duan Ling rattled off about the passages he read. He also spoke about the essays assigned to him at school. He had made quite a lot of progress in the past few months. Despite Li Jianhong being lenient with him, he hadn’t neglected his education. His father listened eagerly, nodding at times and asking a few questions here and there.
“Very good.” A proud smile lingered on his lips.
A moment later, Duan Ling asked, “Where did you go?”
Li Jianhong spoke about his travels, described the bustling village he visited, just a few hours of horse ride away, and the people he met from different tribes. He told Duan Ling about a new noodle dish he found and promised to take him along next time. Duan Ling’s eyes lit up when he heard this.
Li Jianhong continued, talking about what he was planning next, how far he might have to travel, and no he couldn’t take Duan Ling with him, he still had to go to school and study.
Duan Ling sulked, absentmindedly playing with the jade arc on Li Jianhong’s chest.
“When can I come along with you?”
“I want you to focus on your growth, there will be many opportunities to go on trips with me.” He flicked his nose, “Don’t forget you’re the son of the crown prince One’s fate is predetermined. Not to be escaped. And besides, your dad’s not going anywhere.”
“When?” Duan Ling pressed for a concrete answer.
Li Jianhong slipped his hands inside Duan Ling’s undershirt and lazily caressed his back. He contemplated before answering, “Three Years. When you’re sixteen, I’ll take you everywhere I go. Happy now?”
Duan Ling nodded.
“I also brought you a sweet.”
Duan Ling suddenly sat up, full of energy.
Li Jianhong took out a small box from his pouch, revealing a flower shaped sugary candy inside.
A sweet aroma wafted in the air. Duan Ling took it out of the box and nibbled on it. It melted on his tongue, filling his mouth with sweetness, Duan Ling exclaimed a satisfied Mmm. Li Jianhong pulled him back to lay on him.
“Is it yummy? I was worried it wouldn’t stay fresh by the time I returned.”
Duan Ling nodded enthusiastically and stuffed the entire thing into his mouth. Li Jianhong chuckled and brushed the crumbs from his bulging cheeks.
“Didn’t leave a single bite for your dad?”
Duan Ling swallowed and looked at him sheepishly.
Li Jianhong caught his wrist and flipped them over. He launched a tickling attack, pinning him down. Duan Ling wriggled around in laughter, flailing like a fish.
He wrapped his legs around Li Jianhong’s waist, “Enough…stop..aaahaha…ahaha…”
Duan Ling’s eyes teared up from laughter, only in front of his dad was he able to let loose and act like a child. Li Jianhong, overtaken by affection, kissed along his neck, grazing the skin with his teeth. He really wanted to swallow him whole.
Duan Ling felt a slight pinch at his neck, “Dad?” He panted slightly.
Li Jianhong came to his senses and released his hold on his neck. Spotting a faint red mark blooming on the side of Duan Ling’s neck, he felt a little apologetic. He brushed his thumb over it and gently kissed Duan Ling’s cheek.
“Dad feels sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Duan Ling wrapped his arms around his neck, “It didn’t hurt. Kiss me again.” He looked up at him like a little kitten.
Li Jianhong broke into a helpless smile and leaned his forehead against Duan Ling’s.
“Enough fooling around. Let’s go eat dinner.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead and scooped him up in his arms, carrying him inside.
…
After finishing the meal, Duan Ling rested against Li Jianhong’s chest, cuddled in his arms.
“What’s this you’re drinking?” Duan Ling pointed to a small white porcelain cup sitting at the corner of the table.
“Wine.”
Li Jianhong brought the cup closer for Duan Ling to see. Duan Ling sniffed at it, wrinkling his nose. He dipped his head to try and take a sip but Li Jianhong tugged him back by the waist.
“That’s not for children to drink.”
“I only want a taste. Lang Junxia had never let me try it either.” Duan Ling pouted.
At the mention of Lang Junxia, Li Jianhong’s eyebrow twitched. For an inexplicable reason he always felt like he was competing with this damn assassin. And now he found an opportunity to gain the upper hand.
Duan Ling looked at him with his lips pushed out in a soft pout. How could he possibly say no to this face? Li Jianhong gave in, a fond smile at his lips. He held Duan Ling’s chin and said, “Open your mouth.”
Duan Ling parted his berry colored lips, his tongue trembling inside his mouth. Li Jianhong took a sip from the cup and lowered his mouth to Duan Ling’s, dribbling the wine directly into his mouth. Taking advantage of Duan Ling’s startled expression, Li Jianhong flicked his tongue playfully and retreated. As the alcohol traveled down his throat, Duan Ling tightly squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the burn to pass. A shudder ran through him, Duan Ling opened his teary eyes.
Li Jianhong, amused by his expression, asked him, “Did it taste any special?”
Duan Ling was still fighting the wave of heat rising up his chest, he unconsciously trembled. The wine was very strong, and to a child of barely thirteen, whose hair hadn’t even grown in, it felt almost unbearable to endure.
A faint blush covered Duan Ling all the way from neck to his face. Li Jianhong desperately wanted to tease him again.
He chuckled loudly, “The first time is always the hardest. Why don’t you try it again?”
Duan Ling shook his head immediately but Li Jianhong grabbed his cheeks. With his lips squished and unable to close his mouth, Duan Ling let out a whine of protest.
Li Jianhong, ignoring him, took another sip and pressed his lips to Duan Ling’s mouth. Duan Ling wasn’t the only one affected by the alcohol. His father had also had a few cups too many.
As if bewitched by the ambiguous atmosphere, Li Jianhong slid his tongue inside his son’s mouth.
Duan Ling was powerless to his advances, cowering in his embrace, he silently accepted it. Duan Ling shivered as the alcohol entered his body, another rush of heat flooding through him. Li Jianhong completely surrounded him, trapping him in his arms.
“Better this time?” He whispered against Duan Ling’s mouth. Li Jianhong rubbed his lips against him.
After the initial burn passed, Duan Ling found that he actually quite enjoyed the wine. It had a sweet aftertaste and now he felt all warm and giddy inside…
“It’s not too bad...Hic!” Duan Ling hicupped.
“...”
Li Jianhong burst out laughing. Duan Ling soon followed, falling over in a fit of giggles..
…
Much later into the night, they had moved to lay on the divan outside, lounging under the stars.
Duan Ling laid over his father’s chest, playing with the jade arc hanging around his neck.
“Dad”
“Yes, my son.”
“Do you miss my mother sometimes?”
Li Jianhong paused before answering. “I think about her sometimes, the time we spent together was awfully short. Not even a whole year. She even hid you away from me.”
Thinking that his father felt sad, Duan Ling hugged him tighter. Li Jianhong lazily stroked his back.
Duan Ling lifted his head from his chest. “Do I look like her?”
Li Jianhong stared at him, lost in thought. The passing of time was a cruel thing, thirteen years, nearly a half of Li Jianhong’s life. Memories faded faster than one expected. Yet, Li Jianhong could find traces of her face in Duan Ling. Especially his eyes. To Li Jianhong, perhaps there was no one as beautiful as his son. His rosy cheeks, face carved out of jade, and the curve of his soft lips. He nodded after a moment.
Lii Jianhong turned Duan Ling’s face left to right, and kissed his cheeks, “You do. You’re both very beautiful.”
Duan Ling blushed and timidly kissed back, pressing his lips to the corner of Li Jianhong’s mouth. Over time, Duan Ling became more and more unrestrained in showing affection. Li Jianhong’s behaviour was starting to rub off on him. Duan Ling had never truly experienced familial love. To him, this was the most wonderful thing that could ever have happened.
In silence, they both gazed into each other’s eyes, relishing in this intimate moment shared by father and son. The stars above reflected in Duan Ling’s pupils, as if his eyes held the entire galaxy within. In the end, Li Jianhong pressed a featherlight kiss to Duan Ling’s lips.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75656801
|
{"authors": ["jigoku99"], "language": "English", "title": "Affection"}
|
Galactic See-Through Glasses Accidentally Delivered to the Wrong President
Takakura residence, 6:47 a.m., Kitanohashi City.
The pink box materialized with its usual soft poof. Takeo, hair still sticking up in every direction, opened it, read Lala’s bubbly note, and slipped the Galactic See-Through Glasses Mk-II onto his face without a second thought.
Shunk-click.
Peke-OS chirped happily inside his skull: “Biometric lock engaged! Removal conditions: Princess Lala’s voice code, full cardiac arrest, or 5+ liters of nosebleed. Choose your own adventure ♡!”
Takeo yanked. Nothing. He yanked harder. His entire face elongated like a cartoon character. The glasses stayed exactly where they were.
The sun broke over the rooftops. The lenses flashed rose-gold, and reality rewrote itself in high-definition lingerie.
Takeo shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes that no longer needed rubbing.
Reika (34, his father’s second wife of two years, the woman he still awkwardly called “Reika-san” because “step-mom” felt weird and “Mom” felt weirder) stood at the counter slicing strawberries. She wore an oversized peach satin camisole and matching sleep shorts that ended high on her thighs, the fabric so thin it fluttered with every movement.
To normal eyes: cute, sleepy morning wear. To the cursed glasses: nothing at all.
Beneath the peach satin was a sheer lavender bra, almost transparent, with delicate scalloped lace along the cups that did absolutely nothing to hide the soft pink flush of her areolas in the golden morning light. The underwire lifted her full breasts into perfect teardrops, and every breath made the lace shift like a sigh against pale skin. Lower down, the matching thong was barely there: two lavender triangles connected by satin ribbon, the front panel so narrow it was more suggestion than coverage, a tiny bow perched directly above smooth, freshly shaved skin. When she reached for the sugar bowl the string in back sank deeper between soft, rounded cheeks, the fabric outlining everything in merciless detail.
Takeo’s brain short-circuited. Blood detonated from both nostrils in twin crimson geysers that painted the fridge door like abstract art.
Reika spun, startled, the motion making her chest bounce once, slowly, hypnotically inside the lavender lace. The camisole neckline dipped with the turn, offering a fleeting, perfect view straight down to the shadowed valley and a small beauty mark just above the left cup.
“Takeo-kun!” she cried, hurrying over. “Your nose! Sit down, sit—”
She bent at the waist to grab tissues from the lower cabinet. The thong pulled tight; the ribbon disappeared completely between pale cheeks, the fabric in front stretching until it traced every intimate contour. The glasses auto-zoomed like a predator, catching the faint sheen of body lotion on her thighs, the gentle dimples at the base of her spine, the way gravity made her breasts sway forward inside the bra until the lace gapped and revealed soft inner curves.
Takeo’s knees hit the floor. His vision narrowed to a single point: Reika crouching, lavender triangles straining, the satin bow now directly in his eyeline, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing making everything quiver.
She leaned over him, pressing tissues to his face. From this angle the view was apocalyptic: straight up into lavender lace, the camisole hanging loose, the weight of her chest threatening to spill entirely with every worried breath.
“Hold still,” she murmured, dabbing gently. Each dab jostled her; the bra shifted, lace scraping softly against skin he could see in excruciating 4K. A bead of sweat formed at her collarbone, slid down the slope, and vanished into shadowed cleavage.
Takeo’s second hemorrhage arrived like a fire hose. Blood soaked the tissues, dripped over her fingers. Reika made a soft, worried sound and leaned closer, one knee sliding between his for balance. The thong stretched impossibly tighter across her hips; the front panel outlined everything with shameless clarity.
Peke-OS: “Blood loss: 1.1 liters. Critical fanservice threshold achieved.”
Takeo lurched upright, stammered something about the bathroom, and staggered through the living-room doorway.
Mika (38, Reika’s older sister, crashing on the couch after a red-eye flight) was mid-yoga flow. Loose white tank, grey dolphin shorts.
The glasses erased both.
Electric-blue sports bra, high-impact, wideily damp with early sweat, clinging to every curve. The wide band and crisscross straps dug faint lines into tanned shoulders; the thin fabric darkened where it pressed against her chest, the outline of nipples faintly visible when she inhaled. Lower, a matching blue micro-thong: front triangle barely wider than a postage stamp, thin straps rising high over sharp hipbones before plunging down the sides of an ass sculpted by years of Pilates and mountain hiking.
Mika flowed into downward-facing dog. Hips high, back arched, the micro-thong became the entire universe. The blue strap
|
Galactic See-Through Glasses Accidentally Delivered to the Wrong President
Takakura residence, 6:47 a.m., Kitanohashi City.
The pink box materialized with its usual soft poof. Takeo, hair still sticking up in every direction, opened it, read Lala’s bubbly note, and slipped the Galactic See-Through Glasses Mk-II onto his face without a second thought.
Shunk-click.
Peke-OS chirped happily inside his skull: “Biometric lock engaged! Removal conditions: Princess Lala’s voice code, full cardiac arrest, or 5+ liters of nosebleed. Choose your own adventure ♡!”
Takeo yanked. Nothing. He yanked harder. His entire face elongated like a cartoon character. The glasses stayed exactly where they were.
The sun broke over the rooftops. The lenses flashed rose-gold, and reality rewrote itself in high-definition lingerie.
Takeo shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes that no longer needed rubbing.
Reika (34, his father’s second wife of two years, the woman he still awkwardly called “Reika-san” because “step-mom” felt weird and “Mom” felt weirder) stood at the counter slicing strawberries. She wore an oversized peach satin camisole and matching sleep shorts that ended high on her thighs, the fabric so thin it fluttered with every movement.
To normal eyes: cute, sleepy morning wear. To the cursed glasses: nothing at all.
Beneath the peach satin was a sheer lavender bra, almost transparent, with delicate scalloped lace along the cups that did absolutely nothing to hide the soft pink flush of her areolas in the golden morning light. The underwire lifted her full breasts into perfect teardrops, and every breath made the lace shift like a sigh against pale skin. Lower down, the matching thong was barely there: two lavender triangles connected by satin ribbon, the front panel so narrow it was more suggestion than coverage, a tiny bow perched directly above smooth, freshly shaved skin. When she reached for the sugar bowl the string in back sank deeper between soft, rounded cheeks, the fabric outlining everything in merciless detail.
Takeo’s brain short-circuited. Blood detonated from both nostrils in twin crimson geysers that painted the fridge door like abstract art.
Reika spun, startled, the motion making her chest bounce once, slowly, hypnotically inside the lavender lace. The camisole neckline dipped with the turn, offering a fleeting, perfect view straight down to the shadowed valley and a small beauty mark just above the left cup.
“Takeo-kun!” she cried, hurrying over. “Your nose! Sit down, sit—”
She bent at the waist to grab tissues from the lower cabinet. The thong pulled tight; the ribbon disappeared completely between pale cheeks, the fabric in front stretching until it traced every intimate contour. The glasses auto-zoomed like a predator, catching the faint sheen of body lotion on her thighs, the gentle dimples at the base of her spine, the way gravity made her breasts sway forward inside the bra until the lace gapped and revealed soft inner curves.
Takeo’s knees hit the floor. His vision narrowed to a single point: Reika crouching, lavender triangles straining, the satin bow now directly in his eyeline, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing making everything quiver.
She leaned over him, pressing tissues to his face. From this angle the view was apocalyptic: straight up into lavender lace, the camisole hanging loose, the weight of her chest threatening to spill entirely with every worried breath.
“Hold still,” she murmured, dabbing gently. Each dab jostled her; the bra shifted, lace scraping softly against skin he could see in excruciating 4K. A bead of sweat formed at her collarbone, slid down the slope, and vanished into shadowed cleavage.
Takeo’s second hemorrhage arrived like a fire hose. Blood soaked the tissues, dripped over her fingers. Reika made a soft, worried sound and leaned closer, one knee sliding between his for balance. The thong stretched impossibly tighter across her hips; the front panel outlined everything with shameless clarity.
Peke-OS: “Blood loss: 1.1 liters. Critical fanservice threshold achieved.”
Takeo lurched upright, stammered something about the bathroom, and staggered through the living-room doorway.
Mika (38, Reika’s older sister, crashing on the couch after a red-eye flight) was mid-yoga flow. Loose white tank, grey dolphin shorts.
The glasses erased both.
Electric-blue sports bra, high-impact, wideily damp with early sweat, clinging to every curve. The wide band and crisscross straps dug faint lines into tanned shoulders; the thin fabric darkened where it pressed against her chest, the outline of nipples faintly visible when she inhaled. Lower, a matching blue micro-thong: front triangle barely wider than a postage stamp, thin straps rising high over sharp hipbones before plunging down the sides of an ass sculpted by years of Pilates and mountain hiking.
Mika flowed into downward-facing dog. Hips high, back arched, the micro-thong became the entire universe. The blue strap vanished completely between toned cheeks; the fabric in front pulled so tight it outlined everything in explicit relief, a faint shadow visible beneath the damp material. When she pedalled her heels the muscles in her thighs and glutes flexed in slow, hypnotic waves.
Takeo’s third nosebleed was audible, like someone had turned on a garden sprinkler inside his skull.
Mika glanced back through her arms, upside-down. “Morning, kiddo. You look like you lost a fight with a ketchup factory.”
She shifted into plank, abs tightening, sports bra straining, then lowered slowly into chaturanga. Her breasts pressed flat against the mat for a moment before she pushed back up; the motion made them bounce firmly inside the electric-blue confines.
Takeo turned and bolted.
He burst out the front door, slipped in his own blood, and ricocheted into the shared hallway.
Mrs. Satō (29, newlywed from next door) was bending over to pick up the newspaper. Mint-green babydoll nightie, semi-sheer, tied with a single ribbon between her breasts.
The glasses erased it instantly.
Emerald lace balconette bra, half-cup, lifting and presenting everything like a gift. The swell of each breast spilled slightly over the lace edge, creating soft shadowed crescents. Matching emerald panties with sheer side panels; the front was only saved by a tiny embroidered rose directly over the critical spot. Bent forward as she was, the panties stretched, the rose shifting, the fabric pulling tight enough to trace every contour beneath. When she straightened slowly the ribbon tie had loosened overnight; the entire front threatened to part with the next breath.
Mrs. Satō smiled brightly. “Takeo-kun! Good morning—oh my goodness, the blood! Are you okay?”
She stepped closer, one hand reaching toward his face. The motion made the emerald lace brush together softly, breasts shifting, threatening to spill entirely.
Takeo saluted with a trembling, blood-slick hand. “I have seen the hidden truths of the universe and the truths wear emerald lace!” he shrieked, then vaulted the stair railing.
He hit the pavement running, leaving a dotted crimson line down the street like Hansel and Gretel gone horribly wrong.
Eight blocks to school. Glasses still fused to his skull. Peke-OS counting cheerfully:
“Total blood loss: 2.7 liters. Slow-motion replay buffer full. Sunset mode charging. Thermal overlay in eight hours.”
Takeo’s vision swam. The world tilted. He ducked into an alley, pressed his back to cool brick, and tried to think through the red haze.
“Okay… okay… blood transfusion spell… no, too advanced… iron replenishment circle… no time to draw it…”
He wiped his face with his already-soaked sleeve, stared at the sky, and laughed—high, manic, and half-delirious.
“If this doesn’t work I’m actually going to die,” he wheezed. “Aliens have more blood than humans, right? Lala’s got like three hearts or something. Maybe if I pass out she’ll beam down and top me off like a gas tank…”
He pressed both palms together, glasses still glued to his face, blood dripping off his chin in steady droplets.
“Emergency Blood Supply Spell: Infinite Crimson Font!”
Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t. He hadn’t even drawn a circle.
Takeo sagged against the wall, grinned a bloody grin, and started walking again.
“Worth a shot,” he muttered. “If I die, at least I’ll go out knowing exactly what color underwear the entire female population is wearing today.”
He straightened his tie (somehow still intact), adjusted the immovable glasses, and marched toward school trailing a red carpet of his own making.
The Magic Club was going to have questions.
And President Takakura finally had answers nobody should ever hav
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75656721/chapters/197859586
|
{"authors": ["SDEPO (SDEPO1985)"], "language": "English", "title": "Galactic See-Through Glasses Accidentally Delivered to the Wrong President"}
|
Creepy video found in abandoned building [NOT CLICKBAIT]
Video description
Okay I know absolutely no one will believe me but I swear up and down this is not just some creepypasta bullshit. I was wandering around this abandoned building near my neighborhood when I found this phone lying on the ground near an old computer (same one at [9:22]). I spent a while trying to unlock it so I could track down the owner, but when I finally did, I found this video
Idk if this is supposed to be a prank or a weird student film or what but it’s kinda freaking me out. This is the full, uncut, unedited thing that I took directly off the phone, so sorry that there’s not much of anything past [11:01]. Don’t wait around, there’s no secret jumpscare, I promise. I’m assuming the phone just ran out of memory and stopped recording after a while
Anyway, I might be cursed forever after posting this publicly but I had to share it to see if anyone knows anything. Does anyone recognize this person, and is she okay??
Video transcript
The camera shifts around for a moment before focusing on an unknown young woman. She has medium-length brown hair and a round face, and she seems to perk up a bit when the camera finally settles on her. She whispers something to herself, seemingly taking a moment to hype herself up, before putting on a smile and beginning.
Unknown Woman: Hey, guys! It’s me again, um, back in another abandoned building.
She pans the camera, which she’s been holding selfie-style, around herself. The area does indeed seem to be the inside of an abandoned building. Unknown stains mottle the cracked and crumbling concrete floor, while the walls seem to be little more than wooden support beams in most places. Faint rays of city lights spill in through the bare and darkened window sills. It seems to be night outside. The woman turns the camera back towards herself.
UW: Uh, I dunno what might be in this one. I wasn’t really planning on coming here, I just happened to pass by it, and since after today I was feeling kind of…
She pauses, frowning, and glances away from the camera.
UW: Well, never mind. I’ll probably just cut that part out. Anyway, this was a pretty spontaneous trip; didn’t have time to look into this one at all before I headed inside, so I don’t really know who used to own it or anything. I’ll see if I can find that out before I post this. Uh, if I do it’ll be in the description.
The woman steps carefully through the building for a few more seconds in silence.
UW: Oh, right! Thanks, um, Foxy, for commenting on the last video. It’s really nice to know someone is actually watching these. To answer your question, I think the most interesting thing I’ve found while doing this is, uhh… probably the giant fish tank from my fourth or fifth video, the one in the old office building with that awful wallpaper.
She smiles a bit ruefully, and her face starts to drift towards the edge of the frame as she focuses more on climbing over a pile of rubble than holding the camera steady.
UW: I know, it’s not really that interesting. That’s probably why hardly anyone watches these… but, I dunno, there’s just something different about being here in person. It’s like, you’re sneaking around somewhere you’re not supposed to be, and there’ll always be a bit of excitement in that.
She glances back over at the camera and re-centers her face, flashing a brighter smile.
UW: You know what I mean? It’s… freeing, in a way. I guess. And, um, that’s probably what keeps me coming back, even though I never really find anything. I guess I just don’t really get a lot of that in my regular life.
The woman peters off into silence, and her smile drops again. After a few more moments, she gives herself a small shake.
UW: Well, it looks like the ground floor was mostly just a lobby space. I might poke more into the corners on my way out, but for now, I’m heading to the next floor up.
The stairs creak ominously as she climbs them, and the camera struggles to pick up anything in the thick shadows that are cast without any windows nearby. Eventually, though, she reaches the second floor.
UW: Oh, whoah, take a look at this.
She flips the camera around to face the new floor. It’s lined with rows of cubicles from wall to wall, mostly empty, but some with scraps of paper still pinned to the walls or scattered on the desks.
UW: Looks like this area didn’t get quite as cleaned out as the lobby. Maybe I can find some clues to what this building used to be for?
She seems to perk up a little as she starts checking each of the cubicles. Her brief happiness starts to wane, though, as almost every bit of paper she finds is too faded or torn to make out. The few that aren’t, she seems to deem mostly uninteresting - things like “meeting 8am mon,” or “finish report by fri.” Her running commentary slows to a halt, and the only sound from the video for several minutes is the faint rustle of papers and the occasional creak from an old, straining floorboard.
UW: Oh! This might be
|
Creepy video found in abandoned building [NOT CLICKBAIT]
Video description
Okay I know absolutely no one will believe me but I swear up and down this is not just some creepypasta bullshit. I was wandering around this abandoned building near my neighborhood when I found this phone lying on the ground near an old computer (same one at [9:22]). I spent a while trying to unlock it so I could track down the owner, but when I finally did, I found this video
Idk if this is supposed to be a prank or a weird student film or what but it’s kinda freaking me out. This is the full, uncut, unedited thing that I took directly off the phone, so sorry that there’s not much of anything past [11:01]. Don’t wait around, there’s no secret jumpscare, I promise. I’m assuming the phone just ran out of memory and stopped recording after a while
Anyway, I might be cursed forever after posting this publicly but I had to share it to see if anyone knows anything. Does anyone recognize this person, and is she okay??
Video transcript
The camera shifts around for a moment before focusing on an unknown young woman. She has medium-length brown hair and a round face, and she seems to perk up a bit when the camera finally settles on her. She whispers something to herself, seemingly taking a moment to hype herself up, before putting on a smile and beginning.
Unknown Woman: Hey, guys! It’s me again, um, back in another abandoned building.
She pans the camera, which she’s been holding selfie-style, around herself. The area does indeed seem to be the inside of an abandoned building. Unknown stains mottle the cracked and crumbling concrete floor, while the walls seem to be little more than wooden support beams in most places. Faint rays of city lights spill in through the bare and darkened window sills. It seems to be night outside. The woman turns the camera back towards herself.
UW: Uh, I dunno what might be in this one. I wasn’t really planning on coming here, I just happened to pass by it, and since after today I was feeling kind of…
She pauses, frowning, and glances away from the camera.
UW: Well, never mind. I’ll probably just cut that part out. Anyway, this was a pretty spontaneous trip; didn’t have time to look into this one at all before I headed inside, so I don’t really know who used to own it or anything. I’ll see if I can find that out before I post this. Uh, if I do it’ll be in the description.
The woman steps carefully through the building for a few more seconds in silence.
UW: Oh, right! Thanks, um, Foxy, for commenting on the last video. It’s really nice to know someone is actually watching these. To answer your question, I think the most interesting thing I’ve found while doing this is, uhh… probably the giant fish tank from my fourth or fifth video, the one in the old office building with that awful wallpaper.
She smiles a bit ruefully, and her face starts to drift towards the edge of the frame as she focuses more on climbing over a pile of rubble than holding the camera steady.
UW: I know, it’s not really that interesting. That’s probably why hardly anyone watches these… but, I dunno, there’s just something different about being here in person. It’s like, you’re sneaking around somewhere you’re not supposed to be, and there’ll always be a bit of excitement in that.
She glances back over at the camera and re-centers her face, flashing a brighter smile.
UW: You know what I mean? It’s… freeing, in a way. I guess. And, um, that’s probably what keeps me coming back, even though I never really find anything. I guess I just don’t really get a lot of that in my regular life.
The woman peters off into silence, and her smile drops again. After a few more moments, she gives herself a small shake.
UW: Well, it looks like the ground floor was mostly just a lobby space. I might poke more into the corners on my way out, but for now, I’m heading to the next floor up.
The stairs creak ominously as she climbs them, and the camera struggles to pick up anything in the thick shadows that are cast without any windows nearby. Eventually, though, she reaches the second floor.
UW: Oh, whoah, take a look at this.
She flips the camera around to face the new floor. It’s lined with rows of cubicles from wall to wall, mostly empty, but some with scraps of paper still pinned to the walls or scattered on the desks.
UW: Looks like this area didn’t get quite as cleaned out as the lobby. Maybe I can find some clues to what this building used to be for?
She seems to perk up a little as she starts checking each of the cubicles. Her brief happiness starts to wane, though, as almost every bit of paper she finds is too faded or torn to make out. The few that aren’t, she seems to deem mostly uninteresting - things like “meeting 8am mon,” or “finish report by fri.” Her running commentary slows to a halt, and the only sound from the video for several minutes is the faint rustle of papers and the occasional creak from an old, straining floorboard.
UW: Oh! This might be something.
The woman takes a piece of paper out of the drawer she’s just opened and holds it up to the camera. It’s a bit creased, but far less faded than the papers that have been left out in the open. A simple logo bearing the letters C and A sits above a small block of text.
UW: Let’s see… This logo looks kind of familiar, but I can’t quite remember where I’ve seen it. Uh, “Valued employee, this notice is to inform you that our company will be closing its doors by the end of the month. Due to recent events, we will unfortunately be unable to continue operation. Please contact our HR department with any questions. We deeply apologize for the short notice, and wish you the best of luck on the next step of your journey. Sincerely, Caine and Abel.”
Her eyes narrow for a moment before widening in recognition.
UW: Oh! I think I recognize that name. Weren’t they on the news way back when? The ones with that big controversy…
Thinking about it seems to make her a little unsettled, and she glances around the darkened office. Her next words are mumbled, likely only meant to be heard by herself.
UW: I’m… not actually sure how much farther I want to go…
After a few seconds of consideration, she seems to shake most of it off.
UW: Well, I guess I can finish this floor at least. Seems like there’s only a couple side rooms left anyway.
She starts creeping towards one of said side rooms, turning the camera so that it can capture the moment she opens the door.
UW: What the…?
As soon as the door creaks open, the audio feed is filled with a soft humming. The tiny room is almost completely empty, containing only a desk, a chair, and a large, old computer monitor, which is bathing the area in a pale, blue-tinted light.
UW: This… this place has been abandoned for years. Shouldn't the power would be turned off by now?
She steps closer to the computer to investigate. The mechanical humming grows marginally louder. The only thing on the monitor seems to be some sort of terminal, with text that has no immediately apparent meaning.
CONNECTION 9: CORRUPTED
CONNECTION 10: CORRUPTED
CONNECTION 11: CORRUPTED
CONNECTION 12: STABLE
CONNECTION 13: STABLE
CONNECTION 14: UNSTABLE
CONNECTION 15: STABLE
CONNECTION 16: STABLE
CONNECTION 17: STABLE
READY FOR NEW CONNECTION
The woman pokes at the monitor curiously, but it has no keyboard or mouse connected, and therefore no way to interact with it.
UW: Hang on - what’s this?
She angles the camera down towards the floor where, previously hidden by the desk chair, there sits some kind of device connected to the computer. As she picks it up and sets it down on the desk, it becomes clear that it’s some sort of headset.
UW: Huh… weird.
A few seconds pass with only her turning the headset over, before she sighs.
UW: Guess I’ve gotta try this thing on, huh? Well… I guess not enough people actually watch these that anyone would really be disappointed if I didn’t.
She fades into silence, the hand that had been fiddling with the headset stilling. Only the constant hum of the computer and her quiet breathing can be heard.
UW: Ah, what the hell! Might as well just take a look and see what’s going on with this.
She takes a minute or so to carefully prop her phone up so that the camera is at a good angle, before taking up the headset once more. She grimaces briefly, blowing off some dust and trying to wipe it clean with the hem of her shirt, before eventually giving up with a sigh.
UW: Alright, uh… here I go.
The moment the headset falls over her eyes, a strange static starts to creep into the edges of the video. It almost seems to leach away the little color that the camera is picking up in the dim lighting.
UW: Just gotta, get these straps adjusted, and…
The audio seems a bit harsher, as though it’s been compressed and then played back again. The static is quickly filling the rest of the screen, now.
UW: There we go! Oh, wait, there’s no controllers… how do I…?
The omnipresent humming grows into a high-pitched whine, covering up the woman’s low muttering. The growing static is filled with bright spots, which cover the camera’s entire feed in a matter of seconds. The whining rises to a fever pitch, the visual static almost seeming to make the video boil, and for several moments, there’s only the static. Then-
The room is back. The woman is gone. The computer is off. It’s a bit hard to make out, but there seems to be a bit of smoke rising from the monitor - or perhaps it’s simply disturbed dust. Either way, it fades to nothing after just a moment, leaving the remaining hours of the video as a silent, static image.
Pinned comment
Update: The original channel that this person ran was found thanks to @FoxyPlays1225. No new activity has appeared on it since before I found the phone, and no one has been able to find out who this person actually is. If you have any information, please leave a comment. I’m starting to worry that something actually happened to her.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75651966
|
{"authors": ["the_trash_prince"], "language": "English", "title": "Creepy video found in abandoned building [NOT CLICKBAIT]"}
|
Right By You
“Give us a moment, okay Thimble?” Thjazi asked.
“Okay…” Thimble said reluctantly. She flew over and patted Azune’s nose before flying off into the market.
Panic was slowly filling Azune’s stomach. They stood in front of the Brethan Hall, just the two of them in the light rain. Thjazi was covering himself with a cloak to avoid recognition. Usually, it was the other way around, Azune realised. Usually, Thjazi would be pulling up Azune's hood whenever they walked through a city or town, or glamouring his eyes and birthmark to wipe away the identifying features.
But he hadn’t done that this time. It was Azune walking around bare-faced and Thjazi’s hood firmly covering his head.
Thjazi had a smile on his face, easy to see even under his hood. “It won't be so different from the old days… well you'll have food, shelter, and coin, so actually it'll be completely different. In a good way,” Thjazi laughed, putting his hand on Azune’s shoulder.
Thjazi stood stiffly, the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
But Azune was so used to following orders, so used to trusting Thjazi Fang. He swallowed his childish questions.
Why can’t I stay with you? Why can’t I go with Loza and Teor? I’m a man now, I won’t slow anyone down—
“Hey,” Thjazi said. The empty smile fell off his lips. He reached out, grasping Azune's face gently. “You’re over thinking it, alright? I can see your thoughts circling fast as a tornado. Focus. Trust me. I need you here. We aren’t done, alright? We aren’t done. We keep fighting, but we can’t be open about it right now. We wait for our moment.”
“With the Revolutionary Guard?”
“You’re young, strong, and learned from the best. You have a spark of magic and the Arcane Marshals are always looking for talent. You join up, you show them your use, you stay here.”
“Until when?” Azune asked plaintively, unable to hold the question in. “When do I get to…” he was going to say come home, but what was home but people? People that were already being scattered to the wind.
Home was a long ago thing. Ashes swept away by the same wind.
But he still remembered how it felt, losing it. It felt like this.
“We don’t forget,” Thjazi said. He gently patted his cheek. “Not about the dead, not about the future, not about our goals, not about each other. I need you here. We need you here. Will you stay?”
Azune nodded his head, still held in Thjazi’s hands. He couldn’t meet the familiar dark blue eyes. He didn’t want to let his mentor, his role model see how devastated he was at their parting.
If he begged, would Thjazi let him stay at his side? Or would he be disappointed at his insubordination?
“I want to be of use,” Azune finally managed to say.
Thjazi sighed. Azune looked up and there was uncertainty in the curve of Thjazi's frown.
“I can do it,” Azune said, stronger this time.
But Thjazi still had an uncharacteristic hesitancy. “Listen… I don’t … I don’t like mixing him up in my business, but…” Thjazi trailed off. “But maybe this is a matter of family,” he muttered to himself. He met Azune’s eyes, pinning him in place. “If there is one man in this city you can trust with all your heart, it is my brother, Hal. Halandil Fang. He lives in the Rookery. He writes and performs for a little group on the Vrosh stage. If you need anything… just. Go to him. Promise?”
“I won’t bother him,” Azune promised.
Thajzi laughed, his real smile pulling up showing off his right tusk. “That’s not what I asked you to promise. Now, promise me properly. If I’m not around and you need something, you go to my brother.”
“I promise,” Azune said. He didn’t want to mean it. He didn’t think Thjazi’s brother would be able to help him in any way Thjazi could. He wasn’t a warrior, he wasn’t a bannerman, he didn’t know their defeat, their fight. He didn't know Azune.
He knew Hal from Thjazi's stories. His life before where there was no fighting and blood and war. Hal was someone to be protected. If Azune still had his family, that's how he'd feel about them.
But he promised, if he had to, he would go.
But he would make sure he never had to. He would be self sufficient.
Thjazi nodded, he looked both relieved and guilty.
His hands moved down to Azune’s shoulders. He bowed his head.
“I think I owe you an apology. I think I should have put you in his care a long time ago. At the very beginning, or the first time you almost died, or the second time you almost died, or when we were starving and eating our horses. At some point, I should have sent you off to Hal.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Azune protested quickly. “I wouldn't have wanted to go! And I don’t want you to—”
“We’re past me doing right by you,” Thjazi said.
“You did do right by me! You all did!” Azune protested, voice scratchy. He had been through war, had seen friends die. He wasn't going to cry here.
Thjazi's eyes softened. He reached up and with his thumb wiped the tear that escaped despite Azune's determination to keep it in. “We were lucky to have you. Azune, you’re a grown man, and you don’t
|
Right By You
“Give us a moment, okay Thimble?” Thjazi asked.
“Okay…” Thimble said reluctantly. She flew over and patted Azune’s nose before flying off into the market.
Panic was slowly filling Azune’s stomach. They stood in front of the Brethan Hall, just the two of them in the light rain. Thjazi was covering himself with a cloak to avoid recognition. Usually, it was the other way around, Azune realised. Usually, Thjazi would be pulling up Azune's hood whenever they walked through a city or town, or glamouring his eyes and birthmark to wipe away the identifying features.
But he hadn’t done that this time. It was Azune walking around bare-faced and Thjazi’s hood firmly covering his head.
Thjazi had a smile on his face, easy to see even under his hood. “It won't be so different from the old days… well you'll have food, shelter, and coin, so actually it'll be completely different. In a good way,” Thjazi laughed, putting his hand on Azune’s shoulder.
Thjazi stood stiffly, the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
But Azune was so used to following orders, so used to trusting Thjazi Fang. He swallowed his childish questions.
Why can’t I stay with you? Why can’t I go with Loza and Teor? I’m a man now, I won’t slow anyone down—
“Hey,” Thjazi said. The empty smile fell off his lips. He reached out, grasping Azune's face gently. “You’re over thinking it, alright? I can see your thoughts circling fast as a tornado. Focus. Trust me. I need you here. We aren’t done, alright? We aren’t done. We keep fighting, but we can’t be open about it right now. We wait for our moment.”
“With the Revolutionary Guard?”
“You’re young, strong, and learned from the best. You have a spark of magic and the Arcane Marshals are always looking for talent. You join up, you show them your use, you stay here.”
“Until when?” Azune asked plaintively, unable to hold the question in. “When do I get to…” he was going to say come home, but what was home but people? People that were already being scattered to the wind.
Home was a long ago thing. Ashes swept away by the same wind.
But he still remembered how it felt, losing it. It felt like this.
“We don’t forget,” Thjazi said. He gently patted his cheek. “Not about the dead, not about the future, not about our goals, not about each other. I need you here. We need you here. Will you stay?”
Azune nodded his head, still held in Thjazi’s hands. He couldn’t meet the familiar dark blue eyes. He didn’t want to let his mentor, his role model see how devastated he was at their parting.
If he begged, would Thjazi let him stay at his side? Or would he be disappointed at his insubordination?
“I want to be of use,” Azune finally managed to say.
Thjazi sighed. Azune looked up and there was uncertainty in the curve of Thjazi's frown.
“I can do it,” Azune said, stronger this time.
But Thjazi still had an uncharacteristic hesitancy. “Listen… I don’t … I don’t like mixing him up in my business, but…” Thjazi trailed off. “But maybe this is a matter of family,” he muttered to himself. He met Azune’s eyes, pinning him in place. “If there is one man in this city you can trust with all your heart, it is my brother, Hal. Halandil Fang. He lives in the Rookery. He writes and performs for a little group on the Vrosh stage. If you need anything… just. Go to him. Promise?”
“I won’t bother him,” Azune promised.
Thajzi laughed, his real smile pulling up showing off his right tusk. “That’s not what I asked you to promise. Now, promise me properly. If I’m not around and you need something, you go to my brother.”
“I promise,” Azune said. He didn’t want to mean it. He didn’t think Thjazi’s brother would be able to help him in any way Thjazi could. He wasn’t a warrior, he wasn’t a bannerman, he didn’t know their defeat, their fight. He didn't know Azune.
He knew Hal from Thjazi's stories. His life before where there was no fighting and blood and war. Hal was someone to be protected. If Azune still had his family, that's how he'd feel about them.
But he promised, if he had to, he would go.
But he would make sure he never had to. He would be self sufficient.
Thjazi nodded, he looked both relieved and guilty.
His hands moved down to Azune’s shoulders. He bowed his head.
“I think I owe you an apology. I think I should have put you in his care a long time ago. At the very beginning, or the first time you almost died, or the second time you almost died, or when we were starving and eating our horses. At some point, I should have sent you off to Hal.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Azune protested quickly. “I wouldn't have wanted to go! And I don’t want you to—”
“We’re past me doing right by you,” Thjazi said.
“You did do right by me! You all did!” Azune protested, voice scratchy. He had been through war, had seen friends die. He wasn't going to cry here.
Thjazi's eyes softened. He reached up and with his thumb wiped the tear that escaped despite Azune's determination to keep it in. “We were lucky to have you. Azune, you’re a grown man, and you don’t need to do this at all if you don’t want to. You'll do well here, you'll be… safer than you have since you joined us, and this is where you can help. And, because it’s you Azune, I’m asking you to go to the man I go to when I want to feel safe.”
Azune wondered how a civilian could make Thjazi Fang feel safe when he fought beside the likes of Loza Blade, Teor Pridesire, Kattigan Vale—
“Okay,” Azune said. “I will. I already said I would.”
“Remember that promise,” Thjazi said. “Okay. Revolutionary Guards. Arcane Marshals. I’ll check in when I can. Got it?”
“Yes,” Azune said, taking his orders more bravely this time. It was his hesitation that made Thjazi guilty. That made him give him the location of his brother who he had always been careful to protect.
He wouldn’t bother Halandil Fang. He wouldn't need to, he promised himself.
|
ao3_english
|
2025-12-12T00:00:00Z
|
https://archiveofourown.gay/works/75656766/chapters/197859736
|
{"authors": ["Mightybignein (Beewaggle)"], "language": "English", "title": "Right By You"}
|
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